For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (14 page)

“Gary,” I said.

“Oh. Morbid.”

“Not really. See, Brad and I used to be . . . well, close. And the police seem to think he might be involved. And I really don’t see it that way.”

“So you’re doing your best Nancy Drew impression, trying to clear the old lover.”

“She has had some experience,” Liv said. “Not as an old lover. I mean . . .”

“Works for me. I don’t think Brad could have had anything to do with it. And I seem to be their only other suspect, so I can’t say I’m all that impressed with the investigation so far. Have at it.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Look around. I have nothing to hide, but if it helps find out who killed my husband, I’m in. I’ll help you look.”

Searching the RV with Gigi seemed even more awkward than it might have been searching without her. Liv riffled through the desk adjacent to the bedroom, while I rummaged around in the closet, checking all the pockets of his jackets and trousers.

“What’s this?” Liv fanned through a stack of paper.

Gigi looked over her shoulder. “Oh, that’s his contract for next season.”

Liv flipped through to the back. “Is this a copy? It’s unsigned.”

Gigi sighed. “A bone of contention between us. I guess that looks bad. Truth was, Gary was considering a change in career. Again.”

“Again?” I asked, plucking a packet of artificial sweetener out of the pocket of a pair of skinny jeans.

“Well, yeah,” she said. “Here . . .” She crossed the room to the closet, reached over my head, and retrieved a cardboard box from the shelf. She set it on the bed and opened it up. “I don’t know why Gary insisted on traveling with this.” She unloaded almost a dozen videotapes and a single DVD before pulling out a small photo album. “We don’t even have a VCR on the RV. All that’s left of his dream career.” She bit her lip. “All that’s left of the real Gary.” She sank down on the bed next to the box.

I rummaged through the tapes, which were labeled with dates, all going back to the early nineties.

Liv picked up the album. “Gary was a reporter?” She showed me the photo of a very young, serious-faced Gary, microphone in hand, in front of a burning building.

“Apparently all he ever dreamed of doing,” Gigi said. “He used to sit for hours sometimes, watching those old tapes. I don’t think he ever got over being fired.”

“Why’d they fire him?” Liv asked.

“That was before I met him, and he seemed really sensitive about it, so I never pressed him.” Gigi shrugged. “I remember him saying he couldn’t get a job in serious news. He ended up writing men’s fashion for a string of newspapers. And then party planning, under a pseudonym. And then wedding planning. And then women’s fashion. At one point, I think he was regularly appearing in print as six different people. That’s when we met at a party. I was plugging my show
The Bridesmaid Chronicles
.”

“I don’t know if I ever heard of that one,” I said.

“Neither has anyone else. Maybe that was a good thing. But Gary interviewed me for the paper. He was the first straight man I had met in months. We fell in love. We were already talking picket fences when we came up with the idea for
Fix My Wedding
.”

“But why the secret marriage?” I asked.

“When we were pitching the show, Gary had a little too much to drink at one of the schmoozing parties. Ended up sitting behind the piano and doing his Liberace impersonation. I thought he blew the deal for us, but the network people loved it. They didn’t tell us we had to, but they strongly implied that the show would have a better chance if people thought he was gay. So we put aside the picket fences for later and got married by a tight-lipped justice of the peace. It took us two years to get a signed and sealed contract with the network. Things were starting to go well, ratings were up, and all of a sudden Gary talks about quitting.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Claimed he figured out a way to break back into the serious news game. Said he was tired of parading around on camera. I was still hoping he’d change his mind.”

“Where would that leave you, if Gary hadn’t renewed?” Liv asked.

“Probably pretty much where I am now, so don’t go thinking I had anything to do with his death. Gary wasn’t a fool, either. He wasn’t going to turn down the contract without a sure thing to fall back on.”

“Do you know how hard it is to track down a working VCR?” Eric said, as he hefted the black box onto the counter.

“My hero!” Liv threw her arms around her husband. He claimed a quick kiss.

“It was nice of Gigi to let you borrow the videotapes,” Amber Lee said. “I’m kind of curious about what Gary was like before all that
Fix My Wedding
stuff.”

Eric hooked up the VCR to the small portable television he’d carted in earlier. I was curious, too, although since we were working full steam on the flowers for the reception, we’d probably be listening more than watching.

But I paused long enough to see the static stop and, after a brief introduction by the Boston news anchor who mispronounced Gary’s last name, serious journalist Gary Davoll made his first appearance. He stood tall and proud and oh-so-young in a starched white shirt and new tie as he grimly faced the camera. The first story we watched—and I mean
watched
. Our hands halted, flowers forgotten, as we stared transfixed at the screen. Gary provided voice-over for footage of people coming and going from a house that looked to be in an ordinary suburban neighborhood. He explained how they shot the secret footage using a night-vision camera. The footage showed late-night arrivals to the house, leaving with small packages or bulging pockets. Another clip showed two men looking over their shoulders as they hauled in propane tanks.

And then Gary approached the house, dressed down in a stained hoodie and old jeans, knocking and asking if he could score some meth. The camera caught his outline as the guys inside hemmed and hawed, before taking Gary’s generous offer of cash. Before the door closed, you could make out the diapered figure of a toddler, the child’s face blurred out for television anonymity.

Gary then replayed his taped call to the police, followed by an interview with local law enforcement as Gary showed them the footage. Finally, they showed the raid, as drug enforcement agents approached—most wearing Tyvek suits over bulletproof vests because of the toxic chemicals involved in meth manufacture, Gary explained. The final clip showed men being escorted away in handcuffs, avoiding the harsh glare of the camera lights, and the child, bundled up in blankets, as it was rushed away by social services.

Liv pressed pause.

“Wow, what a start!” Opie said. “He must have made some enemies.”

Liv and I looked at each other. Then Liv face-palmed. “He was an investigative reporter. We have about twenty hours’ worth of suspects to watch.”

I sighed and stared at the stack of videotapes. Was the answer there? “Even if Gary’s murder was inspired by one of his old investigations, why now? Those tapes are all more than twenty years old.”

Liv shrugged. “It’s worth a try. Look them over to see if we recognize anybody? If someone Gary investigated showed up in Ramble, that would be highly suspicious, right?”

“Probably a long shot,” I said.

Poor Liv. I knew her curiosity must be raging, but no way was Eric going to let her hit the pavement as part of our little amateur investigation, especially in her condition. Watching these videos might be the best solution to keeping her and her probing mind actively involved, but out of danger.

“Wouldn’t Gary have recognized him?” I said. And then my words sank in. “And when Gary recognized him, the killer struck.” I could almost see the scene played out in silent-movie pantomime in my mind. A look of surprise on Gary’s face, a finger pointing, and the surprise turning to fear as the camera faded to black.

“Only it doesn’t explain how he ended up in the old bell tower,” I added. “Or why they’d want to stop the show. But definitely worth a look.”

*   *   *

I felt hungover the next morning. If I were a drinker, I could have told you for sure. But if being hungover means that you’re blurry-eyed, bleary-minded, disoriented, achy, and fatigued, and you wander around your apartment forgetting what you’re supposed to be doing, then, yes, I felt hung-over.

We’d made good progress on the flowers and plowed through about eight hours of Gary’s early reporting days. The images of drug dealers, prostitutes, and politicians played and replayed in my dreams in those few precious hours I’d managed to sleep.

And, oh yes, I’d been looking for my cell phone.

The buzz of my silenced cell started up again, and I still had no idea where it was. Chester glared up at me from the sofa, his ears pinned back.

“I’ll feed you as soon as I find my phone,” I said.

He stood up, stretched, and pranced out to the kitchen, revealing my cell on the sofa where I had placed it—and where he had been lounging on it.

“Stinker.”

My phone showed a text message from Nick, so I clicked on it and started reading as I walked to the kitchen. Then I stopped in my tracks.

“Something’s happening at the Ashbury,” it said. “Can you get here ASAP?”

That was followed by two other texts, minutes apart, talking about the arrival of the police.

I pulled a can of cat food out of the cupboard, ripped off the top, and slid the can across the floor. “Whole can today, bud. Enjoy. I gotta run.” I grabbed my purse and was out the door.

I was halfway to the Ashbury when I began to wonder if I’d brushed my teeth. They didn’t feel fuzzy, but I flipped my mirror down to check when I was stopped at the traffic light. (Ramble has only one.) I had pretty much decided that I had brushed when the blast of a horn set me moving again.

Outside the Ashbury, there was no sign of Tacky Jackie and her bridal party/protest group. Perhaps they were sleeping in or, knowing what I did of Jackie, sleeping it off. Good thing, too, since there was also no sign of Ken Lafferty. The three police cars, Ramble’s full fleet, parked askew on the front lawn would have probably served as a deterrent, however.

When I burst in the door, Nevena was shouting at Lafferty in Bulgarian, several more of Ramble’s finest were milling around, and a tear-streaked Henry Easton was sitting on a gurney being attended to by a paramedic, who had pumped a blood pressure cuff so tight that I think Henry’s eyes were about to pop out of his head.

Nick waved me over.

“What in the world?” I asked.

“He’s had a shock. Screamed like a little girl. They just quieted him down.”

“What happened?”

“It was hard to understand what he was saying. But I overheard the cops talking. Someone broke into one of the production trailers last night and vandalized the wedding dresses.”

“Vandalized? All this is for a vandalism?” I gestured at the full room.

“Well, it was how they were vandalized. Apparently, they were spattered with blood.”

“Was someone else killed?”

Nick shrugged. “No idea. But they’ve been going through all the hotel rooms, doing a head-check, not that anyone could have slept through that screaming. The cast and crew are present and accounted for.”

“Why would somebody . . . ?”

“There’s more. There was a note pinned to one of the dresses. Written in blood.”

“That’s kind of gory.”

Nick nodded.

“I don’t suppose they shared with you what it said.”

Nick smiled. “Not exactly. But since I was on-site and couldn’t leave anyway, I thought it might be the friendly and neighborly thing to do to start serving coffee to the cops.”

I smiled. “You’re almost as devious as Liv.”

“You want to stand around complimenting me, or would you rather know what it said?”

“What did it say?”

“‘Go home.’”

“For Henry to go home? Or the whole crew?”

“No idea. Whoever wrote it wasn’t big on nouns of direct address. That’s all it said. ‘Go home.’”

“So somebody still wants to stop the show.”

“Or the wedding,” he said

“Or the wedding. Or make it look like he wants to stop the wedding. But the more I think about it, the less I think the killer is carrying out these warnings as a smoke screen—if this one
is
just a warning. We still don’t know where the blood came from.”

I had a moment of panic. What if Liv had come back snooping around? I tried her cell phone and got her instantly.

“What’s up?” she said.

“Just wanted to make sure you were okay,” I answered. “See you in a bit.”

“Audrey, wait. You can’t do—” But I ended the call.

Someone had handed Easton a damp towel. He wiped the mucus streaming from his nose and sat up a little straighter.

“Would you like a coffee, Mr. Easton?” Nick called across the room.

Easton nodded.

“Better make it decaf,” the attendant said, putting away his stethoscope.

Nick poured a cup, added a little cream and sweetener, and walked it over to Easton. He grabbed it with shaking hands. “Thank you.”

I looked around. Bixby was nowhere in sight, so I pulled a chair next to the gurney. “You must have had a terrible shock.”

“Oh.” He shuddered. “I don’t know what was worse, the thousands of dollars in dresses absolutely ruined, or the blood. Blood everywhere.”

“But no sign of where it came from?”

Easton shook his head. “Not a clue.”

But then the sounds of high-pitched screaming entered through the open windows.