Dearly Depotted (7 page)

 

 

 

 

I
wasn’t normally a squeamish person, but I did manage to put some distance between myself and the body in under two seconds, about the same amount of time it took Marco to come up the steps. “D-dead man,” I whispered, pointing to the pulpit behind me. “No pulse.”

Marco stepped around to the back of the podium and clicked the penlight he kept on his key ring. I heard him let out a low whistle of exclamation, then he said quietly, “Come take a look at his face and tell me if you recognize him.”

“Did the man wake up?” Grandma called.

“I’ll let you know in a minute,” I said, trying to keep a lightness in my voice. “Stay right there.” I peered around Marco as he shined his light over the body of a man wearing a short white jacket with tails, and a gold vest. A beret lay beside his head, which was turned to one side.

“Looks like a waiter,” Marco said, crouching beside the body.

“Marco, that’s Jack Snyder!”

“He hasn’t been dead long. He’s still warm.” Marco checked his watch. “It’s ten o’clock. This must have happened within the last hour.” He shined the light on Jack’s bloody face. “Look there, on his jaw. See that mark? That’s from his fight with Turner.” Marco moved the light up, illuminating a deep indentation in Jack’s forehead. “And that’s probably the blow that killed him. It’s recent.”

The shock of finding a dead body was still settling over me, but my first thought was a scary one—that Jillian’s uncle Josiah had somehow managed to finish the fight he’d started earlier. “Is there any chance Jack hit his head on a corner of the pulpit?”

Marco shined his light along the top edge of the wooden stand. “This isn’t the best light to work with, but I don’t see any blood.” He swept the small light around the gazebo, but we didn’t find any obvious weapon, either. “We’d better back out of here so we don’t taint the crime scene any more than we already have.”

“What are you two doing?” Grandma asked, coming to peer between us. She took one look and fell back, clutching her chest. “Oh, my word!”

“Let’s go back to the building, Grandma,” I said putting my arm around her to lead her down the steps.

“We have to get help,” she said in a quivering voice.

“I’ve already called for help,” Marco said and helped me guide her down the steps. “Hear those sirens? They’ll be here in just a few moments.”

“Oh, my word,” she muttered over and over, shaking her head in disbelief as Marco and I ushered her up the aisle. “All that blood.”

Just as we came through the arch, the banquet center doors opened and Pryce and his parents rushed out of the building. “Mother,” Mr. Osborne cried, “we’ve been looking everywhere for you. What are you doing out here?” All three shot me reproving glances.

“All that blood,” the elderly woman kept murmuring.

“Blood?” Mrs. Osborne said, her face draining of color. “What are you talking about?”

I signaled for them to wait a moment, then said quietly to Pryce, “Why don’t you see your grandmother inside?”

“Here we go, Grandmother,” Pryce said, trying to take her arm.

She shoved his hand away, suddenly finding her bearings. “Don’t fuss over me, Pryce. Can’t you see I’m upset? Now, stand back. This able fellow here will help me.” She looked up at Marco and he obliged with a masculine gallantry that put a skip in Grandma’s step.

As soon as she was out of earshot I said to the Osbornes in a rush of breath, “There’s been an accident in the gazebo and we’ve already called for help so there’s no need to panic.”

“An accident?” Mrs. Osborne asked, panicking anyway. “What kind of accident?”

There was no point in beating around the bush: the police were moments away. “Jack Snyder is dead. Grandma Osborne found him behind the pulpit.”

Mr. Osborne muttered an oath I wouldn’t have thought he knew, and Mrs. Osborne’s mouth opened but no sound came out. Then Pryce pointed to my fingers and in a voice dripping with suspicion asked, “Is that blood on your hands?”

At that, Mrs. Osborne fainted dead away, straight into her husband’s arms. I gave Pryce an icy glare. “It’s red paint. I had to dye a load of carnations this morning.”

He had enough sense to look embarrassed as he crouched down beside his father. The two men patted Mrs. Osborne’s cheeks and rubbed her arms until her eyelids fluttered open, then Mr. Osborne said to her, “Let’s get you up now and back into the center for something cool to drink.”

“I’ll handle everything out here,” Pryce assured him.

His parents had barely reached the sidewalk in front of the doors when four police cars sped into the parking lot and screeched to a stop, unloading a dozen blue-shirts. An ambulance arrived next and two medics got out, just as curious guests began to pour out of the center.

“This way!” I called to the cops, waving them toward me as I backed up the path.

“I’ll take it from here,” Pryce said, trying his best to look masterful. He strode up to the gazebo and turned to face the police brigade streaming toward us.

The police had divided into two groups, half remaining behind to keep the guests at bay, the other half heading toward the gazebo to secure the murder scene. Fronting the group coming up the aisle was Sergeant Sean Reilly, a good-looking, dedicated, forty-year-old cop I’d come to know pretty well over the last two months, not in the most pleasurable of circumstances. Behind him was Marco.

It didn’t surprise me to see that Reilly had let Marco join the troops. The two had worked together during Marco’s stint on the force and had maintained a casual friendship ever since.

“Officers,” Pryce said, using his officious voice, “we have a body up here.”

Reilly glanced around at Marco with a slight lift of his eyebrows, as if to say,
What’s with this jackass?
Then he turned and saw me.

“Hello again,” I said with a little wave.

He planted his hands on his waist. “You’d think I’d be surprised to find you at another murder scene—what’s it been since the last one, three, maybe four, weeks?—but, no. Why is that, do you suppose?”

“Probably because you . . .”

Behind Reilly’s back, Marco drew his finger across his throat, as if to say,
Don’t even think about making a joke at his expense
, so I let the rest of the sentence go. Reilly wasn’t paying attention anyway. He was giving instructions to his men, who then started up the steps, their wide-beamed flashlights throwing light everywhere. Pryce tagged along behind.

“Sir, you’ll need to step down from there,” Reilly called to him. “It’s a crime scene.”

Pryce’s face was red as he joined us, but he covered his embarrassment by taking out a white handkerchief and mopping his neck. “Muggy evening,” he remarked.

“Is anyone else hurt?” Reilly asked us, pulling out his little notepad.

“Not that we’ve seen,” Marco said.

“Who found the body?” Reilly’s gaze lit on me. “Never mind. I already know the answer.”

“Wrong,” I retorted. “I was the second one here. Pryce’s grandmother found him.”

“I’ll have to interview your grandmother,” Reilly said to Pryce, writing it down.

“She’s inside. Just bear in mind she’s ninety years old and isn’t always lucid. And her memory isn’t what it used to be, either.”

Reilly made a note of it, then said to me, “So you were the
second
one to see the body. Please tell me you didn’t disturb it and that isn’t blood on your hands.”

I should have worn a sign around my neck that said, IT’S RED PAINT BUT THANKS FOR ASKING. “I had to dye flowers this morning. The only thing I touched was a wrist when I took his pulse. Actually, there wasn’t any pulse to take, which is how I knew—”

“Did you see anyone leave the area?” Reilly asked the three of us, cutting me off. I’d forgotten he didn’t care for long explanations. We shook our heads no, then had to step out of the way to let the crime scene investigators through.

“Let’s start with you,” Reilly said to Pryce. “What do you know about the victim?”

“His name is Jack Snyder, he’s from New Chapel, he’s twenty-eight years old, and he wasn’t invited to the wedding. That about sums it up, other than that he got into a fight with another guest during the ceremony.”

“Jack Snyder? Bill and Norma’s oldest kid?” Reilly asked, looking suddenly less like a cop and more like someone’s next-door neighbor. “He just got out of prison about a month ago.”

“That’s him,” Pryce answered.

Reilly shook his head as he wrote it all down. “I knew Jack’s father. He owned acreage south of town where the new shopping mall sits now. He made a lot of money on that deal but never lived to enjoy it. Got up one morning and dropped dead. Now I hear that Jack’s mother has terminal cancer. Can you beat that for luck?”

He gave a heavy sigh, no doubt pondering the ironies of life, then became the cop once again. “Okay, you said Jack got into a fight during the ceremony. Who else was involved in the fight?”

“A man named Josiah Turner. Abigail can tell you more about him,” Pryce said.

“Where can I find this Abigail?”

“Here,” I said, holding up my hand.

“Okay,
Abigail
,” Reilly said, “your turn.”

I ignored his little snicker of amusement and said, “Josiah Turner is my cousin Jillian’s uncle. No relation to me.”

“Turner,” Reilly mused. “Does he have a farm out on Route Two? Big, sour-faced guy? Looks like that painting of the farmer holding a pitchfork?”

“American Gothic,”
I said before Pryce could get the words out. He wasn’t the only one who’d ever cracked an art book. “Yep, that’s Josiah.”

“Do you know what the fight was about?” Reilly asked me.

“No, but if I had to guess, I’d say it was about Josiah’s daughter, Melanie. She had a baby with Jack, and he refused to acknowledge the child. Josiah supports Melanie and the baby now.”

“What happened after the fight?” Reilly asked.

“We took Turner into the banquet center for medical aid,” Pryce said, craning his neck to watch Reilly jot it down. “He had a bloody nose and some cuts on his hand. Mr. Salvare here escorted the victim to his car.”

“Jack wasn’t a victim yet, Pryce,” I said.

“Technically,” Pryce replied in his know-it-all tone, “he was the victim of assault.”

I glared. “You can call Jack by his name.”

“I hate to interrupt,” Reilly said acidly, “but did any of you see Josiah Turner leave the reception at any time this evening?” At our
nos
he said, “Are you aware of anyone else here tonight who might have had a beef with the victim?”

“Melanie Turner,” Pryce said.

I scoffed at him. “Melanie? She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“She had to have abandonment issues,” Pryce retorted.

He wanted to talk about abandonment issues?

“You might want to check out Vince Vogel, too,” Pryce told Reilly. “Vince is a friend of my brother’s. He and the victim grew up next door to each other and there’s been bad blood between them for years.”

“Did you see any interaction between Jack Snyder and Vince Vogel this evening?” Reilly asked Pryce.

“There wasn’t time. The victim came in, the fight started, and the victim was taken out. I didn’t see Vince or the victim after that.”

“Would you stop saying
victim
?” I snapped. “You’re not a cop and you’re not in court.”

“It’s the way I talk,” Pryce muttered.

I rolled my eyes. We both knew he was trying to impress Reilly.

“Any reason I need to stick around?” Marco asked Reilly. I gazed at him in surprise. He was deserting me?

“Not unless you have something to add. One thing you can do for me,” Reilly said, “is to take a look in the parking lot to see if Jack’s car is there and if you can tell whether it’s been moved since you last saw it. Benson, go with him,” he said to a cop standing nearby.

“Okay if I use your car?” Marco asked me, dangling the car key he’d stowed in his pocket.

I took him by the arm and led him a few yards away. I didn’t want Pryce to overhear. “You’re leaving me here?” I whispered.

He nodded toward Pryce, who was talking to Reilly. “You’ll be in good hands.”

“That’s not even remotely funny.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Pryce still has a crush on you.”

I scoffed. “Yeah, right. Like a shoe on a bug.”

Marco touched a finger to the tip of my nose. “You’re cute when you pout. I won’t be gone long. I just want to check in at the bar to see how things are going—you know, make sure no one burned it down during my absence—then I’ll come back. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “You take my car and we’ll call my debt repaid.”

He merely grinned, then he turned and strode toward the parking lot, his sexy saunter looking even sexier in that black tux. “Fine,” I called. “At least leave the tux on.”

“Abby!” I heard my cousin wail. I turned just as Jillian dodged the cops and came sailing toward me, her veil flying behind her like a pennant in the wind. On her heels was one of her videographers, a camera in his hands.

“Abby, everyone left the ballroom. My reception is a flop!”

I turned her around so her back was to the camera and whispered, “Look around you, Jillian. What do you see? Cops? Aren’t you at all curious as to what the cops are doing here? They’re here because Jack Snyder is dead, so stop whining about your reception.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Are you serious? Jack is dead? What was it, a drug overdose? Seizure? Heart attack?”

“None of the above.”

“Then what happened?” She studied me a moment, then her eyes got even bigger. “Don’t tell me someone killed him.”

“Sh-h! Keep your voice down. Do you want to start a panic?” I noticed the cameraman filming me over Jillian’s shoulder and put my fingers over the lens. “Would you turn that off, please?”