He explained the course fees, the price of renting shotguns, as well as the cost of clays and shells for two shots at each of the twelve stations. He tried to sell us four shots at each station, explaining that customers improve the more they shoot, but Hailey and I were not here for fun. We needed to determine what Richard Kostas had been doing here on the night he died.
I said, “We’re good with two shots our first time. Well, actually Hailey’s been here before.”
“Oh, yeah?” the owner asked, looking at Hailey as if I were making it up.
“Yup,” Hailey said. “But that was a while ago.”
Ervin said, “We’ve done a lot of improvements to the stations since last season, so let me know what you think. Tyler will take you around and launch the clays.”
“Thanks,” I replied.
The owner rang up our charges on a cash register. I swiped my debit card along the processing terminal, anxious to see if I had deposited enough money in my checking account to cover the transaction. Every use of my debit card was a moment of high drama, and I heard the theme song of some television gameshow playing in my head. I breathed a sigh of relief when the bank approved the purchase. The owner of Turner Creek Sporting Clays loaded two totes with twenty-four shells and then provided us a brief and insufficient lesson on shotgun safety. The young man named Tyler, possibly Ervin’s son from the glum expressions they shared, opened the side door.
Before going with Tyler, I asked Ervin, “Hey, if I like this, do you offer classes? Not sure I could make it during regular hours. Do you have lessons first thing in the morning or in the early evening … after I get off work?”
“Nope. ‘Fraid not. We’re here ten in the morning to six at night, Wednesdays through Sundays. You know you’re the second person to ask me about that.”
“Who else?” I asked.
“Around closing time yesterday, that new sheriff, Thompson or Tompkins or somethin’ like that, dropped by and asked me about our hours. Nobody’s around here early in the morning. During hunting season, we’re in duck blinds at sunrise. And I’m home for dinner with the Missus just after six every night.”
“We heard about your place from a guy named Richard Kostas. Did you know him?”
“You sound like that sheriff again,” Ervin replied, his voice suddenly suspicious. “She asked about a Richard Kostas. What’s this all about?”
“Not sure. Kostas was a client of mine. He mentioned sporting clays, but it might have been another place. I thought maybe he came here at unusual times.”
Ervin moved the unlit cigar to the other side of his flabby face. “Never heard of him. Told the sheriff the same thing.”
“Well, I probably got it wrong, and no matter. I appreciate you showing us how to load the shotguns. We’ll get started.”
Hailey and I followed Tyler out the door with the guns resting on our shoulders and the actions open. We arrived at the first shooting station, where Tyler set down a box of sporting clays and loaded an orange disk into the skeet thrower.
He turned toward us and said, “Who’s up?”
“Ladies first,” I replied, delaying my inevitable embarrassment a few minutes longer.
“Always the gentleman,” Hailey replied as she loaded two shells into the action and put the stock to her shoulder. She called out, “Pull.”
The disk flew away from us across the open field. Hailey raised her shotgun, followed the upward trajectory of the disk, and pulled the trigger. The disk arced and dropped to the ground. She missed.
“I need to warm up and get my bearings,” she said.
Tyler said in a crackly drawl, “You were close, but aim just a little ahead … to where it’s going and not where you see it.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I remember. And keep the barrel moving until I pull the trigger.”
Tyler finished loading another clay disk into the thrower.
Hailey said, “Pull.”
She fired, and the disk shattered. I was up next and missed the first two disks, but started to improve at the next four shooting stations. The shotguns made loud reports, and not just pops like handguns. The stock kicked back into my shoulder each time, but I got used to it. Tyler encouraged me to keep my cheek firmly against the cool metal of the receiver. After firing, I caught a faint whiff of warm gunpowder.
Hailey said, “Well, you’re not awful. Getting better.”
“Beginner’s luck, I guess. I haven’t done much of this. You’re pretty good though.”
“We fired more guns in the Army than you goofs in the Navy, especially you JAG types.”
“We saved our shots for the courtroom,” I replied.
Between stations, Haley and I looked around the sporting clay course for anything that might tell us why Kostas had come here after stealing computer files from Benton Dynamics. With young Tyler present, we could not talk about the case, but she and I scanned the area for clues between turns.
The skeet thrower sent clay disks in a variety of trajectories across the open fields. Some disks went directly away from us, some toward the right, some left. At the final shooting stations, the disks glided in high arcs, while others zipped parallel to the ground. Because we were novices, Tyler told us what to expect each time, so we would have a better chance at hitting the targets and not get frustrated.
He warned us about the hardest shooting station, where the disk went directly straight up, a simulation of startled waterfowl flying overhead. Neither of us had any success at that final station.
Tyler grinned. “Don’t worry about it. Experienced marksmen don’t get this last one very often.”
We had not kept score on the card that the owner had provided. Hailey was the better shot today, although I did not turn out to be a total mook. She would probably be decent about beating me and only tease me about it for the
