Yellow Rose Mysteries 02 - A Wedding to Die For (3 page)

The music stopped.

No more laughing. No more conversations.

Sylvia whispered, “Oh my God,” then took off in the direction of the scream.

I followed, Kate close behind me.

We pushed by people who looked frozen in time, their collective silence almost oppressive. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush that heightened my senses, but the mix of seafood and booze and flowers seemed like an ocean I had to swim through. No one but us seemed to be reacting to what every single guest surely must have heard. But that’s how it often happens in an emergency. The more people around, the less response. Everyone expects someone else to do something.

Sylvia was about three feet ahead of me, but had ditched the high heels since I last saw her and was snaking through the crowd with ease, headed toward a closed room on the other side of the foyer.

When she reached the double doors, she pushed them open but then stopped in the entry.

Unable to get past her, I stared over her shoulder.

Megan was sitting on the floor by a fireplace, ivory satin puffed around her like a soft cloud. Her father’s head was in her lap, a huge, vicious merlot-colored stain damning that beautiful dress.

2

Megan reached out to me with blood-stained hands and pleaded, “Abby, help him. Please help him.”

I wasn’t sure why she’d turned to me rather than her mother, but that question caused no hesitation on my part. I squeezed by the still-immobile Sylvia, hurried over, and knelt beside Megan.

James Beadford’s dilated eyes stared up at the ceiling and a wicked gash to his temple had bled enough to completely mask his right ear. I lifted his hand and felt for a pulse, not going for the carotid. His messy head and neck would have made that difficult.

So much blood. And it was still seeping into Megan’s lap. Beadford’s skin was warm, but I felt nothing, not even one tiny beat of his heart in that thick, limp wrist.

I sat back on my heels, heard and felt a crunching sound beneath my feet. The brick hearth was right behind me and I leaned against it, realizing I was crouching in small pieces of glass. A couple of feet behind Megan lay the scattered remnants of a leaded crystal vase, the jagged base glittering like a giant diamond in the light from the window.

Meeting Megan’s anxious gaze, I shook my head. “I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”

She stared down at her father’s face, then bent at the waist and collapsed over him, her strapless bodice heaving with sobs.

I looked over at Sylvia, who hadn’t uttered a sound, hadn’t moved an inch. She stood rigid, fists at her sides, a tinge of gray around her crimson mouth. Kate’s pale face loomed behind her.

“Kate, call nine one one.”

But before Kate could react, Sylvia Beadford swayed and then toppled like a felled oak, taking Kate down with her to the wood floor. Megan must have known her mother would crumble. Probably why she reached out to me for help first.

I started to get up, ready to assist Kate and Sylvia, nearly tearing my angle-hemmed skirt when I started to rise. But Megan’s cold, sticky fingers gripped my forearm. “Don’t leave us. Please.”

Then Graham appeared, looking downright sober. He assisted Kate to her knees so she could minister to the passed out Sylvia before flipping open a cell phone to make the 9 1 1 call.

Not long after, noise again filled the Beadford house. Chaos bred from fear makes plenty of noise—raised voices, the sound of a distant siren, people shouting and wanting in the room. Didn’t matter poor Sylvia was laid out like a trussed turkey in the doorway. Kate was fanning the woman’s face with someone’s handbag and I swear those so-called friends of the family would have stepped right over Sylvia to get a better look at the body.

With the help of a calm, rational Holt McNabb—maybe he was an okay guy after all—Graham pushed all the guests back, telling them to find a place to “park it.” They did let Travis pass. I wasn’t sure even
he
should come in, but we’d already messed up the crime scene plenty. Besides, I needed my arm back. Megan’s grip had my fingers going numb and Travis seemed the right person to help alleviate that problem.

Meanwhile Holt and Graham assisted a dazed Sylvia to her feet and led her away, leaving me and Kate alone with Travis and Megan.

Megan had stopped crying. She was probably numb with shock now. Travis gently pulled her from beneath her dead father. Once she was on her feet, he wrapped his arms around her small, trembling frame and rocked her, smoothing her hair, not letting go for dear life. “I’ve got you, hon. I’m here,” he said over and over.

I moved away from them and whispered to Kate, “I need your phone.”

She lifted her black silk shirt and pulled it from her matching skirt pocket. “You calling Jeff?” she asked.

“You betcha.” I took the phone and dialed his cell.

“Kate?” he answered, sounding puzzled. Must have recognized her Caller ID.

“No, it’s me.” I turned my back on Megan and Travis. “Remember that wedding?”

“Yeah?” Wary now. He probably heard the tension in my voice.

“It just turned into a funeral,” I whispered. “Father of the bride got whacked with a very large vase.”

Shrieking sirens sounded so close I figured the police were pulling in front of the house. I missed his reply.

“Repeat that,” I said.

“Where are you?” He was all cool and collected now. A freaked-out girlfriend might be trouble, but murder? Comfortable territory. I could hear the rustle of paper. He was unwrapping a stick of Big Red gum, no doubt.

“In Seacliff.” I gave him the address.

“Galveston County. Out of our jurisdiction. But I’ll be there anyway.”

He disconnected.

Jeff may be a man of few words, but he’s great in the action department.

He didn’t arrive for another hour, probably because Seacliff is well south of Houston, and half the trip is on two-lane roads rather than freeway. In the meantime, plenty of other cops showed up, not only from Seacliff, but from several surrounding towns. A county sheriff patrol arrived on the scene, too. And then there were the fire trucks. And the ambulance. Everyone in small Texas towns makes an appearance for the 9 1 1 calls. By the time I was commanded to my “holding area” by the female plainclothes officer who seemed to be in charge of the investigation, I was beginning to wonder if Graham Beadford had mentioned al-Qaeda when he’d called.

Kate and I had been separated. I didn’t particularly like this, but reasoned the lady in control knew what she was doing. Everyone who had entered the room or saw the body was being guarded by their own special cop until he or she could be interviewed. Mine, a uniformed officer from a nearby town, took me to the laundry room. We sat in wooden folding chairs facing each other, crammed in with the washer, dryer, and a wheeling clothes rack. He resisted all my attempts at conversation, just sat there coldly staring past my right shoulder. I swear if we were cremated together that guy wouldn’t have warmed up.

Finally a Seacliff cop rescued me, informing Officer Subzero that his help was needed with all the cameras and video recorders gathered from the guests.

Cameras. Wow. I hadn’t thought about them. Folks had been snapping pictures like crazy, and who knows what they’d inadvertently captured. The new cop and I walked through the house. Most people had been cleared out, and those who remained stood in small groups in the great room talking with uniformed police officers taking notes.

I was escorted to the formal living area off the foyer, a room I hadn’t even noticed when Sylvia am-bushed us for kitchen duty. Reminded me of my old digs in River Oaks with its uncomfortable-looking Victorian couches and artistically draped window—one of the few windows that looked out on the street rather than the water.

Jeff sat on the largest gold brocade sofa and was leaning toward a thin brunette sitting in one of several teak dining room chairs that had been brought into the room. He didn’t seem to notice our presence. The woman looked to be in her late twenties and wore a gray wool suit and open-collar blouse—the same person who had sent me to babysit the Maytag. Jeff had on a faded denim shirt that matched his eyes and had gotten a haircut since I last saw him this morning. He always kept his blond hair short, but this time the barber had left little more than stubble on his head.

My cop escort cleared his throat and said, “Uh, ma’am?”

The woman looked up and Jeff stood, his jaw working his ever-present gum.

“Hey, how you doing?” he asked, coming over to me.

“I still have a pulse—unlike someone else here—so I think I’m in good shape,” I said.

He gripped my upper arms and kissed the top of my head. “You’ve had a rough day, kid.”

I felt the tension in my neck muscles melt a little when I smelled the combination of cinnamon gum and aftershave unique to him. He took my hand and led me to the sofa. I sat, grateful for even a less-than-adequate cushion for my sore patoot.

I smiled at the woman and said, “Hi. Bet you’ve had a tough day, too.”

She did not return my smile. Her crossed legs were long enough and her features attractive enough that she could have been working a catwalk in New York rather than sitting here ready to interview a witness. “Thanks for your patience, Ms. Rose. Jeff tells me you were employed by the bride.”

Jeff?
I thought.
They’d certainly gotten friendly in an hour’s time.

He must have read my expression and quickly offered an explanation. “Quinn is an old friend. She honed her skills in Houston PD before taking the top job here.”

“Great,” I said. “So is that Captain Quinn or—”

“Sorry.” She reached over Jeff and offered a hand in a greeting. “It’s Chief Fielder. Seacliff PD. Quinn is my first name.”

Chief?
Wow. She looked so young.

I gripped her slim fingers and offered a firm handshake, one I hoped said “I can throw a horseshoe with the horse still attached,” even though that was not how I really felt. I felt small and . . . well, scared. But my daddy always told me to never show weakness when I was afraid, that it would only make things worse.

Fielder had a yellow legal pad on her lap and several pages were already turned back. “Jeff tells me Megan Beadford hired you to find her biological mother.”

“That’s right.”

“So you didn’t know the rest of the family?”

“Actually, I only just met them last night at the rehearsal dinner.”

“I’m not sure I understand. Did you attend last night and today in your capacity as an investigator?”

“No. I was a last-minute replacement for the wedding book-slash-birdseed handler, the one who went into labor a month early.”

She smiled, which softened her features, made her already attractive face prettier. “That’s what your sister told me.” She then made note of my answer on her yellow pad. “And by the way, we let your sister leave. Apparently a patient of hers was in some sort of crisis. She took your car and said you should catch a ride home with Jeff. Now, to the issues at hand. You had been making inquiries about Megan’s biological mother, correct?”

“Yes, but our professional relationship is not common knowledge. I’m here as a friend.”

“Not common knowledge?” She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.

“Megan wanted my inquiries kept private. She felt her family would not be happy about her wish to find her birth mother.”

“Really?” She scribbled some more. “There was tension in the family?”

“Maybe some.”

Jeff said, “Any conflicts at the rehearsal?”

“The rehearsal itself went fine,” I said. “But once the wedding party and families bellied up to the open bar before dinner, everyone on Megan’s side suddenly seemed to have
issues
.”

“Issues?” Fielder said.

“The cousins weren’t speaking—I know because I sat between them at dinner. And the best man, Holt McNabb, brought in a TV and set it in front of him on the table to watch some college basketball game. That pissed off Mr. Beadford. He and McNabb went to a corner and Mr. Beadford seemed to be raking him over the coals. This upset Sylvia and—”

“I get the picture. But these sound like minor altercations. You didn’t witness anything more serious? Perhaps a fistfight? Or threats?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“And you’re not here in any official capacity?”

Did she think I was lying?
“You mean did I find Megan’s birth mother at the last minute and bring her here? No. And I’d appreciate it if you don’t upset anyone by telling the rest of the family how I came to know Megan.”

“I’m not in the business of telling witnesses anything.
They
tell me. Moving on, you are licensed, correct?”

Not even an hour’s worth of absorbing the odors of Tide and Downy could make me feel “mountain fresh” pleasant about her patronizing attitude. “Provisionally,” I replied evenly. “But I specialize in adoption searches for someone who is licensed.”

“And your supervising PI’s name?” she asked, pen poised.

“Angel Molina,” I said. “But what does—”

Jeff placed a gentle hand on my knee. “Bear with Quinn. She’s just doing her job.”

“And this Molina has an agency in Houston?” Fielder went on.

“He does,” I answered. “Is that important?”

“This is all routine, Abby,” Jeff said.

Fielder glanced at Jeff’s hand, which had moved up to my thigh. “I’ll check out the agency later.” I saw her fingers flex several times, saw her nostrils flare a little when she took in some extra air.

Jeff, good detective that he is, noted these subtle indicators, too. He promptly assumed a less intimate posture by leaning back, his arms spanning the sofa’s arched back.

So he wanted her to feel more comfortable, huh? He
cared
about her. Oh, I was picking up on the signals, all right. These two probably had a history that was more than just professional—and from the way she kept looking at him, she wished it wasn’t history.

“Tell me exactly what you saw when you walked in on Megan and her father,” she said.

“I saw a very distraught young woman with her father’s bloody head in her lap.”

She laid the pad and pen down. “Sorry. Guess I should be more specific.”

“Guess you should.”

“You, Ms. Rose, do not have an emotional wall to climb when it comes to remembering what you saw in that room. After all, you hardly knew the dead man. I consider that rational distance important in reconstructing a crime scene that was seriously compromised by several factors.”

“You mean those gung-ho paramedics doing CPR on an obviously dead body? Why did they do that, by the way?”

“Wouldn’t you want them to do everything possible if it were your father?” she replied.

“Not if his skull was exposed and gray matter was in my lap,” I shot back. “Besides, my father’s already dead.”

Jeff rested a hand on my back. “Abby, it’s okay.” He addressed Quinn. “Abby’s father had a heart attack and the paramedics were called and . . . well, you understand.”

I stared hard at him, saying nothing. What the hell did he think he was doing telling her my personal business?

“I’m sorry if I upset you, Ms. Rose,” Fielder said.

“You didn’t upset me,” I said evenly, summoning a calmness I did not feel.

“Good. Now, can you tell me the exact position of the body and where Megan Beadford was sitting? I also need to know which direction her father’s feet were pointing and where the broken glass was in relationship to them.”