A Wedding To Die For

now.”

“See, Abby? She’s lying. She does think Courtney is a cold-blooded murderer.”

“Don’t you get it?” I said. “Number one, your sister has an alibi. Number two, if Courtney killed your father and your uncle, how would she get money for drugs? After all, your uncle James was supporting your father. That’s how the money flowed in your family, right? From Uncle James through your father and then to you.” Yes indeed, combined with what Courtney had told me, it all made sense now.

“How did you know?” a wide-eyed Roxanne said.

“I put two and two together. After you told your father that Megan was looking for her mother, he wasted no time contacting the woman. He knew where to find her, which means he knew his brother’s secret, and he figured Megan would learn that secret soon enough, too. James would have no reason to continue paying your father for his silence. Your dad wanted his revenge before the money stopped coming in, right?”

Roxanne hung her head. “Uncle James humiliated him so many times, and Dad thought he finally had a way to get even.”

“So,” I said, “with the money cow about to dry up, what better way to end their relationship than with a hefty dose of payback? I’ll bet he loved seeing the look on James’s face when Laura Montgomery showed up at the wedding.”

Fielder said, “Wait a minute. Who’s Laura Montgomery?”

“The woman in the composite. Megan’s birth mother.”

And I had to admit I loved the look on Fielder’s face right now. Stunned and dismayed about covered it. And I was hoping she also felt like an idiot for having gone bucktooth and hangnail with me from the minute we met.

As it turned out, I was saved from having to take Roxanne home. Between Fielder and me, we convinced her that Courtney wouldn’t be sent to jail. Courtney had an alibi, she was in rehab, and Fielder had no reason to go after her. So Roxanne called Sylvia, who agreed to pick her niece up.

While Fielder and I stood by, and Henderson smiled as wide as a game show host, Sylvia ushered Roxanne out of the police station like a mother duck, telling her she needed to bathe and rest up to be ready for the visitation tonight.

Once she was gone, Fielder said, “I never thought I’d be grateful to you for anything.”

“So you are thanking me?”

“Yeah. You want to have dinner or something? Talk this case over?”

Henderson folded his arms and nodded, looking satisfied. “Very classy, Chief. I think you’re getting the hang of this job.”

“Would you shut up?” she said, but she was fighting a smile.

“You mean you want to talk over the case like two professionals?” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice and think I succeeded.

She nodded. “I need to know what you’ve learned. I seem to have missed a few things.”

“You had too much evidence and not enough manpower.” I was suddenly feeling generous and forgiving in the face of her turnaround. “Like my daddy used to say, you couldn’t see the pigs for the slop.”

And I wasn’t sure I could either, but I was enjoying this too much to make that admission out loud.

We ended up going to Quinn’s surprisingly large house and ate leftover pizza right out of the fridge. At least the woman knew how to provide a decent meal. After we finished eating, we went to her living room, Dr Peppers in hand.

The place was organized and tidy like her office, the decor modern with sleek curvy tables and a leather sofa. One wall was filled with her father’s framed awards. His badge was displayed in a glass box on a small table beneath the commendations, and I also noted a picture of him shaking hands with the first President Bush.

“You were very proud of him,” I said.

“Be careful. Be careful,” someone said from behind me.

I turned and saw a large freestanding birdcage. Inside, pacing on a thick dowel, was a snowy cockatoo.

“Meet Beefeater,” said Fielder.

“Beefeater on the rocks, Beefeater on the rocks,” said the bird, his head bobbing.

I walked over to the cage. “Male or female?” I asked.

“Male,” said Fielder. “But be careful. He bites almost as hard as I do.”

“Be careful, be careful,” said Beefeater.

“He’s beautiful,” I said, stooping to get a closer look.

“He belonged to my dad.”

“Hey, Dad, what do you think? What do you think?” said the bird.

“We both miss him a lot,” she said quietly. She had kicked off her shoes and was sitting on the sofa. “He was the best damn cop in the world.”

“My daddy’s been gone a years,” I said. “I miss him, too.”

“Seems we have more in common than an interest in Jeff,” she said with a wry grin.

I sat in the butter yellow chair next to the sofa. “Now, wait a minute. If we plan to be in the same room and—”

“Don’t worry.” She raised a hand. “Jeff is off-limits. That doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re damn lucky, but I won’t be making any moves on him.”

“You mean any more moves.”

“Damn lucky,” spouted Beefeater.

“Shut up, Beefy.” Fielder was blushing. “Jeff set me straight, so can we drop this?”

“Okay. Truce.”

“You handled Roxanne when I couldn’t, and I appreciate your help,” Fielder said. “I’ve been too busy trying to prove how smart I am, how I can do this job despite the community’s criticism. Seems I need to learn better interviewing techniques. I haven’t had much practice other than with drunks, peeping toms, and adolescents who think playing with a can of spray paint is the most fun they’ve ever had.”

“What kind of community criticism?” I asked.

“Snipes from city council members and people who like to write letters to the editor. They say my father handed me my job even though I had no experience and no idea how to handle crime in a small town.”

“Is that true?”

A familiar anger flashed in her eyes. “Okay, it’s true. But not because I don’t know how to be a good cop. It’s because—”

“Good cop. Good cop, Quinn,” said Beefeater.

She smiled and continued. “Handling my job has very little to do with policing and a whole lot to do with ass kissing. I’m no ass kisser.”

“Really? I never would have thought.” I grinned.

“I won’t apologize for bringing a certain attitude to my job, and I think that’s enough said. Let’s get to work. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

I went first, telling her all I had discovered in Jamaica, the scoop on Laura Montgomery, and I even confessed that the woman had come to my house. I was sure glad I’d reported this to the Dallas police because Fielder was a little miffed I hadn’t called her last night. But she accepted some of the responsibility when I mentioned she hadn’t exactly been too approachable.

“Now it’s your turn,” I said. “Henderson mentioned you received some reports today.”

She nodded and took a sip of her Dr Pepper. “Interesting stuff. The autopsy report says the blow to the back of the head with the vase did not kill James Beadford but probably knocked him out.”

“And he hit the corner of the fireplace when he fell. We knew that’s what killed him.”

“We thought we knew,” she said. “But the blood evidence indicates he fell to the floor several feet from the fireplace.”

I sat straighter. “Really? So did he wake up and fall again when he tried to walk?”

“Scuff marks on the wood floor made by the tips of his shoes indicate he was dragged to the fireplace.”

Hair rose on the back of my neck. This was more ugly than I’d thought. “So the killer knew he wasn’t dead and finished him off by ramming his head into the bricks?”

“Yup. And there goes my original theory that this was a crime of passion, an argument that went too far.