Free Come Hell or Highball by Maia Chance Page B

reporters who’d been waiting in their jalopies revved their engines and followed us.
    Auntie Clara hadn’t been invited. Not that I could picture her with a putting iron. But it troubled me that there was some batty old dame stowed away in the house. It was rather Jane Eyre .
    Hare’s Hollow Country Club was a few miles up the highway. It was gated, of course, so the reporters who’d followed us were turned away by the two uniformed gatekeepers. But I had a feeling that the reporters would find a way in.
    We motored past the edge of the golf course, with its velvet turf and oak trees, to the clubhouse. The clubhouse sprawled on a bluff, its large windows and wraparound white porches overlooking the sea. A flag whapped atop the cupola, and a row of expensive motorcars squatted like shiny black beetles outside.
    I parked, and joined the others. But it turned out that there was a lot of fiddling about to be done, finding golf clubs and caddies. I left them all to sort it out, and retreated to the shade of the clubhouse porch. I wasn’t in a froth about getting started. Number one, I was famished. Number two, I was dressed like a vaudeville act. And number three? Oh yes: I loathe sports.
    I was just sitting down in a wicker chair when someone said, “Ahem.”
    I sighed. “Hello, Chisholm.”
    â€œLola,” Chisholm said. “Good gracious, what on earth are you doing playing golf? You’re supposed to be in mourning! Wearing black, I might add. Not—whatever that is you’re wearing.” He managed to make his houndstooth golf knickers, jacket, and cap seem bleak. “To be perfectly honest, I have fears for your sanity.”
    â€œYou’re supposed to be in mourning, too, you know. Anyway, I’m a grown woman, Chisholm. I shall do what I like.” I leaned back in the wicker chair and crossed my legs.
    Chisholm’s eyes flicked over my argyle socks. He drew a shuddering breath and then glanced over his shoulder.
    Four patriarch types—portly, bewhiskered, tweedy—stood several paces down the porch, conversing in thunderous voices. “Your doctor chums?” I said. “No, wait—they have the look of politicians. I get it. Hobnobbing with the bigwigs. I didn’t know you were planning on running for office so soon. What a pity you’ve got embarrassing relations like me to keep under wraps. The strain is beginning to show in your face.”
    â€œOh, do shut up, Lola. Now, I expect a straight answer from you: Where have you been the past two days? Your parents have been frantic since their arrival home the day before yesterday.”
    â€œNone of your business.”
    â€œIf you’re holed up at the Plaza or the Ritz, keep in mind that you’ve no credit. If the hotel managers haven’t figured that out yet, they will in due time, and I for one have no intention of bailing you—”
    â€œI’m staying with friends.”
    â€œFriends?”
    I wouldn’t dream of telling Chisholm about Alfie’s love nest; it was the only place I had to hide from him and the rest of my family. “I’ve been at Dune House. You know, the Arbuckles’ place. With film stars.”
    Chisholm’s lip twitched. “Low company, indeed.”
    I stood. “Better low than uppity, Chisholm darling.” I tromped away down the porch, my too-big oxfords slapping like duck’s feet.
    *   *   *
    Once our golf game was in full swing, I sent my caddie for a ham sandwich from the clubhouse.
    I’m not sure how I got roped into playing next to Bruno. I’ll admit, he was picture-perfect in his Fair Isle golf vest, tweed knickers, and cap. When he squinted after his ball sailing toward the horizon, I saw a gorgeous Sir Walter Raleigh at the prow.
    At the next hole, Sadie was just taking a few practice swings when two trilby hats rose from behind a grassy rise, about six yards away from her. Two