William Bernhardt - Final Round

“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.