Leann Sweeney - A Wedding To Die For

“What happened between James and me that day will stay between him and me. Just know I would never hurt Megan by killing her father.”

“But if you have nothing to hide, I don’t see—”

The sound of breaking glass made me start, and coffee spilled onto my jeans. Good thing it wasn’t hot enough to do any damage.

“What was that?” said a wide-eyed Megan.

Diva provided a clue when she flashed past us and raced up the stairs.

“She probably knocked something over in the kitchen,” I said. “Let me make sure she didn’t hurt herself.”

I found her cowering under my bed. She hadn’t left any bloody footprints on the stairs or in the bedroom and was probably just spooked, so I offered a few soothing words and left her where she was.

“Sorry about the interruption,” I said when I returned to my guests. “Now, Travis. I—”

“They argued about money,” Megan said. “Travis was too embarrassed to tell you.”

Travis’s earlobes were red, his eyes downcast. Had they concocted this story while I was distracted? And if so, why? “Money?” I said, my tone infused with all the skepticism I felt.

“My father had agreed to pay for Travis’s last year at graduate school, but he took the offer back the day of the wedding,” Megan said.

“What a nice gift for his newest relative. And that’s the story worth lying about to the police? I don’t think so, guys.”

The sound of Megan’s cell phone prevented a response.

By the look on her face after she answered, the call was not welcome. “Slow down, Roxanne. I can’t understand you.”

Megan listened for a second, then said, “I’m at Abby’s house. Why do you need to know?”

More silence, then Megan said, “You’re scaring me, Roxy. What’s wrong with you?”

I held out my hand for the phone. “Let me talk to her.” God knows I’d had plenty of practice trying to interpret Roxanne’s peculiar communications.

When I had the phone, I said, “What’s up?”

“Like I told Megan, this is fate, Abby. They’re with you, just as they should be.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Please protect them from the vicious publicity that will certainly be generated by my confession. I am on my way now to turn myself in. Please let them both know I love them very much.”

“Wait a minute. What are you confessing to?”

“I killed them.”

A shiver shot up my spine. Roxanne’s calm, cold manner gave me the heebie-jeebies. “Who did you kill?”

“Uncle James and Dad. They interfered in my very private affairs, something they had no business doing.”

“Are you talking about your violinist friend? The one they sent to Boston?”

“I see you have been informed about the tragedy that has become my existence. And now I must say good-bye. Chief Fielder is waiting for me.”

The line went dead, and I stared at the phone for several seconds. The rumble of thunder above seemed fitting accompaniment to this strange development.

Megan broke the silence. “Did she say what I thought she said?”

“Yup.”

“And what was that?” said Travis.

“She confessed to killing her father and her uncle,” I answered.

Megan closed her eyes and shook her head. “That’s why she didn’t show up at the funeral home today. She was probably busy thinking up this latest drama. What is wrong with Uncle Graham’s girls?”

“Maybe she’s hungry for attention,” I offered. “I can’t see her killing her own father.”

“Sorry, but she’s a nutcase as far as I can tell,” said Travis. “I say either one of those cousins is capable of just about anything.”

“But they’ve had such a rough time, Travis,” said Megan.

“Lots of folks have a rough time and don’t end up acting psycho,” he answered.

Megan’s gaze fell to her lap, and she twisted her ring. “I know you’re right, but I still care about them both.”

“I understand. They’re family,” I said. “And if it helps, the night Graham died, I left Roxanne in the funeral home parking lot and went straight to see her father. I don’t think she had time to get to the hotel before me.”

“You don’t know for sure, though,” Travis said.

“Okay, maybe there’s an outside chance she made a dash to her father in travel speed worthy of NASCAR. But even though the girl’s not working with a full string of lights, I’m with Megan. She’s not a killer.”

“So what do we do?” Megan asked.

“Let Chief Fielder handle her,” I answered. This was a solution I liked. Oh yes. I liked it very much indeed.

“After the way the chief treated Travis, shouldn’t we go there or get her a lawyer, too?” Megan said.

“Why not wait and see what happens? If Roxanne is making this up, the chief will figure it out,” I said.

Travis reached over and took Megan’s hand. “Abby’s right.”

“I hope so,” Megan replied. But she didn’t sound convinced.

They left a few minutes later, the rain again reduced to drizzle. But the temperature had dropped a wicked twenty degrees in the last hour. I hurried upstairs and put on a sweatshirt, then adjusted the thermostat. But a chill lingered, one that seemed to come not from the change in weather but rather from my own discomfort.

Megan and Travis’s visit had unsettled me. These were two people I had come to care for, but they were both unraveling under the stress and revealing parts of themselves I wasn’t sure I liked. The once soft, sweet Megan seemed as nervous as a horse on a high wire. And Travis? The guy was a seething pot of emotion. Understandable? Sure. But still troubling.

Diva had followed me downstairs, and recalling the breaking glass, I decided I’d better see what she’d destroyed this week. Another sugar bowl? A glass she just had to stick her snout in?

Nothing seemed amiss in the kitchen, so I checked the laundry room—no problems there—and then decided she must have done her damage in the small glassed-in terrace. I flipped on the light switch by the entry, and sure enough, a Mason jar filled with clothespins that had been sitting on the picnic table now lay in pieces on the tile. I took one step into the room and stopped.

I wasn’t alone.

“I like your cat,” said an unfamiliar female voice. “Very friendly, but a little clumsy.”

I took a step back, wondering how quickly I could get to the phone.

“I have a gun, so don’t think about calling for help,” the woman said. She’d been sitting in one of the wicker chairs in the shadowed corner, but now stood. I saw a flash of silver in her hand.

As Daddy used to say, there is nothing more convincing than the business end of gun. I didn’t move.

She walked to the center of the room until she was under the ceiling fan light—and I was suddenly glad I hadn’t made that call.

“I’ve been dying to meet you,” I said, “but please don’t take that literally.”

Laura Montgomery smiled with all the self-assurance holding a weapon can provide. She wore a green sweater, the shoulders soaked with rain. Not exactly warm enough clothing for tonight’s weather, but you don’t need many warm clothes in Jamaica, so her wardrobe was probably limited. She’d skipped the hat, and curved tendrils of damp hair clung to both cheeks. Her gun hand was mottled by the cold—a small-caliber gun, similar to the .22 Daddy bought me for my sixteenth birthday, the one I wished was in my pocket rather than in my office.

“Now that the newlyweds are gone, I hope you’ll take a little friendly advice,” she said.

“Friendly? With a weapon in your hand?”

“I wasn’t sure what kind of welcome I’d receive. After all, I did break into your house. Damn easy by the way.”