Murder on the Bride’s Side

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