The Big Cat Nap

turned to the manager. “Thank you for your help.”
    Back in the squad car, the two pulled onto Route 29.
    “ReNu?” Coop asked.
    “Yep. What’d you think?”
    “That she really doesn’t know anything.”
    “Me, too. Well, let’s hope somebody at ReNu has a thought. They’ve lost two employees. You’d think that would jar something or someone loose.”
    It didn’t.

L ong shadows lapped the lush grass of Farmington Country Club. Created in 1927 by a Scotsman named Findlay, the course boasted long fairways and beautiful approaches to small, fast greens, which tested a golfer. In the old days, land was not as expensive as it is now, so the course designer had a large canvas to paint.
    What golfer could ever tire of coming up behind the club itself, originally designed by Thomas Jefferson as a working plantation, for which he was paid an architect’s commission? The player faced the feminine roll of the Blue Ridge Mountains, while behind him or her stood one of America’s loveliest colonial structures, red brick washed in the patina of time.
    This late afternoon, the glut of players having tapered off, Dr. Nelson Yarbrough, Latigo Bly, and Susan Tucker had each smacked the tar out of the ball from the tees at Number 14. A mockingbird eagerly watched from a huge pin oak, first cocking his head one way, then another. Some birds waited for the rolling ball to disturb bugs. The mockingbird in this case took a dislike to the ball, opening its wings, lifting off the branch, and soaring overhead to monitor the ball’s progress. The bird witnessed countless balls on the fairway and in the rough, and for whatever reason he felt compelled to fly over each one, be it white, yellow, or orange. The orange balls offended him the most, and, upon sighting one, a big raven call would emanatefrom his graceful body. The bird could duplicate any sound he heard. Raven calls, harsh, often disturbed other birds and people, too. As to just why these golf balls provoked such a response, well, you never knew about mockingbirds.

    “Look at that silly bird.” Latigo Bly pointed his driver in the bird’s direction.
    Dr. Yarbrough smiled. A former quarterback on the UVA football team, he was strong and highly intelligent. “Maybe he knows something we don’t.”
    “Like a snake in the grass,” the tall, thin Latigo thought out loud.
    “Nah, it’s bird Zumba dancing. He chased each one of our balls. Think of the exercise.” Susan, like Harry, adored watching animals.
    While men and women did play golf together, the typical group consisted of same-gender friends. Various explanations for this seemed to be accepted by both men and women—the men, of course, feeling superior, since they hit off the men’s tees.
    Susan Tucker had won the club championship three times. She’d won the Virginia State Women’s Championship once, seven years back. She nearly always placed in the top ten in any tournament.
    In high demand with the men—who silently watched her, always hoping to figure out how such a feminine woman could send the ball soaring down the fairway—Susan kept her thoughts to herself. She knew she would never match the record of the late Mary Patton Janssen, probably the best amateur golfer FCC had produced in the twentieth century and just possibly the best amateur golfer ever in the state of Virginia. She won state six years, from 1957 to 1962, a feat never matched. She played in the British Women’s Amateur in 1956 in the first all-American finals. Those were a handful of her many accomplishments, which also included riding horses over stout fences and showing dogs.
    The key to Susan’s game was her short game. Well, isn’t it always? When she was young, she’d tag along with Mary Pat, studying every little move the attractive, dynamic lady made. When this keg of dynamite died on May 20, 2011, Susan, like every golfer who had ever seen Mary Pat play, knew an era had ended. When Mary Pat learned the game, one walked the course and often carried one’s own bags orjust played with six or seven clubs. When possible, a caddy would be hired, always useful. Susan, being a kid, never could hire one, so Mary Pat graciously paid for Susan’s caddy, telling her to listen to her caddy, who had walked the course more times than any golfer including Mary Pat, ever could.
    With the great lady’s death, Susan became determined to sharpen her game and make an effort to teach youngsters. Susan couldn’t have cared less if