Free Death on a Deadline by Christine Lynxwiler Page B

ensemble looked good on her.
    My closet hadn’t yielded anything nearly as coordinated or snazzy. Last time Francee cut my hair, she mentioned that royal blue makes my eyes “pop,” so I threw on a royal blue polo shirt with my favorite pair of khakis. Unfortunately, her fashion advice backfired when I walked into the club this morning and realized I was dressed exactly like the greens maintenance crew, sans the monogram above the shirt pocket.
    “Are we supposed to get some clubs at the desk?”
    “No, I reserved them, but Alex said he’d pick them up.”
    Carly nudged me. “So is this your second date?”
    I snorted. “It better not be, considering I’m the one who asked him to come, and I’m paying the greens fee and club rental. Besides, the first one wasn’t a date either. He asked both of us, but you—”
    “Methinks thou dost protest too much,” Carly interrupted, in that smarmy way of big sisters everywhere. She looped her arm in mine and whispered in my ear, “You’re babbling.”
    I had no chance to deny it, because we’d reached the men. I hadn’t allowed myself to think of the personal implications when I’d called Alex and asked him to play golf with us. But faced with being close to him, in a situation of my own engineering, my knees trembled. His heart-stopping smile didn’t help.
    He introduced me to Elliott, and I shook the man’s hand while trying to take his measure as a person. Not an easy thing with a quick handshake. Did he look like a killer? No. But I’d come to the sad conclusion that Hank’s murderer may very well not be sporting an ear-to-lip scar and an evil grin.
    When Elliott shook Carly’s hand, he didn’t let go immediately. “It’s great to see you again. Zac talks about you so much, I feel like I already know you.”
    Like Carly was going to be taken in by that line. Zac loved his mom but, at sixteen, he wasn’t going to be talking about her to his golf instructor. And we both knew it.
    Carly snatched her hand away and her face turned as red as a flag stripe. She stammered, “Thanks. Good to see you again, too.”
    Unlike me, my sister is unrattleable when it comes to the opposite sex. Going through trial by fire with Travis seemed to sear her what-will-a man-think nerve. Or I’d always thought so—until today. But she was obviously more than a little shaken by her attraction to the smooth golf pro.
    My hackles rose. Did this man, who very well may have killed Hank and charmed my nephew into allowing himself to be blamed for it, now conspire to seduce my sister so that she wouldn’t recognize him for what he was? “Elliott, I’m so glad you were available to work today,” I said, stepping neatly between my sister and the murder-minded Don Juan.
    “Thanks. Wouldn’t have missed it.” Instead of being angry at my rudeness, Elliott sounded like he meant it.
    Alex put his hand on my arm. “Shall we get started?”
    We played the first hole quickly. It was a long par three, but that didn’t stop Elliott from getting a birdie. “Show off,” I muttered under my breath while Carly cheered. Hadn’t she ever heard that in golf you were supposed to clap quietly and say, “Ahh” when someone did well?
    Thrilled with her beginner’s-luck bogey, Carly allowed Elliott to guide her to the front golf cart, where he solicitously helped her get settled into the passenger seat, then went around and hopped in behind the wheel. As Alex and I were loading into our cart, he shot me a sideways glance. “What’s the deal? I’ve never seen you be so rude.”
    “A golf club killed Hank Templeton,” I hissed. “Zac told us Elliott had a huge fight with Hank before the murder. Do you want to see Carly taken in by a killer?”
    “No,” Alex whispered, as he guided us along the cart path, “but I find it hard to believe he’s the killer.”
    “And you’re basing that on what? A five-minute conversation with him this morning?”
    “Actually, he eats breakfast with us