by Amanda Tru
Several pages of notes in a Word document all pointed to one thing. Preston St. James had been a person of interest in the murder of Monica Eddington but was never charged. I could take it to her. See if she knows. But to what end? Surely, if he was guilty, he’d have been charged and tried.
There was another option—one he didn’t like. But Ty couldn’t not ask, so he called a friend in Rockland. “Got a weird situation here and need to talk to a cop—homicide. Know any?”
His friend took down essential information. Inside twenty minutes, a call came through. “Alex Frome—Eastbrook precinct. I understand you’re looking at the Eddington case. Why?”
The suspicion in the detective’s voice prompted full disclosure. From learning that his friend was marrying a St. James to searching for the dress and finding the story of Monica Eddington, he shared it all. “I just researched everything I could find last night, and… well… it doesn’t look good for Preston St. James.”
“He was cleared of all charges, though. He was in Chicago when Ms. Eddington was murdered.”
“Hired hit man?” Ty felt the heat of mortification rise at even the suggestion, but he couldn’t help it. “Something is off with him.”
“Oh, there’s plenty off, but we looked at his financials—nothing. The family allowed us to go through all their financials. Clean enough to make the IRS the happiest agency on the planet.”
“So, what’s off about him?”
Enough silence came through to make Ty twice as nervous as he’d been at calling in the first place. Finally, Frome said, “Look, this is what is public record if you know where to look. Eddington broke off the engagement six weeks before the wedding. He refused to accept it. Two weeks later, she was dead.”
“And that wasn’t suspicious?!”
“Of course it was. But it’s not enough to convict a guy when not a single shred of evidence points to him. And, every officer who spoke to him says the same thing, he was devastated by her death. Sure, he was obsessed with her, but not the kind that kills her. He just didn’t accept that the wedding was off.”
Just before they disconnected the call, Detective Frome said one more thing. “Only Preston had an alibi that wasn’t family. That others all alibied each other—except Grandma. She was supposed to be sleeping, but no one checked on her during the hours before and after Eddington was killed. I just think that’s odd, too—that he’s the only one with a non-family alibi, but still…”
That’s it. Grandma, here I come. Lara said she hasn’t met you. Maybe there’s a reason.
They hadn’t been on a real date since before Easter. But on June first, after sunset, Lara abandoned The Birches for a romantic, but not moonlit, picnic by Lake Danube. Preparations for it had led to a discovery. There was such a thing as “vegan bacon,” something that she insisted on calling “facon” after that. If his mother can be a “Faux-ma,” then we eat “facon,” she’d rationalized to herself.
So with BLTs made with vegan mayo, of course, potato salad, fruit salad, sparkling cider, and lemon melt-away balls, they ate in traditional picnic style. “Oh! My parents got their tickets, finally. Dad saved a hundred bucks on each ticket and only has to spend an extra hundred for each carry-on to get that price. Mom is not amused.”
“Will they be staying with us or…?”
Are you nuts? You’d be jilting me at the altar by the time Dad got through with his disgust at your “ostentatious display of wealth.” She couldn’t say it, of course. Preston would be hurt at the idea he’d ever do such a thing as make an ostentatious display of wealth, but he didn’t understand her father. Having a car that was less than five years old could sometimes count as ostentatious.
“Lara?”
“I have them staying at my place, and I’m staying at Brenna’s. Then my cousins will stay with Mitchell—it keeps everyone close so I can see as much of them as possible.”
“Oh,” Preston pulled her closer and sighed into her hair. “I won’t see much of you, then, will I?”
And there’s the man I fell in love with. You’re showing up more and more lately. Thank goodness. You’re not going to like my next news.
“Lara?”
“Sorry, not as much, maybe. But you can come sit at the restaurant still. They won’t be in. Dad will say…” She dropped her voice lower to imitate her father. “‘Too rich for my blood.’”
“He does know The Birches isn’t exactly a five-star restaurant.”
You don’t have to tear it down. It’s the nicest place in New Cheltenham and gets better reviews than The Oakes in Rockland!
As if her reply didn’t matter, or so it felt, Preston asked, for the fiftieth time that week, if her passport had arrived yet. “It’s imperative—”
“It’ll be here! We have twenty-seven days, and the earliest it was supposed to arrive was yesterday. It’ll be fine.”
“I know… I just don’t want anything to ruin our trip.”
Better tell him now. Lara trained her voice to sound as nonchalant as possible and said, “Speaking of trips, I just got word from the owner. He wants me at the Midwest show the week of the twenty-fourth. He’s already arranged everything.”
“Of… July? We’ll be back—”
“This month.”
Preston stiffened. “That’s the week of our wedding.”
“I know. I know.” Lara began explaining—at double speed. “So, when he told me, I flipped out. I reminded him of the wedding, but he said I needed to be there. They’re demonstrating some new equipment Carlo wants, and Ted wants me to see if I think we should get it. I said I had to leave Thursday afternoon at the latest, but…”
“But what?”
Here goes nothing—or everything. “He wants me there for a late meeting with a vendor at nine o’clock. So, I did the math, and if I leave at five in the morning, I can make it back here in time to get dressed and be outside for our reveal photos on time. Brenna will cover making sure everything is where it belongs. We can have a quick rehearsal before I leave instead of the night before. But…”
Preston stood and began pacing. Sand flipped onto the blanket and their leftover food as he plowed back and forth. “But what, Lara? You have to know this isn’t going to work.”
“It has to. I don’t have a choice. It’s my job.”
“Then quit.”
You promised me you’d never ask me to quit. That better not be anything but frustration talking. “I can’t do that, and you know it. I just need… don’t hate me for this.”
“What?”
“I need you to have the rehearsal dinner anyway—without me. And put up with my dad? We can have it in the banquet room at The Birches. I have it all reserved. Carlo can make vegan dishes for your family and—”
“Seriously?” He whirled to face her. “You want me to have a rehearsal dinner without you? Where are your priorities?”
Where is your compassion? Aloud, she bit out, “I need you to support me just like I supported you when you wanted to go to that concert on my birthday and couldn’t get off.”
“You supported me? I was the one who didn’t get to take my girlfriend out to—”
“Fine. Forget it. I’ll tell my boss I can’t go. And when he fires me, I’ll resent you for it. I’m not proud of that,” Lara hastened to add, “but it’s what it is. I will. I can’t believe you’re being so ridiculous about this. My boss is giving me two weeks off during our busiest time. All he asks is that—”
Preston began packing up the cooler. “Go. I’ll do the dinner. I’ll be the perfect host. I’ll put up with your father attacking me for daring to make more money than he thinks is appropriate. I won’t tell him how much we give away, because that wouldn’t be right. I’ll just put up with it. Because your job is more important to you than this one event that sets off our new life together. I get it. Fine.”
“That’s not fair—”
But he wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t listen. He drove back to New Cheltenham in stony silence.
He kissed her goodnight with as much interest and passion as a rubber ducky in a kissing booth, and he stormed down the street and around to the “carriage houses” where his car—the one her father would hate, of course—waited.
“Well,” Lara muttered as she cleaned out the cooler. “That went well.”
Ty spent all of May trying to get into the St. James home to meet “Grandma,” but Lillian Dunaway was better guarded than the US President. By June first, he’d given up. The police knew their job. If they said Preston didn’t kill his ex-fiancée, then he didn’t.
After reworking the narrative in his mind for a few weeks, Ty had come to a conclusion. Preston hadn’t been in denial about the broken engagement but about her death. It manifested as if he didn’t accept that she’d broken it off, but that was only reasonable when you’d loved someone.
If only Ty truly believed it. And I might, he thought that Saturday night, if Lara didn’t look almost like Monica Eddington’s clone.
A text message appeared just as he climbed into bed. From Lara. Can you pray for us? Preston is really ticked. I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should postpone the wedding.
Ty’s heart raced at the thought of Preston hearing that his fiancée had jilted him—again. He’d see it that way.
It wasn’t his business, but he had to try. Ty zipped back a reply. Don’t do anything until I get back to you. I need to look into something. I’ll leave Preston out of it. After he hit send, he remembered her request. And yes, I’ll pray.
The one thing he hadn’t done was talk to Preston’s pastor. So, Monday morning, he appeared at the church office and waited to be introduced. Inside ten minutes, they’d hashed out the order of service, the pastor’s prayer, and their agreement on one change in the vows they’d been given.
Oh, and he’d learned that on Friday afternoons, Mrs. St. James took a long nap in preparation for Sabbath while the house help did the shopping for the weekend. Grandma Dunaway, on the other hand, spent the afternoon watching Wheel of Fortune on the game channel.
Lara spent most of June seventh’s counseling session talking herself into liking all the things that had been decided about her wedding. The lily sprays had been changed to bouquets in urns—bouquets that took up the bottom third of those windows. The rose petals that were to line the aisles had become a flower girl with a Dunaway family heirloom dress, too. “She just fits it! We couldn’t not have her,” Stella St. James had insisted.
Somehow, for reasons Ty still didn’t understand, candles had become important. It might be that he didn’t try to. Instead, he watched the clock behind his desk and tried to remember if it ran seventeen minutes fast or slow.
“Ty?”
“Sorry, what?”
“Do you think I’ve just become a complainer? I mean, this wedding is his, too. Actually, it feels like it’s only his.”
That snapped him out of his lack of attention. “Would you like me to talk to him? I hear something in your tone that I think might be contributing to your frustration.”
She eyed him with what was either mistrust or irritation. Ty couldn’t decide which, or which was worse. “What’s that?”
“You keep trying to be a reasonable person about something that really bothers you and isn’t unreasonable. I don’t know that he really understands how upset you are about these things.”
“I’ve told him…”
“And if you use tones like you do with me, he probably hears you talking yourself into them. That’s what you do when you talk to me.”
Lara rose, excused herself, and left. Ty watched her leave, his heart sinking to his shoes. If he hadn’t needed to leave right then, he’d have gone after her. Conversation with Grandma is more important, though.
An hour later, a Slavic-looking woman met him in the driveway, frowning at him. “Mrs. St. James is resting. You’ll—”
Ty stuck out his hand. “I’ve come to visit with her mother, Lillian Dunaway? I’m the minister at—”
“Oh. Minister. Sorry. Mrs. Dunaway’s room is at the top of the stairs, to the right, end of the hallway. Just make sure you let her know you’re coming, so you don’t scare her. You can call out loud. Mrs. St. James is on the other end of the house. You won’t disturb her.”
It couldn’t have been easier. He went in, climbed the stairs, and as he neared the double doors at the end of the hallway, he began calling out. “Mrs. Dunaway? My name is Ty Jamison. I’m Lara Priest’s minister. I just wanted to meet you… May I come in?”
Ty’s mental picture of a wild-haired, crazy-eyed mouse of a woman wielding a knife might have been on the ridiculous side, but it couldn’t have been more opposite from Lillian Dunaway. She opened the doors, tall, stout, polished from the top of her tasteful bun to the tips of her nearly glowing white trainers.
“You’re Lara’s pastor?”
“Minister, yes.” He smiled and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
She looked past him. “Is she here? Lara? I haven’t met her yet.”
“Sorry, no.” He pulled out his phone and passed over the only picture he had of Lara. “That was taken at our Easter service.”
Delight filled the woman’s face one second and after a glance at the photo, transformed into disgust. “She looks like that…” A few choice words spewed forth. Then, as if she hadn’t just vomited up expletives, her countenance changed. “The poor girl. But she’s sweet and true, isn’t she? Not like that ungrateful wench.”
Did you seriously just use the word “wench?”
“I’m sorry Preston lost his former fiancée. That must have been a terrible blow. Do you think he’s ready for another relationship?”
“I’m not sorry he ‘lost’ her. I’m glad the girl is dead.” The woman’s eyes blazed. “Did you know she tried to call off the wedding? To my grandson!”
You won’t like it much if Lara postpones then, I guess.
“You’ll bring Lara to meet me, won’t you? They won’t let me see her, and you shouldn’t meet your granddaughter-to-be at a wedding. How awkward for everyone!”
Can’t imagine why they wouldn’t allow you to meet her. It’s not like you’d scare off anyone or anything. Are you insane, or just off enough to have lost your filter? Ty gave her another covert, searching look. You seem lucid enough.
“Pastor?”
He didn’t even try to correct her. “I’ll see what I can do. She’s a busy girl, getting ready for the wedding and with her job and all…”
“That’s how I knew she’d be better for Preston. Did you know that…?” A slew of expletives followed. “—quit her job the week after she and Preston got engaged. She said planning a wedding was a full-time job.” Again, the woman’s eyes gentled. “You tell Lara not to let Stella take over the preparations. She’ll do it if given half a chance.”
He stood there another ten minutes, listening to Mrs. Dunaway doing that very thing—taking over the wedding plans. Orchids were the only flower, of course. And that heirloom flower girl dress was “the ugliest thing ever constructed from perfectly good silk,” so a new dress made of tulle and satin should be procured posthaste. “Smocked, of course. All proper girls’ dresses have lovely smocking and bullion roses.”
Ty didn’t even want to think about what a “bullion rose” might be. He did decide that enough people had interfered to change Lara’s wedding into something she didn’t want. The woman gripped his arm. “Is Lara a pretty girl—inside, I mean? Not like that horrible witch of a vixen, Monica?” Beneath her breath, she muttered, “So glad she’s out of the picture.”
“Lara is lovely—kind and thoughtful. She’s lost almost every dream she had for her own wedding and still shows graciousness about it.”
“Good. But you tell her not to let Stella take over. And make sure she gets rid of that awful flower girl dress. Spill punch on it. That works every time. Just have a good dress waiting—in case, you know. They’ll praise your forethought.”
It’s time for someone to interfere
on her behalf. I’m calling that dress shop she went to. That second dress idea is a good one. She can wear one for the ceremony and formal pictures and the other to the reception. That’s a reasonable compromise.
He managed to escape and crept down the hall. Near the stairs, a cluster of photos of Preston arrested Ty’s attention. He glanced at the opposite wall and saw a cluster of photos of a Latino boy—a graduation photo in the center. In one photo, Mr. St. James and Preston stood with a few others. Something he’d read in an article about the St. Jameses being foster parents to several boys now became real. They’re genuinely caring people.
A closer inspection of the Preston grouping showed several pictures of him with Lara—no, Monica Eddington. What, you think she looks enough like Lara that you don’t need to update the wall?
From the end of the hall, he heard a screech—something about Monica losing like she deserved to. Ty dashed out the door and down the drive. Better talk to Lara.
Lara’s dress hung over his office door. She’d asked him if he could pick it up for her since he’d be in that area of Rockland, and Ty couldn’t say no. Now, hanging over that door, his heart shredded a little more every time his eyes traveled to the garment bag protecting it—only once or twice every minute.
Having that dress in his office had sealed the deal for him. He’d get Lara the dress she’d ordered, but that brilliant idea had fizzled in one awkward phone call. Rhonda Snow had been adamant. No amount of cajoling would convince her to reopen the dress order. The crazy idea to steal the bouquet and replace it with the old fashioned English roses Lara had wanted sounded less crazy with each passing minute, each whispered prayer.
Ty called The Secret Garden and asked to speak to Wayne. Wayne wasn’t in. “You can find him at The Pettler right now.”
“Fairbury?” At the girl’s confirmation, he hung up and searched for the number. Inside five minutes, the order had been made and paid for.
