Terror in Taffeta

by Marla Cooper

  Five minutes passed. Waking someone up at four-thirty in the morning was mean, right?

  Or was it just mildly inconsiderate?

  I decided I could live with mildly inconsiderate in the face of an international crisis, so I threw on some yoga pants under my sleep tee and tiptoed down the hall to his room.

  He didn’t immediately answer my knock, and I started to feel silly standing outside in my hastily assembled attire. I knocked again. Nothing. What if I ran into someone out here? It wasn’t likely, but it would sure be embarrassing. I tried the door. It was unlocked, so I stepped inside the dark room.

  “Brody? You in here?” I whispered.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded, fumbling at his bedside lamp.

  “It’s me, Kelsey.” I padded across the room toward the sound of his voice.

  He clicked the light on and glared at me. “What the hell?”

  “You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked,” I said. “Anyone could come in.”

  “So I see. What are you doing? What time is it?”

  “Scooch over,” I said, climbing into bed next to him. “We have to talk.”

  “You could have at least brought me some coffee,” he said, yawning as he spoke.

  “What? Don’t be silly. It’s the middle of the night. Anyway, did you hear about Zoe?” Somehow he’d managed to miss the whole drama, having weaseled his way out of joining the family for dinner, so I recounted my earlier conversation with Mrs. Abernathy, throwing in occasional nudges to keep him awake. “Brody, are you listening? This is important!”

  Brody sat up and rubbed his eyes.

  “Sorry, I just had the weirdest dream that a crazy woman broke into my room and woke me up at four in the morning. Oh, and look: here you are!”

  “Okay, I’m sorry I had to wake you up, but this is important. You wanna go get coffee?”

  “No, I want to go back to sleep.”

  “Yeah, me too. Anyway, Mrs. Abernathy expects me to march into the police station in a few hours and, I don’t know, slip Zoe a file in a cake or sweet-talk the police into letting her go.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do great at that,” he said, burrowing farther into his bedding. “Good night.”

  “Brody!” I pulled away the pillow he had strategically put over his head to drown me out. “C’mon, how am I going to get the police to listen to me if I can’t even get you to listen to me?”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, sitting up and yawning. “I’m listening. Now, what’s your problem?”

  “Mrs. Abernathy thinks it’s my job to fix this, but I don’t know the first thing about getting someone out of jail.”

  He sighed as he leaned up on one elbow. “Did it ever occur to you that you’re going to have a lot better luck getting through to the police than Mrs. Abernathy would?”

  “True. But what am I going to say to them? Zoe looks great in taffeta? She carried those flowers like a champ?”

  “I don’t know, but at least you can say you tried.”

  “But then what? Mrs. Abernathy isn’t going to be content with ‘I tried.’ And I don’t have time to stick around until this gets sorted out. I have to get back to San Francisco. The Richardson wedding is in two weeks, and I’ve still got a ton of work to do.”

  “Then we’ll have to go with Plan B.”

  “Plan B? We have a Plan B? What is it?”

  “I don’t know. You wedding planners always have a Plan B, don’t you?”

  I sank back into the spare pillow. Dang it. I was Plan B. I at least had to try.

  “Okay, I guess I’ll sleep on it and maybe in the morning I’ll know what to say.”

  “Soundslieaplahn,” he replied, his face smushed back down in the pillow.

  “Brody?” He shook his head and buried his face deeper in the poly-down mix. “Brody, can I stay in here with you?”

  I took his snoring as a yes.

  * * *

  I got myself to the police station relatively early, which I considered an impressive feat on three hours’ sleep. The jovial officer I talked to was a lot nicer than the detectives who’d questioned us at the villa. He nodded politely as I fumbled my way through an explanation of who I was and why I was there, then told me to “just speak English,” rather than commit any more atrocities on the Spanish language. After I finished my impassioned appeal for Zoe’s innocence, he asked me to wait.

  This is going better than I thought! Maybe I actually got through to him! I tapped my feet on the gray linoleum floor and squinted up at the fluorescent lights overhead. I’m sure they’ll realize they’ve got the wrong person and we’ll all have a good laugh at this and Mrs. Abernathy will give me a bonus for being awesome.

  My fantasy was shattered as the two double doors at the end of the hall swung open and Officer Ortiz strode through. He glared at me as he approached, and I tried to make myself invisible.

  “Hola,” I said meekly.

  “Come with me,” he replied, not sounding even a little bit welcoming.

  I followed him to a small, windowless room with a worn wooden table and a couple of beat-up chairs. Was I about to be interrogated? I looked up at the ceiling to check for a security camera as Officer Ortiz pulled up a chair and flipped open his note pad.

  “First of all,” he began, pointing his stubby finger at me, “it’s important that you understand that I’m the lead on this case. If you have any information, you need to come directly to me.”

  “Got it,” I replied. “Sorry.”

  “So what is it you wanted to tell me?” Ortiz looked at me expectantly. If he thought I was here to hand over evidence, he was mistaken.

  “Just that you’ve got the wrong girl!” I said. “Zoe didn’t do this. She couldn’t have.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “Miss McKenna, how long have you known Zoe Abernathy?”

  “Oh, I’ve known her for months!” I answered. The words didn’t sound as impressive out loud as they had inside my head.

  “And are you aware of her past relationship with the deceased?”

  “What? No. I mean, kind of.” I didn’t think they’d had a relationship, other than both being connected to Nicole.

  “Would you say she and the victim were friends?”

  I froze. “Friends? They weren’t friend friends, but they were friendly enough, I guess.”

  He scribbled in his notepad thoughtfully. What is he writing in there? This wasn’t going well. I had to make sure he didn’t have the wrong idea.

  “Look, Officer Ortiz, Zoe is innocent, okay? Whatever you heard about them arguing at the wedding, it’s unrelated.”

  “So they did argue at the wedding?” More jotting. Great.

  “Well, sure, but it was no big deal. I see bridesmaids fight all the time, and it never leads to murder. Just drunken bickering and awkward group photos.”

  He peered at me intently. Something I’d said had gotten his attention. “Tell me more about these photos. Are we talking blackmail?”

  “What? No! I was talking about wedding photos. That’s all, I swear.” My lame attempt to lighten the mood with humor had not translated well.

  “Mmm-hmm.” He squinted at me as if trying to decide whether to ask more questions about the pictures. “Did Zoe have access to the victim’s food or drink before the wedding?”

  “Access? I’m not sure I under— Ohhhh, you mean, like, to poison it? Is that what you think happened?” It made sense. Dana had died at the wedding and there wasn’t any blood, nor was there any sign of trauma.

  Officer Ortiz stared at me. “I’m the one asking the questions.”

  “Right. Gotcha.” I didn’t say so, but I took his answer as a yes.

  I weighed my words carefully. If he thought Zoe had poisoned Dana, I needed to quit while I was ahead. I knew the girls had all gone out the night before the wedding, but I hadn’t been there, and I certainly didn’t want to get Zoe into any more trouble than she was already in. “I don’t know what Zoe did or didn’t have acce
ss to. I’m sorry.”

  He snapped his notepad shut. “Okay. If you decide you do have anything useful to tell me, you know where to find me. Thank you for your time, Miss McKenna.”

  “Thank you for your time”? As if I had come there to help him? What I’d come there for was to convince him that he had the wrong girl, but he hadn’t listened to a word I’d said.

  He led me back to the front office, me fuming silently and him ignoring me. After dropping me at the entrance, he retreated behind the swinging doors. I stared after him, silently cursing my luck. I hadn’t helped at all. If anything, I’d just made it worse.

  As long as I was there, I decided to see if they’d let me speak to Zoe. After leaving me to wait half an hour on a seriously uncomfortable metal bench, a guard ushered me back to the visiting room. The decor was sparse—no surprise there. Just a smattering of beat-up tables and chairs occupied by anxious-looking prisoners conferring with lawyers and family members. The guard pointed me over to where Zoe sat. She seemed just as anxious as the others but looked seriously out of place in the harsh surroundings. I was happy to see they hadn’t put her in an orange jumpsuit yet, although she was wearing handcuffs.

  “Kelsey!” she exclaimed. “Thank God you’re here!” The dark circles under her eyes accentuated her “just spent the night in jail” look.

  “Hi, Zoe,” I said, pulling up a chair across from her. The legs screeched loudly across the concrete floor, causing the guard to scowl at me. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry about all this. Is your mom here?”

  “You just missed her. She was going to go yell at the guards because I haven’t gotten breakfast yet,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. “I’m sure they’ll realize it’s all a big mistake.”

  The guard cleared his throat and tilted his chin in my general direction. Taking the hint, I released Zoe’s hand and made sure all my limbs were on my side of the table.

  Zoe’s bloodshot eyes searched mine for any glimmer of hope. “Kelsey, you’ve got to get me out of here!”

  “I wish I could. I tried. They didn’t listen to me. In fact—well, never mind. Are you doing okay? Is there anything I can bring you?”

  “I don’t know. I’m scared. Really scared.” She tried propping her head on one hand before realizing there was no comfortable way to pull that pose off wearing handcuffs, then dejectedly put both hands in her lap.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Zoe shook her head helplessly. “This is so unfair! Sure, I hated Dana, but I didn’t want her dead!”

  “I know, Zoe. This is just a misunderstanding. I’m sure your mom and dad will have you out in no time.”

  “Have you met my mom? She won’t exactly help my case. She’s just going to piss the police off more!”

  I shrugged, not sure what to say. She might have had a point there.

  “In the meantime, Dad’s dealing with some work crisis,” she continued, her eyes welling up with tears, “and I don’t know when he’s coming back.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be back as soon as he can get here,” I reassured her.

  She swiped at her cheek and stared up at the ceiling, avoiding eye contact. “I know. He said he’d come back as soon as he can, but his company lost a big account, and he’s fighting for his job. He was barely able to get away for the wedding.” She blew out a deep breath.

  “I wish I could help, but I don’t know what to do!”

  Her eyes welled with tears, but she held my gaze. “I just feel so alone!” She managed to choke the words out before breaking down altogether.

  I quickly weighed my options. One, stay and help her—but how exactly was I going to do that? Two, fly back home and wish her the best of luck in all her future freedom-related endeavors. The first was disastrous for me, but the second didn’t feel very good, either. Could I really leave her here in a Mexican jail and blithely return to my life back home? I couldn’t imagine how miserable I’d feel if it were me sitting there in that cell.

  There had to be something I could do. Right? As long as I got back by next weekend, I could still pull off the Richardson wedding with my assistant, Laurel, doing most of the legwork. She’d been begging me to give her more responsibilities, so I was sure she’d jump at the chance.

  Besides, I thought, an idea forming, maybe I could be of some help.

  The San Miguel police thought they had something on Zoe, but I had something they didn’t: a guest list that contained seventy-eight potential suspects.

  CHAPTER 8

  “So,” I said, plunking a fat binder down on the wooden table in the dining room, causing the chunky goblets of the hibiscus tea Fernando had brought us to jump a little. “I wanted to go through the seating plan and see what you can tell me about the guests.”

  Nicole’s eyes grew big. “You don’t think one of my guests had something to do with the murder, do you?”

  “Maybe, maybe not, but it’s a good place to start. Odds are, it was someone she knew.”

  Mrs. Abernathy sighed and rubbed her temples. “You think I’d let a murderer on the guest list? I approved every last person myself.” That was true. She’d vetted the guest list with the gusto of a seasoned politician. “But if it was one of the guests, it’d have to be one of his,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the groom.

  A vein in Vince’s temple throbbed as he pretended to be engrossed with the condensation on his glass. He was exercising remarkable control over his emotions. “I can assure you it is no one from my side of the family,” he said.

  “I can’t imagine that anyone we know could have done this,” said Nicole, glancing warily at Vince and stroking his arm in a conciliatory fashion, a move I’d seen over and over again during all joint planning sessions that included her mom.

  “But you’re also sure Zoe didn’t do it, aren’t you?” I said.

  “Of course I am!”

  “Then let’s get to work. We might not come up with anything, but we have to try.”

  I unclipped the sturdy rings and removed the seating chart, then pushed the rings closed with an efficient snap.

  “Now,” I began, “let’s start with who actually knew Dana before this weekend.”

  “Well, there’s all of us, of course,” Nicole said.

  “Right,” I said, taking out my red pen and circling our names—even mine, although I was pretty sure I’d end up eliminating myself as a suspect.

  “No one from table seven,” she continued, as I crossed them out one by one. “Or table three.”

  “What about your Uncle Roy?” asked Vince. “He’d never met Dana before, but he sure did follow her around a lot the last few days.”

  “That’s Uncle Roy. He’s just … friendly.”

  Lecherous was more like it, but he probably wasn’t homicidal. “Okay, a question mark next to Uncle Roy.”

  In a few minutes, we narrowed it down to fourteen people who’d had past encounters with the fallen bridesmaid.

  “Okay, let’s start with the head table. What about Claire? What was her relationship with Dana?” The other bridesmaid wasn’t particularly suspicious, but the process of elimination is, after all, a process.

  “We were all friends in college. Actually, Claire and Dana were friends first, and Dana introduced us. We all shared a house together one summer.”

  “House?” snorted Mrs. Abernathy. “That dump?”

  “And did they get along?” I asked, ignoring Mrs. Abernathy’s commentary.

  “Sure, we did everything together. Until Dana started dating Trevor.”

  My ears perked up. “Trevor? As in Trevor”—I scanned the seating chart to find the usher’s last name—“Reckholtz?”

  “Yes, Dana and Trevor hooked up our senior year. Claire was a little jealous, I guess, because she’d had a crush on him, but they got past it eventually.”

  I put a check mark next to Claire’s name. I didn’t really think she had it in he
r to kill someone, but “love triangle” way beats “wouldn’t flirt back with uncle” in the rock-paper-scissors of murder motives.

  “Tell me more about Dana’s relationship with Trevor,” I prodded.

  “Oh, well, you know,” Nicole said, stalling. “It ended.”

  “Ha!” chortled Mrs. Abernathy. “I’ll say it did.”

  “It ended badly,” Vince amended.

  “That’s putting it mildly,” said Mrs. Abernathy. “Now that I think about it, with all she put him through, I wouldn’t blame him one bit!”

  “What do you mean?”

  Nicole looked hesitantly at Vince, who sighed and nodded at Nicole’s unasked question. “Go ahead and tell her,” he said. “It’s not like we have to protect her reputation. At least not anymore.”

  Protect Dana’s reputation? This was going to be good.

  “I don’t know,” Nicole said. “I don’t want to get Trevor in trouble.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Mrs. Abernathy. “You might as well tell her! I think he looks good for it, myself.”

  “Looks good for it?” I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from reacting to Mrs. Abernathy talking like a TV homicide detective. Next she’d start referring to him as the “perp” and Dana as the “vic.”

  Nicole sighed. “They’d been dating for about a year, and things were going really well, but then Dana got pregnant.”

  “Pretended to get pregnant,” Vince interjected.

  “We don’t know that,” said Nicole. “She said she was pregnant, and I believed her. Anyway, she wanted to get married. He kind of freaked, but eventually he agreed to do it.”

  “Key word being ‘agreed’ to,” said Vince. “He never would have even considered it if it weren’t for the baby.”

  “Anyway, we were all busy trying to throw a wedding together in a month, because she wanted to do it before she started to show. But then Trevor started acting really weird. He said she didn’t seem all that pregnant, but what would he know?”