William Bernhardt

by Final Round (v5)

  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.

  Chapter 19

  * * *

  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 suppr
ess 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 lea
ned 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.