Leann Sweeney - A Wedding To Die For

“What else about the room?” Fielder asked. “Anything strike you as out of the ordinary?”

I closed my eyes, picturing the scene. “Glass on the floor. Big chunks. And tiny pieces crunching underfoot. Wood floor with several Oriental rugs. Plenty of gifts on display—china, silver, candleholders, picture frames—and lots of unopened gifts, too.”

“Anything else?”

I held up a palm in her direction, my eyes still closed. “Two tapestry wing chairs with a table between them over by the bookshelves on the right side of the room. And glasses on the little table. Three, maybe four?” I opened my eyes and gave Fielder a questioning look, wondering if this jibed with what she knew.

She just said, “Is that all?”

“A beer bottle, maybe? Or two? One on the gift table and—”

“You sure?”

Was I? “Maybe not. A lot went down in a few short minutes.”

“Now about this wedding book,” she said. “That could prove helpful since we believe some guests left the reception prior to the discovery of the body. Where did you put it?”

“Mrs. Beadford took it from me when I came in.”

Fielder pursed her glossed lips. “We haven’t found it.”

Did she think I stashed the stupid thing somewhere to make her life more difficult? My neck muscles knotted up again. “So ask her where she put it,” I said, hoping I sounded civil.

“Can’t ask her. She’s under sedation at the hospital.” Fielder sighed. “Okay, describe this book. Exactly what are we looking for?”

As I told her, I couldn’t help but think about the woman in the brown hat. “There was at least one guest at the church who didn’t sign it. And who knows how many people only attended the reception and had to sign it at the house. If Mrs. Beadford didn’t get their names, there’s no way of knowing who all came and went.”

“We have hundreds of pictures, Ms. Rose, and more to come, so we’ll eventually know who was here. If I showed you some photos, would you remember who signed the book and who didn’t?”

Jeff, who had been chewing his gum and making sure he kept his hands off me, spoke. “Seems like the long way around, Quinn. Are there any obvious suspects you could zero in on and—”

“You know I can’t discuss how to handle the case in front of her .” She said her like I was a piece of roadkill stuck to her shoe.

Okay, that does it. I rose. “Maybe I’ll just leave you two alone.”

Jeff touched my elbow. “Abby, I’m sure Quinn didn’t mean—”

“Actually, Jeff,” Fielder said sweetly, “I think Ms. Rose has had enough questions for one day. But I could use your advice. Would you excuse us?” She arched those perfectly penciled eyebrows at me. She had eyes the color of cane syrup, but there was nothing sugary residing there.

“Certainly.” I left the room feeling both their stares on my back. If I’d had my own car, I would have driven home with the radio blaring so I wouldn’t have to think about all this. But I had to wait for a ride.

I paced in the marbled foyer, trying to deal with the green-eyed monster in a rational fashion. Fielder had a job to do. She needed all the information she could get and I had seen quite a bit. But though she had asked me plenty of questions about the crime scene, she’d asked me nothing about what I had seen or heard at the reception before Beadford’s death. I smiled. Serious oversight, baby.

Of course, the exchange I’d witnessed between Travis and his father-in-law may not have been an argument over anything more important than what time the bride and groom would leave the reception. I had no way of knowing what transpired between those two.

I walked in circles, my dress pumps torturing my feet and my head throbbing from the day’s stress. I was trying not to think about Jeff and his extended consultation with Fielder—it’s damn hard not to think about something—when Megan came down the right-hand staircase.

She had changed from the stained dress into blue jeans and a coral sweater. When she saw me, she ran over and embraced me. “I’m being punished,” she said into my shoulder. “That’s why this happened.”

I moved back, held her at arm’s length. Fresh from the shower, I assumed, what with the wet hair and scrubbed face, she looked like the child I’d thought she was when we first met.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I went behind my father’s back and hired you. And now I’m being punished. I never meant to hurt him.”

“Hold on. Did you tell him the truth today? Did you two argue about that?” I didn’t want to believe Megan could have struck her father, but she was the one sitting there with his battered head in her lap.

“No. But I wasn’t truthful, either. And that’s as good as a lie.”

“Still, you and your father were fine today, right? No problems?”

“The last time I saw him alive was when we d-danced. And... and he said he wanted me to be happy and... and...” Her eyes filled.

I hugged her again, rubbed circles on her back all the while thinking about my own adoptive daddy. He, too, had claimed to want only my happiness. But he’d made more than one mistake in that department, and mistakes born of love still hurt just the same. “I’m here for you, Megan. Call me for anything. Anytime. And I again apologize for not finishing the job.”

This time she drew back on her own. “You sound like you’re quitting. You’re not quitting, are you?”

“I didn’t plan on it, but if you want to take this up later, I’ll give you every cent of your retainer back.”

“Please don’t quit, because even though I feel guilty about keeping the truth from my dad, I still want to know my birth mother. Now more than ever.”

I was wondering if that need to know had anything to do with what had appeared to be her rather distant relationship with Sylvia, but didn’t think this was the right time to ask. Then Jeff emerged from his little conference, and while he was offering his condolences to Megan, I went after my coat, which I found in the kitchen where I’d left it. My pockets were turned out, either from the cops checking them out or Kate searching for my keys. My small handbag had been tucked in one sleeve but the clasp was open and my phone/computer nearly slipped out when I grabbed the purse. The low battery warning was beeping so I powered the phone off, then put on the coat.

After I gave Megan another reassuring hug and a whispered promise to follow through on her request, Jeff and I walked out into the bitter cold evening. Normally I would have huddled up to him, but not now. After all, Fielder might be watching us out the window and I wouldn’t want to upset her.

On our way to his truck, he exchanged high-fives with two other cops manning the scene and then introduced me. One guy had worked HPD vice with Jeff way back when and the other was a former Harris County Sheriff’s Deputy who had testified at a vehicular homicide case Jeff worked a few years ago. Seems Quinn Fielder wasn’t the only city cop who wanted to escape to the bay.

We walked down the hill and I stepped up into his nonpolice-issue white Chevy truck after he opened the door for me. He then got in and revved the engine. Before we pulled away, he shoved several sticks of Big Red in his mouth. Neither of us said a word until we passed Space Center Houston and were closing in on the freeway.

“What did she tell you?” I asked.

“What did who tell me about what ?”

Typical man. If the conversation doesn’t flow continuously you better have that CNN ticker tape running across your forehead for frequent updates. “What did your friend Quinn need you for so badly? Can’t she do her job alone?”