Death on a Deadline

no, he had to have private lessons from a pro.” Carly held up her hand. “You don’t have to remind me. I know I’m the one who told him he’d have to come up with the money on his own. But, for goodness’ sake, I never dreamed he’d want lessons bad enough to get a job. Especially not one that starts before daylight.”
    “He loves golf.”
    “Just like his daddy,” Carly said. “Only Zac’s got talent. Travis didn’t play very well, but he always had to watch those tournaments on TV.” She sighed. “I kind of wish Zac didn’t remember that.”
    “You think subconsciously he hopes that if he’s good at golf his dad will see him in some tournament on television and love him enough to come back home?”
    Carly arched an eyebrow. “In other words, is he living in a dream world? Don’t think I haven’t thought about that. The therapist said every time Zac hits a milestone in his life the rejection issues might start up again. I guess sixteen is a milestone.”
    My stomach clenched like it always did when I thought about Travis. Running off to California with Miss Stick Figure ten years ago had been more important to the loser than sticking around to help Carly raise their six-year-old son and unborn twins. Okay, so her name wasn’t Miss Stick Figure, but that’s how I always thought of the anorexic model he’d latched on to—as a caricature, rather than a real person.
    “Whatever the reason, golf means a lot to Zac. I probably should have just given him the money for the lessons.” Carly’s words jarred me back to the present.
    “No, he’ll appreciate it more in the long run this way. And a job will keep him busy and out of trouble. Remember what Mama always says about idle hands.” Speaking of idle hands, I pulled a rag from my bottom drawer and gave my desktop pictures a hasty dusting. Guilt never loses its power, even when served as leftovers from childhood.
    Carly grinned and nodded toward the cloth. “Afraid the devil might be lookin’ for a new workshop?”
    If only I’d known how busy the devil already was in our sleepy little town, I definitely wouldn’t have laughed.

Two

    I should have listened to Carly and skipped the park. The six o’clock news would have given me more information than I’d gotten from John when I tried to climb over the yellow tape. And without the childish name-calling.
    “Jen, you’re the last person that needs to be here.” John gave me his chief-of-police stone-faced glare. “Go home.”
    Lucky for him I had it on good authority—his wife Denise—that he was a softy inside. “You going to arrest me if I don’t?” I picked up a gum wrapper near my feet and put it in my pocket. See what a model citizen I am. I hate litter.
    “This is a serious police matter.” Obviously, somebody’s been watching too many cop shows. He’s starting to learn the vernacular. He spun away from me in a classic dismissal technique, then must have decided I might not take the hint. He turned back and hiked up the waist of his uniform pants with an air of authority. “You need to go home.”
    In a minute, he’d be tucking his thumbs in his waistband and patting his spare tire with his fingers. My friend was morphing into the sheriff from Smokey and the Bandit before my very eyes. What was with the go-home mantra? “Just tell me what’s going on.” I nodded to the bright yellow tape stretched around the Bradford pear trees behind him. “Did someone get her purse snatched? Or did you find a dead body in the bushes?”
    He ran his hand over his face. “Do you have to be so nosy?”
    I didn’t answer, and he turned to walk away.
    “Fine!” I called to his back. “I’ve got to return Hank’s wallet over at the Monitor! Maybe he’ll have some answers!”
    “What?” John’s head snapped around. For the first time he didn’t seem in any hurry for me to leave. “Why do you have Hank’s wallet?”
    I allow myself a grin. Maybe my funny story would loosen up our esteemed chief. Though it’s a well-guarded police secret, he does have a sense of humor. For the third time that day, I recounted the early morning dog chase, leaving out Brendan’s appearance. John didn’t need to know everything. Or so I thought. Twenty minutes later—after I’d answered a hundred questions ranging from “What time was it when you first saw the dog?” to “Did you see anyone else while you were out?”—I’d changed my mind. And, of course, in answer to the last