Say Yes to the Death (24 page)

“Yes, she did,” Mother replied.

“Damn,” I said, thinking that all three suddenly seemed like lame suspects to me. I wasn't sure I could see any one of them confronting Olivia in her office, grabbing a cake knife, and stabbing her to death.

“Ladies, can we move on, please.” Brian leaned forward, his arms on the conference table. “I'll pass along all those insights to our investigator. Anything else you'd care to share?”

“Yes,” I said, perking up. “Draco and Terra both knew about Olivia's real boyfriend, who is probably married and who definitely bought her silence by getting her the Turtle Creek penthouse. Only he used a dummy corporation to buy it so no one would be the wiser.” I looked at Mother. “Draco thought the name was something like Staypuff.”

“Yes, that's what he said.” Cissy nodded.

“Staypuff?” Malone repeated, and I knew he was thinking of the Marshmallow Man, too. “While you were, um, eavesdropping, did you get the boyfriend's name, by chance?”

“No, sorry, Draco and Terra didn't know,” I admitted. “But Olivia bragged that he had lots of people kissing his ass and lots of women who wanted to sleep with him.” I leaned my elbows on the table. “If this rich and powerful boyfriend was really married, I'm sure he freaked at the news of Olivia's bun in the oven. Draco said that just a couple of days before she died, Olivia suggested playing out a pregnancy scare on the show, only he wouldn't agree.”

“But she
was
pregnant,” Malone said, and I saw a vein bulge on his forehead. “She didn't have to fake it.”

“Yeah, but Draco didn't know that at the time.” I sat up straighter as a couple of giant
what ifs
came to mind. “What if Olivia wanted this baby to happen? And what if her boyfriend didn't? What if the baby was his worst nightmare?”

“It's despicable”—­Cissy clicked tongue against teeth—­“the lengths that some men will go to, to avoid taking responsibility for their actions.”

“Or to protect their social standing,” I said.

“Hmm.” Brian made a noise and started shuffling through some paperwork. He withdrew a page and squinted at it. “We do have the name of the corporation listed on the property tax records for the purchase of the Turtle Creek penthouse,” he said. “It's called Stayman, Inc.”

So Draco hadn't been too far off the mark after all.

“Someone named Stayman also posted the video of Millie threatening Olivia at the wedding,” Brian said and glanced up. “We're looking into who operates that YouTube account, and we're also looking into ownership of the company, but it might take a while to get answers.”

“So much of Olivia's life was a mystery,” I said.

“Excuse me.” My mother cleared her throat and raised her hand, like a child in a classroom. “But I have a question.”

Brian turned to face her. “Shoot.”

“You said Stayman, did you not?” Cissy asked.

“That's right, Stayman.” He pushed at his glasses.

I wrinkled my brow. “Have you heard of it?”

“Well, it could just be coincidence,” Cissy murmured, fingering her pearls, “but Stayman is a bridge term . . .”

“So?” I said, because I wasn't sure how that mattered. Lots of people knew bridge terms. “It also could be someone's name.”

“Oh, it's that, too,” she told me and stopped playing with her pearls. She clasped her hands on the conference table, focused on Brian. “It was the name of one of my best bridge partner's beloved cocker spaniels many moons ago,” she explained.

“Stayman was a dog?” Brian remarked.

Mother nodded. “He belonged to my friend Adelaide, bless her heart, when she was married to Lester Dickens.”

Chapter 29

W
e left Brian's office about an hour later, after Allie had returned, of course, and grilled me even harder than the police about Olivia La Belle. By the time Mother and I escaped, went down the elevator, and exited the doors of the downtown high-­rise, I was exhausted and tense and more convinced than ever that Millie had been set up. Not by a trio of bumbling amateurs, but by someone with a big wad of cash, enough to have bought and paid for a professional hit.

Someone like Lester Dickens.

At first I'd wondered if Olivia was having an affair with the oilman. But why would Dickens need to kill a pregnant girlfriend? Why not just write her a check and dispense with her relatively quietly, as he had multiple wives? No, it made more sense that he was protecting someone else, a man who had way more to lose than a marriage or a reputation if word got out that he'd knocked up his mistress.

A man like Vernon Ryan.

When I'd suggested to Allie and Brian that they have the firm's PI investigate Lester Dickens's and Senator Ryan's ties to Olivia, they'd looked at each other and then at me like I was a lunatic.

My mother hadn't appeared any too happy either. “You think Vernon was sleepin' with Olivia?” She'd frowned, though her brow stayed smooth as silk. “I hope you're wrong, Andrea. That would break Shelby's heart. They've been together since high school, and she spent a lot of time alone raising Penny when Vern was in the Navy. She's put up with a lot for him.”

“Sorry, Andy, but I'm with your mother”—­Allie McSqueal had jumped right on the Bash Andy Bandwagon—­“that theory's six kinds of crazy. We can't go around accusing Senator Ryan of being involved with Olivia La Belle without some pretty solid evidence.”

I didn't have evidence. But I did have a hunch that Lester Dickens had orchestrated Olivia's murder and implicated Millie in her death.

It fit like a kidskin glove.

“Who else could have pulled it off?” I'd said.

“All you have is a bunch of hearsay,” Allie had insisted. “Forget Senator Ryan for a moment. You do know who Lester Dickens is?” she'd asked, like I was some brainless bumpkin. “He's not just the biggest oil tycoon in the state, but he's a political heavy hitter, like a wannabe Koch brother. And he comes with his own goon squad. They're probably armed better than the Dallas Metro Police.”

“So that makes them off-­limits,” I'd replied, “even if Senator Ryan's the reason Olivia's dead and Dickens is the one who had her killed?”

“It's not our job to identify or prosecute the guilty parties,” Allie had retorted, giving Brian a look, like,
Why are you with this chick?
“We don't even have to prove Millie's innocence, just that she's not guilty and someone else had the opportunity to do it.”

“So you're not going to look into Dickens?” I'd asked, because that was the feeling I had gotten despite Malone's promises.

“We have to tread lightly, Andy,” Brian had said. “We can't just bulldoze our way into his business and his private life. We'd need evidence, something concrete, something we could take to the police, like emails or voice mails, some kind of trail.”

“But that's why he took Olivia's laptop and her phone!” I'd said, throwing up my hands. “He had to be sure no one found his footprints. He had to protect himself and Vernon Ryan.”

“You don't know for sure that she was sleeping with the senator,” Allie had shot back, shaking her head. “That's a huge accusation, and not one we can throw around without something to back it up.”

“Why don't you tell the DA to check for a DNA match between Olivia's unborn baby and the senator,” I'd said, shaking with frustration. “That should give the police enough to start digging into Vernon Ryan's connection to Olivia.”

“I've had enough,” Cissy had said and put an arm around my shoulders, quietly telling me, “You've done all you can, Andrea. It's time to let go.”

And she was right.

I didn't know what else I could do to help Millie except sit back and wait for the chips to fall where they may. I was pretty sure that Terra Smith would never speak to me again much less help plan my wedding (not that I'd want her to). Ditto Draco and Jasper Pippin. At least I'd given Brian and Allie a ton of food for thought—­and more suspects to consider—­and I had to believe that the truth would win out, despite Millie looking as guilty as ever with that carefully edited video playing on YouTube showing her telling Olivia, “One day, you'll get what's coming to you, and it won't be any too soon!”

As I got behind the wheel of the Jeep and started the engine, I told myself,
Hang it up, Nancy Drew.
I'd given sleuthing my best shot, and I'd failed.

The drive back to my mother's house was a fairly silent one until Mother's phone trilled. “Stephen!” I heard her say, and her voice joyfully rose. I quickly gathered from the conversation that he'd landed ahead of schedule and was already at Beverly Drive, waiting to see her. “Oh, sweetheart,” she cooed, “I've missed you, too!”

Hearing the affection in her tone gave me such bittersweet emotions. Though I wished to God every day that I still had my father, I figured Stephen wouldn't be a half-­bad stepdad. He was kind and smart, and he was manly without being macho. He made my mother happy—­and softer somehow—­and that was worth scads.

When Mother hung up with her beau, she turned to me and said, “Step on it, would you? My man is back!”

Um, hello, wasn't I the woman who drove like a bat out of hell?

But I gave the Jeep more gas regardless, making the engine
vroom
, which made Mother's smile even wider. Maybe all wasn't quite right with the world, but you wouldn't have known it by looking at Cissy in that moment.

I offered to drop her off in front so as not to crash their reunion. But Mother insisted I come inside.

“Nonsense,” she said once I'd pulled into the driveway, “Stephen will want to see you and hear all about us being locked in the dressing room at the World Trade Center.”

I wasn't so sure that I wanted to tell that story again, considering the reception it had gotten from my own fiancé, but what else did I have to do but go back to the condo, work on clients' Web sites, and wallow in self-­pity? And, admittedly, my mind was not on Web design at the moment.

“Sure, I'll come in for a few minutes.” I caved, turning off the ignition and getting out. Mother had already climbed down from her seat by the time I came around the hood, and she was smoothing down her skirt when I saw the front door open.

“Sweetie!” she cried as Stephen appeared.

“Cecelia!” he called to her and started down the steps, his arms opened wide.

She scooted across the cobbled driveway like a gazelle in three-­inch heels.

Cecelia?

Wow. I hadn't heard that name uttered in eons, not since I was about ten and my great-­grandmother had been on her way out of this life. We'd visited her in the nursing home when she had late stage dementia and thought I was my mother. “Cecelia,” she'd said, “your nails look filthy. Don't you ever wash your hands?” I remembered my mother explaining to me that Cecelia was her given name but no one ever used it. She'd always been Cissy to everyone, including me and my father.

Except for Stephen, I mused, but I thought I understood. Since neither Daddy nor I had ever called her Cecelia, maybe that was why she didn't mind Stephen doing it. It made him separate from us and what we'd had. It could be her way of starting fresh.

“Hey, lovebirds,” I said and cleared my throat to get their attention. “Maybe I should duck out and leave you alone.”

They stopped hugging the lights out of each other, and Mother swiveled in Stephen's arms so I could see her pink cheeks.

“You'll do no such thing!” she called. “Stephen said he has pictures from Augusta to show us!”

Yeeha.

I should have slipped away while I'd had the chance.

Unable to extricate myself gracefully, I followed them up the steps, across the porch, and inside.

“It's so good to have you back,” Cissy told her beau, squeezing him around the waist. “Do you need a drink?”

Good thing I wasn't thirsty 'cause she didn't even ask.

“I've already got a cold beer in the living room,” he said.

“Then let's head in and rest our feet,” Mother suggested.

“Sounds good to me,” I replied, though, again, nobody asked.

I sunk down into an easy chair while Cissy kicked off her heels and dumped her suit jacket on the back of the sofa. She looked so cool and crisp in her pink dress and pearls as she tucked her stocking feet beneath her. Stephen settled down at her side, an open bottle of Peroni propped on a coaster on the coffee table, easily within arm's reach.

“Let me see the pictures,” Cissy said, sticking a hand in his jacket pocket.

Stephen laughed, batting her fingers away and withdrawing a paper packet. He slid photographs from the sleeve and handed them to my mother.

“Have at it,” he said.

“Oh, you look like you were having fun,” she murmured as she began to flip through the stack of them. “Ah, there's the Eisenhower tree . . . and the Big Oak.”

My mother had gone with my father to Augusta more than once when I was little and Sandy had babysat me. I was sure she knew each landmark well.

“So Andy,” Stephen said while Mother continued to admire his pictures. He had his hand on Cissy's knee, and she didn't seem to mind. “I've heard you've had quite a time while I've been gone. Your mother said you lost a classmate in a pretty rough fashion.”

“Yes, Olivia La Belle,” I said, slumping against the pillows at my back. “She was a bitch and a half. But murder is a harsh way to go.”

“It definitely is.” He raised his eyebrows, which were cinnamon tinged with white, like his hair. “You didn't like her?”

“No, she was awful,” I admitted, squirming. “But I didn't know she was having a baby. Maybe she wanted to change. I'd like to think so, anyway.”

I rubbed my eyes, thinking of something Olivia had said to me. I had thought she was about to apologize. Perhaps, in a way, she was.

I can't always do what's right and I can't always please everyone, can I? I have to look out for myself and sometimes that makes me a little too—­

Dead, I thought, and I sighed.

“So the police haven't arrested anyone yet?” Stephen asked, and I shook my head.

“No, not yet, but Brian said they're building their case against Millie. I'm sure Mother already told you that I'm part of the reason Millie's in trouble, because I walked into Olivia's office and saw her with the body. But she didn't do it,” I said, more certain than ever. “You know she stayed here last night?”

“So your mother mentioned,” Stephen replied and nodded at Cissy. “I wanted to fly back sooner but she wouldn't let me. She didn't want Millie to feel unwelcome, and I trusted her instincts.”

“Really?” It was my turn to be surprised. I glanced at Mother, but she still had her head down as she went through the photos. “I thought she'd have begged you to come home and set things to right.”

He smiled. “Well, I'm here now. Any way I can help? Though I know Millie's in great hands with Brian on the case.”

“I don't know if there's anything else we can do except support her,” I said, resigned to the fact that I had to sit on the sidelines.

“And we will support her to the fullest,” my mother chirped, glancing up. She tapped the photos together on the coffee table then passed them across to me. “Have a look, Andrea. See what fun a vacation can be? Seems to me you haven't taken one in a long time. Though I guess your next one will be your honeymoon,
n'cest pas
?”

“I guess you're right,” I said and took the photos.

She turned to her beau and they started chatting about his trip, the weather in Augusta, how much golf he'd played
,
and what he'd scored.

It was as though a murder hadn't happened and everything was hunky-­dory.

I tuned them out and halfheartedly shuffled through the pictures. Ah, there was Stephen with his buddies on the golf course. There they were drinking beer after golf. There were the obligatory sunsets, a giant loblolly pine, a pretty bridge, and an older dude standing in front of a fountain with his arms hooked over the shaft of a golf club.

I peered more closely and noticed that those arms happened to sport tattoo sleeves that looked an awful lot like roses and thorns. I couldn't help but think of Pete the Cameraman, and my heart skipped a beat.

“Who's this?” I asked Stephen, interrupting him and Mother as I handed the photo back.

He shot me a toothy grin. “That's an old Navy buddy of mine. His name's Bill McGill. Handicap's twelve, but he's got a hell of a chip shot.”

“So are the tattoos military?”

“They can be,” Stephen said with a nod. “They are for Bill. The thorns represent every tour he did. The roses are for his wife and kids. He got a bone frog on his ass after he retired, but I don't have a picture of that, thank God.”

“Oh, you!” Cissy giggled.

“A bone frog?” I said.

“It's a skeleton frog,” Stephen explained, “for Navy special ops. You don't want a thing like that on your body while you're serving, in case you run into trouble and have to wiggle out. In my day, only a few of the guys had tats, but all the young ones do it now. The old-­timers waited to get ink until they mustered out.”

I knew I'd seen a tattoo like that somewhere. But my brain was too filled with other stuff to remember where. But the rose and thorn tattoos I could never forget.

So who was Pete the Cameraman really?