Leann Sweeney - A Wedding To Die For

Megan’s lips paled to near white. “Told her what?”

“Your father and Travis got into a heated argument at the reception—out by the pool.”

She twisted her ring. “So? It’s not like they hadn’t argued before.”

“I could tell they were both spitting spite, Megan.”

“I don’t care what you saw. Travis would never harm my father. It’s Holt who’s got the problem, tattling to the police about his best friend like some kindergartener. How did you find out, by the way?”

“Because I paid a visit to Beadford Oil Suppliers. Did you know Holt took over?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Megan said. “He may have been a good—”

“Did you say Holt is doing James’s job?” came a voice behind us. We both turned to see Sylvia Beadford standing there.

Megan rose. “I told you to stay home, Mother.”

“I couldn’t. You and Travis need me,” Sylvia said.

“Abby’s taking care of things. She found us a lawyer and—”

“A lawyer?” She slowly sat on the nearest molded chair, her coat opening to reveal dark slacks. But even sensible winter clothing couldn’t stop her from choosing yet another pair of awful high-heeled shoes. These were black leather with rhinestone buckles. “Are you saying Travis killed James?”

Megan strode across the room and pointed a finger at Sylvia. “Don’t you ever call Travis a murderer.”

Sylvia leaned away from Megan’s trembling finger, her daughter’s aggressive reaction obviously scaring her. It scared me a little, too. Megan was beginning to crumble.

I put a hand on Megan’s shoulder and said, “Why don’t you get some air? I’ll find you the minute I hear anything from the lawyer or from Travis.”

Megan closed her eyes and took a deep breath. But her voice was still ripe with anger when she said, “Good idea.” She marched outside.

I sat next to Sylvia, who had begun to cry. Her ton of mascara wasn’t waterproof, and the tears made a wide inroad on her thick layer of makeup.

“You actually believe Travis killed your husband?” I asked.

“I don’t want to, but he and James... well, they never got along.” She bit her bottom lip.

“But he’d need a pretty big reason to commit murder with a hundred people in the next room,” I said. “Do you know what that reason might be?”

“All I know is my husband didn’t trust Travis.”

“Trust him with what?”

“With Megan’s future. Did you know Travis was once a rodeo cowboy? And now he’s in graduate school for some silly something—wants to be a graphic artist—whatever they do.”

Whoa. Aunt Caroline must have taken over Sylvia Beadford’s body. Politely as I could, I said, “So Travis isn’t interested in becoming a businessman?”

“James always dreamed Megan would marry someone who would manage the business, and frankly so did I.”

“So maybe Holt was a better choice for a son-in-law?” I asked.

“Holt? Of course not,” she scoffed.

“From your earlier reaction I’m guessing you didn’t know he’d taken the reins at Beadford Oil Suppliers,” I said.

“I didn’t. How did you find out?”

“I stopped by your husband’s office and saw for myself. And you didn’t ask him to do this?”

“No... but I suppose someone had to step in. I haven’t even thought about... about anything since James died.”

“And that’s understandable,” I said. So Holt lied to me today.

“Holt’s capable enough, though,” Sylvia said thoughtfully.

“So you don’t mind?”

“James thought Holt showed promise, said once he finished sewing his wild oats, he’d be a success at whatever he chose to do with his life. But still, he should have consulted with me first.” She shook her head. “But I can’t blame him for stepping in. I should have gone to the office right after James died. Yes, I should have... I mean, I haven’t had t-time to—” More tears fell.

I reverted back to my original question. Maybe she could get ahold of herself with sufficient distraction. “Do you know of any specific problems between Travis and your husband other than the trust issue?”

She pulled a wad of tissues from her coat pocket and used one to blow her nose. “Not really. James only wanted Megan’s happiness and told her that if she insisted on marrying Travis, he wouldn’t stand in the way.”

“Not exactly a ringing endorsement,” I said.

“James was an opinionated man. He never shied from speaking his mind.”

“And how did Megan react to him speaking his mind ?” I asked.

“They went a few rounds on her choosing Travis, but in the end, as I said, James said that if Travis was the one, then so be it.”

“And how about you? Do you like Travis?” Before she could answer, the desk phone started to ring and Henderson came running down the hall to answer. I wondered where he’d been. Listening at Fielder’s door?

I would have asked him because he probably would have told me everything, but Travis and his new attorney appeared almost on his heels. Neither of them were smiling, but then this was ugly business.

“Where’s Megan?” Travis said to Sylvia, sounding exactly as I would have expected someone to sound after an hour with Quinn Fielder—mad as eight acres of snakes.

“She went for a walk,” I said quickly. “It was kind of warm in here. What’s going on?”

Whitley offered a tight smile. “Chief Fielder has agreed that before she picks up Mr. Crane in a squad car again, she’ll need evidence rather than hearsay.”

Man, I wish I could have been in the room when that little confrontation went down. Jeff would be getting a great big thank-you from me tonight for sending Mark Whitley to rescue Travis.

When I arrived home, Jeff was busy in the kitchen. A batch of redfish was defrosting in the sink, ones he’d caught and frozen the last time he’d had a real weekend off. I never refuse when someone besides Kate offers to cook me a meal. Besides, Jeff handles a skillet far better than I do. My job is usually the salad, a task I attended to while he pan-grilled the fish and fixed up a mess of home fries. Gosh, didn’t they smell like heaven while they cooked?

“Wine?” I asked once our food was on the kitchen table.

“Not for me. I have a stakeout tonight. Got a lead on a gang member wanted in a drive-by. Killed a ten-year-old kid.”

“Now I definitely need wine.” I pulled a bottle of chardonnay from the fridge and poured myself a large glass before sitting across from him.

“Did you call that lawyer?” he asked, digging into his potatoes.

“Yes, but not for me.”

He put down his fork. “Abby, I wish you’d—”

“I’m not a suspect anymore.” I took a sip of wine.

“How did that happen?”

“Fielder found someone more interesting.”

“And so now you’re saving this person’s ass. Must be either the bride or the new husband.”

“How did you guess?” I said.

“I’m a detective, remember? And I happen to be familiar with your modus operandi. You’d help a shark catch his breakfast.” He resumed eating, heaping both fish and potatoes onto his fork at once.

“It’s Travis, but I want to know how you guessed.”

“I was there when Quinn first interviewed him after the murder. I figured he was hiding something.”

I set down my fork and rested my chin on my hand. This was the kind of stuff I needed to know if I wanted to be a decent PI. “How could you tell?”

“First off, liars always answer your questions, but rarely ask any of their own—mainly because they’re focused on keeping their story straight. But you would have expected this guy to ask questions, especially since he had been separated from Megan for more than an hour. He didn’t.”