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.
<
br /> 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 ove
r 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.
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