“If you must inquire about these unsavory matters,” Derwood continued, “why don’t you ask Conner Cross? He’s the one who found the body.”

That was a tidbit they hadn’t heard before. As one, the sea of reporters whipped around to face Conner. They began to press in his direction.

Conner felt like a fox who’d been treed by the circling hounds. He broke for the front doors, but two men bearing minicams blocked his path. Before he could take off in a different direction, he was surrounded by reporters, many of them shoving microphones under his nose.

“So,” Conner said, clearing his throat, “I guess you folks want to ask me about my spiffy new haircut, huh?”

It took Conner more than an hour to extricate himself from the reporters. It was amazing-especially since he’d told them everything he knew in the first minute and a half. Normally, a few minutes of Conner’s trademark obnoxiousness would be sufficient to drive anyone away. But the reporters weren’t even fazed; if anything, they seemed to like it.

The whole experience was ironic, Conner thought, as he trudged back to the clubhouse. Most of the pros on the tour spent half their spare time trying to rustle up some publicity. Conner had just gotten a ton-and he didn’t want it. Not under these circumstances.

Conner passed through the clubhouse doors, wove his way to the bar, ordered a martini, and found a seat at an empty table in the corner. Most of the other pros were there, too, but the mood had altered radically. There was none of the madcap revelry-no betting, no joking, no carousing. John’s death had hit everyone hard. The room was permeated by somber, sullen depression. Conner realized he should probably circulate, try to find out what if anything the others knew, but he just wasn’t in the proper frame of mind.

About ten minutes later, Freddy Granger ambled over. “Hi there, Conner.”

Conner didn’t even look up, but Freddy’s deep Southern accent was a dead giveaway. “If you’ve found another peephole, I’m not interested.”

Freddy looked embarrassed. “Nah, I-“ He pointed to the empty chair on the opposite end of Conner’s table. “Mind if I sit?”

Conner shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Freddy took a seat. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am, Conner. We all feel terrible. We all miss John. But I know you were closer to him than any of us. I’ve always considered you a friend and-I’m sorry this had to happen. If there’s anything I could possibly ever do-all you have to do is ask.”

Conner nodded. “Thanks, Freddy. I appreciate that.” Conner meant it, too. Sometimes he felt like the pariah of the tour; his status as PGA bad boy caused him to be ostracized by those who considered themselves the class acts of the tour. It was nice to hear that he had at least one friend. Other than the one he’d lost. “How’d you do in the tournament?”

“No improvement.”

Conner knew what that meant. Freddy’s career had been in the dumper of late. Not only was he lower on the money list than Conner; he barely qualified for an invitation to the Masters.

“I had delusions of restarting my game here,” Freddy said. “You know. Winning the tournament in a dramatic surprise upset. Or at least placing. Now I’m afraid I won’t even make the Friday cut.”

Conner nodded appreciatively. “I’ve had similar concerns myself.”

“Aww, the hell with it, anyway.” He laughed quietly. “I shouldn’t even be thinking about this stupid game. My daughter’s gettin’ married.”

“I heard something about that. Congratulations. You must be very happy.”

Freddy beamed. “We are. We truly are. This isn’t the first time my baby girl’s tied the knot, but last time she ran off with some loser and we didn’t get to have a real wedding. This time we’re throwin’ her the party she deserves. We’re gonna do it up right. Havin’ a great big gala affair. And you’re invited. All the pros are. It’s Friday night, down at the Magnolia Glade Country Club.”

Conner raised an eyebrow. “Not at the Augusta National?”

“Couldn’t get in,” Freddy said. “It’s all booked up with some stupid golf tournament.”

“Right, right. I hear those big weddings are a lot of trouble. You must be drowning under all the details.”

“Hell no,” Freddy said. “The womenfolk never let me near any of the details. The only time I see them is when they drop by to tell me how much to make the check for.” He smiled, but Conner thought the smile had an edge to it. “And there’s been a hell of a lot of checks, believe you me.”

Conner eyed Freddy carefully. He seemed uneasy, almost jumpy. But he supposed the man had been unnerved by John’s death. Weren’t they all.

“Anyway,” Freddy said, pushing himself to his feet. “I meant what I said. You need anything, just call me.”

“Appreciate that, Freddy.”

“See you Friday night, if not before.”

Conner nodded, but he thought it unlikely in the extreme that he would want to attend a gala wedding anytime in the near future.

A few minutes later, the empty space at Conner’s table was taken by yet another pro, Harley Tuttle. Conner glanced up from his martini. “I hope you’re not here to complain about that Tom Kite bet.”

Harley half-smiled. “Nah. Forgot all about it. I-just wanted to offer my condolences.”

“Thanks, Harley.”

“I didn’t know John well, of course. Hadn’t met him till you introduced us. And now I suppose I never will.”

“You would’ve liked him,” Conner said. “Everyone did.”

“That’s what I hear. That’s what I hear.” Harley nervously fingered the edge of the tablecloth. Conner could tell there was something on his mind. “Conner… how long have you known John’s wife? Jodie, is it?”

“As long as I’ve known John. Longer, actually.”

“Really? Wow. Well, look. I don’t know the woman at all, but I know she must be going through a rough patch.”

“She is,” Conner said. “But Jodie’s tough. She’ll pull through.”

“That’s good. Would you tell her something for me?”

“Sure. What?”

“She probably doesn’t need it but-well, I know how complicated things were when I lost my mother. And expensive. And John hadn’t been playing so well lately and-oh, hell. Just tell her if there’s anything she needs, all she has to do is ask. And I mean anything, including money. Just let me know.”

“Okay.”

Harley would be the one to call, too. He’d only started on the tour this year, but he’d already lined up an impressive list of finishes. He hadn’t won a tournament yet, but he’d placed in the top five in every single tournament this year except Pebble Beach, which he didn’t play. Conner would’ve preferred to hate the man, but unfortunately, he was just too damn nice. “I’ll pass the word along.”

“Thanks, Conner. And the same goes for you. I can imagine how you must feel. Like my daddy used to say, ‘You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone’.”

“I thought that was Joni Mitchell.”

Harley gave him a shy smile. “All the greats stole from my daddy.” He wandered off, and Conner was relieved. He knew these people were trying to be kind. But he didn’t want to be on at the moment. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to stew in his juices and wallow in his martinis. He wanted to remember John the way he was, not the way he’d found him in that sand trap.

A flood of memories surged through Conner’s brain. Growing up poor as dirt, wondering what it might be like to get out of town, make some real money. Junior high, high school. Golf at Watonga’s Dusty Duffer. Everything John had done for him. All the times he cared, when it seemed no one else did.

Conner’s reverie was interrupted, not just once, but repeatedly, by boisterous activity behind him. What insensitive jerk-? Conner forced his muddy brain out of the past and focused on the source of the disturbance.

It was Barry Bennett, that stupid blowhard. He’d obviously been drinking again. He was standing at the bar, talking to no one in particular, but doing it in a voice everyone could hear.