Free Six Strokes Under by Roberta Isleib

just enjoyed playing with me, knowing he had me trapped. "I guess maybe I don't know what you mean," I said.
    "I mean, if you didn't shoot 'im, chances are, the fellow that did thinks you know who did it. Get what I'm sayin' now?"
    "I'm in trouble either way," I said. "Either I killed a man, or else the guy who did might be looking for me. Might think I know more than I do."
    He nodded. "I'm sayin' watch your back, darlin'."
    "Do you think this will get wrapped up soon?"
    "We're tryin', little gal." Then he winked. "What kind of driver you hittin'?"
    "I don't use a driver," I said. "I tee off with a three-wood."
    "That so. Hope you get that shank thing worked out, then. You're going to need one hell of a short game." He grinned and walked away.

 
    Chapter 8
     
     
    I packed up and left the range as soon as Sheriff Pate's squad car pulled away. I planned to stop at the Publix supermarket I'd passed on the way to the club, buy a few staples to stock my kitchenette, and retreat to the motel. From there, my plan consisted of blotting out my mounting anxiety with bad TV sitcoms and a six-pack of Busch beer.
    I browsed the frozen food section in Publix and selected black bean burritos, well within my budget at three for a dollar. Then I moved to the produce section for a few bananas. Becky, of the postcard-to-Daddy fame, was there with her mother, who pushed a shopping cart loaded with strawberries, yams, melons, and broccoli. Sure, rub it in. Mommy was going to serve home-cooked meals all week so Becky didn't get gas or otherwise feel uncomfortable as she stood over her important putts. I glanced down at the frozen lumps in my carry basket, then abandoned them in front of the beer cooler and checked out with just the Busch. Screw the budget, microwaving frozen burritos would be too depressing.
    More than anything, I wished for the familiarity of Chili-Dippers. Maybe the regulars I hung with were a peculiar bunch of misfits, maybe some of them even further out than odd. But sitting on the fourth barstool from the end would feel more like home right now than anyplace else I could name. I drove by a branch of the chain restaurant Chili's. That would have to do. The name was close enough, and I knew I could get comfort food, even if it wasn't hush puppies and Calabash seafood. In the bar, I took the fourth seat from the entrance to the kitchen. When my Corona arrived, I squeezed in a wedge of lime and sat back to watch the other customers.
    A crowd of blue-hairs who'd taken advantage of the early bird special was leaving, replaced by young couples starting their Saturday night fun with a Chili's happy hour. A waitress dressed in jeans and a red golf shirt presented herself next to me. "Hi, my name is Cindi! I'll be taking care of you tonight."
    Damn, that sounded good. Though I knew she didn't mean taking care of what I really needed—reassurance that I belonged here and that everything would turn out just fine. Instead, I consoled myself by ordering fried chicken and mashed potatoes with cream gravy—heavy on fat and carbohydrates. It might not make any coach's list for a desirable training meal, but it was the closest I could get to South Carolina low-country cuisine.
    I watched Cindi work the room. She was adorable— her appeal centered mostly in the smile, the dimples, and a heartfelt solicitousness that seemed wasted at Chili's. I doubted she had a single thought about golf or murder on her mind, and she was the happier for it. If I bombed out this week, maybe Chili's was hiring. Realistically, though, I lacked the dimples and, more importantly, the sincere and sunny concern for the well-being of random customers.
    Halfway into my second Corona, I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Penny for your thoughts, Cassie. You're looking very serious tonight. As well as lovely, I cannot help but add," said Gary Rupert. It took me just a moment to recognize him, then I felt a rush of relief and gratitude for a familiar face. Any familiar