A Wedding To Die For

22

Kate stepped in after my talk with Courtney and took her to her room for another therapy session. Even though I had tried to reassure Courtney that no one knew for certain that Roxanne committed murder to protect her sister, Courtney wasn’t convinced and had started talking about how worthless she was.

Meanwhile, I went out to my car and sat there thinking while Kate stayed behind with the once again agitated Courtney. I’d played my role of the concerned friend at the rehearsal and wedding while all the time Courtney and Roxanne knew I had another agenda. And Travis, the one person Megan wanted to protect the most, knew about me, too—and lied to the police. And what about Sylvia? Was she really in the dark when everyone else seemed to know Megan was searching for her mother?

I inserted the key in the ignition, but the questions kept coming. What about Graham? Had he researched my background because he knew why I was hanging around his niece? And who confronted James in the study that day with a Waterford vase in hand? Was it Laura Montgomery? And did she then get rid of Graham so he could never tell Megan the truth? From what I saw of her last night, she was certainly desperate enough to have committed murder.

So many possibilities, and as much as I hated the idea, I had to tell Fielder what I’d learned. I pulled out of the hospital parking lot wondering where I would begin with the story—and if she’d let me finish talking this time.

When I arrived at the Seacliff Police Station a half hour later, the place was back to normal. Guess the reporters got tired of being stonewalled. Henderson didn’t even hear me come in. He wore a headset and was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed. And I knew why.

A woman was crying, sounding like a calf calling his mama—a piercing, loud, insistent noise that would have had me wearing headphones, too.

I walked up to Henderson’s desk and poked his shoulder.

He started and nearly fell backward, then hastily took off the headset and said, “What do you want?”

“I need to see her. Now.”

“You sure? Because she is in one foul mood.” He nodded in the direction of the noise. “Ever since that Beadford girl got here last night we’ve been subjected to Roxanne’s special brand of torture. You’d think she’d get tired.”

“Roxanne is making all that racket?” I looked toward the hall where the noise was coming from.

“We’re thinking about calling the county mental health officers to cart her off.”

“All the more reason for me to talk to Fielder.”

“She’s pretty busy. Between rounds with Beadford, she keeps looking at pictures and video from the wedding. I told her she needs to leave it alone for a while, but ever since the preliminary autopsy and forensic reports came in this morning she’s been working nonstop. She’s majorly stressed out.”

“Did you see those reports?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? She doesn’t trust anyone with this case.” Henderson stood. “Come on. Let me take you back there.”

Once we reached Fielder’s office, he rapped on the door. The crying was obviously coming from inside.

He called, “Miss Rose is here to see you, Chief.”

“I’m busy,” came the curt reply.

But then Roxanne spoke. “Abby’s here? My Abby?”

Oh brother. Now I belonged to her.

Fielder said something indecipherable, and then Roxanne shrieked, “I need to talk to her!”

The click of shoes on the wood floor told me Roxanne might just get her wish.

Fielder yanked open the door and stepped aside for me to enter. “If you think you can make her quit crying, you are more than welcome to try.”

Roxanne had been sitting in the chair opposite the desk, but when she saw me, she jumped to her feet and rushed over.

Hugging me so tightly I felt like I was dancing with a grizzly. Roxanne said, “Why doesn’t she put me in jail where I belong? Why, Abby? Why?”

I gripped Roxanne’s forearms, pushed her away, and held her at arm’s length. “Can the three of us talk?”

“I have been talking, but she doesn’t listen,” cried Roxanne.

Sad, but true, I thought. I turned to Fielder, who looked run over, run down, and wrung out.

She said, “Can I release Miss Beadford to you? Otherwise, we might have to commit her. She refuses to leave the premises even though I have told her I have her statement and she’s free to leave.”

“I’ll be glad to take her home if we can discuss her confession first.” This was a bribe, pure and simple, but one I was betting Fielder might accept.

“And why should I do that?” she said wearily. But she turned, walked to her desk, and sat down. She was definitely ready to negotiate.

“I’ve learned a few things about this case in the last few days, things that might interest you,” I said.

Roxanne and I had followed her, and we sat in the two chairs facing Fielder. Roxanne wore Dallas Cowboys sweats and her stringy hair looked like she’d combed it with a dead fish.

“What have you told the chief?” I asked her.

She sniffed and her lower lip trembled. “The truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God. And now I’m going to rot in hell!” She let loose with one of those calf calls, and it was loud enough to rupture my eardrum.

Fielder looked like she might jump across the desk and strangle her.

I gripped Roxanne’s knee and squeezed. “Shut up. No wonder she doesn’t listen. Who could stand that noise?”

Roxanne stopped in midwail, snapped her mouth closed, and stared at me for a second. Then, in absolute control, she said, “I apologize for my inappropriate behavior, but this has been an extremely emotional time for myself and my family.”

“Right. So what’s with this confession? Did you kill them to protect your sister?”

Fielder offered one of those frustrated and disgusted sighs she was so good at. “Protecting Courtney? All I’ve heard is some cock-and-bull story about a fiddler boyfriend her uncle and her father sent out of town.”

Roxanne jerked in Fielder’s direction. “Violinist. And I loved him. Uncle James and Father conspired against us. Just like Romeo and Juliet, we were doomed. So I made them both pay with their lives.”

“Okay,” said Fielder. “And why don’t you tell your beloved Abby how you killed your uncle.”

“I hit him over the head with a vase.”

“And what color was the vase?” Fielder said.

“You’ve asked me a dozen times. Why do I have to keep answering the same questions over and over?”

“Because you give me a different response every time,” said Fielder.

“I was too overwrought to remember much about that afternoon. People in homicidal rages do not remember details. But Megan received several vases as wedding gifts and I know it was one of them. I think it was the blue and white Wedgwood.”

“Right.” Fielder looked my way. “You see what I’m dealing with here?”

I did. If you hit someone over the head hard enough to knock them senseless, wouldn’t you remember what you used? Maybe Roxanne needed a good shock to refresh her memory. “I don’t think Roxanne killed anyone, Chief. She’s protecting Courtney because she knows her sister was blackmailing her father.”

My words had an immediate effect. Roxanne leaped to her feet and stared down at me. “How dare you come here as my friend and then betray my sister and myself in this manner?”

“Courtney is willing to come clean,” I said. “I suggest you follow her lead.”

Roxanne slowly reclaimed her seat. Her frown reminded me of a kid whose gerbil had just died. I hoped she wouldn’t start crying again.

“She admitted she killed them?” Roxanne said.

“Huh?” I said.

Fielder echoed my surprise with a “What?”

“It was most certainly the drugs,” Roxanne said quickly, her eyes darting between Fielder and me. “She wasn’t herself... but she’s getting better. She wasn’t responsible. You can’t send her to jail for something she probably doesn’t even remember doing.”

“She didn’t kill them, Courtney,” said Fielder. “Despite what some people think”—I received a pointed stare—“I have been doing my job. Your sister is one of the few people with an alibi for both murders. The easiest part of this whole case was finding out who was selling her drugs and when. She met with her dealer outside the Beadford house during the reception and in the funeral home parking lot right about the time her father died.”

Roxanne turned to me. “Is this some sort of ruse, Abby? Because I am more than willing to go to the big house—that’s vernacular for prison—because I am guilty.”

“From what you’ve told me,” Fielder said, “you’re merely guilty of telling your father that Megan Beadford was looking for her birth mother. That’s not a crime, Roxanne.”

“It is to me,” she said quietly. “Because that’s what started everything.”

I had to agree with her there, but I didn’t say this out loud. I wanted no more calf calls in my immediate future.

Fielder said, “Could you please recant this confession now?”

She crossed her arms and looked downright defiant. “I’m not recanting if it means Courtney goes to jail for her drug problem.”

Man, Roxanne had more grit in her craw than I ever gave her credit for.

Fielder pointed a finger at her. “You are wasting my time. Courtney is not going to jail—at least for now.”

“See, Abby? She’s lying. She does think Courtney is a cold-blooded murderer.”

“Don’t you get it?” I said. “Number one, your sister has an alibi. Number two, if Courtney killed your father and your uncle, how would she get money for drugs? After all, your uncle James was supporting your father. That’s how the money flowed in your family, right? From Uncle James through your father and then to you.” Yes indeed, combined with what Courtney had told me, it all made sense now.

“How did you know?” a wide-eyed Roxanne said.

“I put two and two together. After you told your father that Megan was looking for her mother, he wasted no time contacting the woman. He knew where to find her, which means he knew his brother’s secret, and he figured Megan would learn that secret soon enough, too. James would have no reason to continue paying your father for his silence. Your dad wanted his revenge before the money stopped coming in, right?”

Roxanne hung her head. “Uncle James humiliated him so many times, and Dad thought he finally had a way to get even.”

“So,” I said, “with the money cow about to dry up, what better way to end their relationship than with a hefty dose of payback? I’ll bet he loved seeing the look on James’s face when Laura Montgomery showed up at the wedding.”

Fielder said, “Wait a minute. Who’s Laura Montgomery?”

“The woman in the composite. Megan’s birth mother.”

And I had to admit I loved the look on Fielder’s face right now. Stunned and dismayed about covered it. And I was hoping she also felt like an idiot for having gone bucktooth and hangnail with me from the minute we met.

As it turned out, I was saved from having to take Roxanne home. Between Fielder and me, we convinced her that Courtney wouldn’t be sent to jail. Courtney had an alibi, she was in rehab, and Fielder had no reason to go after her. So Roxanne called Sylvia, who agreed to pick her niece up.

While Fielder and I stood by, and Henderson smiled as wide as a game show host, Sylvia ushered Roxanne out of the police station like a mother duck, telling her she needed to bathe and rest up to be ready for the visitation tonight.

Once she was gone, Fielder said, “I never thought I’d be grateful to you for anything.”

“So you are thanking me?”

“Yeah. You want to have dinner or something? Talk this case over?”

Henderson folded his arms and nodded, looking satisfied. “Very classy, Chief. I think you’re getting the hang of this job.”

“Would you shut up?” she said, but she was fighting a smile.

“You mean you want to talk over the case like two professionals?” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice and think I succeeded.

She nodded. “I need to know what you’ve learned. I seem to have missed a few things.”

“You had too much evidence and not enough manpower.” I was suddenly feeling generous and forgiving in the face of her turnaround. “Like my daddy used to say, you couldn’t see the pigs for the slop.”

And I wasn’t sure I could either, but I was enjoying this too much to make that admission out loud.

We ended up going to Quinn’s surprisingly large house and ate leftover pizza right out of the fridge. At least the woman knew how to provide a decent meal. After we finished eating, we went to her living room, Dr Peppers in hand.

The place was organized and tidy like her office, the decor modern with sleek curvy tables and a leather sofa. One wall was filled with her father’s framed awards. His badge was displayed in a glass box on a small table beneath the commendations, and I also noted a picture of him shaking hands with the first President Bush.

“You were very proud of him,” I said.

“Be careful. Be careful,” someone said from behind me.

I turned and saw a large freestanding birdcage. Inside, pacing on a thick dowel, was a snowy cockatoo.

“Meet Beefeater,” said Fielder.

“Beefeater on the rocks, Beefeater on the rocks,” said the bird, his head bobbing.

I walked over to the cage. “Male or female?” I asked.

“Male,” said Fielder. “But be careful. He bites almost as hard as I do.”

“Be careful, be careful,” said Beefeater.

“He’s beautiful,” I said, stooping to get a closer look.

“He belonged to my dad.”

“Hey, Dad, what do you think? What do you think?” said the bird.

“We both miss him a lot,” she said quietly. She had kicked off her shoes and was sitting on the sofa. “He was the best damn cop in the world.”

“My daddy’s been gone a years,” I said. “I miss him, too.”

“Seems we have more in common than an interest in Jeff,” she said with a wry grin.

I sat in the butter yellow chair next to the sofa. “Now, wait a minute. If we plan to be in the same room and—”

“Don’t worry.” She raised a hand. “Jeff is off-limits. That doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re damn lucky, but I won’t be making any moves on him.”

“You mean any more moves.”

“Damn lucky,” spouted Beefeater.

“Shut up, Beefy.” Fielder was blushing. “Jeff set me straight, so can we drop this?”

“Okay. Truce.”

“You handled Roxanne when I couldn’t, and I appreciate your help,” Fielder said. “I’ve been too busy trying to prove how smart I am, how I can do this job despite the community’s criticism. Seems I need to learn better interviewing techniques. I haven’t had much practice other than with drunks, peeping toms, and adolescents who think playing with a can of spray paint is the most fun they’ve ever had.”

“What kind of community criticism?” I asked.

“Snipes from city council members and people who like to write letters to the editor. They say my father handed me my job even though I had no experience and no idea how to handle crime in a small town.”

“Is that true?”

A familiar anger flashed in her eyes. “Okay, it’s true. But not because I don’t know how to be a good cop. It’s because—”

“Good cop. Good cop, Quinn,” said Beefeater.

She smiled and continued. “Handling my job has very little to do with policing and a whole lot to do with ass kissing. I’m no ass kisser.”

“Really? I never would have thought.” I grinned.

“I won’t apologize for bringing a certain attitude to my job, and I think that’s enough said. Let’s get to work. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

I went first, telling her all I had discovered in Jamaica, the scoop on Laura Montgomery, and I even confessed that the woman had come to my house. I was sure glad I’d reported this to the Dallas police because Fielder was a little miffed I hadn’t called her last night. But she accepted some of the responsibility when I mentioned she hadn’t exactly been too approachable.

“Now it’s your turn,” I said. “Henderson mentioned you received some reports today.”

She nodded and took a sip of her Dr Pepper. “Interesting stuff. The autopsy report says the blow to the back of the head with the vase did not kill James Beadford but probably knocked him out.”

“And he hit the corner of the fireplace when he fell. We knew that’s what killed him.”

“We thought we knew,” she said. “But the blood evidence indicates he fell to the floor several feet from the fireplace.”

I sat straighter. “Really? So did he wake up and fall again when he tried to walk?”

“Scuff marks on the wood floor made by the tips of his shoes indicate he was dragged to the fireplace.”

Hair rose on the back of my neck. This was more ugly than I’d thought. “So the killer knew he wasn’t dead and finished him off by ramming his head into the bricks?”

“Yup. And there goes my original theory that this was a crime of passion, an argument that went too far. Apparently that’s not the whole story.”

“Apparently not,” I said half to myself.

“And the blood evidence also seems to clear Megan. The stains on her dress were consistent with her only cradling her father’s head. There were no spatter marks, no traces of blood on her hem—things that would have been there if she’d dragged the body or struck him.”

“You really considered her a suspect?” I asked, but then added, “Figures. You even thought I might have done it.”

“I thought it was possible they had an argument and things got out of hand. Remember, I learned about the first-degree murder angle only this morning.”

“I see your point. Jeff keeps reminding me that anyone is capable of murder given the right circumstances, so you couldn’t eliminate Megan.”

“We went to the same academy, so I’m with Jeff.” She must have read my expression because she quickly added, “And that’s a figure of speech, Abby. Can I call you Abby?”

“Sure.” Did that mean I was supposed to call her by her first name? Because I wasn’t sure I wanted to be that friendly. “Did you get any reports on Graham’s murder?”

“Not yet. As I said before, he was full of booze, which made it easier to shove him off that balcony.”

“Beefeater on the rocks,” piped in the bird.

“Does he listen to everything you say?” I asked with a laugh.

“Yes, and I’m grateful someone pays attention. Anyway, there were no fingerprints in Graham Beadford’s hotel room, so we have no convenient glasses with prints or the killer’s DNA on the rim, and we didn’t find footprints either. We always hope our murderers step in mud or paint right before they kill, but it just doesn’t work out that way too often.”

“Very funny,” I said. “So there were no fibers on the balcony or skin under the victim’s nails?”

“Like I said, we don’t have the forensic reports from that scene. Despite what people see on TV shows, I don’t have instant access to the evidence, especially in a town where we have to rely on another county’s crime scene people.”

“And no one saw the killer but me?”

She shook her head, lips tight.

“This sucks,” I said.

“This sucks,” echoed Beefeater.

“You’re both right,” she said with a resigned smile. “I do have pictures and videos that show Travis and James in the background out on the deck. They appeared to be arguing and that’s why I brought him in. But the rest of those thousand pictures I went through? Time-consuming, but worthless.”

I told her what Travis and Megan had told me about the argument, how it was over money for grad school.

“So why couldn’t he just say that when I questioned him?” The old fire was back in her voice.

“Don’t have a walleyed fit. He didn’t share this with me until yesterday.” I didn’t add that I wasn’t sure I believed him. I didn’t have anything but my gut reaction to his explanation, and I wasn’t about to have her haul him in again because of me.

“With all the new information,” she said, “I’m rethinking motive. Could have been revenge. Could have been greed. Seems the only people with any money among the suspects are Sylvia Beadford and now her daughter. And Mrs. Beadford was rich before she even met her husband. Megan inherits half the estate, so that benefits Travis as well as the bride. The cousins and Graham Beadford weren’t even mentioned in the will. The best man worked for James Beadford, and if Sylvia sells the company, he’s shit out of luck.”

“Holt’s been busy making sure the company survives the setback of losing the CEO,” I said. “So he’s not SOL yet.”

“Good thing, because he’s in credit card debt up to his eyeballs like everyone else in their early twenties. Graham Beadford had a steady income thanks to his brother, but what he didn’t spend at a bar in Dallas called For Pete’s Sake, he turned over to his daughters. They weren’t making ends meet up in Dallas.”

“Yeah, I found that out today. Could Graham have killed his brother hoping he’d inherit something from James?”

“It’s possible, but then who killed him?” she asked.

“It keeps coming back to Laura Montgomery. She had the best motive to do away with both of them—and I hate to even think about that. Megan deserves better.”

Fielder attended to a cuticle, her dark hair falling in front of her face. “In my experience, what we deserve and what we get don’t often match up,” she said quietly.

“Yeah,” I said. “Sometimes.”

“For Pete’s sake, this sucks,” said Beefeater.

And that about summed it up.