Apparently that’s not the whole story.”
“Apparently not,” I said half to myself.
“And the blood evidence also seems to clear Megan. The stains on her dress were consistent with her only cradling her father’s head. There were no spatter marks, no traces of blood on her hem—things that would have been there if she’d dragged the body or struck him.”
“You really considered her a suspect?” I asked, but then added, “Figures. You even thought I might have done it.”
“I thought it was possible they had an argument and things got out of hand. Remember, I learned about the first-degree murder angle only this morning.”
“I see your point. Jeff keeps reminding me that anyone is capable of murder given the right circumstances, so you couldn’t eliminate Megan.”
“We went to the same academy, so I’m with Jeff.” She must have read my expression because she quickly added, “And that’s a figure of speech, Abby. Can I call you Abby?”
“Sure.” Did that mean I was supposed to call her by her first name? Because I wasn’t sure I wanted to be that friendly. “Did you get any reports on Graham’s murder?”
“Not yet. As I said before, he was full of booze, which made it easier to shove him off that balcony.”
“Beefeater on the rocks,” piped in the bird.
“Does he listen to everything you say?” I asked with a laugh.
“Yes, and I’m grateful someone pays attention. Anyway, there were no fingerprints in Graham Beadford’s hotel room, so we have no convenient glasses with prints or the killer’s DNA on the rim, and we didn’t find footprints either. We always hope our murderers step in mud or paint right before they kill, but it just doesn’t work out that way too often.”
“Very funny,” I said. “So there were no fibers on the balcony or skin under the victim’s nails?”
“Like I said, we don’t have the forensic reports from that scene. Despite what people see on TV shows, I don’t have instant access to the evidence, especially in a town where we have to rely on another county’s crime scene people.”
“And no one saw the killer but me?”
She shook her head, lips tight.
“This sucks,” I said.
“This sucks,” echoed Beefeater.
“You’re both right,” she said with a resigned smile. “I do have pictures and videos that show Travis and James in the background out on the deck. They appeared to be arguing and that’s why I brought him in. But the rest of those thousand pictures I went through? Time-consuming, but worthless.”
I told her what Travis and Megan had told me about the argument, how it was over money for grad school.
“So why couldn’t he just say that when I questioned him?” The old fire was back in her voice.
“Don’t have a walleyed fit. He didn’t share this with me until yesterday.” I didn’t add that I wasn’t sure I believed him. I didn’t have anything but my gut reaction to his explanation, and I wasn’t about to have her haul him in again because of me.
“With all the new information,” she said, “I’m rethinking motive. Could have been revenge. Could have been greed. Seems the only people with any money among the suspects are Sylvia Beadford and now her daughter. And Mrs. Beadford was rich before she even met her husband. Megan inherits half the estate, so that benefits Travis as well as the bride. The cousins and Graham Beadford weren’t even mentioned in the will. The best man worked for James Beadford, and if Sylvia sells the company, he’s shit out of luck.”
“Holt’s been busy making sure the company survives the setback of losing the CEO,” I said. “So he’s not SOL yet.”
“Good thing, because he’s in credit card debt up to his eyeballs like everyone else in their early twenties. Graham Beadford had a steady income thanks to his brother, but what he didn’t spend at a bar in Dallas called For Pete’s Sake, he turned over to his daughters. They weren’t making ends meet up in Dallas.”
“Yeah, I found that out today. Could Graham have killed his brother hoping he’d inherit something from James?”
“It’s possible, but then who killed him?” she asked.
“It keeps coming back to Laura Montgomery. She had the best motive to do away with both of them—and I hate to even think about that. Megan deserves better.”
Fielder attended to a cuticle, her dark hair falling in front of her face. “In my experience, what we deserve and what we get don’t often match up,” she said quietly.
“Yeah,” I said. “Sometimes.”
“For Pete’s sake, this sucks,” said Beefeater.
And that about summed it up.
23
I had worn black chinos and a zip-up sweater for the visitation, but when I arrived at the funeral home the place was hot enough to pop corn in the shuck. I had to unzip the sweater. The fuchsia T-shirt I wore underneath was a little glaring, but if I didn’t cool off I’d be sweating so badly no one would want to be within ten feet of me. The same greeter with those disturbing white gloves led me to the room where Graham’s shiny closed casket was draped with a blanket of mums.
Megan came over to me when I walked in. She wore a gray sweaterdress and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Gray didn’t suit her—it too closely resembled her skin tone. How much more could the poor kid take?
“Thank you so much for coming,” she said, her voice surprisingly strong and in control. “Uncle Graham would have been proud of how many people showed up—even his friends from Dallas came.” She lowered her voice. “But most of the men smell like they shared a keg on the way down here.”
I smiled. “I think he would have liked that. Before it slips my mind, Kate said to tell you Courtney wasn’t well enough to attend tonight, but she might issue her a day pass for the funeral.”
“Did your sister say whether Courtney is accepting her treatment willingly?”
“I saw Courtney myself and I’d say yes.”
Travis had just joined us, and he put his arm around Megan and squeezed her to him. “See? Finally some good news.”
“I’m glad,” Megan said. “Especially for Roxanne. She was so exhausted after her night in jail, she fell asleep the minute Mother brought her home this afternoon. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her.”
I took in the room for the first time—this one a mirror image of where James Beadford’s casket had sat less than a week ago. Metal folding chairs were lined along the wall, and several old men sat together with clear plastic cups holding what appeared to be water—
Sylvia had come up with yet another black outfit, this one a pantsuit. She was talking with three men and a woman, none of whom I knew. Meanwhile, Holt spoke to a still fatigued-looking Roxanne. They stood in a corner next to a giant arrangement of white lilies and Holt had on his “I’m so sorry for your loss” face. She had adoring eyes fixed on him, and I considered warning her off before I left tonight. She didn’t need another tragic romantic encounter.
An elderly couple came into the room then, and Megan turned her attention to them.
Travis took my arm and whispered, “Can we talk a minute?”
“Funny, I was about to ask you the same question.”
While Megan walked the old man and woman over to the casket, Travis and I went into the hallway.
He rubbed at his mouth with a shaky hand. “You need to know something. Megan’s father and I did not argue about money the day of the wedding.”
So he’d finally decided to come clean. “I was pretty sure of that. Go on.”
“But I’m afraid Megan knows what we argued about. I think her father told her right after he talked to me. And I think it upset her. A lot.”
