By Joan Havelange
Print ISBN
EPUB 978-0-2286-0712-0
Kindle 978-0-2286-0713-7
WEB 978-0-2286-0754-0
Print ISBN
BWL Print 978-0-2286-0756-4
B&N Print 978-0-2286-0755-7
Amazon Print 978-0-2286-0757-1
Copyright 2019 by Joan Havelange
Cover Art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book
A huge thank you to my beta readers: Louise, Margee, Leslie and Edie. And a special thanks to Yvonne for her never-failing faith. Susan my editor from BWL you are a star. All of you made this novel happen.
Mabel Havelock leaned on her driver, watching her best friend, Violet Ficher, tee up her golf ball. “Your driver is almost as big as your head you can’t possibly miss that ball,” she teased.
“Is my golfing interfering with your conversation, Mabel? I will not let you poison my drive.” Violet adjusted her glasses on her long slender nose, waggled her driver and swung her club. She drove her ball long and straight down the fairway.
“Great drive.” Mabel teed up her ball and, peered over her granny glasses at the fairway then down at her golf ball and swung with all her might. An ominous crack exploded through the air as the ball flew off the hosel of her club. The wayward shot squirted right and flew over the stone fence into the town cemetery. The women watched in awe as the ball ricocheted off one headstone onto another before dropping out of sight.
“That was one wild shot, it’s a good thing everyone in there is dead,” Violet quipped, placing her driver in her golf bag.
Mabel looked across the fairway at the Glenhaven town cemetery. “You just watch my second shot. I’ll put it on the green.” She jammed the driver into her bag.
“As if. Who do you think you are? Brooke Henderson?” Violet grinned. “Besides your ball went out of bounds. That’s a one-stroke penalty.”
“Never mind, who parred the last hole?” Mabel asked, climbing in behind the steering wheel of the golf cart.
“I could have had a par on number fourteen, but that darn greenskeeper isn’t doing his job.” Violet easily fit her tall, willowy frame into the golf cart beside her friend. “Did you see how high that rough was?”
“We saw the mower parked in the rough. It must’ve broken down. Besides that’s why it’s called the rough, the grass is high.” Mabel floored the golf cart and skirted around a gopher hole in the middle of the fairway.
Violet’s yellow golf visor flew off her head. “Stop.”
Mable stopped the cart, chuckling as her friend ran across the fairway chasing her hat. Violet caught up to the visor, grinned triumphantly, and trotted back to the cart.
“I never lose my hat,” Mable deadpanned as Violet jumped in the cart.
Violet looked at Mabel’s short white hair fluttering in the wind. “Obviously not, you never wear one.” She reached up to the roof handle and hung on as the electric golf cart bounced across the fairway to the cemetery. Mabel parked the little white cart beside the low stone fence.
Violet donned the golf visor that matched her golf shirt and shorts. She tucked her long red hair neatly into place, climbed over the wall into the cemetery, and searched for Mabel’s lost golf ball.
At barely five feet, Mabel struggled to hitch her well-padded body onto the stone wall. At the top, she paused and looked across to the black, wrought-iron gates covering the roadside entrance. A long grassy lane divided the cemetery. The newer graves were on the left of the lane with the older moss-covered tombstones on the right. The hot July sun beat down on Mabel’s head, and she pulled her T-shirt from the band of her jean shorts before jumping down into the graveyard.
“Hey, it’s your ball,” Violet called. “Get busy and look. We need to get out of here.”
“Don’t get your knickers in a knot. I am looking and make sure you watch where you’re walking.”
“Watch for what?” Violet trotted along a row of gravestones. She disappeared behind a black onyx angel in a prayerful pose.
“Watch for holes, that’s what.” Mabel’s feet crunched the dry grass as she walked toward a grave with a broken headstone.
“There aren’t any open graves,” Violet called back. “I’m pretty sure I would see one if there was. I’m not likely to fall into a hole.”
“No, but there are lots of gopher holes. Those little beggars are everywhere. If you step in a hole, you could sprain an ankle.” Mabel jumped as a grasshopper flew up into her face. Brushing it away, she continued to scan the dry grass growing alongside the graves.
“I’m careful. I’m not worried about gopher holes, but I sure don’t want to step on any graves. What are you hitting?” Violet, popping up from behind a black angel, held a golf ball.
“Is that a Spaulding number two?” Mabel asked. “I’m betting there are lots of lost balls in here. This is a popular spot if you slice your ball off the tee.” She looked across at Violet in time to see her friend pocketing the found golf ball. Violet disappeared again, this time behind a large white marble tombstone.
“Shank dear, it’s called a shank. I’m sure you hit the ball off the hosel. Or maybe it was a slice? Whatever it was, I know you don’t want to repeat it.”
“Oh my God, I’ve killed him!” Mabel shrieked.
“They’re all dead here, dear. And you’re right this graveyard is a gold mine. There seem to be lots of lost golf balls. People must be either too squeamish or too superstitious to come into the cemetery to retrieve their lost ball. I’ve already picked up three.”
“No, no, come here,” Mabel yelled. When Violet reached her side, Mabel pointed in horror at a dead man lying spread-eagled between two tombstones. “That’s my golf ball lying between his eyes. Oh, my God, it’s Allen Franklyn, and I’ve killed him!”
“Maybe he’s just knocked out.” Violet dropped another golf ball into her pocket. Both women stared down at the large man who lay lifeless between a row of gravestones.
He looked surprised, in an odd sort of way. “Oh dear,” Mabel’s voice trembled. She tucked her golf glove into her pocket and crouched beside Allen Franklyn’s body, gingerly picking up his wrist then gently laying his hand back down. “He’s dead.”
“You didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident. Who knew your golf ball would end up here killing Allen?” Violet put her arm around Mabel, patting her shoulder.
“No, no, it wasn’t me.”
“Well, actually it was you. I saw you hit the ball, but don’t worry. I know it was an accident.” Violet knelt beside the body, took off her golf glove, and prodded the ball stuck in the middle of the man’s forehead. “Yep, it’s a Spaulding number two.”
“No, I didn’t do it.”
Violet stood, dusting the dirt off her knees. “Mabel. It’s no use fooling yourself, you hit the ball, and there it is, laying between Allen’s eyes.”
“I’m telling you, it’s not my fault.” Mabel folded her arms across her chest and stuck out her chin.
“Seriously, get a grip.” Violet looked at Mabel with concern. “No one will accuse you of murder. I looked, it’s your ball, a Spaulding number two.”
“He’s cold, cold, cold. If my golf ball killed Allen, he would still be warm, but he’s not, he’s cold.” Mabel’s voice rose in frustration.
“Oh, well, that’s lucky isn’t it? Well, not for Allen, of course, but you’re in the clear. Are you sure he’s cold?”
“Do you want to feel him?”
“No, I believe you.” Violet thoughtfully gazed down at the dead man. “Poor Allen, I wonder what happened to him?”
“I’ve no idea. I’m just glad I’m not the cause of his death.”
“Me too, I guess we should do something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Call an ambulance, a doctor, the RCMP?”
“He doesn’t need a doctor or an ambulance, the police I guess.”
“Hey, you two old hens, are you going to cackle all day? Fred and I are going to play through.” Red Thompson, a big, barrel-chested man, bellowed at them from the tee box.
“Play through you old buzzard. We don’t care,” Mabel yelled back.
“Don’t hit my ball by mistake, it’s out there in the middle of the fairway,” Violet hollered.
“Seriously, Violet, Allen is lying here dead, and you’re worried about your golf ball?”
“It was a darn fine drive.”
“True.”
“My phone is in the golf cart, I’ll call the police,” Violet volunteered.
“You better wait until Red and his little buddy Fred, tee off. Neither of them can hit a straight ball. If they slice their drive, we can duck behind a tombstone.”
“Shank.”
“Whatever. Hey, they’ve hit, go get your phone.” Mabel watched Violet climb over the wall and dump her found golf balls into the cart and pick up her phone and tap in 911.
“I have an emergency, well maybe not an emergency but I need to talk to the RCMP,” Violet said.
Mabel nodded approvingly then turned to watch the men drive down the fairway, they waved. Mabel wave back. “Hey, Violet those guys didn’t drive much farther than you.”
Violet nodded, keeping the phone to her ear. “I’m waiting for the RCMP to answer.” While Violet talked to the police, Mabel walked back to the dead man and studied Allen’s body. His fleshy face looked pasty white. Above his bulbous nose lay her golf ball. His blue shirt had fallen open, showing his large protruding belly. Mabel bent down and pulled the shirt back into place, trying to preserve some dignity for the dead man. But the buttons were gone, torn off, the shirt wouldn’t stay put. She gave up and regained her feet. “When you come back, please bring me my golf towel,” Mabel called. Planting her hands on her hips, she surveyed the trampled dirt around Allen. The footprints appeared too big to be either hers or Violet’s.
Since it wasn’t her ball that killed Allen, the footprints might belong to the killer Mabel mused. To the left of the body, there was a new grave with only a temporary plastic cross placed by the funeral home. A shovel still stuck out of the mound of dirt.
“I called,” Violet said, climbing back over the fence. “The operator thought I was a crank at first. It took a few minutes to convince her to connect me with the RCMP. I guess telling her there was a dead body in the graveyard didn’t sound too credible.”
“How long before the Mounties get here, did they say?” The Hill Crest Golf Course located near the small town of Glenhaven. Glenhaven was a little town where people not only knew your name, but the name of your pet and how old it was. The nearest RCMP detachment was twenty minutes away in the town of Kipling.
“They didn’t say, but they’re sending someone out. Why do you want this towel?” Violet asked, handing the towel to Mabel.
“To cover Allen’s face.”
“We can’t cover his face. It might look like we’re trying to hide the evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“Your golf ball in his forehead.”
“My golf ball did not kill Allen. So, it’s not evidence.”
“I called the RCMP. Don’t you think it might look odd covering his face with a dirty old golf towel?”
“Why do you think it will look odd?”
“It’s your ball. You know it didn’t kill Allen, and I know it didn’t, but it might look suspicious.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Mabel finally agreed. “I suppose they might think we tampered with evidence. I’ve seen CSI.”
“Lost your ball?” A man yelled in a high-pitched voice from the tee box. “You only get five minutes to look for a lost ball you know. I’m playing through.”
“Shouldn’t we tell someone we’ve found a body?” Violet asked.
Mabel looked over the tombstones at the tee box. Ned Schwartz, a small, skinny man with the shrill voice, was teeing up his ball. “No, let’s wait for the RCMP to arrive. We definitely don’t want to say anything to creepy old Ned.”
Violet shrugged and yelled, “Play through, we don’t care, but my ball is in the middle of the fairway. Don’t pick it up.”
Mabel dropped her green golf towel on the ground and squatted beside Allen’s body. On closer inspection she spotted a dark stain on the grass around his head. That might be blood she mused as she lifted his head.
The golf ball rolled off his forehead, and she quickly laid his head back on the ground and then replaced the ball in the middle of his forehead. Puzzled, she sat back on her heels. “Will you hold this ball while I lift his head?” she asked Violet. “I want to see if there’s a wound. Something killed him, and since it wasn’t my ball, I’d like to know what it was.”
Violet crossed her arms and looked down at the dead body. “He could have died of natural causes like a heart attack, although what he was doing out here in the graveyard is beyond me, I never saw Allen golfing. Do you think he golfed?”
“What has golf got to do with Allen lying dead in the graveyard?” Mabel frowned.
Violet shrugged. “I don’t know. But the graveyard is close to the golf course.”
“I doubt golfing has anything to do with his death,” Mabel said, pointing toward a nearby grave. “That is the grave of the late Grace Franklyn, the wife of the now late Allen Franklyn. He must have come out here to put flowers on her grave. And look, there is dirt on the knees of his jeans.”
“Of course, there would be dirt on his knees. He was laying flowers on his wife’s grave.”
“Ah, but the flowers aren’t on her grave, are they? They’re all over the ground. So why is that?”
“He dropped them.”
“But why? Why didn’t Allen place the flowers on his wife’s grave? Why did he toss them? I want to have a peek at the back of his head. Please hold the ball while I look?” Mabel asked.
“No, I will not. We might’ve gotten away with the towel, but this is interfering with a body. I’ve watched CSI too. Besides, it’s creepy.”
“Don’t go getting all squeamish on me.”
“I’m telling you, don’t interfere. Anyway, if the ball rolls off, replace it. It’s not like its golf, where you can’t move your ball in play.”
“Right.” Mabel lifted Allen’s head, the ball rolled off his forehead, and down his chin, coming to rest on his chest. She took a quick look, then gently placed his head back on the ground, replacing the golf ball on his forehead. “I was right. It’s murder. There’s a big gash in the back of the poor man’s head. There may be more than one I can’t tell because of the congealed blood.” She wiped her hands on the green golf towel, tossing it to the ground.
“Murder? You’re sure?” Violet stared down at the body.
“Yes, I am. Do you want to look?”
“No, do you suppose it was a robbery gone wrong?”
“It could be I guess, but what would Allen have worth stealing? Besides, he’s in a graveyard. No self-respecting robber hangs out at a cemetery waiting for a mark.”
“Mark? Mark who?” Violet frowned.
“Not Mark who.”
“You were the one who said, Mark. I don’t know who he is? Do I? I asked you.”
“Violet, it’s not a person. A mark is a victim somebody swindled or robbed.”
“Oh, that mark.”
Mabel sighed. Violet’s habit of being very literal could be confusing, and sometimes Mabel had a sneaking suspicion Violet did it deliberately. “Anyway, I don’t think Allen was murdered because of a robbery that went wrong. We need to consider another motive.”
“We, Mabel? We need to consider another motive?”
Mabel stood with her hands on her hips and looked down at Allen Franklyn’s dead body.
“What are you thinking? You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you?” Violet stared at her.
“I don’t know what you mean? What do you think I’m thinking?”
“You think it’s murder and you want to investigate.”
“Maybe, I’m a good puzzle solver. I bet I can solve this murder.”
“A puzzle is not a murder, and you’re not Agatha Raisin,” Violet cautioned.
Mabel looked down at the body then back up at Violet. “A puzzle is a puzzle,” she said.
“Are you visiting the dead or playing golf?” A young man with baggy pants yelled from the tee box. His buddy who had his baseball cap on backward was already teeing up his golf ball.
“We’re visiting the dead. You can play through, but don’t hit my ball, I had a heck of a good drive. It’s in the middle of the fairway,” Violet called. She tromped past the tombstones to the wall. “I’m going to pick up my ball as soon as those boys play through. It’s not like we’ll get to finish our round now, anyway.” Violet stood by the fence, waiting impatiently for the boys to hit their golf balls. She climbed into the golf cart and drove down the fairway to find her golf ball.
Mabel picked up her golf towel and clambered onto the stone fence to sit down, flinching as a jagged rock poked her bum. She edged further down the wall, settling on a broader and smoother rock. She watched Violet bounding across the fairway in their little white golf cart. Such a beautiful, hot July morning and a good day for golf, but not for finding a dead man.
She was sure it was murder. Someone murdered Allen Franklyn. Glenhaven was a small town, she could have socialized with the killer. Unsettling to think the killer might be somebody she knew. Mabel doubted a woman killed Allen. But who? Who would want the poor man dead? And why?
She didn’t know Allen well, only by sight. They never socialized. He was younger, she thought maybe thirty-five or forty. She’d heard stories about Allen. Stories that the man was a drunk, and he had trouble holding on to a job. But gossip like grass in a hayfield kept growing with each telling. She tried not to put too much stock in rumors, but in a small town, this was hard.
Mabel watched her friend drive around in circles on the fairway. It meant Violet couldn’t find her golf ball, and it had been a good drive. Her attention turned to the tee box. An RCMP Officer bumped across the fairway in the bright blue club rental cart. She had expected the Mounties to arrive at the cemetery entrance on the other side with sirens blazing. Mabel frowned, disappointed the police hadn’t taken Violet’s report of a dead body seriously.
She stood on the wall waving her golf towel and called out, “Over here, come this way.” Mabel studied the Mountie driving across the fairway toward her. The young officer was a clean-shaven man with dark cropped hair. He reminded her of her son. The big man filled the golf cart. Mabel thought he could play defense for the Saskatchewan Roughriders. Anyone he tackled would stay tackled.
* * *
Constable Shamanski looked across the fairway at a small white-haired lady standing on a stone wall, yelling and waving a green rag.
He’d been at the Hill Crest clubhouse dealing with another matter when he got the call from the Detachment. The office had received a report of a dead body in the cemetery. They warned him it was probably a prank call but asked him to check it out. He’d accepted the offer of a golf cart from the clubhouse, after explaining to the Golf Pro about a complaint out on the fifteenth fairway.
He didn’t tell the Pro that someone had reported a dead body in a graveyard. He wasn’t about to advertise the fact he might be caught in a prank. His orders were to investigate, but already it looked like a wild goose chase. God only knew what the old lady, standing up on the wall thought she’d seen. It crossed his mind she might’ve escaped from the old folk’s home.
Officer Shamanski arrived at the fence at the same time as a red-headed woman. He parked his rented golf cart beside the stone wall, ducking his head as he climbed out of the cart.
“Some bugger stole my golf ball,” the red-headed golf cart driver complained.
“I hope you ladies didn’t call in about a stolen golf ball. You do know pranking a police officer is a serious offense,” he said, towering over the women. This call was getting weirder, and weirder, he thought, as he picked up his cap from the seat of the golf cart.
“Do we look like the sort of women who would pull a prank? There is a dead body and not in a grave.” The short gray-haired woman on the stone wall huffed, her hands on her hips, staring at him over her granny glasses. “I am Mabel Havelock, and I helped the RCMP last year to capture two bank robbers. I guess the robbery happened before your time, but I’m sure it is in the records if you care to check.”
“There was a bank robbery in Glenhaven. As soon as Mabel heard about it, she phoned 911 with a full description of the bank robbers and their car.” The golf cart woman strode over to stand by Mabel. “You see, Mabel walked by them every day on her way to the post office.”
“The felons staked out our bank, Glenhaven Savings and Loans,” Mabel said.
“Of course, everyone in Glenhaven saw the bad guys parked by the bank, and they could have given the police the same description,” the taller woman added.
“But it was me who phoned the RCMP.” Mable lifted her head proudly.
“Yes, Mabel reported the robbery,” agreed the redhead. “And since there are only two ways out of town, the RCMP caught the robbers. And quite quickly I might add.”
“Because of my tip.” Mabel gave the constable a haughty look as she hopped off the stone wall.
Constable Shamanski raised one eyebrow. He hadn’t heard about Mrs. Havelock. But he would check the records when he got back to the office. “What does the bank robbery have to do with your ah…body? You did find a body?” he asked, jamming his hat on.
“My goodness, of course, we did. What I’m trying to tell you, young man, is I’ve worked with the RCMP. I’m not some sort of prankster.”
“And I’m Violet Ficher. And by the way, how do we know you’re an RCMP officer?” Violet asked, following him over the fence.
“He’s wearing a uniform for goodness’ sake,” Mabel said, leading the way toward the body.
“He could be an imposter. You never know,” Violet replied.
Shamanski paused, scrutinizing the two old ladies who were leading him into the cemetery. What did this woman expect? Did she think he would ride up on a horse wearing his red serge? Both old women must have escaped from the care home. “Ladies, I am Constable Robert Shamanski, an RCMP officer.”
“Of course, you are,” Violet said.
He decided the woman was batty. “So, why did you ask?”
“You never introduced yourself. You should learn some manners young man,” Violet scolded. “You came charging up here accusing Mabel and me of all sorts of things, and you didn’t even have the decency to introduce yourself properly.” Violet folded her arms, giving him a stern look.
He widened his eyes, surprised. The old lady was scolding him.
“Violet’s right, you’re very high-handed,” Mabel agreed, standing beside her friend and looking up at him.
“I’m sorry, can we please start again?” He had gotten off on the wrong foot. This was no way to treat the public.
Violet swatted at a grasshopper which landed on her arm. “Is this your first investigation?”
“This is my first posting, I’m sorry if I got a little carried away,” he apologized. “And there is a dead body here in the graveyard?”
“First posting, eh. Well, we forgive you, but I hope you’ve learned a lesson young man,” Mabel snorted. “Of course, there is a dead body. Please follow us.”
He gave each woman a wary look before following them down between a long row of tombstones. Somehow, he felt he’d lost all credibility with these ladies. They made him feel like a truculent schoolboy. The trio walked past a large marble grave marker. He stopped. There, on the ground, lay the body of a dead man, and to his amazement, there was a golf ball in the middle of his forehead.
Mabel and Violet stood beside him as if waiting for his reaction.
“A golf ball!” He looked at each woman in turn.
“Yes, the golf ball is mine, but I didn’t kill him.” Mabel jutted out her chin and folded her arms.
Constable Shamanski gave Mabel a perplexed look, then he focused back on the dead man. “You didn’t kill him?”
“It’s true, she didn’t. She thought she did, but she didn’t. It’s her golf ball, a Spaulding number two, but Mabel’s ball didn’t kill him.” Violet put a protective arm around Mabel.
“I did think it was me. I thought I killed the poor man. I sliced my drive off the tee,” Mabel explained.
“Shanked dear. You hit the ball off the hosel,” Violet corrected.
“Oh, right, I shanked,” Mabel amended.
The constable lifted his hat and scratched his head, puzzled. “Shanked?” he asked.
“It came in here, so we came in to search for it, the ball I mean. And we found it on his forehead. I know it looks odd, my golf ball lying between his eyes and all, but let me assure you, he was quite dead when we found him. He was cold. And as I told Violet, if my ball had killed him, he would still be warm. But he wasn’t, he was cold.”
Constable Shamanski furrowed his brow, and asked, “You examined this dead man?”
“Yes, dear, we needed to be sure he wasn’t just knocked out. Of course, Allen’s eyes staring straight up at us was probably a dead giveaway,” replied Mabel.
“Allen?” he asked. Did she just call him dear?
“Allen Franklyn, he’s not a golfer. At least, I never saw him out here playing golf, and Violet said she’d never seen him either.”
“No, I’ve never seen him, but I guess it doesn’t mean he’s not a golfer.”
Constable Shamanski looked at the two old ladies in wonderment. They were standing in a graveyard around a corpse talking about golf. He raised his voice to get control of the situation. “What makes you think golfing has anything to do with this dead man lying here?”
“Besides Mabel’s golf ball laying in the middle of his forehead you mean?”
“That’s what I said,” Mabel interjected.
“Said what?” He’d lost the thread of the conversation. “When?”
“When we found him.”
The constable gritted his teeth. “What happened when you found him?”
“I said, ‘Oh, my God, I killed him!’ But I hadn’t.”
“Okay,” he drawled. “So, no reason to suspect foul play from golf then?”
“Well, except for Mabel’s golf ball you mean?”
“Violet, would you please shut up about my golf ball.”
“Let’s get back to facts,” interceded Constable Shamanski. “We will leave the golf ball between Mr. Franklyn’s eyes alone for the moment.”
“I would if Violet would stop bringing it up, it’s embarrassing.”
“Sorry Mabel, but it’s your ball.”
“Violet, please,” Mabel groaned.
“Ladies, ladies, please, can we get back to when you first discovered Mr. Franklyn’s body?” Constable Shamanski interceded.
“As soon as I saw Allen, I knew he’d been murdered, didn’t I, Violet?”
“No, you weren’t sure until you looked at the back of his head.”
“What! You moved his head?” the constable asked, astounded at the nerve of these women. He couldn’t believe his ears. “You’ve interfered with a crime scene or at the very least a suspicious death.”
“I told you,” Violet whispered.
“And you’ve trampled all over this crime scene,” the constable said in exasperation. “Back to the fence, now, please.” He should’ve moved them away from the crime scene as soon as he saw the body. Now, there were more footprints. His superiors would not be happy.
“We didn’t know it was a crime scene, did we? But it’s interesting you call this a crime scene,” Mabel said poking Violet with her elbow as they walked back to the stone fence. “To think, we stumbled onto a murder, my goodness me.”
“A potential crime scene, Mr. Franklyn could have met his demise in many ways. What I’m saying is you’ve not helped this situation,” the constable reiterated, upset with his slip of the tongue.
“Hey officer, are you arresting those two old gals for cheating? I always knew their scores were too good to be true,” A big man in a loud Hawaiian shirt yelled. His three male buddies roared at the big man’s witticism. “We’re going to play through if you don’t mind.”
“You might as well, everyone else has,” Violet yelled.
“What! Everyone else? No. No, you cannot play through,” Constable Shamanski shouted. “Stay where you are, don’t hit that ball. I am closing this course.” He turned back to Mabel and Violet. “And you two, get back over this fence, stay there and don’t touch another thing.”
“You could say please?” Mabel muttered, following Violet and the constable to the wall.
Constable Shamanski rolled his eyes, sighed, and then said. “Please.”
Mabel and Violet grinned and climbed up on the stone fence.
“What a mess,” he muttered, cramming himself back into the golf cart and driving across the fairway to the tee box, all the while talking on his police radio. He arrived just as another group of golfers showed up.
“Hey, what did those two old broads do? Kill someone with a golf ball?” asked a tall, lanky man, pulling his driver out of his golf bag. Both groups enjoyed the joke, their loud laughter echoing across the fairway.
“Yeah, yeah, very funny now leave. This golf course is closed, until further notice,” the constable ordered. The man’s comment was a little too close to the truth.
A loud argument ensued between the disgruntled golfers and the constable. Angry shouts rang out at the injustice.
“Everyone back to the clubhouse,” Constable Shamanski commanded in a loud voice. “Tell them at the clubhouse no golfers are allowed out on the course.”
“Officer, what the heck do you think you are doing?” The big guy in the Hawaiian shirt asked. “You can’t close the course like this.”
“Just watch me. Everyone back to the clubhouse. Now. Or you may face serious charges of obstructing an investigation.”
“We’ll take this up with your superiors and see about that,” shouted a small, red-faced man in a rage.
The constable loomed over the man. “Please do. Now leave immediately.”
Amid angry muttering and swearing, a convoy of six golf carts drove away from the tee box.
Constable Shamanski talked on his radio, looking back at Mabel and Violet and shaking his head. Finally, he got back into the golf cart and returned, parking the cart beside the wall. “What a hubbub, it’s only golf!” he grumbled.
Mabel and Violet exchanged a shocked look.
“You don’t golf, do you,” Violet remarked. “Are you sure you need to close the golf course? It seems a little much. After all, Allen isn’t lying out in the middle of the fairway. What harm can a few golfers do?”
“Excuse me,” he growled. These ladies did not seem to grasp the seriousness of the situation. “Until we determine the exact circumstances of Mr. Franklyn’s death, this course will stay closed.” He got out of the golf cart, his large frame rocked it back and forth.
“If you think it’s best, but the golfers aren’t going to be happy,” Violet said.
“My dear, you can’t possibly think a golfer killed poor Allen.” Mabel looked askance.
He took a deep breath, mentally counting to ten. “I’ve not said Mr. Franklyn was murdered. Please stop jumping to conclusions. We will be conducting an inquiry into a suspicious death.”
“Aha, a suspicious death,” Mabel’s smug smile spoke volumes. “When you see the back of poor Allen’s head, you’ll know it’s murder.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stared defiantly at him.
“I’m not interested in your speculations. I could be pressing charges with your interference in this ah…, death,” he reminded them.
Mabel wiped the defiant grin off her face and pleaded like a helpless old woman, “Dear me, I hope not. It was only a wee peek. And everything is as we found it, I promise.”
Violet attempted to hide a grin.
“Let this be a lesson never to poke around in something this serious again. Leave investigating to the professionals.” He rubbed the back of his neck and looked at Mabel, somehow, she made him feel guilty. But of what? He wasn’t sure.
“Of course, we will, no problem,” Mabel promised. “Is the forensic team coming out from Regina?”
“Yes, but it is of no concern of yours, is it ladies?” he looked sternly at the two women.
Mabel smiled. “Goodness me, we’re not concerned, are we Violet?”
“No, we’re not concerned at all. Mabel and I are sure, you and your… colleagues. What do you call them? Your Mountie friends? Or, maybe you don’t like the term Mountie? I’m never sure.”
The constable raised an eyebrow and stared at Violet.
“Do you think I can have my ball back?” Mabel asked.
“What? No, it’s evidence.”
“It’s not the murder weapon for goodness sakes. I’ve seen the back of Allen’s head. We all know my golf ball didn’t kill him.”
“Regardless of what you think has happened, the golf ball stays where it is.” The constable sighed in frustration. “Now please tell me how you found the body. But first I would like to know why none of this appears to be bothering either one of you in the slightest?” he asked, taking a notebook out of his pocket.
“But we are horrified poor Allen was murdered,” Mabel answered. “Especially, when we thought I’d killed him.”
“You’ve got to stop saying Mr. Franklyn was murdered,” interjected Constable Shamanski.
“And a little affronted too, I might add,” Violet said, ignoring his objection. “To think there is a murderer here in Glenhaven. The prettiest and nicest little town in Saskatchewan. We’ve even won Communities in Bloom.”
“Didn’t you hear what I just said? We don’t know it’s murder.”
“Twice,” Mabel said.
“What do you mean twice? Another murder? I mean death.”
“No dear, Communities in Bloom,” Violet answered.
“Communities in bloom?” he asked, bewildered.
“We won it last year. When was the other time?” Violet asked.
“In, 2000, yes, I’m almost sure of it,” Mabel answered.
The officer massaged his temples to ease his rapidly developing headache. He’d no idea what communities in bloom, was and he didn’t care. “Ladies please, let’s get back to my question.” These women went off on a tangent at the drop of a hat.
“In answer to your question, Violet and I are retired nurses.”
“Early retirement, we took early retirement,” chimed in Violet.
“Yes, we took early retirement.” Mabel rolled her eyes at Violet. “The point is we were nurses, and we’ve seen much worse than this, dear.”
“I see.” Constable Shamanski arched an eyebrow, did she call him dear again? He sat on the wall beside the two women and questioned them.
At the end of the interview, the constable closed his notebook. When he got the call about a dead body in the cemetery, he thought it was probably a prank call. Then, when he’d driven up in the dinky little golf cart and met the two old ladies, he was sure. The women seemed a little batty, but harmless.
But his opinion changed, these two were feisty ladies. They’d stumbled across a dead man, and it hadn’t fazed them a bit. These women were a lot tougher than they looked. Yes, he found them a little irritating. Okay, he amended to himself, he found them very irritating. Their conversation seemed to scatter off in all directions, confusing the hell out of him. But he also realized that Mabel and Violet had proven themselves to be very observant. They’d make good witnesses. “Thank you, ladies, I have your addresses and phone numbers, you can go now. If I have more questions, I’ll be in touch with you.”
“You’re welcome. We want to do our civic duty and help the RCMP in any way we can.” Mabel hopped off the stone wall. “And I’m sure there is more we can do, after all, I am very perceptive.
“She is.” Violet nodded in agreement, smiling up at him.
“No, you most certainly don’t need to do more. You’ve already helped by phoning this in. You did all the right things, well, except for moving the body.”
“Mabel didn’t move the body,” Violet corrected.
“Technically, it was just Allen’s head, not his body. And I replaced my golf ball,” defended Mabel.
“Yes, yes, fine.” He just wanted them to leave. “Thank you for reporting this, ah, incident It’s going to get busy here, and you can help best by going home,” he said dismissing them.
* * *
As Violet drove the golf cart back down the fairway, Mabel looked back over her shoulder at the constable guarding what she now called the crime scene. She spotted the forensic team from Regina arriving at the front entrance to the cemetery. Police cars with sirens blaring and lights flashing. Mabel smiled, now this was more like it.
Violet made one more turn around the fairway, looking for her lost ball. “Damn it,” she said. “Someone picked up my ball, and it was a good ball.”
“Forget about your lost ball, I lost a ball too. Let’s go watch the RCMP do their work. I’m curious to see how the RCMP investigate a crime scene.”
Constable Shamanski had told them to leave and go home, but Mabel wasn’t ready to be dismissed as quickly as that. This was their crime scene, after all, they’d discovered Allen’s body. Maybe Constable Robert wasn’t ready to admit it was murder, but Mabel was positive it was. “Go home indeed,” she huffed.
Violet drove the cart back to the fifteenth tee box and parked it on a little knoll. The graveyard had become a busy place with two police officers placing a crime scene tape across the stone wall. Mable could see the RCMP officers were all over the place taking pictures of everything. But the stone wall and tombstones obstructed most of the view.
“This is boring, we can’t see anything, and I’m hungry. Let’s go home,” Violet complained.
“I guess you’re right, besides Robert is giving us a look.”
“What look?”
“The look that says go home ladies, this is no business of yours look.”
Violet drove across the deserted fairways to the cart-shed parking lot and parked in front of one of the long, metal sheds.
The members of the golf club rented compartments in the long sheds for their golf carts. The club members supplied their own locks, ensuring security for their golf clubs and carts. Across from the parking lot was the maintenance shed that housed the mowers and tractors.
“That poor man is in way over his head. He looks freshly minted from the Academy. I bet this is his first big murder investigation, and he needs our help,” Mabel said.
“Constable Robert said to stay out of it,” Violet reminded her.
“I’m sure we can help, after all, we found Allen.” Mabel climbed out of the cart and opened the door to their private shed.
“Mabel, this is not an Agatha Christie story, and you’re not Miss. Marple. You watch way too many murder mysteries.”
* * *
Violet drove them back to Glenhaven. She parked her car in front of Mabel’s little white bungalow with its neat yard and pretty flower beds, a welcoming sight after their gruesome discovery in the graveyard. “Remember, we don’t know if Allen was murdered. And Constable Robert told us we were not to get involved,” Violet repeated her earlier caution.
“I know what he said, but we are involved.” Mabel opened the car door. She paused with one foot on the ground. “We found Allen’s body, and I’m positive the poor man was murdered. But I will think about it, I promise.”
Mabel hung up the phone. She’d been talking to her mother, Sophie Schoenberg. Best if her mother heard about the grisly discovery in the graveyard from Mabel before someone else told her. The news didn’t faze her mother, who lived in Kipling. She just wanted to know when the funeral would be. Mabel shook her head as she took the laundry out of her dryer dumping the clean clothes into the laundry basket. Her mother looked like a delicate flower, but she was tougher than old boots.
Mabel stopped in the hallway with the basket in her hands, her mind flashing back to the image of Allen Franklyn dead in the graveyard. Allen’s death had been on her mind all day. There were tracks around his body, who left those footprints? She didn’t think the footprints belonged to Allen. Mabel put the laundry basket on a kitchen chair, folding a towel. She sighed, dropped the towel in the basket, and then wandered into her living room.
In front of her living room window, stood an easel with the painting of her cat Gertrude. Mabel had taken painting lessons during the winter. She studied her artwork, tipping her head one way then the other. Did her painting need more work? Maybe Gertrude’s tail was too skinny or her ears too big?
“Did you do this Gertrude?” Mabel picked a vase up off the floor and set it back on her coffee table. The vases she had made during pottery class were a little lopsided. But she was sure they would look better once they were fired and glazed.
“Who killed Allen? And why?” she asked her cat, who had curled up in a big chair, laying on a sweater Mabel was knitting. One sleeve was longer than the other, and she would need to tear the sleeves out and start again.
She sat on the arm of her big chair and scratched behind the ear of her orange cat. Gertrude purred, stretching her neck out. “Really, Gertrude how hard can it be to discover who murdered Allen? I am very perceptive, and Glenhaven is a small town. How many likely suspects can there be?” she mused. Gertrude meowed in reply and rolled over.
Mabel went back into her kitchen and dialed Violet’s number on her wall phone. They would put their heads together and solve the mystery.
“I’ve thought it over Violet, put the kettle on I’m coming over for tea. I’ve decided it’s our civic duty to help the RCMP.”
Mabel usually enjoyed the ten-minute stroll to her friend’s house, but tonight she hurried. She could hardly wait to start their investigation. Constable Robert didn’t know it yet, but he needed their help.
The beautiful warm summer’s evening with a clear sky had her neighbours out puttering in their gardens. They waved and called out as she passed by their yards. Mabel didn’t want to stop and chat, but in Glenhaven, you didn’t snub your neighbours. She wondered if she should tell them about finding Allen’s dead body in the town graveyard? No, she decided that would only delay her. She was on a mission, together she and Violet would solve this mystery. So, when she paused at each yard, she chatted about the weather and their gardens. All the time, her mind was on murder.
Mabel turned up the path to her friend’s neat little cream-colored house with its brown shutters and rapped on the burgundy door. “I’m here is the kettle on?” she called, entering Violet’s cheerful kitchen with its yellow walls and white cupboards.
Violet called out, “Come on in, the tea is steeping, would you mind putting the napkins on the table for me, dear?” Tea was never served in a mug at her house. Violet, busy setting the table with china cups and saucers, always proclaimed tea didn’t taste right unless it was from a china cup.
“I bet you made Empress Tea.” Mabel opened a drawer where Violet kept her cloth napkins. She was as familiar with Violet’s kitchen as she was with her own.
“Of course,” Violet answered.
Mabel grinned, laying the linen napkins on the white and yellow checkered tablecloth. Violet was a bit of a tea snob, but she made the most wonderful tea.
“So, you’re determined to do this?” Violet asked, setting the teapot on a trivet and putting a yellow-flowered tea cozy over the pot. “I can’t see how we will be any good at this? We’ve no training and reading a mystery book isn’t a who done it manual.”
“We’re only going to help. I never said we were going to solve it. But who knows, we could. After all, we knew Allen. And we know Allen’s family, his friends. And his not so friends.” Mabel pulled out a wooden kitchen chair and sat down.
“His, not so friends?” Violet asked, sitting at the table fussing with the napkins.
“Well, we can’t call them enemies until we investigate them,” Mabel said, watching her friend fold and refold the napkins. “Let’s make a list, a list of suspects. Would you get me a paper and a pen, please?”
Violet took a small notepad and pen from her kitchen counter and handed them to her friend.
Mabel looked at the notepad. Then over her glasses at Violet, and then back down at the paper. She tapped her pen on the pad. “Let’s see, first on our list of suspects is a chicken and a pound of butter followed by paprika. Which of these do you think is the most likely culprit?”
“For goodness’ sakes, give me that.” Violet chuckled and ripped the page off the pad. She folded the paper, placing the page on the kitchen counter. “I’ve never trusted paprika.”
“Okay, let’s get serious. There is Allen’s son, Jerry. I’ve heard rumors. Rumors Jerry and his dad didn’t get along. Grace was always the peacemaker.” Mabel wrote down Jerry’s name.
“Just because a father and a son don’t get along, it’s hardly a motive for murder. And we don’t even know if it is murder. Maybe Allen fell and bashed his head on a tombstone, not a soft landing,” Violet reasoned. “Or, what if Allen got into a fight with someone? Someone pushes him. He falls and hits his head. An accident would explain those flowers thrown around.” Violet rearranged the cups on the saucers, making both the cup handles point the same way.
“I doubt he slipped and fell. I suppose Allen’s death could’ve happened because of a fight. But why didn’t they stick around? Why didn’t they report it if it was an accident? And what was the other person doing in the graveyard? It’s still a very suspicious death, and I’m going to go with murder. And Jerry is going on our list. He might’ve fought with Allen. He could’ve killed his dad, on purpose, or accidentally. Why didn’t Jerry and his father get along? That’s something we need to find out.” Mabel drew a line under Jerry Franklyn’s name.
Violet took the tea cozy off the teapot, pouring the tea. First into Mabel’s teacup then into hers. “Okay, if we’re going that route. How about Grace’s brother, Sam Peebles? I don’t like that man.”
Mabel added milk to her tea. “Oh, that’s a good motive, you don’t like him, Violet, you’re not helping.” She took a sip of her tea.
Violet returned to her kitchen counter, taking homemade gingerbread cookies out of her cookie jar and placing them on a plate. “A few weeks ago, at the post office, I saw Allen’s pickup truck parked out front. Sam Peebles was coming down the post office steps, and Allen was going up. I’m pretty sure I heard Sam swearing at Allen.” She sat the cookie plate on the table. “Then, I saw Sam kick the side of Allen’s truck. He put a big dent in the side door. I didn’t wait around to see what happened next, but Sam has a violent temper. Everyone knows that.” She passed the cookie plate to Mabel.
“Right on, very good,” Mabel added Sam Peebles to her list. “Now, who else?” They sat in silence, sipping their tea and munching on Violet’s cookies.
“Stanley, Stanley Huckabee. There was a feud of some sort. I think it was something about land. I even heard Stanley brought out a shotgun once,” Violet exclaimed.
“Allen lived in town, and Stanley is a farmer. Why would there be a land dispute?” Mabel reached for another cookie. “You didn’t hear this from Alice, did you?” Alice Woodstock was a notorious gossip.
“No, no, not from her. I can’t remember who. Maybe Grace.” Violet tapped her upper lip with her index finger. “Yes, yes, it was Grace,” she said, leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Grace told me, she and Allen own a half section of land out by Stanley’s farm. Grace said she inherited the half section from her father. Allen never farmed it himself. Grace told me, they rented the land to Stanley. So, the argument, or disagreement might be about rent that’s owed. It’s worth finding out.”
Mabel put her half-eaten cookie down on her napkin and wrote Stanley Huckabee’s name. “Great, you’re getting the hang of this Violet, but it’s sort of a flimsy motive. Who kills someone over rent that’s owed? Still, we’ve got three suspects already, and we’ve just begun. So now, how do we find out more?”
The women’s eyes met, they smiled. “Coffee Row.” They voiced in unison.
“You know we might be naturals at this murder investigation thing,” Mabel said. They toasted each other with their teacups.
* * *