Tying the Knot (4 page)

Beatrice said, “June Bug, you've really outdone yourself with this wedding cake. I've never seen anything like it. Miss Sissy, don't you think that June Bug's cake is really too pretty to eat?”

The old woman gave her a scornful look.
“Foolishness,” she muttered, finishing off her piece and eyeing the others with a canny expression. “Foolishness!” she repeated again with feeling.

“Thank you, Beatrice,” said June Bug with a smile. “It was fun to make. I love baking.”

“And we love to gobble up the things you bake!” said Meadow, sweeping in behind them. She'd eschewed her usual flowing garments for a more tailored silk suit jacket in lime green over a long black skirt. Her long gray braid was much tidier than usual, and she was even sporting makeup. Meadow pointed to a nearby photographer. “June Bug, the photographer was saying that he wanted to have a picture of the cake baker with the cake.”

June Bug's round eyes grew rounder with dismay.

Meadow said stoutly, “Come on, June Bug. It's easy. You stand there and smile. And then Harper and Daniel will have a lovely picture in their wedding book.”

June Bug trotted off with an expression that evoked a prisoner heading to the gallows. Miss Sissy had already slunk off to stand innocently near the cake, apparently waiting for an opportunity to swipe another piece.

Meadow leaned over toward Beatrice and said in her stage whisper, “What's the scoop on Trevor? Have you been able to keep tabs on him?”

Beatrice gave her an alarmed look. “Meadow, I didn't think I was supposed to.” She frowned, thinking back over the past couple of hours. “I did see him in the church—he was wearing a suit and looked rather solemn, I thought. His wife was next to him, and she didn't look very pleased. But I wasn't sure if she was
unpleased with Trevor being sacked as best man or just upset with Trevor in general. Has he been misbehaving at the reception?”

Meadow's husband, Ramsay, walked up next to Beatrice. “
Who's
been misbehaving at the reception?” he asked in a grim voice.

“Maybe Trevor,” said Meadow. “At least, we don't know he has, but we're voting him Most Likely to Misbehave if someone does.”

Ramsay relaxed a bit. Although the Dappled Hills police chief was clearly off duty, he never knew when he would have to quickly go on duty again in the small mountain town. He was a short, balding man with a quiet air of authority and a stomach that testified to Meadow's good Southern cooking. Although he seemed to be enjoying the reception, and Beatrice had spotted him dancing with Meadow to the music of the local folk band that was playing, she knew if he had his way, he'd be at home in his favorite armchair, drinking a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and reading
Walden
for the millionth time.

“So no immediate threat,” he murmured. “Just Meadow's imagination running rampant again.”

“My imagination is doing no such thing!” said Mead-
ow indignantly. “We've got precedent! Trevor Garber is a real mess.”

Ramsay squinted as he scoured the tables under the huge tent. “Oh yes, he's a real mess, all right. Sitting quietly over there by himself at the table, watching everyone.”

Beatrice glanced over. Trevor was indeed slumped rather sadly in his chair, watching people dance, eat,
and drink. He had a Coke in front of him, which Beatrice assumed was rum and Coke, but this time Trevor didn't appear intoxicated. Beatrice frowned as she glimpsed a shadowy figure peering around the side of the tent. The figure seemed to be trying to get Trevor's attention. After a quick glance her way, however, he was gone. Beatrice frowned. Was it her imagination, or was that the man who'd been arguing with Trevor in the restaurant?

Lyla Wales briskly walked away from her guest-book duties to get a plate of food. Beatrice noted that Trevor tried to catch Lyla's eye, but she seemed determined not to look his way.

Meadow sniffed. “He's probably sitting quietly by himself because he's alienated half the people here.”

Ramsay said thoughtfully, “That I can believe. I had to pick him up on a drunk-and-disorderly lately, trying to start a fight in a bar.”

Meadow gaped at him. “With whom?”

“Half the bar,” said Ramsay with a shrug. “He didn't seem to realize he was slightly outnumbered. Perhaps I should have pulled him in for inciting a riot.”

Beatrice said, “What's set him off like this? I'm sure Daniel wouldn't originally have chosen Trevor as his best man if he'd always been this way. This is a small town . . . You don't remember having any other problems with him previously, do you, Ramsay?”

Ramsay shook his head. “No. He's been a reputable doctor. He did talk to me in the car when I was driving him back home. I don't think he was really looking forward to going back home. Apparently, his wife had
found out about a relationship he was having with someone.”

“With whom?” Meadow was starting to sound a bit repetitive.

“He didn't say, and I didn't ask. Wasn't any of my business. But I got the impression that this illicit relationship of his had ended—and that Trevor was pretty upset about it.”

They reflected on this a moment, looking at Trevor's back. Then Meadow abruptly changed the subject. “By the way, Beatrice,” she said with a delighted grin, “did you see Georgia and Tony Brock dancing with each other? I don't think I've seen any sweeter sight. And Savannah didn't seem to blink an eye. Savannah even said that she'd made that pretty sundress that Georgia is wearing. I can't believe how relaxed Tony looked in a suit, when I've only ever seen him in blue jeans and a T-shirt. He looks as if he's worn a suit every day of his life.”

Ramsay rolled his eyes at the romantic gossip. “You'll be glad to know, Beatrice, that your salvation is on its way. Wyatt's heading over. Maybe he wants you to dance.”

Meadow said, “Have you caught your breath yet from our last dance together, Ramsay? Because I'm ready for another spin.”

Wyatt held out a hand to Beatrice. “Have I told you how lovely you look tonight?” he asked in a low voice. “I'm so proud that you're here with me.”

The folk-music trio, on cue, started playing a slow song, and Beatrice relaxed into Wyatt's arms. She
glanced back over at Trevor's table but didn't see him there. Probably gone to get another drink. With any luck, one with no alcohol in it.

The rest of the evening was a pleasant blur of toasts and dancing, great food, and time with friends.

Until Beatrice once again caught sight of Trevor Garber.

The bride and groom had just left the reception, smiles on their faces, well-wishers blowing bubbles as they ran to their car on their way to a short, weekend honeymoon, since Daniel had a trial in Lenoir on Monday. The car had, blissfully, escaped much tampering with, although someone had written
Just Married
in shaving cream on the car's back window.

Wedding guests were gathering their things and leaving. The band had stopped playing and was packing up instruments and gear. The catering crew was busily cleaning up, with June Bug helping them out. Meadow, Posy, Beatrice, and other Village Quilters were gathering the quilting decorations for Harper to keep.

Meadow grimaced at Trevor, napping at the table with his head on his folded arms. “Guess we spoke too soon,” she hissed. “Looks like he's tanked, after all.”

“Well, we weren't worried about him being tanked. We were worried he'd make a scene. And he didn't,”
said Beatrice. “I guess there must have been alcohol in that Coke of his.”

“Falling asleep at a wedding reception seems to qualify as a scene,” said Meadow as she removed pennants from the table of refreshments. “At least, it does to me.”

“Where's Eleanor?” asked Beatrice. “Isn't she keeping an eye on her husband?”

“It looked like she was trying to avoid him all evening,” said Meadow. “Oh, except for one time. Once I saw her with him at the table, but it looked as if they were arguing.”

Beatrice poked her head out of the tent and scanned the church grounds. “I think I see her. She's talking with some friends.” She paused and looked at Trevor. The catering company was in the process of packing away the chairs and tables, and kept stealing glances over at Trevor, as if hoping he were about to get out of his chair so they could put it away. One of the staff members rolled her eyes at the sight of the sleeping Trevor and glanced at her watch in frustration. Beatrice said to Meadow, “The caterers look like they're ready to wrap things up. It's time to wake up Trevor.”

Beatrice walked over and put a hand on Trevor's shoulder, half expecting him to jolt awake.

But he didn't.

“Trevor?” asked Beatrice sharply.

No response.

Beatrice shook him by the shoulder insistently, with no response. Finally, she put a shaking hand to the side of his neck to feel for a pulse . . . a pulse that wasn't there.

Beatrice looked up to see Meadow gaping at her. “Is he . . . ?” she asked.

“I'm afraid so. Where's Ramsay?” asked Beatrice grimly.

Before Meadow could answer, they saw Lyla walking by, holding the guest quilt and some of the candles used as decorations. She gave only a furtive glance their way at first, as if still trying not to engage on any level with Trevor. But when she noticed their serious faces, she quickly put the quilt and candles down on a table and hurried over.

“What's wrong?” she asked sharply.

“Trevor's dead,” said Beatrice.

“He can't be,” she snapped, as if impatient with Beatrice. “Trevor?” She shook him by the shoulder, as Beatrice had done.

Lyla took a deep breath as she finally accepted the truth. White-faced, she knelt beside him and touched his arm with a tenderness that Beatrice hadn't seen from her. She whispered, “Why couldn't we have loved each other at the same time?”

A sharp exclamation from across the tent made the women quickly look up to see Eleanor staring angrily at them. “What's this? What's going on?”

Lyla slowly backed away from Trevor. “Nothing is going on, Eleanor,” she said gently. “It's going to be okay.”

Eleanor's piercing gaze transferred to her husband, still slumped on the table. “What's wrong with Trevor?”

“I'll get Ramsay,” muttered Meadow, scampering off.

Beatrice strode over to Eleanor's side. “I'm afraid
that something terrible has happened.” She took Eleanor by the arm in a supportive way. “Trevor has . . . passed away.”

Eleanor stared at her, slack-jawed. “Trevor? He can't have. He was fine a few minutes ago.”

“Was he?” asked Beatrice intently.

“Of course he was. Well, he was a little too relaxed—sleeping. But he gets that way when he drinks.” Her voice was sounding faint, and Beatrice helped her to a chair.

Meadow returned a bit breathlessly with a grim Ramsay in tow. Wyatt, seeing Ramsay and the others huddled around the table, walked quickly over to Beatrice. “He's gone?” asked Wyatt quietly, so that Eleanor couldn't hear him.

Beatrice nodded, unable to speak.

Wyatt took her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. There was a muffled sob from Eleanor, and Wyatt murmured to Beatrice, “I'll stay with Eleanor. Why don't you go back and speak with Ramsay?”

After a quick examination of Trevor, Ramsay pulled out his phone and called the State Bureau of Investigation to assist him.

Beatrice asked in an undertone, “Does calling the state police mean that you suspect foul play?”

“I don't really know what I'm looking at, so I've got to call in people with the equipment to help. For all I know, he could have had a massive heart attack. I don't see any outward signs of foul play—there aren't any knife wounds evident, for example. But would I see that at a wedding?” He rubbed the side of his face,
thinking. “Knowing what I do about Trevor, I was more inclined to consider alcohol poisoning. But I don't smell alcohol on him, and there's no drink at his table.”

“Even if he were drinking alcohol, he seemed to be nursing the same drink, from what I could tell,” said Beatrice. “He did have a drink earlier, when the band was playing. But it might not even have had alcohol in it. I guess the caterers must have removed his glass already.”

“You weren't watching him the whole evening, though. Is that correct? Or were you keeping an eye on him to make sure he wasn't acting up?” asked Ramsay.

“No, I only glanced his way a few times during the reception, so he could have been drinking more. He didn't appear intoxicated, though. Of course, if something had been put in his drink, we wouldn't necessarily know it,” said Beatrice.

Ramsay asked the remaining guests and the caterers to vacate the tent and move to the church parking lot. Wyatt supported Eleanor, extending his arm to her for balance. He asked, “How about if I open up the sanctuary—would that work better? The night air is cool and there's a breeze, too.”

The remaining guests and caterers moved into the sanctuary. Wyatt brought Eleanor a glass of tea, and she now sat quietly in a pew, her face pinched but looking more composed. Lyla was very pale and seemed agitated, checking her phone one minute and then walking around the sanctuary, looking at the stained-glass windows the next.

Ramsay said to Beatrice, “While I'm waiting for the
SBI, I'm going to start getting some statements. Can you tell me what you observed tonight and what, if anything, led up to your discovering Trevor's death?”

Beatrice related what she knew, and then paused for a moment. “There was something else, but I doubt it was important. It might have been my imagination going into overdrive.”

Ramsay raised his eyebrows. “That sounds like exactly the type of thing I'd like to hear. You can discount it, but frequently those impressions or gut instincts are exactly the kinds of clues we need to crack cases.”

Beatrice still hesitated. “All right, but like I said . . . I'm not sure how important this is. At one point during the reception, I saw a figure peering in around the tent. He was in the shadows, but I thought he resembled the man that Trevor had had the argument with in the restaurant. He was looking in Trevor's direction and seemed to be trying to get his attention.”

Ramsay's eyes narrowed. “Interesting. And could you tell me again about this public argument that Trevor was having with this man? I'll listen more closely this time.”

After Ramsay had spoken with Beatrice, he started the process of taking the other guests' statements, or at least getting their contact information. He said to Wyatt, “I know your sister and her husband have left for their honeymoon, but if you have access to their guest list at all, that would be very helpful for the state police and me.”

Wyatt nodded. “I actually do have one—Harper wanted me to make sure that she hadn't forgotten to invite any old family friends. I'll e-mail it to you when I get home.”

“Do you know when Harper and Daniel will be back in town?” asked Ramsay.

Wyatt looked a bit startled. “They'll be back tomorrow night, actually. They were just going away to a bed-and-breakfast for tonight and tomorrow, since Daniel has a case in Lenoir on Monday. Then they were planning on taking a longer honeymoon later on.”

“Thanks,” said Ramsay. He turned to speak with another guest who was hovering nearby to ask him a question.

In an aside to Beatrice, Wyatt said, “You don't think Ramsay believes that Harper or Daniel could have something to do with this, do you?”

“Oh, I'm sure Ramsay simply wants statements from them. Maybe they noticed something that could be significant,” said Beatrice. Wyatt was still staring absently at Ramsay's back, and Beatrice asked quietly, “You don't think they could be involved?”

Wyatt quickly answered, “No, of course not. Harper really doesn't even know Trevor.”

“And Daniel couldn't have, could he?” asked Beatrice. It really hadn't occurred to her to suspect him—bridegrooms are fairly busy at wedding receptions, and it seemed hard to imagine that he'd have had an opportunity.

Wyatt shook his head, but there was a worried expression in his eyes. “I can't imagine that he would. Of course he couldn't. But Ramsay will know that Trevor was supposed to be Daniel's best man and that there was a falling-out.”

“A falling-out, sure. And I have a feeling that Ramsay would be the first to understand, since he knows
that Trevor has been getting into some trouble lately. Besides, a falling-out is one thing. Murdering your friend at your own wedding is another,” said Beatrice, trying to get at least a small smile out of Wyatt.

He gave Beatrice a small smile in return. “I should sit with Eleanor—she looks as if she needs someone to talk this out with.” Wyatt walked over to sit and talk quietly with Eleanor, who was looking rather stressed again. Lyla met Beatrice's eyes and walked over to talk with her.

“Was he . . . dead for long before you discovered it?” asked Lyla quietly. She made a face. “It just seems awful that he might have been dead throughout the reception and no one took any notice.”

Beatrice asked, “You didn't see Trevor yourself during the reception?”

Lyla quickly answered, “No. That is . . . not really. I may have glanced his way once or twice when I went into the main tent. But since I was in charge of the guest quilt, that's where I was most of the time. When I saw him, he wasn't slumped on the table like that. But I wasn't in there often.”

“He wasn't slumped for very long,” said Beatrice gently. “I'd seen him not long before that, and he was silently looking on.” She gave Lyla a searching look. “From all accounts, Trevor hasn't been himself lately. Of course, you probably know that he was originally supposed to be Daniel's best man. Harper and Daniel felt that he didn't need to have that type of responsibility.”

Lyla flushed. “Well, I wouldn't know very much about it, no. Harper and Daniel didn't say anything to me about it when Harper and I were talking about the guest quilt
and some of the other preparations. But she and I were so busy with the wedding plans that maybe it just didn't come up.”

“Wouldn't you have known, anyway? It seemed as if you knew Trevor somehow.” Beatrice noticed that Lyla was picking at her fingernail polish until it was nearly gone.

“No, I didn't really know him. Not well. But as a casual observer, yes, I'd say that Trevor's behavior had changed a lot lately. I'd heard gossip about him drinking too much and making scenes publicly. I didn't know he was supposed to be the best man, but it makes sense that Harper and Daniel wouldn't want him to be—especially in light of his recent behavior.” Lyla shrugged and took a small step backward, as if she were ready to end their conversation. She didn't seem as if she were going to say anything about the fact that Trevor had shown up at the Patchwork Cottage when they'd had the planning session with Harper. Or Lyla's tender words shortly after Trevor was found dead.

“You don't know what might have happened to make this sudden change, do you? It seems so abrupt.”

A splotchy flush crept up Lyla's neck. “I remember Eleanor telling me that Trevor had made a few bad investments and had lost a lot on the stock market. She mentioned them having a lot of debt—a large house payment, cars. Maybe Trevor just sort of gave up. Started drinking and making bad decisions. It happens when you have financial problems.”

“Eleanor told you this?” Beatrice frowned. She hadn't gotten the impression that Eleanor and Lyla were friends.

The flush crept farther up Lyla's face. “Eleanor and I used to be very close. Before. . . .” Lyla hesitated, darting a look in Eleanor's direction before glancing away and starting over again. “Before she and I had a disagreement. Now we really don't talk anymore.” She took a step backward and pulled her phone out of her pocketbook. “If you'll excuse me.”

Lyla quickly walked, heels clicking, to a pew that was far away from everyone.

Beatrice spotted a hunched-over, lifeless-looking figure in one of the pews across the sanctuary. Her heart froze for a second as she thought in that moment that she was seeing another victim. But then she relaxed when she realized the figure was only Miss Sissy, sleeping.

Beatrice joined her. She knew the wily old woman frequently spotted odd bits and pieces of information that no one else did—and the bits and pieces often added up to solid clues. It was easy to discount her; her lucidity could be fairly low, depending on whether she was having a bad day. And there were plenty of bad ones. Still, Beatrice had learned to listen to Miss Sissy's observations.