Two Funerals and a Wedding (Domestic Bliss Mysteries Book 8)

by Leslie Caine

  I decided then and there that my move back into my home with Steve tonight would have to be temporary. I’d return here whenever Audrey was allowed back into her home, and I’d stay with her until the wedding next Saturday. Despite this tragic situation, I wanted to stick with my original plan of letting Steve have his bachelor pad and me to have my girl time with Audrey before making the formal transition into marriage. Plus, I was certain that Audrey would be jittery for a while at being alone in her house in the aftermath of this dreadful event.

  I selected a bottle of Shiraz. When I brought the wine to Audrey in her bedroom, Linda was emerging from the laundry room. “Where did the blood come from that’s on this washcloth?” Linda asked us.

  “Drew got a nosebleed last night,” Audrey said.

  “He did?” I asked.

  “A pretty bad one. It started to bleed shortly after his inane balancing act on the hearth.”

  “I saw his antics, too,” I said. “I didn’t think you were in the room.”

  “I wasn’t. Eleanor Sullivan told me about it. So I sought Drew out to see if I could encourage him to switch to soft drinks, and that’s when he got his nosebleed. I brought him upstairs and handed him the washcloth, and got him to sit down and tilt his head back.”

  “Is there any chance he’d gotten into fisticuffs with Mr. Parker?” Linda asked.

  “No, Fitz was on our deck, sipping coffee the whole time,” Audrey answered. “In fact, that could have been a good opportunity for the killer to slip the poison into his cup. I heard him ask one of the wait staff for a refill. She’d replied, ‘I’ll bring out a little pot for you.’”

  “Unless she was talking about marijuana,” I said.

  Both Linda and Audrey scowled at me.

  I sometimes made throw-away comments like that, and afterwards I almost always regretted them. Such as that one.

  Steve had told me that he’d brought Drew upstairs and that Drew was meditating. Drew must have gone upstairs twice. And Eleanor said that she and Amelia were upstairs at some point.

  “I hope you’re developing an intricate timeline of who was where and when last night,” I said to Linda. “It’s so difficult to keep track when you’ve got over fifty guests.”

  “We’re trying to,” Linda said. “On the one hand, there were plenty of witnesses. But everyone was consuming alcohol, and only the killer knew that there was any reason to pay attention to others’ whereabouts until after the victim was poisoned.”

  “How long after Fitz swallowed the poison until he would have become ill?”

  “Five to twenty minutes.”

  “That lets Lucas LeBlanc, the caterer from the wedding, off the hook,” Audrey immediately said to me. “He’d left a full hour ahead of that.”

  “He’s probably off the hook,” Linda corrected. “As well as all of the guests who left a full half hour before the victim collapsed. It gets fuzzy, though, because we don’t know for absolute certain that the cyanide was dissolved in his coffee, as opposed to his consuming something that had been poisoned earlier.”

  “Did you run background checks on all of the servers at the party?” I asked Linda. “Maybe one of them had a big ax to grind with Fitz.”

  “We ran a quick check, but nothing’s turned up yet.”

  Disappointed, I nodded. It would have let me feel a tiny bit better about the poor man’s death if none of our invited guests was his killer.

  *

  An hour later, I remained seated in one of my least favorite places in all of Crestview—an investigation room at the police station. I was also engaged in one of my least-favorite activities: being grilled by Detective O’Reilly, whom I’d learned some years ago was nicknamed “Oh Really” by his fellow officers, due to his ever-cynical statements to witnesses.

  “Did anyone at the party have an axe to grind with the victim?” he asked me.

  “Not as far as I know. My sister-in-law had raved about him, so that’s why we hired him. I don’t think anyone outside of Steve’s family knew him at all, although Steve’s friend, Drew Benson, didn’t seem to be fond of him. Like I said, they’d exchanged words about the caterer yesterday morning.”

  “Did Fitz argue with anyone last night?”

  “Not when I was around. Although it’s possible he argued a bit with Lucas LeBlanc, when he arrived with his crepes and crab cakes.”

  “And Mr. Sullivan’s family members had gotten to know Fitz two-and-a-half years ago, at his sister’s wedding, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was there any friction there?”

  “No. Or at least, not that I knew about. Again, Michelle highly recommended him.” I hesitated, wondering if I should tell the detective about Fitz’s and my final conversation. That, too, had been in my previous statement.

  “You look as though you have something you want to add.”

  I wanted to know how Amelia’s necklace wound up in Fitz’s pocket, but I wasn’t sure that O’Reilly would approve of Linda’s having told me that. Instead, I said, “It’s probably irrelevant, but Fitz claimed that he’d run interference at Michelle and Mark’s wedding, because Drew drank too much. Drew and Michelle used to date.”

  “So Drew and Fitz not only weren’t fond of each other, but actively disliked one another?”

  “In my opinion, yes.”

  “Intensely…in your opinion?”

  “That depends on your definition. Fitz told me that Drew was an asshole during a private conversation last night. He said that everyone felt the same way about him, but that nobody was willing to speak up because it was politically incorrect, due to Drew’s race. Drew was calling Fitz ‘Fitzy’ at Steve’s and my wedding consultation yesterday morning.”

  O’Reilly leaned back in his chair and stared at me for an uncomfortable length of time. “You don’t like these interviews, do you?”

  “No, I don’t,” I snapped. “Can you blame me?”

  He smirked at me. “Do I blame you?” he scoffed. “That’s an interesting question. I never cease to be baffled by how often you’ve been involved in murders.”

  “Neither do I, Detective O’Reilly. But I assure you, I’m not to blame for my wedding planner’s murder. It was the last thing I would have wanted to happen.”

  “Glad to hear it. I don’t want the job security as a homicide investigator that your living in my home town seems to have given me.”

  “Are we done here?”

  “I suppose so. Let me make sure your fingerprints are still on file. For exclusionary purposes. You understand.”

  “Not really. Did you find a bottle of cyanide with fingerprints on it?”

  “No, but we found a necklace in Mr. Parker’s pocket. It was on a thin gold chain that appears to have been severed.”

  “The chain was cut?”

  He continued to stare at me, giving no reaction himself to my question. “Are you or Audrey missing some fingernail clippers, by any chance?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t needed to clip my nails recently.”

  “Mr. Parker also had a pair of clippers in his pocket. The curvature in the cut of the gold chain matches the clippers perfectly.”

  “There were probably some nail clippers in both of the upstairs bathrooms in Audrey’s house. It would have been easy for anyone at the party to grab them. Including Fitz.” But how could he—or another guest—cut the necklace off Amelia’s neck without her noticing? I suppose if someone was bold enough to lift the pendant away from her skin on the pretext of studying it, it was possible to covertly clip the chain with the other hand. But the pendant would immediately fall. “Did you talk to Amelia about her necklace apparently being stolen?”

  “She claims to not have noticed that it was gone until she got home. Yet she also didn’t contact anyone about the theft.”

  “She sees and interprets things differently than most people do.”

  “So we gathered. You stated earlier that you’d complimented her necklace when she first arrived,
and that she’d offered to let you wear it at your wedding. Did you ever notice that she was no longer wearing her necklace?”

  I shook my head. “She was wearing it while she was in the living room. Eleanor Sullivan told me that she and Amelia both went upstairs after that. The next time I saw Amelia was as they were leaving, and she was wearing a coat that was buttoned up.”

  I paused, thinking that the only way I could envision someone surreptitiously cutting the necklace with nail clippers was if Fitz had done the deed while making out with Amelia. Then again, someone could have claimed a tag in Amelia’s dress was showing and distracted her sufficiently to not only cut the delicate chain, but whisk her necklace away without Amelia’s knowledge.

  I studied O’Reilly’s typically smug expression. Now that he’d brought up the necklace himself, there was no harm in my being inquisitive. “What do you make of this, Detective? Do you think Fitz essentially seduced the necklace away from Amelia, or do you think someone framed Amelia by putting her necklace and the clippers in Fitz’s pocket? Maybe after he was dead?”

  “At this point, we’re looking at all of the possibilities. But, yeah. Amelia’s high on our list, along with the people who were supposedly ministering to Mr. Parker after he collapsed.”

  The implied “including you” in his piercing gaze was so obvious that I felt my cheeks grow warm. “I’m not getting into a staring contest with you, Detective. I didn’t kill him, and I don’t know who did.”

  Chapter 7

  While I was getting into my car in the police station parking lot, Steve’s brother-in-law, Mark Dunning, called my cellphone and asked if he could meet me for coffee. He’d said he was in Crestview for work, which threw me for a moment because he was a liquor distributor and this was a Sunday. Then I remembered he’d once told me that Sundays were good days to talk to bar owners. This was the first time Mark had ever called me, let alone wanted to see me. Logically, this had to have something to do with Fitz’s death. But I didn’t have any good reason to say no, and maybe I’d get a more favorable opinion of the man when he was drinking coffee instead of alcohol. Yet when I saw his broad features, all I could think of was him teasing my darling cat last night.

  Mark was waiting for me at a table. He spotted me as I entered and snapped his fingers at the barista, and ordered a cup of coffee for me. She caught my eye and I smiled and said, “I’ll have my usual.” This café was near Audrey’s and was a favorite hangout of mine. They made a superb chai tea. Its soft, smooth, creamy texture was sheer perfection, as were its flavorful, yet not overwhelming, spices.

  I’d designed the interior of this café about two years ago, and I took particular delight in its cozy feel. All of the tables and chairs were hand-selected from antique shops and then refinished to give the space a personalized, homey atmosphere. As I greeted Mark and took a seat in the captain’s-style chair across from him, I tried to quash my assumption that this charming setting would not compensate for my decidedly un-charming companion.

  “Glad you could make it,” Mark said. “I happen to be in Crestview on business and had some time to kill. I’m meeting with some of my major clients in another hour.”

  He was repeating the information he’d given me over the phone. Curious, I asked, “Are you going to be Parsley and Sage’s distributor?”

  “No, Drew’s got some deal with…a competitor.” Judging by his furrowed brow, I’d obviously hit a nerve. “It’s just as well. For all we know, he’ll never open his doors.”

  “Actually, things are looking up. He heard through the grapevine that he’s getting his liquor license tomorrow.” Steve had sent me a text to that effect an hour earlier.

  “Really? Huh. Drew bought someone off, then. That would certainly explain the reference to a grapevine.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  He shrugged. “Insider scuttlebutt.”

  “Meaning what?”

  Mark took a slow sip of coffee, eyeing me over his cup all the while, as if for dramatic purposes. He dried his lips with the back of his hand. “Meaning, last I heard, Drew’s lawyers were struggling to get him approved for having ‘good-standing’ business practices.” He used air quotes and sarcastic tones to emphasize the term good standing. “Not to mention, he had to demonstrate rehabilitation due to his criminal record.”

  “From when he was just a teenager,” I interjected, hoping more than actually knowing for a fact that his arrest record was in the distant past.

  “Among other things. Such as his stints in rehab in San Francisco. Coke’s an occupational hazard in the restaurant business.”

  Now Mark had hit a nerve with me. My mind leapt into a veritable flash-mob of horrid thoughts: Drew wiping out our bank accounts; Sullivan & Gilbert Designs going bankrupt; Steve and I getting framed and arrested for Fitz’s murder; Drew laughing at us at our trial.

  Meanwhile, Mark studied our surroundings. “Speaking of restaurants, my wife told me you designed this place. Nice job.”

  “Thank you,” I said weakly.

  “Listen, Erin.” He scooted closer, leaning as far over the table as his heavyset frame would allow. “I wonder if you can help give me some peace of mind.” Apparently his saying “nice job” was supposed to suffice as buttering me up before he asked a favor.

  Just then the attractive, dread-locked barista arrived with my chai, and I took the opportunity to chat with her. At the moment, I dearly needed to replenish my own peace of mind before worrying about Mark’s.

  I took a sip of my chai. Delicious, as always. As soon as the barista was out of earshot, Mark said to me, “So anyways, I heard that your party-planning fag managed to swallow cyanide last night.”

  I gritted my teeth. “A healthy young man died hour ago. Show some respect!”

  Mark spread his arms as if dumbfounded at my reaction. “He told me himself at my wedding that he was gay. It’s not like he was ashamed of it.”

  “You have no right to use derogatory terms to identify people. Fitz’s sexual orientation is none of your business. Or mine.”

  “I sure hope not. It becomes everyone else’s business if he’s spreading AIDS.”

  “Did you have sex with him?”

  He grabbed the ledge of the table and gaped at me. “I’m not a faggot! You don’t see me swishing around talking about parties and flowers and frilly lace, do you?”

  I rolled my eyes and took a second sip of my beverage, trying to gauge if it was cool enough to chug. “Mark, I am not enjoying this conversation. Furthermore, I’m extremely busy. So let’s cut to the chase. What did you want to talk to me about?”

  He stared at me for a moment. “Now I get it. This is a touchy subject for you.” He held up his palms. “Sorry, Erin. My bad. I forget sometimes that my brother-in-law works in a girly business himself, and that you’re marrying the guy. What I’m wondering is…do you know if cyanide causes the runs?”

  I quickly lost my appetite for my chai and set down my cup.

  “I’m taking Imodium,” he continued, “or I never could have survived the drive from Denver. I’m worried ‘cuz I was drinking scotch last night, too. Granted, Fitz was sucking down twice as much of it as me, but then, I’m bigger than him. So I’m thinking, maybe I got a batch of poison in my system. Did the police figure out what was poisoned?”

  “How did you know what Fitz was drinking? Were you sharing a bottle?”

  He shook his head. “We were both standing near the bartender for a while. I mean, I did talk to the guy when he was around. It’s not like I can’t make nice to…gays. That isn’t offensive, too, is it?”

  I ignored the question. He continued, “I’m in the bar-and-restaurant business, so I have to work with them all the time. Besides, Michelle’s always had a soft spot for the guy. For Fitz. Whatever you think of the guy’s lifestyle, he didn’t deserve to have someone bump him off like that. Especially not to be writhing in the floor in pain.”

  “No, he didn’t deserve to die.”


  “Getting back to my questions, though…was it in the scotch? And did Fitz mention any diarrhea?” He made a hurry-up gesture as if I should be answering him now.

  I sighed and took a slow sip of chai. He could have simply Googled the question and spared me. “The police don’t know how he ingested the poison. I suggest you make an appointment with your personal physician. I have no idea what Fitz’s first symptoms were. All I know is that cyanide poisoning moves quickly. That’s how the police knew that he was poisoned during the latter stages of the party.”

  “Yeah. That much I already knew. But you’re probably right. I’ll give my doc a call. I figure it had to have been the scotch or the coffee that did in Fitz, right? I sampled a lot of the food, so I’m sure I’d have keeled if that had been spiked with poison.”

  “So, I take it, you didn’t drink the coffee?”

  “I never drink coffee after one p.m. Keeps me awake. I saw Drew messing around with the coffee, though. You know about the sky-high murder rates black people have, right?”

  I set my cup down for fear that I would be tempted to fling it at his shirt. “His ‘people’ are your current neighbors. Drew was raised by a white couple in the same affluent part of town as your wife.”

  He grimaced. “Please. Don’t remind me.”

  Once again, I wondered what Michelle had been thinking when she chose him to be her spouse. She should have tried to find a good man, like her brother or her father.

  “So, did the police tell you if they had any suspects?” he asked. “Anyone in custody?”

  “No. Why?”

  He gave me another shrug. “I’d like to know if I can feel safe if Michelle still wants to go to your wedding.”

  “You’re planning on skipping our wedding?”

  “Not unless everyone starts dropping like flies.” He glanced at his watch. “Actually, I have some calls to return that I should make in private.” He pushed back his chair. “I’m shoving off, too. Just…do us all a big favor, Erin. Talk to Steve. Tell him to get a different best man.”