William Bernhardt - Final Round

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.

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…