Golf Widow by Barry Devlin

Vixen Press brings us this sordid tale of love, deception, murder, and golf. This book plays like a soap opera. Hugh Alton, the (literally) cocky golf enthusiast and Oakcrest Country Club’s most popular/powerful member, is found murdered. The list is suspects has Mike Barnett right at the top. Mike had embarrassed Hugh by besting him in a round on the links and by bedding Hugh’s lovely wife, Marge. The autopsy reveals Hugh was hit with a four-iron(!) and lo and behold Mike’s four is missing. Mike isn’t the only suspect though. The list also includes a young golf caddy and his girlfriend, the club slut-lesbos, and even the club board’s president. Sufice to say all the character become involved with one another and they all hate Hugh Alton.

When I started this novel I had hoped that there would be some juicy bits that use golf as a metaphor for sex but that was not the case. There were a couple of spicey, and/or disturbing lines and I have a few of them here.

Mike, nowhere near his form of the day before, relaxed and swung his clubs automatically, “playing by ear.” And yet he could not help wondering if his teammates had done some nocturnal swinging the night before.

The glow from the single light licked over her knit dress as she drew her legs up under her. The dress fitted so well that he could make out the ridges formed by the tops of her stockings and the garters that held them. Her fine breasts jutted nicely into the springy material. But her face told of the strain of the past twenty-four hours.

“All right, Johnny. I won’t argue semantics with you. You’re right. There’s no such thing as rape. But there is such a thing that a woman may not enjoy it — and when that is the case, it may as well be rape.”

His hand fell on her pale gold hair and ran down over it. “Would you believe me, if I told you I love you?”

It took no effort at all to conjure up that incredibly beautiful face, framed in the pale gold hair, with the haunting, hungry eyes and that warm-cool mouth that was equally delightful on his own lips or pressed against his ear…

Or those impossibly lovely legs. So tan and slender. And how they looked when her tapering fingers slowly, languorously separated the nylons from their garters, stretched them at the top and then peeled them down over the full, supple thighs. They made a wonderful kind of music — the wispy stockings against the tactile flesh of her legs. Like the soft whisper of violins in jasmine-scented air.

At last, without their coverings, the legs were things free and alive, invitingly alive. Such wonderful creations, as perfect as matched pearls … or would that better describe her breasts?

Yes. White from being sheilded from the sun, they were like two exquisite gems resting on brown velvet that quivered when he touched them — that seemed to have been created for his lips and eyes alone. They rose fresh and unafraid from the secret springs in her body to blooming, divided loveliness. Malleable, pliable, they were yet unchangable no matter what he did to them. Their sweet undercurves were as fingers bekoning him to come hither and pay homage.

Ah, sweet was the word for her entire being. Sweeter than all the perfumes of old Araby, more delicious than the rarest of wines of the most exalted kings, more mysterious than the teasing smile of the Mona Lisa, as wonderous as the Venus de Milo, as achingly bittersweet as a Puccini aria.

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