by S. D. Tooley
MYSTERIES TO DIE FOR
A Collection of Short Stories
Volume 1
The Thirteenth Hole
Lee Driver
Sara Morningsky
Lee Driver
Diamond in the Ruff
from the case files of Chase Dagger
Lee Driver
Solving Life's Riddle
S.D. Tooley
About the Collection:
As an avid golfer, my husband and I were excited when a local country club offered memberships at an unbelievably low price. Imagine my shock when I was told my husband and I wouldn't be able to golf together because women weren't allowed to golf before 1:00 p.m. I vented my feelings in a short story, The Thirteenth Hole, which is about a haunted golf course. (tags: ghost, haunting, golf, supernatural)
Sara Morningsky introduced an eighteen-year-old shapeshifter who unknowingly helps to solve the murder of a cop. She enlists the aid of P.I. Chase Dagger, a mysterious stranger with a dark past. I had only meant for it to be a short story but the characters wouldn't shut up. Because I already had a series with a female protagonist (Samantha Casey series), I decided to give this series to Dagger. Five books later and they are still mouthy. (tags: mystery, private detective, fantasy, urban fantasy, shapeshifter, Native American)
Diamond in the Ruff is one of those cases Dagger manages to solve in a couple hours. It was an excerpt from the third in the Dagger series which I expanded and made into a short story. (tags: mystery, private detective, hard-boiled)
In Solving Life's Riddle, past and present collide in a story about how a recluse changes the life of a teen runaway. I use a real Chicago figure for this story, giving a bit of a soft spot to a character with a questionable history. (tags: underground tunnels, Chicago, historical, fiction)
Enjoy!
Sandra Tooley
aka S.D. Tooley
aka Lee Driver
A Smashwords Edition
The Thirteenth Hole
This short story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Any slights of people, places, or organizations is purely unintentional.
Copyright ©2001 by Lee Driver
All rights reserved.
This short story or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
THE THIRTEENTH HOLE
Lee Driver
Where the phrase, "A killer of
a back nine" takes on a whole new meaning.
There was a bounce to Ben's step as he crossed the foyer. Things would be different now. Things would be done the right way, his way. But then that familiar tingling caught him in mid-stride. In the past, whenever that icy chill crept up his spine, he would turn to find Emma leaning against a wall, arms folded, a disapproving scowl etched across her face. Or she would be peering around a doorjamb, just half of her face visible, lurking like some grade school principal. But she wouldn't be lurking around corners any more. Emma Sullivan was dead. Ben had practically danced a little jig when he heard the news weeks ago. Heart attack. Little strange for a woman he was sure never had a heart.
Slowly, Ben turned, seeking the cause for the cold that was gripping his body. But Emma wasn't lurking around any corners or standing in any doorways. Instead, a new addition had been added to the foyer. Ben took a step back and assessed the portrait. Thick, ornate mahogany framed the large painting of Thomas and Emma Sullivan. Emma was built like a sequoia, with red hair and blazing green eyes. She stood just a scant two inches shorter than her husband, a stick of a man with a wisp of a gray mustache.
Ben stepped to his right and noticed that her eyes followed. It was only his imagination, he was sure. As if challenging their control, he cautiously moved left. But still her gaze was locked on him like a heat-seeking missile.
Casually walking to the far corner of the foyer, Ben's fingers twirled the diamond-studded ring on his left hand. Before him was an elaborate staircase, like something out of the movie, Titanic, branching out at the mezzanine level. He could imagine his executive office on that floor with a perfect view of the course. And he would generate more revenue by renting out the meeting rooms. The place was a gold mine.
He returned his gaze to the portrait. Emma's heat seekers bore a hole through him as his fingers twirled the ring until his skin felt raw. With hands shoved in his pants pockets, he strolled back to the wall where the possessed portrait hung. He could almost hear Emma's voice, the last words she had spoken to him in her rich, Irish brogue: "Be careful what 'ye wish for."
Shamrock Isle Country Club was an eighteen-hole golf course tucked behind a palatial clubhouse. The first generation Sullivans had been of aristocratic stock, owning castles in Europe, and passing jewels and property holdings down the family tree. The properties served well for the five-star golf courses they built. All of the clubhouses had the trademark castle design. They also carried one other tradition: They were exclusively for men only.
This was never a problem until Thomas married a professional golfer. Emma had tried for years to get the rules changed. Even filed a discrimination suit. The court ruled it was a private club and they could make their own rules. Then she set out to change the minds of the members. That was when she ran into a solid brick wall known as Ben McAfee, Scott Jessic, and Jim Turner. They were members of the board who continually voted against the other two members, one of which was Emma's husband, Thomas.
There was a lot to say about being a board member at one of the most prestigious country clubs. It permitted Ben access to any country club in the world. Garnered him invites to parties held by the rich and powerful. And his opinion carried weight---all the members would nod in agreement to whatever he suggested.
Ben walked through the empty restaurant to the French doors, which opened onto a flagstone patio. It was Monday and the course was closed. This was the day all the maintenance work was performed. He stood at the opened doors and admired the lush landscaping, the professional layout of the course, the flowering gardens. Inhaling the fragrance, he smiled. Soon it would all be his. Thomas Sullivan was financially strapped.
Ben's trip to Europe wasn't just to oversee a computer networking project, but to gather financing to buy Thomas Sullivan out. Make him an offer he couldn't refuse.
Ben's gaze drifted back to the entrance, to the foyer where the portrait hung. Emma's stare was penetrating and there was something about it that kept the chill pulsing through his body.
He stepped out onto the patio where a gaunt black man was working a hand trowel through the dirt in the flowerbed. Their eyes met, sending another icy chill up Ben's spine.
Otis nodded, eyes downcast as he returned his attention to the flowers. His gnarled hands worked the trowel, jabbing at the dirt, then dropping the day lilies into the hole, the bright yellow trumpet petals contrasting sharply with the purple irises.
"Surprised you're still here. Thought with Emma gone you'd be looking for another job." Ben pursed his lips and did nothing to hide the sneer that was becoming as much a part of his features as his thick eyebrows. Whenever he looked down his aquiline nose at the working staff, his eyebrows formed a V at the bridge.
Otis rubbed his hand across his shirt and stood. Beads of sweat clung to his forehead.
Ben plodded on. "I know Thomas let Emma golf on Mondays when the course was closed. But that kind of preferential treatment for any of the wives is going to stop. Emma isn't around to carry their banner any more."
The black man stared for a few beats, then in a Cajun accent, voice barely above a whisper, said, "Be unkind to talk about the dead dat way. It be d
isrespectful."
Ben smiled. "I don't think she can hear us."
"Ben!"
He turned to see Thomas Sullivan walking toward him, a shamrock crest emblazoned on the breast pocket of his navy sportscoat. Tired gray eyes blinked against the sunlight as he pulled a straw hat from his head.
"You're back."
"Just flew in." Ben turned back to view the course. The workers were cutting a path across one of the fairways. The two men stood in silence as if the Monday cutting were some reverent ceremony. In the background, the trowel continued to beat at the earth.
"I take it your trip was successful," Thomas said.
Ben turned slightly toward the elderly man. The loss of his wife had aged him even more. The corners of his eyes sagged as if pulled downward by some imaginary strings.
"I know you've been running around Europe the past month trying to get financing to buy me out." Thomas kept his eyes on the tree line behind the first tee. His fingers played with the brim of his straw hat.
"Really am sorry for your loss," Ben said.
Thomas finally turned to look at him. They both knew he wasn't one bit sorry. "We found out about your plans for Shamrock Isle. Just about tore Emma's heart out. That's what killed her."
So now it's my fault? Ben thought. "It was destined, Thomas. You aren't managing the place like an entrepreneur. Membership dues should have been raised years ago."
"People shouldn't have to pay close to a year's wages to join. That wasn't our tradition."
"Prices go up, Thomas. Food, wages, maintenance." Ben nodded toward the fairway. "You saw fit to purchase state-of-the-art lawn equipment. Someone has to pay for it."
Thomas sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging further. A man outmaneuvered and whose fight left him when Emma died.
"Changes need to be made. I will have to meet with Jim and Scott to discuss the bylaws."
Thomas just stared. "You haven't heard?"
"Heard what? I came right from the airport."
The trowel clambered to the walkway as Otis straightened. He retrieved more plants from the back of the cart.
"No one has heard from either of them."
Ben thought for a moment. Jim was an architect. It wasn't unusual for him to make a quick trip to a job site, sometimes clear across the continent. He unclipped his cellular phone from his waistband and dialed Jim's office only to be told that they assumed Jim was in New Zealand.
"Strange." Next, Ben called Scott who was an optometrist. His office told him they hadn't heard from him since last week but it was possible he was at a convention in San Diego. Ben called Scott's wife. Unfortunately, they were recently separated and she couldn't, in her words, "care less if he dropped off the face of the earth."
"Do what you gotta do." Thomas settled his hat on his head and strode off, pausing briefly to pat Otis' bony shoulder.
Ben's gaze trailed after the man then drifted back to Otis. "What are you staring at?" He watched as Otis placed his hand tools in the cart overflowing with impatiens, lobelia, creeping phlox, and an assortment of other annuals. "And just what are you doing with all those flowers?" Ben asked. "The old lady isn't here anymore. We don't have to clutter the course with those feminine decorations. Flowers belong only around the clubhouse."
"It's how Mizz Sullivan wanted it. Mizzer Sullivan, he say it was her last request, that her favorite hole be designed in her honor."
Ben jammed his fists onto his hips. It was bad enough he had to put up with Emma when she was alive. But now she was dead. He was about to be one of the new owners and he'd be damned if he was going to have any reminders of her anywhere on the course.
"Really! And exactly what else did she request from her deathbed?" He waved a hand at Otis, as though swatting a fly, and looked in the direction Thomas had walked. "Forget it. I'll just go ask Thomas." He started to walk away.
"They were here," Otis announced, turning to add more tools to the cart. "Mizzers Jim and Scott."
Ben turned. "When?"
"Mizzer Scott, he play last week. Nobody saw him after dat." His chocolate eyes held Ben's gaze. "Mizzer Jim, he play the week before. Ain't nobody seen him since."
Ben cocked his head, a chill drying up the perspiration dotting his forehead. There had always been something about Otis that made him uneasy. Maybe it was the fact that he came from the land of voodoo. He once saw Otis talking to an arrow dangling from the end of a string, and then chanting in some strange language. And Ben would watch as the arrow changed direction, as though Otis commanded it.
Otis and Emma always had their heads together. Word was when she would come out on Mondays to sneak a round of golf, she would take Otis with and give him lessons. Ben had complained that Emma was taking Otis away from his work. But it always fell on Thomas's deaf ears. He was untouchable employment-wise. We'll see about that, Ben thought.
"Really strange," Otis said, "how they just up and be gone." He pressed his dark fingers together and spread them quickly, whispering, "poof."
"What are you saying?"
"Saying nothing, Mizzer Ben." Otis climbed into the cart and it lumbered down the cart path.
Unable to find Thomas, Ben headed for the locker room, shrugging out of his shirt before he reached the entrance. The locker room was a veritable oasis. A man could have a massage, play cards, get a drink, a snack, or soak in a whirlpool. It was spacious with tall lockers large enough to hold a week's worth of clothes and shoes. He jammed his key into the lock and sat down on the bench, kicked off his shoes. Damn, if Emma could play on Mondays, I sure as hell can, too. He'd have the course to himself. Checking his watch he figured he would only have time for a quick nine.
His golf shoes, cleaned and polished, lay on the top shelf of his locker. He quickly changed and checked his reflection in the mirror hanging on the inside door. Time for a touchup. More gray was sprouting at the roots and he didn't like the deep creases around his eyes. Wouldn't look good in Golf Digest magazine.
Slowly his gaze drifted to the lockers across from his. He often golfed with Jim and Scott, and at times they would leave papers in their lockers regarding the buy-out of the golf course. After stashing his clothes in his locker, he picked up his key ring. They each had a duplicate set.
He searched through the keys for Jim's and inserted it in the lock. It clicked open. Inside were golf shirts, pants, extra tees and balls. Ben checked the pants pockets. Nothing.
He turned to Scott's locker. A handful of cigars had been left in a box on the floor of the locker. Shirts were jammed together. Two golf hats hung on the clothes hooks, and a knot of golf gloves were clumped on the top shelf. Ben entertained the thought of mandatory monthly locker inspections. He was just about to close both of their lockers when he realized something was missing. Shoes. Every golfer he knew owned more than one pair and Jim and Scott always left a spare in their lockers. It was customary. After golfing you leave your clubs with the caddy to be cleaned and stored and drop your shoes off with the attendant to be cleaned.
Ben walked along the plush green and navy plaid carpeting to the attendant's storage room. It contained shelves, like mail slots, where cleaned shoes would be left for pickup. Jim's and Scott's slots were empty.
He walked downstairs to the pro shop. "Larry."
A bronzed face framed in sun-bleached hair, peered over a clearance rack. "Ben. When did you get back?"
"Just now. I wanted to hit a few balls at the driving range." The less Larry knew the better.
Larry reached under the counter and pulled out a basket of striped balls. His gaze drifted toward the window. "Nice day as long as those clouds stay away." Large, dark clouds loomed in the distance.
Nodding toward the schedule, Ben asked, "Could you tell me the last time Jim Turner and Scott Jessic played?"
Larry's freckled hand flipped through the pages. "Those guys were always good for at least three to four rounds a week. Don't know what happened to them." His index finger traced a jagged trail as it checked seve
ral columns. "Scott played last week Thursday and Jim..." He flipped several pages back, "Jim played two weeks ago Monday."
Ben noticed a detailed drawing on the wall behind Larry. "What's that?"
"That? It's an artist's drawing of the thirteenth hole. The renovations are just about complete."
"What are they doing?" Ben peered closely at the drawing.
"We re-designed the sand trap so it's shaped like a shamrock, identical to what we have on the first and tenth holes." The shamrock was the trademark of Shamrock Isles and could be found on the shirts, sweaters, and jackets in the pro shop. Larry continued. "The pond has a waterfall, some pond fish like koi and calico fantails, and a lot of foliage and flowers."
Ben grimaced. "Who the hell's idea was that?"
"Emma Sullivan. The thirteenth hole always was her pet project, and Mr. Sullivan wanted to implement some of her last requests."
"I go away for a month and the place goes to hell," Ben muttered. "Well, we'll see what happens at the meeting Saturday." He studied Larry, a retired semi-pro at the young age of thirty-six. "Tell me, Larry. Wouldn't you rather this course stay a men's only club? Don't you enjoy not having to wait for slow players and having the fairways chopped up?"
"More men tear the course up with their divots and there's nothing slower than a man sizing up his putt," Larry said as he returned to the clearance rack. "To tell you the truth?" He leaned his forearms on the glass top above the circular rack. "I would love to host a pro golf tournament like Cog Hill does the Western Open. But we never will if we keep our exclusionary rules." A smile crinkled the corners of Larry's clear blue eyes. "I guess Emma got the last laugh. She said if she couldn't be a member, she'd make sure her presence would always be here. And she did it. The crafty lady had her ashes strewn on the thirteenth hole."
