A Wedding To Die For

my daddy used to say—that a paranoid is a person with all the facts. Holt no doubt possessed a few facts that I didn’t.

“Guilty conscience, Holt?” I said. “Did you and Travis have a falling out?”

“No way,” he said. “But when the police questioned me, I had to tell them the truth. Had to tell what I knew.”

“And what do you know?”

“I told Chief Fielder what I’d overheard between Travis and James at the reception. And now Megan’s probably gotten wind of what I’d said and wants to fire me. That’s what you get for telling the truth. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”

He strode away, and I left the office knowing that whatever he’d told Fielder, it wasn’t good news for Travis or Megan.

17

By the time I arrived home, I was hungry, tired, and depressed. I needed to talk to Travis and find out why he’d lied to me about when he’d learned Megan had hired me. And then there was that argument I’d witnessed between him and James Beadford at the reception—the argument Holt may have overheard, too. Yup, the boy had some explaining to do.

While Diva and I were finishing off microwave pizza, Kate arrived with arnica gel for my bruises, which I accepted without argument. I’d learned long ago not to complain about her homeopathic interventions. While she was plastering my face with goo, Angel dropped off Laura Montgomery’s mug shots. He had to run off for a case he was working, and as soon as he left, Kate and I spread the pictures out on the kitchen table and agreed there was no doubt this was the woman we’d seen at the wedding.

“What does this mean, Abby?” Kate asked. “Did she come there to kill Megan’s father?”

“I don’t know. I can only say I have a lot to tell you about this woman,” I said. “A whole lot.”

Kate leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “Go for it.”

After I filled her in on Jamaica and the bankruptcy and Blythe Donnelly, she said, “And you haven’t told Megan that her birth mother gave her up to the very people she’d embezzled money from? Why not?”

“First off, Megan needs more bad news about as much as a mermaid needs a bicycle. And second, I don’t have all the facts. I want to be able to answer every question.”

“I understand, Abby, but this is a murder investigation. Have you told Chief Fielder?”

“I haven’t told anyone but you.”

She screwed the lid back on the jar of arnica gel. “If the Beadfords adopted Megan from Jamaica, that means they knew where Laura Montgomery or Blythe or whatever you want to call her was and they didn’t tell the authorities. Isn’t that a crime?”

“Since she was already indicted and awaiting trial, I would think so.”

“Why didn’t the Beadfords just drop the charges rather than help her get away?” Kate asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe they wanted those charges hanging over her head as insurance that Montgomery could never come back and claim the baby.”

“Makes sense. So any way you look at it, Montgomery sold her child to buy her freedom,” Kate said, shaking her head sadly. “I see your point about not laying this on Megan yet. You do need to find out more.”

I rubbed a glob of gel that was oozing toward my ear. “Maybe the baby’s death certificate was forged to facilitate getting infant Megan out of Jamaica or maybe there’s plenty more I don’t know. I need to get the full story.”

“This is so complicated, Abby. Are you sure—”

“I’m on this like a rattler on a roadrunner. I will find the truth.”

She leaned toward me and pushed aside a strand of hair that had stuck to my cheek. “If anyone can, you will.”

Kate left a few minutes later and I was ready to soak in a hot tub. But I hadn’t even made it to the stairs when the phone rang. I sighed and took the call in my office.

“Abby?” said Sylvia Beadford.

Amazing how one small word can convey panic. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“They’ve... arrested... Travis,” she managed.

Damn that Fielder. She hadn’t wasted any time. “When?”

“Two deputies took him away a few minutes ago. Megan followed them to the police station. But she told me to call you. She said you could help.”

Sylvia wouldn’t say that if she knew how much I’d helped so far. “I’ll do what I can, but are you okay?” I swear she was hyperventilating.

“It’s j-just that I’m alone here and I don’t know what’s going on and—”

“Where’s Roxanne?”

“She’s gone—she went to visit Courtney at the hospital—and... what should I do? Should I be with Megan?”

“No. Sit tight. I’m on my way to the police station.” Before I left, however, I found the number of the lawyer Jeff had recommended. I grabbed the scrap of paper and took it with me.

The attorney’s name was Whitley, and I had him on the line before I even hit the freeway. I explained the situation with Travis and he said he’d meet me at the Seacliff station. Next I called Megan’s cell, and when she answered she sounded almost as desperate as her mother had.

“I heard they’ve arrested Travis,” I said.

“Mother told you?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but Travis did not kill my father, Abby. He could never kill anyone.”

“I called a defense attorney. He’ll be there within the hour.”

“Don’t tell me you think Travis will be charged with murder,” Megan said.

Okay, I won’t tell you that. “Hopefully Chief Fielder is only conducting a formal interview, but no matter why he’s been brought in, I sincerely hope Travis keeps his mouth shut until Mr. Whitley arrives.”

“Travis has nothing to hide,” Megan said, sounding more pissed off by the minute. At least she still had some spunk.

But obviously Travis did have something to hide or he wouldn’t have lied to me about what he knew and when. Megan, however, would be in no mood to hear about that, so I changed the subject. “Your mother sounded pretty upset.”

“She’s been in meltdown mode since my father died,” Megan said. “That’s why I told her to stay home. She couldn’t do much here except get in the way. I’m in the way myself, but I’m not leaving. Not without Travis.”

“I’ll be there in about forty-five minutes,” I said, “and if you do see Travis in the meantime, tell him not to say anything. And the same goes for you if Fielder pulls you in.”

She sighed heavily. “Okay.”

I hung up and made my best time yet to Seacliff. When a Porsche pulled into a parking slot right next to mine, I guessed correctly that the lawyer had also arrived.

He was a mid-thirties Armani man, just who you’d expect to climb out of a red Porsche, but that’s where the stereotype stopped. He was soft-spoken, dark haired, and all-intense eye contact—the sort of guy who could definitely distract Quinn Fielder. Nice choice, Jeff, I thought as I filled him in on the case.

We walked into the police station together, and Megan leaped from a plastic chair and ran over to us.

“This is Mark Whitley, Megan. I’ve told him about the case, and he’s willing to take over from here if you have a dollar for a retainer.”

“Uh, sure.” She reached into her purse and produced a crumpled five. “This is all I’ve got.”