Tail Gait

April 11, 2015

BoomBoom Craycroft and Susan Tucker rode in one green golf cart while Nelson Yarbrough and David Wheeler rode in another. Harry, as promised, rode in a third cart, along with her two cats, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter; Susan’s golf bag; and a small thermos of hot tea sitting in the cupholder.

Brilliant sunshine flooded the fairways, yellow buds swelled on willows soon to open to a light green unique to the season. Spring, long and cool, promised more floral glory shortly. A ten-mile-an-hour wind from the west ensured that the day would feel cool even if the mercury climbed into the low sixties. As it was, the temperature at 2:30 hung in the high fifties, sweater weather.

The carts pulled up at the third tee. Despite a lingering light frost, people were eager to get out and begin a new season. Of course, this year their game would improve. They just knew it.

The foursome, having played together over the years, kept to a well-oiled routine. The ladies drove first off the ladies’ tees, then the men followed from the men’s tees.

BoomBoom, an 11 handicap, never one to dally, pulled her three wood from her bag, teed up, and hit a beauty straight down the long, long fairway. This course was built in 1927, land was cheap back then, and five-par holes could be built without destroying the budget. Four- and a few five-par holes were common on these grand old courses. Farmington didn’t need a lot of doglegs. If you could hit straight and true, read the roll of the land, you would enjoy playing the old course the old way. Still, sand traps, some tricky fairways, and deceptive sight lines here and there forced a player to think.

But then thinking is the easier part of golf; executing is another story. Susan, a 4 handicap, watched BoomBoom, another childhood friend. BoomBoom could drive. Her short game often let her down, but a woman really had to blast to match the tall blonde off the tee.

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. Rarely 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.