Conner put his arm around her. “I’m sorry, Jodie,” he said quietly. “This must be tearing you apart. Maybe we should just let this be.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I want answers. I want to know what happened to my-my-“ She paused, collecting herself. “My Johnny.” All at once, tears spilled out of her eyes.

Conner hugged her tightly. “Then we will, honey. We will.” As he gazed into her eyes, Conner realized that she really hadn’t changed all that much from those days in high school when he’d had such a terrific crush on her. When he’d loved her so much.

Come to mention it, he hadn’t changed all that much either.

Conner kissed her gently on the top of her head, then returned to the main lobby. It was starting to get dark now, and if he remembered correctly, the “wedding reception of the century” was scheduled to begin at eight. He picked up the phone.

Seven beeps on a touch-tone later, he was connected to police headquarters.

“Lieutenant O’Brien here.”

“Conner Cross here. How would you feel about a wedding?”

“Is this a proposal?”

Conner laughed.

“I’ve heard of some interesting techniques for getting the cops off your tail, but this one takes the cake.” Somehow, her slow Southern drawl gave her sarcasm an extra punch.

“That isn’t what I had in mind,” Conner explained. “You see, Freddy Granger’s daughter is getting married.”

“Should I be excited or jealous?”

“Freddy Granger is one of the players on the tour. The reception’s going to be a huge affair. At the Magnolia Glade. And get this-he uses the same brand golf clubs I do.”

“Is that a fact?” The tone of her voice suggested that her interest level had perhaps increased.

“Yup. And here’s another one. Freddy’s shorter than I am. Hence, requiring clubs with a shorter shaft.”

“Now I’m interested. But why do we need to crash his daughter’s wedding reception? I’ll just come by tomorrow-”

“Freddy’s out of the tournament. And he’s planning to take off after the reception and be gone for a good long time.”

“Now I’m beginning to get the picture.”

“What’s more, practically all of the pros and their spouses and caddies will be there. Think of it-all your chief suspects gathered together in one room. It’s like something out of Agatha Christie. When should I pick you up?”

“Wait a minute, pardner. You’ve explained why I might want to go-but why would I want to go with you? Don’t let your freedom fool you-you’re still my ace suspect.”

“Aw, c’mon. You don’t want to go alone. You’ve as much as admitted you don’t know word one about golf. You’d be lost.”

“Well…”

“C’mon, O’Brien. Succumb to my charm.”

“Well… it might be useful to have someone nearby to translate golfese for me. Tell me who’s who.” He heard the clicking of her nails on the other end of the line. “All right, Cross, you talked me into it. Have you got a car?”

“A rental.”

“Good. Pick me up at the station in half an hour. Wear a tux.”

Conner balked. “A tux? I hate those monkey suits. Nobody’s gonna wear a tux.”

“Didn’t you say this was a big gala reception? In the heart of Augusta? At the Magnolia Grove?”

“Yeah. But I still don’t want to look like a fool.”

“If you don’t show up in a tux, you will.”

“How can that-”

“Trust me, golf boy. You’re in my world now. See you at seven-thirty.”

The line disconnected before Conner could so much as sputter in protest.

Conner didn’t even have to honk. As soon as he pulled up in front of the police station, Lieutenant O’Brien emerged. Except, this time, she didn’t look much like a police lieutenant. As promised, she was dressed to the nines-a pink chiffon gown and a string of pearls.

With some effort, she managed to suppress the natural buoyancy of her gown enough to slide into the front seat of Conner’s rented Chrysler LeBaron convertible. “You’re late.”

“Sorry. I had some trouble finding the station.”

“And let me guess: you wouldn’t ask for directions.”

“Well…” Conner decided it was best to change the subject. He gave O’Brien a quick once-over. “Nice dress. Are you a bridesmaid?”

O’Brien smiled wryly. “Believe me, sugar, compared to most of the debs and dilettantes at this gig, I’ll look underdressed.”

Conner grinned. “I love that accent of yours. We don’t get that back in Oklahoma.”

“You don’t get much of anything back in Oklahoma, do you?”

“Let’s not be snobby. It’s not still all cowboys and Indians.” He arched an eyebrow. “Last year we even got cable.”

“Do tell.” Conner sensed he was getting a return once-over himself. “So you found a tux. I’m impressed.”

“Not easy, either, on short notice. Fortunately, the Augusta National has its own tux rental wardrobe.” He fidgeted with his collar. “Hate this silly bow tie, though.”

“That’s because you don’t have it on right.” She reached across the seat. “Allow me to adjust.”

“Feel free.” Conner felt the warm touch of her fingers brushing against his neck. Not an altogether unpleasant sensation. “So… have you lived in Augusta all your life?”

“Pretty much so. ‘Cept when I went off to college in the big city.” She winked. “That would be Atlanta.”

“Got family around here?”

“More than you can shake a stick at. My daddy had a little shoe shop downtown that grew into a twelve-store chain. He’s seventy-six now, but he still goes in to work five days a week. He’ll never retire.”

“What about your mom?”

“Still alive and kicking. I’ve even got a paternal grandmother. We O’Briens live forever.”

“I guess so. What do all these relatives think about you being a cop?”

“They’re concerned. My female relatives, who are legion, have spent most of my life trying to teach me how to be a proper Southern lady. I’ve been relentlessly drilled on all the essential rules of Southern living.”

“Such as?”

“Never serve pink lemonade at your Junior League committee meetings. Never wear white shoes before Easter or after Labor Day.”

“All the essentials.”

“You can see now why I went away to college. Except that I joined a sorority house, and it turned out they had even more rules than my family!”

“You were a sorority girl?”

“And what’s so incredible about that, may I ask?”

“I just can’t quite picture the rough and tough police lieutenant flirting with frat boys and singing secret songs.”

“I was a top-level soror, I’ll have you know. I pledged Pi Beta Phi-that’s Piefie, for short. Just like my mother and grandmother and-well, eleven or so cousins. You get the picture. It was a matter of tradition.” She paused, then smoothed a crinkle in her dress. “I try to stay in touch with some of the Piefie girls, but it gets harder as time goes on.”

“What caused you to become a cop?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Just wanted to do something more than pick out silver patterns and layettes, I guess. Gives my poor mother fits, though.”

“I can imagine.”

“She keeps reassuring her society friends at the Junior League meetings that there’s nothing wrong with me. ‘Girls are getting married later these days,’ she tells them. ‘Lots of girls over thirty-five are settling down and having lovely weddings.’ ”

Conner laughed. “I’ll bet your mother thinks you’re a pistol, no matter what she says.”

O’Brien allowed herself a little smile. “I think maybe she does at that.” She pushed her seat back a few notches and relaxed. “So what about you, cowboy? Where are you from?”

“Little town called Watonga. Population 3,234. 3,233 when I’m on tour.”

“Do tell. How did you ever get linked up with golf?”

“Lieutenant-was that a pun?”

“Was what a pun?”

“Never mind. We didn’t have an Augusta National back in Watonga, but we did have Bobby Ray Barnett’s public nine-hole golf course-slash-bait and tackle shop. The Dusty Duffer.”