Рита Браун - Pawing Through The Past

"M-m-m."

"I don't want to be rude but I'm fresh out of tolerance for the fools of this life."

"Your poor mother will be spinning in her grave. All the years of cotillion, the Sunday teas."

Harry put her hand on the chrome door handle of the 1978 truck. "Here's what I don't get: where is the line between good manners and supporting people in their bullshit? I'm not putting up with Charlie for one more minute." She opened the door but didn't climb inside. "I've turned a corner. I'm not wearing that social face anymore. Too much time. Too much suppressed anger. If people are going to like me they can like me as I am. Treat me right and I'll treat you right."

"Within reason."

"Well . . . yes." Harry reluctantly conceded.

Susan breathed in the moist air. The heat had finally returned and with it the flies. "I know exactly how you feel. I'm not brave enough to act on it yet."

"Of course you are."

"No. I have a husband with a good career and two teenagers. When the last one graduates from college-five more years-" She sighed, "Then I expect I'll be ready."

"Tempus fugit." Harry hopped in the truck. "Charlie Ashcraft has not one redeeming virtue. How is it that someone like him lives and someone good dies? Aurora Hughes was a wonderful person."

"Pity. He is the most divine-looking animal." Susan shrugged.

"Handsome is as handsome does."

"Tell that to my hormones," Susan countered.

They both laughed and Harry drove home feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders. She wasn't sure why. Was it because she had erupted at BoomBoom? At Charlie? Or because she had gotten tired and left, instead of standing there feeling like a resentful martyr? She decided she wasn't going to help with any other senior superlative photographs and she wasn't even sure she'd go through with her own. Then she thought better of it. After all, it would be really mean-spirited not to cooperate. They were all in this together. Still, the thought of BoomBoom hovering around . . . Of course, knowing Boom, she'd put off Harry's shot until last and then photograph her in the worst light. Harry thought she'd better call Denny at the studio tomorrow.

After the chores, she played with Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker. They loved to play hide 'n' seek.

The phone rang at nine P.M.

"Har?"

"Susan, don't tell me you just got home."

"No. I just heard this instant-Charlie Ashcraft was shot dead in the men's locker room at the Farmington Country Club."

"What?"

"Right between the eyes with a .38."

"Who did it?"

"Nobody knows."

"I can think of a dozen who'd fight for the chance."

"Me, too. Queer, though. After just seeing him."

"Bet BoomBoom's glad she got the photograph first," Harry shot from the hip.

"You're awful."

"No, I'm your best friend. I'm supposed to say anything in the world to you, 'member?"

"Then let me say this to you. Don't be too jolly. Think about what you said this afternoon. We have no idea of who he's slept with recently. That's for starters. He was gifted at hiding his amours for a time, anyway. I'm all for your cleansing inside but a little repression will go a long way right now."

"You're right."

After she hung up the phone she told Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, who listened with interest.

"A jilted husband finally did what everyone else has wanted to do," Tucker said.

"Tucker, you have the sweetest eyes." Harry stroked the soft head.

"Weren't there any witnesses?" Mrs. Murphy asked.

"Right between the eyes." Pewter shook her head.

8

Farmington Country Club glowed with the patina of years. The handmade bricks lent a soft paprika glow to the Georgian buildings in the long summer twilight. As the oldest country club in Albemarle County, Farmington counted among its members the movers and shakers of the region as well as the totally worthless whose only distinguishing feature was that they had inherited enough money to stay current on their dues. The median age of members was sixty-two, which didn't bode well forFarmington 's future. However,Farmington rested secure in its old golf course with long, classic fairways. The modern golf courses employed far too many sharp doglegs and par 3's because land was so expensive.

Charlie Ashcraft, a good golfer, had divided his skills betweenFarmington and its challengers, Keswick and Glenmore. At a seven handicap he was much in demand as a partner, carrying pounds of silver from tournaments. He also carried away Belinda Harrier when he was only seventeen and she was thirty and had won the ladies' championship. That was the first clue that Charlie possessed unusual powers of persuasion. Charlie's parents fetched him from theRichmond motel to which they had fled and Belinda's husband promptly divorced her. Her golf game went to pot as did Belinda.

Rick Shaw, sheriff ofAlbemarleCounty , and his deputy, the young and very attractive Cynthia Cooper, knew all this. They had done their homework. Cynthia was about twenty years younger than Rick. The age difference enhanced their teamwork.

The men's locker room had been cordoned off with shiny plastic yellow tape. The employees of the club, all of whom had seen enough wild stuff to write a novel, had to admit this was the weirdest of the weird.

The locker room, recently remodeled, had a general sitting room with the lockers and showers beyond that. The exterior door faced out to the parking lot. An interior door was about thirty feet from the golf shop with a stairway in between which first rose to a landing and continued into the men's grill, forbidden to women. If a man walked through the grill he would wind up in the 19th Hole, the typical sort of restaurant most clubs provide at the golf course.

Getting in and out of the men's locker room would have been easy for Charlie's killer. As the golfers had come and gone, the only people around would have been those who'd been dressing for dinner in the main dining room or down in the tavern way at the other end of the huge structure. There would be little traffic in and out of the locker room. The housekeeping staff cleaned at about eleven at night, checking again at eight in the morning since the locker rooms never closed.

Charlie Ashcraft had been found by a local attorney, Mark DiBlasi. The body remained as Mark had found him, sitting upright, slumped against locker 13. Blood was smeared on the locker. Charlie's head hadn't slumped to the side; blood trickled out of his ears but none came from his eyes or his mouth. It was a clean shot at very close range; a circle of powder burn at the entry point signified that. The bullet exited the back of his head, tore into the locker door, and lodged in the opposite wall.

Mark DiBlasi had been dining with his mother and wife when he left the main dining room to fetch his wallet from his locker. He'd played golf, finished at six-thirty, showered, and closed his locker, but forgot his wallet, which was still in his golf shorts. The moment he saw Charlie he called the sheriff. He then called the club manager. After that he sat down and shook like a leaf.