Murder on the Bride’s Side

Megan stared at the tops of her knees. “Not really,” she answered with a shy smile. “It figures that the first time I stay out with a boy, I come home to find the cops waiting for me.”

Megan had stayed out with a boy? I don’t know why, but I was shocked. Other than a slight stiffening of her spine, Blythe took this statement in relative stride. She’d probably heard all sorts of stories in her years as headmistress.

“Are you all right?” she asked gently.

Megan looked up at the question. “Oh, yeah. Oh, God! I mean, yeah, I stayed out, but not like that .”

“Then like what, dear?” Blythe asked. There was a hint of an edge to her voice.

Megan sighed and pushed a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “I got to talking to one of the guys in the band—Bobby. He’s the drummer.”

I nodded with understanding. In bands, it was always the drummer.

Megan continued. “Anyway, he was really nice. Then she saw us and made this huge scene about what a fool I was making of myself.” Neither Blythe nor I needed to ask whom Megan meant by “she.” “After that I ran off,” Megan continued. “When their set was over, Bobby found me. He had seen everything. He was really sweet. We started talking and, well, I didn’t want to go home. Bobby and I went to the summerhouse.”

Blythe made a noise, a cross between a groan and a sigh. Megan looked at her. “I told you, it wasn’t like that. We just talked.”

Blythe seemed unconvinced. Peering at Megan over her glasses, she asked, “How old is Bobby?”

“Twenty,” replied Megan. “He’s a sophomore at the college down here. He’s only in the band part-time.”

I don’t know about Blythe, but I sure as hell was relieved to hear this. I had a horrible vision of Bobby being some aging pothead lothario who liked young girls. A twenty-year-old, part-time band member, full-time student was a much better scenario.

“So you spent the entire night there?”

“Yes. We stayed up late talking. Then Bobby said he was going to head home. I don’t know what time it was. I didn’t want to go back to the house yet, so after he left, I went to sleep. When I woke up, I came back and, well, you know the rest.”

“So you stayed in the summerhouse?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Megan.

Blythe glanced at me. I knew she was thinking the same thing I was.

Megan didn’t have an alibi.

Before I could process this latest twist, the door opened. With an impatient yelp, Anna burst through the doorway and leaped onto my bed; specifically, she leaped onto me. Thrusting her furry face into mine, she licked my neck with an enthusiasm that made me rethink my perfume choice. A second later, Elsie’s head popped around the corner, her face lined with worry. “Megan, honey? How are you?” Not waiting for an answer, she moved into the room and pushed onto the bed next to Megan. “Would you rather have a glass of wine than tea? I have a bottle of an excellent Shiraz downstairs—it was Walter’s favorite, actually. He always drank a glass when his sciatica acted up.”

Megan rejected the offer with a shake of her head, while I wondered at the vastly different complaints for which Shiraz could be recommended.

Pulling Megan into a hug, Elsie continued. “Sorry I didn’t come up sooner, but I had to make a few phone calls about Detective Grant and call in some favors from a few friends. I told them that I wanted this cleared up as soon as possible and I didn’t want our family to be the sole focus of the investigation. But in the meantime, we do need to give him our statements. Do you think you’re ready to talk to him now, Megan? If you’re not, just say so. I’m more than happy to tell him to go cool his heels for a while longer.”

Megan shook her head. “No, I’ll be okay.”

Elsie nodded and opened her mouth to speak, as Megan continued with a sigh, “Besides, I can’t put this off any longer.”

Megan’s words had an odd effect on Elsie. Her mouth still open, she gave Megan a searching look, seeming to rethink whatever it was that she was going to say. In a soft voice, she said, “Whatever you think is best.”

Megan looked at Elsie, her expression firm. “Let’s go,” she said.

Not without difficulty, I pushed Anna off me and we followed Megan downstairs in uneasy silence. Everyone was still in the living room. I noticed that Peter and Chloe stood together by the window, a little distance off from the rest of the group. Detective Grant stood stiffly near the room’s doorway, his mouth set in a hard line. Seeing Megan’s red-rimmed eyes and blotchy skin, his expression softened. “I know this is a hard time for you, Miss Matthews,” he said quietly. “I’ll make this as brief as possible.”

It was a good thing that he didn’t know that Megan’s tears were for her father and not Roni. Otherwise, I suspect his generous treatment of her would come to a screeching halt.

Megan sat down in a chair next to Avery and grabbed his hand. Taking a steadying breath, she said, “I expect you want to know where I was last night.”

Detective Grant tipped his gray head in acknowledgment.

Megan took another breath and closed her eyes. “I stayed out with Bobby, one of the boys in the band,” she said in a rush. “We sat talking at one of the tables and then went to the summerhouse. He left around dawn, but I... I didn’t want to go back to the house. I stayed in the summerhouse and went to sleep on one of the cots.”

A long, uncomfortable pause followed these words. Surprisingly, Detective Grant did not follow up with this line of questioning. Instead, switching gears, he asked, “How was your relationship with your mother?”

Megan’s eyes slid to mine. They were followed by Detective Grant’s. I met his gaze with what I hoped was an expression of concerned innocence, but I suspected I probably only looked constipated. Megan focused again on Detective Grant. “It wasn’t very good. She didn’t like me much and—”

Avery interrupted. “Now, Megan. That isn’t true. She adored you. I know you two had your differences, but —”

Megan turned to him. “No, Avery. She hated me. And... and I hated her.”

“Megan!” Avery burst out. “That simply isn’t true! None of it is true! Roni wanted only the best for you!”

Megan shook her head and looked sadly at Avery. “No. She didn’t. I’m sorry. I know that you loved her, but she didn’t love me.”

“Megan... ”

“No!” Megan stood up, roughly jerking her hand from his grasp. “Please! This is hard enough without you pretending that we were one big happy family! She never forgave me for wanting to live with my dad and not her. She never even wanted me in the first place—didn’t she ever tell you that? Because she sure told me enough times! She did everything she could to make me miserable. I hated her! I hated her so much I don’t even know if I care that she’s dead!” A half sob, half laugh escaped her lips. “Hell, I really don’t know if I care who did it!”

“Megan!” Elsie snapped, her tone commanding. “Stop this nonsense right now. You’re hysterical. You’ve no idea what you’re saying.”

At the sound of Elsie’s voice, Megan jerked and faced Elsie. Seeing Elsie’s stern expression, her shoulders slumped and she covered her face with her hands.

Detective Grant continued to watch her, his hooded eyes appraising. After a minute, Megan spoke again, her voice calmer. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying. You all must think I’m a terrible person.” Pulling her hands away, she met Detective Grant’s level gaze. “I had a horrible relationship with my mother, Detective. But I didn’t kill her. I hated her, but then so did most everyone else.”

“Everyone else?” prompted Detective Grant in a silky voice.

Megan paled with the realization that she’d said more than she intended.

“Miss Matthews?” continued Detective Grant. “Who exactly is everyone else?”

Megan gulped. “Well, David for one,” she said, with a feeble gesture in his direction.

At the sound of his name, David tensed and sputtered loud denials.

“I’ll get to you in a minute, Mr. Cook,” Detective Grant said curtly. “Why do you think David hated your mother, Megan?”

Megan paused. “I heard them fighting yesterday before breakfast.”