“In Georgia, the bride always wears white. Even if it’s her eighth time down the aisle.”

“I see you decided to come.”

“I had my doubts, but eventually I realized that bringing in a camera crew wouldn’t disrupt the reception. If anything, it would make it more special. And when you get right down to it, I didn’t feel I had the right to make that little girl on the cake’s day any less special just because I might be more comfortable staying at home.”

Conner nodded. “Must’ve been agonizing. Wrestling with your conscience like that.”

“It was. Hey, you know who else is here? Jodie.”

“Jodie McCree?”

“Can you believe it? With her husband not even cold in-“ He stopped short.

“Don’t worry about it.” Creep, he added mentally. He wondered why Jodie had come. To make a social appearance like this so soon after John’s death-she must have a reason. What could it be? “That does seem strange.”

“Hey, I can’t fault the little lady. She’s precious.”

As soon as he was able to extract himself from Ace, Conner made his way to the dining tables that stretched across the center of the ballroom. He grabbed one of the numerous champagne bottles close at hand. He found an empty flute and poured himself a tall, cool one.

He heard a hiccup, and following the sound, spotted Barry Bennett on the opposite side of the table. “Bollinger’s 1989. It’s the best.”

Conner nodded. If anyone would know, it would be Barry. He looked as if he had sampled quite a bit. Why was it every time he turned around, this drunk was sitting opposite him?

Conner found the nearest empty seat and pulled up to the table. Scant seconds after he sat, waiters dressed in white tails appeared out of nowhere. One brought him a glass of sparkling water, another delivered an artfully arranged mixed salad, while another deposited a dinner plate bearing filet mignon, smoked salmon, and caviar.

“What?” Conner said. “No soufflé?”

The senior waiter cleared his throat. “We can have that for you in approximately twenty minutes, sir.”

Conner waved his hands. “I was just-oh, never mind.” He picked up a crostini and nibbled a bit of the caviar. Generally speaking, Conner preferred corndogs and pork rinds, but hey, if they were going to stick this crap under his nose, he might as well give it a try.

Conner licked his lips. A bit salty, but not at all bad. He wondered how he went about getting seconds.

“Tying on the feed bag, Conner?” It was Harley Tuttle, sliding into the seat to Conner’s right.

“That would be one way of putting it,” Conner replied. “It’s a feed bag fit for a king.”

“Freddy told me he planned to spare no expense on his little girl’s wedding. I guess he meant it.” As soon as Harley was seated, another phalanx of waiters bearing goodies descended upon him.

“I guess so.” A crash of cymbals suddenly brought the background music to Conner’s attention. “Who’s playing the mood music?”

Harley spoke while shoveling in bites of filet mignon. “I believe that would be the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra.”

Conner nearly choked on his salmon. “The Atlanta Symphony is the wedding band?”

“One of three, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Criminy.” Conner sampled the filet steak. A bit underdone for his taste, but he’d probably manage to devour it just the same. “Seems like they’d be better off just getting a record player and some old Jerry Lee Lewis LPs.”

“Not our Freddy’s style, I think. Might be yours, though.”

Conner was distracted by the sudden whooping and gales of laughter from the center table. “Who are all those people?” Conner asked, pointing. “They’re awfully chummy.”

“I believe that would be the wedding party,” Harley explained.

“The wedding party. I thought we were the wedding party.”

“You know what I mean. Bridesmaids and groomsmen.”

Conner did a quick scan of the table, from one distant end to the other. “Are you kidding? There must be eighty of them!”

“True. I understand Dillard’s had to hold a special seminar just to coordinate everyone’s wedding outfits. The bride kept all her bridesmaids informed of the wedding’s progress by putting out a newsletter.”

Conner wiped his eyes. “Am I the only one who thinks this is a little… extreme?”

Harley shrugged. “Like my daddy used to say, ‘Folks do things differently in the South.’ ”

Conner grinned. “With the budget for this wedding, they could probably feed a third-world nation.”

Conner returned his attention to his plate, managing to finish off his first serving and a magically appearing round of seconds as well. By the time he reached the bottom of the bottle, he had decided this Bollinger’s stuff wasn’t half bad, either.

“Well,” Conner said at last, dropping his napkin on the table, “if you’ll excuse me.”

Harley cast him a sidewards glance. “You’re leaving? Now?”

“Yeah. Is there a problem?”

“You’ll miss the fireworks display!”

O’Brien helped herself to another plate of deviled eggs and a glass of champagne. She supposed she should be abstaining; technically she was still on duty. Then again, this was essentially an undercover operation, and to successfully remain undercover, it was necessary to blend in with the crowd.

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.”