Tail Gait

by Rita Mae Brown

  Susan was fussing. “Four wood? No, no, there’s that hidden little bunker up there.”

  “Here. Just hit the damn thing.” Harry handed her a three wood.

  Irritated by Harry’s directness, Susan stared at it. “All right.”

  She grabbed the three wood. The banter with Harry energized her. She could take it all out on the ball.

  Mrs. Murphy and Pewter were allowed on the course because they were not destructive. Plus, they could find golf balls better than the humans. The two cats watched Susan tee up.

  She was a natural. Gifted with a fluid swing, Susan made golf look easy. As a child she had watched the incomparable Mary Pat Janss, dreaming to rise to the competence of her idol. As Mary Pat had played internationally, that was a far putt, as they say. But the older woman recognized talent and happily worked with Susan, who adjusted to Mary Pat’s take-no-prisoners attitude.

  Golf had changed, as had everything, it seemed to Susan. Now promising young golfers needed sponsors and special coaches. Kids were slotted for same by ages twelve or thirteen. Could she have made it in the pros? Who knows? She didn’t dwell on it. If she dwelled on anything, it was becoming club champion so her name would be inscribed on the list that many times included Mary Pat’s.

  Susan knocked one just a bit beyond BoomBoom’s. Both balls sat squarely in the middle of the fairway.

  David, also quite good, smiled at Nelson as he walked up to the tee. “I’ll outdrive her. Then we can watch her frazzle.”

  “You can outdrive her, it’s her second shot that kills you.” Nelson smiled. “That woman has such control, and of her temper too.”

  Pewter found the entire process mysterious. “Why do people hit this little thing, get in a cart and drive to it?”

  “We’ve been doing it since we were kittens. Why ask now?” replied Mrs. Murphy, the ever-sensible tiger cat.

  The gray cat frowned. “I’ve asked ever since we were kittens. You never answer.”

  “Because I can’t. Pewter, why worry about it? We get to leave the farm, we ride around in this silly cart, and they are blissfully happy.”

  Pewter eyed her friend. “Then why do they curse so much?”

  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. Ra
rely 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.”

  Sliding behind the wheel, Harry glanced into the rearview mirror. The two cats, eyes wide open, observed everything she and Susan did.

  Harry thought to change the subject. “Hell of a shot you made back there off the tee.”

  Susan cried all the harder, so Harry drove her the rest of the way home in silence. She tried to remember everything from the last three holes. They’d been told that Ginger was on the eleventh hole, close to where they were when they heard gunfire. The eleventh hole is catty-cornered from where? A variety of ideas flitted through her mind, which she carefully did not share with Susan, whom she walked to her door.

  “Want me to stay with you?” Harry asked.

  Sniffling, Susan said, “No, no. Ned will be home soon. I expect he was called. If Sheriff Shaw ever needs any state support, he knows Ned is right here and will see he gets what he needs.”

  “All right, then.” Harry handed Susan the keys to the Audi and returned to her truck, which she had left at Susan’s house.

  Lifting the cats in, although they could climb in themselves, she stepped on the foot rail to swing herself up. Harry didn’t cry until she got home.

  April 13, 2015

  Bumping along, the old John Deere tractor called Johnny Pop emitted the noise from its exhaust pipe that gave it its name. Harry could always think better when she was outside doing a chore. The crevices on the east side of the Blue Ridge Mountains had not yet escaped winter, but the sides flashed the first blush of red in the swelling leaf buds. She often wondered about that color when the sun hit the buds just before they opened. Why the red color and not green? She made a note to look that up when she returned to the farmhouse.

  Red, the color of blood, dark if flowing from a vein, gorgeous red if spurting from an artery. One can’t grow up in the country and not have seen cuts, wounds, or even worse. She wondered if Ginger had been covered in blood.

  Turning the tractor around, she headed back toward the barn, a quarter of a mile away. She saw Cooper stepping out of a squad car, by the barn.

  Tucker, the corgi, sat at the tall officer’s feet. The intrepid dog trusted the deputy because Cooper always smelled safe.

  The cats were sprawled in the tack room office. They paid no attention to the crunch of tires, the closing of a door, or the pop-pop of the tractor pulling up outside. Harry cut the motor. The John Deere let one last loud report, almost like gunfire.

  Harry climbed down as Tucker walked over to her.

  “Hey, what are you doing out here at this time of day?”

  Cooper leaned against the door. “Aunt Tally called. She said her sidesaddle was missing, and she proceeded to inform me of the value.”

  “So Rick sent you out here?” asked Harry, mentioning the sheriff.

  “Aunt Tally’s important,” Cooper simply answered. “They’ve got a team on Saturday’s murder. I could be spared, the reason being that I can get along with Aunt Tally. Few can. Also, she knows everybody, their parents, their grandparents, their great-grandparents.”

  “That’s a fact.” Harry nodded, as Aunt Tally was now 102. Surely, she’d be the first human to reach two hundred years.

  “Turns out that her great-niece took the saddle to her house to clean it up. One problem solved.” Cooper brushed her hands together. “And Aunt Tally had no idea why Professor Ginger McConnell would be shot.”

  “Come on and have a cup of tea with me,” Harry invited Cooper. “I could use a pickup.”

  “You know, I could use one too.”

  So different in backgrounds, the two women walked up the old brick path across the lawn to the screened-in porch door. Tucker hurried in to accompany them. The cats would miss extra treats, plus the chat between the humans. Already Tucker relished dispensing information only she had. That would irritate Pewter to no end.

  In the kitchen, Harry asked, “Constant Comment? A green tea? I even have white teas, and if you want a real bomb wake-up I have my Yorkshire Gold.”

  “Yorkshire. I don’t know why I’m sleepy today.”

  “Low pressure. Be raining mid-afternoon, one of those soaking, steady April rains.” Harry pulled out two small silver tea balls, into which she put the correct amount of leaves. If you’re going to make a cup of tea, do it properly. She then opened a cabinet door with a squeak, lifted out an old Brown Betty teapot, beloved of her mother.

  A few minutes later, cup finally in hand, Cooper sipped the restorative beverage. “You’ve known the professor since childhood?”

  Sitting opposite her, Harry remarked, “And I thought this was a social call.”

  “It is. You, Fair, Miranda, Aunt Tally, all of you born and bred around these parts, you know everyone and sometimes have insights I don’t.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It is until you think you can be an amateur detective.”

  “Me? I wouldn’t think of it!”

  They both let that fat fib sit on the table. Below the table, even Tucker stifled a small bark.

  “You didn’t study with him,” said Susan. “You were at Smith. Can you think of anyone who would want to kill Ginger McConnell?”

  Harry leaned forward. “No, but Ginger bore the brunt of displeasure, that’s the only way I know how to describe it, when the push for clarity about Thomas Jefferson’s relationship with the slave Sally Hemings began to make news. The debate grew fiercer. I remember the uproar beginning in the eighties. Might be off a year or two, but the controversy kept going until DNA settled it, more or less.”

  “And?”

  “Well, Ginger publicly said and was quoted in papers—even national papers—saying what any true historian would say, ‘No line of inquiry should be shut down for ulterior considerations.’ It was that word ulterior that was the match in the tinderbox.”

  “You mean for those who denied the possibility of a relationship between the two?” Cooper’s eyebrows raised.
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br />   “No, both sides. The racists, naturally, blew a fuse. Maybe racists is the wrong word. They didn’t think of themselves that way, they thought of themselves as defending the honor of a great man, while others didn’t want to think about it. The descendants of Jefferson’s liaison with Hemings thought they were being accused of seeking monetary gain. It was such a mess, but Ginger kept his hand on the tiller. He wouldn’t cave to pressure from either side. He kept insisting we must collect and study all the evidence. Personally, he believed Hemings was Jefferson’s mistress, but he never publicly said this. He truly believed no line of inquiry should be shut down.” Harry added, “Today is Jefferson’s birthday, by the way. April thirteenth, 1743.”

  Cooper held up her cup to clink Harry’s, a toast of tea.

  “Did he ever explain to you what he meant by ulterior?”

  “He did. To Ginger, anything other than seeking the truth meant an ulterior motive. He was quite strict that way. Maybe a little too strict.” She drained her cup, thought for a moment. “Do you think someone killed the professor over that? Now?”

  “No. Well, let me back up a minute. Could a nutcase become inflamed reviewing that old issue? Sure. A nutcase can find a reason to kill you if you wear cargo pants. You never know.”

  “How was he killed?”

  “High-caliber handgun. Two shots. Chest.”

  “Dear God!” Harry’s hand covered her own heart. “Fair and I were going to go see Trudy, but Reverend Jones said to wait. He would tell us when she was ready. In the meantime, I know Trudy’s friends and her daughters are doing all that can be done. The house has to be opened, and people have to come by, you know.”

  Cooper sighed. “I know. Back to his work. We’ve interviewed colleagues. We have heard all their descriptions of his research. Most of them too technical, really, but that’s why they do what they do. How would you characterize his work?”

  “Let me think a minute. He had such a wide-ranging mind. He’d talk about most anything, but his area of expertise was the Revolutionary War and the years immediately following. Not political stuff like the collapse of the Articles of Confederation followed by the Constitutional Convention, but economic growth in the Mid-Atlantic, especially Virginia road building, movement of goods, population growth, which also included a swelling slave population. Remember we hadn’t outlawed bringing in people from Africa yet.”