She had a haircut like a boy, and her tips were bleached, with a few independent strands left-over from the 1970s.
Roland obeyed his mistress with two barks, and they were gone.
Gregson pressed the button on his Nespresso Machine—extra dark—triple shots. He felt good. It was the type of feeling caused from being touched by a beautiful woman, and then dreaming about her, all night long.
Gregson stretched, and looked into the closet. There they were—Mizuno irons. He requested them, from the golf shop. His tee-time was in 45 minutes, which gave him just enough time to cook eggs, dress in his kaki cargo shorts, and slip into his lucky green polo shirt.
He wanted to teach Joel a golf lesson—not in competition, but in style. The sun was shining, and the birds were making their own music.
Megan was wearing a low-cut mini skirt and a pink blouse.
“You look ready to play,” she said.
“There’s three groups in front of us, and I heard that Patrick is missing. He was supposed to join the first foursome,” Megan said
“Patrick?” Gregson asked.
“He was the one in our graduating class who snuck into the girl’s dorm on the senior retreat and dyed their hair gray.”
“Oh—his dad was the dean?”
“That’s right. He got away with murder.”
Gregson didn’t like how Megan said that—there was murder in her voice.
They walked across the parking lot to the practice green, but before they got there, a red Triumph tore through the bird songs, and parked in the handicapped zone. Stephen and Joel jumped out, grinning. They wore matching black sunglasses, like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, and they high-fived each other, like they had already won the golf tournament.
“Who are you guys?” Joel asked.
Stephen looked at them, as if he was analyzing stock-market ticker-tape. Then he noticed Gregson for the first time. “Man—you need to go on a diet.”
“I’m already on one.”
“It’s going to give you a heart-attack.”
“Actually, I’m going to live forever.”
“There’s only room for one immortal in our group—and that’s me,” Joel said. He looked at Megan. “You seem familiar… wait a second, are you moo moo Megan?”
She smiled. “That’s me.”
“You were so ugly in high school, they called you a cow—that, and, you had, well…” He stared at her chest.
Gregson hated high school. It must’ve been even worse for Megan.
They teed-off down a long par-four. Gregson hit each shot, hoping his ball wouldn’t land near Joel’s or Stephen’s, but it was as if gravity, or God, or some mischievous magnetism had other plans. On the second hole, Gregson hooked his shot into the sand trap.
“Tough luck, mate,” Joel said. He swung, and did the same thing. “Damn.”
Stephen teed-off and landed in the trap.
Megan was short.
When they walked-up to the pit, on the far-left-side of the fairway, Gregson saw the body. It was holding a bent golf club. Blood and brains were leaking into the sand.
“Nobody touch anything,” Gregson warned.
“What makes you qualified to say that?” Stephen asked.
“I’ve seen many a dead body in my day.”
Joel clammed up.
“Don’t worry. He’s a retired private investigator,” Megan assured him.
“I don’t know, Gregson. You don’t seem retired to me,” Stephen said.
Gregson shifted his position, looking for the cause of death—and there it was—a gaping hole in the skull. The end of the bent iron had blood on it.
“You know—that hair-cut looks like the one Patrick had when he was in high school,” Joel observed.
“That’s because it is Patrick,” Stephen said.
“Who would want to kill him?”
“I can’t believe you have to ask that—at least half of the high school.”
“Why didn’t any of the groups in front of us find the body?”
“Because, nobody is as bad at golf as we are,” Gregson suggested.
“Speak for yourself, mate,” Joel came back.
“What I can’t understand, is how he got himself murdered in less than 24 hours—and on the golf course, no less,” Stephen said. “This place is in plain sight. Somebody would’ve seen him.”
“Not if the murderer killed him at night,” Gregson suggested.
“You’re telling me, somebody lured him out onto the golf course at midnight, and clubbed him to death with a 5-iron?”
“Yes. Unless you can imagine another way?”
Stephen was hesitant to respond—being too creative after a crime, could implicate him.