“Not to me. I was an outsider brought in to fix things. No one said anything to me about her—no one except for Georgia.”
“Georgia?”
“Georgia Jackson. She’d been Ms. Montgomery’s secretary. Georgia and I worked closely for a time, and being black, she used some kind of oil on her hair. She always smelled like coconuts.”
“And what did she say about Montgomery?”
“I don’t remember specifics. But it was probably of a sympathetic nature. She was such a nonjudgmental person.”
“Do you know what happened to Georgia after the business moved?”
“Do I know? Of course. Mr. Beadford tried to hire back most of his people, but only three of us were willing to relocate. Myself, Georgia, and Robert.”
“And is Robert still here?”
“He died more than ten years ago. Smoker.” He shook his head in disgust. “Now there’s an odor that—”
“And what about Georgia? Does she still work here?”
“She retired.”
“And when was that?”
“Last year. She drops by, though. Takes care of her grandchildren while her daughter works, but when she has time off, she’ll bring cookies or pecans from her trees. League City has hundreds of pecan trees. But I never eat anything she brings. Children are not the cleanest creatures on God’s earth and who knows if those grandchildren helped make those cookies or bag those nuts.”
I was about to ask for the woman’s address, but I noticed Reilly’s gaze had moved to beyond my left shoulder and he had stiffened. “Mr. McNabb,” he said, nodding.
I turned.
Holt stood in the doorway looking like a different man than the one I’d encountered at the rehearsal and wedding. He wore an expensive-looking suit and his blue eyes were cold and clear and boring into me.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I’m . . . doing a favor for Megan. She wanted me to personally thank all the people at the office for their kindness during this difficult time.” Weak cover story, but it might fly. The less Holt knew about me and my reasons for being here, the better I felt.
“Am I included in those thank-yous?” he said.
Before I could answer, Reilly said, “Miss Rose was just telling me Megan was especially grateful for those lilies you sent.”
Thanks, Reilly, I thought. You may be goofy, but you’re okay.
“I’m glad she liked them,” Holt said. But he still looked more than a little suspicious. “So you came here as some sort of ambassador for Megan?”
“I guess you could say that,” I said.
He looked at Reilly. “I need those numbers on the new account.”
“I’m almost done,” he answered.
“Good.” He turned and walked away.
I got up, thanked Reilly, and followed Holt.
“Wait up,” I called to his retreating back.
Holt stopped and faced me.
“Congratulations on the promotion,” I said, doing my best to sound sincere.
“Someone had to step in. Sylvia was in no shape to make decisions, and we had orders piling up.”
“I see. And she appointed you to take over?”
“That’s what James would have wanted. Someone who knew the company inside and out.”
He was obviously avoiding my question, so I pushed a little more. “And this is a permanent position?”
“Why do you care?” he asked.
“No need to get defensive. I’m just trying to be friendly . . . make conversation.” I was guessing Megan knew nothing about the takeover.
“Are you saying you want to be friends?” He smiled.
Did he have a little “charm switch” in his brain that he flicked on when needed? Because he’d definitely moved into charisma mode.
Guess he didn’t want Megan or Sylvia to receive a bad report about him from the likes of me. I decided to play him while I had the advantage. “How do you like the new job?”
The switch must have had a short circuit because his handsome features tensed—not an attractive change in demeanor, either. “What are you fishing for? Did Travis send you?”
I didn’t answer immediately, mainly because I was trying to figure out where he’d come up with that idea. Before I could reply, Holt took my arm and started toward a hallway that led to the restrooms. “I want to hear what he said about me, but away from my staff. They don’t need the distraction.”
“I can walk without your help,” I said, pulling free.
“I’ll bet you can,” he mumbled.
“Isn’t Travis your best friend?”
“He is. But he’s not a businessman. He could never handle this job, even though I think Megan wants him to step in here. And why does this matter to you, anyway?”
“It doesn’t,” I said. “I’m here because Megan is my friend and she asked me to come.” Sort of, I added to myself.
“So she’s checking on me?”
What’s with the paranoia? Is he into drugs, too? But then I remembered something my daddy used to say—that a paranoid is a person with all the facts. Holt no doubt possessed a few facts that I didn’t.
“Guilty conscience, Holt?” I said. “Did you and Travis have a falling out?”
“No way,” he said. “But when the police questioned me, I had to tell them the truth. Had to tell what I knew.”
“And what do you know?”
“I told Chief Fielder what I’d overheard between Travis and James at the reception. And now Megan’s probably gotten wind of what I’d said and wants to fire me. That’s what you get for telling the truth. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”
He strode away, and I left the office knowing that whatever he’d told Fielder, it wasn’t good news for Travis or Megan.
17
By the time I arrived home, I was hungry, tired, and depressed. I needed to talk to Travis and find out why he’d lied to me about when he’d learned Megan had hired me. And then there was that argument I’d witnessed between him and James Beadford at the reception—the argument Holt may have overheard, too. Yup, the boy had some explaining to do.
While Diva and I were finishing off microwave pizza, Kate arrived with arnica gel for my bruises, which I accepted without argument. I’d learned long ago not to complain about her homeopathic interventions. While she was plastering my face with goo, Angel dropped off Laura Montgomery’s mug shots. He had to run off for a case he was working, and as soon as he left, Kate and I spread the pictures out on the kitchen table and agreed there was no doubt this was the woman we’d seen at the wedding.
“What does this mean, Abby?” Kate asked. “Did she come there to kill Megan’s father?”
“I don’t know. I can only say I have a lot to tell you about this woman,” I said. “A whole lot.”
Kate leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “Go for it.”
After I filled her in on Jamaica and the bankruptcy and Blythe Donnelly, she said, “And you haven’t told Megan that her birth mother gave her up to the very people she’d embezzled money from? Why not?”
“First off, Megan needs more bad news about as much as a mermaid needs a bicycle. And second, I don’t have all the facts. I want to be able to answer every question.”
“I understand, Abby, but this is a murder investigation. Have you told Chief Fielder?”
“I haven’t told anyone but you.”
She screwed the lid back on the jar of arnica gel. “If the Beadfords adopted Megan from Jamaica, that means they knew where Laura Montgomery or Blythe or whatever you want to call her was and they didn’t tell the authorities. Isn’t that a crime?”
“Since she was already indicted and awaiting trial, I would think so.”
“Why didn’t the Beadfords just drop the charges rather than help her get away?” Kate asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe they wanted those charges hanging over her head as insurance that Montgomery could never come back and claim the baby.�
��
“Makes sense. So any way you look at it, Montgomery sold her child to buy her freedom,” Kate said, shaking her head sadly. “I see your point about not laying this on Megan yet. You do need to find out more.”
I rubbed a glob of gel that was oozing toward my ear. “Maybe the baby’s death certificate was forged to facilitate getting infant Megan out of Jamaica or maybe there’s plenty more I don’t know. I need to get the full story.”
“This is so complicated, Abby. Are you sure—”
“I’m on this like a rattler on a roadrunner. I will find the truth.”
She leaned toward me and pushed aside a strand of hair that had stuck to my cheek. “If anyone can, you will.”
Kate left a few minutes later and I was ready to soak in a hot tub. But I hadn’t even made it to the stairs when the phone rang. I sighed and took the call in my office.
“Abby?” said Sylvia Beadford.
Amazing how one small word can convey panic. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“They’ve . . . arrested . . . Travis,” she managed.
Damn that Fielder. She hadn’t wasted any time. “When?”
“Two deputies took him away a few minutes ago. Megan followed them to the police station. But she told me to call you. She said you could help.”
Sylvia wouldn’t say that if she knew how much I’d helped so far. “I’ll do what I can, but are you okay?” I swear she was hyperventilating.
“It’s j-just that I’m alone here and I don’t know what’s going on and—”
“Where’s Roxanne?”
“She’s gone—she went to visit Courtney at the hospital—and . . . what should I do? Should I be with Megan?”
“No. Sit tight. I’m on my way to the police station.” Before I left, however, I found the number of the lawyer Jeff had recommended. I grabbed the scrap of paper and took it with me.
The attorney’s name was Whitley, and I had him on the line before I even hit the freeway. I explained the situation with Travis and he said he’d meet me at the Seacliff station. Next I called Megan’s cell, and when she answered she sounded almost as desperate as her mother had.
“I heard they’ve arrested Travis,” I said.
“Mother told you?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but Travis did not kill my father, Abby. He could never kill anyone.”
“I called a defense attorney. He’ll be there within the hour.”
“Don’t tell me you think Travis will be charged with murder,” Megan said.
Okay, I won’t tell you that. “Hopefully Chief Fielder is only conducting a formal interview, but no matter why he’s been brought in, I sincerely hope Travis keeps his mouth shut until Mr. Whitley arrives.”
“Travis has nothing to hide,” Megan said, sounding more pissed off by the minute. At least she still had some spunk.
But obviously Travis did have something to hide or he wouldn’t have lied to me about what he knew and when. Megan, however, would be in no mood to hear about that, so I changed the subject. “Your mother sounded pretty upset.”
“She’s been in meltdown mode since my father died,” Megan said. “That’s why I told her to stay home. She couldn’t do much here except get in the way. I’m in the way myself, but I’m not leaving. Not without Travis.”
“I’ll be there in about forty-five minutes,” I said, “and if you do see Travis in the meantime, tell him not to say anything. And the same goes for you if Fielder pulls you in.”
She sighed heavily. “Okay.”
I hung up and made my best time yet to Seacliff. When a Porsche pulled into a parking slot right next to mine, I guessed correctly that the lawyer had also arrived.
He was a mid-thirties Armani man, just who you’d expect to climb out of a red Porsche, but that’s where the stereotype stopped. He was soft-spoken, dark haired, and all-intense eye contact—the sort of guy who could definitely distract Quinn Fielder. Nice choice, Jeff, I thought as I filled him in on the case.
We walked into the police station together, and Megan leaped from a plastic chair and ran over to us.
“This is Mark Whitley, Megan. I’ve told him about the case, and he’s willing to take over from here if you have a dollar for a retainer.”
“Uh, sure.” She reached into her purse and produced a crumpled five. “This is all I’ve got.”
Mark flashed his whiter-than-Aspen-smile. “That will do,” he said gently.
He turned to my friend Henderson. In a firm, cool tone Whitley said, “I understand my client is being interrogated. Please interrupt that interview immediately, as Mr. Crane is now represented by counsel.”
Henderson smiled over at me. “Ask Miss Rose here. The chief has quite a temper and I don’t think she’d appreciate—”
Whitley’s fist came down on the desk with enough force to rattle the plastic organizers in front of Henderson. “Do it now, Officer.”
“Yes, sir.” Henderson jumped up and ran down the hall as fast as a six-legged jackrabbit. A few seconds later he returned and gestured for Whitley to follow him.
I could see visible relief in Megan’s tired, drawn face.
“Let’s sit down. I need to tell you something,” I said.
I explained about my talk with Fielder earlier and how Travis had lied to me the day after the murder about when he’d learned Megan had hired me.
Megan said, “He’s being arrested because of some stupid little lie that I insisted he tell everyone?”
“Hiding that information from others makes sense, but why lie to me?”
“Maybe he thought someone would overhear you two talking and mention it to my mother.”
“Okay,” I answered, “but there’s more. I saw something else on the day of your father’s murder—which I didn’t mention to the police. But Holt McNabb saw it, too. And I think he told Fielder.”
Megan’s lips paled to near white. “Told her what?”
“Your father and Travis got into a heated argument at the reception—out by the pool.”
She twisted her ring. “So? It’s not like they hadn’t argued before.”
“I could tell they were both spitting spite, Megan.”
“I don’t care what you saw. Travis would never harm my father. It’s Holt who’s got the problem, tattling to the police about his best friend like some kindergartener. How did you find out, by the way?”
“Because I paid a visit to Beadford Oil Suppliers. Did you know Holt took over?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Megan said. “He may have been a good—”
“Did you say Holt is doing James’s job?” came a voice behind us. We both turned to see Sylvia Beadford standing there.
Megan rose. “I told you to stay home, Mother.”
“I couldn’t. You and Travis need me,” Sylvia said.
“Abby’s taking care of things. She found us a lawyer and—”
“A lawyer?” She slowly sat on the nearest molded chair, her coat opening to reveal dark slacks. But even sensible winter clothing couldn’t stop her from choosing yet another pair of awful high-heeled shoes. These were black leather with rhinestone buckles. “Are you saying Travis killed James?”
Megan strode across the room and pointed a finger at Sylvia. “Don’t you ever call Travis a murderer.”
Sylvia leaned away from Megan’s trembling finger, her daughter’s aggressive reaction obviously scaring her. It scared me a little, too. Megan was beginning to crumble.
I put a hand on Megan’s shoulder and said, “Why don’t you get some air? I’ll find you the minute I hear anything from the lawyer or from Travis.”
Megan closed her eyes and took a deep breath. But her voice was still ripe with anger when she said, “Good idea.” She marched outside.
I sat next to Sylvia, who had begun to cry. Her ton of mascara wasn’t waterproof, and the tears made a wide inroad on her thick layer of makeup.
“You actually believe Travis ki
lled your husband?” I asked.
“I don’t want to, but he and James . . . well, they never got along.” She bit her bottom lip.
“But he’d need a pretty big reason to commit murder with a hundred people in the next room,” I said. “Do you know what that reason might be?”
“All I know is my husband didn’t trust Travis.”
“Trust him with what?”
“With Megan’s future. Did you know Travis was once a rodeo cowboy? And now he’s in graduate school for some silly something—wants to be a graphic artist—whatever they do.”
Whoa. Aunt Caroline must have taken over Sylvia Beadford’s body. Politely as I could, I said, “So Travis isn’t interested in becoming a businessman?”
“James always dreamed Megan would marry someone who would manage the business, and frankly so did I.”
“So maybe Holt was a better choice for a son-in-law?” I asked.
“Holt? Of course not,” she scoffed.
“From your earlier reaction I’m guessing you didn’t know he’d taken the reins at Beadford Oil Suppliers,” I said.
“I didn’t. How did you find out?”
“I stopped by your husband’s office and saw for myself. And you didn’t ask him to do this?”
“No . . . but I suppose someone had to step in. I haven’t even thought about . . . about anything since James died.”
“And that’s understandable,” I said. So Holt lied to me today.
“Holt’s capable enough, though,” Sylvia said thoughtfully.
“So you don’t mind?”
“James thought Holt showed promise, said once he finished sewing his wild oats, he’d be a success at whatever he chose to do with his life. But still, he should have consulted with me first.” She shook her head. “But I can’t blame him for stepping in. I should have gone to the office right after James died. Yes, I should have . . . I mean, I haven’t had t-time to—” More tears fell.
I reverted back to my original question. Maybe she could get ahold of herself with sufficient distraction. “Do you know of any specific problems between Travis and your husband other than the trust issue?”
She pulled a wad of tissues from her coat pocket and used one to blow her nose. “Not really. James only wanted Megan’s happiness and told her that if she insisted on marrying Travis, he wouldn’t stand in the way.”
A Wedding to Die For Page 18
