*
Charlie pulled up to the country club, grinning as she noticed the men and women wearing their fancy gear. White skirts or pants, sweater vests. Those little visors to keep the sun out of their eyes.
Honestly, she’d figured that was all stuff set up for television. Evidently, there was a store that sold clothes just for golfers.
“What’s funny?” Slade asked.
She looked over. “Nothing. Just checking out the wardrobe requirements.”
Slade ran a hand over his chest. “I think I’d look good in a pink shirt and a plaid vest, don’t you?”
Charlie opened the door, climbed out, laughing as she pictured Slade trading his Wranglers in for white pants. Just the thought made her laugh again.
“Have you ever been to a country club?” he asked when Charlie joined him at the front of the SUV.
“No. You?” She watched as a golf cart carrying two people and bags of golf clubs cruised down the path to the course.
“Hell no,” he muttered under his breath, his disdain for the notion making her laugh.
“You have somethin’ against golf?”
“Not the game, no. But bein’ around all this”—he waved a hand to encompass the people in the cart—“makes me itchy.”
“I don’t think all courses are quite this … pretentious,” she said when she earned a side-eye from an older man in a cart.
“Nice hat,” Slade called out to him. “I can buy one of those inside?”
The man ignored him but continued to stare.
Slade motioned toward the building. “That way? Awesome. Goin’ to buy me a hat.”
Charlie was laughing when Slade opened the door to the building, stepped back, and waited for her to go in first.
She stepped inside, felt as though she’d walked into another era. The walls were lined with dark wood, the floor with patterned carpet. There were leather sofas and chairs scattered about, short tables alongside, providing the perfect spot to sit down and share a drink.
“Might I help you?” a man asked as they approached what looked to be a reception area complete with a fancy mahogany desk and an antique banker’s lamp sitting on top.
“You might, yeah,” Slade said, almost as though it was instinct to respond.
“My name’s Charlie Miller. This is my partner, Slade Elliott. We’re with the OTB Task Force,” she explained. “And we’re looking for Cedric Hawkins. He was reported missing this morning, and we’re hoping someone might be able to assist us.”
The man walked around the desk, adjusting his fancy suit coat as he did. Although he was a few inches shorter than her, Charlie felt as though he was still looking down his nose.
“I’m Anthony Grandley the Third. I manage this club. I’m sorry to say, Mr. Hawkins is not here at the moment.”
“That’s because he’s missin’,” Slade muttered under his breath.
Charlie ignored him, addressed the club’s manager. “Could you tell us when the last time you saw him was?”
Anthony seemed to think on that, his eyes closing dramatically as he took a deep breath.
Charlie cast a quick look at Slade, saw he was staring wide-eyed at the man. Thankfully, he kept his mouth shut.
“I do believe I last saw him on Saturday. He stopped in for lunch.” His eyes opened slowly. “Yes. Lunch.”
Having lunch at the club just a few days after his partners were murdered? Sounded a bit odd to Charlie.
“Was he with anyone?”
