Authors: Joan Boswell
“I was fiddling with my clubs,” my father said. “I'm afraid I missed the whole thing, but I'll back you two up,” he told Freddie and Cecily as though I was the invisible man. “I think you two must have it right.”
“As long as we're clear on what happened,” Freddie said to Cecily. “Do you know if he changed his will?”
“He was seeing his lawyer about it this afternoon,” Cecily said. “Cutting me out and probably you as well.”
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I felt numb. Throwing the bag over hadn't been my imagination. I could still feel its old leather fastenings slipping through my fingers. However, since the sworn testimony of the other six players failed to mention me, there seemed no point in volunteering the information. The cops, who had been treated to many lectures by Fairbanks on the proper performance of their duties, weren't disposed to much investigation.
The coroner's jury brought in a verdict of accidental death, recommending tighter controls on alcohol on the fairways and that a guardrail be installed in the proper place.
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“Thanks for coming to the funeral,” Cecily said the following week. She looked me square in the eyes. “I hope you understand how grateful we all are for what you did and that you don't blame yourself for my husband's death. If a man thinks he can fly, who are we to stop him? After all, he also thought he could teach golf.”
Golf is a devious game, and deviant are the men and women who make it their own. Still and all we don't make a bad foursome, Dad, Cecily, Freddie and I. Only one rule between us. No one ever gives advice on another player's game unless asked. Not to anybody, ever.
ROSE DESHAW
is a Raging Granny who plays the great game of golf on a regular basis in her head. She has written a regular column on out of print mysteries for
The Mystery Review
since that magazine began. She is on the second volume of a trilogy about an out of print bookseller in Churchill, Manitoba, who is a Raging Granny.