by Amy Saunders
In response, Bennett wrapped his arms around her back and under her legs, sweeping her off the ground. He stopped in the middle of the lawn, the music only slightly less loud than it was inside the tent. Belinda was a little shadowy, but clear enough for Bennett to find her lips with his. He finally loosed her when other wedding guests materialized near them
"What took you so long?" Belinda said. "I've been smudgable for hours."
"We had an audience, and I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."
"Well, that's very thoughtful, but you did make me wait and I'm terribly impatient."
Bennett set her back on the ground, and freed her lips again, once they got near the inn's back entrance, which Bennett was pretty sure was near the kitchen. He disappeared behind the swinging doors to swipe cake, and Belinda ran upstairs to grab her purse so they could go somewhere more private.
She rushed into her room and back out, heading for the stairs.
"You have a lot of audacity bringing him here."
Belinda slid to a stop on the hallway carpet, swiveling on her toes to see her grandmother. To make things clear, this was not her favorite grandmother, her nana, who was her father's mother. This was Madame Russo–her maternal grandmother.
Her grandmother slowly came forward as if purposely drawing out each step for dramatic effect. But she was a former theater maven. "You need to examine the choices you're making."
Right now, the only choice Belinda was making was to eat more wedding cake. "Thank you. But I know what I'm doing."
"Then clearly you're delusional and need someone to bring you back to earth."
Belinda faced her. She wanted to joke about stealing wedding cake, but clearly this called for a more serious response. "This is my choice. You don't have to like it."
"Don't I?" Her eyes hardened. Her grandmother had the same color hair as Belinda's mother, a reddish brown. It was short, almost like a 1920s bob. But her eyes were completely different. Pistachio-shaped and dark chocolate brown without the gold flecks.
"This family did not get where it is because I ignored things I didn't like." Her grandmother liked to enunciate her words in everyday life like she was performing Shakespeare. "We're here because I took action."
Belinda had heard about the dating nightmares when her mother and aunts were growing up. Her grandmother calling boyfriends and telling them to get lost. Her mother and aunts taking every measure to conceal relationships. She'd also heard her mother say she knew the only reason Belinda's father got the Russo stamp of approval was because of his fortune and status.
"If you're worried about what people are saying about me," Belinda said, "it will blow over. Gossip always does." She thought Kyle would be proud of her confidence.
"It most certainly will. Because either you send that criminal back to the social pit he belongs in, or I will. I'm not standing by and watching my grandchild ruin her future on some summer fling."
Anger boiled inside her. What did she care? Belinda's whole life, her grandmother had taken a minimal interest in anything she did. But now that she felt her own social status being threatened, she had the nerve to interfere. Bennett had done nothing to deserve this.
Besides, Belinda was the real problem. It was the embezzling scandal getting most of Portside's attention–and scorn.
They'd reached the edge of the curved staircase that led to the main lobby. She could just give her grandmother a nudge...
"Thank you for your concern," Belinda said stiffly, "but I'll make my own choices. Goodnight." She clutched the wrought iron railing, moving down the stairs as fast as she could.
She met up with Bennett in the lobby, and dragged him outside in case her grandmother had followed her.
Belinda knew reporters had been hanging around outside based on what she'd heard people say. Other than the bridal magazine writer and her photographer, Belinda had been in a protective bubble. But once they stepped outside, she saw local reporters waiting for them. When they woke up and realized it was Belinda and Bennett, they started converging on them quickly.
Belinda made it down the steps before Bennett lost patience with her speed-waddling. This time, instead of the gentle sweeping she'd gotten before, Bennett threw her over his shoulder, sending her shoes flying off of her feet. Belinda squealed, kicking her legs. Bennett was going to leave her shoes on the ground behind them, but Belinda protested, finally admitting how much she'd had to spend on them. He felt sorry and grabbed them, on the condition that she never wear them in his presence again.
Even carrying Belinda and a piece of cake and her shoes, Bennett moved faster than she could on her own. She wanted to ask if he was taking her to his man cave, but the jostling made it hard to articulate.
The reporters yelled out questions about Bennett's charges and the embezzling investigation and even the wedding. One woman asked if they were thinking about marriage. They both ignored them as Bennett shoved her onto the seat of some small black car with a gray interior. She secured the cake on her lap while he ran around to the driver's side. The strange car was clean and freshly vacuumed and washed, but it still looked used.
"Is your truck in the shop?" she said. They squealed out of the lot, one reporter jumping out of the way just in time.
Bennett shook his head no.
Belinda turned to look at the backseat, but there was nothing there. Bennett always kept his SUV tidy, no matter how much time he spent in it. So she checked the one thing that would signal if this was his car. Belinda opened the glove compartment and pulled out a first aid kit, holding it up in front of his face. "What's this?"
"I believe it's called a first aid kit."
"What's it doing in here?"
Bennett stared ahead blankly. "I'm not sure how you want me to answer that."
"This is your car, isn't it?"
Bennett took the first aid kit from her hands and tossed it toward the backseat. "Let's not talk about it now."
"When?"
"I was thinking post-wedding cake would be good."
"No, I mean when did you get this car? And what happened to the truck?"
"Yesterday and I sold it."
Maybe they should wait to talk until she had more cake. "Why?"
"You're going to ruin your cake." Bennett turned the radio up. Apparently, that was his signal that he was done with that conversation.
She thought about her designer heels, lying helter-skelter on the mat. Her feet had simultaneously shouted, "Good riddance!" when they fell off, and she wondered how much they'd be worth in consignment.
They followed the coastal road of Portside along the rough-hewn cliffs that dropped into the Atlantic Ocean. You couldn't see any of that now, but you could hear the waves rolling over the rocks and smell the salt with the windows down. Belinda's hair had started to unravel, so she hardly cared if it got wind-whipped now.
As they reached one of the hairpins, a car flew around them from behind, pushing them dangerously close to a rock wall on the inside of the road. Bennett veered onto a dirt turnoff just beyond the small lighthouse on top of the hill, muttering under his breath as the taillights disappeared around another curve. Belinda gripped the handle above the door, which she never understood the need for until now.
But she'd saved the cake, so everything was fine.
They sat in the pitch black for a second before Bennett pulled back out.
"It's a good thing we're not far from the park," Belinda said. "I don't think this cake can take much more abuse."
That got Bennett to crack a small smile at least.
They dipped down another curve, turning away from the water and toward a house. Unlike most of the homes on the ocean side of the road, which you couldn't even ogle because of fortress-like walls, this house was close to the street with an unobstructed view of the water on the opposite side. When their headlights lit up the three-story modern Cape, Belinda saw a car straddled sideways in the yard–and butting through the front of the house.
Belin
da exclaimed something that sounded like "Uhh-ahh!" Bennett lurched into the short driveway, crunching over something strewn across it. She got out before he completely stopped and ran for the crashed car, which had plowed past the mailbox and bed of sea grasses and straight into one of the two picture windows on either side of the door. A meager porch light offered some visibility, and she realized it was the same Porsche that had run them off the road minutes earlier.
Belinda ran around the back of the car and looked inside. Five boys, probably teens, were crumpled up inside.
"Are you alright?" she said, opening the driver door, avoiding the glass shards covering the car and grass. Surprisingly, the car didn't look that bothered by the whole event. "Can anyone hear me?"
A chorus of groans met her ears. They were all conscious. "What happened?" someone in the backseat croaked.
"You've been in an accident," she said. "We're getting help."
Bennett stood in the driveway, relating the details and address calmly to the emergency dispatcher. Belinda's impulse was to try and help them out of the car, but she controlled herself, examining the house while they waited. She expected someone to appear from inside any second, but it was still dark with no sign of life. Maybe the owners were out.
She looked through the hole into a living room with high ceilings and a built-in media center on the opposite side. She stood on her toes to see the floor, glass and wood and metal debris scattered across it, and something else looking back up at her.
"Bennett," she said, taking several steps back. "There's someone under the car." To be precise, it was a woman with large eyes and a small face. She knew because they were wide open, staring up at her, the light from the door reflecting in the whites of her eyes.
Bennett pulled back from examining the boys, and leaned over the car's hood to see. He stood up straight immediately and called 911 again, more urgency in his voice now.
A car passed the house, brakes squealing as it stopped just beyond. Belinda hoped it might be a police car, but then Female Reporter came running out of the darkness. They'd first met after a designer was killed during a charity fashion show, and she was the first to latch onto the embezzling scandal. Female Reporter held up her phone and the flash blinded both of them.
"What are you doing?" Belinda followed the reporter around to the other side of the car, afraid she might take photos of the woman underneath.
"Securing my story." The flash lit up the night again.
Belinda gritted her teeth. "They're still in the car. At least wait until they've gotten help. You'll be the first in line regardless."
The reporter paid Belinda no attention, until Belinda yanked the phone from her fingers.
"You want this." Belinda shook the phone in the air. "Then go get it."
"Belinda–" Bennett got out as the phone sailed through the air and into the street in time for a police car to arrive. There was a distinguishable crunch when he slowed to pull over.
Bennett just closed his eyes.
Not long after, the TV station van came right on the heels of the ambulances, and Belinda caught the reporter yammering with one of the guys while she and Bennett gave their statements to the officers. Then, while her colleagues set up, the reporter fixed her bottle-blonde hair and applied lipstick.
Bennett put his coat around Belinda since the wind was making her shiver, and they stood at a distance while the boys were helped into ambulances. Then she saw blue tarp thrown out in front of the car.
"That means..."
"Yeah," Bennett said.
Belinda knew the woman under the car was dead when she saw her eyes. But there was always some hope. Now her heart sank. For the woman, and for the boy who had probably killed her. That would be a terrible thing to live with.
She felt an eye on her and shivered to life, realizing the reporter was stalking toward her with mic in hand. The cameraman was setting up to shoot the scene. The reporter had her mouth open to say something, but Belinda cut her off.
"No," Belinda said firmly.
"It would be positive publicity for you," the reporter said.
Belinda looked at the car jutting through the house and back at the reporter. "What is positive about this?"
"You were driving along and you stopped to help. What happened isn't your fault."
Belinda started to walk away, but Bennett pulled her back by her elbow, putting his mouth to her ear. "She has a point," he whispered.
Belinda craned her neck to see his face, surprised. He was not usually a PR kind of person, and this was very much a PR kind of move. "Really?"
"It's practical. And it won't take long, or be more than seconds on the news."
That was true. Belinda relaxed, though every muscle wanted to bolt, and agreed to the interview, which was short-lived just as Bennett promised. And she knew from past experience that all of two words of what she said would air. Later, she realized her hair was in total disarray.
As soon as they could leave, Bennett spun the car around, heading back to the inn. It was late now and neither of them felt like going ahead with their plans. Belinda slumped in her seat, the contraband cake untouched on the floor between her feet.
Chapter 2
Detective Jonas Parker had an interesting case on his hands. A woman, who'd been dead about a day, according to the medical examiner, had been discovered essentially by five teen boys in varying degrees of inebriation. Hence why they crashed into a house. Their injuries were probably more minor than their punishments would be for crashing Dad's Porsche. And Jonas guessed he should thank them for finding the body of Elena Campos.
It appeared the homeowners weren't around, which lent an interesting angle to the murder. If this girl's killer knew they were out of town, he or she may have banked on the trail growing cold.
So that was a plus for them. Not that it made him very excited that early in the morning, especially with no murder weapon or prints, or much of any evidence so far. (The crash had contaminated what might have been on or around the body.) They had a partially open outside door leading into the kitchen, and a piece of jewelry in the victim's jacket pocket. A pricey-looking piece of jewelry that did not appear like it belonged to her.
Then there was a text message on the victim's phone from a number with no name attached telling her to meet at that house around midnight, which gave them a decent idea of when she was shot to death–three times in the chest at close range.
None of the neighbors were in town when it happened, and so far, they couldn't find a soul who had seen or heard anything around the time of the death. He had a colleague working to locate and contact the homeowners. He hoped they could shed light on this situation.
Jonas checked his messages, about to drive to a nearby inn where Belinda was supposed to be staying. Yet again, she'd dropped into the center of a murder investigation, and he wanted to see if she knew anything helpful. This address, on the most expensive stretch of road in Portside, was in her realm.
When he got to his car, parked precariously on the side of the narrow road, Colleen McGuire had draped herself on it. He thought her news crew had finally left. "Not now, Colleen. I've got work to do."
"Are you going to see Kittridge?"
Jonas nudged her out of his way, and didn't respond. He was surprised Colleen knew about her at first, then remembered she'd interviewed Belinda. Plus, Colleen always knew where the news was located. Belinda had been a special blip on her radar in recent history. Of course Colleen knew Belinda was at the inn for her cousin's wedding.
"You know," she said, leaning into one hip, "if I didn't know better, I'd think you had a crush on her."
"My only crush is on this investigation right now."
"If you say so." Colleen had a wicked glint in her eye like she had when she'd found a juicy new story. "Keep me updated?"
"Nope."
"You know I'd much rather hear it from you."
"Sorry, but whatever source you use in the department will have to sustain y
ou." He glanced up. "On second thought, I'm not sorry about that at all."
"I think you are and just can't admit it."
Jonas genuinely wasn't sorry about that, but she could think whatever she liked. "I'm late." He ducked into the front seat.
"Does Kittridge make you clock in or something?" Colleen was hovering, probably hoping to wear him down. She'd crossed her arms over her chest, a slight edge in her voice, though she was trying to play it as funny. Maybe she really did think he was crushing on Belinda.
He could see one of his colleagues frowning in his direction. It was time to leave before this started to look bad. "Well, she's rich and has a lot of influence. I'd like to keep her happy." He slammed the door before she could respond, and drove off, leaving Colleen standing in the middle of the road.
Jonas smiled into the sun, pleased for a moment that he'd ticked her off, until he considered Colleen might actually take it out on Belinda. His smiled changed into a scowl. Life was too complicated. He preferred the days of just dishing out advice to Bennett when his love life went sour. Solving his issues was much easier.
Fortunately, brightening up his mood, were both Belinda's and Bennett's cars in the inn's parking lot. He pulled in next to Belinda's silver Mini Cooper, getting out and inhaling the salt breeze coming off the water. He should be swimming on the beach right now, not in a suit and tie, wondering how a young woman got shot to death in an empty house. For that matter, she should've been swimming too, and not dead.
He glanced at Bennett's "new" car. Jonas' ugly sedan actually put it to shame. He shook his head, feeling sorry for his friend. He wondered what Belinda thought since he knew Bennett hadn't filled her in about that.
Now that was a problem he was glad not to have.
~ * ~
The rest of the ride home the night before had been silent. Bennett was more tight-lipped than usual. Belinda worried that her grandmother had managed to corner him somehow at the wedding, but she was afraid to ask. It could be something unrelated. He'd been especially reserved lately.
