A Wedding To Die For

mind, but a clean copy doesn’t hurt.”

I laughed. “So I did miss something.”

“I do not know, Abby. I can tell you only what I would do if I were you.”

“Then that’s good enough for me.”

4

I arrived back home around one P.M. and had a message from Quinn Fielder. Sounding polite but authoritative on my machine, she informed me my assistance was needed with some photos taken at the reception. She gave the address of the Seacliff Police Station and told me she expected me by four P.M. at the latest.

Great. Thanks. I poked the delete button. Felt good to delete her. But of course I had to comply. This was about helping Megan, not about my own ego.

I went to my office to put away Megan’s file and found Diva asleep on my desk. She knew the most pleasant spot in this house of chaos, maybe even sensed my new office was where I felt most at home.

The room had been shipshape since the day after I moved in. My work space. All mine. I had moved in Daddy’s computer desk and it took up most of the room, that and his worn red leather wing chair, which I now reserved for clients. I’d mounted his gun case and added my own two handguns to his collection. Since I hadn’t been to the shooting range in over a year, that’s where they belonged. Daddy always said you shouldn’t carry a weapon if you’re not trained or you’re out of practice, and he was right.

I sat on my standard issue but comfortable office swivel chair and lifted Diva into my lap. She tolerated me for twenty seconds before jumping away and hopping onto the windowsill. She inserted herself between the vertical blinds and did some window-shopping for the many birds and squirrels that populated the neighborhood.

After turning on the computer and checking my e-mail, I did a search for Caleb Moore, the attorney used for Megan’s adoption. I wanted to be prepared to act should she change her mind about contacting him. Most firms had a Web site these days, but since Megan was twenty years old, this guy could be retired or dead. Sure enough, when I got a hit on Moore it was for the man’s death notice in the Galveston Daily News archives two years ago. More searching found him to be the attorney of record in the bankruptcy of a local manufacturing plant, but that was all. Literally a dead end.

I sat back, wondering what I should do next. My Internet options were limited. Maybe after I worked at this job for a while, I’d have more courage to deal with the underground searchers, those less-than-legal resources who can gain access to private information in exchange for considerable money. Hacking into closed adoption files was not a good idea for someone working toward a PI license. There had to be a less risky way to get what I needed.

I glanced at the computer clock and decided to let the detecting go for now and head for my meeting with Fielder. But when I reached the kitchen and pulled my car keys from my purse ready to head out the back door, I glanced down at what I was wearing. Jeans and a Houston Rockets sweatshirt. New, expensive jeans since I trimmed down to a size six, but still jeans.

I had to change. And comb my hair. And—wait a minute. What the hell was wrong with me?

I left dressed as I was, before the green-eyed monster had me hunting through boxes for one of my old low- cut, sequined prom dresses.

The sand-colored brick Seacliff Police Station sat on a side street off Highway 146 several blocks from the bay. Sago palms flanked the double glass doors and inside a pockmarked young man wearing the tan uniform I had become so familiar with yesterday after Mr. Beadford’s murder sat at a dented metal desk to my right. The speckled vinyl tile bore grayish mop streaks and untouched grime had collected in every corner. The place smelled musty even though dry hot air blasted from a ceiling vent.

The young man stood. “Can I help you?”

“My name is Abby Rose. Chief Fielder wanted to see me.”

“Yeah, she said to—” His desk phone rang and he picked up, listened for a second, then said, “The chief has no comment. This is an ongoing investigation.” He replaced the receiver gingerly, still staring at the phone. “Reporters have been calling all day. Last murder we had was five years ago, and it was nothing like this. Vietnamese fisherman got into it with his partner and stabbed him right through the gut with this old shark spear. Only had two calls from the press on that one. But this here? I can tell you—”

“Thanks, Officer Henderson,” came Fielder’s voice from a hallway straight ahead. “I’ll meet with Ms. Rose in my office.”

She gestured from the shadowy corridor for me to follow her, and I left Henderson sitting at his desk doing nothing, probably because that’s what he was good at. That and running his mouth.

Dark wood paneling, circa 1970, lined the hallway and the worn dingy carpeting was probably about the same vintage. Fielder disappeared through a doorway to my right and I came in on her heels.

The old world ended and the new millennium began inside her office. The wood floor gleamed, her huge oak desk commanded the room, and an air purifier hummed in one corner. I caught a hint of lemon polish and above me an antique brass and walnut ceiling fan looked as if it was hot off the assembly line.

On the wall to my right hung a massive framed photograph of a man wearing the Seacliff uniform, only with a lot more brass than I’d seen on Henderson at the front desk. The man in the portrait looked to be in his sixties and an engraved metal placard confirmed this: “Chief Quinton W. Fielder, 1940-2002.”

So policing was a family business, huh? Was that how she’d landed the top job at such a young age? Probably.

“Thank you for coming, Ms. Rose,” Fielder said.

“No problem.” To my left photos were spread on a conference table and the map I’d drawn yesterday was tacked to a bulletin board on the adjacent wall.

Fielder’s eyes bore shadows beneath, evidence of a sleepless night. She wore blue trousers and an aqua- striped oxford shirt, the buttons strained thanks to her more than adequate breasts. Badge and gun were attached to her belt. Maybe she was going straight from here to compete for a spot in a “Girls with Nightsticks” Playboy layout. Good thing I was wearing a sweatshirt. Sweatshirts hide even what you don’t have.

She had walked over to the table. “I hope you can help me with something.”

“Sure.” I joined her, deciding that being polite and cooperative were the order of the day for Megan’s sake.

She held up a picture, one taken on the front steps of the Beadford house. It showed the bride and groom entering, the crush of guests in their wake and the professional photographer snapping away.

“This was taken about the time Kate and I arrived,” I said.

“Good. Now, here’s the same photo.” She slid an identical 5 by 7 across the table, but this one had grease pencil cross outs on all the people in the picture but one, the woman in the beige pantsuit and brown hat. She was standing alongside the photographer and looking down into the viewfinder of a digital camera pointed at Megan and Travis.

Fielder tapped the unmarked face. “Did she sign the book?”

“No. She came late to the church. Mrs. Beadford might have gotten her signature, though. Have you found the book?”

Fielder reached into a file box under the table and produced the album. “Mrs. Beadford tucked it away in an upstairs bedroom for safekeeping. But after interviewing her—”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s doing better. Came home from the hospital last night. But she claims everyone at the reception signed or made congratulatory notes except for her.” Fielder nodded toward the picture. “Neither Mrs. Beadford nor anyone else in the family knows who she is. And if she came inside after taking her photos, no one remembers seeing her. How about you?”

I mentally scanned the room where the strings played, then searched my memory bank for images of the great room. Nothing. But I was certain that if I had seen her, I would have remembered her because of my failure to get her to sign the book. “We never crossed paths in the house, but I spent most of the time in the kitchen with