At the Masters, falling out of favor with the powers-that-be can be fatal. After finishing second, Frank Stranahan looked forward to going for the win. But the next year, he had an unfortunate contretemps with Cliff Roberts and was thrown out of the tournament before it had even started. Herman Keiser’s upset victory endeared him to many, but Cliff Roberts disliked him so intensely that he accused Keiser of stealing his championship green jacket.
Jimmy Demaret won the Masters three times, but that wasn’t enough to impress Bobby Jones or Cliff Roberts. Demaret had told a slightly off-color joke on the grounds one day that resulted in a written reprimand from Jones. And the Augusta National, as many others learned before and after Demaret, had a long memory. Unlike Augusta favorites Gene Sarazen or Ben Hogan (neither of whom won three times), no bridges, ponds, or cabins were named for Jimmy Demaret. “I can’t even get an outhouse named for me,” Demaret commented.
“My God,” Fitz whispered under his breath. “What happened?”
Conner found his tongue frozen and his brain almost equally paralyzed. His eyes were locked on the bloody, sand-encrusted figure buried beneath the surface of the trap. A million thoughts raced through his brain, and almost as many emotions as well. John. John!
He heard Fitz rustling behind him. “We should… do something.”
Conner heard the words and knew them to be correct, but he was far too immobilized to act upon them. He didn’t know what all he was experiencing-part shock, part grief, part panic. John!
“We can’t just leave him here,” Fitz muttered. “Other players will be along soon.”
All true, but at the moment, the tournament was the furthest thing from Conner’s mind. He kept staring at John’s blood-streaked face, while his brain leap-frogged through the conjoined life the two of them had shared. This is the boy who turned me onto golf, he thought. This is the kid who got me through high school. This is the man who helped me break onto the tour. Everything I am, I am because of this man.
This man whose corpse was buried in the sand trap on the eighteenth hole.
Conner pushed himself up to his feet, drinking in air, hoping the sudden rush of oxygen would clear the cobwebs in his brain. We have to do something, Fitz said again, or perhaps Conner was only hearing an echo in the nether reaches of his brain. At any rate, the statement was true. Very true.
Conner stumbled back to his golf bag and pulled out a cell phone. He flipped it open and then, with concentrated effort, punched 9-1-1.
About an hour after the police finally arrived, the crime scene was secure. Tournament play had been halted; the entire sand bunker and surrounding area was cordoned off with orange warning cones and yellow tape. A man in a suit was videotaping, recording the position of the body and the surrounding area. Three technicians in coveralls were cautiously searching for trace evidence-hair, fiber, blood. Another man was dusting for fingerprints; yet another was on his hands and knees, pressing his nose against the fairway, searching for the imprint of a footprint that might be recordable.
A Sergeant Turnbull from the Augusta police department had responded to Conner’s call. He was a short, stocky pit bull of a man in a tacky suit. They’d been over Conner’s testimony about a thousand times, or so it seemed to Conner. What was there to tell? They were playing the course, his club went down in the sand, and he found… John. All Conner had done was brush some of the surface sand away from his head and shoulders and flip over the body, which wasn’t buried all that deeply. If Conner hadn’t discovered him, someone else would’ve, and soon.
Conner could tell Turnbull wasn’t satisfied, but didn’t know what to do about it. Or perhaps he just had other priorities at the moment. “Don’t leave town,” he said curtly.
“Of course not,” Conner mumbled. The whole thing seemed unreal to him, like a bizarre dream from which he couldn’t wake himself.
John was dead. This had to be a dream-a nightmare.
“Who did this?” Conner said suddenly, not really expecting an answer.
To his surprise, Turnbull offered one. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Unfortunately, the perp doesn’t seem to have left many clues.”
“Clues?”
“Right. They’re always helpful when you’re trying to track a killer.”
“A-“ Conner eyes widened. “Then you think it’s-”
“Murder? Course it is. You thought maybe he beat himself to death on the side of his head? And then buried himself in a sand trap? I don’t think so.”
“But-who-?”
“We were hoping you might have some thoughts on that subject. Know anyone who had a grudge against McCree?”
Conner racked his barely functioning brain. “I can’t think of anyone.”
“We’re not finding any hair or fibers, although it would be a miracle if we could recover trace evidence from a sand trap. This fairway is cut so short it can’t hold onto anything, much less a footprint or a stray hair. No fingerprints on the body. Basically, we’re at square one. A very unpromising investigation. Glad it isn’t my problem.”
“It isn’t?”
“Nah. I’m just a lowly sergeant. I was just the highest rank in the office when your call came in. They’ll assign this to a lieutenant-Lieutenant O’Brien, probably. I expect you’ll get to tell your story all over again. Probably several times.”
Great, Conner thought silently. I can hardly wait.
“Y’know, if there’s… anything else you might know about this mess, I’d sure be obliged if you told me.”
Conner cocked one eyebrow.
“Maybe right now it seems best to clam up, but let me tell you from experience-the truth always comes out eventually, and it’ll go easier for you if you come clean.”
“I didn’t kill him,” Conner said, almost choking on his words. “He was my best friend.”
“Oh, I’m sure, I’m sure. But you know how these things happen. One thing leads to another. Situation gets out of control. First thing you know, someone does something they regret later. It’s no one’s fault, really. It just happens.”
“I did not kill my friend.”
“Now, if you were to give me the straight skivvy, I would be extremely grateful. I’d make sure you got every break in the book. It would mean a lot to me.”
“Like maybe a promotion to lieutenant?”
Turnbull seemed unperturbed. “God knows I put in enough time to deserve it. So whaddaya say, Cross?”
Conner’s expression was as sheer as a cliff wall. “I say I didn’t kill my friend. Get your promotion from someone else’s misery.”
Conner pushed his way out of the circle of investigation and, to his surprise, Turnbull allowed him to go. He supposed the cops had no reason to keep him under lock and key, no matter what they thought. He wouldn’t be hard to find when they wanted him.
Conner paced the length of the eighteenth hole, then made a beeline for the clubhouse. He should just head back to his cabin, he thought to himself. He really wanted to be alone right now. At the same time, he also felt a serious need to partake of an adult beverage. Maybe several.
Conner found a table in the corner by himself and ordered multi-ple martinis. Somehow, he had to get a grip on himself, to try to make some sense out of the day. How could this have happened? What was John doing out there?
And why the hell did Conner have to be the one who found him?
He downed the first martini in a single swallow, then bit down on the olive. He was trying to shock his system back to life, trying to shift his body back into first gear. But it didn’t work. No matter what he tried, his mind’s eye kept revolving back to the same grisly image.
His best friend, buried in white sand. His face streaked with blood.
John, he thought, and the word throbbed like someone was pounding a hammer against the inside of his skull. John!
Conner was nursing his fourth martini when he saw Jodie McCree rush into the clubhouse.
Jodie! he thought. Here he’d been swilling and feeling sorry for himself, and Jodie hadn’t even crossed his mind. He considered running after her, trying to comfort her. If he could just get his legs working again…
As it turned out, the decision was made for him. As soon as Jodie entered the clubhouse, she made a quick visual sweep of the bar area, spotted Conner, then burned a path in the carpet toward him. As she neared, Conner saw her red-blotched face, streaked and wet. Her hands were trembling. She stared at him, as if willing words she could not speak.
“How-“ she said, in a voice that sounded like rusty hinges. “How-”
Conner could only shake his head. He certainly couldn’t respond to the unspoken question; he had no answers to give. There was only one thing he could give, and so he did. He stood up, put his arms around her, and hugged her tight.
“I don’t know,” he whispered. He felt her tears spilling onto his shoulder. “I don’t know.”
Nearly an hour later, Conner and Jodie were seated in a small lounge adjacent to the clubhouse bar. There had been no healing; there hadn’t been nearly sufficient time for that. But there had at least been acceptance. They had both come face-to-face with the horrible truth, and were beginning to try to figure out how they could possibly go on with their lives.
“I-I just don’t understand it,” Jodie said. Her voice was still raw from crying. “Everyone loved John.”
Conner agreed. It didn’t make any sense.
“Have you heard anyone complain about John? Anyone nursing a grudge?”
“Never,” Conner said firmly. “Not in three years on the tour.”
Jodie’s hands clenched. “Then who could have done it? And why?”
“I don’t know,” Conner replied, trying to be comforting. “But the police are working on it…”
Jodie frowned. “I talked to Sergeant Turnbull. I gather you did, too?”
Conner nodded.
“So, Mr. Oddsmaker, what would you say is the likelihood that he’ll be able to find John’s killer?”
Conner shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t want to distress her unnecessarily, but…
“That’s what I thought,” Jodie said firmly. For the first time, Conner realized that she was not simply devastated-she was angry. “About zip. The golf world is so insular, so closed-door. Unless the murderer has an attack of conscience and confesses, we’re never gonna know.”
Conner wanted to argue with her, to give her some comfort. But the truth was, he agreed with her conclusion.
All at once, Jodie reached over and grabbed Conner’s hand. “Conner, I want you to try to find out who killed John.”
“Me? Are you kidding?”
“I wouldn’t kid about this, Conner. This is serious.”
“I agree. Which is why I shouldn’t have anything to do with it.”
“We have to know-”
“Look, Jodie, if you don’t trust the cops, fine. Hire a private investigator.”
“A private investigator wouldn’t be allowed through the front gates at the Augusta National.”
“Still-”
“You, on the other hand, are already on the grounds. You have access to all the players and staff. You’re an invited guest. Everyone will expect you to hobnob with the players and participate in all the activities.”
“Surely you don’t think I’m going to continue the tournament after this!”
“You have to,” Jodie implored. “It’s the only way.” She squeezed his hand. “You’re John’s oldest and best friend. You knew him better than anyone.”
“Maybe so, but-”
“You know you owe him.”
“I’m well aware of that, Jodie. I owe John for almost everything of any value in my whole life. But what you’re talking about-”
“He would’ve done it for you.”
Conner stopped short.
“If the situation were reversed, I mean. John wouldn’t have slept till he found out who killed you. That’s how much he loved you, Conner.”
Conner didn’t reply.
“Conner,” she said softly, “I realize I haven’t seen as much of you as I once did, since John and I moved to Georgia. But I remember a time…”
She didn’t say anything more. She didn’t have to. They both knew what she was talking about. She was forcing his mind to turn back the calendar pages to a time past-a time when Conner and Jodie had been sweethearts. He had been crazy for her-his first love. In fact, he had introduced her to John-a gesture he later regretted. It all seemed a million years ago now. Still, when he peered into her sea-blue eyes, it was hard to forget how much he had once loved her. Impossible, really, because a few of those sparks still lingered.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please.”
“All right,” Conner said. “I think this is a big mistake. But I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you.” Her lips turned up in the first smile he had seen on her face all day. “Thank you so much.”
Conner brushed a tear from her cheek. “How could I say no to a beautiful face like that?” He sat up straight. “Fitz told me John didn’t come back last night?”
“It’s true. That’s so unlike him. I was worried sick. Still, I thought he would turn up, and I didn’t want to generate a lot of bad publicity for no reason. I couldn’t figure out-“ She drew in her breath. “Of course, now I understand. He must have been killed last night.”
“Seems likely,” Conner agreed. “When did you see him last?”
“Around nine or so, I’d guess. Just after dark. He left our cabin.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No, and I didn’t ask. I assumed he was going out to the driving range to knock the balls around. Like you guys usually did.”
“Did he do anything… unusual? Say anything out of the ordinary?”
Jodie’s eyebrows knitted together. “Now that you mention it, he did say something. Something strange. I didn’t recall it until you said that.” Her eyes focused on a spot on the floor.
“What was it?”
“I can’t remember. But it was something odd. Odd enough to capture my attention, at least for a moment.” She clenched her fist. “My short-term memory is going to hell.”
Conner placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “It’ll come to you later. When you’re not trying to think about it. When it does, tell me, okay?”
“Of course.” She took his hand in both of hers. “Thank you, Conner. I really appreciate this.”
“No need. It’s the least I can do-”
He stopped short, but they both knew what he was going to say, and once again, Conner saw unbidden tears crease the flushed mounds of her cheeks.
It was the least he could do, they both thought. For John.
The Wednesday press conference in Butler Cabin was a distinguished Masters tournament tradition, but this year, it was nothing short of bizarre. As tournament director, Andrew Spenser led the proceedings, ably assisted by his lapdog Derwood Scott. The first deviation from tradition came in the timing; instead of being held in the morning, the conference was delayed until late evening. The second deviation was the subject matter. Spenser dutifully tried to drum up excitement about the par-three and the main tournament yet to come, offering up trivia and tidbits about the players’ lives, statistics about the players’ standings, their performance to date on the tour, their scores in previous Masters tournaments.
No one cared.
“Can you give us more information about what happened to John McCree?”
“Have you got any leads?”
“Is it true the police suspect one of the other pros?”
“What if the killer strikes again?”
Standing in the back of the cabin, Conner watched Spenser wipe his brow. That prim, proper gentleman wasn’t accustomed to fielding questions from a pack of vultures like the one assembled in Butler Cabin today. He could almost sympathize with the man, if he hadn’t been such a jerk to Conner the day before.
Spenser gripped the podium and stared out into the sea of reporters. “Please. This is not police headquarters. This is the Augusta National Golf Club, home of the Masters tournament, the most important-”
“Is the corpse at the coroner’s office?”
“How many times was he hit?”
“Was there a lot of blood? Will you have to replace the sand bunker?”
Conner could feel Spenser’s tension clear across the room. It was a relief when Spenser excused himself and Derwood stepped up to the podium-probably the first time in history anyone was glad to see Derwood arrive, Conner mused.
“Please,” Derwood began, “we’ve told you everything we know about John McCree’s death. Let’s discuss the tournament-”
“Can you confirm that McCree is dead?” one of the reporters shouted from the rear.
Derwood sighed. “Yes. I’m afraid we’re certain about that.”
“And that he was murdered?”
Derwood began to hedge. “I have no information regarding the cause of death. There are many possibilities. I find it very difficult to believe that anyone at the Augusta National could be capable of-”
“Someone hit him, right?” This voice came from a female reporter near the front. “I heard he was hit on the head. Possibly several times.”
“Again, I have no information regarding the cause-”
“You’re not suggesting he did that to himself, are you?”
“Well… no. Perhaps an unfortunate accident…”
“In a sand trap?”
Derwood tugged at his collar. “As I’ve already said, we are unaware of the details-”
“How can you proceed with the tournament when one of the most prominent players has been murdered? Isn’t that more than a bit callous?”
Derwood drew in his breath. He was prepared for this one. “This is of course a difficult question with ramifications that go far beyond the competition itself. We called an emergency meeting of the board of directors and our chairman, Artemus Tenniel, to determine the proper course of action. We also consulted with John McCree’s widow, Jodie McCree. After giving the matter close and careful attention, all parties involved agreed that the best course of action was to proceed with the tournament as scheduled. Now, however, the tournament will be held in John’s McCree’s honor. This endeavor is dedicated to his memory.”
Conner tried to stifle his sneer. Given how jam-packed the tournament schedule was these days, it would probably be impossible to reschedule the Masters for a later date. It was now or never. Proceeding with the tournament but dedicating it to John’s memory probably appeared to the board to be the best way of preserving their cash cow without seeming incredibly insensitive. Conner wondered how this cover-your-ass smokescreen fit in with “the exemplar of excellence.”
Still, he thought, it was just as well. He knew Jodie wanted the tournament to proceed. She wanted to keep all the suspects on the premises as long as possible. Once the tournament ended, and all the players and staff departed, any investigation would be greatly complicated. Realistically, if he was going to have any hope of determining who killed John, he would have to do it before everyone left Sunday night.
Up at the podium, Derwood was still fending off questions about the murder.
“Why was the body buried in a sand trap?”
“Really,” Derwood insisted, “I have no way of knowing.” All at once, his eyes lit upon Conner in the back of the room. Conner felt a chill race through his body.
“If you must inquire about these unsavory matters,” Derwood continued, “why don’t you ask Conner Cross? He’s the one who found the body.”
That was a tidbit they hadn’t heard before. As one, the sea of reporters whipped around to face Conner. They began to press in his direction.
Conner felt like a fox who’d been treed by the circling hounds. He broke for the front doors, but two men bearing minicams blocked his path. Before he could take off in a different direction, he was surrounded by reporters, many of them shoving microphones under his nose.
“So,” Conner said, clearing his throat, “I guess you folks want to ask me about my spiffy new haircut, huh?”
It took Conner more than an hour to extricate himself from the reporters. It was amazing-especially since he’d told them everything he knew in the first minute and a half. Normally, a few minutes of Conner’s trademark obnoxiousness would be sufficient to drive anyone away. But the reporters weren’t even fazed; if anything, they seemed to like it.
The whole experience was ironic, Conner thought, as he trudged back to the clubhouse. Most of the pros on the tour spent half their spare time trying to rustle up some publicity. Conner had just gotten a ton-and he didn’t want it. Not under these circumstances.
Conner passed through the clubhouse doors, wove his way to the bar, ordered a martini, and found a seat at an empty table in the corner. Most of the other pros were there, too, but the mood had altered radically. There was none of the madcap revelry-no betting, no joking, no carousing. John’s death had hit everyone hard. The room was permeated by somber, sullen depression. Conner realized he should probably circulate, try to find out what if anything the others knew, but he just wasn’t in the proper frame of mind.
About ten minutes later, Freddy Granger ambled over. “Hi there, Conner.”
Conner didn’t even look up, but Freddy’s deep Southern accent was a dead giveaway. “If you’ve found another peephole, I’m not interested.”
Freddy looked embarrassed. “Nah, I-“ He pointed to the empty chair on the opposite end of Conner’s table. “Mind if I sit?”
Conner shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Freddy took a seat. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am, Conner. We all feel terrible. We all miss John. But I know you were closer to him than any of us. I’ve always considered you a friend and-I’m sorry this had to happen. If there’s anything I could possibly ever do-all you have to do is ask.”
Conner nodded. “Thanks, Freddy. I appreciate that.” Conner meant it, too. Sometimes he felt like the pariah of the tour; his status as PGA bad boy caused him to be ostracized by those who considered themselves the class acts of the tour. It was nice to hear that he had at least one friend. Other than the one he’d lost. “How’d you do in the tournament?”
“No improvement.”
Conner knew what that meant. Freddy’s career had been in the dumper of late. Not only was he lower on the money list than Conner; he barely qualified for an invitation to the Masters.
“I had delusions of restarting my game here,” Freddy said. “You know. Winning the tournament in a dramatic surprise upset. Or at least placing. Now I’m afraid I won’t even make the Friday cut.”
Conner nodded appreciatively. “I’ve had similar concerns myself.”
“Aww, the hell with it, anyway.” He laughed quietly. “I shouldn’t even be thinking about this stupid game. My daughter’s gettin’ married.”
“I heard something about that. Congratulations. You must be very happy.”
Freddy beamed. “We are. We truly are. This isn’t the first time my baby girl’s tied the knot, but last time she ran off with some loser and we didn’t get to have a real wedding. This time we’re throwin’ her the party she deserves. We’re gonna do it up right. Havin’ a great big gala affair. And you’re invited. All the pros are. It’s Friday night, down at the Magnolia Glade Country Club.”
Conner raised an eyebrow. “Not at the Augusta National?”
“Couldn’t get in,” Freddy said. “It’s all booked up with some stupid golf tournament.”
“Right, right. I hear those big weddings are a lot of trouble. You must be drowning under all the details.”
“Hell no,” Freddy said. “The womenfolk never let me near any of the details. The only time I see them is when they drop by to tell me how much to make the check for.” He smiled, but Conner thought the smile had an edge to it. “And there’s been a hell of a lot of checks, believe you me.”
Conner eyed Freddy carefully. He seemed uneasy, almost jumpy. But he supposed the man had been unnerved by John’s death. Weren’t they all.
“Anyway,” Freddy said, pushing himself to his feet. “I meant what I said. You need anything, just call me.”
“Appreciate that, Freddy.”
“See you Friday night, if not before.”
Conner nodded, but he thought it unlikely in the extreme that he would want to attend a gala wedding anytime in the near future.
A few minutes later, the empty space at Conner’s table was taken by yet another pro, Harley Tuttle. Conner glanced up from his martini. “I hope you’re not here to complain about that Tom Kite bet.”
Harley half-smiled. “Nah. Forgot all about it. I-just wanted to offer my condolences.”
“Thanks, Harley.”
“I didn’t know John well, of course. Hadn’t met him till you introduced us. And now I suppose I never will.”
“You would’ve liked him,” Conner said. “Everyone did.”
“That’s what I hear. That’s what I hear.” Harley nervously fingered the edge of the tablecloth. Conner could tell there was something on his mind. “Conner… how long have you known John’s wife? Jodie, is it?”
“As long as I’ve known John. Longer, actually.”
“Really? Wow. Well, look. I don’t know the woman at all, but I know she must be going through a rough patch.”
“She is,” Conner said. “But Jodie’s tough. She’ll pull through.”
“That’s good. Would you tell her something for me?”
“Sure. What?”
“She probably doesn’t need it but-well, I know how complicated things were when I lost my mother. And expensive. And John hadn’t been playing so well lately and-oh, hell. Just tell her if there’s anything she needs, all she has to do is ask. And I mean anything, including money. Just let me know.”
“Okay.”
Harley would be the one to call, too. He’d only started on the tour this year, but he’d already lined up an impressive list of finishes. He hadn’t won a tournament yet, but he’d placed in the top five in every single tournament this year except Pebble Beach, which he didn’t play. Conner would’ve preferred to hate the man, but unfortunately, he was just too damn nice. “I’ll pass the word along.”
“Thanks, Conner. And the same goes for you. I can imagine how you must feel. Like my daddy used to say, ‘You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone’.”
“I thought that was Joni Mitchell.”
Harley gave him a shy smile. “All the greats stole from my daddy.” He wandered off, and Conner was relieved. He knew these people were trying to be kind. But he didn’t want to be on at the moment. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to stew in his juices and wallow in his martinis. He wanted to remember John the way he was, not the way he’d found him in that sand trap.
A flood of memories surged through Conner’s brain. Growing up poor as dirt, wondering what it might be like to get out of town, make some real money. Junior high, high school. Golf at Watonga’s Dusty Duffer. Everything John had done for him. All the times he cared, when it seemed no one else did.
Conner’s reverie was interrupted, not just once, but repeatedly, by boisterous activity behind him. What insensitive jerk-? Conner forced his muddy brain out of the past and focused on the source of the disturbance.
It was Barry Bennett, that stupid blowhard. He’d obviously been drinking again. He was standing at the bar, talking to no one in particular, but doing it in a voice everyone could hear.
“Sure, I’m sssorry he’s dead,” Barry said, slurring the words so badly they were nearly incomprehensible. “But I haven’t got amnesia. I hated that ssson-of-a-bitch.”
Conner whirled around, staring at the man with wide-eyed amazement. He was actually trashing John. John hadn’t been dead twenty-four hours, and the creep was dissing him in public. He’d always thought Barry was an asshole, but this was beyond the pale.
“Course I kept quiet about it,” Barry droned on. “I was a good boy. But I didn’t forget. Hell no. I didn’t forget. And I never will.” He hiccuped. “Ssson-of-a-bitch.”
Conner felt his bile rising. Barry’s behavior was inexcusable, and Conner wasn’t going to sit still for it. He’d ram those words down that sorry drunk’s throat-
“Kind of a jerk, isn’t he?”
Conner peered across the table and saw a kid wearing a green flak jacket, soiled T-shirt, and torn blue jeans. His first question was how someone looking like that ever managed to be admitted onto the Augusta National grounds. His second question was why someone who looked like that was talking to him.
“Bennett has a problem with alcohol,” the kid said. “Everyone on the tour knows it.”
Conner cocked an eyebrow. Was that a fact?
The kid brushed his long straggly black hair out of his face. “You’re Conner Cross, aren’t you? I recognize you from your pictures. Everyone knows you were John McCree’s best friend. And here I am, face-to-face with you. Wow.”
Conner’s eyes narrowed. He was getting the distinct impression this kid was not part of the Augusta National staff. “Who are you?”
The kid slapped himself on the forehead. “Didn’t I say? Oh, wow. Duh.” He held out his hand. “I’m Ed Frohike. President of the John McCree Fan Club.”
The light began to dawn in Conner’s eyes. A golf groupie. “I see…”
“I came here to meet John. I’ve corresponded with him by e-mail-even talked to him on the phone. But I never met him. So I blew my life savings-everything I made working at Taco Bell for six months-to come out here and meet him. But before I could-”
“I’m sorry, kid. That’s rough.”
“Yeah. Tougher on you, though. I mean, you actually knew him. Knew him well.”
“Yeah. That I did. That I did.” He glanced back at Ed. “So how’d you get in here, kid? The Augusta National prides itself on its security.”
Ed grinned, like a kid caught dipping a girl’s pigtails in the inkwell. “Can you keep a secret?”
“In theory.”
Ed leaned across the table and whispered. “I snuck in underground. Through the sewer system tunnels. Came up through a manhole just off the eighteenth fairway. Late at night.”
“I didn’t know there were tunnels under the course.”
“Only part of it. Apparently the Augusta National makes some heavy demands on the water system. Keeping all those greens green, you know.”
“And how did you find out about that?”
Ed waved him away. “Oh, man, I know everything.”
“You do?”
“Oh, yeah.” He shifted to his reciting voice. “Conner C. Cross, from Watonga, Oklahoma. Six foot one, two hundred and five pounds. Third year in the PGA. Best power drive on the tour. Worst putting game on the tour.”
Conner gave him a withering look. “I guess you do know everything.”
“Everything about golf, anyway. I eat and breathe golf.”
“Really. What’s your handicap?”
“Oh, I don’t play the game. I… merely worship it.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know what I mean. I’m into it, big time. It’s my favorite thing. I follow all the players, all the tournaments. Heck, I’ve even got your trading card.”
“Really? I’m sure that’s in great demand!” Conner said with heavy irony.
“It’s… um… well… you know. It’s… hotter than a Freddy Granger.” Ed looked away. “But I always thought John was the greatest, you know? That’s why I started the fan club. He was just so cool, so suave and sophisticated. Like, just the opposite of you.”
“I can see where that would be in his favor.”
“No-I didn’t mean-I mean-”
“Calm down, Ed. Take a breath.”
“I just meant that he was so classy. Had a style all his own. You’ve got a style, too.”
“That would be one way of putting it.”
Ed’s eyes darted around the room. “I can’t believe I’m actually at the Masters! This is so awesome! I started going crazy the second I stepped onto the course.” His chest deflated. “But then I heard what happened to John. Man, what a bummer. I went to so much trouble to meet him. All that planning, all that money and time. And then-this.”
Conner peered into the kid’s eyes. “It’s tough.”
“I was so close!” Out of nowhere, Ed’s fists rose up and pounded down on the table. “I saw him, you know. Tuesday night. But he was heading somewhere in a hurry and I didn’t want to bother him. I thought-no, Ed, wait. You’ve got all week.” He slumped down in his chair. “Except I didn’t have all week. That was my last chance. And I blew it.”
“Are you saying you saw John alive Tuesday night?”
“Right. Around nine-thirty.”
Nine-thirty! That would be after he left the cabin, after Jodie last saw him alive. “Do you have any idea where he was going?”
“Sure. It was obvious. I saw him pass through the door.”
Conner’s eyebrows knitted together. “The door? What door?”
Ed’s eyes widened. “Didn’t you know? He was going to see Andrew Spenser.”
Once again, Conner was not entirely surprised when he received his summons to appear in the chairman’s office. He’d been expecting it since he saw Derwood stomp off earlier that morning, and it probably would’ve come sooner, had the tournament officials not had some rather more pressing business. When the call came, he didn’t resist. It was just as well-he’d finished his last martini. And this time, he had questions he wanted to pose to Mr. Spenser.
Conner knew the way to Tenniel’s office now, so he took the lead, letting the Augusta National Nazis trail nervously in his wake. He walked briskly down the dimly lit corridor till he reached Tenniel’s office, then flung the double doors open and stepped inside.
Derwood was there, as he expected, hovering in the background like a vulture waiting for his daily dose of carrion. Tenniel sat behind his desk, impassive as ever.
Spenser stepped forward from the recesses of the office. It appeared that, once again, he was going to take the leading role in Conner’s Trip to the Woodshed, Part Two.
“First of all,” Spenser said, “let me express our deepest sympathies to you. We know what a loss you’ve suffered. Believe me when I say you have our most sincere condolences.” Spenser held out his arms, as if he actually thought for a moment he was going to embrace Conner. Conner did a quick sidestep to avoid that possibility. “We know you and John were close, and we understand that you must be suffering the most profound grief.”
Conner remained unmoved. “Why do I feel you’re coming to a but?”
Spenser’s stoic resolve wavered, if only for an instant. “We know these are troubling times, and if we can assist you in any way, please do not hesitate to tell us.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Conner said impatiently. “If that was all you had to say, you could’ve sent a Hallmark. What’s the real purpose of this meeting?”
Spenser cleared his throat. “We realize that this tragedy may affect your… powers of judgment, and that a certain lack of rationality may be inevitable…”
“Lack of rationality?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard that we intend to continue with this tournament. That decision being made, it is crucial that we maintain our standards…”
“Spenser, just cut to the chase.”
Spenser drew himself up. “We have wondered if it wouldn’t be best if you dropped out of the tournament. No one could fault you for that. No one would suspect that there was any… controversy. People will simply assume that you are overcome with grief due to the loss of your friend.”
Conner felt his teeth locking together. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You want to use John’s death as an excuse to get me the hell out of Dodge.”
“I was only considering your welfare. Surely you’re not in any condition to play a major golf tournament. Proceeding with this could only lead to… severe embarrassment.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve seen the scores from the par three, Mr. Cross. Your performance was hardly… Masters caliber, and we can’t realistically expect it to improve after all you’ve been through today. I think the wisest course would be for you to excuse yourself from the competition.”
Conner had so many emotions racing through him he couldn’t identify them all. A few hours ago, before he talked to Jodie, he was certain he would drop out of the tournament, exactly as Spenser wished. But now, after hearing Spenser use John’s death as a tawdry excuse to get what he wanted, he’d sooner die first. Besides, he made Jodie a promise. “No.”
Artemus Tenniel leaned forward, his hands clasped on his desk. “You don’t have to answer now. Give it some thought. Sleep on it.”
“I’m not dropping out.”
“Don’t force us to become antagonistic,” Spenser said. “I’m sure it’s clear to you by now that… we don’t want you here. You’re just… not the Masters type.”
“The Masters type? What is that?”
“We have remarked previously on your unacceptable behavior.”
“Now wait just a minute. I did as you asked. I dressed in your silly Sears clothes.”
From the back corner, Derwood made a loud throat-clearing noise. He jerked his head toward Conner’s.
Spenser took the cue. “There’s still the matter of your, um, hair style.”
“I read the PGA rules and the Augusta National regulations. None of them prohibit a shaved head.”
“It’s hardly orthodox.”
“Says who? Lots of the pros are bald.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“You can’t toss me out. I didn’t break a rule.”
“The haircut is simply one example. Your attitude is what we find offensive.”
“What are you-the attitude police? What makes you think you can tell me what attitude to have? If I haven’t broken a rule, you haven’t got anything on me.”
“We’ve given you a graceful out. Show some sense for a change. Take it.”
“I will not quit the tournament. And you won’t throw me out, either.”
“You think we can’t?” Tenniel said, a tiny edge to his voice. “You think you’re invulnerable? That’s what Frank Stranahan thought, too, back in 1947. We ousted him for arguing with a greenskeeper.”
Conner raised a finger. “If you try to shaft me after my best friend was murdered in your sand trap, I will raise a stink like you’ve never seen in your life!”
“Think of what you’re saying!” Spenser implored. “You would dishonor John’s memory.”
“Is that a fact?” Conner shot back. “Speaking of John’s memory, why was he in your office just before he was killed?”
Spenser looked as if someone had slugged him with a tire iron. “Why-John-what?”
“You heard me. He was in your office, late at night. He was meeting you, wasn’t he?”
“I-He-”
“Spit it out, Spenser. Why did you meet John? Were the two of you having a disagreement, perhaps? Maybe you were trying to push John around, too? And maybe he didn’t like it?”
Spenser took a step backward. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You deny it?”
“I certainly do. John McCree was not in my office last night. Neither was I, for that matter.” Spenser’s eyes darted from one end of the room to the other, as if checking to make sure his colleagues believed him. “It’s all a lie. Something this scoundrel cooked up to confuse the issues.”
Conner stared back at the man, puzzled. Fanboy Ed had definitely said he saw John go into Spenser’s office. Either Spenser was lying, or Ed was.
And what possible reason could Ed have to lie?
Thursday
Thursday was the first day of the actual Masters tournament. Conner was always amazed at the amount of rigmarole that attended the opening. From all the buzz and excitement, all the attention and interest, one might think the president was about to declare war, or aliens had just landed on the seventh green.
As always, the press was present in force. Reporters were everywhere, looking for inside tips, news, and gossip about the players and the game. Conner spotted three different CBS minicams. The official network commentators were safely tucked away in their high-rise booth, specially constructed for tournament coverage. There were even a couple of helicopters buzzing around overhead, providing aerial photography.
And of what? A golf tournament. Conner shook his head in amazement. If the police department could summon this much talent and energy for its investigation, John’s murder would’ve been solved yesterday.
It was a beautiful morning; the azaleas were in bloom and the air was thick with the scent of tea olive. The greens were bright and vibrant-trimmed to perfection. Even the roughs were-well, not very rough. Just “second cut” once a year. This really was, Conner grudgingly admitted, the best-kept golf course on earth. If a leaf fell on the fairway, he suspected, an alarm sounded in the groundskeeper’s bunker and a golf cart was dispatched to remove the offending item.
Conner showed up early for the opening ceremony; he wasn’t going to give anyone an excuse to toss him out on some obscure technicality. Before the tournament began, all the pros gathered to watch the first tee-off, which was traditionally shared by the three senior members invited to play. Since all former Masters champions are invited back, regardless of their current standing, that meant that the three oldest former champions shared the stage. Each of the three seniors knocked off one token swing, then retired to the clubhouse to watch the real contenders.
After that ceremony was completed, an assistant tournament director assigned numbers to each of the players. Last year’s champion was always 1; Jack Nicklaus was always 86, commemorating the year he won the last and most extraordinary of his six Masters titles.
Fitz brought Conner the news that he had been assigned number 51. “I assume that was chosen to commemorate your I.Q.”
“Ha ha,” Conner replied.
Conner was matched for play with Barry Bennett, who appeared somewhat soberer than he had the night before. Ace Silverstone and Freddy Granger were the twosome just behind them.
“Glad we got to tee-off early,” Freddy said, as the group gathered. “I got a million things to do. This weddin’ is drivin’ me crazy.”
Conner tried to be sympathetic. “Are the in-laws in town yet?”
“Oh, yeah. They’ve been here for days. They’re not so bad. I’d rather be with them than with that nimrod my daughter’s marryin’.”
“I thought you were happy about the marriage.”
“I’m happy about the fact of a marriage. I think my new son-in-law is worthless. Never played a round of golf in his life-can you believe it? Doesn’t know a bogey from a booger.”
“Fate plays cruel tricks sometimes,” Conner said sympathetically.
Freddy continued to rattle on about the cost of the wedding, the caterers, the country club, the wedding gown. Conner grabbed Ace’s arm and tugged him toward the tee. Normally, Conner wouldn’t be able to stand anyone who played so much better than himself, but given the alternative of spending time with Barry, the man who badmouthed his late friend, or Freddy, who was babbling about crudités and tiered cakes, he chose Ace.
“How’d the feature spot turn out?” Conner asked as they approached the tee.
“Fabulous, fabulous. Didn’t you see it? Oh-“ He covered his hand with his mouth. “Of course not. You weren’t watching television last night. Look, I’m sorry-”
“It’s all right. Really. Think it’ll run again?”
“Oh, yeah. Probably all week. And they’re going to shoot some more footage as well. In fact, we’re talking about me doing my own show for ESPN. Not just a special, but a regular weekly program. Kind of a golf instruction thing.”
“Sounds great,” Conner muttered.
“Course, it’ll be hard to squeeze in with my usual color commentary gigs, but I think I can make it work. Especially now that I have a new plane.”
Conner did a double take. “You have your own plane?”
“Sure. Don’t you? I thought everyone did.”
“Uh, no.”
“You really should, Conner. Get yourself a little Lear, like I did. It’ll vastly improve the quality of your life.”
“No doubt.” Conner pulled a tee and ball out of his golf bag.
“Did I tell you about the chain stores?”
“Uh, no.” Conner was beginning to think he’d made the wrong choice. As a conversational gambit, the wedding of the century was infinitely preferable to Ace’s grandiose career plans.
“Oh, yeah. We’re going to go national. Ace’s Place, that’s what we’ll call them. We’ll specialize in custom-made golf equipment.”
Conner cautiously selected his nine-iron. “Sounds like a winner.”
“I’d like to start my own tournament.”
Conner pounded his club against the ground. Would this never end?
“I’ve got sponsors lined up. All I need is a weekend.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know how jam-packed the tournament schedule is. There’s no opening for another tournament, unless one of the current tournaments disappears.”
“Well, that’s something to hope for, anyway. Whaddaya say we play some golf?”
Conner took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the game. He still couldn’t believe he was playing golf the day after he found his best friend dead. But-Jodie was right. The killer probably was someone at the tournament, and he was more likely to figure out who that was if he remained involved.
He felt a tugging at his sleeve. It was Fitz.
“You’re not really going to use that, are you?”
“Who are you-my safe sex counselor?”
“I’m reminding you that your nine-iron play was disastrous yesterday. And we never had a chance to figure out what was causing it.”
“Well, I’ve slept since then. I think it’ll be all right.”
“Don’t be nuts. Use the three-wood.”
“The nine-iron’s my best club.”
“Not yesterday, it wasn’t.”
Conner frowned. “Maybe you’re right.” Reluctantly, he accepted the wood from Fitz.
The first nine holes went reasonably well for Conner, although he was handicapped by not being able to use his nine-iron on the shorter shots, and he still had a nasty tendency to choke on his putting game. Still, he finished the first nine only two over par; not as good as Ace played, but a respectable showing.
Unfortunately, at the Masters it’s the back nine that make all the difference. The eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth holes are traditionally referred to as “Amen Corner”-the famous holes where water can turn the tournament upside-down. Conner weathered the eleventh, over-shooting with a three-wood but still managing to make par.
The twelfth hole was a par three with a tiny green. Conner stood at the tee and gazed out at the smooth sheer green horizon. “Perfect hole for a nine-iron,” he commented.
“For someone else maybe,” Fitz replied. “Not for you.” He held out a club. “Here. Use this.”
Conner hesistated.
Fitz’s face fell. “Oh, damn.”
“What?”
“I can tell by the expression on your face. You’re about to do something stupid.”
Conner put his hands on his hips. “I beg your pardon?”
“You will. I know it.” Fitz shook his head back and forth. “You’re not going to use the wood, are you?”
Conner gazed once again at the fairway. “You have to admit, it’s a perfect hole for a nine-iron.”
“Not when your ball slices every time you use it!”
Conner pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I’m going to give it a try.”
Fitz slapped his forehead in despair. “No, no, no! Conner-you’re playing a good game. Don’t screw it up.”
“I can’t avoid the nine-iron forever.” He snatched the club from his bag. “Besides, when a man falls off his horse, he’s got to get right back on again.”
“Spare me the cowboy philosophizing.”
“Stand back, Fitz. I’m going to make this one count.” Conner took his position, carefully concentrating on his stance, his grip, his destination. He took a deep breath, held it… then let it fly.
The ball soared beautifully up into the air… and then, as predictably as a heart attack, took a severe turn to the right. The slice cut sideways across the fairway, just short of the green, and rolled into a water trap.
Conner cursed and threw the club back at Fitz. “I’m never using the damn thing again.”
“That’s it,” Barry said, chuckling. “Blame the club.” Barry seemed to be a good deal merrier than he had been when they started the round. Come to notice, Conner thought, his nose seemed a bit redder, too. Did the man have some hooch hidden in his golf bag, or what?
The thirteenth was not much of an improvement. It was a dogleg left, with dogwood, a creek running down one side of the fairway and trees running down the other. The narrow water trap in front of the green was invisible from the crook in the fairway where the players traditionally lay up for their second shot.
Conner used the wood to hit a perfect drive into the sweet spot. He was relieved; that was supposed to be his specialty, after all. He selected his pitching wedge to pop the ball onto the green.
As he took his stance, he felt Fitz lay a hand on his shoulder. “Envision the water trap. Locate it in your mind.”
“How can I locate it in my mind? I can’t even see it.”
“That’s the point, Conner. You can’t see it with your eyes, so don’t try. Close your eyes and see it with your mind’s eye. You know where it is, where it must be. Picture it, and drive the ball across it. Don’t think, do.”
“Thanks, Yoda.” Conner closed his eyes and swung… and the ball plopped down into the water trap.
“May the frigging Force be with you,” Conner grumbled.
The rest of the course went uneventfully, but after the debacle of Amen Corner, Conner was way behind Ace. After they completed the seventeenth hole, they headed for the locker room. By agreement, the pros were playing only seventeen holes; the eighteenth was still roped off by the police.
Before they reached the locker room, Conner and the rest encountered a group of reporters huddled under the giant oak tree just outside the entrance to the clubhouse. Conner knew that was one of only two places on the grounds where the media was allowed to talk to players-the other being Butler Cabin. It was standard procedure; they were all used to it. Today’s questioning, however, was anything but standard:
“What can you tell us about John McCree’s murder?”
“Is it true the eighteenth green is still smeared with blood?”
“Do you think the killer might strike again?”
Before Conner could get himself out of the way, one of the reporters had thrust a microphone under his nose. He saw the red light on the minicam blinking and realized that he was on. “Conner, how are you dealing with the loss of your best friend John McCree?”
What Conner really wanted was tell these people exactly what he thought of this vulturous picking away at John’s death. But he knew it would be fruitless; they’d edit the footage so that he sounded ridiculous, then make a fool of him on the evening news.
Conner tried to stammer out a coherent response. “I’ve known John since I was eight,” he said haltingly. “All that time, I’ve considered him my best friend. Obviously, his death has hit me… very hard.”
The man holding the microphone smirked. “But not so hard you couldn’t play the tournament, right?”
Conner’s head felt as if it were about to boil. He grabbed the man’s shirt and jerked him forward. “Look, you sorry son-of-a-”
Conner froze. The red light was still blinking. This was all being recorded. The man had baited him, and now Conner was giving him exactly what he wanted.
Conner released the reporter. “John McCree’s dream was that one of us Oklahoma boys might one day make good at the Masters tournament. I can’t very well make that dream come true by quitting, can I?”
Conner turned before the reporter could respond and quickly moved out of camera-shot. Behind him, he heard the mob surround Ace, looking for fresh meat.
As always, the mediagenic Ace rose to the occasion. “Although I didn’t know John long or well, I sensed that in his chest beat a heart of purest gold…”
Conner had to stifle his gagging reflex.
“… but now, there’s an empty place in the locker room where John McCree’s blue-and-white bag used to be.” Ace looked as if he might burst out in tears at any moment. “One thing is certain-from this day forward, pro golf will never be the same. He will be missed.”
Conner turned, shaking his head, and made his way down to the locker room. He found Barry was already there, changing out of his golf clothes. Somehow, the man had managed to elude the fourth estate wolf pack altogether. That must’ve been tricky. And totally unlike a PGA golf pro.
A thought occurred to Conner. He strode over to Barry, who was lacing up his street shoes. “Barry, I want a word with you.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
No doubt about it; there was something strong and alcoholic on the man’s breath. Perhaps one reason he didn’t care to be interviewed. “You had plenty enough to say last night when you were in your cups.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t bother denying it. I’m not the only one who was in the bar last night. You made your feelings known to everyone within earshot.”
Barry glared at him. “You’d be better off just leaving me alone, Cross.”
“Why have you got such a chip on your shoulder about John?”
“That’s between him and me.”
“The police might feel differently.”
Barry’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, if you had some kind of grudge against John, I want to hear about it.”
Barry finished tying his shoes, grabbed his gym bag, and stood up. “Maybe you should ask Jodie.” And on that note, he pivoted quickly and stomped out of the locker room.
Once he’d changed, Conner made his way to the eighteenth green. A hundred-yard area surrounding the sand trap was roped off. Homicide technicians were still combing the crime scene, some of them crawling on hands and knees, searching for clues. Some of them were using tweezers, and they were all wearing yellow coveralls. What they could possibly find this long after the fact Conner couldn’t imagine, but he was gratified that they were trying.
An idea sparked in Conner’s brain. Wouldn’t Derwood be impressed if Conner showed up at the first tee tomorrow in one of those snappy yellow coveralls? He wondered if they came in his size.
He approached a few of the technicians, but they either refused to talk or claimed they didn’t know anything. No one would tell him anything of value, like whether the police had a suspect, or even a good lead for that matter. Their blank faces reinforced in his mind the fear Jodie had expressed-that John’s murder would never be solved.
How had he let her talk him into this? As if he knew anything about conducting a crime investigation. They were just kidding themselves, imagining that he might discover something the cops couldn’t. He needed to find Jodie and tell her this was a mistake. She was probably in the clubhouse. Maybe he should just wander over there…
Conner glanced toward the clubhouse, but his eyes lit upon a much closer scenic wonder. A tall red-haired woman made him do a double-take. She was standing at a distance, staring in his direction.
He grinned. Probably another golf groupie, one of those women who follow the tour around the country and will do anything imaginable to get close to a real live golf pro.
Conner sauntered a few steps in her direction. “Hi,” he said, flashing his best smile. “I’m Conner Cross.”
The woman barely turned her head. “I’m glad for you.”
Conner laughed. “No, seriously. I’m Conner Cross.”
“You’re not going to ask me for money, are you?”
Conner frowned. “Uh… aren’t you here to watch the tournament?”
“Get real.” She had a lilting accent, slow and deliberate. Definitely a local. “You think I have nothing better to do than watch a bunch of clowns in pastel Polos knock a little ball around?”
Conner’s grin faded fast. This wasn’t going to be quite as easy as he had imagined. “Well, then… why are you here?”
She whipped out a leather wallet and revealed a shiny silver badge. “Lieutenant Nikki O’Brien, Augusta PD.”
Conner’s face flattened. “You-you’re investigating the murder?”
“You are a quick study, aren’t you?”
Well, as long as he was here, maybe he could get a little information. “So, uh… how’s the investigation going?”
“We’re just getting started.”
“Got any leads? Suspects?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss it right now.”
“Oh, of course, of course.” Okay, then back to Plan A. The pick-up. “You’re really truly a cop?”
Her lips turned down at the edges. “Who did you say you were?”
“Conner Cross.”
“That sounds familiar. What do you do?”
“Me?” Conner pressed a hand against his chest. “I… well…”
“Is this a hard question?”
“No, I just…” His eyes scanned the horizon. Think, man, think! “I’m a horticulturist.”
Lieutenant O’Brien blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You know. Plants, grass. That sort of thing.”
“And you’re here because…”
“Because I’m helping care for the grounds. You see, the Augusta National uses a very special, very rare kind of grass, imported from South America. Somewhere south of the Amazon.”
“South of the Amazon.”
“Right. Makes for an excellent course. But it’s very temperamental. Hard to care for. Requires a specialist.”
“A specialist.”
“Right. That’s me.”
“So you tend golf courses. That must be incredibly rewarding.”
“Well, this isn’t what I normally do.” Still not impressed. Keep the wheels turning… “This is only one week a year, during the Masters tournament. I just do it to finance my… real work.”
“Which is?”
“Tending to rare South American… plants. And things.”
“Plants? And things?”
“Did you know that hundreds of plant species become extinct every day? It’s a horror what’s going on in the rain forests these days. An absolute horror. Who knows what some of those plants might yield? They might hold the key to curing cancer, and yet we plow them under and bury them to make room for more cattle so McDonald’s can make more burgers. It’s criminal. I’m doing everything I can to stop it.”
O’Brien’s face softened a bit. “Well, that does sound like important work.” She paused and scrutinized Conner intensely. “Mr. Cross, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m on duty.”
“Oh-right, right. The cop thing.”
“Yeah, that.”
“Are you-absolutely sure you’re a police officer?”
“Welcome to the New South, Mr. Cross.” With an enigmatic smile, she turned on her heel and walked away without giving him so much as a backward glance.
Conner sighed as he watched her shimmering figure fade from view. Maybe I didn’t handle that as well as I might’ve…
Conner headed back to the clubhouse. Some of the pros were hanging about; some were probably still out on the course. He searched from one end of the building to the other, but couldn’t find any trace of Jodie. They needed to have a serious conversation.
There were only a handful of people in the bar. The bartender was idle; he had one eye on the television beside the cash register, watching a Braves game. A sport other than golf? Conner mused. Now there’s a novel concept.
A thought occurred. Weren’t bartenders supposed to know more or less… everything? Mouth shut and ears open, weren’t they supposed to pick up all the best gossip? John had been a member of the Club, after all. And Vic, the man currently on duty, had been tending bar here forever-or at least as long as Conner had been on the tour. He might be an ideal person to have a chat with…
Conner sidled up to the bar. Vic smiled. He was a big man, mostly bald, with a rugged complexion and a drooping mustache. “What’s your poison, Conner?”
“Ginger ale.” If he was going to be any use to Jodie, he needed to keep a clear head.
The bartender stared at him briefly, then dutifully fixed the drink. Conner knew what he must be thinking. Man, this death has hit Conner harder than anyone realized.
Conner did his utmost to seem nonchalant. “Have you seen Jodie?”
Vic shook his head. “Not for an hour or so. I don’t think she’s gone far.”
“Probably just wanted some time alone.”
“No one could blame her for that.”
“How well did you know John?”
Vic eyed him carefully. He seemed surprised by the question. “Not as well as you. Why?”
“Just wondered. I thought I knew him well. But the police keep asking me who might’ve done this and-I don’t have a clue. It’s embarrassing. I feel more like a fraud than a friend.”
“Don’t blame yourself.” Vic picked up a towel and began absently wiping the bar. “You can never tell what might be going on in someone else’s life. Some of the things I hear in the bar… well, you just wouldn’t believe it. Someone could’ve held a big grudge against John and-maybe his own wife didn’t know about it. Maybe John himself didn’t know.”
Conner nodded. If that were true, Conner concluded, it would make tracking down this murderer all but impossible. “Did you hear anything about John? Anything that might constitute… a motive?”
“ ’Fraid not. Far as I knew, everyone loved John to pieces.”
Something about the way Vic said that didn’t ring quite true to Conner. “How about you? Did you like John? Was he a generous tipper?”
Vic averted his eyes. “I… probably wouldn’t have called him… generous, no.”
“Did John seem different to you lately?”
“Now that you mention it, I did think he seemed a little down of late. Depressed, maybe.”
Conner was surprised. John was depressed? He hadn’t noticed anything.
“But I didn’t think much about it. John’s been having a bad year. He made a big flash when he started out on the tour, but it’s been-what?-two years since he placed in a tournament? This year he hadn’t played at all.”
Conner considered this. It was true, but he had never seen any signs that it was wearing John down. Was that because it wasn’t-or because Conner was too wrapped up in his own performance to notice anyone else’s problems?
“And of course, John was serving on the board of directors here at the Club.”
Conner glanced up. That was true. He’d forgotten all about that.
“And I think that’d be enough to depress anyone.” Vic made a sort of snorting sound that was not so much laughter as cynicism.
“What was his position on the board?”
“You’re asking the wrong man. I think he led some kind of finance committee. But I really don’t know.”
Hmm. If Vic didn’t know, Conner knew someone who would. “And you can’t think of any other reason why John would be depressed?”
“Sorry. No.”
“Pardon me, Vic. I need a word with Mr. Cross.”
Conner turned and, to his great distress and disappointment, found himself face-to-face with Richard Peregino, the PGA morality cop.
“Just what I need,” Conner said. “What ill wind blew you in?”
“Don’t give me any crap, Cross.” In his right hand, Peregino held a baggie filled with sunflower seeds, which he popped in one after another whenever his mouth wasn’t busy talking. “I’m here to deliver a warning. And it’s the last one you’ll get.”
“Did Derwood send you? Or Spenser?”
“I don’t have anything to do with them, Cross. The PGA pays me to uphold the honor and integrity of the tour, and that’s what I intend to do.”
“And maintaining honor and integrity includes hounding me for no good reason?”
“We have standards to maintain.”
“I know all about the PGA’s standards. They didn’t delete the Caucasians-only clause from the PGA Constitution until 1961!”
Conner watched as Peregino pulled two empty sunflower seed shells out of his mouth and shoved them into his pocket. “Don’t try to confuse matters. I’m here to enforce the rules and regulations of the PGA. I’ve got a file folder on you an inch thick. You’re skating on thin ice. You’re at the end of your tether.”
Conner paused to see if any more clichés would be forthcoming. “Just leave me alone. In case you haven’t heard, my best friend died.”
“Oh, I heard all right. And despite million-to-one odds, you’re the person who found his body. Quite a coincidence, I’d say.”
Conner felt his teeth clench. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I just think it’s very suspicious, that’s all. I wonder if maybe you and John were having a little disagreement.”
Conner grabbed the man by his collar. “Look, you son-of-a-bitch. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, and if I hear you spreading this kind of bull around-”
“You’ll what? Sue?”
“I’ll knock your stupid empty head into the next county.”
Peregino made a tsking noise. “Violent tendencies. Explosive temper. I think the police will be interested to hear about this. By the way, assaulting a PGA official is a serious rules infraction. One more page for your ever-expanding file.”
Conner pushed him away. “Just leave me alone, you two-bit gestapo-wannabe. You haven’t got anything on me.”
“Your behavior. Your dress. Your stylish new haricut.”
“You can’t toss me out of the PGA for those things.”
“That isn’t true, strictly speaking. Don’t forget the image clause.”
“The what?”
“Your agreement with the PGA contains an image clause, just like everyone else’s. If you evince behavior unbecoming to the reputation or image of the PGA, I have the authority to yank your card.”
“That’s a crock of-”
“That’s a fact. And frankly, what I’m observing at the present time is hardly what I’d call model behavior.”
Conner came very close to exhibiting behavior considerably less model on Peregino’s face, but he managed to restrain himself.
“Remember, Cross-this is your last warning. I’ll be watching you.”
“You watch all you want, you sorry little-“ In the corner of his eye, Conner saw Jodie passing in the corridor. “I’ll finish with you later, asshole.”
He raced through the door and met Jodie outside. “Jodie, we need to-”
“Conner! There you are!” Jodie ran up, threw her arms around him, and hugged tightly. She planted a kiss on the side of his cheek. The touch of her lips sent an electric charge down Conner’s spine. “I can’t tell you how grateful to you I am.”
“You are? For what?”
“For-you know. Agreeing to look into what happened to John.”
Conner squirmed. “Jodie-about that-”
“I was so distraught after I found out what happened. So directionless. I even thought about-“ She paused. “But never mind. The point is-I’m past that now. Thanks to you.”
“Jodie… I think you may have too much confidence in me. I think-”
She pressed her fingers against his lips. “Shhh. Don’t. I’m not expecting miracles. Just knowing you’re out there trying… well, I can’t explain it. But somehow-it gives me the strength to keep going.”
Conner drew in his breath, then slowly released it. So much for trying to back out of this. “The press is giving me grief about continuing in the tournament.”
“I heard. But they won’t anymore.”
“How can you-”
“I just released a formal statement. That’s where I’ve been the last hour or so.” She reached into her purse and produced a sheet of paper. “Among other things, I told them that I begged you to continue playing the tournament in John’s memory, and that you reluctantly agreed. So you’re off the hook.”
Conner quickly scanned the press statement. It was just as she said, if not better. “Thanks, Jodie.”
She smiled, then took his hand and squeezed it. “Least I can do.” She pulled him into the nearest lounge, then closed the outer door. “Have you learned anything?”
Conner shrugged. “Not really. The police don’t have a suspect or, by all indications, any strong leads.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I have heard someone say they thought John seemed depressed. Did you notice anything like that?”
“Depression? John? No. If he were depressed, I would’ve known.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“I’ve never known a less depressed person than John in my entire life. Now-angry-that’s a different matter.”
“John seemed angry?”
“That last night. He definitely had a bug up his nose about something.”
“Did you ask him what it was?”
“Never got the chance. Figured I’d ask him when he returned. But of course… he never did.”
“Another thing… Why is Barry Bennett so down on John?”
Jodie turned her eyes away. “Why would you ask me?”
“Because Barry told me to.”
“It was all so long ago. But you might know-Barry is exactly the kind of person who would never forget.”
“Forget what?”
Jodie drew up her shoulders and sighed. It was obvious she didn’t want to proceed, but Conner was gratified that she did anyway. “Several years ago, after John made the PGA but before I married him, I dated Barry.”
“I never heard anything about this.”
“It was before you joined the tour.”
“Barry? And you?”
“It seems incredible now. What can I say? I was young and, frankly, stupid. Didn’t know diddly about men.”
“Evidently not.”
“Let’s give Barry some credit. He’s made a success of himself, despite extremely humble beginnings. And he can be kind and thoughtful and generous. Of course, he can also be domineering and possessive and insanely jealous.”
“I’m beginning to see where this is going.”
Jodie nodded. “It was never serious-except in Barry’s mind. John was the one I loved-I just had to be with someone else for a while to realize that. But every time I suggested to Barry that we ought to see less of each other, he’d fly off the handle. He scared me, Conner, he really did. I finally told him I didn’t want to see him any more-but I did it over the phone. Cowardly, I know-but I was seriously afraid he might lose control and-well, take it out on me. He drank too much, even back then, though nothing like he does now. The booze made him unpredictable.”
“You did the right thing.”
“But I still feel guilty about it. At any rate, about four months later, John and I were married. Barry apparently transferred all his anger from me to John. Blaming him for coming between us. It was never like that at all, but try telling Barry that.”
“Try telling Barry anything,” Conner groused.
Jodie nodded. “Especially something he doesn’t want to hear.”
A stray thought returned to Conner. “Did you ever remember what it was John said when he left that last night? The strange remark that puzzled you?”
“No, I haven’t. I’m sorry.” She shrugged apologetically. “I’m not much help, am I?”
Conner gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I think you’re very brave, Jodie. Brave and… wonderful.”
She gave him a broken, lopsided smile. “Not bad for an Oklahoma girl, anyway?”
Conner pulled her close. “Not bad at all.”
Conner returned to the bar and found it considerably more crowded. Barry was downing Scotches like nobody’s business, complaining to anyone foolish enough to listen. Ace was waxing on about his plans for “the greatest golf tournament this world has ever seen.” Freddy was nowhere in sight; probably at the other country club making last-minute purchases for his daughter’s wedding, Conner mused.
He saw Fanboy Ed sitting at a table by himself, wearing the same clothes he had worn the night before. Probably the only clothes he had smuggled in.
“Still here, kid?”
Ed barely grunted in reply.
“Where did you stay last night?”
“Found a dark place in the back of the greenskeeper’s storage shed.”
“And food?”
He shrugged. “Leftovers. And the breakfast buffet. When no one’s looking.”
Ed did not look happy. Had the full impact of his disappointment finally settled in? Or was it something more?
Conner tried to offer sympathy. “I know how you must be feeling, Ed. This has hit us all very hard.”
“I know,” Ed said. His eyes were moist. “But at least you had a chance to know John. I never even met him. All my life, as far back as I can remember, I’ve had only one ambition. To be John McCree’s caddie at the Masters tournament. And now-now-“ He couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I didn’t know you caddied,” Conner said softly.
“Well, I never have. I didn’t want to be anyone else’s caddie. I wanted to be John McCree’s caddie.”
“Ed, being a caddie for a pro requires experience and knowledge and-”
“That’s why I came early. So I could seek John out and offer my services. I wouldn’t have charged him or anything. I wanted to show him what I could do, to be close to him for a little while. And now-”
Once again, Ed’s voice dissolved. Conner decided to leave the kid to his grief. There was nothing he could do for him now.
A group of pros were huddled at the bar, preparing to make a toast. Conner wormed his way into the group. “What are we toasting?”
One of them chuckled. “Since when did you need an excuse to have a drink, Cross?”
Conner tried to laugh. “I thought we were celebrating something.”
One of the men pushed Harley Tuttle forward. “Harley’s the man of the hour!” someone shouted.
“Really!” Conner was glad to see Harley breaking into the social life on the tour. “What have you done?”
Harley looked keenly uncomfortable about all the attention. “Oh, it’s really no big deal.”
“Don’t be so modest,” Conner said. “What?”
Harley hesitated. “I’m in fourth place going into Friday.”
“That’s spectacular. Congratulations.”
Harley shrugged shyly. “Like my daddy used to say, Every dog has his day.”
“Your daddy was quite the philosopher.”
Harley smiled. “Poet laureate of Muellenburg County.”
Conner hadn’t even thought to look at the postings. He wondered what place he was in. Happily, he didn’t have to wonder long. A familiar voice sounded behind him. “Forty-seventh. In a field of sixty.”
Conner closed his eyes. “Thanks, Fitz. I was wondering. I’m sure everyone else here was, too.”
“I don’t know why you should be disappointed,” Fitz snapped. “You should be relieved.”
“Relieved?”
“After a performance like the one you gave on the course today, you should’ve placed in the three-digit numbers.”
“There are only sixty players in the tournament.”
“Like I said.” Fitz leaned into Conner’s ear. “I don’t know where your head is, Conner, but if you don’t get it on this game, you’re not going to make the Friday night cut!” With that, Fitz stomped out of the bar.
Harsh words but, alas, true ones. Conner knew he was right, and he knew that dimpled ball didn’t care what all Conner had been through. If his performance didn’t improve, he’d never make it to Saturday-the ultimate embarrassment.
As if his thoughts weren’t gloomy enough already, Fitz spotted Derwood headed his way. Derwood planted himself in front of Conner and spoke but a single word. “Come.”
Conner looked at him wryly. “This is becoming an every night thing.” He took Derwood’s hand and squeezed it. “Aren’t you afraid people will talk?”
“You’re a sick man, Cross.”
“I love it when you’re mean to me.” Conner leaned forward and kissed Derwood on the cheek.
Derwood grimaced and bolted away, wiping his cheek. “You sick-sick-“ He turned and ran out of the bar amidst a chorus of hoots and hollers.
In the chairman’s office, Conner found the usual cast of characters in their usual places. He began to wonder if these people choreographed these meetings before he arrived.
“I’m sure you know why we’ve called you here,” Spenser said in somber tones.
“As a matter of fact, I’m clueless. I thought I’d been a good boy today.”
Spenser glanced at a piece of paper in his right hand. It was some kind of report-no doubt prepared by Derwood. “I understand you’ve been bothering people on our premises. Hounding them with questions about John McCree.”
Conner’s eyebrows knitted. Who would’ve told Derwood that?
“I also understand that you behaved in a belligerent manner to certain members of the press.” He looked up from the paper. “It seems incredible but apparently you actually assaulted a reporter.”
“He had it coming,” Conner grumbled. “And then some.”
Spenser appeared flabbergasted. “You mean you don’t deny it?”
“No, I don’t deny it. He was hassling me, making nasty insinuations. Using John’s death to boost his ratings.”
Spenser drew himself up. “Well, then. Since you make no attempt to deny these charges, let me make myself absolutely clear. We will not tolerate any improper behavior toward the journalistic community. If you have a complaint about someone, you should give it to Derwood.”
“I’d sooner die.”
“But under no circumstances should you ever behave in a hostile, unprofessional manner. Much less actually strike someone!”
“Oh, all I did was shake him around a little. And believe me, he deserved it.”
“You think you’re the first pro who ever got hassled by a reporter? We depend on the press. Those big purses only exist because television reporters are interested in what you’re doing. If the reporters go away, so does the big money.”
“This is not about money.”
“On that, we are agreed,” Spenser said firmly. “It’s about decorum, a quality you are sadly lacking!”
Conner’s eyes narrowed. “Was that John’s problem?”
Spenser took a step back. “What? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Did he lack decorum as well? Did he, for instance, have trouble keeping his mouth shut?”
Spenser looked wild-eyed at the others. “Cross is a madman. An absolute madman.”
“I know John was disturbed about something the night he was killed, and I can’t think of anyone who could disturb someone more than you.”
“You’re insane!”
“Stop playing games, Spenser. I know John headed up the finance committee.”
“But-so?” Spenser sputtered. Conner was relieved. He’d taken a wild shot, but judging by Spenser’s reaction, he wasn’t far from the target. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think John knew something. Maybe he had something on you. Something you didn’t want to get out. What was it, Spenser?”
“This is an outrage!” Spenser threw up his hands. “I want this man out of here! Now!”
Conner took a step toward the door, pleased with the knowledge that he’d definitely gotten under Spenser’s skin. More than ever, he was convinced the man was hiding something. But what?
Conner saw the others in the room glancing at one another, exchanging looks. What were they thinking? Were they marking this down as another of Conner’s gonzo behavior spasms? Or were they beginning to wonder what Spenser was hiding, too?
“I’ll go,” Conner said quietly. “But I’ll be back. And when I am, I’ll expect an answer to my question.” Conner marched toward the door and, before Spenser had a chance to sputter another word, left the office.
Friday
Friday morning, bright and early, Conner dressed and headed for the coffee shop. He had a relatively late tee time, but he still wanted to be up and around with his eyes wide open. As he rounded the corner, he saw Lieutenant O’Brien standing just outside the coffee shop. As soon as she saw him, she moved forward. She was obviously waiting for him.
“Lieutenant O’Brien,” he said, grinning. “So nice to see you.”
“And so nice to see you,” O’Brien said, with her slow Georgia drawl.
Had he really told this vision he was a horticulturist? A sudden wave of guilt overcame him. He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Look, I can’t stand keeping secrets from a beautiful woman like you. Maybe I should come clean.”
“That would be very welcome.” She took his hand and, with a smooth sudden motion, spun Conner around, pinning his arm behind his back. “You’re under arrest for the murder of John McCree.”
“Hey, watch it!” Conner shouted.
“You have the right to remain silent,” O’Brien said, shoving her knee into the small of his back. “Anything you say can and will be used against you.”
“What the hell is going on?”
O’Brien shoved him up against the wall. “You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.” She slid the cuffs over his wrists and clamped them shut.
Conner bellowed, as best he was able with his face pressed against the wall. “Would you stop with the Mirandizing and tell me what’s going on?”
“I already did. You’re under arrest for murder.”
“Murder? You think I killed John?”
“No wonder you were lurking around the sand trap yesterday. The perp always returns to the scene of the crime.” She whipped Conner around to face her, then shoved him back against the wall.
“Would you stop already? That hurts.”
At that moment, Ace Silverstone happened by, apparently on his way to the coffee shop. He took one look at Conner, then the cuffs, then rolled his eyes. “Conner, keep the kinky stuff in your room, okay? We have an image to maintain.” He shook his head, then walked on toward breakfast.
O’Brien grabbed Conner’s wrist and jerked him forward. “C’mon dirtbag. I’m taking you to the station.”
“Look, lady, you’re making a big mistake.”
“Tell it to the judge.” She jerked his wrists all the harder.
“Ow! Cool it, will you? Do you get off on this rough stuff?”
“Just shut up and walk.” She marched him toward the front doors. “In case you haven’t heard, murder is a serious charge.”
“How can you possibly think I murdered John?” Conner asked. “He was my best friend.”
“That’s no big surprise. Most murder victims are killed by someone they know.”
“But I had no reason to kill him.”
“No? Then why the masquerade? Why’d you give me that song and dance about being a horticulturist?”
Conner flushed. “Is that what this is about? I was just having some fun. Trying to make a good impression on you.”
“By lying?”
“I got the distinct impression you weren’t nuts about golf pros.”
“You got that right.”
“So I made up a harmless story. You can’t haul me down to the station for that.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what possible reason could you have?”
O’Brien paused just outside the front door. “We found the murder weapon.”
Conner’s eyes widened. “Where?”
“In the rough beside the eighteenth fairway. It’s been buried since Tuesday night, but not very deep.”
“Did you run tests?”
“Of course I ran tests. Who do you think I am, Deputy Fife? She glared at him. “And guess whose fingerprints we found.”
“No way!”
“That’s why you’re wearing those pretty silver bracelets.”
“There must be some mistake.”
O’Brien’s lip curled. “My only mistake was not locking you up the second I laid eyes on you.”
“But-“ Conner paused, trying to gather his thoughts. “I haven’t been near any weapons. What was it, a knife? A blunt instrument?”
O’Brien looked at him levelly. “A golf club.”
If Conner’s eyes were wide before, they were twin balloons now. “A golf club?”
“What are you, a parrot? Yes, a golf club. A golf club with traces of blood and hair embedded in the indentations on the metal base. Your golf club.”
“How can you be sure?”
“You play with Excalibur clubs, don’t you?”
How did she know that? “I’m not the only player in the PGA to use Excaliburs.”
“Damn near. But at any rate, we traced the serial number on the base of the club. You made the mistake of buying direct from the dealer. They have your name in their files.” She leaned close to his ear. “Word of advice. Next time you’re buying a murder weapon, go retail.”
As O’Brien continued dragging him toward her car, Conner tried to process all this new information. If the serial numbers matched, then it had to be his club. But how could that be? He hadn’t killed John. And his club hadn’t been buried since Tuesday night, either. He’d had all his clubs with him during the par three Wednesday, and yesterday, too. Unless…
“Lieutenant O’Brien…” He stopped just outside the red Tercel that appeared to be her unmarked vehicle. “What club did you find buried in the rough?”
“The boys in the office tell me it’s a nine-iron. Why?”
“Of course…” he murmured. Why hadn’t he figured it out himself? He hadn’t hit a decent shot with his nine-iron since Tuesday. Why?
Because it wasn’t his nine-iron.
“O’Brien,” he said slowly, “there’s been a horrible mistake.”
“Yeah. Yours.”
“No, I mean it. I think someone switched the clubs.”
“Do I look like I’ve got grits for brains?”
“I’m serious. I’ve been framed.”
“Cross, we’ve already confirmed that it’s your club.”
“The killer must’ve taken my club and planted a look-alike in my bag so I wouldn’t notice it was gone.”
O’Brien placed one hand on her hip. “And I suppose you can prove this cockamamie story?”
“Well…”
“Tell me this, Fantasy Man. How could this purported killer get to your clubs?”
“I don’t know,” Conner said, biting down on his lower lip. “We need to talk to Fitz.”
On their way back to the clubhouse, Conner explained that, as his caddie, Fitz was the official Keeper of the Clubs. It was his job to make sure they were always where they were supposed to be. He made sure they were polished, clean, and ready to play. Golf pros and their caddies were notoriously-and understandably-protective about the clubs. They locked them up in the locker room before going to sleep. Conner also explained that Fitz was a man of honor, a man of his word. He wouldn’t lie for anyone-least of all Conner.
They found Fitz in the coffee shop enjoying a light breakfast of toast and a poached egg. At least, until they showed up.
“Hiya, Fitz,” Conner said amiably. His attempt at nonchalance was pretty feeble, considering he was being shoved forward by a police officer and had his hands cuffed behind his back. “How are the eggs this morning?”
“A bit runny, but I don’t like to complain.” His eyes lighted on the handcuffs, then on the woman close behind him. “A new paramour, Conner?”
“A new homicide detective. Lieutenant O’Brien. I’m under arrest.”
“What a novel idea. I wish I’d thought of that.” He smiled at O’Brien. “Would there be any possibility of a gag?”
Conner frowned. “I need you to explain to her about golf clubs.”
“Is the lieutenant thinking of taking up the game?”
“Hardly,” she snarled.
Conner quickly summarized what O’Brien had told him about the clubs, and what he had managed to deduce. “Fitz, I think someone must’ve taken my nine-iron and planted a ringer.”
Fitz nodded thoughtfully. “A distinct possibility. It would explain a great deal.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin and rose to his feet. “Let’s go find out.”
Fitz led them to the locker room, and the special row of lockers designed to hold the players’ golf bags. “As you can see, there’s room for an entire set of clubs.”
“And you’ve been using these lockers?” O’Brien asked.
“Absolutely. Without exception. If his clubs weren’t in play or in my possession, they were in locker 42. During the day, there’s a security guard posted outside, and at night the door is locked and bolted.”
“Then it wouldn’t be possible for someone to make a switch.”
“Unless,” Conner interjected, “Fitz did it.”
“Very astute of you,” Fitz said through thin lips.
“Fitz has been rather cranky lately. Perhaps the combination of bad temper and advanced years caused some sort of breakdown…”
“Very droll. But seriously-”
“Seriously,” O’Brien said. “I don’t see how any switch could have been made if the security on these clubs is so tight.” She grabbed Conner’s bracelets. “You’re coming downtown.”
“Wait,” Fitz said. “We’re forgetting something.”
“And what would that be?” O’Brien asked.
“Tuesday night.”
Conner shook his head. “Believe me, Fitz, Tuesday night is indelibly stamped on my brain.”
“You’re forgetting the driving range.”
Conner’s lips parted. “Oh, my-”
“The driving range?” O’Brien said.
“Tuesday night Conner took out his clubs so he could hit a few balls on the driving range,” Fitz explained. “It’s something he and John do-did-before the first day of every tournament.”
“John never showed up,” Conner continued.
“And I guess now we know why,” Fitz added.
“So I started hitting the balls myself. Then Freddy lured me to the locker room so I could peep through his-“ He shot a quick glance at O’Brien.
“You were saying?” she inquired.
“-his… stock portfolio.”
She looked at him levelly. “He wanted you to peep through his stock portfolio?”
“Right. Had some new company he was promoting that’s invented a better… um… better battery.”
“A better battery?”
“For video cameras and stuff. A battery that doesn’t have a memory so you don’t have to worry about draining it completely before recharging.”
“But why-”
“Anyway,” Conner said hurriedly, “I left the driving range with Freddy. Afterwards, I met someone in the bar and we got to talking and-”
O’Brien took out her notebook. “Who did you meet?”
Conner stopped. “A… an old friend.”
“And your friend’s name?”
Conner glanced at Fitz, who shook his head, then back at O’Brien. What was that student’s name? “I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember your old friend’s name?”
Fitz cut in. “It’s the brain seizures, ma’am. They strike without warning. Some mornings he can’t even remember where he is.”
“Brain seizures?”
“It’s a tragedy. Especially with a man so young.”
“Brain seizures?”
“Well, of course.” Fitz leaned close to her ear and whispered. “How else could you explain the way he dresses?”
“Good point.”
“Anyway,” Fitz said, forging ahead, “the gist of it is, this maroon left his clubs on the driving range. I found them, maybe an hour or so after he left, and I locked them up for the night. But before that anyone could’ve gotten to his clubs.” Fitz put the key in the lock, opened the door, and pulled out Conner’s bag.
O’Brien peered over his shoulder. “Which one of these is the nine-iron?”
“This one,” Fitz said, pulling the club out of the bag. “And if I’m not mistaken…” He pulled one of the other irons out and held the two next to one another. “See for yourself. The nine-iron is shorter than the other.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s not Conner’s club.” Fitz laid the suspect nine-iron on the changing bench. “See that? It’s bent, too. Just a bit, in the middle.”
O’Brien crouched down beside him. “Sure enough.”
“That explains why your game went to hell in a handbasket whenever you used the nine,” Fitz said. “The shaft’s too short for you and it’s bent to boot. Small wonder your drives sliced.”
“Damn,” Conner said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Why didn’t I think of it, is the question.” Fitz folded his arms angrily across his chest. “It’s my job.”
“You couldn’t possibly have known. It looks like the other clubs.”
“It’s my job to know. I should’ve suspected the second your game went off. If it had happened to Arnold Palmer, I’d have realized immediately it must be the club. But when it’s you, I just assumed-”
Conner arched an eyebrow. “Ye-es…?”
“I just assumed-“ Fitz drew in his breath. “Well, never mind what I assumed. I’m sorry, Conner. I should’ve been on top of this.” He addressed himself to Lieutenant O’Brien. “So you see what really happened, ma’am. Conner isn’t the murderer. Someone pulled a switch.”
O’Brien frowned. “I’m not entirely convinced. His fingerprints were all over the murder weapon.”
“Course they were. It’s his club. The killer probably used gloves.”
“The fact that the clubs were switched doesn’t prove he didn’t commit the murder. He might’ve switched the clubs just to throw us off his trail.”
“Could you both stop referring to me in third person?” Conner asked.
Fitz gave O’Brien a penetrating gaze. “Do you really think this man is capable of thinking of something that smart?”
“Now wait a minute-”
O’Brien nodded. “Good point. I suppose I have to release him-that is, you, Cross. For the moment, anyway.” She withdrew the key from her pocket and popped open the cuffs. “Mind you, you’re still under suspicion. So don’t leave town.”
“Can’t. Got a tournament to play.”
“There’s no point in arresting you and initiating a preliminary hearing unless I can make the charge stick. I need to be able to answer some of these questions about the murder weapon.” She snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute. Maybe if we traced this club-“ She picked up the nine-iron resting on the changing bench and examined the metal base. “Blast. The serial number has been scraped off.”
“What more proof do you need?” Conner said. “Obviously, that club originally belonged to the killer. He scraped off the serial number so you couldn’t trace him. Then he switched it for mine and used mine to kill John.”
“Maybe so,” O’Brien said, deep in thought. “But if that’s so-someone was intentionally trying to frame you.”
“She’s right,” Fitz concurred.
“But who would want to see you in trouble?”
Fitz answered for Conner. “Who wouldn’t?”
O’Brien smiled thinly. “I heard you were doing a little investigating on your own yesterday. I assumed you were just covering yourself. Diverting suspicion.”
“You were wrong,” Conner said firmly. “I want to know who murdered John. And if you can’t figure it out-I will.”
“Bold words from a man who makes his living knocking a little white ball around.” O’Brien clipped her cuffs to the back of her belt. “Well, if you have any sudden brainstorms, or remember anything new, I expect you to call immediately.”
“I will,” Conner promised. “And Lieutenant-”
“Yeah?”
“I swear I didn’t kill John.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“You know, there’s one thing I haven’t heard yet. You say the murder weapon was a golf club. How exactly was John killed?”
The corners of O’Brien’s mouth turned up, as if a playful thought was tossing around in her brain and she just couldn’t decide whether to go for it or not. “You really want to know?” she said finally.
“That’s why I asked.”
She pondered a moment. “I suppose it might be useful to have someone around who understands this silly game.” She nodded. “Okay, come with me.”
Conner blew air through the holes in the top of his face mask. “This isn’t what I had in mind.”
Merry crinkles outlined O’Brien’s eyes. “You said you wanted to do some investigating.”
“Yeah, at the golf course. Not the county morgue.”
Before he’d had a decent chance to protest, O’Brien had shoved him into her car and driven him ten minutes downtown to the coroner’s office where, Conner was delighted to learn, the autopsy of his best friend’s remains was still in progress. She’d issued him a face mask and rubbed some Mentholatum under his nose. It was supposed to kill the smell of formaldehyde and… whatever else might be in the air.
It didn’t.
“Look at it this way, Cross,” O’Brien drawled. “You’ve missed the preliminary examination. Dr. Jarrett is already well into the actual postmortem.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Well, basically, the preliminary examination involves the skillful violation of each and every bodily orifice.”
“Sounds like the sort of thing you’d enjoy.”
“Whereas the postmortem involves the actual slivering and dismembering of bodily tissue.”
“Delightful.”
“With a few other tests and examinations along the way, just to keep things lively. C’mon-let’s go inside.”
Together, they stepped into the operating theater. There was one table in the room, and one body on the table, partially draped by a sheet. Even in this deteriorated condition, Conner had no trouble making an identification.
It was John McCree. His best friend. What was left of him.
In life, John had always had a wonderful tan. The miracle tan, the press called it, since it seemed to stay with him even during the off-season. But today, his complexion was a sickly ochre, complementing the puke green paint on the operating-room walls.
His face was much as it had been when Conner had last seen it. There was still a pronounced gash on the side of his skull, but now the blood had dried and coagulated. Conner suspected some of it had been removed; it had seemed much messier when he first rolled the body over in the sand trap. His jaw seemed loose, perhaps even disconnected. From the murder? Conner wondered. Or had the decomposition already begun?
“Let me introduce you to Dr. Jarrett,” O’Brien said. “Dr. Jarrett, this is Conner Cross, the world-famous golfer.”
Dr. Jarrett made a grunting noise that may have been a greeting but sounded more as if he were in gastric distress. He never looked up from his work.
“Is he always this friendly?” Conner asked.
“This is a good day for him,” O’Brien answered. “He hasn’t tried to evict you or started throwing stilettos.”
“Stilettos?”
“Surgical stilettos. The man is deadly with them. Could probably get work with the circus. As you’ll likely see when I start asking him questions.”
Conner made a mental note to keep a close watch on the man’s throwing arm. What surprised him most about Dr. Jarrett was his age-or lack thereof. The good doctor appeared to be in his early thirties, maybe even younger. Conner wasn’t sure why that surprised him. Somehow he had always imagined coroners as aged, grizzled men, hunched over the autopsy table, finding perverse pleasure and strange satisfaction in filleting corpses. With his broad shoulders and long blond hair (currently tucked into a hairnet), Dr. Jarrett looked more like he should be down at the beach with Gidget and Moondoggie than in the au-topsy room.
“Dr. Jarrett’s only been with us for two years,” O’Brien explained, as if reading Conner’s mind, which he didn’t rule out. “But he’s greatly distinguished himself in that time. He’s considered the top forensic man in the county.”
Goody, Conner thought. That explains everything. Except why I’m here.
“Dr. Jarrett,” O’Brien said, projecting her voice across the operating table, “have you had a chance to run any time analysis?”
Conner found Jarrett’s grunt incomprehensible, but O’Brien obviously took it as an affirmative reply. Conner wasn’t sure if this was a sign of greater comprehension or simply greater optimism.
“Can you estimate the time of death?”
At last, Dr. Jarrett took a break from his slicing and dicing. He drew himself up and squinted at O’Brien, as if he were having a hard time focusing. “Estimates are difficult, given the time that expired before the corpse was discovered. But based on an analysis of relative body temperatures, correlated with an analysis of the stomach contents, I’d say the victim died Tuesday night. Between ten and midnight.”
Conner nodded. “Shortly after he left his cabin. After Jodie saw him last. That explains why he never showed up at the driving range.”
“What was the cause of death?” O’Brien asked.
Dr. Jarrett didn’t look up. His reply was barely audible. “That is what I am endeavoring to discover.”
“C’mon, doctor. Give me a break.”
“Gladly,” he replied, holding up a ball-peen hammer. “Where would you like it?”
O’Brien smiled thinly. “I know the drill. You haven’t finished all your tests and the lab work isn’t in and you haven’t filed a report. When you do, I’ll read it and I’m sure I’ll be riveted by every word. But in the meantime… give me something to go on, okay?”
Dr. Jarrett’s lips pursed, considering. Conner wasn’t sure if he was considering whether to talk or whether to cause bodily injury.
At last, Jarrett spoke. “See this?”
He pulled down a goose-necked lamp and shone it directly on the side of John’s head. Conner winced. Under the harsh light, John’s face seemed scarred by a translucent blue-green spider web. Conner looked away.
“You going to be all right?” O’Brien asked.
“Yeah,” Conner said, barely above a whisper.
“Close your eyes and think of Pebble Beach.” She turned back toward Jarrett. “All right, doctor. What’s the point?”
“Death was, in all likelihood, caused by a sharp blow by a metal object.”
“Like a golf club?”
“That would be consistent with all the external evidence.” He paused. “There may have been two or three blows, but no more than that, I think. And if there were multiple blows, they were delivered with considerable skill and accuracy to the same region of the head to such an extent that I can’t be certain. At least not yet.”
O’Brien arched an eyebrow. “Hear that, Cross? You got any suspects who are good with a golf club?”
“Yeah,” Conner grunted. “All of them.”
“The blow or blows ruptured the meningeal artery,” Dr. Jarrett continued, “and caused an immediate brain hemorrhage. After that, death would have soon followed.”
“Would he-“ Conner drew in his breath and tried again. “Would he have felt much… pain?”
For once, Dr. Jarrett’s face softened a bit. “It’s impossible to know with any certainty. Death would have come quickly. But how quickly… well, I just can’t say. I’m sorry.” He looked down abruptly and returned to his work.
O’Brien tried another question. “What can you tell us about the place of death, doctor? Are we dealing with a DRT? Or was the body moved?”
A state of extreme irritation blanketed the doctor’s face. “If you don’t mind, Lieutenant, I’m working.”
“So am I. What about it?”
Conner saw Jarrett’s eyes flicker toward his instruments’ table. Was this when target practice would begin? He took a step toward the door, just in case. “If the body was moved, it wasn’t moved much. Probably just pushed into the sand trap and buried.”
“Then John was already out on the course,” Conner said, thinking aloud. “Either that, or he was lured there by the killer.”
“Maybe he was forced out there,” O’Brien offered. “Like at gunpoint.”
“I find that hard to believe. Too risky. John was strong and smart-he’d have figured a way out. And what if they’d been seen? No, he must’ve had a reason to go out there. Someone must’ve persuaded him to go.” Conner’s face suddenly went white.
“What?” O’Brien said, staring at him. “What is it?”
“Don’t you see? Security has been at its peak since before the tournament began. I know at least one person who slipped in, sure, but the fact remains-security is tight. But someone still got to John. Someone lured him onto the eighteenth green and killed him.”
“So?”
“So,” Conner said slowly, “all the evidence points to one conclusion. The killer must’ve been someone John knew.” He paused. “Probably someone connected to the tournament.”
As soon as he could escape the morgue, Conner hitched a ride back to the Augusta National, where Fitz was anxiously awaiting him at the first tee. He still couldn’t believe he was actually going to play golf, after all that had happened. It didn’t seem right, even after everything Jodie had said, and all he had promised her. On the other hand, given the most recent developments, he was lucky he wasn’t in prison. And playing golf was definitely preferable to prison.
For once, Fitz didn’t appear to be in his attack-dog mode, perhaps because he knew where Conner had been and what he must have been through. “How was it?” he said, not quite looking Conner in the eye.
“ ’Bout like you’d expect,” Conner replied. He preferred to avoid details that he’d rather forget.
“Learn anything?”
“Not really.” Conner paused. “Well, one thing. I’m pretty certain John’s killer must be someone here at the tournament.”
Fitz nodded. “Stands to reason.” He laid a hand on Conner’s shoulder. “Think you can play golf?”
“Think I’d better.” Conner shook himself, trying to rouse himself out of his stupor. “Don’t want to disappoint my groupies.”
Fitz led Conner toward the first tee-off, where he already had Conner’s clubs ready to play. Once again, Conner had been paired with Barry and Ace, but today Harley Tuttle joined their little group as well.
“Big crowd, isn’t it?” Harley said, gazing at the large collection of fans gathered behind the ropes beside the first tee.
“Yeah,” Conner agreed. “Biggest I’ve seen in a long while.” He would’ve liked to have believed the legions were gathered to see him play, but a quick reality check told him they were more likely assembled to observe Ace. “That bother you?”
Harley shrugged. “I don’t much like the razzmatazz. I usually try to stay away from the superstars. All this attention blows things out of proportion. You know what my daddy used to say?”
“I have a hunch I’m about to.”
“You can’t hang pumpkins on a morning glory.”
Conner nodded thoughtfully. “Harley, what the hell does that mean?”
“Beats me. Guess I should’ve asked daddy.”
Conner gave him a slap on the shoulder. “You’ll get used to the crowds.” He tried to be reassuring, although in truth, he sympathized with Harley. Normally he loved attention, but this morning, he wasn’t in the mood. For someone who tended to be reserved and reclusive like Harley, and who was new on the tour, he could see how having an entourage could ruin his game. “Block them out of your mind. Pretend they’re not there.”
“Easy to say.” Harley wandered off toward his golf bag and took a few practice swings.
Ace emerged from the clubhouse, and the instant the crowd saw him, a tremendous cheer went up. Hats flew into the air, people pumped their fists, and a group in the rear began chanting: “Ace! Ace! Ace!”
“Is he running for something?” Conner inquired.
“As opposed to you,” Fitz replied, “who are usually running from something.”
Ace waved to the gallery, bowing his head in feigned humility. The crowd cheered again. Ace flashed a perfect dentally-enhanced smile, then strolled over to Conner. “Did you see that? Did you hear it?”
“We saw it,” Conner replied. “We heard it.”
“Man, those people love me. They just… love me!”
Conner nodded. “But will they respect you in the morning?”
“I’ve got to get myself a tournament,” Ace said, pounding a fist against his open hand. “Can you imagine? With this following? It’d be the biggest event of the season! There’s got to be some way to open up a weekend on the schedule.”
“Maybe if the Augusta National was buried by a volcano,” Conner suggested.
Ace nodded grimly. If he perceived that Conner was making a joke, he didn’t let it show. “That’s something to hope for, anyway.”
Conner brushed past Barry on his way to the first tee. Barry didn’t look at him, and he didn’t look at Barry. Didn’t speak, either. Conner supposed he should feel slightly less hostile toward the man now that he knew what his grudge was all about-but he didn’t. Besides, Barry looked as if he’d been drinking already, and a pungent whiff of alcoholic afterbreath was probably all Conner needed to send him to the vomitorium.
Fitz tugged at his sleeve. “Look, before you start, let’s go over a few things.”
“Nah,” Conner said. “Let’s just do it.”
“Do it? Do what? Do what you did yesterday?” Ah, now this was more like the Fitz Conner had grown to know and… tolerate. “I realize you’re playing under adverse circumstances. But the fact remains-you are playing. Your reputation is at stake, as well as your record. If you play another game like yesterday’s, you won’t make the cut tonight. You won’t even get to finish the tournament.”
“Fitz, you know I don’t take well to scoldings. Let’s just play.”
“If you play like you did yesterday-”
“Yesterday I was playing with a nine-iron that wasn’t mine. Today I’m not. That should make a difference, don’t you think?” Conner drew a wood from his bag. “Besides, for some reason, I feel good about my game right at the moment. I’m ready. So clear out of the way and let me play.”
Fitz screwed his lips together and, after transmitting a few stony glares, stomped away. Apparently even he knew when persistence was futile.
True to Conner’s prediction, he did play better. In fact, the first nine holes went like a dream. Now that he had expunged all the too-short clubs with dents in the side, he was back on track. His putting was still the weakest part of his game, but he compensated for it with consistent power drives. He managed to finish the first nine four under par. And he traversed Amen Corner without picking up too many strokes. But on the fifteenth, he ran into trouble.
“Now be careful,” Fitz said, bending Conner’s ear whether he liked it or not. “The embankment in front of the green just over the water has been cut so short that any ball that lands in front of the green from a distance will roll back and get wet. Trust me on this-I’ve already seen it happen to three players this morning. Hell, Johnnie Walgreen’s ball landed on the green-but it still rolled down into the trap. You need to lay up.”
“Lay up?” Conner repeated, appalled. Laying up meant he would hit the ball part of the way down the fairway, then chip the ball onto the green with his second shot. “That’s not my style. I hate laying up.”
“I know you do. But we aren’t on the playground and this isn’t the time to show what a macho stud you are.”
“Only wussies and sissies lay up.”
“Sissies like Arnold Palmer? Wussies like Jack Nicklaus? Champions lay up, Conner. Strategy is part of the game. That means knowing when to go for it-and when not to go for it.”
“If being a champion means being a sissy, I’d just as soon not.”
“Conner, don’t be such a damned juvenile. Lay up!”
“I don’t like playing it safe. Doesn’t seem right.”
“Do it anyway.”
“Mmm… nah.”
“Conner! This is not about proving how big your club is.”
“Thank you, Bagger Vance. I’m going for it.”
Fitz looked as if he might start tearing his hair out at any moment. “Conner-!”
“I’ve made up my mind. Give me some room, okay?” Conner snatched a driver and squared himself before the tee. If he could get the ball all the way to the far side of the green, surely that would be enough. How long could the ball roll?
Conner took a deep breath, focused on the ball, focused on the target, and swung. The ball flew into the air, rocketing upward like a comet.
Gasps emerged from the peanut gallery. The ball was halfway down the fairway and still flying fast. The only question was how close it would get to the green.
The ball started its downward spiral, finally plopping impressively close to the green. Unfortunately, it didn’t stop there. There was a little bounce as the ball touched down… and then it began inexorably rolling downhill. It moved slowly at first, but to Conner’s horror, instead of running out of steam, it picked up speed the more it rolled. The grass was simply too sheer, and his ball had come down too hard…
A groan from the spectators followed the little plopping noise that told Conner his ball was in the water. Enraged, Conner whipped off his cap, threw it down on the ground and began stomping on it.
“Don’t take it out on the cap,” Fitz said sharply. “It wanted you to lay up.”
Gritting his teeth, Conner saw that Barry was laughing his head off, bracing himself against a ball washer. “Your balls have been in the water so much,” Barry said, between bursts of hysterical laughter, “you ought to buy them scuba gear!”
No, there was no ambiguity about it now, Conner thought silently. He definitely didn’t like Barry. Definitely.
By the time they reached the seventeenth hole, relations between Conner and Fitz were even more strained. Conner had lost three strokes on the debacle of the fifteenth hole, then two more on the sixteenth. He was over par now, and his chances of making the cut were getting slimmer with every stroke.
The seventeenth hole was a par-five, but Conner knew it was doable in three, possibly even two, if he pushed the ball to the max and didn’t drive into one of the pot bunkers on the fairway.
Given the importance of the matter at hand, Fitz apparently found himself unable to remain quiet any longer. “Use the seven-iron. Go for four. Five, even.”
Conner shook his head. “I need to make up some strokes.”
Fitz clutched his forehead. “Please tell me you’re not going to try to get to the green in two.”
“I am.”
“Are you nuts? Do you not see those pot bunkers out there?”
“I’m over par.”
“What’s done is done. You can’t make up for past mistakes now. The smartest thing to do is just try to play the rest of the holes right.”
“I think I can do this in two.” He reached for a wood.
“You’re delusional! You’re in Fantasyland!”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Conner said airily. “I know there’s some risk. But I think I can do this. And I’m not a wussie. So I’m going for it.”
Fitz jammed the seven-iron back in its slot, and kicked the golf bag for good measure. “Why do you bother to keep me around, anyway?”
“Because you’re such a snappy dresser.”
Conner stretched, took several deep breaths, then let it fly. To the surprise of no one other than Conner himself, the ball careened into a pot bunker with such unerring precision that it seemed as if it must have some kind of homing mechanism. Conner had to play out sideways, adding two unwanted strokes to his score. Worse, he missed the green with his next shot, putted poorly as usual, and ended up bogeying the hole.
By the time he finished the eighteenth hole, there was no conversation between Conner and Fitz-and no need for it, either. They both knew what had happened. Conner had crashed and burned. This time, he was the one who blew off the reporters huddled under the spreading maple and headed straight for the locker room. He threw his gear in a locker and headed for the showers. By the time he had toweled off and returned, he found Fitz waiting for him.
“What are you doing here? Don’t you have some… caddie stuff to take care of?”
Conner hoped Fitz didn’t wear dentures, because if he did, given the way he was clenching his jaw, they were likely to pop at any moment. “I have something to say, and I want you to listen.”
“It’s over, Fitz. Let it be.”
“I will not let it be, and you will listen!” Fitz grabbed Conner’s still damp shoulder and shoved him down on a bench. “What does it take to get through to you? You’re killing yourself out there, Conner! Committing sports suicide!”
“It’s just a game, Fitz. Don’t blow it all out of proportion.”
“Don’t give me that, ‘I’m so cool I don’t really care’ routine. I know damn well you’d like to be a winner. And I know you could be a winner. But not until you shape up and learn to listen!”
“I listen fine, Fitz. What bothers you is that I don’t always obey.”
“No, what bothers me is that you keep doing things that are so stupid, stupid, stupid!”
“Fitz, take a chill pill.”
“You signed up with me for a reason, remember, Conner? Because you knew I could help you. And I can, too-if you’ll let me.”
“Do you mind if I get dressed? I’m starting to feel a draft.”
“What does it take to get you to listen? Do you have any idea how long I’ve been playing this game? Since 1960, golf’s greatest year. I watched the Masters that year on television-Hogan, Palmer, Nicklaus, all playing their best. It was spectacular. I’d never seen anything like it.”
“You must’ve led a very sheltered life.”
“Yeah,” Fitz shot back. “I didn’t live in a thriving metropolis like Watonga, Oklahoma. For your information, I had a great childhood. But what I saw those men do on television that year-that was magic. I wanted to be a part of their world.”
“So you took up golf?”
“Damn straight. I got my first caddie job when I was twelve, at the Riverside Country Club in New Brunswick. I toted bags for some of the best Canada had to offer. Half the time I didn’t even get paid-but I did get onto the course free, which was all I really wanted. Before long, I got a rep as a player and as a caddie-someone who knew what he was talking about. By the time I was sixteen, I was caddying on a regular basis for the club pro. He started taking me around, introducing me to the courses, the clubs, the pros, and…”
“If you were such a hot player, why did you end up caddying?”
Fitz hesitated. “I was good… but I wasn’t that good.”
“But that’s what you always wanted, wasn’t it? Deep down, you didn’t want to carry bags-you wanted to have bags carried for you.”
Fitz gave him an evil eye. “I was realistic enough to know that I wasn’t good enough to play the pro circuit. But I still wanted to be a part of the action. To me, golf was sacred. Still is, damn it. So I worked as a caddie. And I’ve been working ever since. I’ve worked with some of the great names of the last forty years of golf. That’s why it’s so frustrating for me to see you playing the way you have been.”
Conner grunted. “Yeah, must be a real comedown to be associated with the likes of me.”
“Don’t you get it, you moron?” He grabbed Conner by the shoulders. “I chose you. I had tons of offers, from some of the top men on the money list. But I decided to work with you, because when I first saw you play, I saw something.”
“Manly good looks?”
Fitz ignored him. “I saw the same thing I saw in Gary Player and Ben Hogan and Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer. The makings of a champion.”
Conner fell silent.
“You have the stuff, Conner. You could be one of the greats-maybe the greatest. If I could just get you to start taking the game seriously and to listen to me. I know every stroke, every course, every club-”
Conner’s head jerked up. “Every club?”
“Yeah. Every player, every strategy-”
“Wait a minute. Let’s go back to ‘every club.’ ”
“What are you babbling about?”
“Since you’re the expert on players and their clubs-who else uses an Excalibur nine-iron?”
Fitz pondered for a moment. “Excalibur clubs are a bit unusual and rarely used-as I’m sure you already know. That’s probably why you picked them.”
“Yeah, yeah-so who else uses them?”
Fitz answered without missing a beat. “Only three players currently on the tour use Excaliburs. You-assuming you count as a player on the tour-Ernie Korman, who’s out sick this week and safely back in Newark -and Freddy Granger.”
“Freddy? Freddy uses Excaliburs?”
“Right. Has for years. Quite a coincidence, huh?”
“Yeah. Especially since he was the one who lured me away from my clubs Tuesday night.” Conner pressed a finger against his lips. “Where is he, anyway? I haven’t seen him all day.”
“Freddy played early. Probably took off as soon as he was done. He’s got a wedding to get ready for, you know.”
“Right, right,” Conner said, deep in thought. “I heard all about it yesterday. Big wingding. Costing him an arm and a leg. The best little daughter a daddy ever had. Reception at the Magnolia Glade Country Club.”
“You’re smarter than you look,” Fitz replied. “All the players are invited. Are you going?”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Conner murmured, as he reached for his clothes. “But now I may change my plans.”
After he escaped Fitz and the locker room, Conner made a beeline for the clubhouse where he knew the results of the day’s play would be posted. He tried to act as if it didn’t matter, tried to tell himself he didn’t care. But the sad truth was, it did, and he did. His stomach was churning over the thought that he might not make the cut. That he might suffer the ultimate humiliation-being sent home packing before the real tournament play began.
When he arrived, Conner saw the bar was packed. Practically every pro in the tournament was there, anxiously awaiting the posting of the results. Despite the crowd, the room was deathly silent. A few scattered whispers, nothing more. It was almost as if no one wanted to breathe, at least not until they learned whether they’d made the cut. He also noticed that Vic the bartender was working overtime; lots of booze was circulating-soothing nerves and calming fears while each player’s fate remained in limbo.
“Psst.” Ace Silverstone waved Conner over to the bar. Conner reluctantly complied, not in small part influenced by the fact that there didn’t appear to be an empty seat in the room. “Have you heard anything about Tiger?”
Conner frowned. “Can’t say as I have. Why?”
Ace shrugged. “Rumor is he tied my score. Maybe even beat me by a stroke. Just wanted to confirm.”
“Relax, Ace. I’m sure you made the cut.”
“Well, yes. Obviously. But I want to know if I’ve got the lead.”
“Whether you’re first or second, you’re going to be sitting pretty for the last two days of the tournament.”
“That’s not the point. I’ve got a film crew dogging me, remember? I don’t want them to report that I came in second, you know? Too humiliating.”
“Oh, right,” Conner said. “I’d be devastated.”
“I wish they’d get those damn postings up. I can’t stand not knowing.”
Conner made a tsking sound. “Success is a cruel master.”
“You can say that again.” A grin crept over his face. “Say, did you hear what Freddy did today?”
Conner’s ears perked up. “No. What?”
“Oh, man. He was a disaster out there. A walking comedy of errors. Truly awful.”
“Like what exactly?”
“I haven’t gotten all the details yet. But I hear he hit every water hole on Amen Corner. Some of them twice.”
Conner shrugged. “Anyone can have an off day. God knows I have.”
“This was more than an off day. This was more like an off lifetime. Word is he finished ten over par.”
Ten? Conner whistled. That had to hurt. “I expect Freddy just has more important things on his mind. His daughter’s getting married tonight, you know.”
“Yeah. You going to the reception?”
“I’m giving it some serious thought. You?”
“I don’t know.” Ace glanced over his shoulder. “Film crew, remember? I hate to make a scene-you know, disrupt the reception. But the camera boys thought it might be nice to have some footage of me showing up at a family celebration for one of the other pros. You know, showing that no matter how successful I’ve become, I still have time for the… uh… the…”
Little people? Conner wondered.
“The better things in life. Family. Friends. And they thought if I came, it might help make the event special. For Freddy and his daughter.”
Sort of like the arrival of a visiting dignitary, Conner presumed.
He was distracted by the all too familiar sound of drunken grumbling on the opposite side of the bar. In this mostly quiet room, the raspy words were like a gong sounding at daybreak. Barry Bennett was back on the sauce, and to make matters worse, he’d returned to his favorite subject: why he didn’t like John McCree.
“It iss’t so much whadde did,” Barry said, slurring his words with impunity. “It’ss the way he did it.”
Conner bit down on his lower lip. Don’t start, Barry. Just don’t start.
“Sure,” Barry continued, even louder than before, “they say allss fair’n love and war. But some thingsiss right, and some thingsiss wrong.”
Conner glanced over his shoulder. As he suspected, everyone in the room was listening. The expressions on their faces covered a wide spectrum from the amused to the appalled.
“Mind you, I don’t care ’nymore,” Barry said with a hiccup. “I’m over it. Totally over it. But iss hard to have much respect for a man with no honor.”
“Barry,” Conner said, trying to keep his voice calm and even, “why don’t you just shut the hell up?”
“I gotta right to speak my piece,” Barry said. Unfortunately, it seemed the booze made him both feisty and stupid. “There’s this li’l thing called the First Amendment, see? You can’t censor me.”
“I can censor you with my fist,” Conner said curtly. “And I’m about two seconds from starting.”
“Hey, calm down,” Ace said, laying a hand on Conner’s shoulder.
“Oh, stop playing the peacemaker,” Conner shot back. “The cameras aren’t on.” He turned toward Barry. “Just listen to me for one second, you sorry inebriate. Did it ever occur to you that there might be something screwy about blaming John? Jodie’s the one who dumped you. She made the choice, not him.”
“It wass’t her fault,” Barry answered. His eyes wavered so Conner thought he might crumble to the floor at any moment. “He manipulated her. Took advantage of her. Bought her.”
“Bought her? Man, you are truly looped.”
“He did. With lossa jewelry and fancy cars and a lotta other crap I couldn’t begin to afford. He didn’t play fair. He jus’ bought her-like he did everything else.”
Conner was about to follow up when he detected some rapid movement behind him. Craning his neck, he saw his good buddy Andrew Spenser entering the room. He was holding a large spreadsheet. And Conner knew what that meant, as did every other pro in the room.
The postings.
Spenser cleared his throat. “First of all, I want to thank each and every one of you for your participation in our tournament. By your noble efforts and stalwart athleticism, you have once again maintained the high standards of excellence that the Masters-”
“Jesus God,” someone in the back of the room groaned. “Just tell us if we made the cut!”
Even Spenser had to smile this time. “As you wish. I’ll post the results next to the bar. For those who will proceed, tee times begin tomorrow morning at nine. And to all of you, my heartfelt congratulations. You’re all winners.”
Conner wondered if that included him; he decided it was probably best not to quiz Spenser on that particular point.
As soon as Spenser had the results thumb-tacked to the bulletin board, the crowd surged forward en masse, pressing forward to see where they stood. Conner stayed at the bar, determined to remain cool, trying to look superior while the other lemmings desperately shoved their way through the throng. It was just a game, for God’s sake. The world would go on spinning regardless of who hit their little white ball the best. It didn’t matter a hill of beans-
Oh, the hell with it. Conner sprang from the bar and elbowed his way to the bulletin board. The first thing he saw was the top score, which belonged-surprise, surprise-to Ace. He’d shot a 136-a full ten strokes better than Conner.
His heart sank. What chance did he possibly have? His eyes raced down the list. Happily, it was alphabetized and the distance to the Cs was not great. Calley, Carter, Cresswell…
Cross. Conner Cross. A quick check for the magic checkmark in the right-hand column…
He’d made it. He’d made it! Just barely, but praise God he’d made the cut.
Conner quickly checked the scores of his partners. Harley was ranked fourth, but Barry had finished a stroke worse than Conner and consequently came in under the cut. And Freddy hadn’t even come close.
Conner staggered away from the postings, feeling as if some guardian angel had just rescued him from the jaws of death. Sure, it didn’t matter, and the world wouldn’t stop revolving… but thank heaven! He’d made the cut!
He stumbled into the corridor, so relieved he barely knew what he was doing. He almost collided with Jodie before he’d even realized she was there.
“I’m guessing,” Jodie said, “from that pathetic grin on your face that you made the cut.”
“Yes.” Conner beamed. “Yes!” He calmed himself. “I mean, not that it matters.”
“Right. John always felt the same way.” She smiled, and Conner had no choice but to reflect on what a beautiful smile it was. So sweet it made you feel all warm and fuzzy; so tender it made you want to wrap her in your arms and never let her go. Was that what had first drawn him to her, all those years ago?
“Which reminds me,” Jodie said. “I thought of it.”
Conner blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I thought of it. What I was trying to remember. What John said on his way out of the cabin. Just before he was killed.”
Conner grabbed her by the arms. “What was it?”
“Well, you have to understand up front-I don’t know what the context was. I’m not sure there was one, actually, except maybe in John’s brain. But I do remember what he said. I would’ve asked him about it. If I’d ever gotten the chance.”
“Jodie, tell already. What did he say?”
She drew in her breath. “ Fiji.”
“Pardonnez moi?”
“You heard me. Fiji.”
“As in… the islands?”
“Beats hell out of me. But that’s definitely what he said. Fiji.”
Fiji? Fiji? Conner rolled the word through his brain. What could it possibly mean?
“Wait a minute,” Conner said, after a moment’s reflection. “Didn’t you and John go on a cruise through the Pacific not too long ago?”
“That was before my time,” Jodie explained. “Before John married me. But he went on an island cruise. I don’t know if he went to the Fijis or not.”
Conner wasn’t sure, either. To be honest, he wasn’t even sure where the Fijis were. But it might be worth finding out. Was it possible something had happened to John on the cruise all those years ago-something that eventually led to his death?
“Jodie, are you sure he said Fiji? Could it have been something that just sounded like Fiji? Like maybe… squeegee? Or Ouija?”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“Or maybe he was saying several words, but saying them so fast they kind of ran together.”
“Maybe. He didn’t realize I was listening.”
“Or maybe not words. Maybe… letters.” If someone said the letters F-E-G very quickly, wouldn’t it come out sounding something like… Fiji? “I don’t know what to make of this, Jodie.”
“It may not mean anything,” Jodie admitted. “Who knows-maybe he was just humming the words to a song or something. It’s just that-well, I wanted to ask him about it. And I never-I never-“ Her voice trailed off.
Conner put his arm around her. “I’m sorry, Jodie,” he said quietly. “This must be tearing you apart. Maybe we should just let this be.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I want answers. I want to know what happened to my-my-“ She paused, collecting herself. “My Johnny.” All at once, tears spilled out of her eyes.
Conner hugged her tightly. “Then we will, honey. We will.” As he gazed into her eyes, Conner realized that she really hadn’t changed all that much from those days in high school when he’d had such a terrific crush on her. When he’d loved her so much.
Come to mention it, he hadn’t changed all that much either.
Conner kissed her gently on the top of her head, then returned to the main lobby. It was starting to get dark now, and if he remembered correctly, the “wedding reception of the century” was scheduled to begin at eight. He picked up the phone.
Seven beeps on a touch-tone later, he was connected to police headquarters.
“Lieutenant O’Brien here.”
“Conner Cross here. How would you feel about a wedding?”
“Is this a proposal?”
Conner laughed.
“I’ve heard of some interesting techniques for getting the cops off your tail, but this one takes the cake.” Somehow, her slow Southern drawl gave her sarcasm an extra punch.
“That isn’t what I had in mind,” Conner explained. “You see, Freddy Granger’s daughter is getting married.”
“Should I be excited or jealous?”
“Freddy Granger is one of the players on the tour. The reception’s going to be a huge affair. At the Magnolia Glade. And get this-he uses the same brand golf clubs I do.”
“Is that a fact?” The tone of her voice suggested that her interest level had perhaps increased.
“Yup. And here’s another one. Freddy’s shorter than I am. Hence, requiring clubs with a shorter shaft.”
“Now I’m interested. But why do we need to crash his daughter’s wedding reception? I’ll just come by tomorrow-”
“Freddy’s out of the tournament. And he’s planning to take off after the reception and be gone for a good long time.”
“Now I’m beginning to get the picture.”
“What’s more, practically all of the pros and their spouses and caddies will be there. Think of it-all your chief suspects gathered together in one room. It’s like something out of Agatha Christie. When should I pick you up?”
“Wait a minute, pardner. You’ve explained why I might want to go-but why would I want to go with you? Don’t let your freedom fool you-you’re still my ace suspect.”
“Aw, c’mon. You don’t want to go alone. You’ve as much as admitted you don’t know word one about golf. You’d be lost.”
“Well…”
“C’mon, O’Brien. Succumb to my charm.”
“Well… it might be useful to have someone nearby to translate golfese for me. Tell me who’s who.” He heard the clicking of her nails on the other end of the line. “All right, Cross, you talked me into it. Have you got a car?”
“A rental.”
“Good. Pick me up at the station in half an hour. Wear a tux.”
Conner balked. “A tux? I hate those monkey suits. Nobody’s gonna wear a tux.”
“Didn’t you say this was a big gala reception? In the heart of Augusta? At the Magnolia Grove?”
“Yeah. But I still don’t want to look like a fool.”
“If you don’t show up in a tux, you will.”
“How can that-”
“Trust me, golf boy. You’re in my world now. See you at seven-thirty.”
The line disconnected before Conner could so much as sputter in protest.
Conner didn’t even have to honk. As soon as he pulled up in front of the police station, Lieutenant O’Brien emerged. Except, this time, she didn’t look much like a police lieutenant. As promised, she was dressed to the nines-a pink chiffon gown and a string of pearls.
With some effort, she managed to suppress the natural buoyancy of her gown enough to slide into the front seat of Conner’s rented Chrysler LeBaron convertible. “You’re late.”
“Sorry. I had some trouble finding the station.”
“And let me guess: you wouldn’t ask for directions.”
“Well…” Conner decided it was best to change the subject. He gave O’Brien a quick once-over. “Nice dress. Are you a bridesmaid?”
O’Brien smiled wryly. “Believe me, sugar, compared to most of the debs and dilettantes at this gig, I’ll look underdressed.”
Conner grinned. “I love that accent of yours. We don’t get that back in Oklahoma.”
“You don’t get much of anything back in Oklahoma, do you?”
“Let’s not be snobby. It’s not still all cowboys and Indians.” He arched an eyebrow. “Last year we even got cable.”
“Do tell.” Conner sensed he was getting a return once-over himself. “So you found a tux. I’m impressed.”
“Not easy, either, on short notice. Fortunately, the Augusta National has its own tux rental wardrobe.” He fidgeted with his collar. “Hate this silly bow tie, though.”
“That’s because you don’t have it on right.” She reached across the seat. “Allow me to adjust.”
“Feel free.” Conner felt the warm touch of her fingers brushing against his neck. Not an altogether unpleasant sensation. “So… have you lived in Augusta all your life?”
“Pretty much so. ‘Cept when I went off to college in the big city.” She winked. “That would be Atlanta.”
“Got family around here?”
“More than you can shake a stick at. My daddy had a little shoe shop downtown that grew into a twelve-store chain. He’s seventy-six now, but he still goes in to work five days a week. He’ll never retire.”
“What about your mom?”
“Still alive and kicking. I’ve even got a paternal grandmother. We O’Briens live forever.”
“I guess so. What do all these relatives think about you being a cop?”
“They’re concerned. My female relatives, who are legion, have spent most of my life trying to teach me how to be a proper Southern lady. I’ve been relentlessly drilled on all the essential rules of Southern living.”
“Such as?”
“Never serve pink lemonade at your Junior League committee meetings. Never wear white shoes before Easter or after Labor Day.”
“All the essentials.”
“You can see now why I went away to college. Except that I joined a sorority house, and it turned out they had even more rules than my family!”
“You were a sorority girl?”
“And what’s so incredible about that, may I ask?”
“I just can’t quite picture the rough and tough police lieutenant flirting with frat boys and singing secret songs.”
“I was a top-level soror, I’ll have you know. I pledged Pi Beta Phi-that’s Piefie, for short. Just like my mother and grandmother and-well, eleven or so cousins. You get the picture. It was a matter of tradition.” She paused, then smoothed a crinkle in her dress. “I try to stay in touch with some of the Piefie girls, but it gets harder as time goes on.”
“What caused you to become a cop?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Just wanted to do something more than pick out silver patterns and layettes, I guess. Gives my poor mother fits, though.”
“I can imagine.”
“She keeps reassuring her society friends at the Junior League meetings that there’s nothing wrong with me. ‘Girls are getting married later these days,’ she tells them. ‘Lots of girls over thirty-five are settling down and having lovely weddings.’ ”
Conner laughed. “I’ll bet your mother thinks you’re a pistol, no matter what she says.”
O’Brien allowed herself a little smile. “I think maybe she does at that.” She pushed her seat back a few notches and relaxed. “So what about you, cowboy? Where are you from?”
“Little town called Watonga. Population 3,234. 3,233 when I’m on tour.”
“Do tell. How did you ever get linked up with golf?”
“Lieutenant-was that a pun?”
“Was what a pun?”
“Never mind. We didn’t have an Augusta National back in Watonga, but we did have Bobby Ray Barnett’s public nine-hole golf course-slash-bait and tackle shop. The Dusty Duffer.”
“Sounds magnificent.”
“It was-or at least it seemed like it was, when I was a kid. Everyone in town referred to it as “the Club.” It was about the only green pretty spot in that whole windy red-dirt town. I fell in love at first sight.”
“I’ve heard that happens to young boys. Except that they usually fall for girls, not landscape.”
“Girls came later. When I was just a squirt, all I wanted was to play golf like a pro-to spend the rest of my life on pretty green courses. I wanted it to be my one-way ticket out of town.”
“Except that you still live there.”
“Funny how things work out, isn’t it?” He shifted gears and took a hard right following the billboard that pointed the way to the Magnolia Glade. “John was the one who really made it happen. He had the talent. I had the drive, the determination. But John was a pro from the second he picked up a club. He was always better than me-better than just about anyone. If it weren’t for him, I’d be back in Watonga right now, probably scooping balls out of the water trap and washing down golf carts.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, hotdog. You are on the PGA tour.”
“True. But I never would’ve gotten there without John. In addition to being more talented, he was also a hell of a lot smarter than me. He got a scholarship to Stanford, made the Dean’s Honor Roll, and was on the tour before he’d even graduated. Meanwhile, I was back in Norman at OU, rarely attending class but always attending the golf course. It’s a miracle I graduated.”
“And when you got out?”
“I tried out for the tour. The qualifying school is a bear-and-a-half. To make a long story short-I didn’t make the cut.”
“But I thought-”
“The first time. I thought I was finished, but John wouldn’t leave it at that. He took me under his wing, got me private lessons. I even got instruction from the late great Harvey Penick himself, God rest his soul. And I practiced like a demon. And next year-I made the tour. Got my official membership card and secret decoder ring and everything.”
“That’s a great story.”
Conner blinked. “I wonder if I could get a book deal? Pardon me while I call Random House.”
“But you left one part out. What about your real life?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know-off the course. Are you married?”
Conner glanced at her out the corner of his eye. Her eyes darted away. “Nah. Got close once, but-well, she didn’t want to spend the whole year traipsing from one golf course to another.”
“Fancy that. How long can you keep this up?”
“What do you mean?”
“Surely you don’t plan to play golf forever. Don’t you ever think about growing up and getting a real job?”
Conner thought it best to let the question remain unanswered. He beeped his horn. “Sorry this is taking so long. I’m stuck behind someone determined to coast at fifteen miles per hour.”
“Relax,” O’Brien replied. “Down here, a lot of folks learned to drive on a John Deere, and for them, this is the right speed.”
“I could live with that, but he’s also got his left turn signal blinking.”
“Must be a Yankee. Most of the locals don’t use turn signals, and ignore those who do.”
Conner’s lips turned up. “Sorry to disillusion you, Lieutenant, but he’s got a Georgia license plate.”
“Do tell? Then you may rest assured the signal was on when the vehicle was purchased.”
A big sign arching the front drive told him he had arrived at the Magnolia Glade Country Club. He leaned toward the front guard post and identified himself. The gate popped up and Conner eased onto the driveway… which stretched into infinity. It was like driving down the Yellow Brick Road. Conner could see no end in sight. It was more than a minute later when the car emerged from a thicket and the clubhouse appeared.
And magnificent it was, too. A huge marble edifice-even larger than the Augusta National clubhouse-with Doric columns flanking the front porch.
“Isn’t this where Scarlett O’Hara lives?” Conner asked.
O’Brien laughed. “Was. Nowadays she’s got a condo downtown.”
One look at that enormous mansion house, with the huge gushing fountain out front, was enough to make Conner glad he’d decided not to wear his Bermuda shorts. He parked in the first available spot-which was still a good ways from the front door-popped out of the car and raced around to the other side to open O’Brien’s door for her.
“And who do you think you are?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “Rhett Butler?”
Conner suddenly felt himself flushing pink. “I just thought… since you’re all gussied up…”
“I always appreciate a gentleman.”
Conner beamed. “Gee, can I carry you to the front door? Looks like it’s about a mile away.”
“I bet we don’t have to walk.” She scanned the horizon. “Yup. Look.”
A black stretch limousine pulled up in front of them. The passenger side window lowered. “May I take you to the ballroom?” the driver asked.
“If you insist.” O’Brien scampered into the back seat, Conner close behind.
During the short ride, Conner resisted the impulse to play with everything. There were buttons controlling the air, buttons controlling the windows, buttons controlling the music and buttons controlling the dividing glass between the seats. There was even a small television, an electronic stock ticker, and a minibar. For those who couldn’t make it to the front door without a quick snort, Conner presumed.
The limo eased beside the front steps. Conner hopped out, again holding the door open for O’Brien.
“Enjoy the reception,” the chauffeur said, with a tip of his hat. Then he pulled away in search of other arrivals.
Conner stood next to the fountain. It had an enormous round base, with water spurting up in four different directions at once. Lights at the base made the water change color every few seconds.
O’Brien tugged at his shoulder. “I think we should split up.”
“Why? I wore the tux. I used mouthwash.”
“We can cover more ground separately. Talk to more people. We’ll meet later and compare notes. Make sense?”
“Well…” Conner tried to mask his disappointment. “I suppose.”
“Besides, I’m starving. I gotta find me a deviled eggs plate.”
“What, at a classy soirée like this?”
“You’re in the South, Conner. There’s always a deviled eggs plate.”
Conner entered the clubhouse agog. The reception was located in an immense ballroom-seemingly larger than a football field. The decorations were festive and fabulous. There were vines, flowers, and colored lights everywhere he looked. Ivy and other greenery twined the bannister on a central staircase leading upward, and was draped over the tables and walls as well. Silk streamers shimmied down from the ceiling.
The guests in attendance were no less impressive. O’Brien had been right. All the men were strapped into monkey suits, and the gowns worn by some of the women looked as if they had been borrowed from the finalists at the Miss America pageant.
After a brief survey of the ballroom, Conner discovered the wedding cake-which to his great disappointment was still uncut. It was a seven-tiered number with a miniature staircase descending from each layer. Sparklers jutted out all over the cake. On each staircase was a miniature replica of one of the bride’s friends or relatives. At the top of the cake, of course, stood the bride and groom, in what appeared to be exact replicas of their wedding attire.
“Not bad, eh?”
Ace, looking as if he had stepped out of a Fred Astaire movie, was leaning over Conner’s shoulder. “I assume you’re talking about the bride.”
“Ding, ding. I wouldn’t mind licking off her frosting.”
Conner rolled his eyes. “Keep your tongue where it belongs, Ace. You don’t want the camera crew to get the wrong idea.” He gestured toward the cake. “I notice the bride is wearing white. Isn’t this her second marriage?”
“In Georgia, the bride always wears white. Even if it’s her eighth time down the aisle.”
“I see you decided to come.”
“I had my doubts, but eventually I realized that bringing in a camera crew wouldn’t disrupt the reception. If anything, it would make it more special. And when you get right down to it, I didn’t feel I had the right to make that little girl on the cake’s day any less special just because I might be more comfortable staying at home.”
Conner nodded. “Must’ve been agonizing. Wrestling with your conscience like that.”
“It was. Hey, you know who else is here? Jodie.”
“Jodie McCree?”
“Can you believe it? With her husband not even cold in-“ He stopped short.
“Don’t worry about it.” Creep, he added mentally. He wondered why Jodie had come. To make a social appearance like this so soon after John’s death-she must have a reason. What could it be? “That does seem strange.”
“Hey, I can’t fault the little lady. She’s precious.”
As soon as he was able to extract himself from Ace, Conner made his way to the dining tables that stretched across the center of the ballroom. He grabbed one of the numerous champagne bottles close at hand. He found an empty flute and poured himself a tall, cool one.
He heard a hiccup, and following the sound, spotted Barry Bennett on the opposite side of the table. “Bollinger’s 1989. It’s the best.”
Conner nodded. If anyone would know, it would be Barry. He looked as if he had sampled quite a bit. Why was it every time he turned around, this drunk was sitting opposite him?
Conner found the nearest empty seat and pulled up to the table. Scant seconds after he sat, waiters dressed in white tails appeared out of nowhere. One brought him a glass of sparkling water, another delivered an artfully arranged mixed salad, while another deposited a dinner plate bearing filet mignon, smoked salmon, and caviar.
“What?” Conner said. “No soufflé?”
The senior waiter cleared his throat. “We can have that for you in approximately twenty minutes, sir.”
Conner waved his hands. “I was just-oh, never mind.” He picked up a crostini and nibbled a bit of the caviar. Generally speaking, Conner preferred corndogs and pork rinds, but hey, if they were going to stick this crap under his nose, he might as well give it a try.
Conner licked his lips. A bit salty, but not at all bad. He wondered how he went about getting seconds.
“Tying on the feed bag, Conner?” It was Harley Tuttle, sliding into the seat to Conner’s right.
“That would be one way of putting it,” Conner replied. “It’s a feed bag fit for a king.”
“Freddy told me he planned to spare no expense on his little girl’s wedding. I guess he meant it.” As soon as Harley was seated, another phalanx of waiters bearing goodies descended upon him.
“I guess so.” A crash of cymbals suddenly brought the background music to Conner’s attention. “Who’s playing the mood music?”
Harley spoke while shoveling in bites of filet mignon. “I believe that would be the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra.”
Conner nearly choked on his salmon. “The Atlanta Symphony is the wedding band?”
“One of three, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Criminy.” Conner sampled the filet steak. A bit underdone for his taste, but he’d probably manage to devour it just the same. “Seems like they’d be better off just getting a record player and some old Jerry Lee Lewis LPs.”
“Not our Freddy’s style, I think. Might be yours, though.”
Conner was distracted by the sudden whooping and gales of laughter from the center table. “Who are all those people?” Conner asked, pointing. “They’re awfully chummy.”
“I believe that would be the wedding party,” Harley explained.
“The wedding party. I thought we were the wedding party.”
“You know what I mean. Bridesmaids and groomsmen.”
Conner did a quick scan of the table, from one distant end to the other. “Are you kidding? There must be eighty of them!”
“True. I understand Dillard’s had to hold a special seminar just to coordinate everyone’s wedding outfits. The bride kept all her bridesmaids informed of the wedding’s progress by putting out a newsletter.”
Conner wiped his eyes. “Am I the only one who thinks this is a little… extreme?”
Harley shrugged. “Like my daddy used to say, ‘Folks do things differently in the South.’ ”
Conner grinned. “With the budget for this wedding, they could probably feed a third-world nation.”
Conner returned his attention to his plate, managing to finish off his first serving and a magically appearing round of seconds as well. By the time he reached the bottom of the bottle, he had decided this Bollinger’s stuff wasn’t half bad, either.
“Well,” Conner said at last, dropping his napkin on the table, “if you’ll excuse me.”
Harley cast him a sidewards glance. “You’re leaving? Now?”
“Yeah. Is there a problem?”
“You’ll miss the fireworks display!”
O’Brien helped herself to another plate of deviled eggs and a glass of champagne. She supposed she should be abstaining; technically she was still on duty. Then again, this was essentially an undercover operation, and to successfully remain undercover, it was necessary to blend in with the crowd.
Across the ballroom, she saw Conner at one of the banquet tables, wolfing down food like there was no tomorrow. She had to smile. He wasn’t nearly as obnoxious as he seemed determined to make people think he was. He was almost cute, in a perverse sort of way. She just hoped he wasn’t John McCree’s murderer.
She headed to a nearby table where a man was sitting alone. She didn’t know who he was, but she noticed no one had sat with him all night long. Given the boisterous fraternizing and revelry surrounding them, that seemed odd.
She took a seat and flashed her best smile. “Hi. My name’s Nikki. What’s yours?”
“Dick,” he replied. “Dick Peregino.”
Peregino. O’Brien ran the name through her head. It seemed vaguely familiar. Had Conner mentioned him? “Are you a golfer?”
“No. Well, yes and no. I’m with the tour, at any rate.” He smiled, then leaned closer to her than she felt was entirely necessary. “I’m the PGA cop.”
“Really.” She was tempted to mention that she was a cop of a different stripe herself, but she figured that would not help loosen his tongue. “What does a PGA cop do?”
“Maintains the high standards of the PGA.”
“Which are?”
“Clean living. Clean appearance. We think it’s important that people believe our golfers are decent human beings. It isn’t like boxing, where almost anything goes. We run a tight ship. We have a dress code, prohibit foul language, punish lewd and lascivious behavior. We don’t even permit our players to have facial hair.”
“It’s the road to hell,” O’Brien said, nodding. “One day you allow a mustache, the next thing you know they’ll be having orgies in the clubhouse.”
“I detect sarcasm.” Peregino pulled a baggie filled with sunflower seeds out of his pocket and began munching them. “That’s all right. I’m used to it.”
“I’m sure that’s not so.”
He waved her remark away. “I’m like the vice principal in the school of golf. I’m Mr. No-Fun.” He pulled a couple of sunflower seed shells out of his mouth and put them on the table, in a pre-existing pile of saliva and shells. “Mind you, what I do is important. What I do makes it possible for all those pros to rake in the big bucks. But do they appreciate me?” He shook his head vigorously. “Not in this lifetime.”
“Do I sense some resentment?”
“Just stating facts. I’ve made my peace with the universe. Long ago, I dreamed of being a pro golfer, but I wasn’t good enough. So I worked my way up to this position. That way I get to stay in the golf universe. I know what I do is important, even if none of those spoiled overpaid pros appreciate it.”
“Mind if I ask why you’re here? Especially since the pros don’t like you and you don’t seem to like them.”
“I’m investigating.” He leaned across the table, making a point of brushing her arm. “There’s been a murder.”
O’Brien played along gamely. “Really? You know, I think I heard something about that.”
Peregino jabbed his thumb at his chest. “I’ve got the inside track.”
“You do? What is it?”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “Ace Silverstone was not in his cabin at the time of the murder.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I went to see him, to remind him of the rules and regulations regarding private camera crews during tournament play.” He popped another sunflower seed in his mouth. “Only he wasn’t there.”
“So you think he’s the murderer?”
Peregino pursed his lips. “I think it’s pretty damn suspicious, don’t you? If he wasn’t in his cabin, where was he?”
Who knows, O’Brien thought. Getting a sandwich, maybe? But she played along. “Have you told the police?”
“Not yet. I will in time. I want to see if I can crack this case myself.”
“Yourself?”
“Why not? I am a cop, after all. Sort of. And if I pulled that off, the boys would almost have to respect me.” He brushed aside the centerpiece and leaned even closer to her. “But enough about these gruesome matters. I’m sure a pretty thing like you doesn’t want to talk about some nasty old homicide.”
O’Brien resisted rolling her eyes. Here we go, she thought.
“What say you and I go for a stroll outside by the fountain? I know a private spot in the magnolia glade where we could get to know each other much better.”
“Thanks, but I’m meeting a friend.”
“Yeah, right. We both know you didn’t come over to my table by accident, pretty lady. You saw something you wanted. So why don’t you just let me give it to you and stop playing hard to get?”
O’Brien suppressed her strong desire to barf. “I don’t think so.”
He grabbed her arm and gave her a strong jerk. “I’ll put something between your legs that’ll keep you warm till New Year’s.”
“I said, no.” She jerked her hand free.
He didn’t back off. “C’mon, you stupid tramp. Let me give you what you need.”
“No, let me give you what you need.” She picked up her champagne flute and upended it over his head.
The yellow-tinted liquid cascaded down his face and across his chest. “Stupid bitch,” he muttered.
“Did I forget the hors d’oeuvre? Damn, I think I forgot the hors d’oeuvre.” She picked up a deviled egg and smashed it into his face.
She brushed her hands off, then stood. Peregino’s lips parted, but she stopped him with a finger. “One more word, jerkoff, and I’m going for the punch bowl.”
Peregino remained mute.
It would be nice to find O’Brien, Conner thought, and besides, after that meal, if he didn’t move around a bit he was probably going to fall asleep.
From a distance, he spotted Freddy on the opposite side of the ballroom.
Conner’s step quickened. I’d like to have a few words with that man, he thought. And not just about the wedding festivities, either.
Conner started moving across the room, pushing his way through streamers and revelry. To his surprise, however, he found that Freddy was moving even faster than he was. A sudden rush for the men’s room? No, Freddy passed that by without even blinking. Where was he going? And why was he in such a hurry?
One thing was clear: Freddy was headed toward the central staircase. He hit the first step and started up, fast as was possible without creating a scene. Conner quickened his own pace. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want to lose him.
Conner hit the staircase and followed, trying not to be spotted. He didn’t know what Freddy was rushing toward, but whatever it was, Conner suspected it wouldn’t go down if Freddy knew he was watching.
Freddy hit the landing, turned right, and started down a long corridor. Conner did the same, several steps behind. Fortunately, the corridor was dark, with lots of shadows he could duck into if necessary, and the plush carpeting prevented his footsteps from being audible.
They appeared to be passing a series of rooms-probably the administrative offices for the country club. At the end of the corridor was a large mahogany door with an oversized brass doorknob. Freddy quickly opened the door, then slid into the dark room beyond, shutting the door behind him.
Conner tiptoed to the end of the corridor, then pressed his ear to the door. He didn’t hear anything. If Freddy was having a secret meeting, they must be communicating in sign language.
Perhaps Freddy just needed to get something. Or get rid of something.
Whatever it was, Conner would never find out standing on this side of the door.
Gently, he laid his hand on the doorknob and turned. There was a tiny creaking noise. Conner froze: had Freddy heard? Or anyone else? He didn’t detect any signs of it. Slowly, he pushed the door wider…
The room inside was dark; the only light streamed in from the open window, and that wasn’t much. As far as Conner could see, it was a bedroom, and a magnificent one at that. Why would they have a bedroom in a country club? he wondered. And why would Freddy be in it? Surely he had more important things he needed to be doing at the moment.
Conner saw a passage at the opposite side of the room. Leading to a bathroom? he speculated. Or another room altogether? He didn’t know, and once again, the only way he was going to find out was by creeping over and taking a look-see…
Conner had almost made it to the passageway when he heard footsteps. Fast footsteps, from inside the room. Freddy was returning the way he came.
Conner leapt out of the passage, out of sight. He glanced back at the outer door. It was too far away. He’d never get there in time.
Damn! How’d he let himself get into this mess? How would he ever explain to Freddy why he’d been sneaking around behind him? Worse, if Freddy really was the culprit, this would be a sure tip-off that Conner was onto him.
Conner spotted a closet an arm’s reach away. Without even thinking, he pulled the door open and ducked inside.
It was dark in the closet, no big surprise. Though Conner couldn’t see anything, he could feel what he suspected were coats all around him, crowding him. He had to brace himself against the frame to keep from falling against the door and blowing his cover.
Conner heard the footsteps stop, somewhere just beyond the closet. For some reason, Freddy wasn’t leaving, wasn’t going back to the party. Damn! What if he decided to lie down and read Gone With the Wind or something? Conner might never get out of here!
An instant later, Conner heard a familiar creaking noise. Someone was opening the door to the outer corridor. He felt certain it wasn’t Freddy, though. Freddy hadn’t budged from his spot just outside the closet.
It seemed there was going to be a meeting, after all.
Conner pressed his ear against the door. He could hear voices, two of them, both low and hushed. He thought one of them was Freddy, naturally, but he couldn’t make out the other one. And he couldn’t understand what they were saying, either. Although, as the conversation continued, it became progressively clear that they were arguing. Their voices gradually rose and became more agitated. After a few minutes, they were loud enough that Conner could pick up some of what was being said.
“Why’d you come here?” He was almost certain that voice was Freddy. Even muted, it had Freddy’s distinctive squeal. “Do you want people to know?”
There was a muffled reply from the other person.
“What? Here? Surely you don’t think I’m going to do that.”
Do what? Conner thought, gritting his teeth. What were they talking about?
A few moments later, he heard Freddy say: “I tell ya, that’s not enough. I need more. Much more!”
Conner heard more arguing, then sounds of a scuffle. What was going on? He desperately wanted to break out of the closet and look. But how could he explain what he was doing here? Besides, if he kept quiet, he might actually figure out what they were talking about. Thus far, he couldn’t prove anything. Revealing himself would accomplish nothing, except to embarrass himself and tip off the combatants that he was onto them.
Conner heard footsteps rapidly moving away, then more footsteps following close behind. They were leaving-both of them!
As soon as he heard the outer door slam shut, Conner burst out of the closet. The coast was clear. Whoever had been here before was long gone. He raced to the door and slowly opened it. No Freddy-or anyone else. He flung the door open and dashed down the corridor. He winged past the interior offices and hit the landing, then started down the long central staircase. Where could Freddy have gone so quickly? And what happened to the person with whom Freddy was fighting? Surely if he kept running he could catch up to them. How far could they have possibly gone?
Conner hit the bottom of the stairs and kept running. He thought he caught a glimpse of Freddy toward the front doors, although it was difficult to be certain when every man in the immense room was wearing the same black tux. Conner bolted across the room, pushing people aside, knocking over waiters, spilling champagne.
He was almost halfway across the ballroom when he felt a hand grab him by the collar. Propelled by his own momentum, Conner whirled around…
… to face Barry Bennett, his nose engorged and his breath thick with booze. “Hey,” Barry slurred, “you shouldn’t be runnin’ in here. This’ss a classy place.”
Conner tried to remove Barry’s hand, but unfortunately, the tottering inebriate had a tight grip. “I’m busy, Barry. Let go.”
“Man, did you see those fireworksh?”
Conner felt certain he could break Barry’s grip, though possibly not without breaking Barry’s arm. “I’m sure it was magnificent, but-”
“Fabuloush. Just fabuloush. Lit up the whole lagoon.”
“Barry, let go of me.”
“And when the glittery lights spelled out the bride and groom’s names-I thought I was gonna cry.”
“Barry, I’m giving you one last chance to avoid major surgery. Let go.”
“Did you know Freddy’s girl spells Karen with a C? I didn’t.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Conner brought up his foot then jabbed the heel down hard on Barry’s toes. Barry was apparently too snockered to cry out, but he felt it. His eyes went wide and he dropped his glass. And let go of Conner’s collar.
Conner whirled around, searching to see if he could find any trace of Freddy and whoever he had been with. Unfortunately, Freddy was nowhere to be found.
Damn! In just a few precious seconds, he’d lost what little he’d gained.
Cursing himself, he started looking for O’Brien. At the very least, he could tell her what he’d heard. Maybe she could figure out a way-
All at once, the ballroom was split apart by a piercing scream. The shocking sound echoed and reverberated through the hall, rattling the chandeliers. The cry was picked up by others; soon the entire room was shouting and yelling and running every which way at once.
What the hell was going on? Conner wondered. He didn’t know, but there was an aching hollow in the pit of his stomach telling him that when he discovered the answer, he probably wasn’t going to like it.
A crowd was gathering at the front of the ballroom, swarming toward the front doors. Conner headed in that direction, pushing people out of the way with impunity. “Excuse me,” he bellowed. “I need to get outside! Move!”
When he finally made it through the doors, it was immediately clear that everyone’s attention was focused in one direction-toward the technicolor fountain in the center of the front patio.
“Let me through!” Conner shouted, shoving past the spectators. Women were holding their faces in their hands. A few people looked sick. Some were even crying. What the hell was happening?
Finally, he made it to the base of the fountain and peered inside. It didn’t take him long to see what all the commotion was about.
Her body was still floating, rocking back and forth with the gentle currents and ripples, and her gown was like a kaleidoscope when illuminated by multicolored lights. A casual observer might suspect that a party guest who’d had one too many had decided to take a dip in the fountain with her clothes on. But Conner knew that wasn’t what had happened. He knew, because he saw the steady stream of blood oozing from her throat.
Steeling himself, Conner reached into the water and turned the body over so he could see her face. And when he did, his jaw fell open, gasping.
He released the body but remained where he was. He felt frozen, locked into place. His brain felt paralyzed, too. He was petrified by shock and horror and an utter lack of comprehension. How could this be?
It was his first love, Jodie McCree, just as he had seen her only hours before. Except now there was a deep, bloody gash across the base of her throat.
A fatal slice.