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 After the chores, she played with Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker. They loved to play hide 'n' seek.

 The phone rang at nine P.M.

 "Har?"

 "Susan, don't tell me you just got home."

 "No. I just heard this instant-Charlie Ashcraft was shot dead in the men's locker room at the Farmington Country Club."

 "What?"

 "Right between the eyes with a .38."

 "Who did it?"

 "Nobody knows."

 "I can think of a dozen who'd fight for the chance."

 "Me, too. Queer, though. After just seeing him."

 "Bet BoomBoom's glad she got the photograph first," Harry shot from the hip.

 "You're awful."

 "No, I'm your best friend. I'm supposed to say anything in the world to you, 'member?"

 "Then let me say this to you. Don't be too jolly. Think about what you said this afternoon. We have no idea of who he's slept with recently. That's for starters. He was gifted at hiding his amours for a time, anyway. I'm all for your cleansing inside but a little repression will go a long way right now."

 "You're right."

 After she hung up the phone she told Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, who listened with interest.

 "A jilted husband finally did what everyone else has wanted to do," Tucker said.

 "Tucker, you have the sweetest eyes." Harry stroked the soft head.

 "Weren't there any witnesses?" Mrs. Murphy asked.

 "Right between the eyes." Pewter shook her head.

 8

 Farmington Country Club glowed with the patina of years. The handmade bricks lent a soft paprika glow to the Georgian buildings in the long summer twilight. As the oldest country club in Albemarle County, Farmington counted among its members the movers and shakers of the region as well as the totally worthless whose only distinguishing feature was that they had inherited enough money to stay current on their dues. The median age of members was sixty-two, which didn't bode well forFarmington 's future. However,Farmington rested secure in its old golf course with long, classic fairways. The modern golf courses employed far too many sharp doglegs and par 3's because land was so expensive.

 Charlie Ashcraft, a good golfer, had divided his skills betweenFarmington and its challengers, Keswick and Glenmore. At a seven handicap he was much in demand as a partner, carrying pounds of silver from tournaments. He also carried away Belinda Harrier when he was only seventeen and she was thirty and had won the ladies' championship. That was the first clue that Charlie possessed unusual powers of persuasion. Charlie's parents fetched him from theRichmond motel to which they had fled and Belinda's husband promptly divorced her. Her golf game went to pot as did Belinda.

 Rick Shaw, sheriff ofAlbemarleCounty , and his deputy, the young and very attractive Cynthia Cooper, knew all this. They had done their homework. Cynthia was about twenty years younger than Rick. The age difference enhanced their teamwork.

 The men's locker room had been cordoned off with shiny plastic yellow tape. The employees of the club, all of whom had seen enough wild stuff to write a novel, had to admit this was the weirdest of the weird.

 The locker room, recently remodeled, had a general sitting room with the lockers and showers beyond that. The exterior door faced out to the parking lot. An interior door was about thirty feet from the golf shop with a stairway in between which first rose to a landing and continued into the men's grill, forbidden to women. If a man walked through the grill he would wind up in the 19th Hole, the typical sort of restaurant most clubs provide at the golf course.

 Getting in and out of the men's locker room would have been easy for Charlie's killer. As the golfers had come and gone, the only people around would have been those who'd been dressing for dinner in the main dining room or down in the tavern way at the other end of the huge structure. There would be little traffic in and out of the locker room. The housekeeping staff cleaned at about eleven at night, checking again at eight in the morning since the locker rooms never closed.

 Charlie Ashcraft had been found by a local attorney, Mark DiBlasi. The body remained as Mark had found him, sitting upright, slumped against locker 13. Blood was smeared on the locker. Charlie's head hadn't slumped to the side; blood trickled out of his ears but none came from his eyes or his mouth. It was a clean shot at very close range; a circle of powder burn at the entry point signified that. The bullet exited the back of his head, tore into the locker door, and lodged in the opposite wall.

 Mark DiBlasi had been dining with his mother and wife when he left the main dining room to fetch his wallet from his locker. He'd played golf, finished at six-thirty, showered, and closed his locker, but forgot his wallet, which was still in his golf shorts. The moment he saw Charlie he called the sheriff. He then called the club manager. After that he sat down and shook like a leaf.

 "Mark, forgive me. I know this is trying." Cooper sat next to him on a bench. "You think you came back here at eight?"

 "Yes." Mark struggled for composure.

 "You noticed no one."

 "Nobody."

 She flipped through her notebook. "I think I've gotten everything. If I have other questions I'll call you at the office. I'm sorry your dinner was disturbed." She called to Rick, "Any questions?"

 Rick wheeled around. "Mark, who was Charlie's latest conquest?"

 Mark blushed and stammered a moment. "Uh-anyone new and pretty?"

 Rick nodded. "Go on. I know where to find you. If you think of anything, call me."

 "Will do." Mark straightened his tie as he hurried out.

 "He'll have nightmares," Cynthia remarked.

 "H-m-m." Rick changed the subject. "Charlie's four ex-wives. We'll start there."

 "They all moved away, didn't they?"

 "Yeah." He whistled as he walked through the men's locker room to fix the layout in his mind.

 A knock on the door revealed Diana Robb, head of the Crozet Rescue Squad. "Ready?"

 "I didn't hear the siren," Cynthia said.

 "Didn't hit it. I was coming back from the hospital when you called, not more than a mile away." She looked at Charlie as she walked back into the lockers. "Neat as a pin. Even his tie is straight."

 "Mark DiBlasi found him."

 Diana called over her shoulder, "Hey guys, bring in the gurney and the body bag." Her two assistants scurried back out for the equipment.

 "Mark said he was warm when he found him," Rick informed her.

 "Fresh kill."

 "We've already dusted. He's ready to go." Cynthia watched as the gurney was rolled in; the quarters were a bit tight.

 "Put on your gloves and let's lift him up, carry him out to the sitting room," Diana directed. "Sucker's going to be heavy."

 "Any ideas?" Cynthia asked Diana.

 "Too many."

 "Yeah, that seems to be the problem." Rick smiled.

 "I do know this." Diana wiggled her fingers in the thin rubber gloves over which she pulled on a pair of heavier gloves. "Charlie always was a snob. If you didn't have money you had to have great bloodlines. There were no poor people involved."

 9

 The post office buzzed the next morning. As it was the central meeting point in town, each person arrived hopeful that someone would have more news than they had. Everyone had an opinion, that much was certain.

 "Can't go sleeping with other men's wives without expecting trouble," Jim Sanburne, mayor of Crozet and husband of Mim, announced.

 As Jim, in his youth, had indulged in affairs, the elegant Mim eyed him coldly. "Well said."

 "This is getting good." Mrs. Murphy, whiskers vibrating, perched on the counter between the mailroom and the public room.