HONKY TONK HIGHWAY

From Honky Tonk Highway — A Jake Burbank Mystery

“I’ve seen a lot of shit, Jake. A whole lot.”

“But you’ve never seen that?”

“No,” Tavern shook his head. “I’ve never seen that.”

Jake stared at the edge of the pond on the fringe of the golf course. The algae sheathed water rippled under the fountain that shot a jet of blue green eight feet into the air.

There was a sleeve in the rough next to the water.

That wasn’t the problem.

The sleeve had an arm in it.

That was the problem.

The arm didn’t seem to be connected to anything.

On first glance, Jake thought perhaps it belonged to a body in the water, some golfer had a heart attack on the back nine, fell into the wet stuff and landed with his arm on dry ground.

Except it was pointing the wrong way.

The argyle pattern on the sweater was sideways.

Jake pulled his tumbler of bourbon from the golf cart and took a sip.

“I’d say it’s time to call the cops,” he said after a sip.

He followed it with another sip because it wasn’t every day a person saw an arm laying one hundred yards from the green.