A Wedding To Die For

When we arrived, the house was icy cold, but I declined her offer of a drink, even though I would have loved a cup of coffee. I wanted her to get to the point.

She led me into the library, where her husband had died, and it definitely creeped me out returning to the murder scene—especially since I’d learned today how vicious a crime it had been.

After Daddy passed, I couldn’t set foot in the room where he’d died for months afterward, but Sylvia didn’t seem bothered. More like distracted, now that I thought about it. As if it didn’t register that this was where her whole life had changed forever. I wondered if this was more of the Beadford denial at work.

She turned on a table lamp near the bookshelves, and the light cast a warm but meager glow over half the room. The fireplace remained in shadows. I noted the table filled with wedding presents was gone, the Oriental rugs had been removed, and the furniture had been rearranged, but other than that, no evidence of violence lingered—except in my mind.

She gestured to the tapestry wing chairs flanking the lamp table. “Please sit down.”

But rather than sit with me, she went to the shelves. Her back was to me, so I couldn’t see what she was doing, but seconds later, one set of shelves slid back revealing a wall safe. She pressed a series of numbers on the digital pad first, then turned the conventional dial to open the safe.

When she joined me at the table, she carried a six-inch-high stack of bills with a thousand dollar note on top. Placing the money on the table between us, she said, “I’m only just learning to be a businesswoman, so please bear with me.”

“Okay,” I said, my confusion evident in my tone.

“I know you’re an investigator and that you’re working with Megan to solve her father’s murder. Whatever she’s offered you, I’ll double that.”

So she knew about my real job, too. “She’s paying me more than enough, so —”

“You misunderstand. I’ll pay you to stop investigating. Today. No more questions. No more talks with the chief of police.”

Another offer to quit the case. “Did Roxanne tell you about me today after you picked her up at the police station?”

“Yes. And she mentioned that you and Chief Fielder would be sharing information to find the killer. And that’s not in Megan’s best interest, though I genuinely believe you have her best interest at heart.” She was sitting rigid, her spine not even touching the back of the chair.

How much did she know? Did Sylvia think her daughter killed James? Was that what this was about? “There is no evidence linking Megan to her father’s murder, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“Certainly there’s no evidence,” she said derisively. “You think I’m protecting her from a murder charge?”

Gone was the wimpy, weepy woman I’d come to know over the last couple of weeks. This was a different Sylvia. “How much?” she said. “I’ll pay you whatever you ask.”

“I’m not taking your money.”

“Why not?” she said impatiently.

“Did you overhear me talking to Travis tonight?” I asked. “Is that what this is about?”

“I heard enough. You need to stay away from all of us. This has gone too far.”

That’s when I noticed that though one hand rested in her lap, the other was between the chair arm and her left hip—and out of my sight.

My mouth went dry. Did she have a weapon? Was she that desperate? And for God’s sake why?

But what if she killed James? What if she recognized Laura Montgomery, confronted her husband, and smacked him with the heaviest object she could find when he told her why the woman was at the wedding?

But I wasn’t hankering to learn if she had a gun at her side or just how desperate she was. Not right now. “Listen, Sylvia. If you want me off the case, I’m off the case. You’re Megan’s mom and you know best.”

Her tongue flicked around her lips, and I could tell she wanted to believe me. Her thick makeup had taken on a repulsive sheen in the lamplight, and it was almost as if her newfound assertiveness was melting away with the foundation and blush.

The hand in her lap went to her forehead, and she squeezed the skin between her eyebrows. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I never should have brought you here. You’ll go to the police and then this whole thing will crack open like a rotten egg and—”

“She’s not going anywhere,” came a male voice from the shadowed entry.

I turned. Holt McNabb stood in the doorway.

“I told you to keep your mouth shut, Sylvia,” Holt said.

“But I heard her talking with Travis. She knows about Laura. She knows everything.”

“And that’s why we’ll take care of this little problem. Just like I took care of Graham when he figured out what you’d done. And once I fix this mess, what will we do, Sylvia?”

“Keep our mouths shut,” she said, eyes downcast.

“Right.” He smiled and might as well have added, “That’s a good dog.”

Sylvia must have still had her doubts, though, because she said, “Roxanne told me Abby and Fielder were sharing information. It may be too late.”

“You have that city councilman on your payroll, right? He’ll convince Fielder to leave the case alone.”

“Yes, but—”

“Money talks. And you have plenty to say. Meanwhile, I’ll handle this problem right now.” He pulled what looked like a Glock from his coat pocket. “Did you know how cold the bay waters get in winter, Abby? You need to be very careful when you walk out on the dock at night because one little slip and BAM!” He slapped the gun against his free hand.

I started, my heart in my throat.

Holt shook his head sadly. “You fall in that water and it’s all over but the autopsy.”

I looked at Sylvia. “Anyone else dies around here and you’ll have cops camping out on your lawn.”

“She’s right,” said Sylvia. “There’s been enough killing, Holt.”

So I had an ally. A reluctant one, but still an ally. I spoke to her again. “You were so angry the day James died. A jury will understand.”

“It was an accident. I never meant—”

“Shut up, Sylvia,” said Holt.

“You and I know it wasn’t exactly an accident,” I said.

“But it was. I never meant to kill him. When he told me he was Megan’s real father, that he had a bond with her that I would never have, I just picked up that vase and... and...” Tears spilled over the mascara on her lower lids.

“You need to shut up, Sylvia,” Holt said. He waved the gun at me. “And you need to come with me.”

Despite the grapefruit-size rock of fear in my gut, despite the big, bad gun pointed my way, I didn’t move. Why make it easy for him to kill me? I may be stubborn, impulsive, and foolish on occasion, but I didn’t fall off the stupid truck. I wasn’t about to jump into the ocean like some trained pig. He could kill me here where he’d leave plenty of evidence.

I looked at Sylvia. “Tell me about the accident. What happened?”

“Don’t answer that.” Holt marched over and pulled me roughly up by the arm and pressed the gun to my temple. “You shut up. Just shut the fuck up.”

“You hit him with the vase, right?” I said as Holt started to drag me away. “And he fell forward. Then what?” She was insisting it was an accident, and my gut told me she believed it.

Sylvia’s mouth hung open and her face looked like the dark smudges and teardrops had been painted on.

Holt had me almost to the door, and I wiggled and kicked, even managed to free myself for an instant, but he was far stronger than I. He pulled me back and wrapped an arm around my shoulders and neck, the gun cold against my skull.

Sylvia, sounding like a zombie in some B horror flick, said, “He wouldn’t answer me and I knew I’d killed him. So I ran out. And I had to t-take off my shoes. Because of the blood. I had his blood on my shoes. I put them in the