“Surely you don’t think I’m going to continue the tournament after this!”

“You have to,” Jodie implored. “It’s the only way.” She squeezed his hand. “You’re John’s oldest and best friend. You knew him better than anyone.”

“Maybe so, but-”

“You know you owe him.”

“I’m well aware of that, Jodie. I owe John for almost everything of any value in my whole life. But what you’re talking about-”

“He would’ve done it for you.”

Conner stopped short.

“If the situation were reversed, I mean. John wouldn’t have slept till he found out who killed you. That’s how much he loved you, Conner.”

Conner didn’t reply.

“Conner,” she said softly, “I realize I haven’t seen as much of you as I once did, since John and I moved to Georgia. But I remember a time…”

She didn’t say anything more. She didn’t have to. They both knew what she was talking about. She was forcing his mind to turn back the calendar pages to a time past-a time when Conner and Jodie had been sweethearts. He had been crazy for her-his first love. In fact, he had introduced her to John-a gesture he later regretted. It all seemed a million years ago now. Still, when he peered into her sea-blue eyes, it was hard to forget how much he had once loved her. Impossible, really, because a few of those sparks still lingered.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

“All right,” Conner said. “I think this is a big mistake. But I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you.” Her lips turned up in the first smile he had seen on her face all day. “Thank you so much.”

Conner brushed a tear from her cheek. “How could I say no to a beautiful face like that?” He sat up straight. “Fitz told me John didn’t come back last night?”

“It’s true. That’s so unlike him. I was worried sick. Still, I thought he would turn up, and I didn’t want to generate a lot of bad publicity for no reason. I couldn’t figure out-“ She drew in her breath. “Of course, now I understand. He must have been killed last night.”

“Seems likely,” Conner agreed. “When did you see him last?”

“Around nine or so, I’d guess. Just after dark. He left our cabin.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No, and I didn’t ask. I assumed he was going out to the driving range to knock the balls around. Like you guys usually did.”

“Did he do anything… unusual? Say anything out of the ordinary?”

Jodie’s eyebrows knitted together. “Now that you mention it, he did say something. Something strange. I didn’t recall it until you said that.” Her eyes focused on a spot on the floor.

“What was it?”

“I can’t remember. But it was something odd. Odd enough to capture my attention, at least for a moment.” She clenched her fist. “My short-term memory is going to hell.”

Conner placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “It’ll come to you later. When you’re not trying to think about it. When it does, tell me, okay?”

“Of course.” She took his hand in both of hers. “Thank you, Conner. I really appreciate this.”

“No need. It’s the least I can do-”

He stopped short, but they both knew what he was going to say, and once again, Conner saw unbidden tears crease the flushed mounds of her cheeks.

It was the least he could do, they both thought. For John.

The Wednesday press conference in Butler Cabin was a distinguished Masters tournament tradition, but this year, it was nothing short of bizarre. As tournament director, Andrew Spenser led the proceedings, ably assisted by his lapdog Derwood Scott. The first deviation from tradition came in the timing; instead of being held in the morning, the conference was delayed until late evening. The second deviation was the subject matter. Spenser dutifully tried to drum up excitement about the par-three and the main tournament yet to come, offering up trivia and tidbits about the players’ lives, statistics about the players’ standings, their performance to date on the tour, their scores in previous Masters tournaments.

No one cared.

“Can you give us more information about what happened to John McCree?”

“Have you got any leads?”

“Is it true the police suspect one of the other pros?”

“What if the killer strikes again?”

Standing in the back of the cabin, Conner watched Spenser wipe his brow. That prim, proper gentleman wasn’t accustomed to fielding questions from a pack of vultures like the one assembled in Butler Cabin today. He could almost sympathize with the man, if he hadn’t been such a jerk to Conner the day before.

Spenser gripped the podium and stared out into the sea of reporters. “Please. This is not police headquarters. This is the Augusta National Golf Club, home of the Masters tournament, the most important-”

“Is the corpse at the coroner’s office?”

“How many times was he hit?”

“Was there a lot of blood? Will you have to replace the sand bunker?”

Conner could feel Spenser’s tension clear across the room. It was a relief when Spenser excused himself and Derwood stepped up to the podium-probably the first time in history anyone was glad to see Derwood arrive, Conner mused.

“Please,” Derwood began, “we’ve told you everything we know about John McCree’s death. Let’s discuss the tournament-”

“Can you confirm that McCree is dead?” one of the reporters shouted from the rear.

Derwood sighed. “Yes. I’m afraid we’re certain about that.”

“And that he was murdered?”

Derwood began to hedge. “I have no information regarding the cause of death. There are many possibilities. I find it very difficult to believe that anyone at the Augusta National could be capable of-”

“Someone hit him, right?” This voice came from a female reporter near the front. “I heard he was hit on the head. Possibly several times.”

“Again, I have no information regarding the cause-”

“You’re not suggesting he did that to himself, are you?”

“Well… no. Perhaps an unfortunate accident…”

“In a sand trap?”

Derwood tugged at his collar. “As I’ve already said, we are unaware of the details-”

“How can you proceed with the tournament when one of the most prominent players has been murdered? Isn’t that more than a bit callous?”

Derwood drew in his breath. He was prepared for this one. “This is of course a difficult question with ramifications that go far beyond the competition itself. We called an emergency meeting of the board of directors and our chairman, Artemus Tenniel, to determine the proper course of action. We also consulted with John McCree’s widow, Jodie McCree. After giving the matter close and careful attention, all parties involved agreed that the best course of action was to proceed with the tournament as scheduled. Now, however, the tournament will be held in John’s McCree’s honor. This endeavor is dedicated to his memory.”

Conner tried to stifle his sneer. Given how jam-packed the tournament schedule was these days, it would probably be impossible to reschedule the Masters for a later date. It was now or never. Proceeding with the tournament but dedicating it to John’s memory probably appeared to the board to be the best way of preserving their cash cow without seeming incredibly insensitive. Conner wondered how this cover-your-ass smokescreen fit in with “the exemplar of excellence.”

Still, he thought, it was just as well. He knew Jodie wanted the tournament to proceed. She wanted to keep all the suspects on the premises as long as possible. Once the tournament ended, and all the players and staff departed, any investigation would be greatly complicated. Realistically, if he was going to have any hope of determining who killed John, he would have to do it before everyone left Sunday night.

Up at the podium, Derwood was still fending off questions about the murder.

“Why was the body buried in a sand trap?”

“Really,” Derwood insisted, “I have no way of knowing.” All at once, his eyes lit upon Conner in the back of the room. Conner felt a chill race through his body.