Mandy Carter, the pretty 18-year-old cart girl, is found buried in a sand trap at an upscale country club in New England. Who clubbed her to death … and why? That’s the question haunting Detective Abby Sanders, whose own teenage daughter looks so much like the victim they could have been sisters. A former competitive golfer herself, Abby quickly lets the country club crowd know that no one is above suspicion.
Who killed the cart girl?
- Mandy’s devoted boyfriend, Josh, the son of a wealthy plastic surgeon and his snobbish wife who live on the golf course
- Josh’s mother, who thought the cart girl wasn’t good enough for her son
- Josh’s former girlfriend who hated Mandy
- The attractive golf pro who flirts with anyone in a skirt and has an endless supply of tasteless jokes
- His jealous country club wife who is the city golf champion
- The female assistant pro who hates the head pro and wants to play on the golf tour
- The college golf star who is as competitive as she is beautiful
- A caddy at the club who was vying for Mandy’s affections
- The victim’s brother, a college student who got Mandy the job at the club
- The aging proprietor of The 19th Hole snack bar, who has some secrets in his past?
Maryann Dawes is out golfing with her husband and brother at the Oakwood Country Club when, to her horror, she discovers a womanʼs body in a sand trap.The victim turns out to be eighteen-year-old Mandy Carter, who drove around in a golf cart selling food and drinks to the golfers, thus dubbed “the cart girl.ˮ
But who would do such a thing and why? According to the staff, “everybody loved Mandy.ˮ Among the suspects are Josh, her caddy boyfriend; another caddy named Derek; Tom, the ladieʼs man golf pro; Janet, his rich wife; Connie the female assistant golf pro; the bartender; and a new night watchman. Will homicide detective Abby Sanders, find the killer? This is a great whodunit that will keep you guessing.
Other books in this genre:
When billionaire Virginia Ann "Peep" Holler dies, a battle for her estate begins. However, she leaves all of her wealth and Jodi’s Place – a popular Oklahoma ranch dedicated to helping wayward kids – to Abigail Brennan. Abby, a young single mother and favored protege, is elated. But her enthusiasm does not match her experience. After a few bad choices, the ranch becomes embroiled in financial turmoil causing some board members to vie for its ownership. In the meantime, Abby discovers a plot by a local oil baron who wants to seize control of Jodi’s Place, for its rich oil reserves, and end its usefulness to troubled youth. Just when she thinks the inevitable is about to happen, Abby meets an attractive newcomer in town who may hold the key to saving the ranch and helping her out of her dilemma...but not without a price. In spite of the cost, can Abby trust this newcomer to aid her in saving Jodi's Place? Or will Peep's fortune and good name be ruined by forces she cannot control or tame?
Big Mo nodded his head slowly, his eyes rolling. “That’s right, Shooter, me old mucka,” he said. “You’ve finally got it... have a gold star.” He gave a mirthless chuckle, pausing before delivering the punch line with perfect comic timing. “Strange, though, because the way you’ve been acting I can only assume you believe my head buttons up the back.”
Everything was still, silent for a moment, the only sound that of laboured snorts coming from the prisoner, who was trying to clear the blood from his airwaves.
“Wh... what sh’you mean?” Shooter stuttered eventually.
“Ripping me off,” said Mo. “I know what you took away from that Holland Park raid. You owe me a lot more – a couple of grand, I reckon – and it’s a bloody cheek you’ve held out on me after I tipped you off to the opportunity. Don’t you know there’s a recession on? I got a wife and kid to feed, with another on the way. I’m sorry Shooter, truly. You always seemed a loyal soldier and a good mate, but now I’ve got to make an example of you. I can’t afford people thinking I’m a soft touch. Seems no one can be trusted these days. Handsome? Keep hold of him. Cozza, get Reg, would you?”
“Oh shit. No!” pleaded Shooter. “Not Reg. Look, I’ll make it up to you. Pay you extra, if that’s what you want. Do another job especially for you. It wasn’t on purpose, honest, I’d never do that to you, Mo, you know that. I must have miscalculated is all I can think. I’ve always been useless at maths...”
Chuck let out a whimper. He didn’t know what it was all about but he didn’t like seeing his daddy so cross. Big Mo looked at him and winked as if to say, “It’s all right son, none of this is real”. Chuck told himself what he was seeing was a magic trick, the red stuff on Shooter’s face not blood but tomato sauce, like he had at home on his chips.
HOURS later Chuck was in bed, crying himself to sleep. Big Mo told his wife the youngster was overtired. They had popped into the pub after their ‘bit of business’, just to take the edge off things, and Chuck had fallen asleep. Beryl Dolan looked at her husband.
“You’ve made him a part of it, haven’t you?” she said. “I asked you, even begged you, but you couldn’t help it. You had to ‘toughen him up’. I can only guess what you’ve been up to. You took that... thing... with you. I can see the blood. There’s a stain on my carpet and a trail on the tiles in the hall.”
Big Mo looked out from beneath his thick, black, caterpillar eyebrows, pushing his hand wearily through the bristles on his head. He didn’t feel like justifying his actions. It had been a long day. He had done what he had done, and in his mind he had made the right call. A row with the missus was the last thing he needed.
Lifting himself from his favourite armchair, Mo reached over and switched on the television, turning up the volume to dissuade his wife from carrying on with the conversation. A well-dressed man was standing in front of a weather map pointing at various areas of the country, but Mo wasn’t interested.
Bending down slowly, he picked up the three-foot length of wood he had propped beside him on the sofa. Noting the dark stains for the first time, he vowed to rub it down with a hot, damp cloth in the morning to get rid of any ‘evidence’. Shame. To his way of thinking it just added to the character, like when you had a champion conker as a kid and the more messed up it looked, the more scars it had, the more you knew it had done its job. Walking out through the sliding glass-partition doors, he swung the sawn-off curtain pole at his side, the spherical ball on the end reflecting the light. Resting it gently against the wall in the corner of the small parlour room, he patted it affectionately.
“Night, Reg,” he said.
Gary sat alone in a cell. He could hear others shouting insults through the bars at each other, a mixture of Welsh and Cockney voices. The custody sergeant and one of the arresting officers had been swapping stories of how it had kicked off big time after the match, with fighting all the way from Upton Park to Paddington. Those arrested represented the tip of the iceberg.
Squeezed into a police van, Gary had been denied the return of his walking stick by the arresting officer, who just laughed. “So you can use it on me? Not likely mate, that’s an offensive weapon, that is.” At the station Gary was booked in by the custody sergeant, who made jibes about his “hardness” and asked him if he had anything to say. He was going to protest his innocence, but figured it would fall on deaf ears.
As time passed he sensed his situation was becoming more serious. Scenes of Crimes officers wandered around and he noticed one had his walking stick in a protective plastic covering. Bit late for that, he thought, remembering the way it had been manhandled from him by the cop at the scene. At one stage he heard a couple of thick Welsh accents shout a word that sent a chill through his bones. “Murderers!”
What could they mean? Had someone been killed? Who? Every week there were battles between warring fans but rarely were they fatal. Gary had always considering football rucks a laugh. You could end up with a few war wounds but they earned you extra kudos when you showed them off in the pub later. A life lost, though? A loved one not returning to their parents, wife or kids? That was going too far.
Finally a key rattled in the lock and two police officers came in, roughly hauled him up and dragged him, limping, to an interview room. A tall, stern-looking man with thick black hair was waiting, a tape recorder at his side. Gary was pushed down in the chair opposite and waited for the man to finish reading the papers in front of him. He felt edgy, as if he was being deliberately kept in the dark about something. He rubbed the troublesome knee, which had been throbbing constantly ever since the fight. The officer looked up. “You OK?”
“I’ve got a busted knee. It can be a bit painful.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t be running around the streets of east London fighting Welshmen, then,” suggested his interrogator. Gary ignored the jibe. “My name’s Detective Inspector Ashley Wilburn. This initial interview is beginning at 8.30pm. Your name is?”
“Gary… uh, Gary Marshall. Do I need a solicitor?”
“We’ll get to that. This is just a preliminary chat. You’re one of the Boxer Boys?”
“Um, no. Not really.”
“You don’t seem sure. You live on the Boxers Estate though?”
“Well… yeah, but…”
“I think you qualify as a Boxer Boy then, don’t you? Care to tell me what happened after the match today, Gary?”
“Hammers won 2-0.”
“It was three actually, but I wouldn’t expect you to know that. Too busy looking for trouble…”
“That’s unfair,” said Gary. “I was heading home with my mates when we were attacked and chased by Cardiff fans. I can’t run because of the leg and they caught me and gave me a good kickin’. End of story.”
“Hmmm,” said Inspector Wilburn. He leafed again through the papers. “Wasn’t quite the end of the story though, was it?” he said, removing a picture and placing it in front of Gary. “Recognise him?”
The face was battered and bruised and splattered with blood, a nasty gash spreading across the forehead. The eyes were closed. Their owner could have been asleep, resting peacefully, though the pillow was tarmac and the blanket made of black plastic.
“No,” said Gary. “One of those Cardiff yobs I guess…”
“He’s dead, Mr Marshall,” interrupted the Inspector. From beneath the desk he lifted Gary’s walking stick, still enshrined in the plastic evidence bag. Gary’s heartbeat quickened, but he said nothing. “Your ‘crutch’, I do believe and, look here,” his finger pointed at the bottom where a dark smear was clearly visible. “That, Mr Marshall, is blood; this man’s blood,” he tapped the picture. “Now I’m no Cluedo expert but I believe I’ve found the body and the murder weapon. All I need to do now is find out who our Professor Scum is. That shouldn’t be a problem either because we’ve some pretty good CCTV footage from one of the local shops. They show a man in a West Ham shirt… come to think of it a shirt exactly like that one you’re wearing – a No 10 on the back – bashing this poor bloke over the head with this stick. Refresh your memory, Mr Marshall?”
Gary looked back into the earnest, unblinking eyes. “Can I have a solicitor now?” he asked.
When Tim, Maria and Bob’s fourteen year old apparently model son goes missing, they are baffled and distraught. A police investigation reveals Tim wasn’t quite the son they thought he was. Frantic attempts to find him fail, and when their quest becomes an obsession this causes problems between them. But they never give up, and are determined to find him DEAD OR ALIVE, even though it may cost them dear.
Prologue The Little Louisiana Pageant, Whitfield Centre, Baton Rouge Timmy Donald waited to be introduced; he wasn’t nervous. Timmy was a round-faced cherub, kiss-curled and confident. A tiny robot programmed to perform, and at five, already a veteran. The MC gave him a big build-up. ‘From East Baton Rouge, a homeboy paying his tribute to one of the greatest entertainers of all time … Timmy Donald!’ The red velvet curtain parted, leaving Charlie Chaplin in the spotlight – lost, unsure and vulnerable. Timmy played it to a T, cocking his head to one side, leaning both hands on his stick. The face of a comic genius gazed out of the golden light. A single note gave him his key, and the spot followed the diminutive performer through a show of stagecraft beyond his years. A piano track, played without finesse, tinkled in the background. Timmy brought the walking stick into action in vintage Chaplinesque. He scrunched his shoulders and tipped his bowler, letting it run down his arm, a weak smile revealing the courage of the little tramp beset by cruel misfortune. He sang “Smile,” and the audience loved him. At the end of the song, he twirled, walked his “Charlie” walk and shuffled towards the back of the stage. The spotlight died, the curtains closed, the lights came up. Timmy’s father was pleased. All the hard work, the day after day rehearsals, had paid off. That trick with the hat had taken months to get right. Worth it, though. ‘You can’t put it out if you don’t put it in,’ Tom Donald reminded his son every chance he got. The old jazz musicians’ maxim about the value of practice appealed to him. Timmy’s performance shouted its truth. He was the winner for sure. Everybody said so.
‘We can’t find him.’ Claudine Charlton couldn’t believe it. It had been going so well. A good crowd. No hiccups. No tantrums. Even one or two who might have something. Not as good as the Chaplin kid but not bad. She watched Alec Adams giving out instructions. He’d been with her for years, from the very first contest, and she would be first to admit that when it came to stage-management, there was nobody better. They had been married once, a very long time ago. Claudine never let herself forget that he was a snake. Alec shook his head. ‘No sign.’ ‘Did you ask his parents?’ ‘His father thought we had him.’ In a room off to the side, the judges sat round a beat-up table, drinking coffee. Claudine didn’t knock. The interruption took them by surprise. ‘We have the final result, Claudine.’ ‘Who won?’ ‘The little boy.’ ‘Forget it. He’s out of the running. We need another decision and fast. Bump everybody on a place; that’ll give us a new winner. Stick any of them in third, it doesn’t matter. The cowgirl, the crowd liked her, she’ll do. OK? Two minutes.’ ‘But she was awful.’ ‘No.’ Claudine stared the objector down. ‘She was third.’ Alec met her behind the stage. ‘Cops are here. And the father. Somebody needs to speak to him.’ ‘What? Oh, yeah.’ She ran a hand through her hair in quiet desperation. ‘What do I tell him? What can I say?’ ‘Reassure him.’ ‘You do it. You speak to him.’ ‘It’s your show, and I’m busy. You’re the boss, remember?’ She hurried towards a guy in an ill-fitting suit – had to be a cop – talking to Timmy’s father. Uniforms covered the stage door; the front was already closed. ‘Mr Donald, Claudine Charlton.’ Timmy’s father was too upset to reply. She placed a comforting hand on his arm and spoke to the policeman. ‘I’m in charge. What do you need to know?’ ‘When did you notice the kid was missing?’ The policeman glanced at Tom Donald and walked-back his tactless question. ‘I mean, when did you notice Timmy was missing?’ ‘Twenty minutes ago. He was one of the last to go on. Once they’ve done their thing, the contestants stay in the dressing rooms. No wandering around until we announce the winners.’ ‘Sounds fine. So how come he’s gone?’ ‘Wish I knew.’ The detective gave an order to a sergeant. ‘Start interviewing. We needID, names and addresses. It’s going to be a long night.’ Claudine said, ‘Is there anything I can do?’ ‘Start looking.’ ‘What about the show?’ He didn’t answer her. ‘Shouldn’t we go with the final ceremony? Keep it normal’ ‘Good idea. Finish the thing. Nobody’s going home for a while.’ One hour later, a locked store cupboard in a back room was the only place that hadn’t been searched. The detective wasn’t prepared to wait for a key; he barked his instructions. ‘Break it open.’ Two uniforms forced the door. The wood frame cracked and splintered and gave under the pressure. In his career, the cop had come across plenty of bad stuff; that didn’t make it easier. The colour drained from his face, and he knew he’d been doing this shit for too many years: time to take the pension, kick back and go fishing. But for now, he was the officer in charge, so he made himself look at the horror guaranteed to keep him awake at night long after he’d turned in his gun and badge. Stuffed in at the back, on top of paint pots and dustsheets, was a broken Charlie Chaplin doll that used to be Timmy Donald. And so, it began.
Half-way through the matinee at the Theatre Royal, North London, the audience gasp in horror when Hamlet drags the corpse of Polonius on to the stage from behind a curtain. For the head of the famous 76-year-old actor playing Polonius, Sir Roger Nutley, is lolling at a bizarre angle that can only mean he has REALLY been killed. The touring production had been a sensational comeback for Sir Roger, two years after a high-profile court case in which the jury failed to convict him of sex crimes in the 1960s. Is his murder connected to the trial? Detective Inspector Keith Warren and Detective Sergeant Philippa Myers soon learn that the superstar's life had other secret, dark sides. Meanwhile, an outbreak of kidnappings of valuable dogs gives rookie Detective Constable Marion Everitt a chance to prove her mettle against a gang of heartless thugs. Resources at Norton Hill Police Station are also stretched by a series of armed robberies of designer handbags worth hundreds of thousands of pounds from exclusive boutiques.
Terry woke feeling tired, his head pounding and stomach growled. He'd been shackled from ankle to wrist. The bounds were not extremely tight yet, due to the lengthy period of time he'd been imprisoned the restrains made skin tender around the areas. Sitting on the cold floor within what looked to be a basement he observed his bounds for what seemed like the thousandth time in hopes of escaping. Being cuffed at the front allowed the captures to run a chain from leg shackle to hand cuffs, restricting mobility.
Confined within complete darkness for long stretches within darkness and no sense of sound could strip a man of his sanity. He turned to his left and found a touch of light coming from a slight gap left by paint being scratched from a window. Eyes burning from the light he return his focus to the darkness.
Straining,he attempted to see around the basement. Nothing, he could see nothing besides his mat and empty bag of chips he'd been fed. Nothing useful for what he had planned. He knew any day may be his last. Living with the knowledge of death on a daily bases molded him to the acceptance of it's possiblity. When you live with something long enough it simply becomes a part of who you are. A violent man eventually meets a violent end. His only regret was what his death would do to his friends, especially Nicky. He suddenly heard numerous foot steps coming from the other side of the door. Terry pressed his back to the wall and bent his knees, pushing himself upward he felt today may be that day...
Why read 7 short stories?
7 is a special number for people all over the world. There are 7 days in a week; 7 deadly sins, 7 virtues; 7 colours of the rainbow; 7 Wonders of the Ancient World – and, of course, the 7 year itch!
These 7 stories are special, like the number itself.
Why an extra ½?
We all like a little extra and this extra comes with a bonus.
You get to decide how the last story ends. ‘The Night Before Christmas’ leaves Emily with a choice – and it’s not an easy one! Read her story and go for what you want to happen. Wonder what you’ll decide.
Grimly he shuffled forward a decisive five centimetres. Nothing was ever going to change the world or his place in it. Just one second of courage,then it would be over. He would be over, on his way to the pavement and certain death.
Charles Carpenter, the author of the revered memoir Handcuffed does it again with Colors of Oppression.
The well written narrative explores the anatomy of the often hostile, racially divided prison environment. Charles Carpenter details the social and psychological ramifications of oppression, and describes the wisdom needed to navigate through a microcosm of hatred, racism, deception, and prison politics.
This book highlights various deceitful tactics employed by the correctional officers and inmates, thus giving the general public an unadulterated glimpse into the world within a world - prison.
Colors of Oppression is an educational tool for anyone interested in a career in the field of corrections. This book also raises the awareness level for those interested in analyzing the dynamics of prison life.
Alex and Oliver live in worlds, poles apart; new worlds shaped by a terrible world war and the emerging freedoms of the Sixties. A killer stalks, and five people are drawn into the intrigue surrounding a serial murderer; a series of events set in the Seventies, influenced by the past… a string of events—a daisy chain.
Daisy Chain; an erotic thriller from the masterly pen of Mark Montgomery.
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As a boy I read Somerset Maugham... I imagined myself on a hill in the Mediterranean writing a great novel... I do write on a...
Writing has always come easily to me ever since I began studying journalism in college. I was a newspaper reporter, journalism professor, and editor of...
I started to write only recently. I had my nose in a book since I was a child, and whilst seeing my name in print...
The inspiration for 'The Worst Man on Mars' came after a chance meeting with top British scientist and author Mark Roman.
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Welcome to this edition of Words For Thought , the blog on wordrefiner.com . Like many of the previous blogs we are looking at homophones.
https://www.gofundme.com/teamfistbump Note: All underlined words are links to the sites I am currently discussing. Team Fist Bump (#teamfistbump) is on a mission: These journals are
Periodically, ForeignCorrespondent participates in virtual book tours that allow authors to showcase their books to a broader audience. Today I am hosting fellow RRBC/RWISA author