A Wedding To Die For

“Have you talked with your sister about her problem?” I asked.

“Have you ever tried to have a rational discussion with someone under the influence?”

Indeed I had, but I wasn’t about to discuss my marital history with Roxanne. “I’m sure Courtney will come home. But if she doesn’t arrive by nightfall, call that nice Chief of Police Fielder. She’ll help you. And please, tell Megan I need to talk to her when she gets home.” I rattled off my cell number, said good-bye, and disconnected as fast as I could.

Whew.

But my relief was short-lived. When I arrived home, Fielder had left a message to call her, and I feared Roxanne had wasted no time contacting her about her grown-up sister, Courtney, who had been missing for all of half a day.

No use putting this off, I thought, reaching for the receiver. “How can I help you today?” I said once I was connected to Fielder. Communicate like you have the upper hand, I always say.

“I have a request.” She sounded almost nice.

Obviously she hadn’t spoken with the potential leech Roxanne or she would have sounded less than nice. And her word request implied I might refuse if I so chose. “Go ahead,” I said.

“The only other photo we’ve found of the woman of interest was taken from the upstairs balcony. Not useful for an identification.”

“But it does establish her presence inside,” I said almost to myself.

“Yes it does. Do you think you could remember her face well enough to assist me in creating a composite?”

“I’m not sure I remember her all that well. Maybe if you told me why this woman is so important, it would jog my memory.” I knew damn well why she was important to Fielder, but she could be important to my client, too.

“And how would that help jog your memory?” she replied coldly.

“You know, Chief, I sense a lack of mutual respect here. I mean, I’m in the PI business, a professional like you who helps people and—”

“I forgot about your... profession.” Her tone left no doubt she lumped me in with vagrants, prostitutes, and sex offenders. “And,” she continued, “I may continue to forget about your professional relationship with the victim’s daughter when I speak with other members of the family—as long as I have your cooperation in this matter.”

Man, was she slick. But though I liked the little swap she was willing to make—my help in exchange for her keeping Sylvia in the dark about the birth mother hunt—I wasn’t all that sure I could come through with enough details for a composite. So I said, “The woman wore a hat into the church, one of those cloches that comes down over the ears. I noticed the hat more than her face, so I’m not sure I could offer much.”

“But you saw her outside the house taking pictures, right?”

“You know I did.”

“And got a better look at her face?”

“Maybe.”

“So you may recall more about her than you realize. Please meet with the sketch artist?”

Ah. The P word. She must be desperate. “I guess I could try, but is this a genuine sketch artist, not someone with some fancy software?” I was remembering Jeff’s rant about how sketch artists were becoming extinct because of technology, even though a good artist did a far better job with composites than a computer ever could.

Fielder said, “Yes, a trained sketch artist who works on contract. We have software to produce composites here in Seacliff, but unfortunately the only person proficient with the program left us several months ago. Rather than bother one of the other local police departments for help, Jeff arranged for me to contract with this artist in Houston who needed work.”

So she’d called her buddy Jeff. No surprise there. And I was beginning to read her subtext pretty damn well. She probably had no intention of letting her local police friends know she had an expensive software program she didn’t know how to use.

But if this would help Megan and her family, that’s all that mattered. “Do I make an appointment with the artist or do you?”

“Because of the urgency of this investigation, I’ve taken the liberty of calling him. He’ll be in his studio until six tonight.”

You’ve taken plenty of liberties, I thought, but she was working the case and that’s all anyone could ask for.

After jotting down the artist’s name and address, I hung up and filled the time waiting for Megan’s return call by whipping up a stir-fry. Thanks to Central Market, the vegetables, chicken, and sauce were packaged in one oh- so-convenient container. I was just wiping the remnants of teriyaki from my lips when the phone rang.

“Hi. You called?” Megan asked.

“I did. We need to make a trip to the Bureau of Vital Statistics in Houston first thing tomorrow. I have a possible—”

“I don’t think I can go,” she said, lowering her voice.

“Oops. Is your mother around?”

“No, but I still worry about people overhearing me. Anyway, she has to sign some documents at the medical branch in Galveston tomorrow, something about the autopsy. She wants me with her, and I’m not sure how long it will take.”

“Maybe we should wait until next week to pursue this.”

A short silence followed. Then she said, “No. If I have to make time I will. So—uh-oh. Wait.” Another pause followed, then Megan said to me, “So nice of you to call. The obituary will appear as soon as we’ve finalized details about the service. We’ve chosen Forest Rest, but check the newspaper for dates and times. And thanks again.”

The line went dead.

She’d probably call back... but when? I checked my watch. The artist’s studio was only twenty minutes away. Might as well get this little chore over with and catch up with Megan later.

Mason Dryer’s studio, an apartment above the double garage of a house near the Galleria, happened to be his home, too. Dryer told me as much as we ascended the stairs, and I immediately wondered why Fielder said he’d be in his studio until six when he was in his studio all the time. Did she want to make sure I complied with her directive tonight? Probably.

Following Dryer up the stairs, I noticed smears of yellow, red, blue, and orange paint on the thighs and back pockets of his black jeans where he’d obviously wiped his hands many times. He hardly had any butt to use as a wiping board though. The man was so skinny he might need worming.

We entered the apartment, one large room cluttered with stacked canvases, easels, and plastic crates holding paint supplies and brushes. A Futon was partially obscured by a draped easel, and a small refrigerator and microwave sat alongside. He’d also managed to squeeze in a desk and a card table. Two walls had good-size windows, offering plenty of natural light. The room smelled like McDonald’s and sure enough a half-eaten Big Mac and ketchup-drenched fries rested on the table.

“I’ve interrupted you,” I said. “Are you sure you want to do this today?”

“You bet I do. Easy money, as opposed to my other job.” He thumbed at the covered easel.

I walked toward it. “Can I see?”

“I think my work would be a distraction.” A muscle above one generous, dark eyebrow began to twitch. He reached up and pressed a paint-darkened index finger against the spot. “Damn thing’s been doing this all day.”

“My sister says drinking tonic water cures those spasms.”

“Some pocket change might cure my tension better. Let’s get to work.” He swept up the unfinished meal and tossed the food in a trash container, then unfolded a second chair so I could join him at the table.

But rather than the expected sketchbook, he drew out a notepad from a crate below the table. “I want you to concentrate on your first impressions. Really hone in on this person with your mind’s eye.”

“I’m not sure I remember much.”

“Extroverts are very visual. You guys make good observers, so trust yourself.”

“I’m an extrovert?” I said.