by Linda Howard
“What did you do after you left Claire’s?”
“I came home. I had a pile of laundry to do.”
“Did you see anyone, talk to anyone?”
“No, not until Bishop called to tell me someone had been murdered at the reception hall.”
“Did you go back to the reception hall?”
“No, why would I?” she asked blankly.
“Your briefcase was found on the floor. Maybe you went back to retrieve it, found that Ms. Edwards was still there, and the two of you had another altercation.”
“My br—” Jaclyn stopped, blinking in astonishment. How could she have forgotten her briefcase? Why hadn’t she noticed it before now? Having it in her hand was as natural as having on clothes. She looked around, as if it might magically appear, but he was right: no briefcase.
She stared into the middle distance as she mentally reconstructed what had happened. “I’d put my briefcase on the table, but Carrie must have moved it. I’d taken my appointment book out, though, because I’d had a couple of calls from my assistant about scheduling, and it was on the table. When Carrie threw her temper tantrum and knocked everything off the table, Melissa picked up my appointment book and handed it to me before she went to her office. I had it in my hand when I left, so I never missed the briefcase.”
Oh, God, the briefcase was bad news. It gave her a reason for going back, and she had no witnesses otherwise.
“What clothes were you wearing today?”
The question seemed to come out of nowhere. Surprised, Jaclyn almost looked at him before catching herself and instead focusing on the coffee table. It took her a minute to remember what she’d had on, and in that minute she realized that they already knew what she’d been wearing, that they had already interviewed Melissa and probably gotten a description of her clothes. A chill ran down her spine.
“Black capri pants, and a black top.”
“May we see them?”
This wasn’t good either. She bit her lip. “They’re in the laundry.”
“Laundry? You washed them?”
Suddenly she’d had enough, temper flaring and pushing out the shock and hurt. “That’s what one does with dirty clothes,” she said curtly. “Though maybe you don’t know that.” The instant the words left her mouth she knew she shouldn’t have said them, shouldn’t have made the conversation personal. She made an abrupt gesture. “Sorry, that was uncalled-for. The clothes are still in the washer, I haven’t dried them yet.”
“May we see them?”
“Sure. Knock yourself out.”
She went with them to the small laundry room, watched as they removed her wet clothing and sorted out the capri pants and top. “Did you use bleach?” Eric asked.
“On black clothes? That would ruin them.” He was asking her about laundry? He was a bachelor, so surely he did some laundry; he had to know about bleach.
“So you didn’t use bleach?”
“No, of course not! Do they look gray now?”
“No, they don’t.” Was that amusement she heard in his voice? Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t, but she wanted to kick him anyway. “I’d like to take these clothes, if you don’t mind. If you do mind, I can always get a warrant.”
“Go ahead, take them,” she said wearily. She minded, but she’d go along with anything to get this over. What she hadn’t planned on was that they would take everything that had been in the washer, which put a serious dent in her wardrobe. She stood in mute shock as they took her clothing into custody. They were thorough, all right. Then she caught Eric eyeing the pile of sheets on the floor, and the thought that he might be getting some pleasure from remembering the night before sent a rush of anger through her that almost took off the top of her head.
“I’m sorry about the smell in here,” she said sweetly. “A skunk must have peed on those sheets. I’ll have to burn them, because no way do I want them now.”
They were in the car before Garvey broke out in a broad grin. “Wilder, I hate to tell you this, but I don’t think she’s very happy with you right now.”
Eric grunted. “I kind of noticed.” Not only had she looked everywhere but at him, but the crack about the skunk and the sheets had been a dead giveaway.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t get the vibe off her. I think she’s probably clean.”
“I know.” Her shock had been too profound; not even the best actress in the world could make herself go pale, or change the size of her pupils. Everything she’d said had jibed with what Mrs. DeWitt had told them, too. She had washed her clothes, but that in itself wasn’t suspicious, and if there was any blood on them it would show up in examination. She hadn’t used bleach, which would have destroyed trace evidence, but as she’d said, who used bleach on dark clothes?
She wouldn’t have gone to meet her mother at Claire’s if there had been blood on her clothing. She wasn’t in the clear, though. She could have left Claire’s, gone back to the reception hall to fetch her briefcase, and had another confrontation with Carrie Edwards, one that had ended with her stabbing Carrie with the kabob skewers.
Knowing her briefcase was there, though, would she have left it a second time? She struck him as too organized and together for that, but if she’d killed Carrie in a fit of rage she’d have been in shock at what she’d done, and her most likely response would have been to run.
The trouble with that scenario would be that it would have required Carrie to hang around the empty reception hall for about an hour, doing nothing and seeing no one.
Then there was the unknown man Jaclyn had seen arrive. Mrs. DeWitt hadn’t mentioned anyone else being there, but she’d been in her office the whole time, so it was possible.
He concentrated on the myriad details they had to run down: the other vendors, two of whom had had their own problems with Ms. Edwards; the unknown man; the previous calls on Carrie’s cell phone, logs to get from the cell carriers to make certain no calls had been deleted from the phone’s memory. Jaclyn wasn’t clear, but neither did he think she was guilty. As Garvey had said, the vibe just wasn’t there. Until she was definitely cleared, though, he had to treat this as he would any other case.
She’d said she was going to burn the sheets, the ones they’d slept on. He’d recognized them, gold with white dots. She probably would, too, because she’d been fuming.
Fuck. She’d probably never speak to him again.
Chapter Eleven
MADELYN SMILED ACROSS THE ROOM AT THE BRIDE’S mother, a sweet woman who’d been on pins and needles for the past two weeks and was now enjoying some liquid help in unwinding. Between them stretched a crowded dance floor where most of the recently fed friends and family danced to a live band—a good one, too. Everyone was dressed to the nines, and quite a few of them were more than a little tipsy. From her point of view, that was a mixed blessing. The good thing was, they were having a good time. The bad thing was, when people were tipsy, Things Could Happen that could result in people being injured, embarrassed, or arrested. At this point, though, it was out of her hands; all she could do was cross her fingers and hope everyone simply had a good time.
The wedding had gone off without a hitch, the bridal pictures had been taken, and the reception was in full swing. Thanks to Peach’s makeup-wizard friend, the bridesmaid with the black eye looked as beautiful and unblemished as all the others. Currently the bridesmaids—all pretty blondes in sleek black satin—were posing for an informal photo, champagne glasses in hand. They were a striking contrast to the brunette bride in a cascade of white. Madelyn knew for certain at least one of the bridesmaids hadn’t been a blonde before, but had bleached her hair at the bride’s request. After all, the visual impact was important.
There was plenty of visual impact in the gown alone. For a relatively small wedding, the bride had gone all out with her gown. She could fit the groom and the best man under the full ballroom skirt, and no one would be the wiser, except maybe the devilish five-year-old ring-bearer, who had decided
he had to see what was under that foaming, belling mountain of fabric. He had given everyone in the wedding party a good laugh, even the bride, who was both pretty and good-natured and had wanted to look like a princess for her wedding.
About two hundred guests had attended the ceremony, which had been held in a quaint chapel decked out in creamy-white flowers and flickering candles, giving it a dreamy quality that had charmed even her. She wasn’t a romantic, marriage to Jacky Wilde had cured her of that, but sometimes one of the weddings would get to her. Maybe it had more to do with the bride and groom than the trappings, and this particular bride and groom were so besotted with each other it was difficult not to smile when you looked at them. She was happy for them that the wedding ceremony had been perfect.
The wedding party had then moved to a nearby hall that was all but impossible to book on a weekend without at least a six-month lead time; a year was better, for getting the exact date you wanted. Hence the midweek wedding, which was unusual, but if that was the only way the bride and groom could get the venue they wanted on short notice, it wasn’t a bad way to go.
For the moment Madelyn’s job here was done, so she could take a breather, but the operative term was “for the moment.” Until the bride and groom actually left, her job wasn’t finished. She had to make sure the departure went as planned, and then she’d be well and truly done for the night. One down, four more to go. If Peach was here they could have passed the time discussing the upcoming weddings and rehearsals, critiqued the food and fashions, and maybe gossiped a bit. This job hadn’t required the efforts of two, though, and in a week when they were all working extra hours it didn’t make sense to bring Peach into the mix tonight just for the company. For the next few days, they’d all be swamped.
She took a glass of champagne from a passing server, took a single sip, and made a circuit of the room. That single sip was all she’d allow herself, but she continued to carry the glass as she said hello to those she knew, and graciously accepted compliments from family members who were pleased with the way the wedding had gone. She made the time to speak to them all, because that was part of the game. Everyone here was a potential client—well, almost everyone, because she didn’t think the ninety-two-year-old great-grandfather of the bride was likely to need Premier’s services—and it was important to make a good impression without coming off like a snake oil salesman hawking her goods. She didn’t press a single card into a single hand; those who were impressed would remember the name of the company that had handled the details of the event, and those who were either unimpressed or uninterested would just throw the card away. There was no telling how many trees she’d saved by not handing out business cards.
Sometimes it struck her how lucky she’d been that she and Jaclyn had somehow stumbled onto the perfect jobs for them both. Opening Premier with Jaclyn had certainly been the smartest decision she herself had ever made. She’d made some bone-headed ones—witness Jacky—but Premier had been a stroke of genius. She was her own boss, and she and Jaclyn had a wonderfully close relationship. Not every woman could work with her own child, she understood that, but the two of them had made it not only work, but work well. Peach and Diedra, added to the mix as their success had grown, had become like family. Well, Peach had been like family for a long time, but working together deepened the relationship.
For Madelyn, the long, sometimes hectic days usually helped distract her from the feeling that she was too young to have given up on men. Usually … but not always.
Marriages were like roller coasters. There were ups and downs, twists and turns, and sometimes they turned you on your head and made you puke. Being involved in weddings—which were like that exciting first moment when you climbed into the shiny little car and buckled in, ready for a fun ride, stomach full of butterflies—was maybe an odd choice for a woman whose own marriage had derailed, sailed off a cliff, crashed and burned. There were a lot of ways to describe being married to Jacky Wilde.
Her years with him had been quite a ride; there had been lots of ups, plenty of downs. If she’d known then what she knew now … she still would’ve married the bastard. He’d broken her heart, but there had been some good times with him, especially at first. And above all else, he’d given her Jaclyn.
She adored her daughter, loved her so much not just because she was her child but because she genuinely loved her as a person. Even if they weren’t related, Madelyn thought Jaclyn would still be her favorite person in the whole world. It depressed her to think that her own marriage made her daughter so cautious that she might never let herself get lost in the almost frightening ecstasy of a romantic relationship. It didn’t help that Jaclyn’s own marriage had ended so soon. Even worse, there hadn’t been any major drama in Jaclyn’s divorce; they had both simply walked away, as if they realized there was nothing there worth fighting for.
And as for the example Jacky had set, with his five marriages … well, the less said about that, the better.
Madelyn wanted her child to know love, to take a risk, to climb into the shiny car at the starting gate not knowing where it would take her, and it made her sad to think that might never happen, that Jaclyn might never truly fall in love. Falling in love meant taking a leap of faith, it meant trusting someone else and letting them be important to you. So far, Jaclyn was very nimble at avoiding any emotional risk.
The caterer, a woman who worked Atlanta-area weddings often enough that she and Madelyn could call themselves well acquainted, walked up behind Madelyn and grabbed her arm. Madelyn jumped, startled both by the touch and by who had approached her. Shirley never left the kitchen during an event, so she could only imagine that there had been a kitchen catastrophe.
Shirley’s expression was concerned. “Doesn’t your daughter live in Hopewell?”
Madelyn’s heart gave a little “thump” as she answered “Yes,” her mother’s instinct going on alert. It was obvious that something was wrong. Shirley’s cheeks were red, her eyes bright. “Why?”
“There was a murder at the Hopewell reception hall,” she said, lowering her voice to a forceful whisper. “You know, the big one?”
Madelyn went cold. She could barely force out one word: “Who?” Together she and Shirley moved toward the wall, away from the couple at the nearest white-tablecloth-covered table. What kind of event was taking place at the reception hall tonight? Her mind spun to the possibilities: Melissa, the manager? One of the vendors? Maybe someone she knew well? The victim could be anyone in their fairly small world. She said a silent prayer of thanks that Jaclyn had nothing scheduled, and had said she was going straight home; she should be safely there now, watching her beloved HGTV.
“I don’t know,” Shirley said. “But I heard that the parking lot was packed with emergency vehicles, and somebody is dead.”
Knowing her daughter had come so close to a murder gave her chills, and she had a sudden urge to hear Jaclyn’s voice. Not only that, but Jaclyn might have heard something, and have more details than Shirley could provide.
Madelyn gave a quick glance around the room, made sure no crises seemed to be brewing, then briskly headed for the ladies’ room. As she walked she opened her small, rhinestone-encrusted evening bag, and reached inside for her phone. She’d silenced the ring for the wedding and reception, and as she flipped the phone open she saw that she had five missed calls.
None of them were from Jaclyn, and despite what logic was telling her, her heart began thumping hard at even the remote possibility that her daughter could be the victim. She stepped into the bathroom and began to dial.
Jaclyn answered on the first ring, as if she’d been waiting for the call. “Hello.”
Her knees went a little weak as she heard Jaclyn’s voice, though her tone sounded a little thin and tense. “Shirley just told me—”
“Mom! Have you heard—”
Their words tumbled over each other, and both stopped. Then Jaclyn blew out a breath and said, “You heard about what happened at the reception
hall?”
“Shirley told me all she’d heard, which wasn’t much. What do you know?”
“It was Carrie.”
Madelyn blinked as multiple possibilities spun through her brain. “She killed someone? Can’t say I’m surprised, the psychopathic little slut. Bless her heart.”
“No, she didn’t kill anyone. Someone killed her.”
Madelyn blinked again, trying to process the news and come up with something to add. All that came out was, “I still can’t say I’m surprised. She was a psychopathic little slut.”
Jaclyn paused, waiting. When the usual phrase didn’t follow, she said, “You didn’t say ‘bless her heart.’”
“God would know I didn’t mean it. I’d rather be uncharitable than lie. Maybe. Okay, I’d rather lie. Bless her heart.”
Jaclyn made a little sound that was half-laugh, half-hiccup, then she said raggedly, “The police have been here, asking questions. They know about Carrie slapping me. They think I did it.”
A new horror seized Madelyn. “What?” The word was almost a shriek, and belatedly she glanced around to see if anyone else was in the bathroom. There was; beneath one of the stall doors she could see a pair of sensible black pumps; the wearer was being very still, not peeing or anything—well, she couldn’t say for sure about the anything—obviously eavesdropping. “Hold on,” she said. “Let me step outside.”
Finding real privacy meant she had to thread her way through the crowd again, and step out into the humid night air. Even then she wasn’t completely alone, because several smokers were standing around, the glowing ends of their cigarettes moving back and forth like red fireflies. She threw them a frustrated look, which of course they couldn’t see, and walked several yards in the opposite direction. Only when their conversation became indistinct was she certain that anything she said would be just as indistinct to them.
“Okay,” she finally said. “I’m alone. Are you serious? They actually questioned you about this? Are the cops in Hopewell absolute morons?”
