A Wedding To Die For

Kate and the caterers. She could have come and gone by the time I had a chance to mingle with the guests.”

“Maybe,” said Fielder.

“James Beadford could have invited her,” I said. “Or she could have been someone’s escort.” But another possibility popped into my head. Had the questions I’d asked a few weeks ago at the hospital where Megan was born or even Megan’s request to the adoption registry flushed a bird from cover? A mother bird who couldn’t resist a wedding?

“I’ve considered those obvious possibilities,” Fielder said. “You didn’t see anyone with this woman at the church, did you?”

“No. She was alone.” Shoving aside my excitement at the possibility the mystery woman could be Megan’s mother, I said, “Maybe she was a reporter for the local paper? The Beadfords seem well-off and the newspaper might have wanted to cover the event for the society page.”

Fielder’s eyes narrowed and I surmised from the twitch in her jaw muscle that she didn’t appreciate I may have come up with something she hadn’t considered.

“I know this town, Ms. Rose,” she finally said, her tone as frosty as the air outside. “Number one, I doubt she works for the paper. Number two, unlike where you come from, we don’t have a society page.”

Unlike where I come from? Was she referring to Houston in general or had Jeff told her about my former life as a do-nothing heiress while I had been imprisoned in the laundry room yesterday?

“I need more information from you, Ms. Rose,” Fielder went on, her demeanor controlled, her voice devoid of emotion now. She walked over to her desk and sat, gesturing at the armchairs across from her.

I took a seat.

“I’d like to hear more about the rehearsal dinner,” she said.

“I told you what I know.”

Fielder leaned toward me, fingers intertwined on top of the desk. “Are you sure?”

“As I said before, I noticed lots of bickering, but I got the feeling the family was pretty much acting as they always do, or at least that’s what Megan indicated.”

“I want facts, not guesses,” she said.

I pictured a scarlet A for “Attitude” embroidered on her shirt. Trying not react to my emotions, I said, “I already told you about the tension concerning the TV that Holt brought with him. And I noticed Travis and his new father-in-law engaged in a lively discussion at the reception.”

“They argued?” She pulled a legal pad toward her. Patches of new color spread beyond her blush.

“That would require an assumption,” I said.

She looked down at her pad, jotted a few notes.

“Anything else you saw or heard that might be important?”

“No,” I replied.

“You’re free to go,” she said abruptly.

“Gee, thanks,” I said, “but I was always free to go.”

Since I was already in Seacliff, I swung by the Beadford house to see Megan, hoping I could also pick up the birth certificate as Angel had suggested. I parked the Camry on the Beadford’s cul-de-sac and slid from behind the wheel, deciding I would keep my speculation about the mystery woman to myself. Megan had enough on her plate right now.

The setting sun tinged the horizon beyond their house a deep orange, seagulls squawked above me, and the smell of dead fish hung in the air. The crime scene tape had been removed, but one forgotten strip on a front hedge blew in the breeze like an enemy flag. I grabbed the remnant and stuffed it in my jeans’ pocket before I knocked on the door.

Courtney Beadford answered. Unlike the day of the wedding, both earlobes were cluttered with rhinestones and metal studs. She also had an amber stone embedded in one side of her nose, and a small gold ring pierced an eyebrow. Her blunt-cut hair of midnight black looked uncombed, and her pasty face was powdered unevenly with makeup too dark for her skin. Bloodred lipstick completed the attempt at modern art.

“Oh. It’s you,” she said tonelessly. “She’s in the kitchen.”

Leaving the door open, she turned, shuffled through the foyer, and started up the left staircase. She was wearing an orange middrift T-shirt and low-rise jeans that had slipped down past her protruding pelvic bones. Anorexic? I wondered. Or just too busy abusing substances to eat?

I made my way to the kitchen and found Megan and Travis hovered over Sylvia, who sat at the table with documents, several sets of gold cuff links, and a row of men’s ties before her. A woman in a peach jumpsuit with Enchanted Occasion Caterers embroidered in coral on the pocket stood near the sink stacking trays and plates onto a wheeling cart.

Some enchantment here yesterday, I thought.

“Hi,” I said quietly. “Decided to drop by since I was in town.”

Megan looked up. “Abby. Thanks for coming.”

I walked over to Mrs. Beadford, whose eyes were swollen from crying. “How are you today?”

She stood, took my hands, and squeezed. “I’m better. Really. I heard you were wonderful yesterday. You and Graham stepped up and I am so grateful.”

“And I am so sorry for your loss,” I replied.

She bit her lower lip, looked down. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

Megan patted Sylvia’s back. “Mother, you need to decide on a tie for Dad while I talk to Abby.” Megan then came around the table, pulling Travis along by the hand. “Maybe she can decide if we leave her alone for a few minutes.” She started for the hall, her new husband in tow.

“Glad you’re feeling better,” I said over my shoulder before I followed Megan and Travis out of the kitchen. But Sylvia, fingering a navy blue tie, didn’t seem to hear me.

“Sorry, Abby,” Megan said, once we were halfway to the foyer. “But I worry the more she sees you, the more likely she is to ask questions about our friendship.”

Travis squeezed Megan’s shoulder as we walked. “Meg, you know she’s bound to find out.”

“But not now,” Megan said. “I don’t know what she’d do if she found out right now.”

We passed a stripped-clean dining room and stopped in the foyer. Megan and I looked up at Travis. Great-looking guy, I thought. He was clean shaven with deep brown eyes and bed-head hair. But the way he stared at Megan revealed the most about him. I saw a vulnerability in his expression, the kind only love creates.

Travis placed his palm on Megan’s cheek. “You worry so much about everyone else. You need to take care of yourself.”

“He’s right, Megan,” I said. “I’m thinking I should put the investigation on hold. It’s too much to deal with right now.”

“No, it’s not,” Megan said, all her stubbornness showing in her jutting chin. “I’ll keep my mother focused these next few days, and that will help us both. Meanwhile, you do what you can. Do you need more money? I know Mr. Molina gets a percentage, so—”

“Slow down.” I took her hand between both of mine. “You’re talking fast enough to confuse God.”

Travis smiled. “Wait until she really gets going.”

She punched his arm playfully. “Shut up, you.”

He bent and gave her a quick kiss. “I will when you do.”

She grinned, and then it was as if she decided she had no right to be happy even for a second. Her eyes filled and Travis read her distress instantly and brought her to him, pressed her head to his heart.

“I do need one thing if you’re certain you want me to continue the job,” I said.

Megan pulled away from Travis and produced a crumpled tissue from her jeans pocket. She wiped under her eyes and said, “Sure.”

“Can I trouble you for the original copy of your birth certificate?”

Her brow furrowed. “But you scanned it. I saw you.”

“Humor me. I need the state-issued one.”

She cocked her head. “Okay.” She hurried through the foyer and up the right-hand staircase.

When she was gone, Travis said, “Wish she’d do as you suggested and put this mother search on the back