William Bernhardt - Final Round

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t bother denying it. I’m not the only one who was in the bar last night. You made your feelings known to everyone within earshot.”

Barry glared at him. “You’d be better off just leaving me alone, Cross.”

“Why have you got such a chip on your shoulder about John?”

“That’s between him and me.”

“The police might feel differently.”

Barry’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, if you had some kind of grudge against John, I want to hear about it.”

Barry finished tying his shoes, grabbed his gym bag, and stood up. “Maybe you should ask Jodie.” And on that note, he pivoted quickly and stomped out of the locker room.

Once he’d changed, Conner made his way to the eighteenth green. A hundred-yard area surrounding the sand trap was roped off. Homicide technicians were still combing the crime scene, some of them crawling on hands and knees, searching for clues. Some of them were using tweezers, and they were all wearing yellow coveralls. What they could possibly find this long after the fact Conner couldn’t imagine, but he was gratified that they were trying.

An idea sparked in Conner’s brain. Wouldn’t Derwood be impressed if Conner showed up at the first tee tomorrow in one of those snappy yellow coveralls? He wondered if they came in his size.

He approached a few of the technicians, but they either refused to talk or claimed they didn’t know anything. No one would tell him anything of value, like whether the police had a suspect, or even a good lead for that matter. Their blank faces reinforced in his mind the fear Jodie had expressed-that John’s murder would never be solved.

How had he let her talk him into this? As if he knew anything about conducting a crime investigation. They were just kidding themselves, imagining that he might discover something the cops couldn’t. He needed to find Jodie and tell her this was a mistake. She was probably in the clubhouse. Maybe he should just wander over there…

Conner glanced toward the clubhouse, but his eyes lit upon a much closer scenic wonder. A tall red-haired woman made him do a double-take. She was standing at a distance, staring in his direction.

He grinned. Probably another golf groupie, one of those women who follow the tour around the country and will do anything imaginable to get close to a real live golf pro.

Conner sauntered a few steps in her direction. “Hi,” he said, flashing his best smile. “I’m Conner Cross.”

The woman barely turned her head. “I’m glad for you.”

Conner laughed. “No, seriously. I’m Conner Cross.”

“You’re not going to ask me for money, are you?”

Conner frowned. “Uh… aren’t you here to watch the tournament?”

“Get real.” She had a lilting accent, slow and deliberate. Definitely a local. “You think I have nothing better to do than watch a bunch of clowns in pastel Polos knock a little ball around?”

Conner’s grin faded fast. This wasn’t going to be quite as easy as he had imagined. “Well, then… why are you here?”

She whipped out a leather wallet and revealed a shiny silver badge. “Lieutenant Nikki O’Brien, Augusta PD.”

Conner’s face flattened. “You-you’re investigating the murder?”

“You are a quick study, aren’t you?”

Well, as long as he was here, maybe he could get a little information. “So, uh… how’s the investigation going?”

“We’re just getting started.”

“Got any leads? Suspects?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss it right now.”

“Oh, of course, of course.” Okay, then back to Plan A. The pick-up. “You’re really truly a cop?”

Her lips turned down at the edges. “Who did you say you were?”

“Conner Cross.”

“That sounds familiar. What do you do?”

“Me?” Conner pressed a hand against his chest. “I… well…”

“Is this a hard question?”

“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…

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?”