A Wedding To Die For

of a shiny teak table. The now-weeping ice sculpture rested in the center surrounded by silver platters of cold crab, pate and crackers, boiled shrimp, cubed cheeses, marinated mushroom caps, and cherry tomatoes stuffed with something swirled and yellow. The chubby photographer, his camera strapped behind him, was parked in a corner sucking the meat out of a crab claw.

I held up two fingers to the waitress manning the urn and she filled scalloped china cups and handed them to me.

When I gave Graham his, he pulled a pint of Southern Comfort from his pocket and spiked his coffee, sending liquid sloshing onto the saucer. After restashing his bottle, he lifted both cup and saucer to his lips and slurped off the top.

“Starbucks could learn a thing or three from me,” he said. “Make a bigger killing if they had more than those sissy-ass drinks on the menu.” His bald, freckled head glowed under the crystal chandelier hanging over the table.

I drank half my lukewarm coffee, then glanced back over my shoulder to make sure Megan wasn’t close by and still subject to him reinserting himself into her line of vision. She wasn’t. “Listen, Graham, I need to get home. Maybe I’ll see you again when I visit with Megan.”

“I live in Dallas, so I doubt that. But why not stay and keep me company a little longer? I could get to like you, little lady.”

“Sorry. I came with my sister and she has a client waiting.” Small lies are sometimes necessary. I reached over and set the cup and saucer on a tray by the wall an arm’s length away.

“She works on Saturday?”

“She’s a shrink. Crazy people sometimes don’t know if it’s Saturday or Wednesday.”

“That sounds like an excuse. Have I upset you? Because I could sure use some intelligent conversation. Every idiot here belongs to my brother. His clients. His line of credit. His wonderful life. Besides, Megan wanted you to take care of me—as I’m sure you noticed.”

His tone told me more than all his previous words or actions—bitter noise from a guy whose blood-to-alcohol ratio was probably permanently off-kilter. Having learned my lesson about alcohol abusers the hard way, I said, “Sorry, Graham, but I can’t stay.”

I turned and walked toward the kitchen just as the music started up again. Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” I sure hoped Megan and Travis had some of that joy in their hearts, because so far, this reception was proving to be devoid of happiness and warmth.

When I arrived in the kitchen, Kate was handing her artfully arranged basket of birdseed packets to the bride’s mother.

That’s when a hair-raising scream ripped through the house. Kate and Sylvia lost their grip on the basket and all those pretty little pouches scattered over the tile floor. Some of the netting opened, sending tiny seeds bouncing in every direction.

The music stopped.

No more laughing. No more conversations.

Sylvia whispered, “Oh my God,” then took off in the direction of the scream.

I followed, Kate close behind me.

We pushed by people who looked frozen in time, their collective silence almost oppressive. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush that heightened my senses, but the mix of seafood and booze and flowers seemed like an ocean I had to swim through. No one but us seemed to be reacting to what every single guest surely must have heard. But that’s how it often happens in an emergency. The more people around, the less response. Everyone expects someone else to do something.

Sylvia was about three feet ahead of me, but had ditched the high heels since I last saw her and was snaking through the crowd with ease, headed toward a closed room on the other side of the foyer.

When she reached the double doors, she pushed them open but then stopped in the entry.

Unable to get past her, I stared over her shoulder.

Megan was sitting on the floor by a fireplace, ivory satin puffed around her like a soft cloud. Her father’s head was in her lap, a huge, vicious merlot-colored stain damning that beautiful dress.

2

Megan reached out to me with blood-stained hands and pleaded, “Abby, help him. Please help him.”

I wasn’t sure why she’d turned to me rather than her mother, but that question caused no hesitation on my part. I squeezed by the still-immobile Sylvia, hurried over, and knelt beside Megan.

James Beadford’s dilated eyes stared up at the ceiling and a wicked gash to his temple had bled enough to completely mask his right ear. I lifted his hand and felt for a pulse, not going for the carotid. His messy head and neck would have made that difficult.

So much blood. And it was still seeping into Megan’s lap. Beadford’s skin was warm, but I felt nothing, not even one tiny beat of his heart in that thick, limp wrist.

I sat back on my heels, heard and felt a crunching sound beneath my feet. The brick hearth was right behind me and I leaned against it, realizing I was crouching in small pieces of glass. A couple of feet behind Megan lay the scattered remnants of a leaded crystal vase, the jagged base glittering like a giant diamond in the light from the window.

Meeting Megan’s anxious gaze, I shook my head. “I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”

She stared down at her father’s face, then bent at the waist and collapsed over him, her strapless bodice heaving with sobs.

I looked over at Sylvia, who hadn’t uttered a sound, hadn’t moved an inch. She stood rigid, fists at her sides, a tinge of gray around her crimson mouth. Kate’s pale face loomed behind her.

“Kate, call nine one one.”

But before Kate could react, Sylvia Beadford swayed and then toppled like a felled oak, taking Kate down with her to the wood floor. Megan must have known her mother would crumble. Probably why she reached out to me for help first.

I started to get up, ready to assist Kate and Sylvia, nearly tearing my angle-hemmed skirt when I started to rise. But Megan’s cold, sticky fingers gripped my forearm. “Don’t leave us. Please.”

Then Graham appeared, looking downright sober. He assisted Kate to her knees so she could minister to the passed out Sylvia before flipping open a cell phone to make the 9 1 1 call.

Not long after, noise again filled the Beadford house. Chaos bred from fear makes plenty of noise—raised voices, the sound of a distant siren, people shouting and wanting in the room. Didn’t matter poor Sylvia was laid out like a trussed turkey in the doorway. Kate was fanning the woman’s face with someone’s handbag and I swear those so-called friends of the family would have stepped right over Sylvia to get a better look at the body.

With the help of a calm, rational Holt McNabb—maybe he was an okay guy after all—Graham pushed all the guests back, telling them to find a place to “park it.” They did let Travis pass. I wasn’t sure even he should come in, but we’d already messed up the crime scene plenty. Besides, I needed my arm back. Megan’s grip had my fingers going numb and Travis seemed the right person to help alleviate that problem.

Meanwhile Holt and Graham assisted a dazed Sylvia to her feet and led her away, leaving me and Kate alone with Travis and Megan.

Megan had stopped crying. She was probably numb with shock now. Travis gently pulled her from beneath her dead father. Once she was on her feet, he wrapped his arms around her small, trembling frame and rocked her, smoothing her hair, not letting go for dear life. “I’ve got you, hon. I’m here,” he said over and over.

I moved away from them and whispered to Kate, “I need your phone.”

She lifted her black silk shirt and pulled it from her matching skirt pocket. “You calling Jeff?” she asked.

“You betcha.” I took the phone and dialed his cell.

“Kate?” he answered, sounding puzzled. Must have recognized her Caller ID.