Murder on the Bride's Side (18 page)

Peter moved next to me and squeezed my hand—hard. With relief, I realized that I had finally stopped talking. “What Elizabeth is trying to say, Detective,” Peter said calmly, “is that she found a body this past New Year’s. There was a murder at her aunt’s inn and Elizabeth was instrumental in finding the killer. I can put you in touch with the detective in charge of the case, if you have any questions.”

Detective Grant’s cold eyes never left my face. “Oh, I’m going to have questions,” he said. “I can promise you that.”

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Chloe openly studying me. I didn’t need a translator to interpret the faintly raised eyebrows and the tiny line of confusion etched between them. She was wondering how Peter had ever gotten involved with someone like me. I quickly rearranged my face into an expression I hoped suggested fierce intelligence and a brilliant wit.

Elsie returned from the study clutching a thick sheaf of paper. “Here’s the list of wedding guests, Detective.” Seeing Bridget and Colin, she stopped. “Hello, dears. I didn’t hear you come in.” Kissing them both on the cheek, she sadly shook her head from side to side. “I see you’ve heard. It’s all very shocking. Detective Grant here.” She paused, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “I’m sorry, have you been introduced? Bridget, Colin, this is Detective Paul Grant. He’s been put in charge here. Detective Grant, this is my granddaughter Bridget and her husband, Colin Delaney.”

Bridget, Colin, and Detective Grant nodded at each other. “We were just talking,” Bridget said with an apologetic glance in my direction.

“Apparently, Roni’s necklace is missing. Detective Grant
thinks it might be related to her mur . . . death,” Elsie said, with a sideways glance at Avery.

“I never said that, Mrs. Matthews,” protested Detective Grant, but Elsie wasn’t listening. Like Blythe, she had homed in on the mark on Bridget’s shoulder. “Is that a tattoo, Bridget?”

Bridget sighed and rolled her eyes. “Yes. Okay? I got a tattoo. It’s no big deal.”

Blythe stepped forward. “I knew it!” she said. Pushing her glasses firmly up on the bridge of her nose, she turned Bridget around and peered at the mark.

“Good God,” she said. “A tattoo. Why ever did you get a tattoo? And of a frog, no less.”

Bridget craned her neck, staring at her shoulder. “It’s not a frog,” she said defensively, roughly pulling back and facing Blythe. “It’s a shamrock.”

“It doesn’t look like a shamrock to me. It looks like a frog. Doesn’t it look like a frog?” Blythe asked, addressing the rest of us.

We all stared at it in silence. Even Detective Grant silently considered it. I had to admit it looked like a frog.

“For God’s sake, why do you have a tattoo of a frog on your shoulder?” asked Blythe.

“Shamrock,” interjected Bridget.

“Whatever,” Blythe replied. “You’re not even Irish!”

Bridget lifted her chin. “No, but Colin is. I got the shamrock as a wedding present for him.”

Blythe stared at her in open-mouthed amazement. “A tattoo? You got him a tattoo for a wedding present? Who does that? What’s wrong with a nice watch?”

Detective Grant stepped forward. “Excuse me, ladies, but I am trying to conduct a murder investigation. Could we discuss the frog tattoo another time?”

Blythe and Bridget fell silent and nodded, although I saw Bridget mouth
shamrock.

“I’m sorry, Detective,” Blythe said, shaking her head apologetically. “Forgive us. We’re really not as callous as we appear. I think we’re all anxious to focus on anything other than the tragedy at hand.”

Elsie stepped forward and thrust the list at Detective Grant. “That’s everyone who attended last night,” she said. “Phone numbers and addresses are included.”

Detective Grant took the thick stack of paper and idly thumbed through it. “Thank you,” he said.

As the meaning of this exchange dawned on Bridget, her jaw fell open. “Wait a minute! You can’t possibly think that one of our guests had anything to do with this!”

“I understand your concern, Mrs. Delaney. But it’s a possibility that we need to take into consideration.” From his tone, I suspected he considered it to be only a faint possibility. “There was a key found near the body, found by your friend Ms. Parker,” he said with a nod in my direction. “It is from the Jefferson Hotel. Additionally, we found an anonymous note in the deceased’s purse. It demanded a meeting at two
A.M
.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean . . .” Bridget began.

“It was written on stationery also from the Jefferson,” Detective Grant added.

Bridget’s mouth snapped shut. All of the out-of-town wedding guests had stayed at the Jefferson.

A sudden chirping noise broke the uncomfortable silence that followed this statement. Glancing down at the silver beeper on his belt, Detective Grant pushed a button and silenced the machine. “Excuse me a moment,” he said, turning back toward the study. “I need to make a phone call. I’ll be right back.”

No one spoke until the study door shut behind him. Bridget whirled around and faced her parents. “He really thinks one of our guests killed Roni? This is absurd. We’re . . . we’re nice people! Our friends are nice people. None of them could have done this. It’s not possible!”

Blythe stepped forward and wrapped her arm around Bridget’s shoulder. “I know, dear, but—”

Before she could continue, David interrupted, “But the alternative is an even less attractive possibility.”

“What do you mean?” asked Bridget.

“I mean, that if one of
them
didn’t do it, then one of
you
did,” David said.

“David!” gasped Claire. “How can you even think that?”

“Because, unlike some people, I have half a brain.”

“Yes, but we’ve never actually held that against you, David,” said Elsie, her voice tight with anger. “Although, if you keep talking like this, we might have to revisit that decision.”

Elsie was one of the few members of the Matthews family who weren’t afraid of David’s unpredictable temper. She considered him nothing more than a bully and firmly believed that when dealing with bullies, you had to push them harder than they pushed you. I admired her courage: David, angry, made me just want to run like hell.

He ignored her. The rest of us held our breath as we watched their showdown.

“I don’t recall you having any kind words for her when you realized she wanted Avery to sell the Garden,” Elsie continued.

“That’s different!”

“Is it? I don’t see how.”

Elsie took another step closer to David. She gripped the cane in her right hand, and for a wild moment I thought she was going to bash David over the head with it. Whether she would have or not, I don’t know because Millie suddenly yelled out, “Mr. Matthews! Avery! Oh, dear God! Avery!”

At the sound of the panic in her voice, I jerked my head in her direction and saw Avery slumped in his chair. His face was a sickly shade of gray and his breathing labored. After her moment of panic, Millie transformed back into her role of efficient nurse. Leaning over his recumbent form, she grabbed his wrist and closed her eyes in concentration.

“Dad!” Harry said, crossing the room in a few steps to Avery’s side.

“Avery? Can you hear me? Are you ill, dear?” Elsie asked.

Avery answered weakly, “Just a little dizzy.”

Millie shook her head. “You need to rest. Now. This is too much for you. I won’t risk you relapsing.” Her voice rose in agitation. She took a breath to calm herself and continued. “I’m taking you to your room,” she said decidedly. Briskly stepping behind Avery’s chair, she pushed him from the room. Harry followed, his face a mask of worry.

Elsie watched them leave, a pensive expression on her face, before turning again to David. Squaring her shoulders, she tilted
her head back and glared at him. “I will not have you throwing about your asinine accusations,” she said in clipped tones. “You obviously have no idea of the damage they can do.”

“All I’ve done is tell the truth. You all hated her. It’s only a matter of time before the police find out.”

“Oh, I think it’s safe to say that the police already know that,” said a deep voice to my left. I didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Cheer up! The worst is yet to come!

—
PHILANDER CHASE JOHNSON

From the doorway, Detective Grant contemplated us, his wide face carefully devoid of emotion. That’s not to say, however, that his mood was indefinite. Far from it, in fact. He angrily drummed his gold pen against his gray pant leg in a manner that suggested that he was either highly annoyed or horribly strung out on caffeine.

Suddenly, he took a step toward us, his movement graceful, like a panther about to pounce. His expression was ominous. It took all of my self-control not to take an equally large step back. “Let me make myself clear,” he said with deliberation. “I do not like games.” He paused. “I do not like people who play games. I do not like people who withhold vital information.” He paused again. “A woman was murdered here last night. It’s my job to find out who did it. If you know something, then you will tell me. It’s as simple as that. And if you don’t . . .” He shrugged expressively. “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t get that far, but in the meantime, I’m going to ask that none of you leave town.”

“What?” yelped Bridget. “But what about our honeymoon? We’re scheduled to leave today! I mean, I don’t want to sound
insensitive, but . . .” She paused. After a moment she ducked her head and muttered, “Never mind. I already
am
sounding insensitive.”

Graham stepped forward. “How long are we to stay here?” he asked.

“Until I say so.”

Graham’s eyebrows bristled ominously and Blythe quickly moved in front of Graham, putting a restraining hand on his arm.

“Detective Grant,” she said smoothly, “I can assure you that we will cooperate with your investigation.
All
of us,” she added with a quelling glance at Graham. “Like most families, we have our fair share of infighting, although I’m sorry you had to witness it. We’re all tired and in shock and clearly not at our best. But I can assure you that despite how anyone might have felt about Roni, she was a part of our family and we will all do all we possibly can to help you.”

“Yes. I know you will,” said Detective Grant. This avowal was clearly more of a statement of fact than an acknowledgment of Blythe’s offer of assistance. “I understand that this is a terrible situation for you, but I am here to do a job, and that job is to find out who killed Mrs. Matthews. As uncomfortable as it may be for you, I have to consider all possibilities.” His eyes moved to Elsie, and his next words seemed directed especially to her. “Even those that include a family member.”

I wondered at the meaning of his words until I remembered that Elsie said she’d called in some favors from influential friends. I wondered if Detective Grant’s beeper message had something to do with that. If it had, it would certainly account for his annoyed expression as he faced Elsie.

Unaccountably, a chill that had nothing to do with the outside temperature overtook me. I considered the Matthews family to be an extension of my own. Suddenly, I knew that Roni’s death would have far-reaching consequences and the Matthewses would never be the same again.

“I have a few more phone calls to make,” continued Detective Grant. “But then I think I’ll talk with you, Mr. Cook. In private, if you don’t mind.”

David nodded, an obsequious smile pasted on his thick lips. “Of course, Detective,” he said in an oily voice. “I’d be happy to tell you everything I know.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. Meet me back here in fifteen minutes.”

David nodded again and ducked out of the room, no doubt having no desire to stay in the same room with Elsie.

Just as Detective Grant disappeared back into the study, the red-haired policeman returned. Studiously not stepping on the carpet, he politely coughed and said, “Mrs. Matthews? There’s a Mrs. Julia Fitzpatrick out front who says she’s a friend of the family—”

The officer got no farther. With a yelp, Elsie burst out, “Oh, dear God! Julia! The brunch! We forgot to cancel the brunch!” She stopped, a confused expression on her face. “Wait. Julia wasn’t invited to the brunch. Oh, never mind. I’ve got to call everyone!” Turning to Chloe, she said, “I’ll need your help, Chloe.”

“Of course, Mrs. Matthews,” she responded, her face flushed at this evidence of her imperfection, and hurried from the room. I was surprised at Chloe’s oversight—she was normally
almost robotic in her catering perfection. But, I amended, most bookings probably didn’t include a murder. Elsie trailed after her, calling over her shoulder as she did, “Let Julia in, Officer. I’ll be right back.”

The officer left and moments later returned with Julia in tow. The change in her appearance was startling. Her hair, normally neat and tidy, now hung wet and limp around her pale face. Her clothes, too, were altered. Instead of one of her usual expensively tailored outfits she was wearing old paint-splattered jeans and a scruffy sweatshirt. By comparison, my ensemble looked almost couture. Seeing us, she nervously asked, “What’s going on? Why are the police here?” Her green eyes widening in fear, she said, “Oh, my God! Is Avery all right? Nothing has happened to him, has it?”