A Wedding To Die For

“No, it’s me.” I turned my back on Megan and Travis. “Remember that wedding?”

“Yeah?” Wary now. He probably heard the tension in my voice.

“It just turned into a funeral,” I whispered. “Father of the bride got whacked with a very large vase.”

Shrieking sirens sounded so close I figured the police were pulling in front of the house. I missed his reply.

“Repeat that,” I said.

“Where are you?” He was all cool and collected now. A freaked-out girlfriend might be trouble, but murder? Comfortable territory. I could hear the rustle of paper. He was unwrapping a stick of Big Red gum, no doubt.

“In Seacliff.” I gave him the address.

“Galveston County. Out of our jurisdiction. But I’ll be there anyway.”

He disconnected.

Jeff may be a man of few words, but he’s great in the action department.

He didn’t arrive for another hour, probably because Seacliff is well south of Houston, and half the trip is on two-lane roads rather than freeway. In the meantime, plenty of other cops showed up, not only from Seacliff, but from several surrounding towns. A county sheriff patrol arrived on the scene, too. And then there were the fire trucks. And the ambulance. Everyone in small Texas towns makes an appearance for the 9 1 1 calls. By the time I was commanded to my “holding area” by the female plainclothes officer who seemed to be in charge of the investigation, I was beginning to wonder if Graham Beadford had mentioned al-Qaeda when he’d called.

Kate and I had been separated. I didn’t particularly like this, but reasoned the lady in control knew what she was doing. Everyone who had entered the room or saw the body was being guarded by their own special cop until he or she could be interviewed. Mine, a uniformed officer from a nearby town, took me to the laundry room. We sat in wooden folding chairs facing each other, crammed in with the washer, dryer, and a wheeling clothes rack. He resisted all my attempts at conversation, just sat there coldly staring past my right shoulder. I swear if we were cremated together that guy wouldn’t have warmed up.

Finally a Seacliff cop rescued me, informing Officer Subzero that his help was needed with all the cameras and video recorders gathered from the guests.

Cameras. Wow. I hadn’t thought about them. Folks had been snapping pictures like crazy, and who knows what they’d inadvertently captured. The new cop and I walked through the house. Most people had been cleared out, and those who remained stood in small groups in the great room talking with uniformed police officers taking notes.

I was escorted to the formal living area off the foyer, a room I hadn’t even noticed when Sylvia am-bushed us for kitchen duty. Reminded me of my old digs in River Oaks with its uncomfortable-looking Victorian couches and artistically draped window—one of the few windows that looked out on the street rather than the water.

Jeff sat on the largest gold brocade sofa and was leaning toward a thin brunette sitting in one of several teak dining room chairs that had been brought into the room. He didn’t seem to notice our presence. The woman looked to be in her late twenties and wore a gray wool suit and open-collar blouse—the same person who had sent me to babysit the Maytag. Jeff had on a faded denim shirt that matched his eyes and had gotten a haircut since I last saw him this morning. He always kept his blond hair short, but this time the barber had left little more than stubble on his head.

My cop escort cleared his throat and said, “Uh, ma’am?”

The woman looked up and Jeff stood, his jaw working his ever-present gum.

“Hey, how you doing?” he asked, coming over to me.

“I still have a pulse—unlike someone else here—so I think I’m in good shape,” I said.

He gripped my upper arms and kissed the top of my head. “You’ve had a rough day, kid.”

I felt the tension in my neck muscles melt a little when I smelled the combination of cinnamon gum and aftershave unique to him. He took my hand and led me to the sofa. I sat, grateful for even a less-than-adequate cushion for my sore patoot.

I smiled at the woman and said, “Hi. Bet you’ve had a tough day, too.”

She did not return my smile. Her crossed legs were long enough and her features attractive enough that she could have been working a catwalk in New York rather than sitting here ready to interview a witness. “Thanks for your patience, Ms. Rose. Jeff tells me you were employed by the bride.”

Jeff? I thought. They’d certainly gotten friendly in an hour’s time.

He must have read my expression and quickly offered an explanation. “Quinn is an old friend. She honed her skills in Houston PD before taking the top job here.”

“Great,” I said. “So is that Captain Quinn or—”

“Sorry.” She reached over Jeff and offered a hand in a greeting. “It’s Chief Fielder. Seacliff PD. Quinn is my first name.”

Chief? Wow. She looked so young.

I gripped her slim fingers and offered a firm handshake, one I hoped said “I can throw a horseshoe with the horse still attached,” even though that was not how I really felt. I felt small and... well, scared. But my daddy always told me to never show weakness when I was afraid, that it would only make things worse.

Fielder had a yellow legal pad on her lap and several pages were already turned back. “Jeff tells me Megan Beadford hired you to find her biological mother.”

“That’s right.”

“So you didn’t know the rest of the family?”

“Actually, I only just met them last night at the rehearsal dinner.”

“I’m not sure I understand. Did you attend last night and today in your capacity as an investigator?”

“No. I was a last-minute replacement for the wedding book-slash-birdseed handler, the one who went into labor a month early.”

She smiled, which softened her features, made her already attractive face prettier. “That’s what your sister told me.” She then made note of my answer on her yellow pad. “And by the way, we let your sister leave. Apparently a patient of hers was in some sort of crisis. She took your car and said you should catch a ride home with Jeff. Now, to the issues at hand. You had been making inquiries about Megan’s biological mother, correct?”

“Yes, but our professional relationship is not common knowledge. I’m here as a friend.”

“Not common knowledge?” She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.

“Megan wanted my inquiries kept private. She felt her family would not be happy about her wish to find her birth mother.”

“Really?” She scribbled some more. “There was tension in the family?”

“Maybe some.”

Jeff said, “Any conflicts at the rehearsal?”

“The rehearsal itself went fine,” I said. “But once the wedding party and families bellied up to the open bar before dinner, everyone on Megan’s side suddenly seemed to have issues.”

“Issues?” Fielder said.

“The cousins weren’t speaking—I know because I sat between them at dinner. And the best man, Holt McNabb, brought in a TV and set it in front of him on the table to watch some college basketball game. That pissed off Mr. Beadford. He and McNabb went to a corner and Mr. Beadford seemed to be raking him over the coals. This upset Sylvia and—”

“I get the picture. But these sound like minor altercations. You didn’t witness anything more serious? Perhaps a fistfight? Or threats?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“And you’re not here in any official capacity?”

Did she think I was lying? “You mean did I find Megan’s birth mother at the last minute and bring her here? No. And I’d appreciate it if you don’t upset anyone by telling the rest of the family how I came to know Megan.”

“I’m not in the business of telling witnesses anything. They tell me. Moving on, you are licensed, correct?”

Not even an hour’s worth of absorbing the odors of Tide and Downy could make me feel “mountain fresh”