sighed, “Then I expect I’ll be ready.”
“Tempus fugit.”
Harry hopped in the truck. “Charlie Ashcraft has not one redeeming virtue. How is it that someone like him lives and someone good dies? Aurora Hughes was a wonderful person.”
“Pity. He is the most divine-looking animal.” Susan shrugged.
“Handsome is as handsome does.”
“Tell that to my hormones,” Susan countered.
They both laughed and Harry drove home feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders. She wasn’t sure why. Was it because she had erupted at BoomBoom? At Charlie? Or because she had gotten tired and left, instead of standing there feeling like a resentful martyr? She decided she wasn’t going to help with any other senior superlative photographs and she wasn’t even sure she’d go through with her own. Then she thought better of it. After all, it would be really mean-spirited not to cooperate. They were all in this together. Still, the thought of BoomBoom hovering around . . . Of course, knowing Boom, she’d put off Harry’s shot until last and then photograph her in the worst light. Harry thought she’d better call Denny at the studio tomorrow.
After the chores, she played with Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker. They loved to play hide ’n’ seek.
The phone rang at nine P.M .
“Har?”
“Susan, don’t tell me you just got home.”
“No. I just heard this instant—Charlie Ashcraft was shot dead in the men’s locker room at the Farmington Country Club.”
“What?”
“Right between the eyes with a .38.”
“Who did it?”
“Nobody knows.”
“I can think of a dozen who’d fight for the chance.”
“Me, too. Queer, though. After just seeing him.”
“Bet BoomBoom’s glad she got the photograph first,” Harry shot from the hip.
“You’re awful.”
“No, I’m your best friend. I’m supposed to say anything in the world to you, ’member?”
“Then let me say this to
you
. Don’t be too jolly. Think about what you said this afternoon. We have no idea of who he’s slept with recently. That’s for starters. He was gifted at hiding his amours for a time, anyway. I’m all for your cleansing inside but a little repression will go a long way right now.”
“You’re right.”
After she hung up the phone she told Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, who listened with interest.
“A jilted husband finally did what everyone else has wanted to do,”
Tucker said.
“Tucker, you have the sweetest eyes.” Harry stroked the soft head.
“Weren’t there any witnesses?”
Mrs. Murphy asked.
“Right between the eyes.”
Pewter shook her head.
8
Farmington Country Club glowed with the patina of years. The handmade bricks lent a soft paprika glow to the Georgian buildings in the long summer twilight. As the oldest country club in Albemarle County, Farmington counted among its members the movers and shakers of the region as well as the totally worthless whose only distinguishing feature was that they had inherited enough money to stay current on their dues. The median age of members was sixty-two, which didn’t bode well for Farmington’s future. However, Farmington rested secure in its old golf course with long, classic fairways. The modern golf courses employed far too many sharp doglegs and par 3’s because land was so expensive.
Charlie Ashcraft, a good golfer, had divided his skills between Farmington and its challengers, Keswick and Glenmore. At a seven handicap he was much in demand as a partner, carrying pounds of silver from tournaments. He also carried away Belinda Harrier when he was only seventeen and she was thirty and had won the ladies’ championship. That was the first clue that Charlie possessed unusual powers of persuasion. Charlie’s parents fetched him from the Richmond motel to which they had fled and Belinda’s husband promptly divorced her. Her golf game went to pot as did Belinda.
Rick Shaw, sheriff of Albemarle County, and his deputy, the young
“Tempus fugit.”
Harry hopped in the truck. “Charlie Ashcraft has not one redeeming virtue. How is it that someone like him lives and someone good dies? Aurora Hughes was a wonderful person.”
“Pity. He is the most divine-looking animal.” Susan shrugged.
“Handsome is as handsome does.”
“Tell that to my hormones,” Susan countered.
They both laughed and Harry drove home feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders. She wasn’t sure why. Was it because she had erupted at BoomBoom? At Charlie? Or because she had gotten tired and left, instead of standing there feeling like a resentful martyr? She decided she wasn’t going to help with any other senior superlative photographs and she wasn’t even sure she’d go through with her own. Then she thought better of it. After all, it would be really mean-spirited not to cooperate. They were all in this together. Still, the thought of BoomBoom hovering around . . . Of course, knowing Boom, she’d put off Harry’s shot until last and then photograph her in the worst light. Harry thought she’d better call Denny at the studio tomorrow.
After the chores, she played with Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker. They loved to play hide ’n’ seek.
The phone rang at nine P.M .
“Har?”
“Susan, don’t tell me you just got home.”
“No. I just heard this instant—Charlie Ashcraft was shot dead in the men’s locker room at the Farmington Country Club.”
“What?”
“Right between the eyes with a .38.”
“Who did it?”
“Nobody knows.”
“I can think of a dozen who’d fight for the chance.”
“Me, too. Queer, though. After just seeing him.”
“Bet BoomBoom’s glad she got the photograph first,” Harry shot from the hip.
“You’re awful.”
“No, I’m your best friend. I’m supposed to say anything in the world to you, ’member?”
“Then let me say this to
you
. Don’t be too jolly. Think about what you said this afternoon. We have no idea of who he’s slept with recently. That’s for starters. He was gifted at hiding his amours for a time, anyway. I’m all for your cleansing inside but a little repression will go a long way right now.”
“You’re right.”
After she hung up the phone she told Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, who listened with interest.
“A jilted husband finally did what everyone else has wanted to do,”
Tucker said.
“Tucker, you have the sweetest eyes.” Harry stroked the soft head.
“Weren’t there any witnesses?”
Mrs. Murphy asked.
“Right between the eyes.”
Pewter shook her head.
8
Farmington Country Club glowed with the patina of years. The handmade bricks lent a soft paprika glow to the Georgian buildings in the long summer twilight. As the oldest country club in Albemarle County, Farmington counted among its members the movers and shakers of the region as well as the totally worthless whose only distinguishing feature was that they had inherited enough money to stay current on their dues. The median age of members was sixty-two, which didn’t bode well for Farmington’s future. However, Farmington rested secure in its old golf course with long, classic fairways. The modern golf courses employed far too many sharp doglegs and par 3’s because land was so expensive.
Charlie Ashcraft, a good golfer, had divided his skills between Farmington and its challengers, Keswick and Glenmore. At a seven handicap he was much in demand as a partner, carrying pounds of silver from tournaments. He also carried away Belinda Harrier when he was only seventeen and she was thirty and had won the ladies’ championship. That was the first clue that Charlie possessed unusual powers of persuasion. Charlie’s parents fetched him from the Richmond motel to which they had fled and Belinda’s husband promptly divorced her. Her golf game went to pot as did Belinda.
Rick Shaw, sheriff of Albemarle County, and his deputy, the young
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