Leann Sweeney - A Wedding To Die For

“Kate, call nine one one.”

But before Kate could react, Sylvia Beadford swayed and then toppled like a felled oak, taking Kate down with her to the wood floor. Megan must have known her mother would crumble. Probably why she reached out to me for help first.

I started to get up, ready to assist Kate and Sylvia, nearly tearing my angle-hemmed skirt when I started to rise. But Megan’s cold, sticky fingers gripped my forearm. “Don’t leave us. Please.”

Then Graham appeared, looking downright sober. He assisted Kate to her knees so she could minister to the passed out Sylvia before flipping open a cell phone to make the 9 1 1 call.

Not long after, noise again filled the Beadford house. Chaos bred from fear makes plenty of noise—raised voices, the sound of a distant siren, people shouting and wanting in the room. Didn’t matter poor Sylvia was laid out like a trussed turkey in the doorway. Kate was fanning the woman’s face with someone’s handbag and I swear those so-called friends of the family would have stepped right over Sylvia to get a better look at the body.

With the help of a calm, rational Holt McNabb—maybe he was an okay guy after all—Graham pushed all the guests back, telling them to find a place to “park it.” They did let Travis pass. I wasn’t sure even he should come in, but we’d already messed up the crime scene plenty. Besides, I needed my arm back. Megan’s grip had my fingers going numb and Travis seemed the right person to help alleviate that problem.

Meanwhile Holt and Graham assisted a dazed Sylvia to her feet and led her away, leaving me and Kate alone with Travis and Megan.

Megan had stopped crying. She was probably numb with shock now. Travis gently pulled her from beneath her dead father. Once she was on her feet, he wrapped his arms around her small, trembling frame and rocked her, smoothing her hair, not letting go for dear life. “I’ve got you, hon. I’m here,” he said over and over.

I moved away from them and whispered to Kate, “I need your phone.”

She lifted her black silk shirt and pulled it from her matching skirt pocket. “You calling Jeff?” she asked.

“You betcha.” I took the phone and dialed his cell.

“Kate?” he answered, sounding puzzled. Must have recognized her Caller ID.

“No, it’s me.” I turned my back on Megan and Travis. “Remember that wedding?”

“Yeah?” Wary now. He probably heard the tension in my voice.

“It just turned into a funeral,” I whispered. “Father of the bride got whacked with a very large vase.”

Shrieking sirens sounded so close I figured the police were pulling in front of the house. I missed his reply.

“Repeat that,” I said.

“Where are you?” He was all cool and collected now. A freaked-out girlfriend might be trouble, but murder? Comfortable territory. I could hear the rustle of paper. He was unwrapping a stick of Big Red gum, no doubt.

“In Seacliff.” I gave him the address.

“Galveston County. Out of our jurisdiction. But I’ll be there anyway.”

He disconnected.

Jeff may be a man of few words, but he’s great in the action department.

He didn’t arrive for another hour, probably because Seacliff is well south of Houston, and half the trip is on two-lane roads rather than freeway. In the meantime, plenty of other cops showed up, not only from Seacliff, but from several surrounding towns. A county sheriff patrol arrived on the scene, too. And then there were the fire trucks. And the ambulance. Everyone in small Texas towns makes an appearance for the 9 1 1 calls. By the time I was commanded to my “holding area” by the female plainclothes officer who seemed to be in charge of the investigation, I was beginning to wonder if Graham Beadford had mentioned al-Qaeda when he’d called.

Kate and I had been separated. I didn’t particularly like this, but reasoned the lady in control knew what she was doing. Everyone who had entered the room or saw the body was being guarded by their own special cop until he or she could be interviewed. Mine, a uniformed officer from a nearby town, took me to the laundry room. We sat in wooden folding chairs facing each other, crammed in with the washer, dryer, and a wheeling clothes rack. He resisted all my attempts at conversation, just sat there coldly staring past my right shoulder. I swear if we were cremated together that guy wouldn’t have warmed up.

Finally a Seacliff cop rescued me, informing Officer Subzero that his help was needed with all the cameras and video recorders gathered from the guests.

Cameras. Wow. I hadn’t thought about them. Folks had been snapping pictures like crazy, and who knows what they’d inadvertently captured. The new cop and I walked through the house. Most people had been cleared out, and those who remained stood in small groups in the great room talking with uniformed police officers taking notes.

I was escorted to the formal living area off the foyer, a room I hadn’t even noticed when Sylvia am-bushed us for kitchen duty. Reminded me of my old digs in River Oaks with its uncomfortable-looking Victorian couches and artistically draped window—one of the few windows that looked out on the street rather than the water.

Jeff sat on the largest gold brocade sofa and was leaning toward a thin brunette sitting in one of several teak dining room chairs that had been brought into the room. He didn’t seem to notice our presence. The woman looked to be in her late twenties and wore a gray wool suit and open-collar blouse—the same person who had sent me to babysit the Maytag. Jeff had on a faded denim shirt that matched his eyes and had gotten a haircut since I last saw him this morning. He always kept his blond hair short, but this time the barber had left little more than stubble on his head.

My cop escort cleared his throat and said, “Uh, ma’am?”

The woman looked up and Jeff stood, his jaw working his ever-present gum.

“Hey, how you doing?” he asked, coming over to me.

“I still have a pulse—unlike someone else here—so I think I’m in good shape,” I said.

He gripped my upper arms and kissed the top of my head. “You’ve had a rough day, kid.”

I felt the tension in my neck muscles melt a little when I smelled the combination of cinnamon gum and aftershave unique to him. He took my hand and led me to the sofa. I sat, grateful for even a less-than-adequate cushion for my sore patoot.

I smiled at the woman and said, “Hi. Bet you’ve had a tough day, too.”

She did not return my smile. Her crossed legs were long enough and her features attractive enough that she could have been working a catwalk in New York rather than sitting here ready to interview a witness. “Thanks for your patience, Ms. Rose. Jeff tells me you were employed by the bride.”

Jeff? I thought. They’d certainly gotten friendly in an hour’s time.

He must have read my expression and quickly offered an explanation. “Quinn is an old friend. She honed her skills in Houston PD before taking the top job here.”

“Great,” I said. “So is that Captain Quinn or—”

“Sorry.” She reached over Jeff and offered a hand in a greeting. “It’s Chief Fielder. Seacliff PD. Quinn is my first name.”

Chief? Wow. She looked so young.

I gripped her slim fingers and offered a firm handshake, one I hoped said “I can throw a horseshoe with the horse still attached,” even though that was not how I really felt. I felt small and... well, scared. But my daddy always told me to never show weakness when I was afraid, that it would only make things worse.

Fielder had a yellow legal pad on her lap and several pages were already turned back. “Jeff tells me Megan Beadford hired you to find her biological mother.”