Better Off Wed (13 page)

My cell phone rang, and I hunted for it on the passenger-side floor as I merged from M Street onto the Key Bridge. By the time Kate had dropped me off at my car in Georgetown, I was already running late to meet Maxwell. I'd thrown my purse in the front seat and half the contents of my bag had spilled out.

I had one hand on the wheel and one groping among the loose papers on the floor where I'd last spied my phone. I heard the rings slide under the passenger seat and into the back. Reaching behind me, I scooped up the phone, keeping one hand on the wheel. A car honked as I veered into its lane for a moment. Almost as bad as Kate's driving.

“Wedding Belles. This is Annabelle.” Office calls were being forwarded to my cell phone, so I wouldn't get too far behind with work.

“Are you at Maxwell's?” Kate asked. I heard car horns around her, and knew she must be in traffic, too.

“Not yet.” I took a right off of Key Bridge onto the GW Parkway. The thick green trees created a lush corridor for me to drive through. The perfect day for a convertible. Not that I didn't love my old Volvo, but I dreamed of being less practical. “How's your meeting with Jack?”

“I'm running a little late. I'm not sure how much more he can tell me about Boyd, though. Unless the man ran up and down the halls announcing the name of his doctor, this might be pointless.”

“See what you can find out. I'm just curious.”

“Don't tell Richard. He'll have a fit.”

“This isn't the same thing as snooping. You're just chatting with an old friend.” I accelerated on the gentle curves of the road, and then looked out my passenger-side window. A crew team practiced in the Potomac River, their boat cutting the smooth water.

“I don't think Richard would see it that way. Had he calmed down this morning?”

“Not exactly.” I shifted the phone to my other ear. “He told me never to contact him again.”

“Don't worry, Annabelle. He'll cool down in a day or two, and life will be back to normal.”

“You're probably right.” I didn't tell her that I'd dialed his number twice, before remembering the Annabelle embargo, and hanging up.

“Call me when you're done at Maxwell's studio. And be careful, Annie.”

“I doubt the murderer is after me, Kate.”

“I'm talking about Maxwell.”

I laughed, turned off the phone, and tossed it on the seat next to me. Maxwell Gray proclaimed himself the ladies' man of the wedding industry. Not that he had a
lot of competition. He looked like a cover model for a romance novel, only older and much more weathered. I didn't consider his silk-shirt-and-gold-medallion-brand of sexiness much of a turn-on, although I'd heard I was in a minority among my colleagues. I cringed at the thought.

I almost missed the exit for the Chain Bridge and had to brake hard not to fly off the sharp curve of the ramp. Too busy thinking about Maxwell and his conquests. I glanced at the directions in my lap to make sure I hadn't passed his studio. I drove by the entrance to the CIA and continued through the primarily suburban area until I came to a cluster of office buildings. I turned into the parking lot and found a space in front of Maxwell Gray Photography.

His studio had large front windows filled with portraits of brides in various dramatic settings. How had he convinced a bride in her wedding gown to lie down in the middle of a wheat field? Most of my brides were afraid a ride in a limousine would wrinkle their dresses. Forget rolling around in a field.

I walked into the studio. A chime signaled my arrival. Maxwell came around a corner and advanced on me, taking my hand and pressing it to his lips. He wore his ash blond hair long and brushed off his face, the back perfectly smooth. He did a better job with a blow-dryer than I did. He had an unnaturally thin nose, and teeth so perfect they had to have been capped. He ran his tongue across his top lip as he released my hand. The Pierce photos had better be nothing short of amazing, I thought to myself.

“Annabelle, you're as lovely as ever.” He gave me a sticky smile and waved me into the appointment room
where he met with all his clients. A low glass table held all his sample albums. Two red velvet chairs flanked a royal blue velvet couch. Fringed lamps, perched on a pair of glass end tables, and palm trees filled the corners of the room. I couldn't shake the feeling of visiting a harem.

Maxwell pulled a bottle of champagne out of a standing metal bucket. “Can I offer you a glass?”

“I'm really here to see the pictures. I'm not much of a drinker. Not at eleven in the morning, anyway.”

“I thought we might get to know each other a little better.”

Perfect. Just when I thought the week couldn't get any worse, the slimiest photographer in Washington starts hitting on me.

I motioned to the ornately framed wall portraits around the room. “Beautiful work, Mr. Gray.”

“Call me Maxwell.” He poured himself a glass of champagne. Obviously he didn't have a problem drinking before noon. “All the other wedding planners do.”

I'll bet they do. I forced myself to smile. “It was nice to finally work with you, Maxwell.” And to finally have a client with the budget to afford a society wedding photographer.

“I photographed Clara's family for years. Long before she became a Pierce.”

Maybe this visit wouldn't be a total waste, after all. It shouldn't be too hard, I thought, to finesse some information about Mrs. Pierce from him. I wished I'd paid more attention to Kate's flirting instruction.

“I changed my mind about the champagne.” I tried to bat my eyelashes, hoping that Kate would be proud.

“I'd love a glass.”

Maxwell filled a crystal flute with champagne and passed it to me. He raised his glass in a toast. “To possibilities.”

The possibility that I won't sue you for sexual harassment. I smiled, and took a tiny sip. Maxwell drained his glass.

“So how long did you know Mrs. Pierce?” I sat down on one of the chairs. He chose the couch and reclined on it so that his black silk shirt fell open to one side, exposing the top part of his chest. I'd never seen such impeccably coiffed chest hair. He must have used mousse.

“I started photographing her family for Elizabeth's sweet sixteen party, so it's been about ten years.” Maxwell refilled his glass. “Back when she was Clara Harriman.”

“I noticed how well you dealt with her.” I pretended to take a drink. “Especially when she got upset at you for taking a shot of her bad side.”

“I can be honest with you, right, Annabelle?” He didn't wait for my answer. “That woman made my life a living hell every time I worked with her. If she didn't have so much money and so many rich friends with marriageable daughters, I'd have told her to find another photographer.”

“But you never seemed upset.”

“I work hard to look so calm…” Maxwell chugged his second glass. He noticed my nearly full glass and motioned for me to drink.

When he turned to retrieve the champagne bottle, I dumped the contents of my glass in the base of the nearest palm tree. “So I guess you saw a lot of interaction between Mrs. Pierce and her family.”

“If you mean did they all hate her, too, the answer is yes.”

I leaned close. “Not her daughter, though?”

“No, not Elizabeth.” He spilled a little champagne as he reached over to fill my flute. “And not Elizabeth's fiancé, either. Clara adored him, and who wouldn't like someone who adores you?”

“But everyone else hated her?”

“With good reason.” Maxwell turned the empty bottle upside down in the wine bucket. “She ignored her own husband and had made her ex-husband's life miserable when she divorced him. Harriman and his new wife were blacklisted from any important social function for years.”

“Which husband do you think had the better motive to kill her?”

He leaned over and put a hand on my knee, giving me what could only be called a leer. “Are we playing detective?”

I slid my knee away from his grip. “No, but I thought that if anyone would be clever enough to figure out who killed Mrs. Pierce, it would be you.”

He puffed his chest out, making his abundance of chest hair seem even more prominent. “You're quite perceptive, Annabelle. I do have a theory.”

“About which of her husbands killed her?”

“I'd pick Dr. Harriman. Clara enjoyed making him suffer during their divorce. She especially loved spreading rumors about the new wife. I heard the new Mrs. H had to go on antidepressants after hearing that half the town believed she had a love child with a televangelist.”

Nothing Mrs. Pierce did shocked me anymore. “I
can see how the Harrimans might hold a grudge, but I thought the divorce happened five years ago.”

“Clara never stopped spreading rumors to get them ostracized from Washington society. She even refused to invite the new wife to the wedding.” Maxwell eyed his empty glass, and his mouth curled into a pout.

“I do remember Dr. Harriman's name being on the invitation alone, but I didn't think anything of it,” I said more to myself than to Maxwell.

“No one wanted to cross Clara.” He leaned over so far he slid off the edge of the couch and caught himself with one hand. “You should've heard her talking the day she came in to review the group photos she wanted for the wedding.”

“About her ex-husband?”

“No, even better.” Maxwell licked his lips. “She told me about an affair she'd been having with a political big-wig.”

I tried to act surprised. “An affair?”

“The last in a long string.” Maxwell got to his feet, swaying as though he stood on the deck of a ship. “Why don't I get us another bottle of champagne? I always keep several chilling in the refrigerator.”

I'll bet you do. I waited until he left the room, and then twisted around to empty my champagne into the palm tree for the second time. Poor thing would probably die from alcohol poisoning.

“She bragged about the affair, then?” I raised my voice so he could hear me in the next room.

“She always bragged about the men she fooled around with.” His voice sounded muffled and far away. Did he have his head in the refrigerator? “This particular one may have been her best work ever.”

“What do you mean?”

“Clara relished having power over people and making them squirm. Some people knit for a hobby, Clara did this.” Maxwell's voice sounded strained, as though he were wrestling with the champagne cork. “When I saw her, she told me how upset this guy had gotten when she threatened to go public with the affair.”

“So she planned to tell his wife?”

“No, his wife already knew.” The champagne cork gave a loud pop from the other room. “Clara wanted to leak it to the media and ruin his political career. Apparently he had aspirations of running for office.”

I paused with my upside-down champagne glass over the tree. “Wait a second. His wife already knew?”

“That's what Clara seemed most happy about.” Maxwell's words slurred together. “The wife confronted her and made all kinds of threats. Clara laughed about it. Said that dried-up prude didn't scare her.”

I dropped my glass and it landed with a thud in the potting soil. Mrs. Boyd knew. This changed everything.

I hurried to pick the champagne flute out of the dirt and set it on the table. I brushed away a clump of soil before Maxwell returned to the room holding out a new bottle of champagne like a proud father.

“I've been saving this particular bottle for a special occasion.” He sat down on the couch and leaned toward me. “I think today qualifies.”

Unbelievable. This guy thought he was getting somewhere with me.

“Tell me about the fight that Mrs. Pierce had with Mrs. Boyd.” I held out my glass and tried not to look repulsed. “When did it happen?”

“Did I mention the other woman's name?”

Damn! Hopefully Maxwell would think he'd let it slip instead of me. “You weren't supposed to tell me?”

Maxwell ran a hand over his slicked-back hair. “Not that Clara cared, but I've always prided myself on being discreet.”

Right. He might as well have put out a newsletter.

I put a finger to my lips. “This will just be between you and me, Maxwell. Our little secret.”

His face flushed, possibly from the champagne. “It happened the day before her daughter's wedding. Mrs. Boyd came to Clara's house in the afternoon and made a huge spectacle of herself.”

This sounded nothing like the tight-lipped Helen Boyd I'd met. “Why? What did she do?”

“It started out calmly with Mrs. Boyd asking Clara to leave her husband alone.”

“Which Mrs. Pierce refused to do?” I prodded.

“Of course.” Maxwell adjusted himself on the couch, stretching from end to end. “Mrs. Boyd got angry and called her all sorts of names. Not that any of them were new to Clara.”

I smiled, vicariously enjoying the thought of Mrs. Boyd using every name in the book. “How did Mrs. Pierce react?”

“She laughed at the woman. When Mrs. Boyd threatened to tell Mr. Pierce, Clara told her she didn't care. Said she wanted Mrs. Boyd's husband, not her own.”

“Ouch. Poor Mrs. Boyd.” I picked up my glass of champagne and noticed clumps of dirt floating on the top.

“That's when things got ugly. Mrs. Boyd started screaming that if Clara tried to ruin things she'd kill her.”

“Mrs. Boyd threatened her life?”

“Clara didn't take it too seriously, though.” Maxwell tipped his glass back to let the last few drops roll into his mouth. “Called her a noisy little mouse and laughed about the whole thing.”

I'll bet she's not laughing now.

“Mrs. Pierce told you all of this?” I covered the top of my crystal flute with my hand so he wouldn't notice the dirt.

He nodded, his eyes drooping. “Here we've spent the whole time gossiping about Mrs. Pierce when you came to see my photography.”

I'd forgotten about the pictures. I looked at my watch. “I've got a few minutes to spare.”

Maxwell pulled a small, square box from under the coffee table with one arm. He barely shifted from his position on the sofa as he handed it to me, then closed his eyes. If I'd finished a bottle and a half of champagne, I'd have felt like taking a nap, too.

“So these are all the proofs?” I took the lid off the box and flipped through the enormous stack of snapshot-size prints. There must have been several hundred photos. No way I could go through them all at once. Maxwell didn't answer me, and I glanced up.

His head lolled to the side and his mouth hung open. Passed out. I put my finger under his nose and let out a sigh of relief when I felt his breathing. I couldn't bear another dead body.

“I've got to be running, Maxwell,” I whispered so he wouldn't wake up. “I'm going to take the proofs with me and bring them back later, okay?”

No response. At least I asked. I operated on the philosophy that it's better to ask for forgiveness than permission, anyway.

I walked out on my toes, carrying the box of photos in front of me. When I got in my car, I picked up my phone, pressing the speed dial number for Kate's cell.

“Hi, Annabelle.” Caller ID. “Did you escape in one piece?”

“He passed out before he could make his move.” I heard the sound of clattering silverware. “Where are you?”

“Hold on a second. Let me go outside.” The background noise disappeared. “Jack wanted to take me to lunch, and he's been so helpful I couldn't turn him down.”

I tucked the photo box into my oversized nylon purse then backed out of the parking lot and pulled into traffic. “You're a true martyr. Where did he take you?”

“The Palm.”

One of the places in D.C. to see and be seen. Kate would fit in beautifully.

“Tough life. Be sure to have the crabmeat cocktail.”

“Okay, okay. Don't you want to hear what I found out?”

In my excitement over the Clara Pierce and Helen Boyd fight, I'd forgotten about suspecting one of Clara's husbands of poisoning Mr. Boyd. “Of course.”

“Jack didn't know anything about Boyd's doctor, but he said that Mr. Boyd seemed fine when he left work.”

“Which gives more strength to our theory that Boyd wasn't poisoned until later.” I switched the phone to my other ear. “But I'm not convinced that his doctor killed him anymore.”

“I'm not done,” Kate said. “Since Jack wasn't any help, I called both doctors' offices. I pretended to be Boyd's scheduler and tried to set up an appointment. Dr. Pierce's office had no record of Boyd, but Dr. Harriman's office did. I made an appointment for Boyd for two weeks from today.”

“You're kidding.” I merged onto the GW Parkway and got in the fast lane. I couldn't believe it had been that simple to find out.

“Hold on. It gets even better. The police were thinking along the same lines we were.”

“What do you mean?”

“They arrested Dr. Harriman an hour ago.”

“I don't believe it.” I swerved out of my lane for a second, and then grabbed the wheel tightly. “Now I'm really confused.”

“What do you mean? It makes perfect sense. He had motive and opportunity for both murders, even if he is handsome.”

“I guess you're right. But after visiting Maxwell, I'm not convinced that Harriman is the only one with motive and opportunity.” I moved into the right lane to let an SUV pass.

“Spit it out, Annabelle.”

“According to Maxwell, Mrs. Pierce told him that she and Mrs. Boyd had a huge fight the day before the wedding.”

“About what? I didn't think Mrs. Boyd knew about the affair.”

“She knew, all right.” The dark SUV stayed right behind me with its lights on. I sped up. What kind of jerk puts high beams on in the daytime?

“That explains why she acted so cold to her husband at the tasting. I wonder if he knew about the fight.”

“It happened on the same day that Mrs. Pierce fought with Mr. Boyd. I wonder which came first. Mrs. Boyd's fight might have been the reason that Mrs. Pierce went to see Mr. Boyd. Or maybe, Mrs. Boyd found out about the fight with her husband and went over to have it out.”

“It's kind of like the chicken or the leg,” Kate said.

I rolled my eyes and glanced in my rearview mirror.
The SUV had matched my speed and driven so close to me I could see the driver hunched behind the sun visor. I couldn't make out the face. Too much glare.

I changed lanes. Maybe if I could speed up enough I'd lose this maniac. “Mrs. Boyd threatened to kill her when Mrs. Pierce said she'd expose her husband.”

“It sounds like Mrs. Boyd got more upset about her husband's political career being ruined than she did over the affair.”

The SUV dropped back and merged into my lane.

“I didn't think of it that way. I guess you're right, Kate. She said something about Mrs. Pierce ruining things. Probably not talking about her marriage.”

“I'll bet she's one of these political wives who's put as much into her husband's career as he has. There's no way she'd let another woman take that away from her.”

“So much for my bright idea of Mrs. Boyd being the killer. She might have killed Mrs. Pierce, but she wouldn't have killed her husband.” I stepped on the gas to try to pull away from the SUV. I passed the rectangular brown sign that informed me the Key Bridge exit was a mile and a half away. Not much farther.

“Who's to say there aren't two murderers on the loose?”

“That makes me feel a lot better. Thanks, Kate.” I swerved into the right lane as I drove across a short bridge. I jerked forward as something hit my car from behind. The SUV. “That idiot just hit me.”

“What? Are you okay?”

I stayed in my lane as a few cars entered the highway from the right. “Yeah. I'm going to pull over at the exit for Key Bridge. I don't know what this creep's problem is.”

I lurched forward again, this time much harder, and my head hit the steering wheel. The cell phone fell onto my lap, and I tried to pick it up again while the SUV pulled alongside me. I saw the sign for the Key Bridge ahead and sped up. If I could just make it to the exit. I accelerated, driving under a wide concrete bridge, but the SUV swerved into my lane, knocking me off the road. I barely missed going into the concrete bridge, and my car sped toward a patch of tall grass. I screamed, lifted my hands in front of my face, and slammed straight into the Key Bridge sign.