A Current Affair

By Donna J. Burr

All Kentucky-born Jane Denton wanted was to have an iced coffee from the comfort of the clubhouse at the Porters Ford Golf Club. Given the state of play, she faced a long wait for her husband's foursome to come within view at the eighteenth green. Her husband, senior pro golfer Charlie Denton, was participating in the club's annual charity golf tournament.

Never a golfer herself, Jane was there only for moral support. Otherwise, she finally had the time to pursue her own interests, retired from teaching English to middle and high-schoolers.

Someone broke into the line of customers, spilling her drink all over her vintage silk suit. At the same time a bizarre equine tragedy was taking place during a Hollywood film company shoot on the banks of the Ohio River nearby.

These seemingly disconnected events would entangle Jane's life with the lives of scores of others, ranging from habitues of the Hollywood film industry to day laborers working in Kentucky horse farms, with a healthy mix of local and state law enforcement thrown in for good measure.

As hidden schemes and plots come to light, Jane wonders who is actually behind them, and who will survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donna J. Burr
• Release date: Sep 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223638582

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

BEWARE THE HORSE that rapidly jerks its tail from side to side or up and down! Natural fly-flicking this is not! The steed is highly irritated or angry, a clear warning sign it is about to kick or buck.

Unfortunately, the same signal applies to our surly barista, Melba. And trust me, inside this pristine, A+ certified clubhouse, fly-flicking is completely unwarranted. Yet there she goes again, growling out orders and flailing that long ponytail like an angry filly. A normal person would suffer whiplash.

More worrisome than her lovely young neck, it is the strands of Melba’s hair, like luxuriant dust motes, that clearly hover in front of the early morning, sun-dappled windows. Lord help the club’s bottom line if, for some perverse reason, the Food Safety Branch inspects us on this particular Saturday, sees her hair and then shuts down our food service. It would be devastating.

Melba’s current bout of allergy-induced laryngitis is no excuse for the obnoxious behavior. Many of us suffer with from river basin allergens and maintain a civil attitude. Not Melba. Any irritation could spark an eruption.

Regrettably, I have had long practice dealing with the girl and at this moment, she is an unmitigated embarrassment. Attendees to this benefit golf tournament may very well ask, Where is the celebrated southern refinement we expected from Porters Ford Golf Club?

Other than Melba’s allergies, and despite her rebelliously powdered white face, kohl-rimmed eyes, and purply black painted pout, five-foot-two Melba is abundantly healthy. Unless you met the petite girl away from the club, buxomness would never cross your mind. Her 40D breasts are all but lost under her greatly oversized, fluorescent lime-green polo shirt emblazoned with our golf club logo—wavy lines under a horse—symbolizing the nearby historic Ohio River ford. The shirt is required for employees dealing with the public.

Why club members, at one vote per family, approved the unattractive fluorescent lime-green for this year’s polo shirt one can only imagine. Perhaps the garish color made locating their free-range children less daunting. If so, I understand. These days, parents need all the help they can muster.

No longer tasked with finding a rambunctious child—thankfully, ours had no faults—my husband energetically lobbied for a classic emerald-green, which he knows I adore. Emerald accentuates my auburn hair, hazel eyes, and sparsely freckled, creamy Irish-like complexion. (I am often misidentified as Irish because of the freckles.)

Until attractive shirt colors come back, I will continue wearing whatever I wish, even at Porters Ford sporting events. Although, I purchased one XL-Tall for my husband, since he is playing in this year’s benefit tournament, and our team must match. Charlie has green-deficient colorblindness, so it’s all gray to him anyway.

If barista Melba Dolittle’s goth makeup does not distract, one might focus on the inch high gold monogram necklace at her throat: M.A. D. Ironic, if not fair warning.

With her voluptuous figure and brash demeanor, I can only assume the baggy polo vexes Melba. You know how some teen girls can be—almost nothing is too tight. But rules are rules. This club bans sexy show your stuff clothing, even at the swimming pool. Yes indeed. Bathing suits must fully cover bottoms and female breasts. No string thong things, and only toddlers may go topless.

Considering the rampant permissiveness of current culture, no one seems put off by the conservative club rules. The waiting list to join Porters Ford Golf Club is miles long. Someone must die or otherwise resign before a new person may join. Pay your dues, bar, and food bill, be clean and civil, and you are welcomed. We do not discriminate; a rarity these days.

Melba’s staunchly conservative father, Winston Win Dolittle, manages this club, so there you go. Notwithstanding his daughter’s random outbursts, he upholds our gracious southern standards. Unpleasant as Melba can be, we members of Porters Ford Golf Club tolerate the girl for her father’s sake—Winston is irreplaceable.

THINKING BACK, I CAN say that the Dolittle family has been in my sights for a number of years. Charlie and I met Winston and his wife, Darla, when we joined the golf club years ago. Concurrently, their daughter struggled through my sixth, seventh and eighth grade English classes that I taught at Porters Ford Academy.

While still a pre-teen, Melba’s emotional problems began shortly after her glamorous mother, Darla, defected from the family. The young girl developed a bad case of potty mouth; not appealing for a southern ingenue.

Since managing Porters Ford Golf Club requires a nearly 24/7 commitment, Darla’s abandonment threw Winston Dolittle into desperation. If he had posted a Home Help Needed request, no one who knew Melba would have applied.

Serendipitously, the sixtyish, childless, and respectable Mrs. Gladys Gilkey, had become homeless. The pious lady’s loathsome husband had been addicted to gambling and hooked on every known form of potable alcohol, copious amounts of which he distilled in their basement. Known to say, They’re my hobbies, the no-account man could not even resist wagering on Which came first, the chicken or the omelet? A prank pulled off by his snooker hall pals. The point being, Mr. Gilkey was addicted to the core and blind to his wife’s needs.

No one can say if her husband ever held a legitimate job. Conversely, everyone knew why they lost their house. In our region, tittle-tattle spreads like wildfire. What Gilkey did not drink he sold, undercutting licensed sellers with his bootleg products—not healthy, either way.

In those days, the only way Mrs. Gladys Gilkey afforded food for their table and regular gasoline and repairs for her old, 1976 Ford Fiesta, was her housekeeping job at our church parsonage.

Lowlife that he was, cowardly Mr. Gilkey avoided the indignity of personally facing his foreclosure by having a fatal heart attack the day before. Folks wondered how his pickled liver lasted even that long.

The local bank, knowing it was the domineering husband’s negligence at fault, to their credit, benevolently allowed the lady five days to vacate the foreclosed house. Proof that some southerners are kind.

Gladys Gilkey’s loyalty to the bank also counted for something. Forced by circumstances, and using her maiden name, Beauregard, she unfailingly maintained a secret savings account for food, gasoline, and a yearly curly perm. A balance of only $7.23 remained.

Four decades earlier, before discovering the extent of her husband’s vices, she had inherited a small sum from her thrift-conscious parents. Because of her thrifty upbringing and pertinent to her current situation, Mrs. Gilkey had had the foresight to take advantage of an exciting, Two for the price of one promotion by a newly launched funeral home; matching caskets and all the necessaries. With her future looking dire, she was glad for one less worry.

Once Mrs. Gilkey departed from Mr. Gilkey’s graveside service in her old Ford Fiesta her financial plight came to Winston Dolittle’s ear, courtesy of the attending cleric from our mutual church.

Standing at the edge of a knot of mourners, my husband, Charlie, and I were in earshot when Pastor Dann took Winston aside.

Also aware of Winston’s family circumstances, Pastor said, Winston. How you doin’, all alone now with your little girl, and her with no mama?

Win’s pathetic expression, and a hovering tear, answered his question.

Pastor Dann patted Win’s back. "Well, son, Miz Gilkey is now homeless and impoverished, in dire circumstances with the passin’ of that despicable . . . her spouse we just interred. I highly doubt the old reprobate is up there, Pastor emphatically pointed heavenward,  and he should roast on the eternal fires of hell, if there’s any justice. By the way, Winston, thank you for encouraging so many neighbors to come out today for poor Miz Gilkey’s sake. I am sure she appreciates the prayerful support. But she is homeless and poverty-stricken, poor lady."

The pastor’s emphasis on homeless and impoverished finally registered with Winston Dolittle. Pastor Dann! She’s homeless and penniless? What a blessing! I mean . . . ooh...

Pastor Dann nodded, I know.

That same night, as the dispossessed Mrs. Gilkey numbly packed her household goods for either storage (not feasible with only $7.23 in savings) or for the Salvation Army (where she hoped to find an open bed), Winston telephoned with a generous proposition.

Please, Miz Gilkey, I beg you, come to my home in the mornin’ as our live-in housekeeper-cook-nanny. You will have your own cozy room and private bath, and you can decorate it any way you like. And I’ll pay to have your belongin’s packed and stored at Extra Space’s climate-controlled facility, for as long as you want.

Desperate for help and leaving nothing to chance, Win offered top dollar with a generous raise every six months, health insurance, retirement account, and paid vacation during school breaks when he could keep Melba with him at the club.

Considering the offer for two breaths, Gladys Gilkey had but one question. Is seven a.m. too early to arrive?

I suspect there may have been tears on both sides of that phone conversation.

TOO SOFT SPOKEN AND gentle for her own good, Nanny Gladys kept a semblance of order to the house for nearly four years, but barely managed the recalcitrant Melba. In that regard, Winston would have been better served hiring a retired cop or a Marine Drill Sergeant.

I sympathized when Melba’s mother flew the coop. However, a teacher must have obedience in the classroom for learning to occur. Pulling the sympathy card, Melba’s modus operandi worked with her father for a short time, but not with me. After-school detention had a chair with Melba’s name on it, metaphorically speaking. Along with other inappropriate behavior, she reveled in stage-whispering itchbay one too many times.

Certified as an English teacher by the Commonwealth of Kentucky Department of Education, and born into the King’s English, I am also fluent in French, Spanish and have a smattering of my maternal grandparent’s difficult Austro-Hungarian dialect. Melba’s Pig Latin was no problem.

NONE OF US QUITE UNDERSTOOD why Winston’s wife, Darla, took off when she did. And shame on the heartless woman for absconding with Dink, Melba’s then five-year-old, brindle Cairn Terrier. From puppyhood on, Dink had faithfully shadowed the girl and slept at the foot of her bed. Winston tells me his daughter is still devastated after losing one of her two trusted friends.

The POX on Darla, I say!

With a bighearted husband and adorable little girl—adorable, for Melba’s first twelve years—one would assume Darla had it made. Stunning, witty, curvaceous, she held court at the club and around town. Invitations to garden club activities, posh house parties, and never-ending fund-raising fetes filled her social calendar. And let us not forget all the pre-and- post Kentucky Derby festivities.

Meant as a compliment, people often remarked: Pre-teen Melba is developing into the spitting image of her mama. Same glorious thick mane of soft-brown hair. Same voluptuous body type.

Women were envious of Darla.

Men envied Winston for having Darla.

Based on keen observation, I theorized that metropolitan transplant, Darla Zornewski Dolittle became bored with our slower paced upper south and craved the high life from whence she came—New York City, the city that never sleeps. She craved the hustle-bustle, horn honking, and iconic Macy’s Herald Square.

On the other hand, does one ever really know what occurs behind closed doors? With young Melba sprouting the way she was, maybe Mama Darla couldn’t take the competition.

Despite my uncharitable categorization, there is one thing I do know. With the divorce signed, Wicked Witch of the South, Darla Zornewski Dolittle, bag, baggage, and Cairn Terrier, flew—via aircraft—to the Big Apple.

Not long after her defection, someone bored enough to watch daytime television spotted Darla Zorn playing a jaded socialite in Days of our Youth, that interminable, Botox-infused, silicone-enhanced soap opera. From her time in Kentucky, Darla had years of rehearsal perfecting the role. No wonder she got the part.

Oddly, without a wife for the last few years, one of the usual single-parenthood negatives worked in Winston Dolittle’s favor. Cook-housekeeper Gladys, given a generous credit card for household needs, prepared healthy family meals, enabling Winston to whittle down his excess weight brought on by having to attend Darla’s excessive, high calorie soirées.

Escalating Melba problems may also have spurred his weight loss.

Previously a bit plump but not a toad in any sense, Winston pared down into the svelte prince I knew was hidden under there. Even today, certain club ladies salivate over his toned physique, salt and pepper black hair, green eyes, and sound, natural teeth. In horse country, one always notices the teeth.

His looks aside, we are all well aware of Winston’s intrinsic value to Porters Ford Golf Club. The man does more than the name Dolittle implies. He manages club property with aplomb and has recently secured our place on the national golf circuit, all while resolutely juggling Melba’s antics and maintaining high moral club standards.

MELBA TURNED SIXTEEN this year. Since I had been her unfaltering teacher, Winston confided to me that he laid down the law to Melba—in private, at home, as it should be. Not a gruff man in any sense, I can just hear his soft southern drawl declare:  Melba Adella Dolittle, put down your phone. The piggy bank is closed for business. Mellie! Darlin’, you are too grown for Nanny Gilkey, and you are old enough to get off your fanny and work during school vacations! Right here at the club, startin’ at minimum wage, like everyone else. Time to learn responsibility. Time you start payin’ part of Sparrow’s upkeep too, IF you want to keep her.

KEEP HER!? I imagine Melba’s terrified screech split limestone all the way to the Mega Caverns.

However, I cannot imagine if she was to lose this other animal friend too!

Sparrow is Melba’s beloved little gray P.O.A. and I am not talking P.O.A. as in an old and gray Power of Attorney. The animal is a Pony of the Americas. Melba rides her competitively in the United States Mounted Games. A recognized breed, POAs originated from blending an Appaloosa, a Shetland Pony, and an Arabian. Melba naming her pony after an insignificant little brown bird did seem peculiar, but that is beside the point.

Despite Melba’s burgeoning behavioral issues during the past several years, old Nanny Gladys valiantly held on by her fingernails until Melba’s recent sixteenth birthday. By then, the lady’s generous nest-egg secured a second floor, one-bedroom, Florida Gulf Coast condo. As far as Gladys Gilkey’s mental health was concerned, she knew it was either retire now, or follow down her late husband’s path to drink.

NORMALLY I STAY LASER-focused when barista Melba serves me tea or coffee at the club. I fear she still begrudges me the plethora of after-school detentions. Rather distracted this morning, because of the golf tournament, I never heard Melba’s first hoarse callout for my drink order. My attention on windows across the room caused the coffee queue to cluster up behind me.

Somehow, Melba’s second, croaky, run-on shout out for the accumulating orders cut through my haze.

Extralargeblackicecoffcaramelmacchiatoskinnycappuchino sweetteaandonefreakinghotwater.

The girl had the same problem with run-on sentences in my English classes.

Not totally heartless and considering the potential loss of her pretty little horse, Sparrow, I placed a ten-dollar bill on the counter for the five-dollar drink. Keep the change, Melba.

The extra-large drink filled one hand. My laptop and purse balanced on the other arm. Re-focused on the far windows, I didn’t notice a man budge into the line as I turned from the counter.

His sharp elbow rammed into my coffee hand. In spectacular fashion, a wave of his hot drink joined the flood from mine.

Folks scrambled from the airborne liquids, squealing YIKES and WHOA THERE!

Yeow, curses! I squawked, startled by the tsunami of my coffee streaming down my front. Grappling left-handed with my purse and laptop computer, I shifted the dripping cup to that hand and grabbed a fistful of paper napkins. Fortunately, I had iced coffee cascading over my ivory silk pants suit. Vintage pants suit, I might add.

Glancing at the culprit and his soup-bowl size ceramic cup, I thought, Ha, ha! Hot caramel macchiato drenched his finely tailored linen slacks and Italian loafers. One elongated brown coffee stain down his front looked embarrassingly like a, . . . summer sausage, shall we say?

What the f . . .? These pants are wrecked! he snarled.

Tough noogies! Serves you right, pissant screamed in my head.

Only when he tossed his wadded napkins in a bin did he see me blot my mess.

"Oh. I didn’t see you . . . Ma’am," he grumbled.

HELLO! I glowered back. He didn’t see me leading the queue? What am I, invisible? Of course. I’m officially a Ma’am now! Aren’t all women of a certain age invisible?

A woman of a certain age. How I hate the characterization. Since when is 56 years elderly? My husband is 60, and he is considered in his prime. Furthermore, the smile-lines around my eyes indicate good humor. Plus, my auburn hair is nowhere near granny gray. The few white hairs springing from my part simply add highlights—my hair stylist, Cheryl, tells me so. She’s a treasure.

His use of Ma’am sparked a further memory. Last October and never deterred by drizzle, I ambled along Creasy Mahan Nature Preserve trails, enjoying the solitude. I was in mid-leap over mud puddles when a young man approached from the other direction paused and grinned, "My, aren’t you looking spry for your age."

What!? I restrained the impulse to punch his buttinsky nose. Rather, I staggered him with piercing Shakespearean words: Begone, thou rampallian, motley-minded scantling!

Head held high, I splashed through the mud and speed-walked around the lout. His mouth hung open, as though I’d spoken Sanskrit.

Back from the memory flash, I ceased my futile blotting against the stain. Always the educator, the coffee collision presented me with an opportune teaching moment, since so much of the younger generation is mired in an etiquette wasteland.

Well then, young sir. These things don’t happen if one has patience, some self-control and perhaps, respect for one’s elders.

Only his youth required the elders reference.

Caramel macchiato man’s mouth gaped briefly, then snapped shut. Perhaps no one had ever put him in his place before.

Oh? Right! I nudged you. You didn’t  burn yourself, did you?

His somewhat snooty, cursory once-over gave me pause. He probably was thinking, Oh crap, I’m in for it now, as he patted his bespoke shirt and assessed my attire. Was this fellow worried about a lawsuit? Assault with a deadly elbow, or some such?

He rushed on. I’ll pay for your dry cleaning. Or I can buy you a new suit?

By the looks of his high-end apparel, and his glaring inspection of me, he may think I shop in the backwaters of Kentucky, at Goodwill, or splurge at Walmart. He had no inkling about this irreplaceable summer suit, or its 1940s, Katharine Hepburn provenance, or how much I paid to possess my idolized actress’s outfit.

With the coffee disaster subdued, an unladylike blue-haired tournament visitor squeezed between us to grab her coffee order.

Nostrils flaring, she barked, Move on, you two. I doan have all diyah, probably thinking, damned hillbillies. Her deep north, nasally accent sounded like either Massachusetts or Maine.

Lips sealed, I mentally asked her, Suffering caffeine withdrawal, are we? Perhaps my telepathic message got through to the old dear. After all, as a club member and dutifully gracious, even self-entitled northerners such as her deserved my consideration.

I smiled apologetically and strode toward the window.

The young man followed me, frowning, no doubt fearing, With all these witnesses, this woman will try to fleece me.

I had noticed his height when he gave me the once over—possibly six feet tall, give or take a half-inch, slightly shorter than my husband’s six-foot two. This fellow was thinner and more sinewy, lithe even.

The window that distracted me overlooked the eighteenth green. Silly of me, really. At this hour, on this day, there was absolutely no expectation for humans to have reached number eighteen. Much later, before the first player drove a ball this far, today’s anti-poo patrol would clean up after the local scourge—year-round, wild geese—and post someone to scare off any obstinate birds; a harmless BB-gun being the deterrent of choice.

Discounting the initial aggravation at losing some of my drink, it required self-control not to laugh at the young macchiato-man’s obvious distress.  Maybe I should be less harsh. I declared, "If anything, I’ve suffered freezer burns from my iced coffee, thank you very much! As for this ivory pants suit, desert camo is the in thing this summer, isn’t it?"

He gawped, his expression first suggesting, Bet she got her old outfit at a thrift store and was planning to toss it anyway. Furthermore, how does somebody in this fly-over State know about a fashion trend?

But then, a smile crept up to his Paul Newman-blue eyes and into the roots of his spiky, possibly natural, wheat-blond hair. Minus the angry expression, the fellow was passably good looking. Almost as striking as my two Denton men.

Mercifully, he had not blurted the entire WTF during our coffee collision. Always the English teacher, I believe the overused expletive is passe and shows a lack of imagination. Any time I’ve used it, it was in private and truly warranted.

Relieved, his lips twitched, almost a smile, "Desert camo? Yes. I have heard desert camo is the hot look this summer. But seriously, will the coffee stains dry-clean out?"

I answered with a non-committal shrug.

He reached in a side pocket of his spoiled linen trousers and withdrew a small wallet. Will forty or fifty bucks cover it?

If she takes this, I’m out of here, flickered in his eyes. He placed three twenties on the table next to us.

I raised my hand. I should take your money simply for the aggravation of losing much of my coffee and suffering a chill. I’ve been dying for caffeine and now the queue’s a mile long. But no. I don’t need your money. This suit is washable, and I’m sure it has seen worse.

Pointing downward without looking at his awkward looking summer sausage stain, I said, You might consider a washable fabric next time you purchase trousers. It may be less embarrassing, if today is an example.

He got the message, blushing through his tan when he looked at the stain, then grinned, Oops.

I noticed his sparkling white, perfect teeth, the exception being one canine that crooked slightly to the left. Barely noticeable. As a teacher’s survival technique, I trained myself to notice minute details such as this.

An example from my former classroom: The movement of a chewing jaw (picture cow with cud) identified