Leann Sweeney - A Wedding To Die For

“So what do you do, Mr. Beadford?” I repeated.

He stopped in the middle of the room, his square chin raised. “Plenty. I do plenty. I’ve owned my own business and I’ve worked with my brother, James, on the oil equipment supply side. But if you need a computer man, I can do that, too.”

“Sorry, but I’ve changed jobs. Can’t help you there. I’m in... social services now.”

“Really? The Internet is behind on their information, then.” It was his turn to pull me toward the dining room. “But even so, you inherited some big bucks, Ms. Rose.” Graham made a sudden weave to the right and slammed his shoulder into a woman wildly overdressed in black sequins and a mink stole.

Graham was a small, burly man, similar in stature to Megan’s father—and he hit the lady square on the collarbone. When he failed to offer an apology, she shot him a “go directly to hell” look, readjusted the dead animals around her shoulders, and resumed her conversation.

“Excuse him,” I whispered as we passed, wondering what else this guy had turned up on me. There were plenty of news stories to be found considering the home I’d recently vacated in ritzy River Oaks had become a crime scene after the gardener was killed. But why was this man plugging my name into some search engine in the first place?

I must have looked concerned because Graham patted my back. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything about your little brush with death at the hands of your ex-husband or mention your mountains of money.”

“Who says I’m worried?”

He stopped in the dining room entry and lifted my chin with his index knuckle. “Uncle Graham knows people. I’ll bet you’re scared I’ll blab to all these upper-middle-class schmucks about how filthy, stinking rich you are. And you’re afraid if I do, people will be hanging on you like snapping turtles. Asking for favors... donations... handouts. I had money once. I know what it’s like. Royal pain in the ass.”

He didn’t slur one word, and I realized then that Graham Beadford might not be as drunk as I’d thought—though from the smell of him, he was well on the way.

The coffee urn that looked like it could have provided enough java for a cruise ship breakfast sat on one end of a shiny teak table. The now-weeping ice sculpture rested in the center surrounded by silver platters of cold crab, pate and crackers, boiled shrimp, cubed cheeses, marinated mushroom caps, and cherry tomatoes stuffed with something swirled and yellow. The chubby photographer, his camera strapped behind him, was parked in a corner sucking the meat out of a crab claw.

I held up two fingers to the waitress manning the urn and she filled scalloped china cups and handed them to me.

When I gave Graham his, he pulled a pint of Southern Comfort from his pocket and spiked his coffee, sending liquid sloshing onto the saucer. After restashing his bottle, he lifted both cup and saucer to his lips and slurped off the top.

“Starbucks could learn a thing or three from me,” he said. “Make a bigger killing if they had more than those sissy-ass drinks on the menu.” His bald, freckled head glowed under the crystal chandelier hanging over the table.

I drank half my lukewarm coffee, then glanced back over my shoulder to make sure Megan wasn’t close by and still subject to him reinserting himself into her line of vision. She wasn’t. “Listen, Graham, I need to get home. Maybe I’ll see you again when I visit with Megan.”

“I live in Dallas, so I doubt that. But why not stay and keep me company a little longer? I could get to like you, little lady.”

“Sorry. I came with my sister and she has a client waiting.” Small lies are sometimes necessary. I reached over and set the cup and saucer on a tray by the wall an arm’s length away.

“She works on Saturday?”

“She’s a shrink. Crazy people sometimes don’t know if it’s Saturday or Wednesday.”

“That sounds like an excuse. Have I upset you? Because I could sure use some intelligent conversation. Every idiot here belongs to my brother. His clients. His line of credit. His wonderful life. Besides, Megan wanted you to take care of me—as I’m sure you noticed.”

His tone told me more than all his previous words or actions—bitter noise from a guy whose blood-to-alcohol ratio was probably permanently off-kilter. Having learned my lesson about alcohol abusers the hard way, I said, “Sorry, Graham, but I can’t stay.”

I turned and walked toward the kitchen just as the music started up again. Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” I sure hoped Megan and Travis had some of that joy in their hearts, because so far, this reception was proving to be devoid of happiness and warmth.

When I arrived in the kitchen, Kate was handing her artfully arranged basket of birdseed packets to the bride’s mother.

That’s when a hair-raising scream ripped through the house. Kate and Sylvia lost their grip on the basket and all those pretty little pouches scattered over the tile floor. Some of the netting opened, sending tiny seeds bouncing in every direction.

The music stopped.

No more laughing. No more conversations.

Sylvia whispered, “Oh my God,” then took off in the direction of the scream.

I followed, Kate close behind me.

We pushed by people who looked frozen in time, their collective silence almost oppressive. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush that heightened my senses, but the mix of seafood and booze and flowers seemed like an ocean I had to swim through. No one but us seemed to be reacting to what every single guest surely must have heard. But that’s how it often happens in an emergency. The more people around, the less response. Everyone expects someone else to do something.

Sylvia was about three feet ahead of me, but had ditched the high heels since I last saw her and was snaking through the crowd with ease, headed toward a closed room on the other side of the foyer.

When she reached the double doors, she pushed them open but then stopped in the entry.

Unable to get past her, I stared over her shoulder.

Megan was sitting on the floor by a fireplace, ivory satin puffed around her like a soft cloud. Her father’s head was in her lap, a huge, vicious merlot-colored stain damning that beautiful dress.

Megan reached out to me with blood-stained hands and pleaded, “Abby, help him. Please help him.”

I wasn’t sure why she’d turned to me rather than her mother, but that question caused no hesitation on my part. I squeezed by the still-immobile Sylvia, hurried over, and knelt beside Megan.

James Beadford’s dilated eyes stared up at the ceiling and a wicked gash to his temple had bled enough to completely mask his right ear. I lifted his hand and felt for a pulse, not going for the carotid. His messy head and neck would have made that difficult.

So much blood. And it was still seeping into Megan’s lap. Beadford’s skin was warm, but I felt nothing, not even one tiny beat of his heart in that thick, limp wrist.

I sat back on my heels, heard and felt a crunching sound beneath my feet. The brick hearth was right behind me and I leaned against it, realizing I was crouching in small pieces of glass. A couple of feet behind Megan lay the scattered remnants of a leaded crystal vase, the jagged base glittering like a giant diamond in the light from the window.

Meeting Megan’s anxious gaze, I shook my head. “I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”

She stared down at her father’s face, then bent at the waist and collapsed over him, her strapless bodice heaving with sobs.

I looked over at Sylvia, who hadn’t uttered a sound, hadn’t moved an inch. She stood rigid, fists at her sides, a tinge of gray around her crimson mouth. Kate’s pale face loomed behind her.