Leann Sweeney - A Wedding To Die For

Her tongue flicked around her lips, and I could tell she wanted to believe me. Her thick makeup had taken on a repulsive sheen in the lamplight, and it was almost as if her newfound assertiveness was melting away with the foundation and blush.

The hand in her lap went to her forehead, and she squeezed the skin between her eyebrows. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I never should have brought you here. You’ll go to the police and then this whole thing will crack open like a rotten egg and—”

“She’s not going anywhere,” came a male voice from the shadowed entry.

I turned. Holt McNabb stood in the doorway.

“I told you to keep your mouth shut, Sylvia,” Holt said.

“But I heard her talking with Travis. She knows about Laura. She knows everything.”

“And that’s why we’ll take care of this little problem. Just like I took care of Graham when he figured out what you’d done. And once I fix this mess, what will we do, Sylvia?”

“Keep our mouths shut,” she said, eyes downcast.

“Right.” He smiled and might as well have added, “That’s a good dog.”

Sylvia must have still had her doubts, though, because she said, “Roxanne told me Abby and Fielder were sharing information. It may be too late.”

“You have that city councilman on your payroll, right? He’ll convince Fielder to leave the case alone.”

“Yes, but—”

“Money talks. And you have plenty to say. Meanwhile, I’ll handle this problem right now.” He pulled what looked like a Glock from his coat pocket. “Did you know how cold the bay waters get in winter, Abby? You need to be very careful when you walk out on the dock at night because one little slip and BAM!” He slapped the gun against his free hand.

I started, my heart in my throat.

Holt shook his head sadly. “You fall in that water and it’s all over but the autopsy.”

I looked at Sylvia. “Anyone else dies around here and you’ll have cops camping out on your lawn.”

“She’s right,” said Sylvia. “There’s been enough killing, Holt.”

So I had an ally. A reluctant one, but still an ally. I spoke to her again. “You were so angry the day James died. A jury will understand.”

“It was an accident. I never meant—”

“Shut up, Sylvia,” said Holt.

“You and I know it wasn’t exactly an accident,” I said.

“But it was. I never meant to kill him. When he told me he was Megan’s real father, that he had a bond with her that I would never have, I just picked up that vase and... and...” Tears spilled over the mascara on her lower lids.

“You need to shut up, Sylvia,” Holt said. He waved the gun at me. “And you need to come with me.”

Despite the grapefruit-size rock of fear in my gut, despite the big, bad gun pointed my way, I didn’t move. Why make it easy for him to kill me? I may be stubborn, impulsive, and foolish on occasion, but I didn’t fall off the stupid truck. I wasn’t about to jump into the ocean like some trained pig. He could kill me here where he’d leave plenty of evidence.

I looked at Sylvia. “Tell me about the accident. What happened?”

“Don’t answer that.” Holt marched over and pulled me roughly up by the arm and pressed the gun to my temple. “You shut up. Just shut the fuck up.”

“You hit him with the vase, right?” I said as Holt started to drag me away. “And he fell forward. Then what?” She was insisting it was an accident, and my gut told me she believed it.

Sylvia’s mouth hung open and her face looked like the dark smudges and teardrops had been painted on.

Holt had me almost to the door, and I wiggled and kicked, even managed to free myself for an instant, but he was far stronger than I. He pulled me back and wrapped an arm around my shoulders and neck, the gun cold against my skull.

Sylvia, sounding like a zombie in some B horror flick, said, “He wouldn’t answer me and I knew I’d killed him. So I ran out. And I had to t-take off my shoes. Because of the blood. I had his blood on my shoes. I put them in the caterer’s trash bag.” Her chest started to heave, and I feared I might lose her to hysteria soon.

We’d reached the door, so I grabbed the frame, braced myself. “You didn’t kill him, Sylvia. He would have lived. Holt finished him off.”

I wasn’t certain of that, but I had a hunch that’s why he was so damn anxious to get me out of here.

Holt clamped his hand over my mouth, enough of a switch in our position that I was able to give him a wicked elbow to the gut. He buckled but regained his equilibrium quickly. One finger, however, slipped into my mouth, and I clamped down with all my might.

He hollered with pain and threw me off him. I landed on my butt, facing him.

“You bitch,” he said through clenched teeth, the Glock pointed at my heart.

“Leave her be,” said Sylvia. She’d stood and her hand wavered with the weight of the gun she’d been concealing since she sat down with me.

Like Laura Montgomery last night, she didn’t handle the weapon with the authority born of experience, so I couldn’t count on her to save my ass. That was my job.

Anyone who’s practiced with weapons knows a moving target is damn hard to hit. So I tucked and rolled, as if a fire was about to consume me. I must have made at least three rolls to reach her.

I heard Holt open fire.

Adrenaline sent my world into slow motion. I heard nothing after his gun went off. And felt nothing. I reached up and grabbed Sylvia’s gun. She didn’t resist, just fell to the floor and covered her head.

I pointed the gun at Holt, but saw he already had his hands raised in surrender. But not because of me. Laura Montgomery was standing behind him, and I guessed she had her own weapon tucked in his back.

But he still held the Glock and quick as a blink, he swung his free arm around and sent Laura flying. Not good.

So before he could get off a good a shot, I fired.

I didn’t miss.

Holt dropped like bricks off a twenty-story building. He began writhing on the floor, holding his thigh, blood leaking through his fingers. No spurting, so I hadn’t nicked an artery. Before he could figure out he wasn’t hurt all that badly, I hurried over and picked up the gun he’d dropped and stuck it in my waistband. Two guns are always better than one.

Sylvia was still crouched on the floor, her arms covering her head, but when I said, “It’s all clear,” she unwound and started to get up.

And that’s when she saw Laura Montgomery.

“You,” she said. “This is all your fault.”

Sylvia leaped over the balled-up, whimpering Holt and ran at Laura like she was attacking a blocking dummy.

They fell to the floor, and Sylvia managed to take off her shoe and wield it at Laura’s face.

Laura moved her head in time and the spike heel hit the floor with a sickening thwack .

Fortunately Laura’s gun had been knocked out of her hand, or she might have used it.

I stepped in to separate them, dragging a flailing Sylvia away. For the first time in weeks, she wasn’t crying. She was quivering with rage, the same rage that probably made her pick up that vase and smash it on her husband’s skull.

Laura got to her feet and called 911. Meanwhile, I shoved Sylvia into the chair and kept the gun trained on her. Holt had risen to a sitting position and had both hands pressed against his bloody leg. He said nothing, but Sylvia started rocking and repeating, “I didn’t kill him.” When Laura finished the call, she stood near the library entry, a silhouette in the shadows.

Five long minutes later I heard male voices shouting, “This room clear,” several times as they came closer. Then Henderson and another uniformed officer came rushing in, weapons drawn.