Here Comes the Ride

by Lorena McCourtney

  I didn’t recognize him. He hadn’t been part of the wedding party, but he acted with a certain authority and familiarity. I appreciated the way he took charge. Yet . . .

  Michelle was lying here on the wedding carpet dead. Murdered by someone among this crowd of “friends.” And he’d showed up suspiciously quickly, coming out of nowhere.

  I was still kneeling by Michelle’s body. I felt oddly protective of her. I’d been suspicious and distrustful of her, but here she was . . . not predator, but victim. And this guy, big and muscular, who was he? I looked up at him warily. Distinguished silver hair and mustache said he might be near my age, but a youthful face put him much younger. Forty-five-ish, maybe.

  Suddenly a woman was beside him, her expression horrified as she looked down at Michelle. She put an arm around the guy’s waist, a hand against his midsection. She was petite, slender in ivory pants and jacket, her dark hair short and curly.

  “Uri . . . what . . .”

  “She’s dead.” He tucked the phone back into a pocket inside the jacket of his suit. He blinked hard a couple of times, and I had the feeling he was working hard to keep his emotions under control. “They’ll have deputies here within a few minutes. We’ve got to keep the crowd back so they don’t disturb evidence. And where are the lights?” He suddenly yelled it out, as if he had to release a held-back fury somewhere. “We need light in here!”

  So far, keeping people back didn’t appear to be a problem. No one but the three of us seemed interested in venturing back inside the still-foggy, stench-infested tent.

  “Who are you?” I asked bluntly.

  “I’m Uri Hubbard, and this is my wife, Cindy. We’re Michelle’s partners in the new health club.”

  That fit. They both looked tan and toned and athletic, though she was considerably younger than her husband.

  “I can’t believe this.” The tremor in Cindy’s voice echoed her disbelief. “She was my best friend. Who could have . . . and why?”

  The name Cindy rang a faint bell now. This must be the person Michelle had been going to see about something . . . treadmills, yes, that was it . . . treadmills at the health club the first day I was here.

  “Did either of you see anything?” I asked.

  Uri Hubbard shook his head. “No. The fog practically blinded me. I was just holding my breath and stumbling around trying to get back there to the machine and get it turned off. Everybody else was going the other way.”

  “Including me,” Cindy said. “I’ve never smelled anything so awful. What was it? How did it get in the fog?”

  Uri must have been successful with the machine, because the remnants of the fog were motionless now and nothing more was spewing out of the flower bank. The fog felt peculiar on the skin, dampish but in an oily kind of way.

  I wondered how hard it was going to be to get the smell out of my uniform. Then I was ashamed of myself for even thinking such a self-centered thought. A few minutes ago Michelle was alive, maybe even mellowing, and now she was dead.

  “Wasn’t someone running the machine?” Cindy demanded. “Where is he?”

  “There wasn’t anyone back there. I finally got it shut down.”

  “You know how to run the machine?” I asked, still suspicious. I’d learned in my only other encounter with murder that you have to be suspicious of everyone. As Fitz said, it went with the territory.

  The tidal wave of fog could possibly have been an accident or malfunction of the machinery. But that stink was no accident. There’d been no smell when Michelle demanded the fog test earlier. Someone had sabotaged the system. And if this guy knew how to run the machine . . .

  Then Pam, skirt lifted, veil flying, came running down the aisle. She stumbled in her high heels when she reached me, almost crashing into the body before she scrambled to her knees, unmindful of the sound of a rip when a heel caught the expensive wedding gown. Another rip already separated skirt and bodice of the gown, probably from when someone stepped on the train. The long train had enough dirty footprints on it to double as a welcome mat. Her tiara tilted to one side, veil half covering her face, and the lacy wrap lay like a wisp of angel lace where she’d dropped it ten feet down the aisle.

  She made a noise, more strangled choke than scream, but a bridesmaid who’d followed her inside had no problem producing a full-blown scream. Her shriek rose to horror-movie howl that people on the far side of the inlet and maybe all the way to Olympia could probably hear. Under different conditions I’d have been impressed with her lung power . . . You take special vitamins or something? . . . but now I just wanted to join her in a howl of horror. Murder.

  Shirley came running. She dropped to the carpet beside Pam and me. “Michelle?” she asked, and I couldn’t tell if she was asking a question or hoping for a reply from the crumpled body. “I ran out. . . . I just ran out. . . .” Her wiry shoulders slumped, as if she’d failed in some duty.

  I squeezed her arm. “Everybody did. It’s okay.”

  The shrieking girl brought more people running. They crowded around, shoving and trying to see over and around each other. More chairs tumbled, and I realized Uri was right. We had to keep these people back before they destroyed evidence.

  I stood up, my knees already going stiff from kneeling. I spread my arms wide. “Okay, everybody, keep back. The police are on their way.”

  Pam stood up too, but she didn’t try to guard the body. She stumbled toward the tilted flower arbor. She was still holding her bouquet. Suddenly, as if it had caught fire in her hands, she gave a little cry and threw it at the arbor. No freeze-dried eternity for that bouquet. Then she just stood there staring at the foliage from which the fog had erupted. When she turned back to where the rest of us were still standing around the body, she looked, as the old saying goes, as if she’d seen a ghost. Face pale, the artfully applied blush now standing out like skateboard burns on her bloodless skin.

  “Pam?” I said. “Are you okay? Did you see something?”

  I searched the bank of flowers where she’d been staring. I couldn’t see anything except flowers, and, when I peered more closely in the dim light, the hole that had been made in them to let the fog through.

  Pam walked back to the body, her steps stiff as some science-fiction robot. “I thought . . . but now . . . she’s dead. Somebody killed her. Who would want to kill her?”

  She looked straight at me, her eyes dark pockets in the flicker of candlelight, and I couldn’t say anything because the first thought that slammed into my head was You?

  A do-unto-Michelle, before Michelle did unto her?

  Pam’s gaze held mine, and I could see she knew what I was thinking.

  “I didn’t do it. I don’t know what happened. One minute we were walking down the aisle . . . and then I couldn’t see anything in the fog. I couldn’t even keep my eyes open. But . . . I didn’t do it!”

  No, not Pam, I agreed. Surely not Pam. Just because she’d been the person closest to Michelle in the procession didn’t mean she’d done it. In the chaos, anyone could have jumped in and jammed that knife in Michelle’s back, then joined the panicky crowd in escape. Yes, Pam may have had a motive. And yes, she had been closest in the procession. But other people undoubtedly had motives too.

  Then shouts and questions started shooting out of the crowd, and a shock wave rolled back through it as information spread. A MOB elbowed to the front and put her arms around the girl who’d stopped shrieking for a moment, but only to take a breath and start again. A man followed and less kindly grabbed the girl’s shoulders from behind and told her to shut up.

  Joe Forsythe pushed his way through the gawkers, pulling his wife with him. Sterling dragged along behind them. They all stared down at Michelle’s crumpled body. The gold-colored knife handle gleamed in the light of the lone candle.

  Tears straggled down Phyllis’s stricken face, and she kept blinking. Joe wrapped his arms around her in a gesture that struck me as a desperate but helpless effort to comfort. Joe was not a take-
charge kind of guy. Tall Sterling peered out over the crowd as if he’d like to fly over their heads and escape. No emotion from him.

  The strings of overhead lights suddenly flared on as someone hit a switch somewhere. They were soft, non-glare bulbs, but under them the whole scene looked unreal, almost staged. As if actress Michelle might jump up any moment, pleased with her performance. Maybe looking to see if Stan Steffan had caught it.

  The minister appeared. He touched Pam’s arm lightly. “Can—” He broke off when Pam jumped as if he’d hit her with an electric shock. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Can I do anything? Make an announcement to the crowd perhaps?”

  Michelle may have chosen him for his good looks, but he also seemed like a nice guy. I appreciated the fact that he wanted to do something other than pray right now.

  “Should the ceremony go on?” he inquired. He sounded as if the idea appalled him, but he wanted to be helpful.

  My own inclination was to yell, No, there never should have been any ceremony to begin with! But what I did was touch Pam’s other arm gently and say, “What about the ceremony?”

  She just gave me a horrified look and shoved through the crowd, discarding the veil and tiara and losing a silver sandal as she stumbled away with her stepped-on train straggling behind her. I grabbed the tiara, but I didn’t know whether to follow or stay with the body.

  Fitz, I thought frantically. I yanked the phone out of my pocket and punched the speed dial for his number.

  “Cleopatra’s barge awaits. Are you on your way?”

  “No! Fitz, something’s happened. Michelle is dead! I-I’m looking at her body right now. Someone killed her!”

  “You’re sure?” He sounded doubtful, as if he thought I might be pulling some strange prank.

  “There’s a knife in her back!”

  “A knife? When did it happen?”

  “Right during the processional! Something went wrong with the fog machine. It put out this incredible blast of fog . . . and stink. No one could see anything. And someone stabbed her while everyone was trying to escape!”

  “You’ve called 911? Or the sheriff’s office?”

  “Someone did. I-I think I can hear a siren now.”

  “Good. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  A sheriff’s car screamed up the driveway, and the crowd that had closed behind Pam parted as two officers charged through.

  “Okay, everybody stand back now.”

  Both officers were coughing by the time they reached the body.

  “What is that smell?” one of them gasped as he wiped his eyes.

  Uri stepped up to talk to the officers. I was glad to relinquish my position as stiff-kneed guard dog beside the body. My head pounded now, though whether from nerves or aftermath of the reeking fog I didn’t know. Another car arrived with two more officers, then a third car. I recognized one of the men in plainclothes when he jumped out of the third car. Detective Sergeant Molino, the detective I’d encountered after my old boyfriend’s murder, the one who’d warned me civilians had no business muddling around in solving crime. I was glad he didn’t spot me.

  I stumbled toward the limo. The flowers engulfing it looked macabre now . . . an oversized coffin . . . but still it was a safe haven. I slid inside, grateful for the familiar refuge, like the comforting presence of an old friend.

  I watched the officers herd everyone out of the tent. “But nobody leave,” one of them yelled. With the crowd moved back, I could see Detective Sergeant Molino and the deputies clustered around the body. Molino was on his cell phone.

  Fitz arrived in record time. He parked in front of the limo. I got out to meet him. He wrapped his arms around me and just held me for a long minute.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m . . . not sure. I can’t believe it. Someone murdered her, right there in front of everyone.”

  “Get back in the limo and tell me about it.”

  So I did. How Michelle had seemed almost mellow out behind the house. How beautiful Pam looked. The harps. The processional. Then that incredible outpouring of stinking fog. “I’ve never smelled anything like it.”

  “It’s not gone yet.” Fitz wrinkled his nose, although I couldn’t smell it now.

  Outside the limo, the scene had a garish, nightmare quality. Everyone in dress clothes, as if they’d all dressed up for murder. Flashing lights circling atop the police cars. The three guys from the band clustered off to one side, one of them carrying a guitar. Caterer people in white clothes. Inside the tent, the officers were using heavy-duty flashlights to probe in and under and around things.

  “Was the fog really so thick no one could see anything?” Fitz asked.

  “It just swallowed up the processional, the crowd, everything. Though the stink was the worst part. Like something out of a horror movie. And people were shoving and pushing and trying to get out. Anyone could have done it in that frenzy.”

  “What about Pam?”

  “I didn’t see her outside the tent. But when she ran back in, she acted . . . strange. Then she just ran off.” I’d told her she looked Cinderella glamorous, and like Cinderella she’d left a silver sandal behind. But I doubted Sterling was any prince to the rescue.

  “Did you see the knife?” Fitz asked.

  “Just the part that was sticking out of her back.” I couldn’t recall looking closely at the knife, yet when I squinched my eyes I could see it clearly, as if the image were branded on my brain. “It was goldy colored, brass I guess.”

  “Not a kitchen-type knife, then. Maybe a hunting knife?”

  “I don’t know. It had kind of an odd double handle, as if it were split down the middle. And scrolling on it, swirled lines, maybe leaves and flowers.” I squinched again, straining to see the picture buried in my mind. “Or maybe dragons. And a jewel! No, two jewels! Red, one on each section of the handle.”

  I grabbed a napkin, memento of my last drive-through at Burger King, and sketched what I’d seen of the knife before it faded from my mind. Fitz studied the odd double handle and flowers and dragons I’d drawn. I reached over and shaded the small circles I’d drawn as jewels.

  “It looks as if it could be what’s called a butterfly knife.”

  “A butterfly knife,” I echoed. I shivered. Such a delicate, lovely name for the deadly weapon now lodged in Michelle’s back.

  “There are two handles, with the blade concealed between them. You squeeze the handles, which releases the catch holding the handles together.” He added a little oblong catch to the end of the handles in my sketch. “Then you give it a spin and the blade flips out. Not quite as fast as a switchblade with a button, but almost.”

  “It doesn’t sound like something the average person would carry around. Are they rare?”

  “They’re illegal in some states, but they’re not rare. You often see cheap, imported models displayed along with pocketknives at flea markets. Although what you’ve described with the scrolling and jewels sounds more like a collector’s knife, probably a valuable one.”

  A couple of officers moved into the crowd now, moving people around and sorting them into groups, probably for questioning. Then I saw a familiar figure headed toward the limo.

  Apparently they intended to start the questioning with me.

  Chapter Nine

  I got out of the limo before Detective Molino could start hammering on the window. Fitz stepped out too.

  The detective stopped short when he saw me. It took him a moment, but that steel-trap mind clicked on my name. “Mrs. McConnell.”

  “Yes. Andi McConnell. You remember my friend too, I’m sure. Keegan Fitzpatrick.” I grabbed Fitz’s arm, though it was more for support than identification.

  “Fitz,” Fitz said, shortening his name to the one everyone knew him by. “Nice to see you again.” He sounded as if he meant it.

  I didn’t share that feeling, but Fitz has a genial personality and can be friendly with anyone. Hey, you space aliens with fourteen t
entacles and three unidentifiable extra appendages . . . c’mon over and meet Fitz. He’ll give you a welcoming hand-to-tentacle shake.

  Detective Molino nodded to acknowledge the acquaintance. I was relieved that he apparently didn’t intend to pounce on the oddity of Fitz’s presence here. He eyed the flower-bedecked limo. “You were part of the wedding?”

  “Michelle hired me to take care of the guests’ transportation needs for several days. Some were staying here at the house, some out at Tschimikan Inn. I was also supposed to take the bride and groom to the marina after the ceremony. They were going to honeymoon on Fitz’s son’s sailboat.”

  “So you were parked here waiting for them?”

  “Yes, but I also drove Michelle and Pam, the bride, from the house to the tent. Michelle is . . . was . . . Pam’s stepmother, and she was giving Pam away in the ceremony. Pam’s father is dead,” I added, in case Uri Hubbard hadn’t already filled him in on all these details.

  Detective Molino glanced toward the house, but made no comment on the rather extravagant use of the limo for such a short trip.

  “Too bad your limo seems to be a . . . ah . . . magnet for murder,” he suggested.

  Magnet for murder. A catchy phrase, but not one I’d latch onto for my business cards. And wasn’t it just a little unfair? It wasn’t as if this murder had happened in my limo. But I just swallowed and kept my comments to myself.

  “I trust you’ll both let the proper authorities investigate this situation?” Detective Molino asked. “We don’t want anything, ah, unpleasant happening. Like the last time you got involved.”

  Which was when my limo . . . and I . . . had turned into the target du jour. No, I didn’t want that happening again.

  “I don’t know anything about what happened here,” I assured him. “I was still outside the tent when the fog machine went wild and started spewing that awful smell and everyone panicked.”

  With those statements I had sidestepped any promise of not doing any personal investigating, but hopefully Detective Molino wouldn’t notice that. I had the uneasy feeling Pam’s name would soon top their list of suspects. So even though I’d vowed some time back that my sleuthing days were over, I couldn’t just stand by and let her be ensnared in something she hadn’t done.