The awkward silence that followed was broken by Travis’s appearance in the doorway.
He said, “Holt, we’re cutting the cake and you’re supposed to say something first.”
Holt nodded and flashed a GQ smile. “Ladies, it’s been a pleasure.”
I laughed when he was gone. “Does he like himself or what?”
“The nice thing about someone like him is that he doesn’t have much time to talk about anyone else. He’s too busy being consumed with himself.”
Since I’d seen plenty of cake cutting in my time, and Kate didn’t eat anything with white sugar, we stayed put. But I was as hungry as a goat on concrete, so I had a friendly waiter fill me a plate with boiled shrimp before he took the platter into the dining room.
Kate continued making the little net pockets and seemed to be doing a damn fine job, so I took my time peeling the shrimp and enjoyed every single one of those critters. About thirty minutes later Kate announced she was finished and went to the sink to wash her hands. Licking the remnants of cocktail sauce off my fingers, I followed suit, dodging several waiters on the way.
Kate told me she would arrange the little birdseed treasures in the crepe-lined basket Sylvia Beadford had provided if I wanted to find Megan and say hello. “And good-bye,” she added with emphasis.
“Good idea. Much as I hate to agree with Holt, I do kind of feel like a Cinderella relegated to the back of the house for menial tasks.”
I wandered out into the family room, my drink in hand. The string quartet had been set up in here, but most folks were in the adjoining great room to my left. The musicians had taken a break, and the noise of multiple conversations in both rooms filled the air. A fire crackled in the fireplace and a champagne fountain with golden liquid bubbling out of pitchers held by cherubs sat on a table perpendicular to the windows. Plates filled with slices of the now-mutilated tiered white cake surrounded the fountain.
I noticed Roxanne speaking with the violinist in a corner to my right. I knew he was the violinist because he had his instrument clutched to him like a life jacket. Roxanne’s stringy brown hair made me wonder if she’d sprayed her head with Pam rather than Final Net, and the violinist’s body language brought the image of a treed possum to mind. Nothing pretty about that scene.
But James and Travis had them beat. The new father-in-law and son-in-law were outside on the deck that overlooked a covered oval swimming pool. Either the wind had stung their faces an angry crimson, or both their blood pressures were sky-high. James kept poking his finger into Travis’s silver-vested chest.
Then Travis glanced back toward the house, took hold of his father-in-law’s elbow, and led him toward the other end of the deck.
I immediately scanned the room for Megan, feeling protective all of a sudden. No bride should have her wedding day ruined by some silly family dispute that probably could have waited until the appropriate time. That’s what Thanksgiving and Christmas are for, right? I soon spotted her talking to her uncle Graham in the next room.
I made my way around clusters of guests engaged in animated conversations or playing with their digital cameras. I reached Megan and her uncle in time to hear Graham Beadford loudly proclaim he was related to Thomas Jefferson by way of a different mother than Sally Hemmings, a “damn prettier” slave girl, according to him. For Megan’s sake, I hoped no one was videotaping this embarrassing moment. Uncle Graham was so drunk he’d probably grab a snake and try to kill a stick.
Megan blushed and said, “Hi, Abby. I was hoping to convince my uncle to try the coffee. We rented this huge silver urn and it’s filled to the brim, but no one seems interested.”
“Maybe he and I could sample the coffee together,” I offered, setting my champagne glass down on a small side table near the wall.
Graham attempted to focus on me, his head wobbling with the effort. “Don’t I know you?”
“We met last night at dinner. Abby Rose.”
“That’s right. Megan’s little rich friend. So you want to force-feed me some caffeine? I’ll bet you could ante up for a whole Starbucks. Gold mine, those Starbucks. Who’d have thought us Texans would willingly pay five dollars for steaming coffee in our ninety-degree summers? Shoulda got in on that action when they first came to town.”
“Uncle Graham, forgive me, but there are guests I haven’t even spoken with yet,” said Megan.
He gulped the last of whatever he’d been drinking and slid the rocks glass on the table, nearly tipping over my champagne flute. “Well, forgive me for monopolizing you.”
But Uncle Graham didn’t move and Megan seemed reluctant to leave him, though if I were in her place I would have done so in a heartbeat.
I took Graham’s arm. “Let’s you and I chat.”
Megan mouthed a thank-you once he seemed willing to depart with me.
I wasn’t simply being a Good Samaritan. He’d called me the “rich friend,” and I wanted to know how he’d learned about my financial circumstances, considering I hadn’t mentioned my background to anyone last night. I hadn’t even told Megan. Despite being well-off, I charge for my services, using everything I make to support a home for unwed mothers in Galveston—a home I have a special interest in. Kate and I were born there.
“So, Mr. Beadford,” I said, my hand on his upper arm. I guided him in the direction of the dining room. “What’s your line of business?”
“Not computers like you, that’s for sure. Computers are getting to be like goddamn cars. Too much maintenance to love ’em, but you can’t live without ’em.”
Had I still been working for CompuCan, my late daddy’s company, I might have said he obviously needed one of our computers. But I’d spent the last several months shedding myself of anything but minimal involvement, deciding I was never cut out to be a CEO. But obviously Graham Beadford thought I still worked there.
“So what do you do, Mr. Beadford?” I repeated.
He stopped in the middle of the room, his square chin raised. “Plenty. I do plenty. I’ve owned my own business and I’ve worked with my brother, James, on the oil equipment supply side. But if you need a computer man, I can do that, too.”
“Sorry, but I’ve changed jobs. Can’t help you there. I’m in... social services now.”
“Really? The Internet is behind on their information, then.” It was his turn to pull me toward the dining room. “But even so, you inherited some big bucks, Ms. Rose.” Graham made a sudden weave to the right and slammed his shoulder into a woman wildly overdressed in black sequins and a mink stole.
Graham was a small, burly man, similar in stature to Megan’s father—and he hit the lady square on the collarbone. When he failed to offer an apology, she shot him a “go directly to hell” look, readjusted the dead animals around her shoulders, and resumed her conversation.
“Excuse him,” I whispered as we passed, wondering what else this guy had turned up on me. There were plenty of news stories to be found considering the home I’d recently vacated in ritzy River Oaks had become a crime scene after the gardener was killed. But why was this man plugging my name into some search engine in the first place?
I must have looked concerned because Graham patted my back. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything about your little brush with death at the hands of your ex-husband or mention your mountains of money.”
“Who says I’m worried?”
He stopped in the dining room entry and lifted my chin with his index knuckle. “Uncle Graham knows people. I’ll bet you’re scared I’ll blab to all these upper-middle-class schmucks about how filthy, stinking rich you are. And you’re afraid if I do, people will be hanging on you like snapping turtles. Asking for favors... donations... handouts. I had money once. I know what it’s like. Royal pain in the ass.”
He didn’t slur one word, and I realized then that Graham Beadford might not be as drunk as I’d thought—though from the smell of him, he was well on the way.
The coffee urn that looked like it could have provid
ed enough java for a cruise ship breakfast sat on one end of a shiny teak table. The now-weeping ice sculpture rested in the center surrounded by silver platters of cold crab, pate and crackers, boiled shrimp, cubed cheeses, marinated mushroom caps, and cherry tomatoes stuffed with something swirled and yellow. The chubby photographer, his camera strapped behind him, was parked in a corner sucking the meat out of a crab claw.
I held up two fingers to the waitress manning the urn and she filled scalloped china cups and handed them to me.
When I gave Graham his, he pulled a pint of Southern Comfort from his pocket and spiked his coffee, sending liquid sloshing onto the saucer. After restashing his bottle, he lifted both cup and saucer to his lips and slurped off the top.
“Starbucks could learn a thing or three from me,” he said. “Make a bigger killing if they had more than those sissy-ass drinks on the menu.” His bald, freckled head glowed under the crystal chandelier hanging over the table.
I drank half my lukewarm coffee, then glanced back over my shoulder to make sure Megan wasn’t close by and still subject to him reinserting himself into her line of vision. She wasn’t. “Listen, Graham, I need to get home. Maybe I’ll see you again when I visit with Megan.”
“I live in Dallas, so I doubt that. But why not stay and keep me company a little longer? I could get to like you, little lady.”
“Sorry. I came with my sister and she has a client waiting.” Small lies are sometimes necessary. I reached over and set the cup and saucer on a tray by the wall an arm’s length away.
“She works on Saturday?”
“She’s a shrink. Crazy people sometimes don’t know if it’s Saturday or Wednesday.”
“That sounds like an excuse. Have I upset you? Because I could sure use some intelligent conversation. Every idiot here belongs to my brother. His clients. His line of credit. His wonderful life. Besides, Megan wanted you to take care of me—as I’m sure you noticed.”
His tone told me more than all his previous words or actions—bitter noise from a guy whose blood-to-alcohol ratio was probably permanently off-kilter. Having learned my lesson about alcohol abusers the hard way, I said, “Sorry, Graham, but I can’t stay.”
I turned and walked toward the kitchen just as the music started up again. Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” I sure hoped Megan and Travis had some of that joy in their hearts, because so far, this reception was proving to be devoid of happiness and warmth.
When I arrived in the kitchen, Kate was handing her artfully arranged basket of birdseed packets to the bride’s mother.
That’s when a hair-raising scream ripped through the house. Kate and Sylvia lost their grip on the basket and all those pretty little pouches scattered over the tile floor. Some of the netting opened, sending tiny seeds bouncing in every direction.
The music stopped.
No more laughing. No more conversations.
Sylvia whispered, “Oh my God,” then took off in the direction of the scream.
I followed, Kate close behind me.
We pushed by people who looked frozen in time, their collective silence almost oppressive. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush that heightened my senses, but the mix of seafood and booze and flowers seemed like an ocean I had to swim through. No one but us seemed to be reacting to what every single guest surely must have heard. But that’s how it often happens in an emergency. The more people around, the less response. Everyone expects someone else to do something.
Sylvia was about three feet ahead of me, but had ditched the high heels since I last saw her and was snaking through the crowd with ease, headed toward a closed room on the other side of the foyer.
When she reached the double doors, she pushed them open but then stopped in the entry.
Unable to get past her, I stared over her shoulder.
Megan was sitting on the floor by a fireplace, ivory satin puffed around her like a soft cloud. Her father’s head was in her lap, a huge, vicious merlot-colored stain damning that beautiful dress.
2
Megan reached out to me with blood-stained hands and pleaded, “Abby, help him. Please help him.”
I wasn’t sure why she’d turned to me rather than her mother, but that question caused no hesitation on my part. I squeezed by the still-immobile Sylvia, hurried over, and knelt beside Megan.
James Beadford’s dilated eyes stared up at the ceiling and a wicked gash to his temple had bled enough to completely mask his right ear. I lifted his hand and felt for a pulse, not going for the carotid. His messy head and neck would have made that difficult.
So much blood. And it was still seeping into Megan’s lap. Beadford’s skin was warm, but I felt nothing, not even one tiny beat of his heart in that thick, limp wrist.
I sat back on my heels, heard and felt a crunching sound beneath my feet. The brick hearth was right behind me and I leaned against it, realizing I was crouching in small pieces of glass. A couple of feet behind Megan lay the scattered remnants of a leaded crystal vase, the jagged base glittering like a giant diamond in the light from the window.
Meeting Megan’s anxious gaze, I shook my head. “I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”
She stared down at her father’s face, then bent at the waist and collapsed over him, her strapless bodice heaving with sobs.
I looked over at Sylvia, who hadn’t uttered a sound, hadn’t moved an inch. She stood rigid, fists at her sides, a tinge of gray around her crimson mouth. Kate’s pale face loomed behind her.
“Kate, call nine one one.”
But before Kate could react, Sylvia Beadford swayed and then toppled like a felled oak, taking Kate down with her to the wood floor. Megan must have known her mother would crumble. Probably why she reached out to me for help first.
I started to get up, ready to assist Kate and Sylvia, nearly tearing my angle-hemmed skirt when I started to rise. But Megan’s cold, sticky fingers gripped my forearm. “Don’t leave us. Please.”
Then Graham appeared, looking downright sober. He assisted Kate to her knees so she could minister to the passed out Sylvia before flipping open a cell phone to make the 9 1 1 call.
Not long after, noise again filled the Beadford house. Chaos bred from fear makes plenty of noise—raised voices, the sound of a distant siren, people shouting and wanting in the room. Didn’t matter poor Sylvia was laid out like a trussed turkey in the doorway. Kate was fanning the woman’s face with someone’s handbag and I swear those so-called friends of the family would have stepped right over Sylvia to get a better look at the body.
With the help of a calm, rational Holt McNabb—maybe he was an okay guy after all—Graham pushed all the guests back, telling them to find a place to “park it.” They did let Travis pass. I wasn’t sure even he should come in, but we’d already messed up the crime scene plenty. Besides, I needed my arm back. Megan’s grip had my fingers going numb and Travis seemed the right person to help alleviate that problem.
Meanwhile Holt and Graham assisted a dazed Sylvia to her feet and led her away, leaving me and Kate alone with Travis and Megan.
Megan had stopped crying. She was probably numb with shock now. Travis gently pulled her from beneath her dead father. Once she was on her feet, he wrapped his arms around her small, trembling frame and rocked her, smoothing her hair, not letting go for dear life. “I’ve got you, hon. I’m here,” he said over and over.
I moved away from them and whispered to Kate, “I need your phone.”
She lifted her black silk shirt and pulled it from her matching skirt pocket. “You calling Jeff?” she asked.
“You betcha.” I took the phone and dialed his cell.
“Kate?” he answered, sounding puzzled. Must have recognized her Caller ID.
“No, it’s me.” I turned my back on Megan and Travis. “Remember that wedding?”
“Yeah?” Wary now. He probably heard the tension in my voice.
“It just turned into a funeral,” I whispered. “Father of the bride got whacked with a very large vas
e.”
Shrieking sirens sounded so close I figured the police were pulling in front of the house. I missed his reply.
“Repeat that,” I said.
“Where are you?” He was all cool and collected now. A freaked-out girlfriend might be trouble, but murder? Comfortable territory. I could hear the rustle of paper. He was unwrapping a stick of Big Red gum, no doubt.
“In Seacliff.” I gave him the address.
“Galveston County. Out of our jurisdiction. But I’ll be there anyway.”
He disconnected.
Jeff may be a man of few words, but he’s great in the action department.
He didn’t arrive for another hour, probably because Seacliff is well south of Houston, and half the trip is on two-lane roads rather than freeway. In the meantime, plenty of other cops showed up, not only from Seacliff, but from several surrounding towns. A county sheriff patrol arrived on the scene, too. And then there were the fire trucks. And the ambulance. Everyone in small Texas towns makes an appearance for the 9 1 1 calls. By the time I was commanded to my “holding area” by the female plainclothes officer who seemed to be in charge of the investigation, I was beginning to wonder if Graham Beadford had mentioned al-Qaeda when he’d called.
Kate and I had been separated. I didn’t particularly like this, but reasoned the lady in control knew what she was doing. Everyone who had entered the room or saw the body was being guarded by their own special cop until he or she could be interviewed. Mine, a uniformed officer from a nearby town, took me to the laundry room. We sat in wooden folding chairs facing each other, crammed in with the washer, dryer, and a wheeling clothes rack. He resisted all my attempts at conversation, just sat there coldly staring past my right shoulder. I swear if we were cremated together that guy wouldn’t have warmed up.
Finally a Seacliff cop rescued me, informing Officer Subzero that his help was needed with all the cameras and video recorders gathered from the guests.
Cameras. Wow. I hadn’t thought about them. Folks had been snapping pictures like crazy, and who knows what they’d inadvertently captured. The new cop and I walked through the house. Most people had been cleared out, and those who remained stood in small groups in the great room talking with uniformed police officers taking notes.
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