Murder on the Bride’s Side tkm-2

by Tracy Kiely

“Yes. What kind of person was she?”

  Was he kidding? She was an egotistical bitch, but I couldn’t very well come out and say that. He might really start to think I killed her. “I didn’t know her very well, so—”

  “Don’t give me that crap. You are a longtime friend of this family. You strike me as a moderately intelligent young woman. Surely you must have formed some kind of an opinion about the woman. Was she well liked?”

  I bristled. “Moderately intelligent?”

  His lips curved into a malicious smile. “Well, let’s see how you answer my questions before we upgrade that assessment, shall we? Now, why don’t we try this again? Was she well liked?”

  “Her husband loved her,” I said, still stalling for time. I knew that he would eventually discover that most of the Matthews family hated Roni. I just didn’t want it to be from me.

  “Okay,” said Detective Grant, with exaggerated slowness. “But that leaves”—he silently counted on his fingers—“at least eight other people I need to know about. Can you enlighten me on them ? Ever overhear any of them talking about her?”

  At the word overhear , the memory of Roni on the phone slipped into focus. Glad to have something to give the detective that wasn’t related to the Matthewses, I sat up straighter in my chair. “Wait a minute,” I said. “I did overhear something yesterday. It was in this room, actually. Roni was in here alone. She was talking on her cell phone about her efforts to get Avery to sell the family’s landscaping business.” I tried to glide over the part where I stood outside and blatantly eavesdropped, fearing it might suggest nasty things about my basic character. “From her end of the conversation, it sounded not only as if she was working with the person at the other end but that she was also having an affair with him. Maybe he was the one who sent her the note and dropped the key!”

  Detective Grant stared at me. I don’t know for how long exactly, but long enough for my upper lip to start twitching.

  Pushing himself off the desk, he strode around to the other side and sat down heavily in the chair. Muttering something about the stupidity of people withholding important evidence, he grabbed his pen again and furiously scratched in his notebook. I had a sneaking suspicion that my “moderate” rating had slipped a notch.

  “Start at the beginning,” he said. “What’s this about the family business being sold?”

  I took a deep breath. “From some conversations last night, I gather that Avery—he’s president of the Garden—received a buyout offer. He was mulling it over and was going to get input from the whole family before making a decision, but it was clear that Roni wanted him to sell.”

  “Did she say why she wanted him to sell?”

  “Avery is a workaholic. He had a stroke last year and a lot of us thought his work habits were to blame. Roni said she was worried about his health and wanted him to retire.”

  “And what did you think?”

  I shrugged. “The Garden is worth a lot of money. Avery would be very wealthy if he sold it.”

  “Could you tell what Avery thought about the deal?”

  I hesitated. “I think he wanted to get the family’s opinion first. After all, Elsie’s father started the business. Selling it would have to be a family decision.”

  Detective Grant wrote something down. Tapping his gold pen thoughtfully on the desk, he asked, “But Mrs. Matthews—Roni—thought she could convince her husband to sell?”

  “Well, from what little I heard of the phone conversation, she did seem pretty confident, yes.”

  “And you’ve no idea who she was talking to?”

  “No, she never said his name.”

  “But you assumed it was a man?”

  “I did, yes.” He wrote something again and I thought about his question. The phone conversation had been loverlike, but Roni a lesbian? I dismissed the idea. I had never seen her look twice at a woman and I had seen the way she looked at men. No, it had to be a man on the other end of that phone call.

  “Okay, so you said it sounded as if this person wanted to meet her but she said no?”

  I thought back. It had all happened so fast. What had Roni said? “She told the person not to come and meet her, that it wouldn’t be safe. Whoever it was must have gotten angry because Roni got upset and said that she wasn’t going to double-cross them.”

  “Double-cross them,” he repeated. “Did she use those exact words?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she say anything about a meeting later?”

  “No.”

  “Did you happen to”—he paused significantly—“accidentally overhear any other phone calls?”

  I flushed. “No, but I noticed Roni did receive several more during the day. I happened to be nearby when some of them came in, but she didn’t take the calls. She kept hanging up, claiming that it was either a wrong number or a crank call.”

  “But you don’t believe this was the case?”

  “Not really. I guess because of what I’d overheard earlier, I just assumed that the person from before was calling again and she didn’t want to take the call.”

  “Did anyone else overhear this first conversation?”

  I hesitated. All I had was a suspicion. And that suspicion could potentially implicate someone in Bridget’s family.

  “I can see from the expression on your face that the answer is yes. By the way, if you don’t already know this, let me offer you a word of advice—never play poker. Now, who else overheard this conversation?”

  “I don’t know for sure. When Roni left the study, she went out to the terrace to have a cigarette. Through there.” I pointed to the French doors behind him. “She smoked when she got upset and I didn’t want to bother her just then,” I continued in a rush, not caring for the knowing smirk Detective Grant directed my way. “I stepped back inside the house through the French doors leading to the living room. It was then that I heard the footsteps. I followed them but didn’t see anyone. When I came back, I saw that the door to the study was open a crack.”

  “Meaning someone could have been listening.”

  “I guess so. But as I said, I didn’t see anyone.”

  “And where did these footsteps go?”

  “Down the hallway, toward the upstairs staircase.”

  “Describe the footsteps. Were they heavy, light, lumbering?”

  I thought back. “They were rapid and loud, as if someone was wearing a hard-heeled shoe.”

  “High heels?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so.”

  The sound of footsteps rapidly approaching the door caught my attention. Detective Grant stared at me. “Were they like those?”

  They were, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer. As it turned out, I needn’t have bothered. Detective Grant took one look at my face and knew the answer as surely as if I’d screamed it at him.

  In silence we watched as the door swung open and the owner of the footsteps entered. It was Elsie. She was bearing an elaborately set tray, with a coffeepot, cups, a pitcher of cream, and sugar, as well as a plate of assorted tea cookies. I noticed that the coffee service was her best set. She was certainly pulling out all the stops.

  Placing the tray in front of Detective Grant, she said, “Your coffee, Detective. May I pour you a cup?”

  Detective Grant leaned back in the leather chair, the movement making a soft creaking noise, and casually crossed his arms across his chest. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Matthews. And then perhaps you can tell me if you’ve had any success locating Megan.”

  If his question rattled Elsie, she did an excellent job of hiding it. Calmly pouring out a cup of rich, hot coffee, she handed it to him before answering. “Well, no, Detective. We haven’t found her yet. I’m sure she’ll turn up soon. This is such a dreadful business. Megan will be just devastated. She’s a good girl, really, but you know how teenagers can be.”

  “Actually, as I told Ms. Parker here,” he said, with a brief nod in my direction, “I don’t have any kids. How would you
describe teenagers?”

  Elsie studied him with a level look. “Well, Detective, I don’t think one necessarily needs to have teenagers to understand them. For instance, you were a teenager once, correct? Or did you just skip all that and spring to your current age?”

  I winced. Elsie’s family and friends had grown accustomed to her outspokenness. At times it could be endearing. I suspected from the way Detective Grant’s gray eyes glittered that this was not one of those times.

  “Surprisingly enough, Mrs. Matthews, I was indeed a teenager—a very long time ago. And I think I remember how it feels to not get along with a parent, which, from what you two are not telling me, seems to be the case with Megan. Now, why don’t you tell me exactly why Megan and her mother didn’t get along?”

  Elsie ignored his question and instead pounced on something else. “You didn’t get along with your parents? Why ever not? An upstanding man like yourself? I find that hard to believe.”

  Detective Grant glared at Elsie. “This conversation isn’t about me, it’s about Megan.”

  “Of course, but I’d feel better knowing that I’m talking to someone who might actually understand our Megan. Megan is a special girl, but that fact seems to have escaped her mother.”

  Was Elsie completely off her rocker? She was telling the detective in charge of the case to open up about himself before she told him about Megan. I braced myself for the explosion.

  Surprisingly, Detective Grant did not leap to his feet and place Elsie into custody. Shifting in his seat, he merely said, “I wanted to be a dancer. Like Gene Kelly. However, my father had very definite ideas about my career, and being a dancer wasn’t on the list.”

  While I struggled not to gasp in astonishment at the image of Detective Grant deftly swinging from a lamppost, Elsie contemplated him with serious eyes. “So you just gave it up?” she asked.

  “No. I kept at it for a while, actually. But in the end, I just didn’t have the talent to make a career out if it. But it was a rough time for me and my dad. So in answer to your question, yes, I think I can view a rocky parent-child relationship with an open mind. Now, why don’t you tell me about Megan?”

  After a moment, Elsie gave a sharp nod of her head. “Megan doesn’t look like a Barbie doll and she has a brain. In short, she is the complete opposite of her mother.” With a twist of her mouth, she added, “May she rest in peace.”

  “Mrs. Matthews,” Detective Grant said with slow deliberation, “a murder was committed here last night. Not only that, but the victim was your daughter-in-law. She was brutally stabbed not fifty feet outside these doors behind me. I would think that given the circumstances, you would be a little more... enthusiastic in helping the police catch her killer.”

  Elsie placed both of her hands palm down on the desk and leaned forward. “Oh, don’t misunderstand me, Detective Grant. I am extremely enthusiastic about helping the police find the killer. But what I want to make very sure doesn’t happen is that the police focus on the wrong person. I know my family. They are not murderers. I saw how you looked at everyone. You saw a group of people, very few of whom seemed upset by Roni’s death. May I speak freely, Detective?”

  “It seems inconceivable to me that you would do otherwise.”

  “My daughter-in-law was not a very nice person. She was vain, shallow, and greedy. And I don’t think she particularly cared for my son. But she had a life outside of this family. I just want to make sure that the police focus on that life and not just our limited interactions with her. We may not have liked her, but we certainly didn’t kill her.”

  Detective Grant tasted his coffee. “For your sake, I hope you’re right, Mrs. Matthews.”

  So did I, I thought, staring at Elsie’s shoes.

  Chapter 10

  If a man’s character is to be abused, say what you will, there’s nobody like a relation to do the business.

  —WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERY, VANITY FAIR

  A commotion in the living room ended the ensuing stare down between Detective Grant and Elsie. Striding briskly to the door, Elsie yanked it open. “Oh, thank God!” she said, placing her hand on her chest. “Megan!”

  At that, both Detective Grant and I leaped out of our seats and dashed for the door. As Elsie had indicated, Megan stood, dazed, in the middle of the living room. Her upsweep was undone, leaving her hair hanging around her face. She was still wearing the dress she’d worn to the wedding. Harry stood with his arms wrapped around her, whispering in her ear. I saw her eyes widen at his message. Avery rolled his chair up next to her and grabbed one of her hands. “Oh, Megan,” he said, “thank God, you’re all right.”

  My eyes sought out Peter’s, and to my sharp dismay I saw that while I was in with Detective Grant, Chloe had co-opted my seat. She sat snuggled in next to Peter. My mind quickly noted the depressing fact that Chloe’s silky blond hair and lithe frame and Peter’s dark curls and athletic build made the two of them look like something out of a catalog for shiny happy people. I, on the other hand, with my humidity-induced frizzy hair and nonathletic, nonlithe anything, presented an image more appropriate for the before segment on an episode of What Not to Wear . My stomach tightened.

  Next to me, Detective Grant stepped forward. “Megan Matthews?” he said, his voice ominous.

  Megan turned confused eyes in his direction. “Yes. What’s going on? What’s happened?”

  Detective Grant paused. “Why don’t you sit down.” He indicated one of the club chairs. With an apprehensive glance at Harry, Megan detached herself from his arms and sank into the chair. Avery rolled his chair next to hers and gently took her hands in his. Shooting Detective Grant a quelling look, he said, “Megan, I don’t know how to tell you this, but it’s about your mother.”

  Megan stared at Avery, her round face white and frightened. Taking a deep breath, Avery continued. “She’s dead, honey. Someone... someone killed her last night.” Avery’s voice broke and he lowered his head, still clinging to Megan’s hands.

  Megan stared at Avery’s bowed head. Slowly, she raised her eyes and sought out Detective Grant’s. “Someone killed my mother?” she asked in a small voice.

  “I’m afraid so,” Detective Grant replied.

  “But why?” asked Megan, looking back to Avery.

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Do you know of anyone who wished her harm?” asked Detective Grant.

  Megan’s eyes snapped back to Detective Grant’s. I saw wariness in their depths as she answered. “My mother is... um... was... um... a difficult woman at times.” She glanced back to Avery as if afraid of offending him. “But I can’t imagine someone killing her because of that.”

  Detective Grant nodded. “I have to ask you about your whereabouts last night.”

  Before he could finish, Elsie stepped forward. “I’m going to have to insist that that question wait, Detective. As anyone can see, Megan is in shock. She needs some time to process this before she answers. You can interview the rest of us while Megan gets herself together. Elizabeth, please take Megan upstairs to your room.” Elsie turned to Blythe. “Blythe, why don’t you get Megan a cup of hot tea? I think that might help.” Blythe nodded her head, rose briskly from the couch, and started for the kitchen.

  I walked forward and extended my hand to Megan. “Come on, sweetie.” I hoped she would take my hand and leave before Detective Grant thought better of Elsie’s decree. Luckily, Megan seemed to be on the same wavelength. She nodded and quickly rose from her chair. With a brief backward glance at Avery, she crossed the room with me and headed for the stairs. I didn’t look directly at Detective Grant as we exited the room, but I did catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye as we rushed past. He looked as if he were about to object, then suddenly stepped back and nodded for us to continue.

  In our room, I shut the door. Megan sank down on her bed, staring numbly at the floor. Now, alone with her, I had no idea what to say. I crossed to my bed and sat down opposite her.

  “So
mebody actually killed her,” she said. It was more of a statement than a question, so I didn’t answer.

  She looked up at me. “Why don’t I feel anything?” She dropped her head in her hands, her brown hair spilling all over. “My mother is dead and I don’t feel anything! What kind of monster am I?”

  I quickly moved off the bed and knelt in front of her. “Megan, you are not a monster! You’re in shock.”

  She moved her hands away from her face and stared at me. Her eyes were dry and clear. “No, you don’t understand. I really don’t feel anything! She was a bitch and I’m glad she’s dead! You’ve no idea the living hell she made my life!”

  “Megan, I know living with her must have been hard, but—”

  “But nothing, Elizabeth! You don’t know the half of it! When I was twelve, my father divorced her. I remembered wishing I could divorce her, too. My father realized what kind of woman she was and he had had enough. He wanted custody of me because he loved me. She wanted custody because she knew it would hurt him and because she wanted the child support money.” Megan’s voice grew increasingly agitated. “The judge said that I was old enough to choose which one of them I wanted to live with and so, of course, I picked my father. I got up on that stand and told the judge that I wanted to live with my father. I told him why, too.” Her mouth twisted at the memory. “She hated me for that. Really hated me. I embarrassed her and ruined her plans. All I cared about was that I was going to live with my dad and not have to deal with her anymore. Six months later, my dad died in a car accident. Can you believe that? I had to go live with her again!” she cried indignantly. “You can’t imagine...” Her voice failed. “Of course, it was worse than ever. She punished me for choosing him over her—every single day. I hated her! I’m glad she’s dead!” Tears washed down her face and her breath came in ragged gulps. “Oh! I wish my dad was here now! I miss him so much!”

  Sobs racked her body and she curled up on her bed, burying her face in her pillow. A soft knock sounded at the door. It was Blythe. She held a steaming mug of tea. Looking over to the bed, she saw Megan. “Poor thing!” she whispered. “She’s really taking Roni’s death hard, isn’t she?”