CHAPTER 62
AFTER THEY FINISHED dinner they needed to take June Battle to the police station to make a formal statement.
“You two take her,” said Michelle.
“What?” Sean looked at her in surprise.
“I just need a little time alone, Sean,” she said. “I’ll meet you back at my dad’s house.”
“Michelle, I don’t like splitting up with you.”
“I can take care of Mrs. Battle,” said Bobby. “No sweat.”
“Sean, just go. I’ll see you back at Dad’s.”
“You sure?”
She nodded. “Real sure.”
As the three left Sean glanced back at her, but Michelle wasn’t looking at him.
She sat at the table for ten minutes before slowly rising, opening up her jacket, and looking down at the Sig on her belt holster.
He had to know that his wife was lying dead inside the garage. And he was outside taking photos of car plates? What a callous bastard. What had he been doing? Looking to frame somebody for the murder he’d committed? He could easily have hit her mother from the left instead of the right to throw off the cops. Her father was a strong man. Either way Sally Maxwell would’ve been dead.
And he was out there somewhere. Her father was out there, and he had a gun.
She got up and walked with a purpose toward the exit. On the way she passed the trophy case for the golf club. She barely glanced at it but one glance was all it took. Her head snapped back around and she hurried over to the glass case. It was full of shiny hardware, plaques, photos, and other awards paraphernalia. Two items interested her deeply and she didn’t even play golf.
She bent low and drew close.
The first one was a photo of three women, with the one in the middle holding up a huge trophy. Donna Rothwell was smiling broadly. Michelle glanced down at the inscription on the bottom of the plaque.
“Donna Rothwell, Club Amateur Champion,” she read. It was for this year. They had her scores posted for the tournament on a laminated card next to the photo. Michelle didn’t know that much about golf, but even she knew those scores were impressive.
The second photo was one of Rothwell hitting a tee shot. The lady looked like she knew what she was doing.
As she was standing there a bearded man in khaki pants and a golf shirt walked by.
“Checking out our local golf legends?” he asked with a smile.
Michelle pointed at the two photos. “These in particular.”
The man looked to where she was indicating. “Oh, Donna Rothwell, right. One of the best natural swings I’ve ever seen.”
“So she’s good?”
“Good? She’s the best female golfer over the age of fifty in the entire county, maybe the state. There are even some pretty good thirty- and forty-year-olds she can consistently beat. She was an athlete in college. Tennis, golf, track, she could do it all. She’s still in remarkable shape.”
“So her handicap is low?”
“Nearly nonexistent, relatively speaking. Why?”
“So she’d have no trouble qualifying for a tournament here, I mean
based on her handicap?”
The man laughed. “Trouble qualifying? Hell, Donna’s won just about every tournament she’s entered as far back as I can remember.”