A deluge of threatening letters targets Peter Windamere, majority owner of the Sea Blush Golf Club. The menacing correspondence is quickly followed by his suspicious death.

Behind the scenes, former pro golf star, Riley Quinn, tees off an investigation into the death, acting in her position as a part-time coroner. The chocoholic club pro quickly discovers that not all bad lies are found on the golf course!

REVIEW

"Nicola Furlong is a wonderful new addition to the mystery world. An outstanding effort; as much fun as a day on the course," The Richmond Times-Dispatch.

"Well written, well researched and captivating," Inside Golf.

"I loved it! I'm going to miss these people," Jenny Wyatt, LPGA Winner.

EXCERPT

Rubbing my wrist, I watched the green spot disappear into the woods which separated the course from the condominiums. I saw a splash of yellow and used it as a marker. I flicked a glance around. No witness in my world of green. Yanking a wedge out of my bag, I trotted into the tangled shadows.

With the morning light scattering through the tiny conifer forest, I caught the flash of yellow. Edging closer, I whacked at the thick underbrush with my club. Up ahead, Candy's ball glowed beneath a thick bush.

Lunging forward, I tripped over a stump and crashed headfirst into the spongy forest floor. The music stopped. The dank, sweet smell of moss was overpowering. I yanked myself up. Pieces of yellow plastic trickled to the ground. I swore.

Ripping free the ear plugs, I wrenched the broken casing off my belt and hucked the useless machine into a Douglas fir. Bits of gold and silver showered the base of the tree. Wayddago, Riley.

Spitting pine needles, I brushed off my sweater and carefully took a couple of steps. I cleared a few inches in front of and behind the ball. Ignoring the thump thump in my wrist, I imagined the Walkman at my feet and let the little sucker have it.

A green streak whistled up through the brush, shot past the tree tops into the light and dropped. I trudged out of the rough to see it smack the flagstick and bounce back hard, leaving Candy with a difficult uphill 14-foot putt. "Too bad," I said aloud in my sweetest voice, "losing a beauty like that."

Things were looking up; maybe another stroke. I turned and again caught a glimpse of lemon as the morning light struggled through the thick branches. Looked like a jacket. Better pick it up, I thought, some member's sure to rummage through the Lost and Found for it.

I paid more attention to my feet than to the jacket, so was practically on top of it before I knew it. My heart skipped. I blinked in the hazy light. It wasn't a jacket.

It was a man's golf shirt. And the man was still in it.