Whack 'n' Roll

Table of Contents

 

 

I deliberately avoided glancing at the speedometer. It would probably scare me. In this situation, the adage “Ignorance is bliss” suited me just dandy. I only hoped that drivers who pulled to the side of the highway at the sight of flashing lights would assume I was part of the procession and stay clear.

Brake lights flashed ahead of me. I whipped the wheel and made a hard left. The Buick shuddered. Tires squealed. I burned rubber and was proud of it. Another first.

The posse had left the highway and headed down a road that led to the state park. Signs flew past. Brown signs with arrows. RANGER’S STATION. PICNIC SITE. BOAT RAMP. CAMPGROUND.

I rounded a bend in the road, then slammed on the brakes. I narrowly avoided plowing into a sheriff’s vehicle parked half in, half out of the road. I hopped out of my car and looked around to get my bearings.

A dozen or so RVs and motor homes, some the size of a Greyhound bus, were parked in a section that afforded campers hookups for water and electricity. Where were the tents? I wondered. What happened to sleeping bags on the ground? Did campers still cook on Coleman stoves? Did people still gather around campfires and toast marsh-mallows? These pithy questions would have to wait. Right now I had a mystery to solve.

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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, August

Copyright © Gail Oust, 2009

eISBN : 978-1-101-10532-0

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Acknowledgments

Thanks first of all to Jessica Faust of BookEnds, LLC, my wonderful, fantastic, fabulous agent, for her enthusiasm and confidence in me. You helped birth the Bunco Babes, and I’ll be forever grateful.

Thanks also to my very own bunco babes, Mary Ann, Janet, Chris, Barbara, Sondra, Mickey, Lise, Camille, Jean, Ellen, and Ann, who aspire to inspire, and succeed.

A special thank-you to the Purple Gang of SLV, true Red Hat sisters of the heart. Maureen, Fran, Carol, Jan, Claudell, Joan, Janet, Ann, and Rosemarie, I love you guys. Who would have guessed where playing golf together would lead?

Jim Montgomery, lieutenant, Detroit police department, retired, your advice on crime and punishment kept me on the straight and narrow when I tended to wander off into the land of make-believe. I take full responsibility for any errors or misinformation the reader might encounter. And Ben Jackson, you may be a retired policeman, but you still know how to think like an active one.

Mike McClain, I laughed out loud at seeing the first version of my Web page. I truly appreciate your dogged persistence in dragging technologically challenged me into the twenty-first century.

Last, but not least, my dear friend Patti Cornelius. You always seem to be there when I need you. A special big fat thanks for coming to my rescue with a title and cleverly naming my baby
Whack ’n’ Roll.

Chapter 1

“Kate McCall, stop daydreaming. It’s your turn.”

Monica’s plaintive voice interrupted my mental inventory of things I still needed to do before bunco that evening. I shouldn’t have let Pam talk me into playing golf when I should be home vacuuming. Reality check, reality check: golf versus vacuuming? No contest. Golf won hands down.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

As usual I was going to be last to tee off. And I liked it that way. When it comes to procrastinating, I rule. I pulled my driver from my bag and dug a ball out of my pocket. Jim would be so proud—not to mention surprised—to know that I’ve taken up the game I used to complain about. I imagine him smiling down on me from the pearly gates. Granted, I’m not a very good golfer, but I do enjoy getting out on the course with some of the ladies from my bunco group. We call ourselves the Bunco Babes. Technically speaking, I’m not sure whether women of a certain age can still be considered “babes.” But I believe with the proper attitude anything is possible. And the Babes have attitude up the wazoo.

“Connie Sue landed on the green.” Monica pointed to the bright speck of pink 120 yards in the distance. She neglected to mention her shot landed in a sand trap. “Now let’s see you make it across.”

Monica tends to be competitive when it comes to golf. But Monica tends to be competitive—period. Even at bunco. And bunco, as aficionados know, is strictly a roll of the dice. No skill, no strategy. Simply a roll of the dice.

“You can do it, sugar,” Connie Sue crooned. Once a cheerleader, always a cheerleader, I suppose.

Pam smiled encouragingly. “Make it across, and I’ll let you wear the tiara tonight.”

If that wasn’t incentive, I didn’t know what was. Pam was referring to the fact she was the reigning queen of the Bunco Babes. The tiara had been Connie Sue’s idea. Figures, coming from a former Miss Peach Princess. At the end of each evening, a sparkly rhinestone tiara is awarded to the highest roller. This is the winner’s to keep until next time we play. Then, after scores are tallied, the reigning queen relinquishes the crown to the new winner. Silly? Of course it is. Though some might loathe admitting it, I’d be willing to wager that everyone gets a kick out of wearing that tiara. It makes us feel special and appeals to our sense of fun. In other words, it makes us girls again.

“You’ve won it two times in a row,” Monica reminded Pam. “Fair warning, pal. You’re about to be dethroned tonight. I’m feeling lucky.”

“Girls, girls, girls,” Connie Sue drawled in her best Scarlett O’Hara imitation. “Don’t make me have to give you a time-out.” Connie Sue is the grandmother of twin toddlers. She likes to keep the rest of us up-to-date on parenting, lest we forget most of us once raised children of our own. Miracle that any of them survived, given today’s theories.

I squinted across the narrow gully separating the elevated tee from the green, and sighed. I’ve always disliked the eighth hole. Nearly as much as I dislike the second, third, and fifth. There is no margin for error. Getting my ball on the green is a skill I have yet to acquire. If I’m lucky, it will land nearby. And let me tell you, that’s a very big if. More often than not, my ball lands in the thick vegetation below.

I strode up to the tee box with more bravado than I felt, pushed my hot pink tee into the hard-packed ground, and prepared to say farewell to my pretty lavender ball, which in all likelihood I would never see again.

“Remember, sugar, left arm straight, knees flexed, feet shoulder-width apart.” Connie Sue Cheerleader was at it again.

“Just keep your eye on the ball,” Pam reminded, perhaps just a tad guilty for taking me away from my housework.

“What the heck?” I muttered. If Monica made it across that darn gully, maybe there was hope for a hacker like me. I took a deliberate backstroke just as Brad Murphy, the club’s pro, had instructed. Then—for a split second—my attention strayed. Did I have enough crabmeat for the spread I planned to make for bunco? Or should I run by the Piggly Wiggly on my way home? Trust me, it’s not a good thing when your attention strays in the middle of your golf stroke.

My driver
kachunk
ed as it connected with the ball. With a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I watched it arc against the blue Carolina sky. Monica, Connie Sue, and Pam groaned when my ball hit the fringe of the fairway, struck a rock, then bounced backward—straight into the . . . crap. No other word for it.

“The sun was in my eyes,” I said. A lie, a blatant lie.

None of us said a word as we climbed into our golf carts and navigated the steep, winding cart path to the bottom of the hill.

“Good luck finding your ball,” Monica said as she dropped me off. I could tell from her smug expression that she was happy she wasn’t the one who had to search through weeds, brambles, and whatever else.

I took an assortment of clubs out of my bag and headed for the spot where my ball had disappeared into the underbrush.

“I’ll help you look,” Pam offered. Her fluorescent yellow ball had managed to make it across the chasm, but just barely.

Ever leery of snakes, I used my eight iron to gingerly poke around. A warm breeze sent the reeds swaying and stirred up a sickeningly sweet odor. “Ee-yew!” I wrinkled my nose at the smell. “Something stinks in here.”

Pam joined in the search. “Ee-yew,” she echoed with a grimace when she, too, caught a whiff. “Maybe it’s a dead body.”