This week’s FridayFlash is an excerpt from my NaNoWriMo WIP. Post a link to yours in the comments and I’ll tweet it, too!
The problem was Spacey.
Well, not Spacey, exactly.
The problem was that Spacey had gotten herself all worked up about Sly getting konked dead in the head with a golf ball.
It was unnerving.
She was watching them.
Watching him especially, Brock thought. But he didn’t say that to the guys—of course he didn’t.
He and Jake were on the first tee, waiting for the rest of the foursome. It was early, yet—they had a standing 8:20 tee time Saturday mornings—but the day was already hinting that it would soon become unbearably hot, unbearably close. The fairway had been mown an hour or so earlier, and the cut grass smell was slightly rank and overly sweet, as if it were starting to rot rather than dry out. The hills flanking the golf course were bluish and looked further away than they normally did, filmed over as they were by the moisture in the air.
Brock was already sweating.
Jake stood on the tee, taking practice swings, and watching the foursome that had gone off just before them. They were hunting for a ball in the left rough.
“Here’s Rusty,” Brock said, and Jake quit swinging and glanced back toward the clubhouse.
Rusty had called them on his cell a few minutes earlier to let them know he was there, and Dang had driven the second cart back to the parking lot to pick him up. Now they motored up the cart path, Rusty in the passenger seat, holding a paper Dunkin Donuts coffee cup in his left hand.
Dang parked the car behind Brock and Jake’s.
“Morning, Russ,” said Brock.
“Jeesus, what is Spacey’s problem,” Rusty answered.
They looked at him.
Rusty took a swig of coffee and grimaced like it hurt. “She keeps giving me the evil eye.”
“She already in this morning?” said Brock. That was something else that was now out of whack. Spacey put in a lot of hours—everybody knew that—but used to be, on Saturdays, she wouldn’t show up until 10:00 or so.
“She never leaves the place anymore,” said Dang. “I think she sleeps here.”
“She thinks she’s Miss Marple,” said Rusty.
“Who?” Brock said, then jerked his head toward the tee box. The foursome ahead of them was out of range and Jake was taking his stance, so the other three stilled themselves, waiting for him to hit.
“Good ball,” Rusty said after Jake sent his ball on its way, then he turned back to Brock. “Miss Marple. My wife used to watch her. There was a television show. Old bag with an English accent. There’d be some crime and she’d solve it.”
“Oh, for—” Brock stopped himself from dropping an f-bomb, this early in the morning and on a golf course. “She’s got to let it drop, already.”
Dang was climbing up the steps to the tee box. “She had a thing for Sly,” he said over his shoulder. “She took it hard.”
They all knew Spacey had had a thing for Sly. So what? Brock looked down at the golf ball in his hand, turned it over, rubbing at some grass stains left over from the last round he’d played with it. A Pro V. Next thing you know Spacey would be checking their golf bags to see who played what ball.
“Nice shot,” Rusty said after Dang hit his drive.
Brock followed Rusty up to the tee box.
“Anyway.” Dang pulled his tee from the ground, still looking after where his ball had disappeared—number one’s little downslope meant a good drive rolls out of sight, but that was fine, he knew for sure he in the fairway—“Anyway, maybe it would be a good thing for us to know who did it.”
“Aw, cripes,” Brock slung his driver back and forth to loosen up his shoulders. “Now you sound as nuts as Spacey. How the hell does it help anybody to know who did it. It was an accident, remember?”
They fell silent again so Rusty could hit.
His drive, unlike the first two, didn’t find the fairway — pushed right — and he muttered under his breath.
And for some reason that made Brock’s uneasiness stir a little more. The hint of a snarl formed on his face as he prepared for his shot. That saying, what was it? Let sleeping dogs lie. And did Spacey think somehow that she could bring Sly back? All she was doing was—
“Aw!” And this time he did drop the f-bomb. Terrible mishit. A duck hook. It had to be in the next fairway.
“Mulligan,” said Rusty, but Brock shook his head angrily and stomped down the steps and to the cart.
This damn business was seriously getting under his skin, and Brock had no idea why—he wasn’t the kind of guy to let things like this get under his skin . . .