Murder of a Wedding Belle (10 page)

“Call me Brian.” His dark eyes were cautious. “She was focused on things being perfect, but we pride ourselves on providing exactly what the client wants, so that wasn’t a problem.”

“And I’m Skye.” Her friendly smile didn’t reveal her thoughts. “I see from Belle’s notes that you’re putting up a twenty-two-foot gabled tent and a Plexiglas dance floor over the country club’s pool.” This guy wasn’t straying from the party line. She hoped going over the details would lull him into a false sense of security. “When will those be installed?”

“I understand the bride wanted them done in time for the rehearsal, so we’ll begin setting up tomorrow.”

“Good. This is the first wedding of this size I’ve been in charge of, and the couple is very particular.” Skye allowed a vulnerable note to enter her voice. She often found that by letting people underestimate her, she came out ahead in the long run. “You’re also supplying us with chairs and tables, correct?”

“That’s right.” Brian’s posture became slightly less rigid. “Five hundred Chaivari chairs, fifty large round tables for the dining room, and twenty-five high-tops for the outside cocktail party, which will be delivered Friday. The venue is supplying the miscellaneous tables for gifts, place cards, et cetera, and the chairs for the ceremony, but we’re providing the two special spandex-covered illuminated tables for the wedding and groom’s cakes.”

“And you’re aware that the bride wants a sweetheart table in the center of the tent rather than a head table?”

“Yes.”

“How about the lighting?” Skye checked her list. “I understand it’s really important, and, at this price, it must be amazing.”

“Our lighting tech is a genius,” Brian bragged. “He can do anything. He’s got the chandeliers, LEDs, and cans ready to go. Miss Canfield approved it all Saturday, so he’ll be doing his part on Thursday and Friday.”

“Did he meet with Belle when she agreed to his plans?”

“No.” Brian explained, “I’m the only one from the company that dealt with her. She said she preferred one person to blame if there was a problem.” He shot Skye a quizzical look. “Do you want to talk to him?”

“No. Let’s continue on the way Belle started.” Talking to the lighting guy would only expose her ignorance. “This must be a huge contract for you,” she probed, glancing at Wally, who nodded slightly, indicating his approval with her line of questioning.

“One of our biggest ever. This event will put us in the black for the rest of the year.” Brian grinned. “Which is why, whatever Miss Canfield wanted, we were happy to supply.”

“Oh.” Skye pretended to make notes. “Did she ask for anything out of the ordinary?”

Brian glanced at Wally. “Could you give us a few minutes alone?”

Wally nodded, got up, and walked toward a display of various-size lattice arches. Skye noticed that he slipped his cell phone from his pocket, held it toward Brian for a moment, then turned his back on them.

Brian eyed Skye calculatingly. “I assume our deal with Ms. Canfield will remain the same with you.”

“Uh.” Skye had no idea what he meant. “Yes.” Her voice was uncertain. “I hope so.”

“So the amount stays the same?”

“It had better.” Skye tensed, figured he was testing her to see if he could charge her more. “I have the list right here. Tent and floor are a hundred and twenty thousand, chairs and tables are ten, and lights thirty, with late penalties if you don’t meet your deadlines.” She had read all the vendor agreements earlier.

“Right. For a total of one sixty. That makes your cut eight thousand.”

“My cut?” Skye blurted out before she could stop herself. It took her a moment to pull herself together, then she asked as coolly as she could, “Is that what Belle was getting?”

“Yes. Five percent.” Brian wiped his head with a red handkerchief. “I told her, and I’m telling you. That’s the best we can do.”

“That seems like a fair amount,” Skye reassured him. “Did Belle ask for more?”

“She originally asked for ten, and maybe that’s what she gets in L.A., but here in Illinois we don’t usually have to pay commissions to coordinators, so five is our limit.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Skye hid her skeptical reaction. Chicago had invented machine politics and the art of payola, but if Brian wanted to blame California for Belle’s lack of ethics, she wasn’t about to argue. “I don’t do business like that, so you don’t owe me a thing. If you get it all installed on time and it’s perfect, that’s enough for me.”

Picture Imperfect

“
C
an you believe she was demanding a kickback?”

Skye asked Wally once they were back in his Thunderbird, driving toward the city for their one-thirty appointment with the photographer. She had repeated the conversation he had missed. “Is that even legal?”

“More to the point, was she demanding it from all the vendors, and did one get angry enough to kill her?” Wally asked.

“Good question.” Skye wrinkled her brow. “Do you think Brian was the tattooed guy at the Brown Bag even though he denies being there?” Skye asked.

“We can’t rule him out, but there are a lot of big, tattooed guys in Stanley County.” Wally skillfully merged into the heavy I-55 traffic. “I snapped a picture of him with my cell phone and sent it to Quirk to show Larson, but since he didn’t see the guy’s face, I doubt he’ll be able to identify him. It’s too bad he can’t describe the tattoos, but he said he never got a close look.”

“Crap!” Skye pursed her lips. “But Brian
is
a suspect?”

“Uh-huh. I told Quirk to bring him in later this afternoon, and I’d question him when we get back.”

“You don’t want me there, right?”

“Right.” Wally nodded. “I’ll tell him I forced you to bring me along to your meeting with him. We don’t want him to know that you’re part of the investigation.”

“That’s what I thought.” Skye gripped the dashboard as a semi cut in front of them with only inches of clearance to spare. “Back to the commission Belle was demanding. How are we going to get the other vendors to admit she was shaking them down for a cut of their profits?”

“Same way you got Cowden to tell you.”

“You mean dumb luck?”

“No. I mean good interrogation technique.” Keeping his eyes on the road, Wally reached over and squeezed Skye’s hand. “Do exactly what you did with Cowden. Open the door and let the suspect walk through it.”

Parking was a nightmare, and it was one thirty-five when they entered Yves Galois’s studio. Skye had hoped to duck into a restroom to comb her hair and put on some lipstick, but there was no time. When the photographer’s lip curled as he inspected her, she wished she had taken a few minutes to freshen up regardless of the delay.

He sat behind an imposing Italian Renaissance Revival desk, and not bothering to stand, he snapped, “The tardy Mademoiselle Denison, I presume.”

“Yes.” Skye stepped toward him and offered her hand. “I’m sorry we’re late. I always forget how much time it takes to park in the city.” She gestured to Wally. “This is my assistant, Walter.”

Yves appeared more impressed with Wally than he had been with Skye. “Have you ever modeled?” Wally shook his head, but the photographer persisted, “You have a rugged
Brokeback Mountain
look that’s very in right now.”

“I’ve never been interested.” Wally stuck his hands in the pockets of his black jeans. “And still am not.”

Skye bit back a giggle as she watched Wally’s ears turn red. Taking pity on him, she pointed to the corner of the desk where calla lilies and white roses were arranged in a beautiful glass vase, and said, “Wow. That’s a gorgeous piece.”

“Thank you. It’s an original Moser.” Yves’s smile was smug.

Skye was impressed. She had learned about antiques and collectables a few years ago when she’d coordinated the Route 66 Hundred Mile Yard Sale, and she knew a vase by that artist didn’t come cheap.

“Please sit down.” Yves gestured impatiently to the visitors’ chairs. “I only have a few minutes until my next client.” Skye and Wally sat as the photographer continued, “I’m not clear why we had to meet today. It’s too late to change anything. Belle and I agreed on the photo list Saturday. All the locations, poses, and groups have been decided.”

“As I told you on the phone, Belle is no longer the wedding coordinator for this event. I am.” Skye ignored his pout. “And as such, I need to make sure everything is proceeding as it should. I couldn’t find the list you mentioned. Did Belle have one?”

“Yes.” He fingered his thin black mustache. “She insisted on making a copy right then and there. Most planners allow me to mail it to them.”

“Oh.” Skye waited, and when he remained seated and silent, she said, “Could you give me the list?”

“I suppose.” He reluctantly stood, picked up a folder from his desktop, and walked into a back room. He returned in a couple of minutes and handed her a sheaf of papers. “Try not to lose this one.”

“
I
didn’t lose the last one,” Skye corrected him. “Belle’s notes indicate that you’ll be present for the bachelor and bachelorette parties, the evening of the rehearsal, and from ten a.m. on the day of the wedding until the last guest leaves.”

“Yes, damn it.” Yves’s answer was clipped. “How many times must I go over this?” Irritation was starting to crack his smooth facade. “I will make the endless drive to the godforsaken town this garish affair is being held in three more times, I will take pictures of drunken revelry at the parties, and I will remain until the last bumpkin has gone back to the barn on Saturday.”

“It sounds as if you aren’t happy with the arrangements.” Skye stated the obvious. “Why did you agree to them?”

He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Because of all that lovely, lovely cash, of course.”

“Yes, I see you’re being paid a tidy sum.” Skye paused, hoping he would mention Belle’s cut. When he didn’t, she said, “Still, I know you have expenses. It’s not as if you’ll take home the whole amount, so why agree to something you aren’t happy about?”

“So I’m not wildly enthusiastic. Belle made me see that it was worth my while.” Yves’s tall, lean body tightened. “A gig’s a gig. All weddings are a pain in the derrière.” His smile was forced. “I signed the damn contract, didn’t I?” His long, thin fingers drummed on the chair arm. “What more do you want from me, blood?”

“I’ll pass on that.” Skye eyed him thoughtfully; he did look a little like a vampire.

Yves stood and Skye realized she was running out of time but couldn’t think of a smooth way to make him admit he was giving Belle a kickback. So she went for the obvious. “I take it that the five percent you agreed on with Belle still stands with me?”

“Of course.”

Bingo.

Yves herded Skye toward the door. “Is that why you brought your muscle?” He nodded toward Wally, who had taken Skye’s arm.

“Of course not.” Skye backpedaled quickly as the photographer’s hand reached for the knob. Was there anything else she should ask? She glanced at Wally, who shrugged.

“So, I’ll see you Thursday at the bachelor and bachelorette parties,” Skye said, stalling. “Do you know the time?”

“Yes.” Yves’s hand was on the small of her back, and he firmly propelled her over the threshold. “Seven sharp.”

She had time for just one more question. “Were you surprised when Belle asked for a commission on your fee?”

“No.” Yves’s tone was even, but his eyes indicated his irritation. “Nothing surprises me. The wedding business is murder.”

 

“Yves didn’t agree to shoot the wedding for the money,” Skye announced as she put on her seat belt. “The job doesn’t mean the same thing to him as it does to the tent-and-rental company.”

Wally handed his parking receipt and a twenty to the man in the booth, then asked, “What makes you say that?”

“His studio is on the Gold Coast, he advertises himself as a VIP photographer whose clients include the city’s glitterati, and his desk alone is worth more than all the furniture in my entire house. Thirty-two thousand is a lot of money, but I’m sure he could make just as much photographing an event in Chicago. Especially since June is the high season for weddings.”

“So why did he take the job?” Wally asked as he accepted his change—six whole dollars.

“That’s what we need to find out.” Skye flipped down the visor and combed her fingers through her curls. In her hurry this morning, she’d allowed her hair to dry without straightening it. “I’m guessing from what he said that Belle had something on him.” She applied pale peach lip gloss. “She was extremely good at finding out what motivated people and using that knowledge to her advantage. As she did with Riley, when she threatened to move the wedding to California if she didn’t produce an assistant for her in Scumble River.”

“Interesting theory.” Wally pulled out of the garage, then glanced over to Skye. “What did she have on you?”

“The usual.” Skye’s cheeks reddened. “Family loyalty and Catholic guilt.”

Since the photographer had practically thrown them out of his studio, they were a bit early for their meeting with the linen consultant. Wally had barely entered the woman’s office when she marched over to him, not stopping until she was nearly stepping on his toes, and demanded, “What are you doing here?” A petulant expression marred her heavily made-up face and produced a querulous line between her overplucked eyebrows. “I told you I’d call you when I was finished.”

Skye stepped from behind Wally and said, “Hello, I’m Skye Denison. If you’re Angela Beckman, I believe we have an appointment.”

“Oh, I didn’t see you there. Yes, I’m she.” The linen consultant put a hand to her chest. Turning to Wally, she explained, “I thought you were someone else.” She blew out a puff of exasperation at Skye. “You’re not supposed to be here for fifteen minutes.”

Angela wore a short black skirt and a lace spandex empire-waist top. A pink bow rested below the vee of her considerable cleavage. The outfit looked expensive but too young for the fiftysomething-year-old woman.