All the reception guests were required to stay on the premises until late into the night-even the bride. Despite all the preparations and programming consultants and the investment of monumental wads of cash, Freddy’s party was ruined.

Around one in the morning, Conner somehow managed to stumble to his car and drive back to his cabin, where to his infinite relief, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Saturday

He was awakened by an insistent pounding on the door of his cabin. Given his current state, it felt as if someone were ringing a gong inside his cerebellum. Groaning, Conner rolled out of bed, stumbling against the nightstand in the process. He abruptly realized he wasn’t wearing anything. He checked the closet, but couldn’t find a robe, so he settled for a towel.

He heard the front door of his cabin pop open. Damn! he thought. Guess I forgot to lock the door again. He heard the footsteps crossing the outer room. A few moments later, the clamourous pounding resumed at the bedroom door, even more insistent than before.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, Conner plodded to the door. “Damn it, Fitz, can’t you ever give me-”

He stopped cold. It wasn’t his caddie standing on the other side of the door. It was Lieutenant O’Brien.

“Nice outfit,” she said, as she marched into the bedroom. “Is it monogrammed?”

Conner clutched the top of the towel. He didn’t want any comic accidents. “Good morning, Lieutenant. I knew I’d get you into my bedroom eventually.”

“You’re a riot, Cross.” She stared at the unmade bed, the tangled sheets, the pillows strewn across the floor. “How the hell are you?”

“Not as good as I was a few minutes ago. When I was in bed. I think I’ll go back now. You can come, too, if you like.”

“I’m here on business.”

Conner pressed his fingers against his forehead. “Surely you don’t have more questions. Haven’t I already answered every question that could possibly be asked? Especially given that I don’t know a damn thing.”

“I’m assuming you don’t know who killed Jodie McCree. But surely you learned something last night.”

“Not really.”

“I was keeping tabs on you, Cross. You disappeared for a good while. And later, a witness told me you were racing across the room, pushing people out of the way. Heading toward the fountain. As if you knew what had happened. Or was about to happen.”

Conner held up his hands. “Hey, now-don’t get any crazy ideas.”

“It looks pretty damn suspicious.”

“I can explain.”

“Then you’d better. As quickly as possible.”

“Right.” He fell onto the edge of the bed. “After I saw Jodie floating in the fountain… I guess I forgot all about it.” Slowly, dredging up the memories, Conner recounted how he had trailed Freddy up the stairs, how he had overheard a mysterious conversation with an unidentified second person, how he had followed them but lost them.

And then found Jodie instead.

“I don’t know what the hell Freddy was talking about, or who the other guy was, but it has to relate to these murders.”

“You don’t know that.”

“What else could it be?”

“How should I know? Maybe he was having an argument with the caterer. Maybe one of the violinists broke a string. Maybe they bet on a golf game. It could’ve been anything. We can’t assume that because there was a murder, every weird conversation beforehand related to it.”

Conner appeared unconvinced. “Whatever they were discussing, it was crooked. And very secret. If I were you, I’d arrest Freddy. Before he leaves.”

“I don’t have grounds to arrest him. And he’s been told not to leave town.”

“At least bring him in for questioning.”

“What would be the point? Do you think he’s going to confess to murder? Much better to leave him alone. Let him think no one suspects-but keep a close eye on him.”

“I guess that makes sense.” Conner pounded his fists together. “But I’d still like to know what Freddy was talking about.”

“Did he mention Jodie?”

Conner mentally traced back through the conversation. “I don’t think so. Not as such, anyway.” He snapped his fingers. “But Ace did.” He related their brief conversation at the reception to O’Brien. “He said something about Jodie. That she was sweet or nice or something like that.”

O’Brien arched an eyebrow. “Did he say sweet or nice?”

“I don’t know.” He tried to recall the exact phrasing. “Come to think of it, I think Ace said precious. Yeah, that was it. Precious. Definitely. I think. What difference does it make?”

“A hell of a lot.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Ace Silverstone is from the South, isn’t he?”

“Yeah… so?”

“Well, down South we have our own vocabulary. If he said she was precious-that’s a compliment. But if he said she was sweet-that’s the kiss of death. And if he said she was nice-that’s the kiss of death with the coffin sealed.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Conner glanced at the clock radio beside the bed. “Look, I hate to break up this fascinating etymological discussion, but see, I’m in this golf tournament thingie. And I’m not even dressed.”

“You can get dressed. But you’re not going anywhere near the golf course.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t worry. You’ve been given a late tee time. For a reason.”

Conner tapped his foot impatiently. “And that would be…?”

O’Brien looked at him gravely. “Sorry. I got distracted. There’s been another development in the case.”

Conner felt his blood go cold. “And that would be?”

“Get dressed. You can see for yourself.”

O’Brien led Conner into the office of the club chairman. But sometime between his last visit and the present, the entire room had been transformed. People were scrambling all over the place-mostly men in black suits and white shirts and thin black ties. He spotted a reel-to-reel recorder and some high-tech communication equipment. And he couldn’t miss the stiff-necked men with solemn expressions lining the wall closest to the door. Security officers, he surmised.

“This doesn’t seem like Tenniel’s usual decorating style,” Conner remarked. “What’s going on?”

“Mr. Tenniel’s office has become FBI Headquarters South.”

“Because of the murders?”

O’Brien shook her head. “There’s more to it than that. Let me introduce you to someone.”

She waved a hand in the air. A few moments later, a woman about O’Brien’s age walked toward them.

“This is Special Agent Liponsky,” O’Brien explained. Liponsky was wearing a close-fitting gray suit with a scarf tie. To Conner’s disappointment, she looked nothing like Scully on The X-Files. “She’s one of the FeeBees in charge. We’re liaisoning.”

Conner looked at the two women. “Is that legal in Georgia?”

O’Brien gave him a wry grin. “I’m her local contact.”

“Contact on what? Isn’t someone going to tell me what’s going on?”

O’Brien glanced at Liponsky, who returned a curt nod. O’Brien retrieved a piece of paper from a nearby desk, then passed it to Conner.

“Mr. Tenniel received this fax about two this morning. It was sent from a local convenience store. The clerk doesn’t remember the sender, who was probably wearing a disguise anyway, and the security camera wasn’t working, so don’t bother asking.”

Conner quickly scanned the one-page fax. It was typewritten, all in block capital letters. The fax copy was dim; he couldn’t make out all the words. But it didn’t much matter; he could get the gist of it. He scanned the note quickly, drinking in the salient facts-and the big number at the bottom.

The author of the fax claimed to have killed John McCree and his wife. He-or she-further stipulated that unless the tournament officials paid one million dollars in unmarked bills-there would be more murders.

“This can’t be real,” Conner said, clutching the paper in his hands. “Must be a copycat. Someone trying to cash in on the murders.”