Leann Sweeney - A Wedding To Die For

“You mean he cared more about protecting himself than asking how she was?”

“No, more like he was protecting her and didn’t want the interrogation to head in Megan’s direction.”

“Okay. What else made you think he was hiding things?”

“He used phrases like To tell you the truth and To be perfectly honest about ten times. And most often, To tell you the truth was followed by I don’t know . That’s the kind of stuff you hear from people with secrets.”

“And why would Megan be a suspect, too?”

“She was found with the body and knew the victim well. She loved him.”

“Right. She loved him. How does that translate to murder?”

“Read any Shakespeare lately?” He had finished eating and pushed his plate away.

“You’re right. Dumb question. But I didn’t know you liked Shakespeare.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” He reached over, took my hand, and pressed the palm to his lips.

“When do you have to leave?” I asked.

“Eleven.”

I checked my watch. “I could learn a lot in three hours.”

He rose and started to clear the table, but I stopped him and led him upstairs. The next few hours in Jeff’s arms were exactly what I needed. By the time he left for his stakeout, all the tension of the last week was gone. I was relaxed, focused, and eager to visit Georgia Jackson tomorrow. Maybe she could tell me things about Laura Montgomery and her relationship to the Beadfords. And perhaps even why Montgomery would risk returning to the States for her daughter’s wedding.

When I reached Mrs. Jackson by phone the next morning, she said she’d be happy to meet with me if I didn’t mind coming to her house in the afternoon. She had grandchildren to care for. Glad to have the chance to talk with her, I made the trip south to League City, a sprawling, busy town about twenty miles down the interstate. Her small brick house was surrounded by pecan trees—Reilly had mentioned pecans—and Mrs. Jackson answered the door immediately.

She was a tall, lean woman wearing a denim jumper and a navy cardigan. Her home smelled like a cookie factory. Before I could even sit in the living room chair, Mrs. Jackson gestured to a brown, smiling girl with a head full of bouncing braids, who ran to me carrying a paper plate loaded with chocolate chip cookies. On her heels came a younger boy carefully holding a glass of milk with both hands.

“Good job, children,” said Mrs. Jackson. “You go play now.”

“But—” started the boy.

“Cedric, Granny says go play. Understand?” She leveled a stern but loving look in the children’s direction.

“Yes, ma’am,” the kids said in unison. They turned and disappeared into a hallway off the living room.

“Excuse them, please. They’re a work in progress,” she said. “And the milk was Cedric’s idea. Feel free to pass on their hospitality.”

“Are you kidding? This is the best welcome I’ve had in a long time.” I sat and bit into one of those heavenly cookies and washed it down with cold milk.

“You said this was about Laura when you phoned. Please tell me she’s been found.” Her expressive face—a beautiful cinnamon color spotted with freckles over her cheeks—showed concern mixed with sadness.

“She is definitely alive.” I finished off the cookie, set the glass on the table next to me, and settled deeper into the overstuffed chair.

“Praise God,” said Mrs. Jackson, clasping her hands and raising her eyes to the ceiling.

“You thought she might be dead?”

“I didn’t want to think Mr. Beadford was capable of hurting her, but the notion was always there in the back of my mind. And you have lifted that burden. I do thank you, Miss Rose.”

“It’s Abby.”

“And I’m Georgia,” she said with a nod.

“So you’re saying you thought Mr. Beadford might have harmed Laura after she stole from him?”

“Seems you know Laura’s story, but what do you know about James Beadford?”

I proceeded to tell her what I knew and how I had come to know it.

“So the brothers are dead. What a crying shame,” she said when I’d finished telling her about the murders. “But are you thinking Laura killed Mr. Beadford and his brother?”

“I don’t know. I’m simply trying to find the truth.”

“She would not do such a thing. Never in a million years.” Georgia sat back in the ladder-back chair she had pulled from the connecting dining room and folded her arms.

“So tell me about her.”

“She had a temper, yes. But what I was trying to say is that maybe you need to know more about him to understand why he was killed. A stubborn man with a huge ego is capable of making many enemies,” she said.

“I understand you relocated to work for him again. Why do that if you didn’t like him?”

“Who said I didn’t like him? God, I loved the man like a son. But he was a sinner, and sinners always pay. Laura, too. A beautiful, willful girl. But no one ever taught her about the evil power of vengeance.”

“Vengeance?” I said.

But before she could answer, a screech sounded from the hallway and Cedric came running to his grandmother, a pair of scissors in hand.

“I didn’t do it, Granny. I didn’t do it,” he wailed.

The girl followed him, her hand to her forehead, blood seeping between her fingers. Fat tears slid down her cheeks.

Mrs. Jackson grabbed the scissors, stood, and took Cedric by the arm, whipping him into her chair in one swift motion. “Stay put, son.” She turned to me and said evenly, “Please excuse us for a moment, Abby.”

She led the girl to the back of the house. Cedric looked at me and said, “I’m telling the truth. I didn’t do it.”

If Jeff’s theory held any water, Cedric did indeed do it. “What happened?” I asked.

“She was going to cut her hair and I stopped her. That’s the God’s truth.”

“Is it?” I tried to mimic that laser stare his granny had offered earlier.

His lower lip quivered and he didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

When Georgia and the girl returned a few moments later—a Band-Aid covered the wound on the child’s forehead—Cedric said, “I’m sorry, Granny. I didn’t mean to cut her.”

“I still owe you a licking for lying. And Aisha is owed one for letting you near those scissors. Separate rooms.” She pointed toward the hall and both children scurried off.

She eased down in her chair, pulling her sweater tighter around her bony shoulders. “Tell me how they’d handle that little episode in some day care? Probably wouldn’t even notice. And we wonder why our children have strayed so far from what’s right. No discipline, I say. Now, what were we discussing?”

“Vengeance,” I said.

“Ah yes. Did you ever read Jane Eyre ?”

“Yes, but—”

“Guilty pleasure of mine, reading about little white girls with silly problems. Anyway, that author made a few decent points, and since I was reading that book when Laura went astray, I remember what Brontë said about vengeance because it seemed to fit at the time.”

“Sorry, but my memory isn’t as good as yours.” I needed to trust that Georgia would get to the point sooner or later. I was fast learning to allow people to tell me what they knew at their own pace.

“Brontë said vengeance is as tempting as wine, smells wonderful, but when you drink of it, it makes you feel like you’ve been poisoned. Pretty smart woman, huh?”

“Very smart.”

“I think Laura was poisoned by her own need for vengeance.”

“Vengeance and not greed?” I asked. “She did steal a lot of money.”

“She didn’t have a greedy bone in her body. But Laura knew money was Mr. Beadford’s soft underbelly. And the love of that money was his downfall. Laura took advantage of his weakness.”