Tee'd Up

By Victoria Mallory

Birch Mountain, North Carolina lost its small-town charm when local resident, Connie Baxter is found dead on a hiking trail. Hope La Claire and Jillian Waters weren’t able to prevent their best friend’s murder, but they are determined to find her killer. Everyone in town has a theory, but can the murderer be hiding more than a confession?

The golf club manager and his wife set the standard for deception and betrayal as they stand behind smiling faces and distorted philanthropy. Oda Mae Stone is a bookkeeper who will do anything for club members, as long as they pay in cash. And Lisa Bullard is a new-hire with a strong personality and an even stronger aversion for the law.

Hope has a golf swing that can’t miss and Jillian has a knack for uncovering people’s secrets. Together, they can’t be stopped. But when the evidence draws them back to the trail where Connie died, is Connie the only one who can expose her killer?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Mallory
• Release date: May 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781370309856

Victoria Mallory

Victoria Mallory loves being surrounded by the Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina. She and her friends, one of whom is very much like Hope La Claire, have experienced everything from small town, clothesline gossip to detailed, death threats. Their endeavers are all part of living in a small town and will keep Hope and Jillian busy for many books to come.

Book preview

Tee’d Up: Let That Be A Mystery Series, Book 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used, reproduced, or shared in any manner whatsoever, in part or in whole, without prior, written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

TEE’D UP

Let That Be A Mystery Series, Book 1

By

Victoria Mallory

Chapter 1

Jillian Waters fit the end of the golf club against her palm and wrapped her gloved fingers around the grip. How had she allowed her friend, Hope La Claire, to talk her into spending time on the driving range? It wasn't like Jillian knew how to play the game. She'd taken one class in college, and that was only to fulfill the physical education requirement to earn her degree. She'd enjoyed the class, but to the best of her memory, that one class was the last time she'd stepped foot on a golf course.

Hope wasn't solely to blame for today's activity. Jillian's husband, Jack, shared some of the responsibility for Jillian standing on a mat of artificial turf, staring down the metal shaft of a nine-iron. In his eyes, one college class equated to a lifetime of experience. Bless his heart. He meant well.

Bend your knees more, Hope instructed from behind Jillian.

Hope was a patient instructor and a scratch golfer. At one time, she'd been ranked eighth in the pro circuit. Her future had been bright until she'd suffered a torn, infraspinatus muscle. The injury brought a swift end to her professional career. She now worked at the local country club as their golf pro, instructing golfers on everything from pitch shots to current fashion. Jillian cast a quick glance behind her. For all of her friend's experience and fame, she didn't seem to mind helping a novice golfer develop minimal skill.

Sit back in your stance, Hope added.

If Jillian wanted to improve her game, she'd listen to her friend. Not one golf ball had become airborne since she'd filled her wire bucket of the small projectiles fifteen minutes ago. Jillian shifted her hips backward and widened her stance to a shoulder ’ s width apart. She lowered her center of gravity and bent her knees. That was far enough. Anything more, and she'd lose her balance. Satisfied with her body position, she arced the club up and to the side, watching the dimpled ball as she leveled the club above her head. She didn't know what she looked like, but she was certain she hadn't been in this position since the time she'd climbed a boulder while hiking on the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Jillian inhaled and released her breath. She tightened her grip and swung the steel. The club's metal head sailed downward, whipping through the air with the potential of a powerful swing. Momentum and inertia built, along with Jillian's confidence. She eyed the ball and tightened her fists. Her goal was within reach. In less than a forty-five-degree arc, she would hear the familiar ping of metal striking the enameled ball, then watch as the small sphere launched thirty, fifty, eighty feet across the green. She held her breath in anticipation of the sweet, sounding connection that would bring music to her ears.

She blinked, and her elbows locked. Why hadn't she seen this coming? The next two-seconds were no different from the last eighteen swings she'd taken. Her arms jarred, and her forward momentum stopped abruptly. Astroturf gathered into a wrinkled cluster in front of her. The white ball lobbed forward. Instead of backdropped by blue sky and soaring upward in a magnificent arc, the ball hurtled upward into green grass for a total of two feet. The dimpled sphere thwapped to the ground and then rolled to an embarrassing stop.

Jillian cringed. She dreaded the looks of the other golfers. It was one thing for Hope to see how horrible she was at the game. She didn't need for the entire club to know she wasn't qualified to compete on a putt-putt course. Maybe, if she didn't interrupt their swings, she could sneak away without the other golfers noticing what she'd done.

Jillian cast a dubious eye toward the metal basket at the front of her mat. She'd bet money that she wouldn ’ t do any better with the other balls in the bottom half of the bucket than she had with the one that sat at the edge of the grass line.

Don't give up. All you need to do is practice, Hope said. She slid a club into her golf bag and pulled her yellow gloves off her hands. You'll improve each time you play. But for now, we should probably go to the course if we want to make our tee time.

Tee time? Hope still wanted to play a round of golf after what she'd witnessed? Jillian slid her club back into her K-Mart special golf bag and climbed sheepishly into the golf cart. She liked playing golf, at least she did the one time her class visited the local par-three course for her final exam. She also liked Hope, who felt more like a favorite aunt than a neighbor. Retired and twelve years her senior, Hope spent six months of the year in the mountain community while avoiding the humid, lowland heat. They lived three houses apart and had met when Hope had taken her two shih-tzus, Peanut and Pepper-Pot, for an afternoon walk.

You had some good hits. You need to work on your stance, but you have potential, Hope encouraged as she climbed behind the wheel of the electric cart and pressed the accelerator.

The vehicle lurched forward, and the duo breezed past the exposed boulder hanging precariously low on the trail. Jillian ducked her head and leaned to the side to keep from being scraped off the seat. Hope rounded the last bend and turned the steering wheel in the direction of a small crowd of people. The group parted down the center like a split seam, making space for the two women and their speeding cart.

Wide -eyed and nervous, Jillian clung to the side bar, mentally cursing the design flaw in the construction of the golf cart. Seat belts were mandatory in enclosed vehicles. Why weren ’ t they here? The vehicle was going to stop at some point. It was inevitable. What was to prevent her from hurtling head first over the hood of the small car once that happened? Sweat built in Jillian's palms, but she didn't dare lessen her hold. She'd never played this course before, but from the way a small, bug-eyed man held onto a clipboard, the first tee had to be nearby.

Hope waved her hand to the starter as they whizzed past him and then came to a quick stop within a few short yards.

I can't believe you've never been on this course. You live here year-round. How will your game improve unless you practice? Hope asked.

She was right. Practice would most likely improve her golf game, but embarrassment would most likely discourage her from returning to the course. Eighteen holes were in front of her, and it mattered which direction the ball took and how many swings it took to get it there. How had she been talked into this? It would be okay. It would be okay. She would let Hope go first, watch what she did, and then try to imitate her actions.

Hope had been sincere while they were at the driving range when offering helpful suggestions, and Hope didn't seem to mind at all that Jillian was a novice golfer. Maybe Jillian was making too much of today. She should merely relax and enjoy spending the day with her friend. They weren't in a tournament, after all, and no one else was with them. Yes. She was imagining the worst when today was going to be a good day.

Hope bent at the waist and placed a ball on the first tee. A sharp, piercing whistle deafened the air.

What was that? Hope asked, still bent over the ball.

Lightning indicator, Jillian answered. When it sounds, we have to leave the course and wait for the all clear signal before returning to our game.

Hope slowly stood erect. Surprise and disappointment covered her face, making her look as though her favorite kitten had been taken from her arms and then given away.

Lightning indicator? When did they put that in? Hope complained. That siren sounds more like a World War II air raid warning than a call for golfers to clear the course.

Jillian couldn't ignore the disappointment that welled in Hope's voice. She'd asked Jillian to golf with her every day for the past month, and this was the first time they'd been able to synchronize their schedules. Although she was resigned to playing a humiliating round of golf, Jillian's reprieve had never felt so good.

They installed the siren last week. I was in the administration office and overheard the general manager talking about it, Jillian explained.

But there aren't any clouds in the sky. What set it off? Hope rationalized.

Jillian turned her face upward and squinted her eyes against the blaring sunlight. The indicator covers a large area, and I'm sure it wouldn't go off if lightning wasn't close by.

Hope balanced her club limply in her hand and pulled her phone out of her pocket. I didn't hear anything about the club getting a lightning indicator. Every golfer I know uses an app on their phone to know when the weather is turning bad. Wouldn't modern technology be more efficient than this glorified, weather balloon?

Hope was a strong woman who could hold her own with anyone. She also had a kindness that was unmatched by the humblest of people. Jillian's mouth tightened as she tried to suppress a smile. Slightly relieved to postpone her humiliation, it was refreshing to see a chink in Hope's armor.

I'm sure the general manager wanted to make sure everyone was aware when lightning was imminent, and according to the conversation I heard, Jillian said, it was his understanding that not everyone carried a cell phone while on the course.

Hope tilted her head and rolled her eyes. She silently asked if Jillian really believed what she said. Not waiting for an answer, she sighed and then glanced at the face of her phone. According to the app, the storm will skirt around us. There's no reason for us to leave the course, she said defiantly.

Apparently, someone else's thoughts about the lightning indicator ran differently from Hope’s. The starter called over to them and motioned for the women to return to the pro shop. Hope slumped her shoulders as they made their way back to the white cart. Sitting down, she draped her lower arm over the steering wheel and shifted in her seat. She sat for a minute in silence and then cocked her head as though considering the new information.

I can only guess whose completely ridiculous idea this was, she grumbled.

I'm sure the warning won't last long. Most storms pass over within twenty minutes, Jillian assured her.

Having lost the speed and excitement they'd arrived with, the golf cart now rolled down the path toward the pro shop at a much slower pace than earlier.

These people need to get off the putting green, Hope said. She pointed to the cluster of men who lined up putts on the practice green.

I'm sure they will, Jillian answered. Come on. Let's wait it out in the pro shop. I see a marked down rack of golf clothes.

Sales didn't seem to interest Hope any more than a prime tee time had excited Jillian. She walked next to her friend and studied the turquoise top Jillian held in the air.

That will look good on you, Hope said. Her tone was starting to rise above her obvious disappointment. Hope was a golfer through and through. The only thing she liked more than improving her game was introducing her favorite pastime to other people.

Jillian held a second hanger to her chin and looked down at the garment. This one would match my skirt. Would you mind if I tried these on?

I think you should. I doubt we'll be called back to the course any time soon. At least we won't lose our place in line when they let us return, Hope said as Jillian disappeared behind the dressing room door.

Jillian closed the door and slipped the hangers over the clothes hook. She'd never played this course before, but she'd taken many clients to the club while showing them houses. As a realtor, she needed to have clients fall in love with the small-town aesthetics as well as the house they looked at. If she could convince them that the country club was something they wanted to be part of, they might be more interested in signing a contract. Of course, she hadn't had a sale since the beginning of the summer. Hopefully, something would break soon in her favor.

Turquoise blue wasn't a color Jillian normally gravitated to. She preferred earth tones to bright colors, but this dark shade of tangerine orange was quite appealing. Plus, she needed a top to match the Jamie Sadock skirt Hope had given her to wear for their next round of golf. She held the blouse with one hand, pushed her other arm through the opening, and then worked the hem over her head. Surely, she hadn't put on so much weight that she needed larger fitting clothes.

Her phone buzzed on the bench across from her. She'd made a nest out of her discarded top and had lai d her phone where she could see it. She never wanted to be more than three-seconds away from a potential client.

With one arm stretched in the air above her head, and the shirt neckline slanted across her face, Jillian glanced a solitary eyeball down at the glowing device.

CALL ME, flashed up at her.

Jillian relaxed her shoulders and stared into the full-length mirror in front of her. Her hair covered her face, and her arm seemed to be in a permanently waving position. What could police captain Tommy Newman want? She'd seen her friend last week at a town hall meeting, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But an all caps text meant something other than a quick hello was brewing. She'd better call him and see what was going on.

Chapter 2

It had been an hour since Jillian left Tommy at the crime scene. She ’ d driven around aimlessly, trying to come to grips with what had happened. She now rolled her Subaru Outback down the gravel driveway and slowed to a stop in front of her home.

She and her husband had lived in the three-bedroom home since they were first married. They ’ d raised three children here and had gradually become empty nesters. Her sister had labeled her life humble. Jillian didn ’ t mind the label. What her sister considered humble, Jillian called blessed.

It was true that in a town of three hundred people, it was hard to keep your privacy. But the friendships and sense of community outweighed the busyness of a large city. Homes were never locked unless the owner was on vacation. Animals had been known to enter abandoned domiciles and setup nests and dens.

Jillian lifted her gaze and looked up at the surrounding trees. Fall colors filled the sky above her, while autumn leaves twirled in a downward spiral, mimicking the plummeting life in her spirit. She followed the colorful descent. The foliage landed soundlessly on her wooden deck, and in a final animated display, the crimson leaves curled their tips heavenward. In spite of what had happened today, she couldn ’ t imagine living anywhere else.

Jillian ’ s vision blurred as she slowly slipped her gearshift from drive to park. The metal stick clicked at each notch, and her hand fell to her thigh as the engine continued to hum. She squeezed the connection of her seatbelt, and the canvas straps fell from her shoulders, freeing her torso from the constraint. Staring blankly through the windshield, she concentrated on the hood of her car. Sultry vapors wafted upward into the atmosphere, emanating from the automobile ’ s blue steel. If only the two dreadful words she ’ d heard an hour ago could dissipate from her memory as easily as the heat from her motor.

Connie ’ s dead, the police captain had said.

A s a police officer for over twenty years, Tommy Newman rarely sugarcoated the news when on duty. But revealing news of the death of a family friend had caused his voice to crack and tears to well in his eyes. It was no wonder he ’ d asked to meet Jillian in person instead of calling with the horrific news.

Connie Baxter was a respected member of the community and well loved by everyone who called Birch Mountain, North Carolina, home. Her body had been found on a hiking trail. Her clothes were intact, but wide gashes plunged into her face and neck. Blood ran from her wounds and seeped into the ground. Even with five years of homicide experience, Tommy refused to speculate on the cause of death. His men would collect physical evidence, and a coroner would report his findings to the local authorities once the body was examined.

The body. Jillian shuddered at the thought. It was hard to believe her friend ’ s life had been cut short while enjoying a favorite activity. The mountain was filled with a variety of hiking trails that ranged from a casual walk to a vigorous workout. Connie knew each stream, each boulder, and the distance between them. She was respectful of the wildlife and never ventured into their habitats. How had she become so fatally injured? A bear could have attacked her, but everything indicated she ’ d been attacked during the day. Jillian ’ s stomach roiled, and bile churned like a tempestuous sea. She felt dead inside. Why was her stomach so active?

Jillian turned the key, killing the engine. A warm breeze blew over her face as she stepped from the car. She lifted her gaze up the gravel incline to the top of her driveway. Hope ’ s rustic cabin stood sentry over the small cluster of homes where Jillian lived. From Hope ’ s gazebo, she had the capability to monitor the comings and goings of all residents in their small circle. Her friend prided herself on being able to know which repairmen were favored as well as when company was in town. The golf pro's supervision was an added security measure for the neighborhood, Hope had once claimed with a wink. At least the additional duties weren't overly taxing for her friend. Her observations normally livened up a boring Sunday afternoon. It was too bad her vantage point hadn ’ t placed her in a position to help Connie. When their friend should have been enjoying a vigorous stroll or hitting golf balls with them, she ’ d been attacked and left for dead.

The three of them had shared a dinner two nights ago. Hope had invited the women to her home and made all of Connie ’ s favorite dishes in an attempt to boost her morale. She and Jillian tread carefully, knowing their friend ’ s delicate condition.

Connie and her brother had been in a car accident three months ago. The deer that had run into the road had made it safely into the woods, but the Honda CRV Don had been driving had rolled down the cliff bank in an attempt to not hit the animal. Pinned beneath the car, Don had died at the scene. Connie had suffered broken bones and a head wound, but was on track to make a slow recovery.

Two nights ago, Connie sat sullen and quiet while her friends regaled her with memories of their time together and plans for the future. They shared memories of miserable neighbors and the friends they ’ d entertained. They ’ d also laughed at innocent actions that had gone awry. Connie had smiled stiffly and nodded in agreement with the memories. It was during dessert that Connie started crying. She didn ’ t speak, and her friends could only guess that her heartache was related to her recent tragedies.

Jillian shivered at the memory. Had she and Hope failed their friend by leaving her alone to deal with her pain? She ’ d never know what might have helped Connie. They had both been there for her emotionally, but she ’ d been physically attacked. How could they have prevented that?

She glanced upward. White lights were shown around the top of Hope ’ s gazebo. Jillian couldn ’ t put off the inevitable. Hope needed to know what had happened to their friend, and together they could grieve their loss.

Her breath quavered as she inhaled. Pushing away from the side of her car, she trudged up the hill to Hope ’ s house. Each forward step she took felt as though the ground moved farther away, extending the distance between their homes. She forced herself forward. The backs of her thighs burned from the exertion. Finally walking on the wooden deck beside Hope ’ s home, Jillian flipped the small latch on the porch gate and swung the deck door open.

Hope ’ s two dogs ran to greet her and then followed her down the walkway to the back of the cabin. The two shih-tzu males were friendly to a fault and looked at Jillian as a second mama. She'd make sure that both of them received equal attention before she left for home.

The wooden deck connected the back of the cabin to an airy gazebo. White, globe lights flickered around the ceiling perimeter, and rattan curtains hung from opposing supports. The neutral fabric had kept the sun from blaring into the gazebo at peak hours. Hope sat in her usual seat with a mountain view in front of her and her laptop open. Her glasses were positioned on the bridge of her nose, and her fingers bounced lightly off the keyboard. She studied the screen, and her eyes brightened.