Henry put his face against the window. “Looks like he hasn’t picked up his regular mail for a few days, either.’’

I brushed a dirt smudge from the tip of my cousin’s nose. Kenny’s office is right on Main Street. The big stock trailers and sod trucks rumble by and stir up road dust. A fine gray powder coats all the store fronts.

I wrote a message with my finger across the dusty door: Call me, ASAP. Mace

_____

Henry worked the happy hour crowd at the 19th Hole like a politician at a pancake breakfast. With his gift of gab and easy charm, he moved a lot more easily than I did between the old and new factions of our hometown. We hadn’t found Kenny, but it wasn’t for want of my cousin trying.

Henry had slapped backs, bought drinks, and told jokes in pursuit of information. So far, the most valuable tidbit we’d uncovered was that Kenny had trouble with his bunker play and needed to work on his short game, whatever that meant. Fortunately, Henry spoke golf, so I could ask him later to translate. According to reports from the other golfers, Kenny had played a few rounds with the mayor, and he liked to talk to Angel at the bar, both things I already knew.

My ears perked up when a big-bellied retiree in plaid pants mentioned Jason.

“Sure,’’ Plaid Pants told Henry. “I know Kenny. He handles my storm insurance. Boy, hurricane coverage costs an arm and a leg in Florida. It’s more than quadruple the price of a homeowner’s policy back home. In Ohio … .”

“About Kenny?’’ I interrupted.

“Right, the pro’s been spending a lot of time with him, working on his putt. It’s all in the grip.’’

Plaid Pants got off his barstool and demonstrated, holding an imaginary putter.

“You’re talking about Jason, right?’’ I asked.

“Sure, he’s the only pro here. It can’t be cheap, as many lessons as Kenny’s had.’’

Funny, Jason hadn’t mentioned he’d given Kenny lessons. I leaned over to whisper in Henry’s ear. “We need to talk to the pro.’’

We found him closing up the pro shop, alone thankfully. I asked Jason why he hadn’t told me he tutored Kenny. “Somebody said he’d probably paid a lot for all the lessons you gave him.’’

He shrugged. “Not everything is about money, Mace.’’

“It is when you have a daughter at an expensive college, like Kenny does, and your wife has no idea you’re throwing away tons of green learning to nudge a ball into a little cup.’’

“Maybe I didn’t charge him.’’

Henry and I exchanged skeptical looks.

“At least not in cash,’’ Jason clarified.

Henry put a hand on Jason’s shoulder. I could tell he was squeezing, because the younger man’s teeth were gritted. “Look here,’’ he used his most intimidating courtroom voice, “maybe you should just tell us the nature of your relationship with Kenny.’’

Ohmigod, I thought to myself. What if Jason revealed he and Kenny were gay lovers? That’d end Maddie’s marriage for sure.

“Kenny has this hunting cabin, way out in the middle of nowhere,’’ Jason said. “It comes in handy for certain … activities … our club members are interested in pursuing.’’

“Activities?’’ Henry asked.

Having seen Kenny’s hunting camp, I had a pretty good idea what that meant, but I wanted to hear how the pro would describe it.

Jason glanced at his watch. “It’s past my quitting time, and I need to close the shop. A man can get awful thirsty when people are asking him to reveal secrets.’’

Henry took the hint. “Drinks in the bar, on me.’’

We waited as Jason locked up the cash register, shut off the lights, and grabbed the keys to that fancy BMW off a peg on the wall. Henry tried again as we walked across the parking lot to the bar. “Could you elaborate on the kind of ‘activities’ you were referring to?’’

Jason coughed a few times, pointed to his throat. “I can barely speak, I’m so parched.’’

A few moments later, we’d slid into a booth in a quiet corner of the 19th Hole. Revelers stood two and three deep at the bar for happy hour. Angel was a blur of motion, mixing drinks. A server helping out from the dining room took care of our orders.

After our drinks arrived, Jason took a few swallows of his Long Island Iced Tea. Henry then slid the drink to the side of the table. “Less parched now, I presume?’’

“Whatever, dude.’’

“Why don’t you tell us what kind of activities the members enjoy?’’ I said.

“Fine. A lot of people here like to swing,’’ Jason said.

“I think Mace meant activities aside from golf,’’ Henry said.

“I’m not talking about golf swings.’’

I saw comprehension dawn in my cousin’s eyes. “Sexual swinging?’’ he asked.

“Bingo,’’ Jason said.

Henry shifted into courtroom mode. “Who’s been a party to this activity?’’

Jason’s forehead wrinkled. He looked at me to translate. “Is he asking about parties? Because we have lots of swingers’ parties.’’

“He means who all’s involved in the sex.’’

A sly smile spread across the pro’s face. “Well, you’d be, if Angel had her way.” He explained to Henry: “Our barmaid thinks Mace is hot.’’

I felt my face flush. “I’m straight.’’

“That’s all right, so is Angel, for the most part. But she knows a few swingers who would think the two of you together are just their type.’’ He leaned across the table to caress my arm.

“Mace is engaged,’’ Henry said.

“I sure am.’’

“Well, you’re not married yet.’’ Jason winked at me.

I tried to ignore the fact my arm tingled a bit where he’d stroked it. What was wrong with me? How could I even think about some sleazy country-club Romeo when I had a good man who wanted to marry me? Maybe Maddie’s current crisis combined with Mama’s checkered history really had spoiled me for true love.

I glanced at Jason. He gave me a ravenous look. Suddenly, I thought of a Florida panther zeroing in on a fawn. I dropped my arm into my lap, safely out of caressing distance.

“Let’s get back to this swingers’ club,’’ Henry said.

“Is Kenny involved?’’ I asked.

The pro shrugged. “He’s not a charter member. He may have fooled around a little. Hard not to when everything’s going on right there in the house at his hunting camp.’’

“Well,’’ Henry prodded, “who is a charter member?’’

The pro looked over each shoulder, perhaps gauging if anyone was eavesdropping. He nodded toward the bar, where Angel was pouring shots from a vodka bottle into a long line of mixers.

“You already told us about Angel,’’ I said.

“I’m not talking about Angel.’’ He pointed to the end of the bar nearest us. Beatrice Graf sat alone, golf skort hiked up nearly to the Promised Land. She stared into her who-knows-how-many umpteenth Bloody Mary of the day.

She must have sensed us looking at her. She turned, and spotted Henry. Drunkenly, she picked up the celery stalk from her drink, holding it in both hands. Lasciviously, she ran her tongue up it and down it, and around and around it. When she finished her show, she crooked a finger at my cousin and waggled her tongue wickedly.

“Oh, my Lord,’’ Henry breathed. “She’s old enough to be my mother.’’

“A senior citizen swinger? No way,’’ I said.

“Oh, yeah,’’ Jason said. “Mrs. Graf swings like a front porch glider, and so does his honor, the mayor.’’

thirty-seven

I elbowed Henry, drawing his attention away from Beatrice Graf and her sexually explicit celery stalk. “Speak of the devil.’’

I pointed with my beer bottle to the foyer of the dining room. Big Bill had just entered, and was busy glad-handing his constituents.

“At least he looks sober.’’ Henry tossed some money on the table to cover our tab. “Meet me over there when you finish your drink, Mace. Given the choice, I’d rather talk to His Honor than to the drunken wife. She might construe it as my being interested in buttering her muffin.’’

On his way to the dining room, Henry attempted to give Beatrice a wide berth. But the bar was crowded, leaving little room to navigate. She beckoned him to come closer, waving her celery at him and performing a hoochie-coochie hip rotation. Henry was doing his best to ignore her.