Murder on the Bride's Side (12 page)

The doors from the terrace opened again and in walked Roni. So much for getting back to Avery early, I thought. Looking at us, she said, “Have any of you seen Megan? I can’t find her anywhere.”

Peter and I shook our heads, as did Claire and David. Megan had spent most of the night watching the band, but once they stopped playing, I hadn’t seen her. Harry glared at Roni and took an unsteady step toward her. “If anything happens to her, it’s your fault,” he said with slow deliberation.

Roni narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harry leaned in close to her and jabbed her shoulder with his forefinger. “It means you’re a terrible mother, Roni. It means you ran your daughter off.”

Roni took a step back, her expression disdainful. She sniffed. “You’re drunk.”

Harry nodded his head vigorously, sending his blond hair falling into his eyes. “That I am,” he agreed. “But in the morning, I’ll be sober. You’ll still be a bitch.”

Without a word, Roni’s tanned arm swung up and she slapped him across the face. Claire let out a gasp. David sat still and stared bug-eyed. Peter and I jumped to our feet. Harry
pulled his hand back to retaliate, but Peter grabbed it and pushed it back down. “Whoa!” Peter said. “Let’s everyone calm down.” But Harry wasn’t listening. “You’re a bitch,” he repeated. “You ruin everything you touch: Megan, my dad, everything. Someday you’ll get yours. And I hope I’m the one who gives it to you.” He pulled against Peter’s arm, but Peter held firm.

Roni’s face was white under her tan, but she held her ground. “You think I ruin things? Well, in your case you just might be right. After this, I’m going to make sure that your father cuts you off completely. You are done, Harry. Do you hear me?” Her voice rose an octave. “Done! You can bet on that.” She whirled around and marched back out to the terrace, slamming the door behind her. In the darkness outside, I saw a flash of red as the ember of a cigarette was lit.

Peter released his hold, and Harry fell back onto the couch. Peter and I stared down at him. “Are you okay, Harry?” I asked.

He nodded, rubbing the red mark on his cheek. “Yep. Except . . .”

“Except, what?”

“Except, I think I’m going to be sick.”

Peter and I quickly yanked Harry to his feet. Propelling him up the stairs to the bathroom with lightning speed, we deposited him in front of the toilet and quickly backed out into the hall. “Thanks, guys,” he said thickly, before kicking the door shut. Through the door, I heard him begin to retch. After a minute, he called out, “Guys?”

“Still here, Harry,” I said. “Can I get you anything?”

“Better judgment would be nice. Think I’m going to take a quick shower.”

Peter, who was sharing a room with Harry, called out, “Good idea. We’ll wait for you.”

Hearing the shower turn on, Peter and I sat down on the top steps of the staircase. He wrapped his arm around me. Closing my eyes, I breathed in his familiar scent and leaned my head against his shoulder. For a moment, my anxiety about Chloe vanished and all was right with my world. Somewhere down the hall, I heard one of the bedroom doors open and shut.

“Poor guy,” said Peter with a shake of his head. “I wonder if he’ll remember any of this in the morning.”

“Well, if he doesn’t, Roni certainly will.”

Peter grimaced. “I gotta tell you. I debated not pulling his hand back. That woman is vile. What do you think she’ll do to Harry?”

“I don’t know. But Avery is putty in her hands. I can only imagine what she’ll say or suggest as punishment. But one thing is for sure, Harry’s in a world of trouble.”

We both fell silent and sat listening to the steady stream of water from the shower. After ten minutes or so, Harry emerged wearing a towel, appearing chagrined but more coherent. Peter and I pulled apart and stood up. “Sorry about that, guys,” said Harry. “I feel like a real ass.”

“Don’t be silly, Harry,” I said. “You lost your temper, that’s all.”

Harry looked down at his feet. “That’s not all I’ve lost, I think.” Shaking his head, he slowly walked down the hall to his room.

“He’ll be okay, right?” I asked Peter.

“Yeah. I’ll keep an eye on him. But I think the worst is over. Except for his headache tomorrow morning.”

We said a quick good night. I know the kiss I gave Peter was tempered by my insecurity at seeing him with Chloe. Was it my imagination, or was Peter’s kiss tempered as well?

I headed for my room. Opening the door, I fumbled with the wall light switch before remembering that it didn’t work. As Bridget was at a hotel tonight, Megan had been moved into my room. Switching on the nightstand lamp, I was relieved to see that Megan wasn’t there. I wasn’t up to making small talk. I wanted to get my thoughts in order. Quickly changing into my pajamas, I wearily crawled into bed. Peter was not the kind of man to cheat or lie, I told myself. Granted, as a child he’d been a creep, but he’d outgrown that. I mentally listed all the reasons why I could trust Peter and sternly reminded myself that he was not like my other boyfriends. Besides, after tomorrow, Chloe would be gone, along with all the tables and chairs and other paraphernalia of the wedding. Peter and I were headed for Cape Cod to visit my Aunt Winnie and spend some much needed time together before Peter left for London. He was leaving next week and would be gone for almost three months helping his parents open another hotel. It would be a long separation, but everything would be okay. I tried to ignore the nasty little voice that mocked this assumption. After twenty minutes of these mental gymnastics, I reached over and turned out the light. Megan still wasn’t back. I glanced at the clock. It was two thirty. Unconcerned, I shrugged mentally and rolled over. I had been seventeen once, too.

Death . . . a melancholy and shocking extremity.

—
JANE AUSTEN,
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

A loud rumble woke me. I lay curled into my pillow for several seconds, disorientated at not being in my own bed. The rumbling continued and I reluctantly lifted my head. The movement sent waves of pain across my skull. Through the soft white curtains I could see heavy, fat clouds thundering across a bleak gray sky. Some people get a twinge in their joints before a storm; I get a migraine.

The storm’s real action hadn’t started yet, but it was clearly only a matter of time. The digital clock next to my bed read seven
A.M
. Brunch wasn’t scheduled until noon, so I laid my throbbing head carefully down onto my pillow, intent on going back to sleep. The problem was, I couldn’t.

I rolled over, remembering a recent article I’d read touting the healing benefits of deep breathing and soothing thoughts. While methodically forcing air in and out of my lungs, I congratulated myself on surviving Bridget’s wedding. I had not had a nervous breakdown or taken up smoking. Granted, I’d devoured enough hors d’oeuvres, petits fours, and tea sandwiches over the last few months to last me a lifetime, but that was rectifiable with a few
serious weeks at the gym. The thought of physical activity set off new stabs of pain, so I shifted gears. In just a few hours Peter and I would leave for Aunt Winnie’s B and B on the Cape. However, thinking of Peter stirred up another memory. Viewed in the cool light of day, most late-night melodrama looks silly. Unfortunately, from the way my stomach twisted at the memory of Peter and Chloe standing close together, it was obvious that it would take more than the light of day—cool or otherwise—to banish my insecurities.

Deciding that the deep-breathing-think-happy-thoughts method of pain reduction was a load of bunk, I opted for the tried-and-true means of aspirin and coffee. Pushing aside the bedcovers, I sat up, held my head against the sudden throbbing, and looked around. The bed where Megan should have been sleeping was empty. From the look of the neat, smooth sheets, it had been empty all night.

Gulping down three aspirin with a mouthful of water, I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and quietly padded downstairs. From the silence, I gathered I was the only one up. I slipped into the kitchen in search of coffee. Sadly, there was a decided lack of that healing odor. I started a pot, then I poked around until I found the bagels. Minutes later, with a large mug of steaming coffee and a toasted bagel in tow, I headed for the dining room, only to come to a sudden halt in the doorway; the room was set for the brunch. The table was overflowing with elaborate flower arrangements, sparkling crystal, delicate china, and gleaming silverware. All that was missing was a large plaque reading
DO NOT TOUCH
. I backed out slowly, deciding the terrace was a safer option.

Outside, the air was thick with the impending deluge. Overnight, the temperature had dropped and the leaves on the magnolia tress danced and swayed to the wind’s increasing tempo. Below me, the catering crew scrambled about, folding up the chairs, tables, and tents, working quickly to get everything stored away before the rain started. Inadvertently, my eyes searched the grounds for Chloe. My search was rewarded, if that’s the right word. She stood off to the left of the house, barking orders into her walkie-talkie and checking her clipboard as usual. Her silky hair was pulled back into her trademark ponytail and she was wearing another one of her perfectly tailored suits. Although I couldn’t actually see from where I was standing, I was ninety-nine percent sure her teeth were gleaming and her skin was dewy fresh. She’d also probably risen at dawn, eaten a handful of nuts and berries, and gone for a six-mile run.

Conscious of my ratty jeans, unwashed hair, and nondewy everything, I opted to drink my coffee and eat my calorie-packed bagel slathered with cream cheese in the privacy of the side terrace. Out of view, out of mind, I told myself.

Several chairs and chaise longues were arranged in front of the rose trellis. Settling into one of the cushioned chairs, I saw that I was not alone after all. On another chaise, a recumbent figure lay under one of the wool quilts Elise kept outside for chilly nights. Was this where Megan had spent the night?

Fat drops of rain splattered onto the patio, slowly at first and then increasing in tempo. A bolt of lightning crackled against the dark sky. It was going to be a hell of a storm. I gathered my coffee and bagel and stood up.

“Megan?” I called out. “You’ve got to wake up. It’s starting to rain. What are you doing out here, anyway?”

When I didn’t receive an answer, I reluctantly put my coffee and bagel back on the side table and walked toward her. As I neared the chair, my foot kicked something. Stooping down to pick it up, I saw that it was a white plastic hotel key card. I raised my voice and tried again. “Megan? Are you okay? Come on, we need to go inside now.” Again there was no response. I reached out to nudge her, gently pulling back the blanket. Staring down in astonishment, I saw that I was wrong on both counts. It was not Megan and she wasn’t asleep. It was Roni, and unless I was very much mistaken, she was dead.

She was lying on her side, her beautiful eyes wide and staring. The silent grimace of her lips reminded me of Edvard Munch’s painting
The Scream
. Except Roni’s hands weren’t clutching her head; they were frozen, clawlike, at the place in her chest where a large kitchen knife protruded.

I must have started screaming, but I don’t really remember. I found myself at the other end of the terrace surrounded by the catering staff and soaked from the rain.

“Hey, lady,” said a man with arms roughly the size of my thighs. His blue catering T-shirt stretched tight across his chest. “Are you all right?”

I shook my head and silently pointed at Roni’s body. I couldn’t find my voice. Mr. Big Arms shot me a funny look and walked over to where Roni lay. I dragged my eyes away from the horrific sight of Roni sprawled on the chaise, fighting the waves of nausea rolling through my stomach, and forced myself to concentrate on the rose-covered trellis. But there was no relief to be
found there. All my eyes could see were those roses that were now wilted and dying, their delicate petals edged in brown. Death, it seemed, was all around me.

The other staff stood protectively around me, making assorted calming noises. Someone opened an umbrella and held it over my head. Mr. Big Arms looked down at the body. “Jesus!” he said, staring back at me in astonishment. “This woman’s dead!” The other members of the staff abandoned their attempts to comfort me and quickly edged over to get a look, taking the umbrella with them. Ghouls. Mr. Big Arms looked at me again, a wary expression now on his face. “Did you do this?”

My voice came back in a rush. “
No!
Of course not! I just found her. Oh, God. We need to call the police. I’ve got to tell the family!” I looked around anxiously. Chloe was just coming up the terrace steps. “Elizabeth?” she said. “Is something wrong?” Just as I had suspected, she was dewy fresh. “Roni’s dead!” I said in a jumble. “Over there.” I pointed behind me to where a rapidly growing crowd of men in blue T-shirts grouped around the chaise.

Chloe’s eyes slid to where I pointed. “Eric! What’s going on?”

Eric, aka Mr. Big Arms, popped his head up. “She’s right, Ms. Jenkins. There’s a body here.”