Leann Sweeney - A Wedding To Die For

Courtney Beadford answered. Unlike the day of the wedding, both earlobes were cluttered with rhinestones and metal studs. She also had an amber stone embedded in one side of her nose, and a small gold ring pierced an eyebrow. Her blunt-cut hair of midnight black looked uncombed, and her pasty face was powdered unevenly with makeup too dark for her skin. Bloodred lipstick completed the attempt at modern art.

“Oh. It’s you,” she said tonelessly. “She’s in the kitchen.”

Leaving the door open, she turned, shuffled through the foyer, and started up the left staircase. She was wearing an orange middrift T-shirt and low-rise jeans that had slipped down past her protruding pelvic bones. Anorexic? I wondered. Or just too busy abusing substances to eat?

I made my way to the kitchen and found Megan and Travis hovered over Sylvia, who sat at the table with documents, several sets of gold cuff links, and a row of men’s ties before her. A woman in a peach jumpsuit with Enchanted Occasion Caterers embroidered in coral on the pocket stood near the sink stacking trays and plates onto a wheeling cart.

Some enchantment here yesterday, I thought.

“Hi,” I said quietly. “Decided to drop by since I was in town.”

Megan looked up. “Abby. Thanks for coming.”

I walked over to Mrs. Beadford, whose eyes were swollen from crying. “How are you today?”

She stood, took my hands, and squeezed. “I’m better. Really. I heard you were wonderful yesterday. You and Graham stepped up and I am so grateful.”

“And I am so sorry for your loss,” I replied.

She bit her lower lip, looked down. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

Megan patted Sylvia’s back. “Mother, you need to decide on a tie for Dad while I talk to Abby.” Megan then came around the table, pulling Travis along by the hand. “Maybe she can decide if we leave her alone for a few minutes.” She started for the hall, her new husband in tow.

“Glad you’re feeling better,” I said over my shoulder before I followed Megan and Travis out of the kitchen. But Sylvia, fingering a navy blue tie, didn’t seem to hear me.

“Sorry, Abby,” Megan said, once we were halfway to the foyer. “But I worry the more she sees you, the more likely she is to ask questions about our friendship.”

Travis squeezed Megan’s shoulder as we walked. “Meg, you know she’s bound to find out.”

“But not now,” Megan said. “I don’t know what she’d do if she found out right now.”

We passed a stripped-clean dining room and stopped in the foyer. Megan and I looked up at Travis. Great-looking guy, I thought. He was clean shaven with deep brown eyes and bed-head hair. But the way he stared at Megan revealed the most about him. I saw a vulnerability in his expression, the kind only love creates.

Travis placed his palm on Megan’s cheek. “You worry so much about everyone else. You need to take care of yourself.”

“He’s right, Megan,” I said. “I’m thinking I should put the investigation on hold. It’s too much to deal with right now.”

“No, it’s not,” Megan said, all her stubbornness showing in her jutting chin. “I’ll keep my mother focused these next few days, and that will help us both. Meanwhile, you do what you can. Do you need more money? I know Mr. Molina gets a percentage, so—”

“Slow down.” I took her hand between both of mine. “You’re talking fast enough to confuse God.”

Travis smiled. “Wait until she really gets going.”

She punched his arm playfully. “Shut up, you.”

He bent and gave her a quick kiss. “I will when you do.”

She grinned, and then it was as if she decided she had no right to be happy even for a second. Her eyes filled and Travis read her distress instantly and brought her to him, pressed her head to his heart.

“I do need one thing if you’re certain you want me to continue the job,” I said.

Megan pulled away from Travis and produced a crumpled tissue from her jeans pocket. She wiped under her eyes and said, “Sure.”

“Can I trouble you for the original copy of your birth certificate?”

Her brow furrowed. “But you scanned it. I saw you.”

“Humor me. I need the state-issued one.”

She cocked her head. “Okay.” She hurried through the foyer and up the right-hand staircase.

When she was gone, Travis said, “Wish she’d do as you suggested and put this mother search on the back burner.”

“Have you known all along about Megan’s adoption hunt?” I asked.

“Nope. She told me Friday night after I asked her why she picked you to help out. I mean, no one, including me, knew about your friendship.”

“I think Megan wanted me to meet the family.”

He smiled. “You got that right. She hoped you’d see exactly why she wanted to find her mother. She and her father were pretty close, but it’s been hard for her with the others. She rarely sees her cousins, and Sylvia has a big heart but—”

“I did notice a distance between Megan and Sylvia,” I said.

“Megan denies it, but I think that’s because she always felt guilty for favoring her dad over her mother. Megan was a daddy’s girl, and though she and James never shared blood, she’s as tough as him underneath that beautiful skin.”

I nodded. “She needs that strength now. A murder investigation is not like on television, over in an hour. It will take its toll.”

We turned at the sound of a door closing off the balcony and seconds later Megan appeared, rushed down the stairs, and handed me an envelope.

“Here it is,” she said. “And I’ll call you once we have all this funeral and legal stuff under control.” Her eyes still glistened with tears. “I hope you don’t think I was rude dragging you out of the kitchen. I am so grateful for—”

I pulled her close and hugged her. “No need for explanations. Call me anytime. I mean that.”

“Thanks,” she whispered.

Travis put a protective arm around her as I opened the door and left.

I picked up a Subway sandwich on my way home and then ate in front of the television. I spent the rest of the evening in the living room unpacking boxes of knickknacks and pictures while the complete Beatles collection provided musical accompaniment. I used the remote to skip my least favorite song, the one about how all you need is love. There are lies and there are damn lies. That song was a damn lie.

Diva and I had just settled into bed around eleven when I heard Jeff’s truck pull into the driveway. I tensed. Things had shifted between us as they inevitably do in relationships, my jealousy having created the tipping point. My fault. How I hated when things were my fault.

So make this right, idiot. Apologize for being such a twit on the way home yesterday.

I lifted the quilt and sat, slipped my feet into my slippers, then couldn’t seem to move. I leaned forward, palms over my face, my heart beating double time. I took a few deep breaths to get control of my emotions. How dumb is this, Abby? You’re thirty years old.... You’ve been married before, and yet you’re acting like—

“Hi,” Jeff said from the bedroom doorway.

I raised my head, met his gaze. He had loosened his burgundy tie and held his tweed sports jacket over his shoulder.

“Hi,” I said quietly.

“Can we talk?” he said.

Now those are words guaranteed to make any woman go liquid, especially coming from a guy who could make me melt just by licking his lips. I kicked off the slippers, sat crossed-legged on the bed, and patted the space next to me. “Do you even know what we need to talk about?”

“No, but I sure as hell hope to find out.” He tossed the jacket on the chair in the corner, carefully removed his gun and badge and placed them on the tall dresser. After plumping a pillow against the head-board, he sat down beside me. “What’s got you so upset?”