Yellow Rose Mysteries 02 - A Wedding to Die For (18 page)

“Thanks. Best news I’ve had all day.” I rose and walked out. I’d been prepared to tell her about Jamaica, about the woman at the wedding and what her presence might mean, but I was tired of Fielder’s attitude. Besides, she’d be calling me again once she grew a few new brain cells.

16

I left through the back entrance of the police station and managed to get to my car before any reporters noticed me. I checked around for a white Taurus, but if Blythe Donnelly had followed me here, I didn’t spot her. My guess was, she was probably shadowing Megan anyway.

I sat behind the wheel feeling guilty about inadvertently casting suspicion on my client’s husband. I needed to fix this. So how? By casting suspicion on the birth mother Megan so wanted to find? It was a lesser of two evils dilemma, and I decided Donnelly was a mystery I needed to solve now more than ever. And if I intended to find the killer or killers, I also needed to learn more about James Beadford and his brother. Jeff always says the victims have all the answers if you look hard enough.

It dawned on me as I pulled away from the police station that despite their denials, James and Sylvia probably recognized the so-called stranger at the reception. They had her child, after all. Many years may have passed, but Laura Montgomery—Donnelly
had
to be Montgomery—had been important to them in more ways than one. Had been important to Graham, too. Surely they’d remember her face. And if they had recognized her, any one of them may have spoken to her that afternoon.

Had Graham somehow contacted Montgomery after the wedding? Was that why he’d called me? Or was he trying to get money out of
her
? She certainly had good reason to pay up if Graham knew her real identity. And with Graham probably as drunk as a waltzing pissant, even a small person like Montgomery could have pushed him over the balcony. Hell, I probably could have pushed him off.

I pulled onto the main highway not liking Laura/ Blythe as the killer any more than I liked Travis as a suspect—probably because I didn’t want this case to be about one piece of bad news after another for Megan. So what about Sylvia? How much did she know? I’d been assuming she was aware of who Megan’s birth mother was, but maybe she didn’t. Still, if Blythe and Laura were one and the same, wouldn’t Sylvia have recognized her as the person who brought B&B Stainless Supply down. And if so, why had neither she nor Graham said anything to Fielder when they were shown photographs and the composite?

I had no answers, but there might be a good place to start—Beadford Oil Suppliers. The bankruptcy story might be common knowledge to the current employees. What better place to find out about feuding brothers than at the business they once shared?

I grabbed my phone, called information, and got a number. A minute later I had the address and was heading north to Clear Lake City to visit the Beadfords’ place of business.

Their office was on the third floor of a shiny black building on El Camino Real not far from the Space Center. Beadford Oil Suppliers consisted of a large partitioned room with one small front desk where a dark-haired young woman sat keying on a computer.

“Can I help you?” she asked, not looking up.

“I’d like to speak to the person who’s worked here the longest,” I said.

My odd request got her attention, but once she got a load of me and my ugly puss, she couldn’t stop staring. Finally she said, “Um . . . are you sure you’re in the right place? This is a big building and it’s easy to get confused.”

Guess she decided my bruise somehow affected my ability to navigate through the world. “Sorry, I should have introduced myself. My name is Abby Rose and I’m a friend of the Beadford family. I’m here on Megan Beadford’s behalf.”

“On her behalf? For what?”

“Do you even
know
who’s worked here the longest?” I said, leaning an arm on the counter separating us. Daddy always said if you want to beat around the bush, answer a question with a question.

This tactic seemed to work because she said, “I think that would be Mr. Reilly.”

“Mr. Reilly. Good. I’ll speak to him.”

“Um . . . sure.” She glanced over her shoulder, but I got the feeling she might be looking for a security guard rather than Mr. Reilly. I never realized a messed-up face could become such a social barrier.

“Which cubicle is his?” I asked, not willing to be escorted out without getting what I came for. “I’ll just introduce myself.”

“He—he doesn’t have a cubicle, so—”

“Don’t get up. I’ll go find him.” I marched around her desk and passed about six spots occupied by men and women making what sounded like sales calls. None of them looked older than thirty-five. They would be no help concerning the distant past, but one of them did point out Reilly’s office. Guy must be a bigwig if he rated privacy.

Meanwhile the receptionist had come after me, but I beat her to Reilly’s door and knocked. A male voice called for me to enter and I opened the door.

The young woman had caught up to me and spoke to the man I assumed was Reilly. “This is Miss Rose. She says she’s a friend of the Beadfords.”

“Then by all means come in,” he said.

The woman shrugged and walked away.

Reilly rose from the chair behind his desk. A thin, bald man wearing a wide-lapel jacket, he had huge glasses covering nearly a third of his narrow fifty-ish face. But his purple and yellow tie? Wow. If it were a piece of art I’d call it “Nerd Rebellion.”

“What can I do for you, Miss Rose?” he asked, checking out my face with what seemed to be genuine curiosity rather than pity.

“Call me Abby.” I smiled and pointed at my cheek. “Ran into a door in the dark.”

“That was one nasty door,” he said, shaking his head sympathetically. “Do you have a headache? Because I’m getting one just looking at you.”

“No, I’m fine.” I noticed boxes stacked against one wall and another group on the floor next to me by the door. “Are you moving out?”

“Moving in. I’ve been assigned to this office now that . . . now that Mr. Beadford is no longer with us. Needs a good fumigation, wouldn’t you say?”

“It is a little musty. So this was Mr. Beadford’s office?”

“No, not his. Belonged to the young man who’s taking over for Mr. Beadford.” He sniffed several times. “Musty. Yes. That’s it. Better get someone on this. Might be mold growing in the walls.” He picked up a Palm Pilot pen and bent to tap on the electronic organizer sitting on his desk.

“So who
is
taking over?” I asked.

“One of the salesmen—though in my opinion the boy’s not ready to run a multimillion dollar business.” Reilly placed a hand on the back of his chair. “So how can I help you?”

“I’m a private investigator and Megan Beadford hired me to look into the matter of her father’s death.”

“They haven’t arrested anyone yet?”

“No, and I’m sure you can understand she wants to know what happened as soon as possible so she can put this matter to rest. Would you mind answering a few questions?”

“You don’t wear perfume, do you?” he said.

“Uh, no,” I said, taken aback by the non sequitur.

“I didn’t think so. Good for you. Because we’d have to make this a very short conversation if you did. I blame my divorce on perfume. My ex-wife never understood what effect her drenching herself in that stuff had on me. The sneezing, the headaches, the—”

“That must have been tough,” I cut in. “Now, to continue with our discussion.”

“How long will this take?” He glanced back at the computer monitor. The screen was filled by an Excel spreadsheet. “Because Mr. McNabb has me on a deadline and—”

“Holt McNabb?”

“Yes,” he said tersely. “You know him?”

By the look on Reilly’s face, I figured I wasn’t taking any risks when I said, “Unfortunately, yes.”

“He doesn’t understand people. No matter what faults Mr. Beadford had, he understood people. You need that trait when you’re in charge.”

“You sure do.”

He sighed. “It’s very stressful working for someone new.”

“I can see that.” I sat in a chair facing his desk.

He followed my lead and eased into his chair.

Before he could go off in another direction, I said,

“Do you have any idea why someone might have it in for Mr. Beadford?”

“He did have a . . .
haughtiness
about him, and I suppose that put some people off. But that’s no excuse to take his life.”

“Are you saying he wasn’t well liked?” I certainly hadn’t liked him much when I met him.

“Mr. Beadford was indeed well liked. Tough, but fair. And he paid well. Supplying stainless parts to the manufacturing and petroleum plants around here is a very competitive business and he knew the value of keeping his good salespeople.”

“And are you a salesman?”

“Oh no. I’m the accountant.”

The accountant. Had he been around when Laura Montgomery did her dirty deed?

I was ready to ask Reilly a few questions about the past, but apparently he wasn’t ready.

He said, “When we started up Beadford Oil Suppliers after the move from Dallas to downtown Houston we had a small space in a building where you could actually open the windows. These days you can’t find a place where you can open windows. Do you have any idea how detrimental it is to your health to be constantly breathing recirculated air?”

“Indeed I do. And how did Dallas compare? You said you worked there first?”

“You know, I hardly remember Dallas except for all the stress surrounding Mr. Beadford’s need for my expertise.”

“Stress related to the bankruptcy?”

“So you’ve heard about that. It was a very difficult time for everyone. I had to make sense of the mess that woman made and show Mr. Beadford how she did what she did so no one could steal from him again. And I succeeded.” He smiled, and I swear his cheeks touched the rims of those giant glasses. “I must say he never forgot. My Christmas bonus has always been generous.”

“You said
that woman
. Tell me about her.”

“His first accountant?”

“Yes, the one who embezzled from him.”

He nodded. “Laura Montgomery. A bright woman. She had two sets of books. Took the Beadfords for just about everything.”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“Does she have something to do with his murder?” Reilly said. “Because she disappeared and—”

“I’m not sure. That’s for the police to figure out. I’m just gathering information. Do you know Sylvia Beadford?”

“Of course,” he said. “Nice lady. But perfume? She is worse than my ex-wife.”

“Does she come here often?” I was thinking if she did, she might have done the same back in Dallas and could have known Laura Montgomery.

“My ex-wife? Thank the lord, no.” He laughed.

“I meant Mrs. Beadford.”

“Oh. No, not often, but she did drop by on occasion. She’d bring Mr. Beadford shrimp po’boys from some little restaurant near their house or sometimes they’d go out to lunch together. The smell of shrimp, unfortunately, lingers long after it’s consumed.”

“Did you meet Sylvia in Dallas or when the business moved here?” I asked.

“I met her in Dallas. She was more devastated than Mr. Beadford when they had to file for bankruptcy. Most of that money belonged to her.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. They were co-owners.”

Co-owners, huh? Then she probably had met Montgomery.
“And what about Graham Beadford? Did you know him?”

“Never met him. From what Mr. Beadford told me, his brother had some emotional problems after the business went under—which is perfectly understandable. And now I hear he’s . . . he’s gone, too.”

“Yes. It’s an awful time for the family. I have another question. When you joined the company to help straighten out the bookkeeping mess, what was the word about Montgomery? I mean, I’m sure people talked.”

“Not to me. I was an outsider brought in to fix things. No one said anything to me about her—no one except for Georgia.”

“Georgia?”

“Georgia Jackson. She’d been Ms. Montgomery’s secretary. Georgia and I worked closely for a time, and being black, she used some kind of oil on her hair. She always smelled like coconuts.”

“And what did
she
say about Montgomery?”

“I don’t remember specifics. But it was probably of a sympathetic nature. She was such a nonjudgmental person.”

“Do you know what happened to Georgia after the business moved?”

“Do I know? Of course. Mr. Beadford tried to hire back most of his people, but only three of us were willing to relocate. Myself, Georgia, and Robert.”

“And is Robert still here?”

“He died more than ten years ago. Smoker.” He shook his head in disgust. “Now there’s an odor that—”

“And what about Georgia? Does she still work here?”

“She retired.”

“And when was that?”

“Last year. She drops by, though. Takes care of her grandchildren while her daughter works, but when she has time off, she’ll bring cookies or pecans from her trees. League City has hundreds of pecan trees. But I never eat anything she brings. Children are not the cleanest creatures on God’s earth and who knows if those grandchildren helped make those cookies or bag those nuts.”

I was about to ask for the woman’s address, but I noticed Reilly’s gaze had moved to beyond my left shoulder and he had stiffened. “Mr. McNabb,” he said, nodding.

I turned.

Holt stood in the doorway looking like a different man than the one I’d encountered at the rehearsal and wedding. He wore an expensive-looking suit and his blue eyes were cold and clear and boring into me.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“I’m . . . doing a favor for Megan. She wanted me to personally thank all the people at the office for their kindness during this difficult time.” Weak cover story, but it might fly. The less Holt knew about me and my reasons for being here, the better I felt.

“Am I included in those thank-yous?” he said.

Before I could answer, Reilly said, “Miss Rose was just telling me Megan was especially grateful for those lilies you sent.”

Thanks, Reilly,
I thought.
You may be goofy, but you’re okay.

“I’m glad she liked them,” Holt said. But he still looked more than a little suspicious. “So you came here as some sort of ambassador for Megan?”

“I guess you could say that,” I said.

He looked at Reilly. “I need those numbers on the new account.”