Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

When the phone was back in its cradle, she kept looking at it, taking deep breaths and trying to get herself under control. She had to get to Valerie, and fast.

She took a minute to think through what she had to say and then dialed her number. When Val answered, she plunged right in.

“Val, I’m not even going to ask how you feel. You’ll understand as soon as I tell you. Jim’s passed away.” She almost bit her tongue at those words. Somehow they didn’t quite describe what had happened. “He died of a heart attack.” It was important to get that out right away. “The police found him yesterday, in the woods behind the golf course. At first they suspected foul play. There were some bruises on his head, but the autopsy showed they weren’t the cause of his death. It was his heart.” She wanted to take a breath, but she didn’t dare.

“I’m going to need some help, Val. My head’s in a muddle. I need you to come over here. We need to close the shop for a few days. Then I want to go away. I thought instead of waiting until August to go to Bermuda, we could go now.” She stopped then, having said all she could think of saying. She hoped she’d covered it all. If Val started crying and talking about what had happened, she didn’t know what she would do.

“Val?” Sarah waited.

Then Val’s voice came on. “I’m on my way, Sarah.”

The sun was shining, and as Player pulled into the parking lot behind police headquarters, he was humming to himself. When he walked into the station house, the hum turned into a whistle. The desk clerk looked up and pointed toward the back room. “Your buddy’s been looking for you.”

He found Kentucky bent over his desk, studying a report. “What’s up? It’s only quarter to. We agreed to meet at nine.”

“I couldn’t sleep. Must have been all that pepperoni.” Kentucky motioned to the chair alongside his desk. “Have a seat. I’ve got a message for you.”

“What’s that?”

“That stewardess called this morning, early. She said she had to fly to San Francisco, so she can’t meet you at the Moonlight Mile tonight.”

Player slid down in the chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and stretched his legs out as far as they would go. “Say, why are you doing this to me? I thought we did okay yesterday.”

Kentucky nodded. “We did.”

Player sat up straight. “Well, then, I’ve had enough of your Southern wit. What’s the word on Jim Fullerton?”

“You’re not going to believe me when I tell you.”

“Try me.”

“They decided that the golf club didn’t do the damage. It was a rock, a sharp piece of Connecticut granite.”

“You mean someone hit him on the head with a rock?”

Kentucky shook his head. “The rock was in the ground. He fell on it and hit his head.”

“Jesus, Kentucky. Give me a break.”

“According to the medical examiner, the cause of death was a heart attack.”

“Say, cut it out. This isn’t funny anymore.”

“I’m serious. I said you wouldn’t believe me. Look for yourself. It’s right here in the autopsy report. Have a look.”

Player took the folder Kentucky handed him and read the top sheet. “I don’t believe this.”

“Well, I didn’t either, at first. But I do now. They figure Fullerton had the attack standing up and then fell forward. Under all those soft leaves was this sharp rock poking up. The head bruise didn’t kill him, although that’s the way it looked at first. The lab almost told us last night, but since everybody had been thinking murder, they wanted to be sure.”

“So that’s the end of it?”

“Yup. That’s it. Case closed. Of course, you might have some loose ends to tie up.”

“Me?”

“I was just kidding about the Moonlight Mile, but Cindy Clarke did call you. Here’s the number she left. She said she’d be at home tonight. She’s got a nice voice. Ask her if she ever sings blues.” Kentucky got up and stretched.

Player stared at him. “Did you tell her what the autopsy showed?”

“No, I thought I’d let you do that, just in case you run out of conversation.”

“Boy, are you on some kind of roll this morning. What about Mrs. Fullerton? Shouldn’t we go over and tell her?”

“I’ve already talked to her. Told her we couldn’t come over this morning. But I’d stop by this afternoon.”

“Just you?”

“Well, I thought so. Doesn’t take two of us, does it? Besides, I need some practice listening.”

My First Murder by H. R. F. Keating