Leann Sweeney - A Wedding To Die For

Travis went over and took his mother-in-law’s hands. “I’m finer than fine, but thanks for caring.”

She smiled up at him, her eyes lost behind a quadruple coat of mascara.

Sylvia let go of Travis and held out a hand to me. “You must have just arrived. I’ll come with you while you pay your respects. Megan mentioned how guilty you feel that you couldn’t prevent Graham’s accident.”

“Um, yeah,” I said. She knew damn well it was no accident, but who was I to present reality to her or Roxanne? As she led me toward the other side of the room, I turned and mouthed “later” to Travis.

The casket was a lacquered ebony with gold trim and a kneeling rail had been placed in front. Sylvia used the casket for support to kneel on the velvet cushion, and I followed suit.

She gripped my hand, her acrylic nails digging into my palm. “Lord, we pray for Graham’s peace. He has found his home with You and all his worldly troubles have ended. Amen.”

“Amen,” I said and started to rise.

But when I let go of Sylvia’s hand she seemed to go limp and had to catch herself to keep from falling.

I grasped her arm. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be okay. With all the preparations today, I forgot my blood pressure medicine. Guess that was a mistake. If you could just help me up?”

Supporting her by the elbow, I got her back on her feet.

“Do you need a drink of water? Or maybe I should tell Megan you’re not feeling well?”

“No,” she said adamantly, glancing over at her daughter, who was seated with Graham’s drinking buddies. “You must not tell Megan anything. If you could take me home for my medicine, I’d also have an opportunity to talk to you in private.”

Another secret conversation with one of the family? What would I find out from her that I didn’t already know? “What’s this about?” I asked.

She glanced around. “We’ll talk at my house.”

Holt and Roxanne must have noticed Sylvia’s near fall because they came over to us with concern in their eyes.

“Are you all right, Aunt Sylvia? You look upset,” Roxanne said.

“I forgot my medicine, but Abby has offered to take me home so I can get in a dose before I keel over. Can you handle the guests?”

“Certainly. I’m doing fine with Holt’s support.” Roxanne lifted her chin. “This is my father’s visitation and therefore my responsibility.”

“Of course, sweetheart. And you’ve been doing a stellar job. Tell Megan where I’ve gone if she asks.”

Holt, looking a little uncomfortable, said, “Abby just arrived. Why don’t I drive you home, Mrs. Beadford?”

I was guessing hosting a visitation with Roxanne was not his idea of fun.

He looked at me. “I need to talk shop with Sylvia anyway, Abby. She’s got my nose to the grindstone at work these days, but she’ll be a great boss. She’s obviously learned a lot from James over the past twenty years.”

So Sylvia had taken over at Beadford Oil Suppliers. That must have been a disappointment to poor Holt. And now he was reduced to kissing her butt, just as he’d probably done with James Beadford. But then, he needed the money, according to Quinn, so he’d better be on his best behavior.

I closed my eyes. Oh my God, I’m calling her Quinn. This is too scary.

Sylvia said, “Holt, I’d prefer you stay here in case any of our clients come by to pay their respects. I think that’s what James would have wanted.”

“You’re probably right,” Holt said. “But I’d be glad to drive to your house while you stay here. If you tell me where the medicine is, I’ll bring it here.”

“No, no. That’s not necessary. Abby doesn’t mind, do you?” she said.

“Not at all,” I answered.

We left then, and I tried a few prompts to get a hint what this was about on the short drive, but Sylvia changed the subject. We were going to do this her way; that much was obvious.

When we arrived, the house was icy cold, but I declined her offer of a drink, even though I would have loved a cup of coffee. I wanted her to get to the point.

She led me into the library, where her husband had died, and it definitely creeped me out returning to the murder scene—especially since I’d learned today how vicious a crime it had been.

After Daddy passed, I couldn’t set foot in the room where he’d died for months afterward, but Sylvia didn’t seem bothered. More like distracted, now that I thought about it. As if it didn’t register that this was where her whole life had changed forever. I wondered if this was more of the Beadford denial at work.

She turned on a table lamp near the bookshelves, and the light cast a warm but meager glow over half the room. The fireplace remained in shadows. I noted the table filled with wedding presents was gone, the Oriental rugs had been removed, and the furniture had been rearranged, but other than that, no evidence of violence lingered—except in my mind.

She gestured to the tapestry wing chairs flanking the lamp table. “Please sit down.”

But rather than sit with me, she went to the shelves. Her back was to me, so I couldn’t see what she was doing, but seconds later, one set of shelves slid back revealing a wall safe. She pressed a series of numbers on the digital pad first, then turned the conventional dial to open the safe.

When she joined me at the table, she carried a six-inch-high stack of bills with a thousand dollar note on top. Placing the money on the table between us, she said, “I’m only just learning to be a businesswoman, so please bear with me.”

“Okay,” I said, my confusion evident in my tone.

“I know you’re an investigator and that you’re working with Megan to solve her father’s murder. Whatever she’s offered you, I’ll double that.”

So she knew about my real job, too. “She’s paying me more than enough, so—”

“You misunderstand. I’ll pay you to stop investigating. Today. No more questions. No more talks with the chief of police.”

Another offer to quit the case. “Did Roxanne tell you about me today after you picked her up at the police station?”

“Yes. And she mentioned that you and Chief Fielder would be sharing information to find the killer. And that’s not in Megan’s best interest, though I genuinely believe you have her best interest at heart.” She was sitting rigid, her spine not even touching the back of the chair.

How much did she know? Did Sylvia think her daughter killed James? Was that what this was about? “There is no evidence linking Megan to her father’s murder, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“Certainly there’s no evidence,” she said derisively. “You think I’m protecting her from a murder charge?”

Gone was the wimpy, weepy woman I’d come to know over the last couple of weeks. This was a different Sylvia. “How much?” she said. “I’ll pay you whatever you ask.”

“I’m not taking your money.”

“Why not?” she said impatiently.

“Did you overhear me talking to Travis tonight?” I asked. “Is that what this is about?”

“I heard enough. You need to stay away from all of us. This has gone too far.”

That’s when I noticed that though one hand rested in her lap, the other was between the chair arm and her left hip—and out of my sight.

My mouth went dry. Did she have a weapon? Was she that desperate? And for God’s sake why?

But what if she killed James? What if she recognized Laura Montgomery, confronted her husband, and smacked him with the heaviest object she could find when he told her why the woman was at the wedding?

But I wasn’t hankering to learn if she had a gun at her side or just how desperate she was. Not right now. “Listen, Sylvia. If you want me off the case, I’m off the case. You’re Megan’s mom and you know best.”