William Bernhardt

by Final Round (v5)

  “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 . . .

  Chapter 13

  * * *

  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 we
re 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.”

  Chapter 14

  * * *

  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.”