Murder on the Bride's Side (15 page)

Placing the tray in front of Detective Grant, she said, “Your coffee, Detective. May I pour you a cup?”

Detective Grant leaned back in the leather chair, the movement making a soft creaking noise, and casually crossed his arms across his chest. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Matthews. And then perhaps you can tell me if you’ve had any success locating Megan.”

If his question rattled Elsie, she did an excellent job of hiding it. Calmly pouring out a cup of rich, hot coffee, she handed it to
him before answering. “Well, no, Detective. We haven’t found her yet. I’m sure she’ll turn up soon. This is such a dreadful business. Megan will be just devastated. She’s a good girl, really, but you know how teenagers can be.”

“Actually, as I told Ms. Parker here,” he said, with a brief nod in my direction, “I don’t have any kids. How would you describe teenagers?”

Elsie studied him with a level look. “Well, Detective, I don’t think one necessarily needs to have teenagers to understand them. For instance, you were a teenager once, correct? Or did you just skip all that and spring to your current age?”

I winced. Elsie’s family and friends had grown accustomed to her outspokenness. At times it could be endearing. I suspected from the way Detective Grant’s gray eyes glittered that this was not one of those times.

“Surprisingly enough, Mrs. Matthews, I was indeed a teenager—a very long time ago. And I think I remember how it feels to not get along with a parent, which, from what you two are
not
telling me, seems to be the case with Megan. Now, why don’t you tell me exactly why Megan and her mother didn’t get along?”

Elsie ignored his question and instead pounced on something else. “You didn’t get along with your parents? Why ever not? An upstanding man like yourself? I find that hard to believe.”

Detective Grant glared at Elsie. “This conversation isn’t about me, it’s about Megan.”

“Of course, but I’d feel better knowing that I’m talking to someone who might actually understand our Megan. Megan is a special girl, but that fact seems to have escaped her mother.”

Was Elsie completely off her rocker? She was telling the detective in charge of the case to open up about himself before she told him about Megan. I braced myself for the explosion.

Surprisingly, Detective Grant did not leap to his feet and place Elsie into custody. Shifting in his seat, he merely said, “I wanted to be a dancer. Like Gene Kelly. However, my father had very definite ideas about my career, and being a dancer wasn’t on the list.”

While I struggled not to gasp in astonishment at the image of Detective Grant deftly swinging from a lamppost, Elsie contemplated him with serious eyes. “So you just gave it up?” she asked.

“No. I kept at it for a while, actually. But in the end, I just didn’t have the talent to make a career out if it. But it was a rough time for me and my dad. So in answer to your question, yes, I think I can view a rocky parent-child relationship with an open mind. Now, why don’t you tell me about Megan?”

After a moment, Elsie gave a sharp nod of her head. “Megan doesn’t look like a Barbie doll and she has a brain. In short, she is the complete opposite of her mother.” With a twist of her mouth, she added, “May she rest in peace.”

“Mrs. Matthews,” Detective Grant said with slow deliberation, “a murder was committed here last night. Not only that, but the victim was your daughter-in-law. She was brutally stabbed not fifty feet outside these doors behind me. I would think that given the circumstances, you would be a little more . . .
enthusiastic
in helping the police catch her killer.”

Elsie placed both of her hands palm down on the desk and leaned forward. “Oh, don’t misunderstand me, Detective Grant.
I am
extremely
enthusiastic about helping the police find the killer. But what I want to make very sure
doesn’t
happen is that the police focus on the wrong person. I know my family. They are not murderers. I saw how you looked at everyone. You saw a group of people, very few of whom seemed upset by Roni’s death. May I speak freely, Detective?”

“It seems inconceivable to me that you would do otherwise.”

“My daughter-in-law was not a very nice person. She was vain, shallow, and greedy. And I don’t think she particularly cared for my son. But she had a life outside of this family. I just want to make sure that the police focus on
that
life and not just our limited interactions with her. We may not have liked her, but we certainly didn’t kill her.”

Detective Grant tasted his coffee. “For your sake, I hope you’re right, Mrs. Matthews.”

So did I, I thought, staring at Elsie’s shoes.

If a man’s character is to be abused, say what you will, there’s nobody like a relation to do the business.

—
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERY, VANITY FAIR

A commotion in the living room ended the ensuing stare down between Detective Grant and Elsie. Striding briskly to the door, Elsie yanked it open. “Oh, thank God!” she said, placing her hand on her chest. “Megan!”

At that, both Detective Grant and I leaped out of our seats and dashed for the door. As Elsie had indicated, Megan stood, dazed, in the middle of the living room. Her upsweep was undone, leaving her hair hanging around her face. She was still wearing the dress she’d worn to the wedding. Harry stood with his arms wrapped around her, whispering in her ear. I saw her eyes widen at his message. Avery rolled his chair up next to her and grabbed one of her hands. “Oh, Megan,” he said, “thank God, you’re all right.”

My eyes sought out Peter’s, and to my sharp dismay I saw that while I was in with Detective Grant, Chloe had co-opted my seat. She sat snuggled in next to Peter. My mind quickly noted the depressing fact that Chloe’s silky blond hair and lithe frame and Peter’s dark curls and athletic build made the two of
them look like something out of a catalog for shiny happy people. I, on the other hand, with my humidity-induced frizzy hair and nonathletic, nonlithe anything, presented an image more appropriate for the before segment on an episode of
What Not to Wear
. My stomach tightened.

Next to me, Detective Grant stepped forward. “Megan Matthews?” he said, his voice ominous.

Megan turned confused eyes in his direction. “Yes. What’s going on? What’s happened?”

Detective Grant paused. “Why don’t you sit down.” He indicated one of the club chairs. With an apprehensive glance at Harry, Megan detached herself from his arms and sank into the chair. Avery rolled his chair next to hers and gently took her hands in his. Shooting Detective Grant a quelling look, he said, “Megan, I don’t know how to tell you this, but it’s about your mother.”

Megan stared at Avery, her round face white and frightened. Taking a deep breath, Avery continued. “She’s dead, honey. Someone . . . someone killed her last night.” Avery’s voice broke and he lowered his head, still clinging to Megan’s hands.

Megan stared at Avery’s bowed head. Slowly, she raised her eyes and sought out Detective Grant’s. “Someone killed my mother?” she asked in a small voice.

“I’m afraid so,” Detective Grant replied.

“But why?” asked Megan, looking back to Avery.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Do you know of anyone who wished her harm?” asked Detective Grant.

Megan’s eyes snapped back to Detective Grant’s. I saw wariness in their depths as she answered. “My mother is . . . um . . .
was . . . um . . . a difficult woman at times.” She glanced back to Avery as if afraid of offending him. “But I can’t imagine someone killing her because of that.”

Detective Grant nodded. “I have to ask you about your whereabouts last night.”

Before he could finish, Elsie stepped forward. “I’m going to have to insist that that question wait, Detective. As anyone can see, Megan is in shock. She needs some time to process this before she answers. You can interview the rest of us while Megan gets herself together. Elizabeth, please take Megan upstairs to your room.” Elsie turned to Blythe. “Blythe, why don’t you get Megan a cup of hot tea? I think that might help.” Blythe nodded her head, rose briskly from the couch, and started for the kitchen.

I walked forward and extended my hand to Megan. “Come on, sweetie.” I hoped she would take my hand and leave before Detective Grant thought better of Elsie’s decree. Luckily, Megan seemed to be on the same wavelength. She nodded and quickly rose from her chair. With a brief backward glance at Avery, she crossed the room with me and headed for the stairs. I didn’t look directly at Detective Grant as we exited the room, but I did catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye as we rushed past. He looked as if he were about to object, then suddenly stepped back and nodded for us to continue.

In our room, I shut the door. Megan sank down on her bed, staring numbly at the floor. Now, alone with her, I had no idea what to say. I crossed to my bed and sat down opposite her.

“Somebody actually killed her,” she said. It was more of a statement than a question, so I didn’t answer.

She looked up at me. “Why don’t I feel anything?” She dropped
her head in her hands, her brown hair spilling all over. “My mother is dead and I don’t feel anything! What kind of monster am I?”

I quickly moved off the bed and knelt in front of her. “Megan, you are not a monster! You’re in shock.”

She moved her hands away from her face and stared at me. Her eyes were dry and clear. “No, you don’t understand. I really don’t feel anything! She was a bitch and I’m glad she’s dead! You’ve no idea the living hell she made my life!”

“Megan, I know living with her must have been hard, but—”

“But nothing, Elizabeth! You don’t know the half of it! When I was twelve, my father divorced her. I remembered wishing
I
could divorce her, too. My father realized what kind of woman she was and he had had enough. He wanted custody of me because he loved me.
She
wanted custody because she knew it would hurt him and because she wanted the child support money.” Megan’s voice grew increasingly agitated. “The judge said that I was old enough to choose which one of them I wanted to live with and so, of course, I picked my father. I got up on that stand and told the judge that I wanted to live with my father. I told him why, too.” Her mouth twisted at the memory. “She hated me for that. Really hated me. I embarrassed her and ruined her plans. All I cared about was that I was going to live with my dad and not have to deal with her anymore. Six months later, my dad died in a car accident. Can you believe that? I had to go live with her again!” she cried indignantly. “You can’t imagine . . .” Her voice failed. “Of course, it was worse than ever. She punished me for choosing him over her—every single day. I hated her! I’m glad she’s dead!” Tears washed down her face and her
breath came in ragged gulps. “Oh! I wish my dad was here now! I miss him so much!”

Sobs racked her body and she curled up on her bed, burying her face in her pillow. A soft knock sounded at the door. It was Blythe. She held a steaming mug of tea. Looking over to the bed, she saw Megan. “Poor thing!” she whispered. “She’s really taking Roni’s death hard, isn’t she?”

Twenty minutes later, Megan, if not calm, was at least calmer. She had finished the tea and was sitting on her bed, her back pressed against the wall and her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Blythe and I sat opposite her on my bed.

“Do you want to tell us where you’ve been all night, honey?” Blythe said.

Megan stared at the tops of her knees. “Not really,” she answered with a shy smile. “It figures that the first time I stay out with a boy, I come home to find the cops waiting for me.”

Megan had stayed out with a boy? I don’t know why, but I was shocked. Other than a slight stiffening of her spine, Blythe took this statement in relative stride. She’d probably heard all sorts of stories in her years as headmistress.

“Are you all right?” she asked gently.

Megan looked up at the question. “Oh, yeah. Oh, God! I mean, yeah, I stayed out, but not like
that
.”

“Then like what, dear?” Blythe asked. There was a hint of an edge to her voice.

Megan sighed and pushed a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “I got to talking to one of the guys in the band—Bobby. He’s the drummer.”

I nodded with understanding. In bands, it was always the drummer.

Megan continued. “Anyway, he was really nice. Then
she
saw us and made this huge scene about what a fool I was making of myself.” Neither Blythe nor I needed to ask whom Megan meant by “she.” “After that I ran off,” Megan continued. “When their set was over, Bobby found me. He had seen everything. He was really sweet. We started talking and, well, I didn’t want to go home. Bobby and I went to the summerhouse.”

Blythe made a noise, a cross between a groan and a sigh. Megan looked at her. “I told you, it wasn’t like that. We just talked.”

Blythe seemed unconvinced. Peering at Megan over her glasses, she asked, “How old is Bobby?”

“Twenty,” replied Megan. “He’s a sophomore at the college down here. He’s only in the band part-time.”

I don’t know about Blythe, but I sure as hell was relieved to hear this. I had a horrible vision of Bobby being some aging pothead lothario who liked young girls. A twenty-year-old, part-time band member, full-time student was a much better scenario.