Murder on the Bride’s Side

Chapter 15

A half hour later, Harry was still in the study with Detective Grant. I had to admit, it didn’t look good. Bridget, Colin, Peter, and I sat in my bedroom, awaiting any news. A loud rap on the door jolted us out of our silence. It was Elsie. Her face drawn and tight, she looked, for once, her full age.

“Where’s your father?” she demanded crisply of Bridget.

“I don’t know. I think he went to make some phone calls. Why? What’s wrong?”

“I just heard raised voices in the study. Harry was yelling at that detective. I don’t like it. I have a bad feeling. God only knows what David said to Detective Grant during his interview. I need your father. He’ll know what to do.”

Bridget’s face lost color. She pressed her hand to her chest. “You think Harry needs a lawyer?”

Elsie nodded. “Knowing David, I think we all do. I had thought that we would be fine having Graham here, but now I’m wondering if we need additional backup.”

Elsie swept away in search of Graham.

Bridget leaped to her feet. “Come on!” she said.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Out. We need a plan and fast.”

Minutes later, we were in Colin’s car and headed for downtown Richmond, where Bridget reasoned we could talk in private. “On to Richmond!” the battle cry of the Federal troops during the Civil War, reverberated in my head as the car brought us closer to the capital. But while the pithy saying might have raised the sprits of the boys in blue, it was doing nothing for mine.

After hearing of Elsie’s suspicion, Bridget cast herself into the role of amateur sleuth, resulting in a bizarre behavior combination of Lucy Ricardo and Nancy Drew. Colin had to make a few more calls regarding their canceled trip and it was proof of his extreme distraction that he had asked Bridget to drive.

Peter and I huddled quietly in the backseat while she tore south along I-95 in Colin’s BMW. If that suggests a certain peacefulness to our outing, let me rephrase. My back was pressed firmly against the leather seat. My right foot desperately sought out an imaginary brake. With one hand I clung to the door handle in a white-knuckled grip and with the other I clasped tightly to Peter’s. Peter’s posture was a little more blasé, although I heard him mutter, “Oh, sweet Jesus,” more than once.

As she drove, Bridget outlined all the reasons we needed to save Harry. While I agreed with them all, I wished she didn’t feel the need to elucidate each point with a raised finger. If anyone needed both hands on the steering wheel, it was Bridget.

“Reason number five. Do you remember the time Harry saved Queen Mab?”

“Who is Queen Mab?” asked Peter.

“More like what was Queen Mab,” I mumbled beside him.

“I heard that!” Bridget yelled with mock indignation. The subject of Queen Mab had been good-naturedly debated between us for years. Each of us thought the other was dead wrong, of course, but we didn’t take it personally. Turning around to continue her defense of Queen Mab, she also turned the steering wheel. The red Jeep next to us honked frantically as we slid into its lane. “For the love of God, Bridget! Watch the road!” I yelled, as the side of the Jeep loomed terrifyingly closer. I braced myself for death or, at the very least, a nasty injury.

Bridget wrenched the steering wheel back before either happened. The owner of the red Jeep flashed Bridget a gesture I wholeheartedly agreed with before speeding away from us.

“Hey!” Bridget cried indignantly. “That guy just flipped me off.”

“Just be grateful he didn’t have a gun,” I muttered.

“Whatever. Where was I?” she asked, ignoring me.

“Queen Mab,” Peter replied in an odd voice. I eyed him carefully for signs of shock.

“Right, Queen Mab,” Bridget replied, her voice growing misty with memory. “Queen Mab was my dog. I got her for my twelfth birthday. She was the cutest little thing.”

Inadvertently, I made a rude noise. Seeing Bridget’s body begin to turn again, I yelled out, “For God’s sake, don’t turn around again! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“What kind of dog was Queen Mab?” Peter asked.

“A miniature poodle,” Bridget replied. “Elizabeth didn’t like her.”

“No one liked her,” I replied. “She tried to attack everyone but you!”

In the rearview mirror, I saw Bridget’s lips curve in fond memory. “She just thought she was protecting me, that’s all.”

“Protecting you!” I sputtered. “What about that time she attacked me when I was in a dead sleep! What exactly did she think I was going to do to you?”

“I don’t know! Maybe you were snoring or something! She probably just wanted to make sure you didn’t wake me.”

“Oh, that’s brilliant,” I replied. “First of all, I don’t snore, and second, even if I did, I would like you to explain how my terrified screaming as I tried to fend of that crazed dog in the middle of the night is preferable to my snoring—which I don’t do in the first place?”

“You do too snore, and if you ever heard it, you would already know the answer to that,” she replied loftily. “My point is, Queen Mab loved me and I loved her. But remember that weekend when we were all down visiting Elsie when Queen Mab got out and followed us to the boathouse?”

I did. It was winter and the temperature had dipped below freezing. Harry, Bridget, and I snuck out to the boathouse knowing the cold would prevent any of the adults from following us. Bridget and I were about sixteen at the time and had just discovered the stupid pleasure of smoking behind our parents’ backs. Huddled in the boathouse, we puffed away, while Harry regaled us with stories from his first year of college. I don’t remember which one of us first noticed Queen Mab wandering out onto the ice-covered James River, but one second she was there and the next she wasn’t. Screaming hysterically, Bridget ran out after her, but Harry yanked her back before she flung herself into the frigid waters. Seeing Bridget become hysterical at the thought of her beloved dog drowning in the freezing water, Harry jumped in after Queen Mab. He emerged a heart-stopping minute later, shivering and faintly blue, but clutching a trembling and drenched Queen Mab. For his efforts, Harry landed in the hospital with hypothermia and three rather nasty bites from an incredibly ungrateful Queen Mab. But that was Harry; he was always trying to save everybody.

Wiping away tears of remembrance, Bridget finished her story. “Harry saved Queen Mab that day. Anyone who would jump into those freezing waters for a dog that he didn’t even like could never be a murderer. He’s just too much of a softie. They don’t make guys like Harry anymore.”

I nodded. While I didn’t share her affection for Queen Mab, I did agree with her about Harry. He was a good guy. He’d spent the better part of his life trying to help others; the least we could do was try and help when he needed it. Next to me, Peter cleared his throat; he’d been doing that a lot today. I wondered if he was coming down with a cold.

Finally, we neared Capitol Square, normally an oasis of enormous trees and expansive green lawns and home to the State Capitol building. Today, however, thanks to the morning’s unrelenting downpour, it was an oasis of slick leaves and muddy puddles. Even the crisp, white neoclassic angles of the State Capitol looked gray and lumpish through the watery haze.

With precious little warning, Bridget yanked the steering wheel viciously to the left and we skidded into a parking garage and into a vacant spot. Bridget switched off the ignition, and the car gave a pathetic shudder and fell quiet.

No one spoke, until Colin began to mumble, mantralike, “I will always drive. I will always drive. I will always drive.”

Bridget turned in her seat. “What are you talking about?” she demanded indignantly. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my driving! There’s not a scratch on this car!”

Peter leaned forward and laid his hand on Bridget’s shoulder. In a somber voice, he said, “Some scars are on the inside.”

Bridget scoffed as she threw the car keys to Colin. “You guys are a bunch of babies.”

“If by that you mean that your driving induces a lack of control of emotion and bladder, then I agree with you,” I said, easing myself out of the car on rubbery legs.

“Whatever,” Bridget said, tossing her head. “I didn’t drag you three down here so you could make fun of my driving. We need to go someplace private and talk. What are we going to do about Harry?”

“Honey, nothing’s happened to Harry. The police are just talking to him,” said Colin. “And where are we going exactly?” He peered out from the garage doorway to the rain-soaked streets.

“The Slip,” replied Bridget, referring to Shockoe Slip. The area had once been the city’s largest commercial trading district and part of the city ravaged by fire during the Civil War. Now its remaining nineteenth-century warehouses boasted elegant restaurants, nightclubs, and shops. With a flick of her wrist, Bridget sprung open an enormous lemon-colored umbrella. Raised high above her head, it resembled a giant, merry toadstool. Unfortunately, even though she held it as high as she could, the umbrella was still a good three inches below Colin’s head. Good-naturedly taking the umbrella from Bridget, Colin wrapped his arm around her and the two proceeded out onto the sidewalk. Peter and I followed under my more sedate black umbrella. The temperature had dropped with the arrival of the storm. Huddled inside my jacket, I ducked and weaved along the sidewalk to avoid the traffic’s watery shower.

“What is she planning on doing, anyway?” Peter asked me as we both danced to the right to avoid the spray from an oncoming minivan. Cold, dirty water nevertheless splattered across my khaki pants. I looked down at them in dismay. My attempts to spiff up my appearance had been for naught. Chloe wears leather Prada boots in a thunderstorm and doesn’t get a drop on them. I wear khakis from the Gap and get drenched. That’s justice for you.

“To steal a line from Daffy Duck, you’ve got pronoun trouble,” I said. “It isn’t what ‘she’ is planning on doing. It’s what she’s planning on ‘us’ doing.”

“Oh, God,” he moaned.

“Yeah,” I said, “that about sums it up.”

After a few minutes slogging through the waterlogged streets, we arrived at the Tobacco Company, a warehouse restaurant that serves one of the best brunches in town. A soaring three-story atrium of brick and intricately carved wood paneling, it is crammed with antiques, stained glass, and nineteenth-century tobacco advertisements. Entering through the cocktail lounge, which was populated with patrons reclining on large red sofas, we took the exposed antique elevator to the dining floor above. The hostess quickly found us a table. I slid into my seat and clamped my arms around me to warm my damp skin.

The waitress, a perky young woman who cheerfully identified herself as Sandy, appeared seconds later to take our drinks order. Colin, in his role as designated driver for life, ordered coffee. The rest of us required something stronger. I only wondered if, after hearing Bridget’s “plan,” one would be enough.

“So,” said Bridget, quickly surveying her menu, “we need to prove that Harry is innocent.”

“And how are we going to do that?”

“It’s simple. All we need to do is find the real killer.”

“All we need to do?” sputtered Peter.

Colin shot Peter a quelling glance. “Bridget, honey,” he said, “I understand that you want to help Harry, but I think we should leave it to the police.”

“The police? Are you kidding? Did you see that detective? He hates us!”

“I don’t think he hates us,” I said slowly, pushing my menu away. “I think he’s annoyed. Elsie told me that she called in a few favors to put pressure on him to wrap up the case quickly. I think she thought it would force him to focus on the outsider theory.”

Bridget covered her face with her hands. “Oh, God! I know she means well, but the last thing we need is a detective who’s in a rush to solve this case! He’s going to fixate on Harry and arrest him merely to be done with it! I just know it! He’s not even going to consider anyone else!”

“You don’t know that for sure—”

She interrupted me, throwing her menu down on the table in frustration. “For Christ’s sake, this is ridiculous! Why would Harry kill Roni? Why would any of us kill her? Please! The woman was a pain in the butt, but to brutally stab her in the chest like that suggests a level of hatred that goes way beyond mere annoyance.”

I was spared a response by the return of Sandy. Hearing Bridget’s last comment, the wattage of her smile dimmed significantly. She quickly distributed our drinks, took our orders, and scurried away.

Bridget didn’t notice. “Elizabeth, you talked with Detective Grant. What did he say? Did you get any idea of what he thinks?”

I took a grateful mouthful of my Bloody Mary, then forced myself to put the heavy glass down before I drained it in one gulp. I took a bite of the celery stick before answering. “He didn’t exactly confide his thought process to me. Somehow, I didn’t get the impression that he liked me very much.”

“As I said, I don’t think he likes any of us. But what did he say ?”

“Just that Roni was probably killed somewhere between one and three in the morning. They don’t know for sure if the knife is from the kitchen. I don’t know if there were any prints on it.”

“And at around one thirty Roni came in saying that she was looking for Megan?” asked Bridget.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s what she said, but I doubt she was telling the truth. It’s more likely that she was trying to hide the fact that she was supposed to meet someone at two.”

Bridget nodded in agreement. “Who else was there?”

“Just me, Elizabeth, Harry, David, and Claire,” said Peter. I took another sip of my drink. “Both Harry and David were pretty bombed.”

“And that’s when Harry had the fight with Roni?” asked Colin.

I nodded. “Yes. It was awful. I really thought he was going to hit her.”

“And David saw all this, right?” asked Bridget.

“Yes.”

“Okay, wait a minute,” said Bridget slowly, her eyes closed in concentration. Finally, she gave a loud snap of her fingers. “David. It must have been David.”

I eyed her doubtfully. “David?”

“Yes, David! Don’t you see?”

I frowned. “Not really... ”

“Think about it,” she pressed. “It makes perfect sense.” I silently questioned her use of the word perfect , but I knew better than to voice it. In an eager whisper, she continued. “What if David and Roni were having an affair and then he found out that Roni was not only seeing someone else but was plotting with this other person about selling the Garden? He’d be pretty mad. I mean, let’s be honest, if Avery sells the Garden, David is out of a job.”

“True,” I conceded. “But why on earth do you think that David was having an affair with Roni?”

“Because it makes sense. You said yourself that he was in her bedroom. That’s kind of odd, don’t you think? And let’s face it, David has never bothered being faithful to Claire. If Claire found out about the affair, it would explain the fight she had with Roni.”

“So would at least three dozen other scenarios... ”

“But this one makes the most sense.”

Before I could argue the truth of this, she went on. “And we all know David has a terrible temper, especially when he’s mad or drunk. And he was certainly drunk last night.”

“True, but he’s drunk nearly every night and so far he hasn’t killed anyone.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” Bridget looked meaningfully at me. “Think about it. Based on what you overheard between the two of them yesterday, we know that David needed money and Roni refused to give it to him. He’s furious. He slips Roni the note, telling her to meet him outside. He’s going to blackmail her into giving him the money. She either gives it to him, or he’ll ‘tell all.’ But something goes wrong. Maybe he realizes that she’s going to double-cross him.”

I saw Sandy approaching with our food and tried to stop Bridget from continuing. “Bridget!” I hissed.

“Wait! I think I’ve got it,” she said, shutting her eyes again. “Having just seen Harry threaten Roni, David decides to kill her, take her necklace, knowing he can probably shift suspicion to Harry given the fight they’ve just had. David grabs a knife from the kitchen and voilà! he stabs her in the chest.”

From the sharp intake of breath to my right, I knew that Sandy had overheard. Glancing up, I saw that her earlier perkiness was gone. Her rosy complexion had paled, and her eyes were wide with horror. I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile and said, “It’s a plot for a TV show.”

From the way she quickly deposited our plates and bolted from our table, I don’t think she believed me. I couldn’t really blame her; I wouldn’t have believed me, either.

Bridget went on, oblivious that the entire staff was probably being informed that crazy, homicidal people were eating at table ten. “That works,” she said, slapping the table triumphantly. “David, drunk and angry that Roni has been playing him for a fool, kills her knowing that Harry will most likely be blamed. Plus, with her gone, his job is safe. I doubt Avery will sell the Garden now.”

The image of Roni’s body sprawled on the chaise longue, an enormous kitchen knife protruding from her bloodstained chest, swam before me. Bile rose in my throat and I pushed away my eggs Benedict. Losing the few pounds I’d gained over the past months would be easier than I’d thought.

“So how did the necklace end up in Elizabeth’s drawer?” asked Peter.

“I haven’t figured out that part of it yet,” said Bridget with a casual wave of her hand. “Maybe he stashed it there and meant to get it later. We know he’s in need of money. And if that necklace really is worth two hundred thousand dollars, then he’d definitely take it. Besides, it confuses the motive.”

“Well, that works, then, because I’m definitely confused,” agreed Peter. I kicked him under the table.

“Bridget, I’m not disagreeing with you,” I said, “but there’s so much that we don’t know. If it really was David, then wouldn’t Claire have noticed that he was gone? And why would David write a note on Jefferson stationery? He wasn’t staying there... ”

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t have a room there,” she countered.

I shook my head. “Why on earth would he have a room there?”

“What about... ” began Colin.

Bridget ignored him. “Oh, don’t be so naïve! People having affairs need hotel rooms for their rendezvous!”

I sighed. “Bridget, you have got to stop reading those Harlequin novels.”

“One thing we could do... ” ventured Peter.

Bridget talked over him. “Whatever,” she said, “we need to tell the police.”

“Tell the police what?” I asked. “That you think David might have done it? We have no proof! I know you don’t like David—I’m not fond of him, either. But just because you can’t stand him doesn’t mean he’s the killer.”

“Just because I can’t stand him doesn’t mean he isn’t the killer, either,” Bridget said with surprising logic.

“We have no evidence!” I insisted. “And besides, he’s not the only one who had a reason to dislike Roni.”

“So Peter, what do you think of the Colts’ starting lineup?” Colin suddenly interjected.

“Not bad,” said Peter. “Of course, I’m a Pats fan myself, but the Colts seem to be having a pretty good season so far.”

“Did you see last week’s game?”

“No, I missed it. They won, right?”

Bridget turned to stare disbelievingly at Colin. “How the hell can you jabber on about football at a time like this?” she burst out.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Colin with mock surprise. “I didn’t think you were interested in our opinions. You seemed to be handling everything just fine without our input.”

Bridget tapped her fingers in annoyance on the table. “Okay, you’ve made your point. Can we move on now?”

“Absolutely,” Colin agreed with a grin.

“So, who do you suggest, then?” asked Bridget.

“I’m not suggesting anyone ,” said Colin, “but I agree with Elizabeth. I don’t think we can leap to David.”

“Meaning you can’t think of anyone else. And the reason you can’t is because I’m right.” Bridget smirked.

“No... ” said Colin.

“Then tell me one other person who has motive.”

The memory of Julia hugging Megan floated before my eyes and I realized the reason for my earlier feeling of discord. “Becky,” I said to myself.

“Becky?” Bridget repeated in surprise, turning to me. “What are you talking about?”

“I just realized that when Julia hugged Megan, it reminded me of—”

“Becky!” Bridget finished, seeing my meaning.

“Becky’s father was a lot like Roni,” I said softly.

Bridget nodded, her spiky red bangs falling into her eyes. “Except for the tight dresses and the enormous breasts, he was exactly like Roni.”

“Well, that’s a big exception, but do you see my point?”

“Sort of, but—”

“Wait!” interrupted Peter. “Who is Becky?”

“Becky was Julia’s daughter and a close friend of Harry’s,” I explained quickly. “She died of an alcohol and drug overdose a few years ago.” Turning back to Bridget, I continued. “Julia may have thought she could prevent Megan from ending up like Becky,” I said, remembering the way Julia reacted to seeing Roni and Megan fight at the wedding. “Do you remember how devastated she was about Becky’s death? She blamed herself for not preventing it. I don’t think she ever forgave her husband for his treatment of Becky. Remember how when he died a few years later, she didn’t seem that upset? And there’s the fact that I think she’s still in love with Avery.”

“It’s possible,” Bridget conceded, mulling over this information. “But I just can’t see Julia stabbing someone. However, I can see David doing that.”

“I really can’t see Julia doing it, either. But you can make a case based on motive for just about anyone. Let’s face it, Roni wasn’t a popular woman. But until we have proof , we have nothing.”

“That’s just what I propose we get. I refuse to sit still and let the police think Harry did it.” Bridget pointed a triangle of toast at me for emphasis. A yellow glob of egg yolk dripped off its corner and landed on her plate. “Maybe we can bug David’s room.”

“Bug his room?”

Bridget nodded eagerly. “Yes. If we work together, I know we can find out—”

“No,” I said.

“No,” Peter echoed.

She stared uncomprehendingly at me, as if I’d suddenly launched into a torrent of French. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean, no.” I spelled it for her to be extra clear. “I see no reason for us to get involved. Detective Grant seems capable. I’m sure he can handle this investigation just fine without our help. You may not like him—and I’ll admit, he’s not high on my list of People I Want to Spend More Time With—but he does seem competent. I don’t think he’ll bow to pressure from his bosses and rush an arrest. I’m sure that he can find Roni’s killer without our help. And especially without us bugging David’s room!”

“But you were so great helping Aunt Winnie last New Year’s!”

“That was different! I got involved in that because the police suspected Aunt Winnie. I was trying to clear her name.”

“Yes, but—”

“Bridget, wait! The police are still investigating. We don’t even know for sure that they’ve focused on Harry! I’m not about to pull some Lucy-and-Ethel stunt with you simply for the hell of it!”

“This isn’t for the hell of it! It’s got to be David. I just know it. Didn’t I tell you that something terrible was going to happen at my wedding? Well, something bad did happen. Roni was killed!” She slapped her hand on the table for emphasis.

“Bridget,” I said slowly, “most brides are convinced something is going to go wrong on their wedding day.”

Bridget’s eyes narrowed underneath her spiky red bangs. “I am not most brides.” She emphasized these words by jabbing her finger onto the table on each syllable. “You know that I’ve always been sensitive to things.”

Sensitive. In the sixth grade, Bridget’s “sensitivity” to the weather convinced me that there was no need to study for our upcoming math test because we were going to get a huge snowstorm that night. It rained. In high school, Bridget’s sensitivity to my love life convinced me to buy a nonreturnable purple Calvin Klein dress because she was sure that Joe Cassidy was going to ask me to the homecoming dance. He didn’t. Two years ago, her sensitivity to numbers convinced me to give her my grocery money to buy lottery tickets. We didn’t have even one of the final numbers and we were forced to eat crackers and jelly all week. Now her sensitivity was telling her that David killed Roni. I bit my tongue. Hard.

She went on, outlining the need for our involvement, oblivious to my reservations. Which, in my opinion, showed a definite lack of sensitivity to anything.

When she finally finished, she saw my unmoved face and shifted her glance to Peter. Seeing his doubtful expression, she sighed and turned to Colin. “Colin? What do you think?” she asked.

He put his arm around her and hugged her close. “Bridget, I love you. I love your enthusiasm and your loyalty to your family, but in this case, I have to agree with Peter and Elizabeth. I think we should let the experts handle it.”

She looked pleadingly into each of our faces one more time and, with a shrug, gave up. “Fine, but will you at least promise to help if things change?” she said to me.

“I promise,” I said, hoping it was a promise I would never have to keep. Seeing that everyone was finished eating, I signaled for the check. Sandy practically threw it in my lap and ran off. I insisted on paying. “Think of it as another wedding gift,” I said, pulling out my credit card. Besides, I wanted to give Sandy a hefty tip. We’d given her a hell of a morning.

The ride back to Barton Landing was quiet. Colin drove, and I was actually able to relax and enjoy the scenery. The rain had stopped and the sun looked as if it would soon break through the cold, gray clouds. Hope rose in my chest that it was a sign that all would turn out well.

We pulled into Barton Landing’s drive. No sooner had we stepped out of the car than the front door burst open and Elsie ran out, Anna barking at her heels. “Oh, thank God you’re here,” she cried.

Bridget ran forward. “Why? What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“It’s that damn detective,” Elsie said. “He’s gone and taken Harry to the station!”

Bridget gasped and turned to me. She didn’t need to say a word.

Somewhere, in the deep recesses of my brain, I heard a faint cry. “Luuuucy!” it called. “I’m home!”