Yellow Rose Mysteries 02 - A Wedding to Die For (7 page)

6

Once I left the hospital and got into the Camry, I called Megan’s house on my cell. I wanted to tell her about my visit to Sister Nell and what I’d learned. There could be a simple explanation—maybe a clerical error—but if Megan and I could go to the Bureau of Vital Statistics and get a reissued certified copy, we’d know if the state database information matched what was on Megan’s current copy. If so, St. Mary’s obviously made a mistake somewhere down the line in their data entry.

When Roxanne answered, I asked for Megan.

“They are shopping for funerary boxes,” Roxanne said. “I have been delegated to stay home and receive sympathy calls should they come in. Is this a sympathy call?”

This girl went beyond weird. “It’s Abby Rose. If you remember, I was there the day Mr. Beadford died. Could you have Megan call me when she gets home?”

“Oh, it’s you! I’m so glad you called. My sister, Courtney, did not make the trip to pick out a casket. She hasn’t been here all day. I’m extremely concerned.”

And exactly why did I need to know this? But I couldn’t just click the off button. I felt obligated to respond. “What’s worrying you?”

“You have a sister. I saw you two together after Uncle James was . . . dispatched.”

Dispatched?
Sounded like he’d been sent to the hereafter via FedEx.

She wasn’t done, though. “If your sister was involving herself with evil and immoral acquaintances, you’d do something, right?”

I wanted to tell her
I
was the twin who could have had
Most Likely to Get Herself into Deep Shit
written under her name in our high school yearbook, but instead I replied, “Certainly I’d help her. Or try to.”

“Courtney will find herself dead one of these days,” Roxanne said. “She’ll be laid out on some filthy mattress with a needle stuck in her arm.”

“Have you talked with your sister about her problem?” I asked.

“Have you ever tried to have a rational discussion with someone under the influence?”

Indeed I had, but I wasn’t about to discuss my marital history with Roxanne. “I’m sure Courtney will come home. But if she doesn’t arrive by nightfall, call that nice Chief of Police Fielder. She’ll help you. And please, tell Megan I need to talk to her when she gets home.” I rattled off my cell number, said good-bye, and disconnected as fast as I could.

Whew.

But my relief was short-lived. When I arrived home, Fielder had left a message to call her, and I feared Roxanne had wasted no time contacting her about her grown-up sister, Courtney, who had been missing for all of half a day.

No use putting this off,
I thought, reaching for the receiver. “How can I help you today?” I said once I was connected to Fielder. Communicate like you have the upper hand, I always say.

“I have a request.” She sounded almost nice.

Obviously she hadn’t spoken with the potential leech Roxanne or she would have sounded less than nice. And her word
request
implied I might refuse if I so chose. “Go ahead,” I said.

“The only other photo we’ve found of the woman of interest was taken from the upstairs balcony. Not useful for an identification.”

“But it does establish her presence inside,” I said almost to myself.

“Yes it does. Do you think you could remember her face well enough to assist me in creating a composite?”

“I’m not sure I remember her all that well. Maybe if you told me why this woman is so important, it would jog my memory.” I knew damn well why she was important to Fielder, but she could be important to my client, too.

“And how would that help
jog your memory
?” she replied coldly.

“You know, Chief, I sense a lack of mutual respect here. I mean, I’m in the PI business, a professional like you who helps people and—”

“I forgot about your . . .
profession
.” Her tone left no doubt she lumped me in with vagrants, prostitutes, and sex offenders. “And,” she continued, “I may continue to forget about your professional relationship with the victim’s daughter when I speak with other members of the family—as long as I have your cooperation in this matter.”

Man, was she slick. But though I liked the little swap she was willing to make—my help in exchange for her keeping Sylvia in the dark about the birth mother hunt—I wasn’t all that sure I could come through with enough details for a composite. So I said, “The woman wore a hat into the church, one of those cloches that comes down over the ears. I noticed the hat more than her face, so I’m not sure I could offer much.”

“But you saw her outside the house taking pictures, right?”

“You know I did.”

“And got a better look at her face?”

“Maybe.”

“So you may recall more about her than you realize. Please meet with the sketch artist?”

Ah. The P word. She must be desperate. “I guess I could try, but is this a genuine sketch artist, not someone with some fancy software?” I was remembering Jeff’s rant about how sketch artists were becoming extinct because of technology, even though a good artist did a far better job with composites than a computer ever could.

Fielder said, “Yes, a trained sketch artist who works on contract. We have software to produce composites here in Seacliff, but unfortunately the only person proficient with the program left us several months ago. Rather than bother one of the other local police departments for help, Jeff arranged for me to contract with this artist in Houston who needed work.”

So she’d called her buddy Jeff. No surprise there. And I was beginning to read her subtext pretty damn well. She probably had no intention of letting her local police friends know she had an expensive software program she didn’t know how to use.

But if this would help Megan and her family, that’s all that mattered. “Do I make an appointment with the artist or do you?”

“Because of the urgency of this investigation, I’ve taken the liberty of calling him. He’ll be in his studio until six tonight.”

You’ve taken plenty of liberties,
I thought, but she was working the case and that’s all anyone could ask for.

After jotting down the artist’s name and address, I hung up and filled the time waiting for Megan’s return call by whipping up a stir-fry. Thanks to Central Market, the vegetables, chicken, and sauce were packaged in one oh-so-convenient container. I was just wiping the remnants of teriyaki from my lips when the phone rang.

“Hi. You called?” Megan asked.

“I did. We need to make a trip to the Bureau of Vital Statistics in Houston first thing tomorrow. I have a possible—”

“I don’t think I can go,” she said, lowering her voice.

“Oops. Is your mother around?”

“No, but I still worry about people overhearing me. Anyway, she has to sign some documents at the medical branch in Galveston tomorrow, something about the autopsy. She wants me with her, and I’m not sure how long it will take.”

“Maybe we should wait until next week to pursue this.”

A short silence followed. Then she said, “No. If I have to make time I will. So—uh-oh. Wait.” Another pause followed, then Megan said to me, “So nice of you to call. The obituary will appear as soon as we’ve finalized details about the service. We’ve chosen Forest Rest, but check the newspaper for dates and times. And thanks again.”

The line went dead.

She’d probably call back . . . but when? I checked my watch. The artist’s studio was only twenty minutes away. Might as well get this little chore over with and catch up with Megan later.

Mason Dryer’s studio, an apartment above the double garage of a house near the Galleria, happened to be his home, too. Dryer told me as much as we ascended the stairs, and I immediately wondered why Fielder said he’d be in his studio until six when he was in his studio all the time. Did she want to make sure I complied with her directive tonight? Probably.

Following Dryer up the stairs, I noticed smears of yellow, red, blue, and orange paint on the thighs and back pockets of his black jeans where he’d obviously wiped his hands many times. He hardly had any butt to use as a wiping board though. The man was so skinny he might need worming.

We entered the apartment, one large room cluttered with stacked canvases, easels, and plastic crates holding paint supplies and brushes. A Futon was partially obscured by a draped easel, and a small refrigerator and microwave sat alongside. He’d also managed to squeeze in a desk and a card table. Two walls had good-size windows, offering plenty of natural light. The room smelled like McDonald’s and sure enough a half-eaten Big Mac and ketchup-drenched fries rested on the table.

“I’ve interrupted you,” I said. “Are you sure you want to do this today?”

“You bet I do. Easy money, as opposed to my other job.” He thumbed at the covered easel.

I walked toward it. “Can I see?”

“I think my work would be a distraction.” A muscle above one generous, dark eyebrow began to twitch. He reached up and pressed a paint-darkened index finger against the spot. “Damn thing’s been doing this all day.”

“My sister says drinking tonic water cures those spasms.”

“Some pocket change might cure my tension better. Let’s get to work.” He swept up the unfinished meal and tossed the food in a trash container, then unfolded a second chair so I could join him at the table.

But rather than the expected sketchbook, he drew out a notepad from a crate below the table. “I want you to concentrate on your first impressions. Really hone in on this person with your mind’s eye.”

“I’m not sure I remember much.”

“Extroverts are very visual. You guys make good observers, so trust yourself.”

“I’m an extrovert?” I said.

“I know you are,” he said with a smile. “You’ve been taking in the room, asked to see my painting, and your voice, well, no one would accuse you of being shy, Ms. Rose. Now close your eyes.”

I complied, settling back as much as you can settle in a folding chair.

He said, “Go back to the time you first saw this woman—a woman, right?”

“Yes, but I saw her twice.”

“Excellent, but we’ll focus on the first time, because that’s when your brain recorded the most valuable information.” He’d taken on a tone both soft and commanding, which I found soothing.

“Take yourself back to where you saw her,” Dryer said. “Where was that?”

“At a wedding.”

“Where specifically?”

“In a church.”

“And what was your first impression of her physical appearance?”

“Sort of . . . sneaky. See, she came late and—”

“Those impressions are important,” he said gently. “But let’s focus on her physical features.”

I nodded. “Okay. She was a small person.”

“Small in frame? Small in height?”

“Height. Not overweight. Not thin either, though. She had on a beige wool pantsuit. And . . . wait. Do you know what I’m seeing?”

“What?”

I squeezed my eyes tighter. “This is so weird. I can’t believe I remember this, but it’s just like she is sitting right across the aisle from me again.”

“Go ahead.”

“Her suit jacket had one of those tiny plastic thingies sticking out from the left cuff and the store tag was still attached. Looks like a Nieman Marcus tag.”

“Focus on her face, please.”

“Sorry, okay. Tanned face. Doesn’t look like bottle tan, either. Maybe electric beach tan? And then there’s the hat.”

“What kind of hat?”

“A cloche . . . dark brown felt.”

“Ah. So it fit snug. What shape was her head?”

“Her skull was more prominent on the top than the back.”

“You’re doing great. Did her hair cover her forehead?”

“Hmmm. Her hair. Something about her hair. I’m seeing wisps peeking out around her face. Pale brownish gray.”

“Good. Go on.”

“She still wore the hat when I saw her later on. More hair revealed. Gray streaked.”

“Could you see her face better?” he asked.

I took a deep breath, exhaled, and closed my eyes again. “Yes. Her cheeks were bright from the wind.”

“Tell me about the shape of her face.”

“Oval.”

“And could you tell how old she was?”

“She moved like a young person, but there were lines on her forehead and around her eyes. Blue eyes, but a dark blue.” The more I concentrated, the better I could visualize her. This was amazing.

“Crow’s-feet?”

“Not that severe, but she did have age lines. And frown lines. Made her look . . . sad. Yes. She looked sad. I’d guess she was in her forties.”

“Eyes close together, far apart?”

I reached up and felt the bridge of my nose with thumb and index finger to gauge the space. I’d never thought about these little things when I looked at people before. “Maybe a half inch farther apart than mine,” I said.

I went on to describe the thin-lipped mouth, the straight nose, the slightly hollow cheeks, and even the freckles where her throat met her collarbone.

“And she never smiled? Showed her teeth?”

“If so, I didn’t notice. Of course we were all focused on Megan—she’s the bride. She looked so wonderful and she had on this lace coat over her wedding dress when she got out of the limo, sort of a 1940s look and—”

“Abby, please move your mental camera to the woman. If it helps, think about where she was standing in relation to the bride.”

“Sorry. She was waiting on the steps near the professional photographer, but sort of off by herself. And she was focused on her own camera, trying to get a shot of the bride and groom as they arrived.”

“Ears are very distinct. Did the hat cover them?”

“I could see the lobes but not much more. She was wearing pierced earrings—small pearl studs.”

“Okay. I think I have enough to go on.”

I stood. “So do I come back tomorrow or—” “This will take about fifteen minutes and I still need your help.” He was digging around in the crate again and this time pulled out a sketchbook along with a box of charcoal pencils.

“Only fifteen minutes?”

“I can work as fast as the computers stealing what used to be a decent side income. Don’t get me started, though.” He flipped open the book and chose a pencil from a tennis ball can seconding as a brush and pencil holder.