Leann Sweeney - A Wedding To Die For

“That’s right.”

“So you didn’t know the rest of the family?”

“Actually, I only just met them last night at the rehearsal dinner.”

“I’m not sure I understand. Did you attend last night and today in your capacity as an investigator?”

“No. I was a last-minute replacement for the wedding book-slash-birdseed handler, the one who went into labor a month early.”

She smiled, which softened her features, made her already attractive face prettier. “That’s what your sister told me.” She then made note of my answer on her yellow pad. “And by the way, we let your sister leave. Apparently a patient of hers was in some sort of crisis. She took your car and said you should catch a ride home with Jeff. Now, to the issues at hand. You had been making inquiries about Megan’s biological mother, correct?”

“Yes, but our professional relationship is not common knowledge. I’m here as a friend.”

“Not common knowledge?” She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.

“Megan wanted my inquiries kept private. She felt her family would not be happy about her wish to find her birth mother.”

“Really?” She scribbled some more. “There was tension in the family?”

“Maybe some.”

Jeff said, “Any conflicts at the rehearsal?”

“The rehearsal itself went fine,” I said. “But once the wedding party and families bellied up to the open bar before dinner, everyone on Megan’s side suddenly seemed to have issues .”

“Issues?” Fielder said.

“The cousins weren’t speaking—I know because I sat between them at dinner. And the best man, Holt McNabb, brought in a TV and set it in front of him on the table to watch some college basketball game. That pissed off Mr. Beadford. He and McNabb went to a corner and Mr. Beadford seemed to be raking him over the coals. This upset Sylvia and—”

“I get the picture. But these sound like minor altercations. You didn’t witness anything more serious? Perhaps a fistfight? Or threats?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“And you’re not here in any official capacity?”

Did she think I was lying? “You mean did I find Megan’s birth mother at the last minute and bring her here? No. And I’d appreciate it if you don’t upset anyone by telling the rest of the family how I came to know Megan.”

“I’m not in the business of telling witnesses anything. They tell me. Moving on, you are licensed, correct?”

Not even an hour’s worth of absorbing the odors of Tide and Downy could make me feel “mountain fresh” pleasant about her patronizing attitude. “Provisionally,” I replied evenly. “But I specialize in adoption searches for someone who is licensed.”

“And your supervising PI’s name?” she asked, pen poised.

“Angel Molina,” I said. “But what does—”

Jeff placed a gentle hand on my knee. “Bear with Quinn. She’s just doing her job.”

“And this Molina has an agency in Houston?” Fielder went on.

“He does,” I answered. “Is that important?”

“This is all routine, Abby,” Jeff said.

Fielder glanced at Jeff’s hand, which had moved up to my thigh. “I’ll check out the agency later.” I saw her fingers flex several times, saw her nostrils flare a little when she took in some extra air.

Jeff, good detective that he is, noted these subtle indicators, too. He promptly assumed a less intimate posture by leaning back, his arms spanning the sofa’s arched back.

So he wanted her to feel more comfortable, huh? He cared about her. Oh, I was picking up on the signals, all right. These two probably had a history that was more than just professional—and from the way she kept looking at him, she wished it wasn’t history.

“Tell me exactly what you saw when you walked in on Megan and her father,” she said.

“I saw a very distraught young woman with her father’s bloody head in her lap.”

She laid the pad and pen down. “Sorry. Guess I should be more specific.”

“Guess you should.”

“You, Ms. Rose, do not have an emotional wall to climb when it comes to remembering what you saw in that room. After all, you hardly knew the dead man. I consider that rational distance important in reconstructing a crime scene that was seriously compromised by several factors.”

“You mean those gung-ho paramedics doing CPR on an obviously dead body? Why did they do that, by the way?”

“Wouldn’t you want them to do everything possible if it were your father?” she replied.

“Not if his skull was exposed and gray matter was in my lap,” I shot back. “Besides, my father’s already dead.”

Jeff rested a hand on my back. “Abby, it’s okay.” He addressed Quinn. “Abby’s father had a heart attack and the paramedics were called and... well, you understand.”

I stared hard at him, saying nothing. What the hell did he think he was doing telling her my personal business?

“I’m sorry if I upset you, Ms. Rose,” Fielder said.

“You didn’t upset me,” I said evenly, summoning a calmness I did not feel.

“Good. Now, can you tell me the exact position of the body and where Megan Beadford was sitting? I also need to know which direction her father’s feet were pointing and where the broken glass was in relationship to them.”

“Can I draw it for you?” I said.

She picked up the pad, tore off a clean sheet of paper and offered it to me along with her pen. I made the sketch, indicating that Beadford’s head had been parallel to the fireplace on the left wall, his feet toward the back of the room. Megan was sitting on the dead man’s right side facing the fireplace. “You want my impression on how they came to those positions? See, I’ve had plenty of time to think about exactly that.”

“Okay, sure,” she glanced at Jeff. “I’m always up for impressions .”

Was that a smirk? Maybe I should clam up and let her go with her own assumptions. But since the last thing I wanted Jeff to think was that I was selfish and immature, I stifled the urge to rebel.

“I saw blood on the corner of the fireplace hearth, here.” I circled the spot. “I think he hit those bricks when he went down after getting smashed from behind with the vase. He was probably facedown and Megan simply rolled him over onto her lap.”

“Thank you for your astute observations, Ms. Rose.” She took the paper and slipped it to the back of the pad behind the unfinished pages.

“So there was more than one wound?” Jeff asked, looking at Fielder, not me.

I answered anyway. “He had a nasty mess at the back of his head. I saw a paramedic take a big shard out of his hair when they were moving him onto the backboard to do CPR.”

“You really saw quite a bit.” She nodded her approval. “Jeff said you’d be a tremendous witness.”

Smug bitch. If I ever needed an artificial heart I’d be sure and call her up. “Thanks so much,” I replied, pasting on my best fake smile.

“And who else entered the room aside from the professionals?” she asked.

“My sister... Travis... and Graham Beadford came in with the paramedics. Holt McNabb—he was the best man—”

“I know who he is.”

And please make sure I know you know . “Anyway, he was around,” I said. “The cousins—you’ve met them, right? Courtney and Roxanne? They wanted in to see their uncle, but their father kept them out.”

“And Mrs. Beadford never entered?”

“No. She’d passed out,” I said impatiently. “But I’m sure you know that, too.”

Jeff squeezed my shoulder in a reassuring gesture before placing his elbows on his knees and leaning toward Fielder. I might have liked this tiny bit of support an hour ago, but not now. It was obvious he was uncomfortable showing affection toward me in front of her.