A Wedding To Die For

23

I had worn black chinos and a zip-up sweater for the visitation, but when I arrived at the funeral home the place was hot enough to pop corn in the shuck. I had to unzip the sweater. The fuchsia T-shirt I wore underneath was a little glaring, but if I didn’t cool off I’d be sweating so badly no one would want to be within ten feet of me. The same greeter with those disturbing white gloves led me to the room where Graham’s shiny closed casket was draped with a blanket of mums.

Megan came over to me when I walked in. She wore a gray sweaterdress and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Gray didn’t suit her—it too closely resembled her skin tone. How much more could the poor kid take?

“Thank you so much for coming,” she said, her voice surprisingly strong and in control. “Uncle Graham would have been proud of how many people showed up—even his friends from Dallas came.” She lowered her voice. “But most of the men smell like they shared a keg on the way down here.”

I smiled. “I think he would have liked that. Before it slips my mind, Kate said to tell you Courtney wasn’t well enough to attend tonight, but she might issue her a day pass for the funeral.”

“Did your sister say whether Courtney is accepting her treatment willingly?”

“I saw Courtney myself and I’d say yes.”

Travis had just joined us, and he put his arm around Megan and squeezed her to him. “See? Finally some good news.”

“I’m glad,” Megan said. “Especially for Roxanne. She was so exhausted after her night in jail, she fell asleep the minute Mother brought her home this afternoon. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her.”

I took in the room for the first time—this one a mirror image of where James Beadford’s casket had sat less than a week ago. Metal folding chairs were lined along the wall, and several old men sat together with clear plastic cups holding what appeared to be water—appeared being the key word.

Sylvia had come up with yet another black outfit, this one a pantsuit. She was talking with three men and a woman, none of whom I knew. Meanwhile, Holt spoke to a still fatigued-looking Roxanne. They stood in a corner next to a giant arrangement of white lilies and Holt had on his “I’m so sorry for your loss” face. She had adoring eyes fixed on him, and I considered warning her off before I left tonight. She didn’t need another tragic romantic encounter.

An elderly couple came into the room then, and Megan turned her attention to them.

Travis took my arm and whispered, “Can we talk a minute?”

“Funny, I was about to ask you the same question.”

While Megan walked the old man and woman over to the casket, Travis and I went into the hallway.

He rubbed at his mouth with a shaky hand. “You need to know something. Megan’s father and I did not argue about money the day of the wedding.”

So he’d finally decided to come clean. “I was pretty sure of that. Go on.”

“But I’m afraid Megan knows what we argued about. I think her father told her right after he talked to me. And I think it upset her. A lot.”

“You haven’t asked her?”

“I don’t want to ask her, Abby. Besides, that’s not the reason I needed to talk to you. I want you to stop looking for her birth mother. You can pretend you’re working on the case, but please, I’m begging you, just pretend.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Just trust me. You don’t want to find her,” he said.

“I’ve already found her,” I said. “And I know all about her.”

He closed his eyes. “Damn. So you know she was at the wedding?”

“Yes.”

“Then you realize she’s not the person Megan hoped to find. This mother’s not her dream come true, Abby.”

“How did you find out?” I asked, wanting to add And why the hell didn’t you tell me?

He hung his head. “The day of the wedding, I saw Megan’s father talking to this woman after Sylvia sent me to find James. He and the woman were near the dock, and voices carry out there. I heard exactly what James was saying to her.

“And what was that?”

“He was saying Megan would have a jailbird for a mother and that he was going to the police first thing Monday morning. He kept asking her if it was fair to meet with Megan and then break her heart.”

“Then what happened?”

“They saw me. The woman ran off around the house and James followed me up to the deck. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. I knew how badly Megan wanted to meet her mother and James had the power to make that happen.”

“So you two ended up arguing,” I said.

“He planned to tell Megan everything before her birth mother got the chance to tell her side. Said it was his right because... because he was her biological father, Abby. Then he said Graham would pay through the nose for bringing the woman to the wedding. He didn’t give a damn how all this would affect Megan on her wedding day. Then he told me to keep my mouth shut and stay out of his way.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because... because... I wasn’t sure. I had to protect her.”

“You weren’t sure about what?” But then I understood. “I get it. You weren’t sure about Megan. You think she got so angry about the lies she’d been told all her life that she hit her father over the head and killed him?”

Travis blinked hard, his eyes reddening. “She’d never hurt him on purpose. But I know how upset she must have been.”

“Listen, Travis. If she killed her father, accident or not, why would she ask me to investigate the murders? That doesn’t make sense.”

He looked at his boots. “I thought maybe she had to act as people expected her to—and that would be to do everything in her power to find the killer. Maybe she believed you wouldn’t succeed.”

“Maybe, maybe, maybe. You’ve been thinking up the wrong tree, Travis. She didn’t kill him. And Fielder has proof she didn’t.”

His head snapped up and he stared at me, his eyes bright with hope. “Really?”

“Really. And there’s more I need to tell you.”

“Tell him what?” said Sylvia.

We both turned. She was standing in the hall just outside the entrance to the visitation room. How could she have snuck up on us with those shoes? They were ultra pointed with spike heels and had to have made noise. Yet neither of us had heard her.

“Tell him about my new job,” I said quickly. It was the first lie that came to mind.

But Sylvia seemed to be paying little attention to me. She was staring at Travis. “Are you feeling sick?”

He swallowed. “I’m fine. Really.”

“No, you’re not. You’re all flushed. Do you need some fresh air?”

Travis went over and took his mother-in-law’s hands. “I’m finer than fine, but thanks for caring.”

She smiled up at him, her eyes lost behind a quadruple coat of mascara.

Sylvia let go of Travis and held out a hand to me. “You must have just arrived. I’ll come with you while you pay your respects. Megan mentioned how guilty you feel that you couldn’t prevent Graham’s accident.”

“Um, yeah,” I said. She knew damn well it was no accident, but who was I to present reality to her or Roxanne? As she led me toward the other side of the room, I turned and mouthed “later” to Travis.

The casket was a lacquered ebony with gold trim and a kneeling rail had been placed in front. Sylvia used the casket for support to kneel on the velvet cushion, and I followed suit.

She gripped my hand, her acrylic nails digging into my palm. “Lord, we pray for Graham’s peace. He has found his home with You and all his worldly troubles have ended. Amen.”

“Amen,” I said and started to rise.

But when I let go of Sylvia’s hand she seemed to go limp and had to catch herself to keep from falling.

I grasped her arm. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be okay. With all the preparations today, I forgot my blood pressure medicine. Guess that was a mistake. If you could just help me up?”

Supporting her by the elbow, I got her back on her feet.

“Do you need a drink of water? Or maybe I should tell Megan you’re not feeling well?”

“No,” she said adamantly, glancing over at her daughter, who was seated with Graham’s drinking buddies. “You must not tell Megan anything. If you could take me home for my medicine, I’d also have an opportunity to talk to you in private.”

Another secret conversation with one of the family? What would I find out from her that I didn’t already know? “What’s this about?” I asked.

She glanced around. “We’ll talk at my house.”

Holt and Roxanne must have noticed Sylvia’s near fall because they came over to us with concern in their eyes.

“Are you all right, Aunt Sylvia? You look upset,” Roxanne said.

“I forgot my medicine, but Abby has offered to take me home so I can get in a dose before I keel over. Can you handle the guests?”

“Certainly. I’m doing fine with Holt’s support.” Roxanne lifted her chin. “This is my father’s visitation and therefore my responsibility.”

“Of course, sweetheart. And you’ve been doing a stellar job. Tell Megan where I’ve gone if she asks.”

Holt, looking a little uncomfortable, said, “Abby just arrived. Why don’t I drive you home, Mrs. Beadford?”

I was guessing hosting a visitation with Roxanne was not his idea of fun.

He looked at me. “I need to talk shop with Sylvia anyway, Abby. She’s got my nose to the grindstone at work these days, but she’ll be a great boss. She’s obviously learned a lot from James over the past twenty years.”

So Sylvia had taken over at Beadford Oil Suppliers. That must have been a disappointment to poor Holt. And now he was reduced to kissing her butt, just as he’d probably done with James Beadford. But then, he needed the money, according to Quinn, so he’d better be on his best behavior.

I closed my eyes. Oh my God, I’m calling her Quinn. This is too scary.

Sylvia said, “Holt, I’d prefer you stay here in case any of our clients come by to pay their respects. I think that’s what James would have wanted.”

“You’re probably right,” Holt said. “But I’d be glad to drive to your house while you stay here. If you tell me where the medicine is, I’ll bring it here.”

“No, no. That’s not necessary. Abby doesn’t mind, do you?” she said.

“Not at all,” I answered.

We left then, and I tried a few prompts to get a hint what this was about on the short drive, but Sylvia changed the subject. We were going to do this her way; that much was obvious.

When we arrived, the house was icy cold, but I declined her offer of a drink, even though I would have loved a cup of coffee. I wanted her to get to the point.

She led me into the library, where her husband had died, and it definitely creeped me out returning to the murder scene—especially since I’d learned today how vicious a crime it had been.

After Daddy passed, I couldn’t set foot in the room where he’d died for months afterward, but Sylvia didn’t seem bothered. More like distracted, now that I thought about it. As if it didn’t register that this was where her whole life had changed forever. I wondered if this was more of the Beadford denial at work.

She turned on a table lamp near the bookshelves, and the light cast a warm but meager glow over half the room. The fireplace remained in shadows. I noted the table filled with wedding presents was gone, the Oriental rugs had been removed, and the furniture had been rearranged, but other than that, no evidence of violence lingered—except in my mind.

She gestured to the tapestry wing chairs flanking the lamp table. “Please sit down.”

But rather than sit with me, she went to the shelves. Her back was to me, so I couldn’t see what she was doing, but seconds later, one set of shelves slid back revealing a wall safe. She pressed a series of numbers on the digital pad first, then turned the conventional dial to open the safe.

When she joined me at the table, she carried a six-inch-high stack of bills with a thousand dollar note on top. Placing the money on the table between us, she said, “I’m only just learning to be a businesswoman, so please bear with me.”

“Okay,” I said, my confusion evident in my tone.

“I know you’re an investigator and that you’re working with Megan to solve her father’s murder. Whatever she’s offered you, I’ll double that.”

So she knew about my real job, too. “She’s paying me more than enough, so—”

“You misunderstand. I’ll pay you to stop investigating. Today. No more questions. No more talks with the chief of police.”

Another offer to quit the case. “Did Roxanne tell you about me today after you picked her up at the police station?”

“Yes. And she mentioned that you and Chief Fielder would be sharing information to find the killer. And that’s not in Megan’s best interest, though I genuinely believe you have her best interest at heart.” She was sitting rigid, her spine not even touching the back of the chair.

How much did she know? Did Sylvia think her daughter killed James? Was that what this was about? “There is no evidence linking Megan to her father’s murder, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“Certainly there’s no evidence,” she said derisively. “You think I’m protecting her from a murder charge?”

Gone was the wimpy, weepy woman I’d come to know over the last couple of weeks. This was a different Sylvia. “How much?” she said. “I’ll pay you whatever you ask.”

“I’m not taking your money.”

“Why not?” she said impatiently.

“Did you overhear me talking to Travis tonight?” I asked. “Is that what this is about?”

“I heard enough. You need to stay away from all of us. This has gone too far.”

That’s when I noticed that though one hand rested in her lap, the other was between the chair arm and her left hip—and out of my sight.

My mouth went dry. Did she have a weapon? Was she that desperate? And for God’s sake why?

But what if she killed James? What if she recognized Laura Montgomery, confronted her husband, and smacked him with the heaviest object she could find when he told her why the woman was at the wedding?

But I wasn’t hankering to learn if she had a gun at her side or just how desperate she was. Not right now. “Listen, Sylvia. If you want me off the case, I’m off the case. You’re Megan’s mom and you know best.”

Her tongue flicked around her lips, and I could tell she wanted to believe me. Her thick makeup had taken on a repulsive sheen in the lamplight, and it was almost as if her newfound assertiveness was melting away with the foundation and blush.

The hand in her lap went to her forehead, and she squeezed the skin between her eyebrows. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I never should have brought you here. You’ll go to the police and then this whole thing will crack open like a rotten egg and—”

“She’s not going anywhere,” came a male voice from the shadowed entry.

I turned. Holt McNabb stood in the doorway.

“I told you to keep your mouth shut, Sylvia,” Holt said.

“But I heard her talking with Travis. She knows about Laura. She knows everything.”

“And that’s why we’ll take care of this little problem. Just like I took care of Graham when he figured out what you’d done. And once I fix this mess, what will we do, Sylvia?”

“Keep our mouths shut,” she said, eyes downcast.

“Right.” He smiled and might as well have added, “That’s a good dog.”

Sylvia must have still had her doubts, though, because she said, “Roxanne told me Abby and Fielder were sharing information. It may be too late.”

“You have that city councilman on your payroll, right? He’ll convince Fielder to leave the case alone.”

“Yes, but—”

“Money talks. And you have plenty to say. Meanwhile, I’ll handle this problem right now.” He pulled what looked like a Glock from his coat pocket. “Did you know how cold the bay waters get in winter, Abby? You need to be very careful when you walk out on the dock at night because one little slip and BAM!” He slapped the gun against his free hand.

I started, my heart in my throat.

Holt shook his head sadly. “You fall in that water and it’s all over but the autopsy.”

I looked at Sylvia. “Anyone else dies around here and you’ll have cops camping out on your lawn.”

“She’s right,” said Sylvia. “There’s been enough killing, Holt.”

So I had an ally. A reluctant one, but still an ally. I spoke to her again. “You were so angry the day James died. A jury will understand.”

“It was an accident. I never meant—”

“Shut up, Sylvia,” said Holt.

“You and I know it wasn’t exactly an accident,” I said.

“But it was. I never meant to kill him. When he told me he was Megan’s real father, that he had a bond with her that I would never have, I just picked up that vase and... and...” Tears spilled over the mascara on her lower lids.

“You need to shut up, Sylvia,” Holt said. He waved the gun at me. “And you need to come with me.”

Despite the grapefruit-size rock of fear in my gut, despite the big, bad gun pointed my way, I didn’t move. Why make it easy for him to kill me? I may be stubborn, impulsive, and foolish on occasion, but I didn’t fall off the stupid truck. I wasn’t about to jump into the ocean like some trained pig. He could kill me here where he’d leave plenty of evidence.

I looked at Sylvia. “Tell me about the accident. What happened?”

“Don’t answer that.” Holt marched over and pulled me roughly up by the arm and pressed the gun to my temple. “You shut up. Just shut the fuck up.”

“You hit him with the vase, right?” I said as Holt started to drag me away. “And he fell forward. Then what?” She was insisting it was an accident, and my gut told me she believed it.

Sylvia’s mouth hung open and her face looked like the dark smudges and teardrops had been painted on.

Holt had me almost to the door, and I wiggled and kicked, even managed to free myself for an instant, but he was far stronger than I. He pulled me back and wrapped an arm around my shoulders and neck, the gun cold against my skull.

Sylvia, sounding like a zombie in some B horror flick, said, “He wouldn’t answer me and I knew I’d killed him. So I ran out. And I had to t-take off my shoes. Because of the blood. I had his blood on my shoes. I put them in the caterer’s trash bag.” Her chest started to heave, and I feared I might lose her to hysteria soon.

We’d reached the door, so I grabbed the frame, braced myself. “You didn’t kill him, Sylvia. He would have lived. Holt finished him off.”

I wasn’t certain of that, but I had a hunch that’s why he was so damn anxious to get me out of here.

Holt clamped his hand over my mouth, enough of a switch in our position that I was able to give him a wicked elbow to the gut. He buckled but regained his equilibrium quickly. One finger, however, slipped into my mouth, and I clamped down with all my might.

He hollered with pain and threw me off him. I landed on my butt, facing him.

“You bitch,” he said through clenched teeth, the Glock pointed at my heart.

“Leave her be,” said Sylvia. She’d stood and her hand wavered with the weight of the gun she’d been concealing since she sat down with me.

Like Laura Montgomery last night, she didn’t handle the weapon with the authority born of experience, so I couldn’t count on her to save my ass. That was my job.

Anyone who’s practiced with weapons knows a moving target is damn hard to hit. So I tucked and rolled, as if a fire was about to consume me. I must have made at least three rolls to reach her.

I heard Holt open fire.

Adrenaline sent my world into slow motion. I heard nothing after his gun went off. And felt nothing. I reached up and grabbed Sylvia’s gun. She didn’t resist, just fell to the floor and covered her head.

I pointed the gun at Holt, but saw he already had his hands raised in surrender. But not because of me. Laura Montgomery was standing behind him, and I guessed she had her own weapon tucked in his back.

But he still held the Glock and quick as a blink, he swung his free arm around and sent Laura flying. Not good.

So before he could get off a good a shot, I fired.

I didn’t miss.

Holt dropped like bricks off a twenty-story building. He began writhing on the floor, holding his thigh, blood leaking through his fingers. No spurting, so I hadn’t nicked an artery. Before he could figure out he wasn’t hurt all that badly, I hurried over and picked up the gun he’d dropped and stuck it in my waistband. Two guns are always better than one.

Sylvia was still crouched on the floor, her arms covering her head, but when I said, “It’s all clear,” she unwound and started to get up.

And that’s when she saw Laura Montgomery.

“You,” she said. “This is all your fault.”

Sylvia leaped over the balled-up, whimpering Holt and ran at Laura like she was attacking a blocking dummy.

They fell to the floor, and Sylvia managed to take off her shoe and wield it at Laura’s face.

Laura moved her head in time and the spike heel hit the floor with a sickening thwack.

Fortunately Laura’s gun had been knocked out of her hand, or she might have used it.

I stepped in to separate them, dragging a flailing Sylvia away. For the first time in weeks, she wasn’t crying. She was quivering with rage, the same rage that probably made her pick up that vase and smash it on her husband’s skull.

Laura got to her feet and called 911. Meanwhile, I shoved Sylvia into the chair and kept the gun trained on her. Holt had risen to a sitting position and had both hands pressed against his bloody leg. He said nothing, but Sylvia started rocking and repeating, “I didn’t kill him.” When Laura finished the call, she stood near the library entry, a silhouette in the shadows.

Five long minutes later I heard male voices shouting, “This room clear,” several times as they came closer. Then Henderson and another uniformed officer came rushing in, weapons drawn.

Henderson knew how to use his handcuffs almost as well as his mouth, and he had Sylvia restrained in a New York minute. The other cop called for an ambulance on the walkie-talkie pinned to his shoulder while he used plastic bracelets on Holt.

When Fielder showed up not long after, I realized we had a half-dozen guns in the room. A nice number when they’re all held by the good guys.