Leann Sweeney - A Wedding To Die For

“Turnabout is fair play,” I said.

Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Nice little place you’ve got in Jamaica,” I said, adding a tad of my own arrogance.

Her voice edged with anger, she said, “You are a very busy young woman. That’s why we need to talk.”

“You don’t need a gun for that. I’m happy to sit down and—”

“No, thank you. We’ll talk right here, right now.”

“Okay. You’re the boss.”

“Tell me what your relationship is to my daughter.”

“Simple. She hired me to find you.”

That cracked her “I’m tough-as-nails” demeanor. “What?”

“You heard me. I’ve been looking for you for months. She wanted her mother at her wedding. Apparently she got her wish.”

“S-she knew about me?” I’d apparently pressed her panic button because her face had paled.

But I was a little confused. “That’s why you came out of hiding, right? To attend your daughter’s wedding?”

“Yes, but not because—are you saying she knows everything about me? Knew I was there that day?”

Ah. Now I understood. “No. She doesn’t know much of anything yet—how you’re a fugitive, how you’ve been following her. That kind of information has to wait for just the right moment, and with her father murdered and her uncle dead, now is not the time.”

“I’m truly sorry about all that’s happened,” she said, but I sensed she was distracted, was trying to figure something out.

“You’re sorry?” I said. “Sorry you killed them?”

She flinched, stared at me. “From what I overheard between the three of you here tonight, someone else wants to take responsibility for those deaths. And that’s the best news I’ve had since I arrived in Texas. I can go home now.”

“Go home?” I offered a sarcastic laugh. “I don’t think the police will let that happen.”

Renewed fear flickered in her eyes. “So you’ve told them about me?”

“I sure tried to tell them, but that’s a long story. Maybe we can make a little deal here. You tell me what I want to know, and maybe I’ll delay reporting your reappearance to the police.”

“A deal? If you think I killed two men, what’s to stop me from killing you?” She raised the gun a few inches to emphasize the point.

What would stop her? I was reading desperation in her tense face and scared eyes, and desperate people do crazy things. The only defense I had was what I had learned in the last few weeks, so I kept talking. “You care way too much about your daughter to kill one of her friends—and I am her friend.”

That got her. Her shoulders sagged. “I didn’t even know she was alive until a few weeks ago.”

“You thought she died at birth.”

“And I suppose you also know that bastard stole my daughter? She was the only reason I ran before my court date. I wasn’t about to have a baby while I was in prison, have my child end up in foster care. And it turns out, she was the only thing that could bring me back here. I swear, if James had been in the room when I learned how he’d taken my child, I would have killed him with my bare hands.”

And I believed her. Revisiting her anger had her tensing up, and her grip on the gun seemed viselike now. Did she even know how to use it? An untrained person holding a gun is about the scariest thing on earth. “Listen, I don’t plan on running for the phone or screaming for the neighbors, so could you put the gun down?”

But she was so wound up she started waving the weapon instead, riding her emotions like some freaked-out kid on a roller coaster. “Can you believe what he did to me? How could anyone be that cruel? I lost my daughter and thought it was somehow my fault she died. I believed I deserved what happened, thought I had to be punished for the crime I’d committed.”

Adrenaline spilled into my blood and made my skin prickle with the tension. Keeping my eyes on the .22, I said, “I realize Megan was raised by your worst enemy, but—”

“Her name was Claire .”

“Right,” I said softly. “Claire. But she’s very much alive. A beautiful young woman. Kind and loving. And I know she wants to meet you in the worst way.”

Obviously not the right words. She pointed the gun at my chest. “That will never happen. You will not tell her about me.”

“Okay. Sure. But—”

“Liar,” she spat. “You’ll tell her the first chance you get if I let you live.”

“So kill me, then,” I said, sounding braver than I felt. “But one way or another, she’ll find out. She’s determined to learn the truth about you, and if I’m dead, she’ll find someone else to help her.”

We stared at each other for what seemed an hour, but it had to be only a few seconds. Then she relaxed the gun hand, letting it drop to her side. “He made me pay for what I did to him. For twenty long years.”

“But he’s gone now and maybe you and Megan can—”

“No. My daughter couldn’t possibly forgive me for what I did. I’m a common criminal.” Her eyes had misted, and she blinked several times until they cleared.

“And couldn’t possibly forgive your affair with her father?” I asked, wanting to add, And couldn’t forgive you for killing him? But that question might rile her up enough to make her point that gun my way again.

She nodded. “Believe it or not, I used to love that asshole.”

“And he was Megan’s biological father, right?”

She nodded.

“Listen, I promise to help you work things out with your daughter, but I need all the facts. How did you know about the wedding? How—”

“Abby?” came a muffled voice from the vicinity of the kitchen. Aunt Caroline’s voice. Damn her to hell!

My aunt started pounding on the back door, saying, “I know you’re home.”

As far as Laura Montgomery was concerned, Aunt Caroline might as well have been the FBI. She whirled and rushed out the terrace door into the darkness, shattered glass crunching underfoot, clothespins spinning on the tile after her retreat.

A part of me wanted to run after her, tackle her, make her tell me more, but a loud voice in my head overruled this idea. “Let her go for now,” it said.

So I closed the terrace door and went to let my stupid aunt in. She was the last person I wanted to talk to, especially since she’d just screwed up my chance of finishing the job I was hired for.

“Abby, what’s wrong?” she asked as soon as I let her in.

“Nothing. So glad you dropped by.” No hiding the sarcasm. I was too pissed off. I headed for the coffee-pot to refill the mug I’d emptied on my jeans earlier, not trusting myself even to be civil.

“No coffee for me, thank you. I can’t stay.”

Now, there’s the best news I’ve had all day.

“I see you’re upset,” she said. “You’ve got those little furrows between your eyebrows. Do you know how expensive it is to cosmetically repair damage that could be avoided if you’d pay attention to your emotions, Abigail?”

“No, but I’m sure you do,” I said wearily. “Listen. I’ve had a long day. Why are you here?”

“I found you some work, just as I promised.” She smiled like she’d just invented Coca-Cola.

“I told you not to do that,” I said.

“But Libby needs your help. You remember my friend Libby?”

I nodded, stirring sugar into my coffee. Libby had a fake British accent and carted an Irish wolfhound around in her Mercedes.

“She adopted a new puppy from the shelter—got a schnoodle if you can believe it. Schnoodles are very in. Anyway, this dog has seizures, and Libby feels it’s her responsibility to find the original owner and see if there are more puppies who might be afflicted. She hopes to then find them homes with owners who have the resources to—”