Рита Браун: Tail Gait

Mrs. Murphy didn’t answer. Instead, she watched David.

The ball came off his club head low, then rose and soared, gaining speed like a guided missile. David outdrove the ladies by a good thirty yards. It was a terrific shot, but the ball nudged the edge of the fairway. In slightly taller grass, his second shot to the green would take just enough power and a bit of a curve to land safely, as the sand traps guarding this green were notorious.

Nelson also blasted one. Not only had the tall man played quarterback for the University of Virginia, he’d also played pro ball in the Canadian league. If there was one thing Nelson possessed, it was power. He also hit a good clean shot, which, unlike David’s, landed more to the left. His 15 handicap was deceptive because some days Nelson played to a much lower handicap than other days. Fifteen was a good average. The erratic nature of the game kept a player on cloud nine or in the dumps.

Everyone’s second shot was pretty decent except for Nelson’s. At the last second before contact he turned his clubface slightly, mishit the ball into either high rough or the bordering woods. He couldn’t tell, but a search was in order.

Walking through the higher grass, no ball. Accepting his fate, Nelson trotted into the woods. He hated holding up play. Nestled under a fallen limb was his bright white ball.

Wisely he accepted the penalty shot, but before he stepped out of the woods back into the high rough, Nelson heard gunfire close by.

Looking around, he saw nothing, but he heard a yelp. Hurrying back to the cart, he said to David, “Did you hear that?”

“Did. Sounded like a pistol.” David looked in the direction of the earlier sound. “I’ve often wanted to shoot myself after a bad shot. Hope no one did.”

On the green, the five friends remarked on the strange sound, then settled down to putt. All made par but Nelson, thanks to his mishit.

Just as the players climbed into their carts, a course patrol drove up in a cart. Teenager Bobby Thomas’s face was unusually grim. “Folks, please stay here until I return and tell you what to do next.”

As he was speaking, a siren wailed. The foursome saw the lights flashing as an ambulance turned and drove on a cart path between their green and another. They couldn’t see more than that, but they could hear the ambulance moving up ahead. Next came a squad car, sirens on, as the sheriff maneuvered the same pathway. Out of nowhere, it seemed that all the carts began to converge on the same path.

“Bobby, what’s going on?” Susan asked.

“I can’t tell you, but I will be back.”

Out of the cart first, Susan walked the few steps to the men’s cart. They, too, stood. Harry and BoomBoom then joined the others. The cats stayed on the seat.

“I don’t remember any ambulance coming this far onto the course.” BoomBoom frowned.

Nelson spoke. “Actually, I don’t remember any ambulance, ever.”

“What about Kirsten Menefee’s heart attack?” Harry said.

David replied, “Driving range.”

They listened intently after the sirens stopped. As beautiful as the spring day was, the four felt restless after forty-five minutes. They were instructed—commanded, actually—to stay right where they were. After an hour, Bobby Thomas returned.

“What’s going on?” David politely asked.

“Ginger McConnell has”—he paused—“died.”

“Of what?” Susan exclaimed.

“I don’t know.” A troubled look crossed the teen’s face. “You are all to return to the club and wait there. A deputy wants to talk with you.”

Harry blurted out, “Deputies don’t show up for heart attacks.”

“Mrs. Haristeen, I’m supposed to make sure you all go back to the club and remain with your carts.”

“I’m sorry, Bobby. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.” Harry felt guilty for pressing the young man.

Driving back to the cart return, Harry noticed carts streaming in from all directions, their occupants grim-faced and worried.

By the time her group reached the parking lot, a line had formed. An officer from the sheriff’s department stood in the road, directing cart traffic. No cars moved anywhere. It was all golf carts.

Up ahead Harry saw deputies questioning players. Sheriff Rick Shaw emerged from the golf shop with the pro, Rob McNamara.

After twenty minutes, Harry’s neighbor, Deputy Cynthia Cooper, reached the foursome. Each of the group had enough sense not to blurt out questions right away.

Cynthia acknowledged her neighbors, as well as Nelson and David. She scribbled something in her notebook.

Nelson noticed Marshall Reese and Paul Huber in a cart right behind them. They sat with Willis Fugate and Rudolph Putnam, two other former UVA football players. So many college athletes remained in Charlottesville, most becoming successful financially.

“Did anyone see a person run across the golf course?” Cooper asked.

Each of them said “No.”

“Any suspicious movements at all?”

Same reply.

“Did anyone hear a motor? Not a car, but something like an all-terrain vehicle?”

“No.”

“Any strange noise at all?”

Again, “No.”

She then said, “If I need any of you, I’ll call.”

No sooner did she say “I’ll call” than the television station’s mobile cam truck appeared, slowly creeping down the main drive. Cooper stared, then said, “Danny will hold them up, but they’ll park by the side of the road and nab people on the way out. Dammit!”

Danny was the young officer directing cart traffic, and he was already making his way over to the white van with the station’s logo painted on its side in huge letters.

“Their job is to report the news. Our job is to prevent or solve crime. Rarely does misinformation or too much publicity help.” She grimaced.

“Can I help?” Harry offered. “All of us would, you know.”

Cooper held up her hands. “Harry, that’s a frightening offer.”

“Got that right.” Pewter, like the humans, recognized the danger of Harry’s curiosity.

Cooper looked down the long, long line, other officers now showing up. “I’d better hop to it here.” She then looked at each of the foursome. “Ginger McConnell has been shot and killed. If any of you can think of a reason why he would be targeted, let me know. You all knew him and maybe something will occur to you. Oh, you can turn in your carts now, and thanks.” She moved to the carts behind them.

Face ashen, Nelson spoke to David. “Will you turn this in?”

“Of course.”

Then the tall man made his way to his old teammates.

Next to BoomBoom, Susan remarked, “We just had dinner with Ginger and Trudy. This is hard to believe.”

Harry was right behind the two carts, and turned hers in. She bid David good day, as well as BoomBoom. With the cats trailing behind her, she got into Susan’s Audi station wagon.

The cats sat quietly in the back as Susan waited for a signal from Danny to pull out of the lot.

“I’m not stopping,” Susan growled as the reporter attempted to flag her down.

“Good move,” said Harry. “We don’t know anything anyway.”

Susan was teary. “Harry, a man of Ginger McConnell’s stature, a renowned scholar, doesn’t just get killed on the golf course. This is terrible.”

Harry opened the glove compartment, yanking out a Kleenex. “Here. Would you like me to drive?”

Susan waved off the offer but took the Kleenex. “How can you stay so calm?”

“On the outside,” came the tense reply.

“Maybe there’s some mistake.”

“Susan, how can there be a mistake if Coop tells us he was killed?”

Susan again waved her hand, then pulled over to the side of the road. “Maybe you better drive after all.”