Cozy Mystery Bundle #1 (South Lane Detective Agency)

by John P. Logsdon

  “Excuse me,” she said, trying to carry a sense of uppityness that most of the wealthy people she knew enacted with ease, “do you have any of these on sale, by chance?” Unfortunately, uppity and the word “sale” seldom went well together.

  “All the ones you were looking at are on the sales rack, ma'am,” replied the young man.

  “You're kidding.”

  “No, ma'am.”

  “Well, I'm not paying a hundred dollars for a stupid hat,” she said after glancing around to make sure nobody else was in there with them.

  “There's one for a hundred dollars?” the clerk asked, looking rather surprised.

  “Well, it's ninety-seven.”

  “Oh, that's a mistake,” he said, walking over to the rack with a marker in his hand. “It should be one ninety-seven.”

  “For a hat?”

  “Yes, ma'am. It's a great deal, too. This one usually runs three hundred and nineteen.”

  “That's insane,” she said, and then a thought struck her. “I don't suppose you offer a discount to caddies?”

  “You're a caddie?”

  Casey shrugged. “Sure.”

  “You're in the wrong shop, then.” He pointed to the back corner. “If you go through that door there, down the steps, through the dark hallway, and open the third door on the right, you'll find items more set to your price range.”

  “Uh, okay.” She began heading over to the door but stopped. “I am going to be able to get back to the lounge if I do this, right? I'm supposed to be meeting someone there.”

  “Of course. Just come back up this way when you're done.”

  Casey walked into the bowels of the building. Sure enough, it was quite a maze before she finally reached the caddie shop. It wasn’t nearly as classy as the pro shop, but the materials looked the same to her, especially when it came to hats.

  Without even bothering to “shop,” per se, Casey snagged the first one and looked at the price tag: $14.50. Now you’re talking. She slipped it on her head and it fit just fine.

  “That it?” asked the clerk who sat behind the messy counter. Next to him was another clerk who was reading a Famous Homes of the Wealthy magazine. She had on a blue hat. Figures.

  “Yep,” Casey finally answered.

  “Haven't seen you in here before,” he said while scanning the hat’s tag.

  “First day,” Casey said.

  “Ah. Who are you caddying for?”

  “Zane Wolfe,” Casey replied as if she had indigestion.

  “He's a decent guy,” the clerk said.

  The girl who was reading the magazine looked up and said, “I think he's dreamy.”

  “Oh, please,” Casey said with a grunt.

  “He's tall, strong, dark-haired, blue-eyed,” the girl said, fanning herself with the magazine, “and he's so sophisticated.”

  Casey snorted at that. “He can barely tie his own shoes.”

  “Why would he need to?” the girl asked with a look of sincere confusion.

  “Right,” the male clerk interjected. “Anyway, need any extra golf balls?”

  “I don't think so,” Casey said. Then she asked, “Wait, are caddies supposed to provide those?”

  “No, but now and then you might carefully drop one just so, if you know what I'm saying.”

  “Not really.”

  “Don't listen to him,” the girl said while resuming her reading. “He's just trying to push a couple more bucks onto your card. Wouldn't work anyway, they all use a particular type, so anything you drop has to be the right one or they'll know you're cheating.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “That's why you want to grab a couple from the golfer's bag before the game starts,” the girl added.

  “Two should do it?” Casey asked, finding that she was wholly unprepared for this.

  “Yeah, you can always take a few more along the way.”

  “Right.”

  “Maybe a shoulder pad?” asked the male clerk hopefully.

  “For what?”

  “You're going to be carrying the man's clubs, right?” he said.

  “Are they heavy?”

  “Very,” the male clerk said with a vigorous nod.

  The girl piped up again. “You can just get a roller from the front. They’re free.”

  “What are you doing?” the male clerk hissed as he planted his hands firmly on his hips.

  “Stopping you from taking advantage of a newbie, that's what,” the girl replied, not bothering to look up.

  “Only chance I ever get!”

  “Okay,” Casey said, feeling seriously out of place, “so wear the hat, drag the bag of clubs around, and grab a couple of Zane's balls.”

  “Let me know if you need any help with that last one,” the girl said dreamily.

  The male clerk snickered as he put Casey’s receipt on the counter.

  Casey replayed her sentence in her head and then frowned at them both.

  It was time to find Zane. Casey was anxious to get today over with.

  FOURSOME

  Casey walked next to Zane as he chatted with the team of golfers. The men, each appearing to be in their late sixties or early seventies, were jovial and welcoming, despite the circumstances. Casey stole glances at each of them while matching them with their names.

  Jeb Baskerton—or JB, as he was affectionately called—was the apparent leader of the group. He was tall and wiry, and smartly dressed in a light jacket over plaid pants in shades of green, and a thin white sweater over a yellow collared shirt. Tufts of white hair stuck out on the top, sides and back from underneath his white visor. Chuck Lafferty was his polar opposite, being short and stocky, but was dressed just as smartly. He wore navy blue flat-front club shorts with a bright pink collared shirt tucked in, and wore an oversized mesh hat to keep the sun off his pale face. Colin Witt looked to be the youngest of the group, and was the most informally dressed. He wore brown chino shorts and a white long-sleeved T-shirt with the country club logo on it. Casey assumed it probably cost him upwards of $500, at least. Colin kept looking at her, to the point where she almost labeled it ogling. Then, there was Steve Pemrose. The man was the epitome of country club snob. His beige plaid sweater vest over an expensive-looking white button-up dress shirt, pin-striped brown pants, and straw fedora on his balding (from what she could tell) head made it obvious that he took golf quite seriously. Having just recently been inside the Pro Shop, she knew the hat cost over $700, and the vented Oakleys were well over $500. It was clear that, to Pemrose, money was no object.

  JB had explained that he wanted to tag along for the exercise. Walking was not a problem when one had a upper-body injury. He occasionally rubbed his shoulder in order to keep up the ruse.

  “It's been a while since I've swung the sticks,” Zane was saying, “but I'm sure I'll pick it up again soon.”

  “Usually have my best rounds when I've missed a few weeks,” JB said.

  “And even then you're ghastly,” Pemrose was quick to point out.

  “Ha!” Lafferty snorted. “He's got you there, JB.”

  “Sadly,” noted Witt, “even then he's still better than I am. Eh, old man?”

  JB smiled in a comradely way. “At least that's something.”

  They approached the first tee, which Casey only knew because there was a sign that called it “Hole 1” and gave some basic distance information and a drawing of what she assumed was the layout. It was a Par 3, whatever that meant.

  “Let's set the rules, shall we?” Pemrose announced.

  “Everyone knows already, Pemrose,” Lafferty said as he dug through his golf bag.

  “I doubt that our dear Mr. Wolfe does, Lafferty, especially since rule number one is that we’re not supposed to use caddies.”

  Zane looked sheepish. “Oh? Sorry, I…”

  “Is what it is,” Pemrose said with a wave of his hand. “We're not going to make the poor girl return to the clubhouse, especially seeing as you've not played in a while, and
because it's obvious she just purchased that hat, since the tag is still hanging off of it.”

  Casey reached up and snapped it off. “Damn.”

  “Don't mind him,” Witt said conspiratorially as he leaned in close to Casey. “He likes to talk down to people.”

  “Could you endeavor to pay attention, Witt?” Pemrose admonished.

  “See?” Witt said with a wink.

  “The rules are simple,” Pemrose said after giving Witt another look. “Play fair, note only your true strokes, and respect the idiosyncrasies of your fellow players.”

  Zane nodded. “Sounds easy enough.”

  “Good. Now, do you have any particular requirements when you're about to tee off, Wolfe?”

  “I prefer it to be quiet, Mr. Pemrose, but I'm not a stickler.”

  “It’s just Pemrose. We don’t go into formalities out here.”

  Seeing her chance to participate in some small way, Casey said, “Is there a write-up of this somewhere that I can refer to, Pemrose? It’ll help me keep Zane on track.”

  “There is not,” Pemrose said, looking affronted, “and it’s Mr. Pemrose to you, as we do go into formalities with caddies, young lady.”

  Casey bit her tongue as Zane giggled.

  “As for me,” said Lafferty, breaking the oddness of the moment, “I need silence when I step up to the ball or I go all to shambles.”

  “And I prefer a bit of chatter,” Witt stated.

  “Wait,” Zane said, “you want us to talk when you’re up?”

  “Correct,” Witt answered with a shrug. “It's my way of dealing with the pressure. When it's all quiet, I can hear myself think. The last thing I want to do when about to set up a shot is think!”

  “Makes sense to me,” Casey said encouragingly.

  Pemrose looked at her confusedly. “So?”

  “It's Casey, right?” Witt said with a wide smile.

  “It's pronounced ‘Caddie,’ Witt,” Pemrose noted.

  “Yes,” Casey said, after casting a frown toward Pemrose, “my name is Casey.”

  “So,” Witt said as if they were standing in a bar on a Friday night, “do you caddie around here often?”

  Casey blinked. “Uh...”

  “For the love of...” Pemrose said with a huff. “Can we get back to our requirements, please? Mine is simple: I demand not to be watched.”

  “What?” Zane said, dropping his amused look.

  “You heard me right,” Pemrose said while limbering up. “I can stand in front of a room of ten thousand people and give a presentation on sound waves, acoustics, and the like, but when it comes to golf, I'm exceedingly shy. If anyone is watching, it will put me off of my game completely.”

  “I have to say, Pemrose,” Zane said, “that I've never heard that particular request before.”

  “Your choice if you'd rather not comply,” Pemrose said seriously as he pointed back to the clubhouse.

  “Oh, no, it's fine,” Zane answered. “I've just never heard of it before.”

  JB broke the resulting silence.

  “You gentlemen should tee-off. The Hendersons are due out any moment and you know how they get if things are running slowly.”

  WHAT DO I DO?

  Zane moved over near Casey and began putting on a single glove. She wanted to remark that she had no idea he was a fan of Michael Jackson, but he probably wouldn’t have understood the reference.

  “Okay,” she whispered, “so I have no idea what I'm doing with these sticks.”

  “Clubs,” he corrected her.

  “You called them sticks.”

  “I’m the golfer. You’re the caddie.”

  “So?”

  “So I call them whatever I want.”

  “Ass,” she said as he continued grinning at her. “Look, if we don't want to appear suspicious, then you need to give me a few tips here.”

  “Okay, okay. So I'll get up to a shot and I'll tell you what club I need. You pull that out and hand it to me.”

  She looked over the bag and noted that there were many to choose from. Why men had to make their games so damn difficult was beyond her. Even the simplest things had to be overcomplicated by rules, regulations, penalties, and the like. It reminded her of their time dating in college.

  “How do I know which is which?” she asked, pointing at the clubs.

  “They're numbered. So if I say I need a six iron, for example, then you pull out that one and hand it to me.”

  She reached out and tapped one. “This?”

  “That's a nine iron. Notice the little line under the number? Tells you it's not a six.”

  “What difference does it make?” she asked.

  “Well, a nine will loft the ball and not go as far. A six will give it more distance because it's less loft.”

  She grunted. “Why can't you just have one called ‘straight’ and the other called ‘loft’?”

  “Because we use numbers, that's why.”

  “Why don't you go first, Zane?” JB called out, interrupting the brief lesson.

  Zane nodded and looked back at Casey. “Give me a wood,” he said in a confident voice.

  “Excuse me?” she replied with her eyebrows up.

  “Wow,” Zane said. “You should have just gone back to bed.” He then pointed at the large club. “That one.”

  “Oh, right,” she replied, feeling like an idiot.

  Zane stepped up and took a couple of practice swings. Everyone went quiet, making for an idyllic moment out in nature. Finally, Zane took a small step forward and clobbered the ball. It flew into the trees. Casey assumed that wasn’t what he wanted, and that lifted her spirits a little.

  “Damn,” he said.

  “Deep in the trees on your first hit, Zane?” JB said with a chuckle.

  “Don't worry about me,” Zane replied with a wink. “I'll get my swing back by the third hole.”

  As Zane moved back to his golf bag, JB stepped over.

  “Should I stick with you or go with them?” the older man whispered.

  “Go with them so it doesn't looks suspicious.”

  “Right.”

  Witt stepped up to the tee next. He seemed to be surveying the area before stepping back to his golf bag.

  “What would you use on this one, Caddie Casey?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Uh...” Casey said, feeling put on the spot.

  “Yeah,” Zane said with a sarcastic look, “would you go with a three or a one on this one, Caddie Casey?”

  “Well,” she began, “seeing as how Zane...”

  “That's Mr. Wolfe, if you please,” Zane interjected.

  “Sorry,” she said almost too sweetly. “Seeing as how Mr. Wolfe just used a one and put it into the trees, I'd go with a three.”

  Everyone laughed, except Zane, of course.

  “Three it is,” Witt said and then turned to the rest of the golfers, adding, “Please chatter amongst yourselves.”

  “What got you into caddying?” Lafferty asked Casey as Witt went about his pre-swing ritual.

  “I just love the game, but...”

  “She can't afford to play,” Zane zinged one in.

  Lafferty nodded understandingly. “Ah, right. I believe there are public courses out there that you can use.”

  There was a twing sound that signified Witt had connected with the ball. From where she stood, Casey assumed that it had been a relatively decent shot. At least it hadn’t followed Zane’s into the trees.

  “I'll keep that in mind,” she said to Lafferty. “Thank you.”

  “You're up, Lafferty,” Pemrose announced, obviously eager to keep things moving at a brisk pace.

  Everyone remained silent as Lafferty teed off. His shot outdistanced Witt’s, but it was closer to the edge of the fairway. From the look on Lafferty’s face, he seemed rather pleased.

  “And now it's my turn,” Pemrose said and then signaled everyone to look away. “If you would give me some privacy, please.”

  Ca
sey was standing by Zane as they looked in the opposite direction of Pemrose.

  “How are we supposed to spot what he's doing if we can't look?” Casey whispered.

  “Use your smartphone,” suggested Zane.

  She thought about this for a moment, but she had no idea what he was talking about. “Why would I use my smartphone, again?”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry,” Zane said, “I forgot that you don't really have one.”

  “I do so.”

  “No, you have a flip phone, which is cute, but also mostly pointless.”

  Thwipp...twing!

  “That sounded like a flawless shot,” Zane said, spinning back to see where Pemrose’s shot had landed.

  Casey followed Zane’s lead, but she couldn’t spot it either. To be fair, though, had she not been following Witt’s, Lafferty’s, or even Zane’s hit, she wouldn’t have likely seen where they’d gone either. Still, unless Pemrose had knocked it into the woods, it should have at least been in the same general area as one of the others.

  “Where'd you land, Pemrose?” Zane asked as he kept scanning the field ahead.

  “Just off the fairway on the right,” Pemrose replied as he began dragging his bag along. “Shall we?”

  Everyone walked to their respective drops. Casey kept an eye on Pemrose for as long as possible. He wasn’t acting suspiciously, exactly, but Casey’s nose smelled a rat.

  “We're not going to get anywhere if we can't see what he's doing,” she said as they pushed through the tree line in search of Zane’s golf ball.

  “Hence the cell phone,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Here, take mine.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you're going to look the other way the next time he tees off, but you're going to take a video over your shoulder of what he's doing so we can see.”

  She hated to admit it, but she did anyway. “That's actually a decent idea.”

  “I have my moments,” Zane said as he pointed near a grassy patch. “There’s my hit.”

  He grabbed a club from the bag himself this time and then looked up as if aiming. She hated to admit it, but every now and then he exuded some intangible that reminded her of why she’d dated him in the first place. Too bad he often opened his mouth to destroy those moments.