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“Well, I’m not telling him a third time! Go home and stay home, and let us deal with the violent criminals and the thugs and the Hampton Heisters.”

“This really is not a job for a woman, Vesta,” said Father Reilly. “So why don’t you go home to be with your family, mh? And let Wilbur and I deal with these monsters.”

“Francis Reilly, one more word from you and I will be forced to use lethal force!” Vesta growled. If there was one thing bound to get her worked up it was this nonsense.

“You’re not seriously considering attacking a man of God, are you, Vesta?” said Scarlett, shooting a stern look of warning in her friend’s direction.

“I will if he doesn’t clear out immediately,” said Vesta, standing her ground.

“Okay, fine,” said Wilbur. “You won this round. But tomorrow night we’ll be out here again, Vesta, patrolling these streets, and the night after that. We’re not going to stop providing the good people of Hampton Cove with the kind of protection they deserve.”

And with these words, he tried to start his engine. After a couple of tense moments, it actually turned over, and soon they were backing away slowly, causing the mailbox to collapse to the ground. And as they drove off, the engine making a strange rattling sound, Vesta and Scarlett were left looking at the first victim of what would from now on be known as the Watch Wars.

They restored the mailbox as well as they could, then got back into the car. But when Vesta tried to start it, the engine whined and complained for a few beats, but finally refused to be induced back to life.

Vesta pounded the steering wheel in frustration.

“Great. Wilbur and Francis killed our car,” said Scarlett with faux cheerfulness.

“They think they won the war,” said Vesta, “but what they did is win the battle.”

“So it’s war?”

“You bet your ass it’s war,” said Vesta with grim determination. “They want it—they got it!”

18

After an eventful night, Dooley and I were on the case again, accompanying Odelia to the hospital, where she hoped to talk to Carl. But when we got there it immediately became clear he wasn’t in a fit state to talk to anybody. The man was still in a coma, and the doctor confided in Odelia that things weren’t looking too good for the golfing pro.

“I didn’t know a golf club could be such a dangerous weapon, Max,” said Dooley as we sat at the foot of the bed while Odelia conducted a murmured conversation with the doctor about Carl’s chances of survival.

“Yeah, those golf clubs are pretty heavy,” I said. “And if you get a good whack across the noggin from one of them it probably does some serious damage.”

The golf club that had been used on Carl’s head was called a sand wedge, and was among the heavier ones in a golfer’s arsenal. It was mainly used to drive a ball out of a sand bunker, though clearly it could also be used for other purposes. The doctor, himself a golf enthusiast, was waxing eloquently now on the different kinds of clubs, claiming Carl’s attacker had picked the perfect club for the grisly task he or she had performed.

“Part of a golfer’s expertise is to pick the right club,” said the doctor. “And I’m sure that if Carl were to wake up right now he’d applaud his attacker’s good sense as well as his remarkable follow-through. See, it’s all about the wrist action.” And to demonstrate to Odelia whathe meant, he did a few practice swings with an imaginary sand wedge.

“When do you think he’ll wake up, doctor?” asked Odelia.

“Impossible to say, I’m afraid. He might never wake up, or he might wake up right now.”

Accompanying Odelia was Ellie Pack, the wannabe arsonist from the day before, who’d suddenly and overnight become a wannabe reporter instead. A good decision, as there’s probably more future in journalism than in arson.

“So we can’t interview him right now?” asked the girl, who’d put on a sensible blouse for the occasion, and a sensible skirt, and looked very different from the day before.

“No, I’m afraid we’re not going to get a peep out of Mr. Strauss,” said the doctor. He gestured to a television in the corner of the room, where a tape of greatest hits of the golfer was playing. “I thought it might stir his mind to come out of his coma,” he explained. “The human brain is still very much a mystery, and so is the kind of coma Mr. Strauss is now suffering from.” He shrugged. “If it doesn’t help, at least it doesn’t hurt.” And with these words of hope, he left us sitting around the sickbed of the famous golfer.

And as Odelia and Ellie compared notes, suddenly a familiar figure walked in, carrying a large bouquet of flowers. It was none other than Erica Barn, or Strauss. When she saw her husband, his head in a thick cast, and surrounded by all kinds of beep-beeping machines, she gasped in shock.“My God, what happened to him?”

“He was attacked last night,” said Odelia. “Ellie, this is Erica, Carl’s wife. Erica, this is Ellie, my apprentice.”

“How do you do, Erica?” said Ellie politely, and shook the woman’s hand.