'Til Death Do Us Part (8 page)

Despite what Jack had suggested, I wasn’t going to leave things entirely to the Greenwich police. Maybe they’d rule Ashley’s death a murder, maybe they’d even reopen Robin’s case. But that might take weeks, and I would have a hard time sleeping unless I proved to myself that there really
wasn’t
a killer at large, a killer with an apparently exorbitant interest in Peyton Cross’s bridesmaids. So I needed to turn over a few rocks and see if anything nasty crawled out. At the very least, I owed it to Ashley. And it was certainly better than waiting around for an ax to fall—on me.

As soon as I got back to New York, I would find out all I could about Jamie’s death and learn more about Robin’s dietary restrictions—I planned to call the number I’d copied from the Post-it note Ashley had shown me. And last but not least, I wanted to hook up with the other bridesmaid, Maverick, who handled PR for Peyton.

Before I left Greenwich, however, there were a few things I needed to take care of. I was going to drive back out to Ivy Hill Farm and talk to the staff at the kitchenware shop—to learn whatever I could about Robin. I also wanted to talk to the wedding planner Peyton had used. I happened to remember her last name because it had amused me when I’d first heard it last spring. It was Bliss, and her company was called Bliss Weddings. Using my cell, I got the number from directory assistance and scribbled it down on a piece of paper. If anything strange had happened at the wedding, she might know about it firsthand.

I expected there would be some early morning hustle and bustle in Peyton’s house, but as I stepped out of my bedroom, wearing my bagged-out pants and sweater from yesterday, I was greeted by total silence. Walking down the big staircase, I felt a little like Joan Fontaine in
Rebecca
—a girl totally out of her element at Manderley.

I took a peek into some of the main rooms on the ground floor—living room, sunroom, library—and finding them empty, I headed toward what I thought must be the door to the kitchen. It swung open suddenly and Clara emerged, a small tray in her hand covered with a cloth and hosting a white porcelain teapot. She greeted me and explained that breakfast was laid out in the kitchen and Mr. Slavin was having his morning meal in there now. As for Peyton, she was under the weather and had requested breakfast in her room. I couldn’t help wondering how much of Peyton’s condition had to do with Ashley’s death and how much was related to the family feud that had transpired last night.

I pushed open the door to the kitchen. The room was as big as the kitchen at the farm, but sparkling white and ultramodern. There was a contemporary-style fireplace, with the hearth at waist level and a gas fire giving off a faint hum. David was at the far end of the room, sitting at a sleek black table and reading
The Wall Street Journal
.

“Good morning,” I said, for lack of anything better to say.

“Oh, Bailey,” he replied, rising from his chair to greet me. “I didn’t hear you come in. Here, please join me.”

He was a little over six feet, barrel-chested, and handsome for a guy almost fifty—hazel eyes, soft, full lips, and gleaming brown hair that had begun to thin slightly on top. Personalitywise he was pleasant enough, but he had this supermature quality that I found totally offputting. I’d always figured that going to bed with him would be like shagging the U.S. secretary of state or the loan officer at your bank. I mean, it was tough to imagine being buck naked with him and asking him to lick chocolate sauce off your nipples. Over the years Peyton and I had known each other, she’d definitely bragged about her fair share of adventurous sexual exploits. In fact, in the months before David, Peyton had mentioned that she’d been dating a stunning young stud who, she crowed, was unbelievable in bed. Still, maybe David was up for more than he let on. And there was all that money, of course.

“Dreadful situation, isn’t it,” he said, pulling out a chair for me at the table. He was dressed in a dark blue pin-striped suit, a white shirt, and a dazzling silk tie that illustrated why Marco Polo had been so eager to find a road to the Orient.

“Yes,” I said, “it’s just awful. Will there be a funeral here in Greenwich, do you know?”

He drew a deep breath. “From what I’ve heard, the parents are coming east for the body, but they want the service to be held back in Arizona, where they’ve been living. Ashley apparently spent a fair amount of time there—they’ve had the place for years.”

I poured myself a cup of coffee and picked a croissant out of a basket lined with a white linen napkin that had been starched to within an inch of its life.

“Any word from the police yet?” I asked.

“Not officially,” he said, scowling. “But I have connections in the department, and apparently they’ve more or less concluded it was an accident. It looks as if Ashley climbed a stepladder on one of the landings—perhaps to adjust a light—and lost her balance. It’s not very wide there, so when she fell, she hit the railing and toppled over the side. They’re going to keep the silo closed for a few days while they make some inquiries, but they’ve said that the farm can open first thing this morning.”

So they’d decided: The third accidental death in six months. I found it hard to believe.

“Of course, someone could have pushed her without leaving any trace of having done so,” I asserted.

He nearly choked on his coffee when he heard my words. “But for heaven’s sake,
why
?” he asked. “Peyton told me that Ashley thought the other two had been murdered, but it’s totally implausible.”

“Robin apparently asked Ashley if she remembered something strange happening at the wedding—or perhaps during the wedding weekend. Does that ring any bells for you?”

He snorted, as if the idea were absurd. “I find everything about big weddings strange,” he said. “I have no idea why people insist on doing them.”

Odd answer, I thought, from a guy who had married nine months ago in front of five hundred people.

“Is there someone who might be
angry
about the wedding?” I asked. “Who might have done this as some kind of revenge?”

He stared at me, his hazel eyes holding my gaze. “Do you mean Mandy—my ex? We’ve been separated for two years, so I think if she were going to take her revenge, she would have done it by now. Besides, I can’t imagine her doing anything like
this
.”

“Anyone else? A disgruntled client of yours, for instance. Issues with your business?”

“A
client
? Of course not,” he said dismissively. “This is all just some horrible chain of events.”

“How’s Peyton holding up?” I asked, watching him closely. I was intensely curious about how he’d be when he discussed her.

“As you can imagine, she’s very distressed. She doesn’t even want to get out of bed today.”

His tone was sympathetic, but for the first time since we’d been talking, his pale eyes pulled away from me. He used the moment to slide his chair back and toss the napkin from his lap onto the table. Clearly, talking about Peyton had made him uncomfortable. Was it because of the tiff last night? Or because of what he’d
said
last night—that Peyton was concerned only for herself?

“If you’ll excuse me, Bailey,” he announced, “I’d better push off. My partner is picking me up in a few minutes. Despite the weather, we have to drive to Stamford today.”

“Do you mean Trip—the one who was your best man?”

“Yes. In fact, Peyton had this idea that the two of you might connect. He’s still available, by the way.”

Trip had laid it on thick the day of the wedding, at least until he realized I was registering no interest. He was by some standards an attractive guy, but so intense that it was unpleasant to talk to him.

“Thanks, but I’m seeing someone right now.”

David leaned toward me and did that ridiculously affected thing of kissing me on not just one cheek but both. His cologne smelled citrusy, an odd choice for a winter day.

“Terrific,” he said distractedly, clearly anxious to be gone. “Good to see you, Bailey, despite the circumstances.”

“You, too.”

When he reached the door of the kitchen, he stopped and turned back to me.

“I know this has been very stressful for you, but try to put it behind you now. As I said, it’s just an awful chain of events.”

“Maybe. But I’m not entirely convinced. I’m going to check out a few things on my own and try to determine once and for all what’s going on.”

He stared at me, his expression pensive. “Be careful. This is not a town that appreciates people asking lots of questions.”

Was that just an observation he wanted to share, or did he mean it as some kind of warning? Well, I certainly wasn’t going to be intimidated by the country club set.

“Three women are dead,” I said. “And I need to know what happened.”

He shrugged his shoulders and left. After the door had swung behind him, I quickly finished my croissant and gulped down half a cup of coffee. It was time to be on my way.

I found my coat in the hall closet and did another search of the ground floor, looking for Clara so I could tell her I was leaving. I finally stumbled on her in the sunroom, talking to a maid who was in the process of washing windows with a squeegee.

“I’d like to go up to say good-bye to Peyton,” I told her.

Her expression turned fretful, as if I’d just announced that I’d tracked tar on the front hall carpet.

“Oh, Mrs. Slavin is sleeping,” she said. “I don’t think we should disturb her. Maybe you could call her later?”

I nodded and tore a page from my composition book, scribbling a farewell note to Peyton. Clara accepted it and led me to the door. I had the feeling she suspected that I’d sneak upstairs to Peyton’s room if she turned her back on me for even a second.

David must have stepped outside just moments before I did, because when I emerged from the house into the frosty morning air, I found him tossing his leather briefcase into the trunk of a silver Mercedes. Trip was at the wheel, his dark hair slicked back along the sides as if he hadn’t bothered drying it after his shower. He was ten years younger than David, though his craggy features made him appear over forty. As I stepped off the stoop of the house, David slipped into the passenger seat on the far side of the car and Trip lowered his car window.

“Well, if it isn’t Bailey Weggins,” he said, training his dark blue eyes on me. There was a nick on the left side of his chin where he’d obviously cut himself shaving. “It’s Trip, by the way. Trip Furland.”

“Of course. How’s it going?”

“Not bad. That’s terrible news about Ashley. Were you two friends?”

“I just knew her from the wedding.”

“Well, I’d better not keep the boss waiting.”

A memory came to me then, unbidden. The night before the wedding, when we were preparing to rehearse in the church, the maid of honor and bridesmaids had been ushered into a room along the side of the church to wait for our cue. As we entered, we heard voices on the other side of an old wooden folding screen that had been used to divide the room. It was David and Trip. They had obviously been sent into the room from another entrance. At first they spoke in hushed tones, and then their voices rose in anger. A few of us glanced at one another with questioning looks, wondering if we should alert them to our presence, but before we could do anything, the voices halted and David stuck his head around the screen. He looked extremely uncomfortable when he discovered us all there. But clearly whatever he and Trip had quarreled about that day had not gotten in the way of their business partnership.

My Jeep was parked farther along the entrance drive to the house, near the garage, and as I approached it I saw that a man in a dark green parka with the hood up was wiping off the window.

“Good morning,” he said in what I thought might be an Australian accent. “She’s all ready for you.”

“Thanks,” I said, realizing he must be some kind of caretaker type.

“I kept her warm. It’s brutal out today.”

He was right. He’d kept the Jeep perfectly toasty. God, I thought, I could get used to the good life if only someone would give me half a chance.

There were already about eight cars in the parking lot of Ivy Hill Farm when I arrived—mostly workers, I assumed. The silo rose forlornly in the background, and my stomach turned over just seeing it. I trudged toward the buildings along a hastily shoveled path. Through the window of the big barn I could see a cluster of workers by the counter, chopping and stirring away. Phillipa was among them, and so was Mary.

I turned instead toward the smaller, gray barn where the shop was located. As I stepped inside, I found the same girl behind the register whom I’d spotted yesterday. There was one customer at the moment, paying for a set of Asian-inspired place mats and napkins. While the salesclerk folded the place mats into a bag, I waited by a table stacked with kitchenware, feigning a fascination with a set of ramekins.