by Sara Rosett
“I’m sorry.”
“I think she’ll come around, eventually.” Summer looked out over the pool, squinting against the glare. “At least, I hope so, for Brian’s sake. I think she’s a little too dependent on him, but he would miss her if she completely refuses to be around him after the wedding.”
“You don’t think that she’d do anything . . . drastic, do you?”
Summer slowly set down the bottled water she’d been holding and gave me a long look. “You think she might be behind the pranks?”
“After the scene last night, it occurred to me that Julia might not be the only one who wanted you to call off your wedding.”
“No,” Summer said instantly. “Yvonne wouldn’t do those things. Sure, she wanted to break us up, but she’s not going to do anything in secret. That’s not her way. She has to have attention. No,” Summer repeated, shaking her head, “that’s not Yvonne’s style at all. Those pranks had Julia written all over them.”
“But Julia seems so taken with Graham.”
Summer’s forehead wrinkled. “Yes, I know. I saw the way she looked at him last night. Utter adoration. Maybe it’s an act.”
“Maybe. But Yvonne is the actress, not Julia.”
“You like that theory, don’t you?” Summer said.
“The whole situation bothers me. Number one, that someone would try to scare you in the first place. But the golf cart, that wasn’t a prank. Someone seriously wanted to hurt you.” I gazed out over the emerald lawn to the rectangle of the pale blue pool. “It doesn’t fit. Something is off.” When Summer didn’t answer, I looked back at her. She was sitting with her head tilted forward, her shoulders slumped as she fiddled with the base of her unused fork.
Her despondent air made me feel guilty. I reached for the binder. “Listen to me, doing exactly what you don’t want to do, focusing on all the bad stuff that’s happened. I’m sorry I brought it up. Let’s talk about the ceremony instead.”
Summer put down the fork and leaned back in her chair. “Yes, let’s switch to a subject where the biggest catastrophe is that Meg forgot her shoes.”
“She did?”
Summer waved a hand. “Don’t worry. She’s already called her roommate, who sent them FedEx. They should arrive this afternoon.”
“Well, that’s efficient of her.”
“Yes, she’s a bit like you,” Summer said with a grin.
“Okay, then let’s get to the to-do list.”
“Right. Run them down.”
We sorted out the tip envelopes and went over the timeline for the wedding day, double-checking when each person should arrive and where they should go while waiting for the outdoor ceremony to begin. I would contact each person today and make sure they had a copy of the schedule and knew where to go. “Speaking of being outdoors, let’s look at the weather.” I checked the weather app on my phone. “Looks good for tomorrow, but there may be a storm rolling in later tonight.”
“That’s fine. The manager said we could use the ballroom for the rehearsal if it rains tonight. The setup for the reception doesn’t start in there until the next morning.”
“And what about the day of? Just in case there’s rain.”
“You are a worrier, aren’t you?” Summer motioned for our check. “It’s not supposed to rain.”
“But just in case, is there a backup plan?”
“Of course. There’s a small events room that we can use. It would be a squeeze, but we don’t have to worry about that because it’s not going to rain.” Summer signed the ticket to charge the lunch to her room, then slapped the pen down and tilted her head up. “Look at that beautiful clear blue sky. It’s going to be gorgeous, exactly like I pictured it.”
I couldn’t help but smile at her. She looked relaxed and happy and confident, just like a bride should.
Caroline, Summer and Mitch’s mom, arrived. “There you are. How are you?”
Summer rolled her eyes. “I’m fine, Mom.”
Caroline, exquisitely turned out as always in a pale taupe wrap dress and flat sandals, looked at me with exasperation. “All these strange, awful things happening, and she acts like I shouldn’t worry about her.”
“I think Ellie’s doing enough worrying for the both of us,” Summer said as she moved her chair back from the table.
“Yes, being a worrywart is my specialty,” I said. “I’ve got that handled.”
“Along with everything else,” Caroline said. “I don’t know what we would have done without you, Ellie.”
“Oh, it was nothing but running checklists, another specialty of mine. Anyway, don’t you two have a spa appointment?” I flipped to another page of the binder. “Yes, you do. Facials and nails at one. You better get going.”
Summer stood. “We’ll see you there. Don’t get so wrapped up in this wedding stuff that you forget your own spa appointment.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said, waving them off.
I finished the last of my ice tea and sent a text to Mitch to see where he was, then I closed the binder and was about to stand, but I heard a familiar nasal female voice. Our table was near the balustrade, and the veranda was raised several feet off the ground, so I had a good view of the top of Patricia’s head as she stopped on the crushed shell path that wound around the resort’s main building and continued on to the pool.
“I’m sorry, Reggie, but I don’t see the point,” Patricia said to a bald man in golf clothes who stood beside her. He stopped to readjust the strap of the bag of golf clubs he carried, and Patricia paused as well.
“But don’t you want to see it through?” he asked as he heaved the bag higher on his shoulder. “It’s a sad but very true fact that many artists’ work doesn’t resonate until after their death. Ned’s work was good. And, the news about his death will draw some publicity. I’m sure—”
Patricia shook her head, cutting him off. “I won’t continue my sponsorship of the show.” Her nasal tones carried a firmness that I recognized. Even in my short acquaintance with her, I could tell she wasn’t going to change her mind.
“But the catalogues have been printed and the mailers are about to go out,” the man said, undeterred by her tone. “You can’t back out now.”
“You’re welcome to look for other supporters, but I’m out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.”
The bald man watched her walk away, then muttered a curse as he trudged on under his heavy load.
Frowning, I flipped to the GUESTS tab in the binder. Reggie was an unusual name. Hadn’t someone with that name been invited to the wedding? I ran my finger down the list of names until I found a Reginald and Holly King. Their invitation had been mailed to a Savannah address. I typed his name and the word Savannah into the browser on my phone. The results popped up, and I clicked on the third one down, King Galleries. I scrolled down the page, then I sat back in the chair. Reggie owned King Galleries, and he had a photography show scheduled to run next month featuring an “exciting new talent, Ned Blackson.” Patricia and Gus Abernathy were listed as sponsors of the show.
* * *
“Why would Patricia sponsor a show for Ned Blackson and then back out?” I asked, my gaze following a short rally as a tennis ball flew back and forth over the net from Livvy to the tennis instructor.
Mitch sipped his smoothie through the oversize straw then said, “Maybe they’re having financial difficulties?”
“Could be,” I conceded, switching my view to another court where Nathan waited in line for his turn to practice his serve. He’d decided he wanted a tennis lesson too. “But they are paying for a portion of the wedding.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, Summer told me a while back. I thought I told you. I didn’t?” Mitch shook his head, so I continued, “Remember how Summer said she wanted a small beach wedding?”
“Ah—no.”
“Right. Wedding plans. You tend to tune those out, I remember.”
“Which you actually lov
ed. You got to plan our wedding exactly the way you wanted it without me interfering.”
“True. That’s why we’re a match made in heaven,” I said with a smile. “But back to Summer. She really had her heart set on a casual beach wedding. Small, just a few friends and family, but then Camden had an opening, and Patricia wanted Brian and Summer to get married here. Summer said no, it would be too expensive, and then Patricia offered to split the cost with your mom and dad. So doesn’t it seem odd that Patricia and Gus can afford to help underwrite this extravagant wedding, but she wants to pull her support from an art show?”
Mitch offered me a drink of his smoothie. I took it and tried the mango-strawberry drink as Mitch said, “Who knows? Maybe this wedding has bankrupted them, and they’re cutting costs where they can. Remind me to set up a savings account for Livvy’s wedding when we get home. If we start now, we may be okay. That’s one wedding that I will want to know about all the details.”
I handed the smoothie back. “Ned and Patricia,” I murmured, thinking of the snippet of an argument I’d overheard on the night of the bachelorette party. I told Mitch about it, and he said, “But Ned and Patricia could have been discussing something related to the wedding.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Maybe some cost overrun that she didn’t want Gus to know about, but it seemed like a pretty intense discussion if they were talking about . . . I don’t know . . . a larger photo package than they’d originally planned for.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Avery?” I turned to find Mr. Markham, the resort manager, hovering at my shoulder. The poor man had had a trying few days. His puffy gray hair was nearly standing on end and his coal black eyes had a frantic look about them. He was probably counting the hours until this wedding was over, and we were all off the resort property.
“Yes?”
“There is a matter that I would like your assistance with.”
“Of course,” I said, expecting it to be some detail related to the wedding. Mr. Markham and I had had several chats about everything from the positioning of tables for the reception to whether or not the guests would need special transportation to the mainland after the wedding.
Mr. Markham opened his mouth, paused, then shook his head. “I do not know who else to consult. A man has arrived, a friend of Mr. Blackson’s, and he insists on speaking to someone about the death of his friend. He didn’t know what had happened, in fact. I broke the news to him, but now he wants to talk to someone who was there. Mr. Redding is not on the property. I’ve notified him, but he won’t return until this evening, and I’d rather not disturb the bride or groom. The bride is in the spa, and the groom is on the golf course.”
“Of course not, but I don’t see what I can do.”
“Well, you are the wedding planner. You met Mr. Blackson. I think his friend wants to speak with someone who was there . . . when the incident occurred . . . to confirm what I have told him. He seems to be having a hard time taking it in.”
“I guess I can talk to him,” I said, glancing at Mitch.
“I’ll come with you,” Mitch said. “The tennis lesson has another forty-five minutes to go.”
We followed Mr. Markham into the resort and through a winding hallway. He paused in front of a heavy wooden door with his hand on the doorknob. “This is my office. Please take as long as you like.”
“Does he know about the investigation?”
“Yes, I told him the police will want to speak to him, but I didn’t tell him any of the details.”
He opened the door and ushered us inside the large room with a view of the front of the resort. “This is Craig Abbott,” Mr. Markham said. “Mr. Abbott, this is Mr. and Mrs. Avery. They were there when the incident occurred.”
Mr. Markham asked if we’d like something to drink. “I can have a tray sent up with refreshments or some food.”
Mitch and I declined, and Craig Abbott looked as if he’d barely heard Mr. Markham. I’d thought Ned was probably in his mid-twenties and Craig looked to be about the same age, but where Ned had been lean and had rather a dark, debonair look, Craig was shorter, stockier, and had light brown hair cut very short. His arms were disproportionately muscled, and I wondered how many hours he spent in the gym to get his bulky look.
The office had a desk backed by bookcases on one side of the room. A round conference table with rolling chairs sat on the other side of the room. Craig had been seated at the table but stood when we came in.
Mitch held out his hand. “Sorry about your friend. I’m Mitch.”
“And I’m Ellie,” I said, extending my hand as well. Mitch pulled out a chair for me.
Craig dropped back into the chair, his gaze scanning both of our faces. “So it’s true? Ned really is dead?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” I said as Mitch and I sat down across from him. “We were both there when it happened.”
Craig leaned forward, one hand pressed to the table. “What exactly happened?”
“A golf cart he was driving overturned,” I said, looking toward Mitch.
“I was the first to get there,” Mitch said, his voice somber. “Ned had been thrown out of the cart and he had hit his head on the path. I think he died instantly.”
I wondered if that was too much information, told too baldly, but Craig just shook his head and stared at the table. “That’s what the manager guy said,” he murmured quietly. “Golf cart wreck. I couldn’t believe it.” He raised his head and looked at us. “Who dies in a golf cart?”
“I’d never heard of it either, but, apparently, they can be quite dangerous,” I said as gently as I could.
Craig continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “He was showing off, wasn’t he?”
“Umm . . . no, I don’t think so,” I said.
“He always likes to show off—be the best, the fastest, the quickest.” He focused his attention fully on me. “Where did it happen?”
“At the ruin. Are you familiar with the island?”
He shook his head.
“There’s a ruin of an older home inland from here. He was there photographing the wedding party. He said he needed to return to the resort for a battery. That’s when it happened.”
Craig sat back in his chair and ran his hand over his mouth.
The silence stretched. “Were you good friends?” I asked.
“Yeah. I’ve known him since high school. We played football together.”
“Do you live in the area?” I asked, wondering if Ned had gotten in touch with Craig and told him he would be at Camden Island.
“Me? No, I live in Savannah too,” he said.
I exchanged a puzzled glance with Mitch, which Craig noticed. He rubbed his hand over his mouth again. “You’re wondering why I’m here.” He glanced at a duffel bag positioned by the door that I hadn’t noticed when we came in. A garment bag, which had been folded in half, had been placed on top of the duffel. The garment bag had a clear circle placed on one side, and I could see it contained a dark suit coat.
Craig sighed. “I might as well come clean. The manager says I’ll have to talk to the police because his death is under investigation.” Craig shook his head and muttered, “Man, under investigation. If I’d been smart, I guess I would have turned around and headed out the minute the desk clerk went to get the manager, but I was so stunned. I just couldn’t believe it.”
“Were you here to help Ned with the photography?” Craig was dressed casually in a collared polo shirt and denim shorts, the ribbing around the bottom of the sleeves cutting into his bulky arms, but he’d obviously prepared to dress more formally. I knew his name wasn’t on the guest list. With the last name of Abbott, he’d have topped every list I had from invitations to seating arrangements, even ahead of our last name of Avery.
Craig shook his head. “No, not this time. There were a few times, when Ned had a really big event, that he asked me to help him. I didn’t do much, actually, just holding reflective panels a few times and handing him new batteries, stuff like that. But this t
ime, I wasn’t here to help. He called to tell me to drop in. These wedding gigs are great. Good food, and what’s one extra person? There’s usually someone who doesn’t show up. Ned always called when there was a good gig, not too far away.”
I glanced at Mitch again, and I could see that he was thinking the same thing I was. Here is a real-life wedding crasher.
“But didn’t people notice that you didn’t know anyone?” I asked.
“Nah. I tell the friends of the bride that I know the groom, and friends of the groom that I know the bride. The secret is to ask them first who they’re there for, the bride or the groom, then I say the opposite. Besides, no one really listens at these things anyway,” he said, then his tone changed, losing its lightheartedness. “It seemed like a good joke, at the time.” He focused his gaze on the table and said quietly, “And to have it happen right when he got the break for the show.” His words weren’t directed at us.
He was talking to himself, but I leaned forward and asked, “The photography show at King Galleries?”
Craig looked up. “Yes, you’d heard about it?”
“Only recently,” I hedged. “How did the show come about?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. Ned had been trying to break into the art scene. He wanted to get out of doing strictly wedding stuff, but it paid the bills, really well, actually. He had done event photography for years, but hadn’t had much luck with anything else. It’s like everything else in life, I suppose. It’s all about who you know, because he met some woman who was loaded and liked his stuff. He said she was his ticket into the art world. She could help him get a show.”
“Hmm, I see,” I said, but I didn’t. I didn’t see how it fit together at all.
Chapter Ten
“I know that look,” Mitch said as we crossed the reception area on our way back to the tennis court.
“What look?”
