I watched Pam and Rita drive away, then turned and walked slowly up the drive. I was having a hard time wrapping my mind around the fact that Earl might have killed Rosalie. Something didn’t quite make sense, but I couldn’t put my finger on what. One thing I did know for sure, however. As far as I was concerned, Bill was and always had been a person of interest—but not as a murder suspect.
Chapter 29
“Ladies, it’s all about reading the green,” Brad Murphy said to the group gathered on the practice green.
Personally, when it comes to reading, I’ll take a good mystery over a putting green any day of the week. But I had an ulterior motive for coming today. I wanted to size up Brad Murphy. He remained a “person of interest” in my little black book. I needed to know whether to cross his name off my list or bump it up a notch. So I’d come to the putting clinic with my game face on. Not to be outdone by the rest of the ladies, I squatted down on my haunches and frowned at that smooth green surface until I thought my eyes would cross. If I stayed in this position any length of time, it would take a construction crane to get me upright.
“Try to imagine which way your ball is going to break. By ‘break,’ ladies, I mean, is the ball going to curve left or right?”
Whose bright idea was it to make putting greens undulate? Why couldn’t they be flat? Wasn’t golf challenging enough? If you want my opinion, putting on a flat surface would speed up the game considerably and eliminate the need for rangers having to hurry folks along. But that might mean Bill losing his job. Maybe flat putting greens weren’t such a great idea after all.
“Allow me to demonstrate.”
Ten pairs of eyes fastened on Brad’s ball as it made a perfect arc and landed in the cup with a satisfying
plink
. He made it look effortless when I knew from experience that it wasn’t. Guess that’s why golf pros get paid the big bucks.
“See how easy it is.”
I tried my best to follow Brad’s advice, but my ball seemed to develop a mind of its own. Wasn’t this darn clinic ever going to end? I wondered irritably as I watched my ball sail past its target and roll off the green. After talking on the phone yesterday with Connie Sue and Monica, I discovered they’d finish playing golf about the same time my putting clinic ended. We’d agreed to meet for a drink afterward at the Watering Hole. Right now, a cold drink held far more appeal than chasing a stupid golf ball.
Twenty minutes later, Brad glanced at his wristwatch. “Now, ladies, remember what I told you. I want to see y’all out here practicing. You can’t expect to play a good round without first putting a few balls to see what the greens are like. Class dismissed.”
Finally! I was hot, thirsty, and cranky after another night of tossing and turning. I was tempted to box up the Sandman and send it packing. It certainly failed to live up to its promise of a blissful night’s rest.
Half the group started toward the clubhouse, while the other half remained, determined to follow Brad’s pithy advice and practice, practice, practice. Two women I knew only casually rushed up to him, flanking him on either side, while I lagged behind.
“Brad, I’ve been meaning to call you,” said the shorter of the pair, a shapely blonde I knew only as Trixie. “I need to sign up for a private lesson. I’m not following through on my swing.”
I smiled to myself as I trudged along. I’d like to point out that, from the exaggerated sway of Trixie’s hips, she had at least one swing that didn’t need work.
“Sure thing.” Brad flashed his patented smile. “Soon as we get back to the pro shop, I’ll check my schedule.”
“Brad,” Betty, the taller, thinner brunette, purred, “I need my sand wedge regripped.”
Sand wedge? After last night, I didn’t like the sound of that word. In my mind, the term
sand wedge
was in the same category as
Wal-Mart bag
.
“No problem.” This time Betty was the recipient of Brad’s practiced charm. “Just got in a new order of grips you might want to take a look at.”
I followed the trio, fascinated at watching Brad Murphy in action. He was quite a flirt, and the ladies seemed to eat it up with a spoon. If Vera was seriously interested in winning Brad’s affection, she better consider taking up the game of golf.
“I remember Rosalie mentioning you regripped some of her clubs,” Trixie said. “She said you did a terrific job.”
Betty shook her head sorrowfully. “Isn’t it just awful about Rosalie?”
“Terrible,” Brad murmured. “Just terrible.”
I’d heard enough. A cool drink sounded more inviting than ever. I veered away from the pro shop and headed for the Watering Hole. Connie Sue and Monica had gotten there ahead of me and waved me over to a table. I noticed Connie Sue munching on a celery stick from a small veggie platter. No potato skins or nachos for that girl. I always wished her self-control would rub off on me, but it never did.
I thought about ordering a glass of wine, but needed to quench my thirst, so ordered unsweet tea with lemon instead. “How’d you guys do?” I asked after the waitress left.
“I parred the eighth hole,” Monica volunteered. “It’s the first time I’ve played since, uh, you know.”
“As if I could forget.”
“I swear, we must be the only ones in this entire place discussing golf,” Connie Sue noted, taking a ladylike sip of her pinot grigio.
Monica removed her visor and fluffed her dark hair. “We’ve been here fifteen minutes, and I haven’t heard birdies, eagles, or bogeys mentioned even once.”
“Weird,” I agreed. “So what’s the hot topic?” I asked, playing dumb.
Connie Sue smiled at me over the rim of her wineglass. “Earl Brubaker. What else?”
I was beginning to think I should have ordered something stronger than iced tea. Mind you, I’m no saint. I enjoy gossip as much as the next person, but Poor Earl, as I had come to think of him, was getting more than his fair share. My iced tea arrived, and I guzzled half of it before asking, “What’s the word on the street?”
Connie Sue leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Folks around here are mighty unhappy.”
“Seems like Earl was only taken in for questioning last night, then released,” Monica elaborated.
“Really?” That came as a surprise, especially after seeing him hustled off last night by a sheriff’s deputy. “The authorities don’t think he’s guilty?”
“The husband of my hairdresser’s niece has a friend who works in the county clerk’s office.” Monica inspected the veggie platter, chose a cherry tomato, and popped it into her mouth. “Rumor at the courthouse is that the sheriff doesn’t have a strong enough case for an arrest warrant.”
“I heard the same thing,” Connie Sue said, relaxing back in her chair. “Our landscaper dropped by this morning to check on the Leyland Cypress. We got to talking, of course, and he mentioned his brother-in-law told him that the golf club found at the Brubakers’ was sent to Columbia for testing.”
Monica nodded. “The clerk at the post office said she heard there were traces of blood on it.”
I dredged a carrot stick through a puddle of low-cal ranch dressing and pretended it was a potato chip. “It’s probably going to be examined for trace evidence.”
Connie Sue frowned at me. “No offense, sugar, but you need to find yourself a new hobby. All this law-and-order stuff is beginning to affect your brain. You’re starting to scare me.”
I chewed slowly, considering Connie Sue’s advice. If I was brutally honest, I had to acknowledge there were times I scared myself. “I can’t totally disagree,” I confessed halfheartedly. “I may have gotten a
little
carried away with all this.”
“A
little
. . . ?” Monica asked.
“Well, perhaps a little more than I should have.” I looked from one concerned face to another and held my hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I admit I got caught up in all this, but I can’t seem to let go.”
“Take a step back, sugar, and let the sheriff do his job,” Connie Sue advised, reaching for another celery stick.
“She’s right, you know.” Monica wagged a strip of green pepper in my direction. “That’s why the man keeps getting reelected.”
I know their advice was sound. I’ve given myself this same counsel a time or two. But to no avail. I wouldn’t have peace of mind until Rosalie’s killer was caught and brought to justice. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I just wasn’t convinced Earl was that person.
Chapter 30
All this thinking was giving me a headache. I tapped the pen against the table and stared out the window. The Brubaker house remained dark and still. The premises were still festooned in yellow crime-scene tape like a sloppily wrapped birthday gift. A giant cockroach of a patrol car sat at the curb. There was no sign of Earl. The grapevine had it, he had taken up temporary residence in a sleazy motel on the outskirts of town.
I kept asking myself, if Earl had killed Rosalie, why leave the murder weapon practically in plain sight? And why would he have been not only willing but eager to give the sheriff Rosalie’s hairbrush for a DNA match? It just didn’t make sense.
Problem was, not everyone viewed the situation the same way I did. In the minds of most people, if the sand wedge proved to be the murder weapon, Earl might as well phone the South Carolina Department of Corrections and reserve a cell.
I looked away, then back again. Nothing had changed at the Brubakers’. The squad car hadn’t budged an inch. Surveillance can’t be easy work. Having to stay awake while the rest of the world sleeps. How did one occupy one’s time cooped up in a car hour after hour? Read, work crosswords, write a novel? But all these activities would distract one’s attention from the original purpose, which was to watch. How boring!
This in mind, I went to the pantry, pried the lid off a large Tupperware container, and filled a Ziploc bag with chocolate-chip cookies. A little sugar might be just the ticket along with the thermos of coffee—which I assumed was standard-issue on a stakeout. A sugar buzz might help whoever guarded the Brubaker house to stay alert. No one could say I wasn’t civic-minded.
I slipped on the gray zip-up-the-front sweatshirt I reserve for gardening and trotted across the street. The young officer inside the cruiser jumped as if he’d been shot when I knocked on the passenger window. Automatically, his hand reached for his holster.
I nearly dropped the cookies right then and there. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”
Officer Olsen, the young policeman I had instructed on the three Rs of recycling, scowled back in a pretty fair imitation of Sheriff Wiggins. I wondered if he was practicing the one-eyebrow lift as well.
He lowered the window, obviously feeling no threat from a nosy senior citizen. “Ma’am?”
I held up the bag of cookies. “I brought you a treat.”
Confusion replaced the scowl. “Uh, that’s mighty kind of you, ma’am, but, uh . . .”
Clearly the receipt of baked goods wasn’t a topic covered in the police procedural. “If you’re hungry, Sergeant”—he seemed such a nice young man; I thought he might like a promotion—“I’d be happy to bring you a sandwich.”
“That’s real thoughtful, ma’am, but—”
“Kate.” I cut him off. “Just call me Kate.”
All this ma’am stuff was making me feel older than Grandma Moses. Poor kid. He appeared to be in his early twenties, not much older than Megan. He looked more discomfited now than he had when he first spotted the cookies. “I live just catty-corner from here. The house on the cul-de-sac. I saw you sitting out here all alone and felt sorry for you. I thought some cookies would taste good with your coffee.”
His face relaxed into a smile as he reached for the cookies. Then, just as suddenly, his demeanor changed. “Ma’am . . . Kate . . . please step to the rear of the vehicle. Stay there until I tell you it’s safe.”
Right before my eyes, boy morphed into man. I didn’t argue, but backed up until I was even with the rear bumper of the cruiser. I narrowed my eyes to see what had captured Olsen’s attention. In the light of a half-moon, I could see a figure emerge from the shadows and start across the Brubakers’ lawn.
Olsen quietly opened the car door and stepped out, his right hand resting on the butt of his pistol. “Halt! Identify yourself!”
“Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed,” Earl Brubaker shouted.
Olsen approached cautiously, his hand still on his gun. I wasn’t far behind, grateful I had worn sneakers. Apparently they’re called that for a reason.
“Mr. Brubaker . . . ? Sir, what are you doing here?”
“For crying out loud, this is my house. I live here.”
“This is a possible crime scene. No one’s allowed in.”
“I need to go inside for ten minutes. Ten minutes is all I’m asking.”
“Sorry, sir, but I’ve got strict instructions. No one gets inside until the house is released as a possible crime scene.”
Earl ran a hand over his jaw, which once again bristled with whiskers. “How long will that take?”
“Not for me to say. That’s up to the sheriff. Never can tell. He might decide to make a second sweep.”
“But I need to water my orchids,” Earl whined. “If I don’t, they’ll die.”
“Afraid I can’t help you, sir.” Olsen wasn’t swayed by the pleading tone in Earl’s voice.
“I’m working on a new hybrid,” Earl said as if that tidbit explained everything.
“If you entered, sir, I’d have no choice but to arrest you.”
“You’re forgetting
I
pay the mortgage, not some dumb-ass sheriff.”
“Like it or not, sir, that’s the law. You’d be guilty of obstruction of justice.”
Obstruction of justice?
That phrase was becoming a bit shopworn. And had a way of popping up at the most inopportune times.
Suddenly, all the starch seemed to go out of Earl. Muttering under his breath, he turned to go back the way he had come. I caught a glimpse of that sad basset hound face and felt my heart squeeze with sympathy. Leaving Officer Olsen standing in the middle of the Brubakers’ lawn, I hurried to catch up with Earl.