“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
“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
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!”
Chapter 16
Look for the ridiculous in everything and you will find it.
Bedlam reigned inside the house. Graham paced the length of the dining room, shouting into his cell phone about lawyers and Harry. At the long table, Blythe and Julia were trying to console Megan, as she sobbed uncontrollably. The only living being not animated was Anna. Her large brown eyes solemn, she curled up under the sideboard to watch the action.
Bridget and I pressed Elsie for details. “What happened exactly?” asked Bridget.
Elsie ran a shaking hand across her face before answering. “Well, as you know, after that detective finished his interview with David, he asked to see Harry. I should have guessed what David had said by the way he scurried out of here.” She paused, shaking her head. “Anyway, Harry was in there a long time. Then the detective came out and told us that we should get a lawyer for Harry, a good one, as he was sending him downtown for further questioning.”
“He said, ‘a good one’?” asked Bridget.
“He did.”
“Shit,” Bridget whispered.
“At the very least,” agreed Elsie, nodding.
“Is Detective Grant still here?” Bridget asked.
“He’s in the study,” said Elsie.
“So, wait,” I said. “Was Harry arrested, or was he just taken in for further questioning?”
“Officially, it’s just for questioning. But I saw the look in that detective’s eyes. He’s convinced that it’s Harry. He’s ready to call it a day on Roni’s murder.”
“Then we’re not too late.” Bridget exhaled with relief.
“Too late for what?” said Elsie.
“Too late for me and Elizabeth to find the real killer! Elizabeth promised to help!” said Bridget with giddy confidence.
Elsie turned to me for either confirmation or explanation. Unfortunately, inasmuch as my mouth was hanging open in shock, I doubt I was a reassuring sight. Not that it mattered, of course. Bridget kept going.
“Elizabeth has a knack for this sort of thing,” she said. “You should have seen her last New Year’s. Remember that horrible murder at Aunt Winnie’s B and B? When the police suspected Aunt Winnie of being the killer, Elizabeth immediately began her own investigation. Elsie, she was amazing.” Bridget beamed at me. “She not only figured out who the killer was, but overpowered her!”
Next to me, muffled choking sounds emerged from Peter. His eyes were suspiciously bright. And no wonder —he had been with me when I had “overpowered” the killer. As flattering as Bridget’s version of events was, it was far from reality. The sad truth was that I had been kidnapped and held captive in a basement; I escaped from my bonds long enough to bash who I thought was my captor over the head with a flashlight. Only it was Peter’s head that I bashed. And while the reasons for this slight goof on my part were completely understandable, they were
