Leann Sweeney - A Wedding To Die For

“Be careful. Be careful,” someone said from behind me.

I turned and saw a large freestanding birdcage. Inside, pacing on a thick dowel, was a snowy cockatoo.

“Meet Beefeater,” said Fielder.

“Beefeater on the rocks, Beefeater on the rocks,” said the bird, his head bobbing.

I walked over to the cage. “Male or female?” I asked.

“Male,” said Fielder. “But be careful. He bites almost as hard as I do.”

“Be careful, be careful,” said Beefeater.

“He’s beautiful,” I said, stooping to get a closer look.

“He belonged to my dad.”

“Hey, Dad, what do you think? What do you think?” said the bird.

“We both miss him a lot,” she said quietly. She had kicked off her shoes and was sitting on the sofa. “He was the best damn cop in the world.”

“My daddy’s been gone a years,” I said. “I miss him, too.”

“Seems we have more in common than an interest in Jeff,” she said with a wry grin.

I sat in the butter yellow chair next to the sofa. “Now, wait a minute. If we plan to be in the same room and—”

“Don’t worry.” She raised a hand. “Jeff is off-limits. That doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re damn lucky, but I won’t be making any moves on him.”

“You mean any more moves.”

“Damn lucky,” spouted Beefeater.

“Shut up, Beefy.” Fielder was blushing. “Jeff set me straight, so can we drop this?”

“Okay. Truce.”

“You handled Roxanne when I couldn’t, and I appreciate your help,” Fielder said. “I’ve been too busy trying to prove how smart I am, how I can do this job despite the community’s criticism. Seems I need to learn better interviewing techniques. I haven’t had much practice other than with drunks, peeping toms, and adolescents who think playing with a can of spray paint is the most fun they’ve ever had.”

“What kind of community criticism?” I asked.

“Snipes from city council members and people who like to write letters to the editor. They say my father handed me my job even though I had no experience and no idea how to handle crime in a small town.”

“Is that true?”

A familiar anger flashed in her eyes. “Okay, it’s true. But not because I don’t know how to be a good cop. It’s because—”

“Good cop. Good cop, Quinn,” said Beefeater.

She smiled and continued. “Handling my job has very little to do with policing and a whole lot to do with ass kissing. I’m no ass kisser.”

“Really? I never would have thought.” I grinned.

“I won’t apologize for bringing a certain attitude to my job, and I think that’s enough said. Let’s get to work. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

I went first, telling her all I had discovered in Jamaica, the scoop on Laura Montgomery, and I even confessed that the woman had come to my house. I was sure glad I’d reported this to the Dallas police because Fielder was a little miffed I hadn’t called her last night. But she accepted some of the responsibility when I mentioned she hadn’t exactly been too approachable.

“Now it’s your turn,” I said. “Henderson mentioned you received some reports today.”

She nodded and took a sip of her Dr Pepper. “Interesting stuff. The autopsy report says the blow to the back of the head with the vase did not kill James Beadford but probably knocked him out.”

“And he hit the corner of the fireplace when he fell. We knew that’s what killed him.”

“We thought we knew,” she said. “But the blood evidence indicates he fell to the floor several feet from the fireplace.”

I sat straighter. “Really? So did he wake up and fall again when he tried to walk?”

“Scuff marks on the wood floor made by the tips of his shoes indicate he was dragged to the fireplace.”

Hair rose on the back of my neck. This was more ugly than I’d thought. “So the killer knew he wasn’t dead and finished him off by ramming his head into the bricks?”

“Yup. And there goes my original theory that this was a crime of passion, an argument that went too far. Apparently that’s not the whole story.”

“Apparently not,” I said half to myself.

“And the blood evidence also seems to clear Megan. The stains on her dress were consistent with her only cradling her father’s head. There were no spatter marks, no traces of blood on her hem—things that would have been there if she’d dragged the body or struck him.”

“You really considered her a suspect?” I asked, but then added, “Figures. You even thought I might have done it.”

“I thought it was possible they had an argument and things got out of hand. Remember, I learned about the first-degree murder angle only this morning.”

“I see your point. Jeff keeps reminding me that anyone is capable of murder given the right circumstances, so you couldn’t eliminate Megan.”

“We went to the same academy, so I’m with Jeff.” She must have read my expression because she quickly added, “And that’s a figure of speech, Abby. Can I call you Abby?”

“Sure.” Did that mean I was supposed to call her by her first name? Because I wasn’t sure I wanted to be that friendly. “Did you get any reports on Graham’s murder?”

“Not yet. As I said before, he was full of booze, which made it easier to shove him off that balcony.”

“Beefeater on the rocks,” piped in the bird.

“Does he listen to everything you say?” I asked with a laugh.

“Yes, and I’m grateful someone pays attention. Anyway, there were no fingerprints in Graham Beadford’s hotel room, so we have no convenient glasses with prints or the killer’s DNA on the rim, and we didn’t find footprints either. We always hope our murderers step in mud or paint right before they kill, but it just doesn’t work out that way too often.”

“Very funny,” I said. “So there were no fibers on the balcony or skin under the victim’s nails?”

“Like I said, we don’t have the forensic reports from that scene. Despite what people see on TV shows, I don’t have instant access to the evidence, especially in a town where we have to rely on another county’s crime scene people.”

“And no one saw the killer but me?”

She shook her head, lips tight.

“This sucks,” I said.

“This sucks,” echoed Beefeater.

“You’re both right,” she said with a resigned smile. “I do have pictures and videos that show Travis and James in the background out on the deck. They appeared to be arguing and that’s why I brought him in. But the rest of those thousand pictures I went through? Time-consuming, but worthless.”

I told her what Travis and Megan had told me about the argument, how it was over money for grad school.

“So why couldn’t he just say that when I questioned him?” The old fire was back in her voice.

“Don’t have a walleyed fit. He didn’t share this with me until yesterday.” I didn’t add that I wasn’t sure I believed him. I didn’t have anything but my gut reaction to his explanation, and I wasn’t about to have her haul him in again because of me.

“With all the new information,” she said, “I’m rethinking motive. Could have been revenge. Could have been greed. Seems the only people with any money among the suspects are Sylvia Beadford and now her daughter. And Mrs. Beadford was rich before she even met her husband. Megan inherits half the estate, so that benefits Travis as well as the bride. The cousins and Graham Beadford weren’t even mentioned in the will. The best man worked for James Beadford, and if Sylvia sells the company, he’s shit out of luck.”

“Holt’s been busy making sure the company survives the setback of losing the CEO,” I said. “So he’s not SOL yet.”