“I don’t think so. It’s not just the perfume-stink and the fancy clothes. He bought a set of golf clubs. Got them second-hand off Craig’s List, but still. And, last weekend, when I wanted to go to the Pork Pit, Kenny said we should try that new bar and grill that serves wine by the golf course. He called the Pork Pit a ‘cholesterol nightmare.’’’
“That doesn’t sound like the Kenny I know,’’ I said. “I didn’t think he could pronounce cholesterol.’’
“That’s exactly my point.’’ Maddie blew her nose. “Please?’’
How could I say no?
nine
Lights shone on the ornate sign for Himmarshee Links Country Club. The mechanical arm at the guardhouse rose, allowing my Jeep to roll right through the entrance. The geniuses who ran the place milked their members to build the guardhouse, but then cheaped out when it came to hiring someone to actually work the gate as security.
What did they hope to guard against with that gate and little house? With all the alligators that populated the water hazards, it seemed like at least one threat was already inside the perimeter of the golf course community. I kept the skull of one such critter as a key receptacle on my coffee table at home. The gator had been deemed a nuisance after it became a bit too comfortable sharing space with golfers. My cousin, a state-licensed trapper, enlisted me to help him wrestle it from a pond near the eighteenth hole.
Turning into the parking lot, I remembered something else about the golf course. I’d met the pro once, a strapping young guy with sexy blue eyes and a full head of sun-kissed curls. Josh? Jason? He’d come on pretty strong. Even though I was an engaged woman, I pondered for a moment on whether he’d remember me.
Inside, I didn’t have to wait long for the answer to that question. The hunky pro stood next to the hostess stand in the club’s dining room. He put his hand over his heart and spoke to me, even before I could state my business.
“Better call heaven. I think they’re missing an angel.’’ His voice was a deep purr; a smile crinkled the darkly tanned skin near his eyes.
“Really?’’ the hostess raised her eyebrows at him. “You think that’ll work for you?’’
He looked wounded. “Even beautiful women like to hear they’re beautiful.’’
The hostess took me in with a practiced glance: No makeup, rain-dampened work clothes, the grainy scent of animal chow no doubt still wafting off me. She didn’t appear to agree I was heaven’s missing angel.
“How have you been?’’ I asked the pro.
His face was a blank.
So much for my stunningly memorable beauty. “We met here a couple of years ago. I came in asking questions after a body had been discovered in my Mama’s convertible?’’
A dim light lit in his eyes. Forty-watt smart. “Oh yeah, questions. I remember now. Your mother’s married to Big Sal, right?’’
“She is indeed,’’ I said.
So he remembered Mama, but had only the foggiest memory of meeting me. I shoved aside my bruised ego and re-introduced myself. His name was Jason, not Josh. I asked if he had a few minutes to talk, told him I’d buy the drinks. The hostess shot eye darts at me the whole time. Jason guided me to a table at the far edge of the dining room, near the bar. The 19th Hole. Cute.
“Do you know Kenny Wilson?’ I asked, once we were seated.
He cocked his head, appearing to think about it. “Not by name. What’s his handicap?’’
A cheating heart, I wanted to say, but I knew Jason was probably talking about golf. “I have no idea.’’
“What’s he look like?”
“Forties, overweight, though not as much as he used to be. One of his golf outfits has yellow and peach in it.’’
“That doesn’t narrow it down much.’’
Stroking his chin, Jason turned toward the bar. Behind it, a woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties reached up to put away wine glasses in the wooden racks over her head. Each time she stretched, the hem of her blouse rose in the back to reveal a tramp stamp. The tattoo snaked its way south from the waistband of her hip-hugger skirt, down past the curve of her butt.
“Hey, Angel,’’ Jason called to her. “Can you come over here for a few minutes? And bring us a couple of …” His eyebrow rose in a question.
“Just a Coke,’’ I said. “I’ve got a long drive home.’’
“A couple of Cokes, please.’’
When the barmaid turned to us, I got a better look. Pretty, in a hard way: Heavy makeup, skirt too short, blouse too tight, showing plenty of cleavage. She set up a cocktail tray with two cans of soda and two glasses of ice. Brushing a strand of bright blonde hair from her eyes, she approached the table.
“Angela Fox, this is …’’ The blank look flitted onto Jason’s face again.
“Mace Bauer,’’ I completed the introduction for him.
“Sorry,’’ he said. “Your beauty must have shorted out a few of my brain cells.’’
I didn’t doubt Jason was short a few million cells, but I suspected something other than my beauty was to blame.
“Mace is some kind of investigator,’’ he added for Angel’s benefit.
“Not exactly,’’ I said.
Her brow furrowed. “Are you looking into that woman who was found murdered at the dump?’’
“Why? Do you know something about that?’’
“No,’’ Jason butted in quickly. “Angel’s just curious. Everybody’s talking about it.’’
“Actually, I’m looking into something personal,’’ I said.
She placed the sodas on the table, tucked the tray under an arm, and reached out to shake my hand. “Angel’s short for Angela, but nobody calls me that.’’
Her grip was pleasantly firm. I never trusted a woman whose hand plopped into mine like a gutted black crappie. “What can I do for you, Mace? I can’t take much time away from the bar.’’
“Have a seat for a few minutes.’’ Jason poured one of the Cokes; half a can in his glass and half in mine. “It’s really slow before dinner.’’
She glanced around the almost empty room, and then stared pointedly at the empty chair. Jason jumped up to pull it out.
“That’s a good boy,’’ Angel said.
He beamed, like the classroom screw-up who’d just managed to impress the teacher.
When she’d settled herself, she looked me in the eyes. Hers were sharp, assessing. I couldn’t quite place her accent, but it definitely wasn’t local. Up north, somewhere. I got right to the point, asking her about Kenny.
“Sure, I’ve seen him around. Nice guy; sells insurance. He doesn’t seem like much of a golfer, though.’’ She turned to Jason. “You know him. He uses a set of beat-up Callaways. He’s got a big pickup with mud flaps and a No. 3 for Dale Earnhardt on the rear window.’’
Jason looked through some sliding glass doors to the lighted parking lot beyond. The grilles of a couple of Lexuses and a Mini Cooper pointed toward the clubhouse. Kenny’s Ford F-350 would stick out in that lot like a fat man at an organic restaurant.
“Oh, yeah: Ken,’’ he finally said. “He’s got a terrible left hook.’’
Not knowing a hook from a slice, I brought the conversation back to my purpose. “Do you know who he plays golf with out here? My sister’s married to him, and she suspects somebody he’s been hanging around with owes him a lot of money he doesn’t want to tell her about.’’
I’d learned most people are more comfortable poking their noses into problems about money than love.
“I really dig the way you talk,’’ Angel blurted out. Under lashes thick with mascara, her eyes were wide and interested. “That little ol’ country gal accent is so adorable.’’
I think I was still in diapers the last time someone called me adorable. It’s not a word usually applied to a woman who stomps around in work boots wrestling nuisance critters.
“Thanks,’’ I said. “But back to Kenny …”
She lowered her voice to a seductive purr: “You know, I’ve always wanted to taste something country fresh.’’
“Down, girl!’’ Jason slapped playfully at her wrist.