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 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-”