“No,” she said adamantly, glancing over at her daughter, who was seated with Graham’s drinking buddies. “You must not tell Megan anything. If you could take me home for my medicine, I’d also have an opportunity to talk to you in private.”
Another secret conversation with one of the family? What would I find out from her that I didn’t already know? “What’s this about?” I asked.
She glanced around. “We’ll talk at my house.”
Holt and Roxanne must have noticed Sylvia’s near fall because they came over to us with concern in their eyes.
“Are you all right, Aunt Sylvia? You look upset,” Roxanne said.
“I forgot my medicine, but Abby has offered to take me home so I can get in a dose before I keel over. Can you handle the guests?”
“Certainly. I’m doing fine with Holt’s support.” Roxanne lifted her chin. “This is my father’s visitation and therefore my responsibility.”
“Of course, sweetheart. And you’ve been doing a stellar job. Tell Megan where I’ve gone if she asks.”
Holt, looking a little uncomfortable, said, “Abby just arrived. Why don’t I drive you home, Mrs. Beadford?”
I was guessing hosting a visitation with Roxanne was not his idea of fun.
He looked at me. “I need to talk shop with Sylvia anyway, Abby. She’s got my nose to the grindstone at work these days, but she’ll be a great boss. She’s obviously learned a lot from James over the past twenty years.”
So Sylvia had taken over at Beadford Oil Suppliers. That must have been a disappointment to poor Holt. And now he was reduced to kissing her butt, just as he’d probably done with James Beadford. But then, he needed the money, according to Quinn, so he’d better be on his best behavior.
I closed my eyes. Oh my God, I’m calling her Quinn. This is too scary.
Sylvia said, “Holt, I’d prefer you stay here in case any of our clients come by to pay their respects. I think that’s what James would have wanted.”
“You’re probably right,” Holt said. “But I’d be glad to drive to your house while you stay here. If you tell me where the medicine is, I’ll bring it here.”
“No, no. That’s not necessary. Abby doesn’t mind, do you?” she said.
“Not at all,” I answered.
We left then, and I tried a few prompts to get a hint what this was about on the short drive, but Sylvia changed the subject. We were going to do this her way; that much was obvious.
When we arrived, the house was icy cold, but I declined her offer of a drink, even though I would have loved a cup of coffee. I wanted her to get to the point.
She led me into the library, where her husband had died, and it definitely creeped me out returning to the murder scene—especially since I’d learned today how vicious a crime it had been.
After Daddy passed, I couldn’t set foot in the room where he’d died for months afterward, but Sylvia didn’t seem bothered. More like distracted, now that I thought about it. As if it didn’t register that this was where her whole life had changed forever. I wondered if this was more of the Beadford denial at work.
She turned on a table lamp near the bookshelves, and the light cast a warm but meager glow over half the room. The fireplace remained in shadows. I noted the table filled with wedding presents was gone, the Oriental rugs had been removed, and the furniture had been rearranged, but other than that, no evidence of violence lingered—except in my mind.
She gestured to the tapestry wing chairs flanking the lamp table. “Please sit down.”
But rather than sit with me, she went to the shelves. Her back was to me, so I couldn’t see what she was doing, but seconds later, one set of shelves slid back revealing a wall safe. She pressed a series of numbers on the digital pad first, then turned the conventional dial to open the safe.
When she joined me at the table, she carried a six-inch-high stack of bills with a thousand dollar note on top. Placing the money on the table between us, she said, “I’m only just learning to be a businesswoman, so please bear with me.”
“Okay,” I said, my confusion evident in my tone.
“I know you’re an investigator and that you’re working with Megan to solve her father’s murder. Whatever she’s offered you, I’ll double that.”
So she knew about my real job, too. “She’s paying me more than enough, so—”
“You misunderstand. I’ll pay you to stop investigating. Today. No more questions. No more talks with the chief of police.”
Another offer to quit the case. “Did Roxanne tell you about me today after you picked her up at the police station?”
“Yes. And she mentioned that you and Chief Fielder would be sharing information to find the killer. And that’s not in Megan’s best interest, though I genuinely believe you have her best interest at heart.” She was sitting rigid, her spine not even touching the back of the chair.
How much did she know? Did Sylvia think her daughter killed James? Was that what this was about? “There is no evidence linking Megan to her father’s murder, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“Certainly there’s no evidence,” she said derisively. “You think I’m protecting her from a murder charge?”
Gone was the wimpy, weepy woman I’d come to know over the last couple of weeks. This was a different Sylvia. “How much?” she said. “I’ll pay you whatever you ask.”
“I’m not taking your money.”
“Why not?” she said impatiently.
“Did you overhear me talking to Travis tonight?” I asked. “Is that what this is about?”
“I heard enough. You need to stay away from all of us. This has gone too far.”
That’s when I noticed that though one hand rested in her lap, the other was between the chair arm and her left hip—and out of my sight.
My mouth went dry. Did she have a weapon? Was she that desperate? And for God’s sake why?
But what if she killed James? What if she recognized Laura Montgomery, confronted her husband, and smacked him with the heaviest object she could find when he told her why the woman was at the wedding?
But I wasn’t hankering to learn if she had a gun at her side or just how desperate she was. Not right now. “Listen, Sylvia. If you want me off the case, I’m off the case. You’re Megan’s mom and you know best.”
Her tongue flicked around her lips, and I could tell she wanted to believe me. Her thick makeup had taken on a repulsive sheen in the lamplight, and it was almost as if her newfound assertiveness was melting away with the foundation and blush.
The hand in her lap went to her forehead, and she squeezed the skin between her eyebrows. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I never should have brought you here. You’ll go to the police and then this whole thing will crack open like a rotten egg and—”
“She’s not going anywhere,” came a male voice from the shadowed entry.
I turned. Holt McNabb stood in the doorway.
“I told you to keep your mouth shut, Sylvia,” Holt said.
“But I heard her talking with Travis. She knows about Laura. She knows everything.”
“And that’s why we’ll take care of this little problem. Just like I took care of Graham when he figured out what you’d done. And once I fix this mess, what will we do, Sylvia?”
“Keep our mouths shut,” she said, eyes downcast.
“Right.” He smiled and might as well have added, “That’s a good dog.”
Sylvia must have still had her doubts, though, because she said, “Roxanne told me Abby and Fielder were sharing information. It may be too late.”
“You have that city councilman on your payroll, right? He’ll convince Fielder to leave the case alone.”
“Yes, but—”
“Money talks. And you have plenty to say. Meanwhile, I’ll handle this problem right now.” He pulled what looked like a Glock from his coat pocket. “Did you know how cold the bay waters get in winter, Abby? You need to be very careful when you walk out on the dock at
night because one little slip and BAM!” He slapped the gun against his free hand.
I started, my heart in my throat.
Holt shook his head sadly. “You fall in that water and it’s all over but the autopsy.”
I looked at Sylvia. “Anyone else dies around here and you’ll have cops camping out on your lawn.”
“She’s right,” said Sylvia. “There’s been enough killing, Holt.”
So I had an ally. A reluctant one, but still an ally. I spoke to her again. “You were so angry the day James died. A jury will understand.”
“It was an accident. I never meant—”
“Shut up, Sylvia,” said Holt.
“You and I know it wasn’t exactly an accident,” I said.
“But it was. I never meant to kill him. When he told me he was Megan’s real father, that he had a bond with her that I would never have, I just picked up that vase and . . . and . . .” Tears spilled over the mascara on her lower lids.
“You need to shut up, Sylvia,” Holt said. He waved the gun at me. “And you need to come with me.”
Despite the grapefruit-size rock of fear in my gut, despite the big, bad gun pointed my way, I didn’t move. Why make it easy for him to kill me? I may be stubborn, impulsive, and foolish on occasion, but I didn’t fall off the stupid truck. I wasn’t about to jump into the ocean like some trained pig. He could kill me here where he’d leave plenty of evidence.
I looked at Sylvia. “Tell me about the accident. What happened?”
“Don’t answer that.” Holt marched over and pulled me roughly up by the arm and pressed the gun to my temple. “You shut up. Just shut the fuck up.”
“You hit him with the vase, right?” I said as Holt started to drag me away. “And he fell forward. Then what?” She was insisting it was an accident, and my gut told me she believed it.
Sylvia’s mouth hung open and her face looked like the dark smudges and teardrops had been painted on.
Holt had me almost to the door, and I wiggled and kicked, even managed to free myself for an instant, but he was far stronger than I. He pulled me back and wrapped an arm around my shoulders and neck, the gun cold against my skull.
Sylvia, sounding like a zombie in some B horror flick, said, “He wouldn’t answer me and I knew I’d killed him. So I ran out. And I had to t-take off my shoes. Because of the blood. I had his blood on my shoes. I put them in the caterer’s trash bag.” Her chest started to heave, and I feared I might lose her to hysteria soon.
We’d reached the door, so I grabbed the frame, braced myself. “You didn’t kill him, Sylvia. He would have lived. Holt finished him off.”
I wasn’t certain of that, but I had a hunch that’s why he was so damn anxious to get me out of here.
Holt clamped his hand over my mouth, enough of a switch in our position that I was able to give him a wicked elbow to the gut. He buckled but regained his equilibrium quickly. One finger, however, slipped into my mouth, and I clamped down with all my might.
He hollered with pain and threw me off him. I landed on my butt, facing him.
“You bitch,” he said through clenched teeth, the Glock pointed at my heart.
“Leave her be,” said Sylvia. She’d stood and her hand wavered with the weight of the gun she’d been concealing since she sat down with me.
Like Laura Montgomery last night, she didn’t handle the weapon with the authority born of experience, so I couldn’t count on her to save my ass. That was my job.
Anyone who’s practiced with weapons knows a moving target is damn hard to hit. So I tucked and rolled, as if a fire was about to consume me. I must have made at least three rolls to reach her.
I heard Holt open fire.
Adrenaline sent my world into slow motion. I heard nothing after his gun went off. And felt nothing. I reached up and grabbed Sylvia’s gun. She didn’t resist, just fell to the floor and covered her head.
I pointed the gun at Holt, but saw he already had his hands raised in surrender. But not because of me. Laura Montgomery was standing behind him, and I guessed she had her own weapon tucked in his back.
But he still held the Glock and quick as a blink, he swung his free arm around and sent Laura flying. Not good.
So before he could get off a good a shot, I fired.
I didn’t miss.
Holt dropped like bricks off a twenty-story building. He began writhing on the floor, holding his thigh, blood leaking through his fingers. No spurting, so I hadn’t nicked an artery. Before he could figure out he wasn’t hurt all that badly, I hurried over and picked up the gun he’d dropped and stuck it in my waistband. Two guns are always better than one.
Sylvia was still crouched on the floor, her arms covering her head, but when I said, “It’s all clear,” she unwound and started to get up.
And that’s when she saw Laura Montgomery.
“You,” she said. “This is all your fault.”
Sylvia leaped over the balled-up, whimpering Holt and ran at Laura like she was attacking a blocking dummy.
They fell to the floor, and Sylvia managed to take off her shoe and wield it at Laura’s face.
Laura moved her head in time and the spike heel hit the floor with a sickening thwack.
Fortunately Laura’s gun had been knocked out of her hand, or she might have used it.
I stepped in to separate them, dragging a flailing Sylvia away. For the first time in weeks, she wasn’t crying. She was quivering with rage, the same rage that probably made her pick up that vase and smash it on her husband’s skull.
Laura got to her feet and called 911. Meanwhile, I shoved Sylvia into the chair and kept the gun trained on her. Holt had risen to a sitting position and had both hands pressed against his bloody leg. He said nothing, but Sylvia started rocking and repeating, “I didn’t kill him.” When Laura finished the call, she stood near the library entry, a silhouette in the shadows.
Five long minutes later I heard male voices shouting, “This room clear,” several times as they came closer. Then Henderson and another uniformed officer came rushing in, weapons drawn.
Henderson knew how to use his handcuffs almost as well as his mouth, and he had Sylvia restrained in a New York minute. The other cop called for an ambulance on the walkie-talkie pinned to his shoulder while he used plastic bracelets on Holt.
When Fielder showed up not long after, I realized we had a half-dozen guns in the room. A nice number when they’re all held by the good guys.
24
After I was questioned at the scene by several cops, I met up with Travis and Megan at the Seacliff Police Station. Fielder had gone to the hospital to question Holt, and Sylvia was transported to the county lockup after she bit Henderson in the arm. She’d tried and failed to get one last kick at Laura on the way out of the room and was now under extra security at the county facility. Bet she had a pretty pair of booties to wear in there.
Kate must have flown from Houston as soon as I called her, because she arrived at the station about the same time as Travis and Megan. They’d been more than a little freaked out when they’d arrived home to find Sylvia being led away in handcuffs, Holt on his way to the hospital and me with paper bags over my hands. That part was plain ridiculous. Everyone knew I’d shot that damn fool Holt.
I had plenty to answer for, what with the gunplay and the catfight, and so did Laura Montgomery, who had been whisked here to the station even before Travis and Megan had arrived. Henderson told me Laura would be held without bail in the small Seacliff jail until the Dallas cops arrived to take custody of her, probably tomorrow.
Megan and Travis had a million questions, but before I could answer even the first one, Quinn arrived and herded us all into her office.
“This has been a difficult time for you, Megan,” said Quinn once we were seated around the chief’s desk. “And it may not get much easier for a while.”
Megan still wore the sweaterdress I’d seen her in at the visitation, but strands of pale hair had come loose fr
om the tie holding her ponytail and her eyes sagged with fatigue.
“Someone said my mother killed my father.” She shook her head, her voice filled with confusion and disbelief.
“That’s why we need to talk,” said Quinn. “You need the facts and not what someone said. Holt is talking, hoping to get a better deal when it comes round to plea bargain time. During the reception, McNabb says he was in the library checking out the wedding gifts when your mother and father came in.”
“And don’t think for a minute he was interested in toasters and blenders,” I said. “Probably looking for cash in the wedding cards.”
“I’m betting you’re right,” said Quinn. “Anyway, your parents were probably so consumed by their argument, they didn’t see him. Holt says he hid behind the drapes and got an earful. In his version, Mr. Beadford and Mrs. Beadford argued over Laura Montgomery’s appearance at the wedding—seems Mrs. Beadford knew about her husband’s affair with the woman way back when. But it was the news about you, Megan, that really got to her, so when your father turned to leave the room, your mother hit him with the vase.”
Megan’s eyes filled. Kate, who was sitting next to her, put an arm around her.
“So she killed him because of me?” Megan said. “I don’t understand.”
Travis, seated on her other side, shifted so he could look Megan in the eye. “Meg, there’s a lot you don’t know. And part of that is my fault.”
“We’ll deal with the guilt later,” said Kate. “First we should let the chief and Abby explain everything.”
“Yeah,” said Megan, still staring into Travis’s eyes. “I want to know everything.”
“It’s complicated,” I said. “But first, let’s get one thing straight. Your mother did not kill your father. She knocked him unconscious, but he wouldn’t have died from that injury.”
“I’m not feeling all warm and fuzzy over that news,” said Megan. “But go on. What did happen and why in hell am I to blame?”
Kate said, “You are not to blame for anything.”
Quinn said, “Let me give you McNabb’s version first—which is filled with self-serving lies, as far as I’m concerned. He says he saw Mrs. Beadford hit your father with the vase, then she checked his pulse after he fell. McNabb claims your mother dragged your father over to the fireplace, lifted his upper body, and let go so he’d hit his head on the bricks.”
A Wedding to Die For Page 24
