Murder of a Wedding Belle (5 page)

“And you?” Skye couldn’t resist asking.

“Let’s just say keeping Nicky happy is beneficial to my bottom line, too.”

“He must really love her,” Skye said, silently wondering why a powerful man like Nick would put up with Riley’s narcissistic behavior. He was rich enough to find a less demanding wife. “She certainly seems to have him wrapped around her finger.”

“Women as gorgeous as your cousin are always demanding.” Gus shrugged. “And Nicky is drawn to beauty. Good thing he enjoys pampering his wives.” Gus held up his empty glass. “I need another drink. Can I get you anything from the bar?”

“No, thanks.” She had fifteen minutes before dinner. If she was lucky, that gave her just enough time to finish off those phone calls for Belle. The last thing she wanted on a Sunday morning was a ticked-off wedding planner. “See you later.”

After she let Wally know what she was doing, she looked for a quiet place where she could sit down. An alcove near the restrooms was screened off by a trifold divider and contained a small conversational furniture grouping. Skye eased into a cushioned chair and kicked off her high heels.

As she dialed the first number, she heard a woman on the other side of the partition screech, “How could you?”

“Dammit!” an infuriated male voice exploded. “I said I was sorry.”

“But all that money—”

Not wanting to eavesdrop, Skye cleared her throat and said loudly into her cell phone, “Hi. I’m calling to see if you’re planning to attend the Erickson-Jordan wedding next Saturday.” As soon as Skye spoke, all went quiet behind the partition, and when she finished making her calls and walked back into the main part of the restaurant, there was no one near where she’d been sitting.

Wally was waiting for her by the entrance to the private dining room, and as he led her to their table, Skye wondered whom she’d overheard and hoped that whatever the couple was arguing about wouldn’t interfere with Riley’s wedding.

If the Shoe Fits

W
hen Skye pulled into the Up A Lazy River Motor Court a few minutes past eight o’clock Sunday morning, the only movement was the red neon NO VACANCY sign blinking steadily on and off. The front windows of the dozen cabins that formed a horseshoe around the motel’s office had their curtains tightly drawn, suggesting the occupants were still snug in their beds.

Which wasn’t surprising. Last night, no one had left the restaurant until well after midnight, and most of the group had been drinking steadily for five hours straight. Skye had been concerned that everyone had to drive forty-five miles on unfamiliar country roads to get back to the motor court, but she could think of no way to stop them—it wasn’t as if either Laurel or Scumble River had a taxi service—so it was a relief to see the cars intact and parked safely in front of the cottages.

Truth be told, Skye had been a little tipsy herself. She normally stopped after one cocktail, but she had had several mojitos, not to mention a couple of glasses of champagne, and now with the sun glaring into her eyes and her temples pounding, she regretted every lime-flavored swallow and bubbly sip.

In fact, it was a good thing that Bingo had demanded his breakfast, meowing loudly over and over again until Skye finally gave in and emerged from under the covers, or she’d still be sleeping. As it was, she had already missed the first Mass and would have to attend the nine-o’clock one instead. The second service was the one most families chose, and while she loved children, today she was not in the mood for screaming infants and restless toddlers.

Skye waited for a wave of nausea to pass before easing open the door of the Bel Air, careful not to ding the bloodred Porsche in the space next to hers. Belle was leasing the expensive car for the month she was in Scumble River, but she acted as if it were her own, and a dent would send her into a hissy fit to rival Joan Crawford’s wire-hanger temper tantrum.

Once she was able to wiggle out of the Chevy, Skye walked gingerly to the door of number six. Mindful of her throbbing head, she tapped softly and waited. When several minutes ticked by with no answer, she forced herself to knock harder. Still no response.

After two more attempts, Skye pounded on the wood and called, “Belle, it’s Skye.” Nothing. Wincing, she plugged her ears and yelled, “Open up!”

Silence. Where the heck was Belle? Skye glanced around. The motor court had a blank feeling, like a stage just before the play begins. She shivered. Something wasn’t right. A moment later, she shook her head. Maybe her ex-boyfriend had had a point. Maybe she did have too much imagination for her own good.

There were only a few places Belle could possibly be—two of which were the adjoining storage and work-space cabins. Cabin five showed no sign of Belle, but when Skye crossed the grass to number four, she saw that the door was ajar.

She stepped over the threshold, then stopped. The interior was pitch-black and silent. Her pulse accelerated. This couldn’t be good. Had someone broken in and stolen the wedding supplies? For starters, the Jay Strongwater butterfly clips that would be attached to the fifty-plus centerpieces were worth nearly ten thousand dollars.

Ready to run if the thief was still there, Skye flicked on the light switch. The cabin was empty. She took a quick look around the bedroom and attached bathroom. Everything seemed in order, and there was no sign of either Belle or a burglar.

Great
. Now she had two reasons to find Belle—to give her the list and to find out why the storage cabin door wasn’t locked.
Shoot.
If she didn’t locate Belle soon, Skye’d be late for church.

Father Burns, though charitable about most of his flock’s shortcomings, did not tolerate tardiness. He was apt to make an example of anyone who dared come in after the processional, and considering her hangover, Skye already felt like enough of a sinner.

Still, she couldn’t just leave. Belle would have a meltdown if she didn’t have the RSVPs in time to make the caterer’s deadline, and if there
had
been a burglary, it needed to be reported. Skye chewed her lip. Should she slip the list and a note about the unlocked cabin under Belle’s door? No. What if she missed it?

Hmm.
Maybe Belle was working with the floral designer. Neither had been at the party, and they might be early risers. Skye hurried over to the cabin that Iris was using as a work space and knocked on the door.

When there was no answer, Skye scratched her head. Now what? Could Belle be at breakfast? Her car wasn’t gone, but she could have hitched a ride with someone.

Terrific
. She looked around, her gaze falling on the motor court’s office.

Uncle Charlie!
Her godfather, Charlie Patukas, could give Belle the list when she got back. He owned the motor court and his bungalow was attached to the office, so he could keep an eye out for her return.

Skye headed toward the parking lot. As she edged past the floral cooling unit situated on the asphalt in front of cabin three, she noticed that the motor was running. That was odd. The flowers weren’t due to be delivered until Wednesday. Why would Iris have started up the refrigerator?

Skye circled around to the front of the unit, then stopped. When she had learned that the refrigerator would be holding fifty thousand dollars’ worth of expensive blooms, she’d made sure its door was equipped with a heavy-duty lock. And while the key was still in the dead bolt just as she’d left it—Iris had insisted the key remain there rather than risk misplacing the tiny piece of steel—it was now sideways, indicating that the mechanism was engaged.

The hair on the nape of Skye’s neck stood up. Something was definitely wrong. Her heart raced. She quickly turned the key and swung open the heavy door. A gust of icy air billowed out, and she shuddered. Someone had cranked the temperature way, way down.

Shivering, Skye looked inside the eight-by-eight metal box. Shelves from floor to ceiling formed two narrow aisles from front to back and a third along the rear wall.

The sound of her breathing echoed loudly in the eerie silence. At first the unit appeared empty, but then, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she noticed a cobalt satin high-heel shoe peeking from beneath the bottom shelf to the right of the entrance.

Oh-oh.
Skye darted forward, picked up the stiletto, and quickly exited. Out in the sunlight, the crystal brooch on the vamp winked up at her, but it was the Manolo Blahnik label on the insole that caught her attention.
Crap!
No woman willingly abandoned a shoe from a pair that cost close to a thousand dollars. This story would not have a happy ending.

Should she close the door and get help? But what would she say—that she was afraid the wicked stepmother had done something to Cinderella? Before she could talk herself out of it, she walked inside and pulled the chain attached to the bulb bolted overhead.

Moving left, Skye peered down that aisle. Seeing nothing but bare shelves, she took a relieved breath. One down, one to go. Next she stepped to the right and examined the space.
Eek!
A spill of blue silk oozed from behind the far end of the shelving.

Skye forced herself to walk toward the fabric and turn the corner. Lying on the cold steel floor was Belle, and she wasn’t moving. Without thinking, Skye whirled around and ran for the door.

Reality Check

S
kye stopped in midsprint, her first-responder training kicking in and overcoming her fears. She turned back. Even if there was only a small chance that Belle was still alive, Skye had to get her out of the refrigerator and start CPR.

After rolling Belle over, Skye worked her hands underneath her arms, clasped them around her upper chest, and with a mighty heave tugged Belle into a sitting position. Grunting, Skye moved her into the side aisle but had to rest before going any farther. For someone who claimed to wear a size double zero, Belle felt heavier than a sumo wrestler.

Taking a deep breath, Skye grabbed Belle again, then froze as a high-pitched scream echoed off the metal walls. Skye’s head popped up like the clown’s in a jack-in-the-box. Iris stood in the doorway, her mouth forming a perfect circle and her hands clutching her cheeks.

“Iris, thank God. Help me get her outside,” Skye commanded.

The floral designer didn’t budge. Her beautiful almond-shaped eyes were huge and her complexion was as white as zinc oxide. It looked as if she was going into shock.

“Iris. Please.” Skye tried to calm her. “This could be a matter of life or death.”

Iris nodded but sank to the ground, whimpering.

Giving up, Skye turned her attention back to Belle. Laying her down, Skye felt for a pulse in the woman’s throat and wrist. Nothing. She leaned forward to check for breathing but looked up as she heard a familiar voice.

Uncle Charlie was rushing toward her, an apoplectic expression on his flushed face. He was a big man, six feet and more than three hundred pounds, but he could move quickly when the situation warranted it. As he reached the floral refrigerator, he bellowed, “What the hell’s going on here? Don’t tell me you found another body.”

“I hope not.” Skye said a fevered prayer under her breath. “Help me get her outside.”

Charlie and Skye carried Belle out to the warm pavement. Skye checked again for a pulse or breathing but found none. As she started CPR she ordered, “Call the paramedics, then Wally.”

“Wally!” Charlie thundered. “Wasn’t this an accident?”

Skye shook her head but didn’t stop what she was doing.

Charlie groaned, then lumbered off toward the motel office.

Skye continued CPR until the EMTs arrived and pushed her aside. Stationing herself in front of the refrigerator, determined not to let anyone taint the crime scene, she waited for the police. Unfortunately, the commotion drew the bridal party from their cabins.

Liam Murphy was the first to arrive. “What’s happened?” He was dressed in a jogging suit and continued to run in place as he spoke.

Skye crossed her arms and maintained her position. “Please return to your cabin. Once the police arrive, they’ll speak to you.”

“The police! What’s happened?”

Skye kept her expression neutral. “The police will explain everything.”

“Who put you in charge?” Liam challenged.

“I did.” Skye met his stare. “I’m the psychological consultant to the Scumble River Police Department.”

Before Liam could respond, Zach and Paige Hathaway, Tabitha Urick, and Gus Zeitler joined them, each wearing some form of nightclothes. The only guests missing were Hale and Hallie Jordan. As Skye tried to decide what, if anything, their absence meant, a police car skidded into the parking lot.

Wally exited from the cruiser, followed closely by a uniformed young woman. A few weeks ago, Wally had hired two additional officers, bringing his staff to six full-timers and two part-timers, but Skye had been so busy with the wedding, she hadn’t met the new hires yet and couldn’t remember their names.

Wally introduced them. “Skye, this is Officer Martinez. Martinez, this is our psych consultant, Ms. Denison.”

“Call me Skye.” She noted that the female officer’s dark brown hair was drawn tightly back and fastened in a bun at the nape of her neck and her face was bare of makeup. Was the young woman trying to be one of the guys? Being the first female officer on the Scumble River PD couldn’t be easy.

“I’m Zelda.” Officer Martinez held out a hand with professionally manicured bright red fingernails.

“Nice to meet you.” Skye shook the young woman’s hand, glad to see Zelda wasn’t afraid to let her feminine side show after all.

After ordering everyone back to their rooms, Wally instructed Officer Martinez to see that the guests stayed inside their cabins, then conferred with the paramedics, who shook their heads and packed up their gear.

As the EMTs returned to their ambulance and drove away, Wally took out his cell and called for additional officers to seal off the parking lot. Next he requested the county crime-scene techs and the coroner. When Skye heard the latter, a wave of dizziness overwhelmed her and she sank to the curb. She’d been running on adrenaline, but now, realizing that Belle was really, truly dead, she thought she might throw up.