“Would you shut up?” she said, but she was fighting a smile.
“You mean you want to talk over the case like two professionals?” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice and think I succeeded.
She nodded. “I need to know what you’ve learned. I seem to have missed a few things.”
“You had too much evidence and not enough manpower.” I was suddenly feeling generous and forgiving in the face of her turnaround. “Like my daddy used to say, you couldn’t see the pigs for the slop.”
And I wasn’t sure I could either, but I was enjoying this too much to make that admission out loud.
We ended up going to Quinn’s surprisingly large house and ate leftover pizza right out of the fridge. At least the woman knew how to provide a decent meal. After we finished eating, we went to her living room, Dr Peppers in hand.
The place was organized and tidy like her office, the decor modern with sleek curvy tables and a leather sofa. One wall was filled with her father’s framed awards. His badge was displayed in a glass box on a small table beneath the commendations, and I also noted a picture of him shaking hands with the first President Bush.
“You were very proud of him,” I said.
“Be careful. Be careful,” someone said from behind me.
I turned and saw a large freestanding birdcage. Inside, pacing on a thick dowel, was a snowy cockatoo.
“Meet Beefeater,” said Fielder.
“Beefeater on the rocks, Beefeater on the rocks,” said the bird, his head bobbing.
I walked over to the cage. “Male or female?” I asked.
“Male,” said Fielder. “But be careful. He bites almost as hard as I do.”
“Be careful, be careful,” said Beefeater.
“He’s beautiful,” I said, stooping to get a closer look.
“He belonged to my dad.”
“Hey, Dad, what do you think? What do you think?” said the bird.
“We both miss him a lot,” she said quietly. She had kicked off her shoes and was sitting on the sofa. “He was the best damn cop in the world.”
“My daddy’s been gone a years,” I said. “I miss him, too.”
“Seems we have more in common than an interest in Jeff,” she said with a wry grin.
I sat in the butter yellow chair next to the sofa. “Now, wait a minute. If we plan to be in the same room and—”
“Don’t worry.” She raised a hand. “Jeff is off-limits. That doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re damn lucky, but I won’t be making any moves on him.”
“You mean any more moves.”
“Damn lucky,” spouted Beefeater.
“Shut up, Beefy.” Fielder was blushing. “Jeff set me straight, so can we drop this?”
“Okay. Truce.”
“You handled Roxanne when I couldn’t, and I appreciate your help,” Fielder said. “I’ve been too busy trying to prove how smart I am, how I can do this job despite the community’s criticism. Seems I need to learn better interviewing techniques. I haven’t had much practice other than with drunks, peeping toms, and adolescents who think playing with a can of spray paint is the most fun they’ve ever had.”
“What kind of community criticism?” I asked.
“Snipes from city council members and people who like to write letters to the editor. They say my father handed me my job even though I had no experience and no idea how to handle crime in a small town.”
“Is that true?”
A familiar anger flashed in her eyes. “Okay, it’s true. But not because I don’t know how to be a good cop. It’s because—”
“Good cop. Good cop, Quinn,” said Beefeater.
She smiled and continued. “Handling my job has very little to do with policing and a whole lot to do with ass kissing. I’m no ass kisser.”
“Really? I never would have thought.” I grinned.
“I won’t apologize for bringing a certain attitude to my job, and I think that’s enough said. Let’s get to work. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
I went first, telling her all I had discovered in Jamaica, the scoop on Laura Montgomery, and I even confessed that the woman had come to my house. I was sure glad I’d reported this to the Dallas police because Fielder was a little miffed I hadn’t called her last night. But she accepted some of the responsibility when I mentioned she hadn’t exactly been too approachable.
“Now it’s your turn,” I said. “Henderson mentioned you received some reports today.”
She nodded and took a sip of her Dr Pepper. “Interesting stuff. The autopsy report says the blow to the back of the head with the vase did not kill James Beadford but probably knocked him out.”
“And he hit the corner of the fireplace when he fell. We knew that’s what killed him.”
“We thought we knew,” she said. “But the blood evidence indicates he fell to the floor several feet from the fireplace.”
I sat straighter. “Really? So did he wake up and fall again when he tried to walk?”
“Scuff marks on the wood floor made by the tips of his shoes indicate he was dragged to the fireplace.”
Hair rose on the back of my neck. This was more ugly than I’d thought. “So the killer knew he wasn’t dead and finished him off by ramming his head into the bricks?”
“Yup. And there goes my original theory that this was a crime of passion, an argument that went too far. Apparently that’s not the whole story.”
“Apparently not,” I said half to myself.
“And the blood evidence also seems to clear Megan. The stains on her dress were consistent with her only cradling her father’s head. There were no spatter marks, no traces of blood on her hem—things that would have been there if she’d dragged the body or struck him.”
“You really considered her a suspect?” I asked, but then added, “Figures. You even thought I might have done it.”
“I thought it was possible they had an argument and things got out of hand. Remember, I learned about the first-degree murder angle only this morning.”
“I see your point. Jeff keeps reminding me that anyone is capable of murder given the right circumstances, so you couldn’t eliminate Megan.”
“We went to the same academy, so I’m with Jeff.” She must have read my expression because she quickly added, “And that’s a figure of speech, Abby. Can I call you Abby?”
“Sure.” Did that mean I was supposed to call her by her first name? Because I wasn’t sure I wanted to be that friendly. “Did you get any reports on Graham’s murder?”
“Not yet. As I said before, he was full of booze, which made it easier to shove him off that balcony.”
“Beefeater on the rocks,” piped in the bird.
“Does he listen to everything you say?” I asked with a laugh.
“Yes, and I’m grateful someone pays attention. Anyway, there were no fingerprints in Graham Beadford’s hotel room, so we have no convenient glasses with prints or the killer’s DNA on the rim, and we didn’t find footprints either. We always hope our murderers step in mud or paint right before they kill, but it just doesn’t work out that way too often.”
“Very funny,” I said. “So there were no fibers on the balcony or skin under the victim’s nails?”
“Like I said, we don’t have the forensic reports from that scene. Despite what people see on TV shows, I don’t have instant access to the evidence, especially in a town where we have to rely on another county’s crime scene people.”
“And no one saw the killer but me?”
She shook her head, lips tight.
“This sucks,” I said.
“This sucks,” echoed Beefeater.
“You’re both right,” she said with a resigned smile. “I do have pictures and videos that show Travis and James in the background out on the deck. They appeared to be arguing and that’s why I brought him in. But the rest of those thousand pictures I went through? Time-consuming, but worthless.”
I told her what Travis a
nd Megan had told me about the argument, how it was over money for grad school.
“So why couldn’t he just say that when I questioned him?” The old fire was back in her voice.
“Don’t have a walleyed fit. He didn’t share this with me until yesterday.” I didn’t add that I wasn’t sure I believed him. I didn’t have anything but my gut reaction to his explanation, and I wasn’t about to have her haul him in again because of me.
“With all the new information,” she said, “I’m rethinking motive. Could have been revenge. Could have been greed. Seems the only people with any money among the suspects are Sylvia Beadford and now her daughter. And Mrs. Beadford was rich before she even met her husband. Megan inherits half the estate, so that benefits Travis as well as the bride. The cousins and Graham Beadford weren’t even mentioned in the will. The best man worked for James Beadford, and if Sylvia sells the company, he’s shit out of luck.”
“Holt’s been busy making sure the company survives the setback of losing the CEO,” I said. “So he’s not SOL yet.”
“Good thing, because he’s in credit card debt up to his eyeballs like everyone else in their early twenties. Graham Beadford had a steady income thanks to his brother, but what he didn’t spend at a bar in Dallas called For Pete’s Sake, he turned over to his daughters. They weren’t making ends meet up in Dallas.”
“Yeah, I found that out today. Could Graham have killed his brother hoping he’d inherit something from James?”
“It’s possible, but then who killed him?” she asked.
“It keeps coming back to Laura Montgomery. She had the best motive to do away with both of them—and I hate to even think about that. Megan deserves better.”
Fielder attended to a cuticle, her dark hair falling in front of her face. “In my experience, what we deserve and what we get don’t often match up,” she said quietly.
“Yeah,” I said. “Sometimes.”
“For Pete’s sake, this sucks,” said Beefeater.
And that about summed it up.
23
I had worn black chinos and a zip-up sweater for the visitation, but when I arrived at the funeral home the place was hot enough to pop corn in the shuck. I had to unzip the sweater. The fuchsia T-shirt I wore underneath was a little glaring, but if I didn’t cool off I’d be sweating so badly no one would want to be within ten feet of me. The same greeter with those disturbing white gloves led me to the room where Graham’s shiny closed casket was draped with a blanket of mums.
Megan came over to me when I walked in. She wore a gray sweaterdress and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Gray didn’t suit her—it too closely resembled her skin tone. How much more could the poor kid take?
“Thank you so much for coming,” she said, her voice surprisingly strong and in control. “Uncle Graham would have been proud of how many people showed up—even his friends from Dallas came.” She lowered her voice. “But most of the men smell like they shared a keg on the way down here.”
I smiled. “I think he would have liked that. Before it slips my mind, Kate said to tell you Courtney wasn’t well enough to attend tonight, but she might issue her a day pass for the funeral.”
“Did your sister say whether Courtney is accepting her treatment willingly?”
“I saw Courtney myself and I’d say yes.”
Travis had just joined us, and he put his arm around Megan and squeezed her to him. “See? Finally some good news.”
“I’m glad,” Megan said. “Especially for Roxanne. She was so exhausted after her night in jail, she fell asleep the minute Mother brought her home this afternoon. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her.”
I took in the room for the first time—this one a mirror image of where James Beadford’s casket had sat less than a week ago. Metal folding chairs were lined along the wall, and several old men sat together with clear plastic cups holding what appeared to be water—appeared being the key word.
Sylvia had come up with yet another black outfit, this one a pantsuit. She was talking with three men and a woman, none of whom I knew. Meanwhile, Holt spoke to a still fatigued-looking Roxanne. They stood in a corner next to a giant arrangement of white lilies and Holt had on his “I’m so sorry for your loss” face. She had adoring eyes fixed on him, and I considered warning her off before I left tonight. She didn’t need another tragic romantic encounter.
An elderly couple came into the room then, and Megan turned her attention to them.
Travis took my arm and whispered, “Can we talk a minute?”
“Funny, I was about to ask you the same question.”
While Megan walked the old man and woman over to the casket, Travis and I went into the hallway.
He rubbed at his mouth with a shaky hand. “You need to know something. Megan’s father and I did not argue about money the day of the wedding.”
So he’d finally decided to come clean. “I was pretty sure of that. Go on.”
“But I’m afraid Megan knows what we argued about. I think her father told her right after he talked to me. And I think it upset her. A lot.”
“You haven’t asked her?”
“I don’t want to ask her, Abby. Besides, that’s not the reason I needed to talk to you. I want you to stop looking for her birth mother. You can pretend you’re working on the case, but please, I’m begging you, just pretend.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Just trust me. You don’t want to find her,” he said.
“I’ve already found her,” I said. “And I know all about her.”
He closed his eyes. “Damn. So you know she was at the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Then you realize she’s not the person Megan hoped to find. This mother’s not her dream come true, Abby.”
“How did you find out?” I asked, wanting to add And why the hell didn’t you tell me?
He hung his head. “The day of the wedding, I saw Megan’s father talking to this woman after Sylvia sent me to find James. He and the woman were near the dock, and voices carry out there. I heard exactly what James was saying to her.
“And what was that?”
“He was saying Megan would have a jailbird for a mother and that he was going to the police first thing Monday morning. He kept asking her if it was fair to meet with Megan and then break her heart.”
“Then what happened?”
“They saw me. The woman ran off around the house and James followed me up to the deck. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. I knew how badly Megan wanted to meet her mother and James had the power to make that happen.”
“So you two ended up arguing,” I said.
“He planned to tell Megan everything before her birth mother got the chance to tell her side. Said it was his right because . . . because he was her biological father, Abby. Then he said Graham would pay through the nose for bringing the woman to the wedding. He didn’t give a damn how all this would affect Megan on her wedding day. Then he told me to keep my mouth shut and stay out of his way.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because . . . because . . . I wasn’t sure. I had to protect her.”
“You weren’t sure about what?” But then I understood. “I get it. You weren’t sure about Megan. You think she got so angry about the lies she’d been told all her life that she hit her father over the head and killed him?”
Travis blinked hard, his eyes reddening. “She’d never hurt him on purpose. But I know how upset she must have been.”
“Listen, Travis. If she killed her father, accident or not, why would she ask me to investigate the murders? That doesn’t make sense.”
He looked at his boots. “I thought maybe she had to act as people expected her to—and that would be to do everything in her power to find the killer. Maybe she believed you wouldn’t succeed.”
“Maybe, maybe, maybe. You’ve been thinking up the wrong tree, Travis. She didn’t kill him. And Fielder has proof she didn’t.”
<
br /> His head snapped up and he stared at me, his eyes bright with hope. “Really?”
“Really. And there’s more I need to tell you.”
“Tell him what?” said Sylvia.
We both turned. She was standing in the hall just outside the entrance to the visitation room. How could she have snuck up on us with those shoes? They were ultra pointed with spike heels and had to have made noise. Yet neither of us had heard her.
“Tell him about my new job,” I said quickly. It was the first lie that came to mind.
But Sylvia seemed to be paying little attention to me. She was staring at Travis. “Are you feeling sick?”
He swallowed. “I’m fine. Really.”
“No, you’re not. You’re all flushed. Do you need some fresh air?”
Travis went over and took his mother-in-law’s hands. “I’m finer than fine, but thanks for caring.”
She smiled up at him, her eyes lost behind a quadruple coat of mascara.
Sylvia let go of Travis and held out a hand to me. “You must have just arrived. I’ll come with you while you pay your respects. Megan mentioned how guilty you feel that you couldn’t prevent Graham’s accident.”
“Um, yeah,” I said. She knew damn well it was no accident, but who was I to present reality to her or Roxanne? As she led me toward the other side of the room, I turned and mouthed “later” to Travis.
The casket was a lacquered ebony with gold trim and a kneeling rail had been placed in front. Sylvia used the casket for support to kneel on the velvet cushion, and I followed suit.
She gripped my hand, her acrylic nails digging into my palm. “Lord, we pray for Graham’s peace. He has found his home with You and all his worldly troubles have ended. Amen.”
“Amen,” I said and started to rise.
But when I let go of Sylvia’s hand she seemed to go limp and had to catch herself to keep from falling.
I grasped her arm. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll be okay. With all the preparations today, I forgot my blood pressure medicine. Guess that was a mistake. If you could just help me up?”
Supporting her by the elbow, I got her back on her feet.
“Do you need a drink of water? Or maybe I should tell Megan you’re not feeling well?”
A Wedding to Die For Page 23
