It was short notice, and Gregson didn’t have a T-time. He was visiting Maple Valley because a friend of his from university wanted to catch up. Andrew was a psychologist who worked with children and women 100% of his day. He was confused, and Gregson knew it. The PI was planning an intervention to save his friend from himself.
Gregson was paired-up with a guy in his early thirties, who looked like a teacher, and talked like he knew everything. It was like playing Russian Roulette on the golf course with strangers. Gregson couldn’t tell how many chambers were loaded until he started to play, but soon he wanted the bullet. The guy was annoying.
“You know what you did there—you bent your wrist—that’s why your ball went into the woods.”
Gregson looked at him and nodded. His body, prematurely tense. “Thanks.”
“Maybe you should lose a few pounds. It could be your coordination, or lack of it.”
Gregson ignored him, and transitioned into his imagination.
There were 14 clubs in his bag, and he kept looking at them, trying to decide which one would do the job, neatest. There were pine trees, and thickets of blackberries everywhere. If he got rid of this guy, the immediate world would be happier.
In response, a high caliber rifle echoed across the golf course like thunder. Gregson looked into the sky, but there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Then he looked at the green, rapidly turning red. The annoying golfer was lying face-down, with an exit wound in his back, twice the size of a golf ball.
“Someone got ‘im before I could,” Gregson muttered.
Blood was draining into hole number 5, like the shower scene in Psycho. Gregson knew better than to stand in the open, so he ran for cover, and scouted sniper positions. The only one, was the hay-loft of the old farmhouse that had been converted into the Pro Shop. It was a perfect day for murder, blue skies and a red biplane flew overhead. Mysteries followed Gregson into retirement. Murderers wanted to keep his soul alive. Gregson’s memoires were growing, but he was a crime solver and not a writer—his friend wanted to get published, so perhaps the murder in Maple Valley would give him something to write about.