Mama Gets Trashed (A Mace Bauer Mystery) by Deborah Sharp Read Free Book Online

arm at the guardhouse rose, allowing my J eep to roll right through the entrance. The geniuses who ran the place milked their members to build the guardhouse, but then cheaped out when it came to hiring someone to actually work the gate as security.
    What did they hope to guard against with that gate and little house? With all the alligators that populated the water hazards, it seemed like at least one threat was already inside the perimeter of the golf course community. I kept the skull of one such critter as a key receptacle on my coffee table at home. The gator had been deemed a nuisance after it became a bit too comfortable sharing space with golfers. My cousin, a state-licensed trapper, enlisted me to help him wrestle it from a pond near the eighteenth hole.
    Turning into the parking lot, I remembered something else about the golf course. I’d met the pro once, a strapping young guy with sexy blue eyes and a full head of sun-kissed curls. Josh? Jason? He’d com e on pretty strong. Even though I was an engaged woman, I pondered for a moment on whether he’d remember me.
    Inside, I didn’t have to wait long for the answer to that question. The hunky pro stood next to the hostess stand in the club’s dining room. He put his hand over his heart and spoke to me, even before I could state my business.
    “Better call heaven. I think they’re missing an angel.’’ His voice was a deep purr; a smile crinkled the darkly tanned skin near his eyes.
    “Really?’’ the hostess raised her eyebrows at him. “You think that’ll work for you?’’
    He looked wounded. “Even beautiful women like to hear they’re beautiful.’’
    The hostess took me in with a practiced glance: No makeup, rain-dampened work clothes, the grainy scent of animal chow no doubt still wafting off me. She didn’t appear to agree I was heaven’s missing angel.
    “How have you been?’’ I asked the pro.
    His face was a blank.
    So much for my stunningly memorable beauty. “We met here a couple of years ago. I came in asking questions after a body had been discovered in my Mama’s convertible?’’
    A dim light lit in his eyes. Forty-watt smart. “Oh yeah, questions. I remember now. Your mother’s married to Big Sal, right?’’
    “She is indeed,’’ I said.
    So he remembered Mama, but had only the foggiest memory of meeting me. I shoved aside my bruised ego and re-introduced myself. His name was Jason, not Josh. I asked if he had a few minutes to talk, told him I’d buy the drinks. The hostess shot eye darts at me the whole time. Jason guided me to a table at the far edge of the dining room, near the bar. The 19th Hole. Cute.
    “Do you know Kenny Wilson?’ I asked, once we were seated.
    He cocked his head, appearing to think about it. “Not by name. What’s his handicap?’’
    A cheating heart, I wanted to say, but I knew Jason was probably talking about golf. “I have no idea.’’
    “What’s he look like?”
    “Forties, overweight, though not as much as he used to be. One of his golf outfits has yellow and peach in it.’’
    “That doesn’t narrow it down much.’’
    Stroking his chin, Jason turned toward the bar. Behind it, a woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties reached up to put away wine glasses in the wooden racks over her head. Each time she stretched, the hem of her blouse rose in the back to reveal a tramp stamp. The tattoo snaked its way south from the waistband of her hip-hugger skirt, down past the curve of her butt.
    “Hey, Angel,’’ Jason called to her. “Can you come over here for a few minutes? And bring us a couple of … ” His eyebrow rose in a question.
    “Just a Coke,’’ I said. “I’ve got a long drive home.’’
    “A couple of Cokes, please.’’
    When the barmaid turned to us, I got a better look. Pretty, in a hard way: Heavy makeup, skirt too short, blouse too tight, showing plenty of cleavage. She set up a cocktail tray with two cans of soda and two glasses of ice. Brushing a