Murder on the Bride's Side (17 page)

Claire glanced nervously at Avery. “No. I knocked on his door but there was no answer. I opened it up and peeked inside. I saw that Avery was asleep and decided not to wake him. I thought I would tell him in the morning.”

“What time was this?”

“Around two.”

“Did anyone see you?”

Claire nodded toward Chloe. “Yes, Chloe did. I came down the back stairs, the ones that go to the kitchen. Chloe was there.”

Detective Grant looked at Chloe for affirmation. “Is this true, Miss Jenkins?”

Chloe nodded, her mouth turned up into what I considered an obsequious smile. “Yes. I saw Mrs. Matthews come downstairs around then. I was in the kitchen getting everything ready for the brunch.”

“You work late hours,” Detective Grant said with a note of admiration in his voice.

Chloe tipped her glossy head in acknowledgment. “I do whatever it takes to ensure that my events run smoothly,” she replied, feigning modesy. Honestly, I wanted to smack her.

Detective Grant turned back to Claire. “So you went to talk to your brother but decided not to wake him after all. What did you do then?”

“I heard a thump. It sounded like it came from upstairs. I
rushed back upstairs, worried that David had . . . had fallen,” Claire finished diplomatically.

Detective Grant looked at David. “Had you fallen, Mr. Cook?”

“Of course not! I can’t imagine why anyone would think I would have,” David replied indignantly.

Detective Grant made no response. Turning again to Claire, he asked, “Did you go back upstairs through the kitchen?”

“Yes.”

Detective Grant turned his head to Chloe for her to verify this, but Chloe only shrugged her graceful shoulders. “I didn’t see her, Detective.” An uncomfortable pause followed as we all struggled with the implication that Claire might be lying. Perhaps sensing the impact of her words, Chloe hurried on. “But I was also moving back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, so I could have easily missed her. For what it’s worth, I also heard a thump.”

Detective Grant stared down at his notebook, tapping it lightly with his pen. He read a few pages before raising his eyes to where Megan sat slumped in her chair. “I’d like to go back to your night, Miss Matthews,” he said. “You say that you and Bobby went to the summerhouse. What time was that?”

“I’m not sure. It was late.”

“Did you see anyone? Did anyone see you?”

“I thought I saw someone on the terrace. To be honest, I was trying not to be seen. I . . . I really wasn’t up for my family just then.”

What? I sat up straighter in my chair. Megan had seen someone on the terrace? Had she seen Roni or Roni’s killer? An airless
silence filled the room and we all stared bug-eyed at Megan. Detective Grant took a small step forward. “Who did you see on the terrace, Miss Mathews?” His voice was bland but his expression was not. His jaw was tense, the muscle twitching.

“I don’t know. It was dark. But . . .”

“Yes? Who did you see on the terrace?”

Her eyes flickered to the expansive couch where David, Claire, Elsie, and Harry sat. “I . . . I don’t know,” she said. “I just saw a figure.”

“A man or a woman?”

“A man . . . I think. I don’t know. I really couldn’t say one way or another.”

Detective Grant gripped his pen so hard his fingers showed white. “What was this figure doing?”

“Standing by one of the patio chairs.”

Somebody gasped. Megan looked at us with confused eyes. We hadn’t told her yet that Roni’s body had been found on one of the patio chairs. Her eyes widened as she made the obvious connection.

“I’m going to ask you again, Miss Matthews,” Detective Grant said in a low voice. “This is very important. Do you have any idea who it was that you saw?”

Megan’s eyes flickered toward the window. She paused a little too long before answering. “No,” she said in a firm voice. “It was too dark. I’m sorry.”

“What time was this again? Think carefully.”

Megan considered before shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know. I didn’t think to look at my watch.”

I could see from Detective Grant’s expression that we were thinking exactly the same thing.

Megan was lying.

A uniformed policeman entered the room from the terrace. Rain dripped off his black plastic parka, leaving tiny pools of water in his wake. Elsie glared at him. “Young man! I would ask that you please not drip water all over my carpet.”

The policeman, a young man with flaming red hair and no discernible chin, ducked his head. “Yes, ma’am,” he said politely. He carefully skirted the perimeter of the room where the carpet did not reach, until he stood next to Detective Grant. Having watched this progress with an expression of bemusement mixed with annoyance, Detective Grant gave an audible sigh. “Yes, Johnson?”

Officer Johnson leaned forward in an attempt to keep his message private and muttered in Detective Grant’s ear.

Elsie rapped her cane sharply on the floor. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s not polite to whisper?” she burst out.

With deliberate slowness, Detective Grant turned his head to face Elsie. He reminded me of a sleek panther about to spring. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not polite to stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong?” he retorted.

Elsie’s chin jutted out. “Not to my face.”

“Then consider this the first time.”

Elsie’s eyes narrowed. “Inasmuch as a murder has taken place in my house, I think I have a right to know what is going on.”

“Correction. You have the right to know what
I
deem necessary.” Before Elsie could respond to this, Detective Grant turned
to Avery. “Mr. Matthews. The coroner has finished and is getting ready to leave. Would you like a moment before he does?”

Avery’s face sagged. He gave a feeble nod.

“If you’ll follow me, sir,” Detective Grant said, gesturing toward the terrace. Avery exited the room, heading toward the makeshift tent erected by the police. Millie followed him at a respectful distance. Turning back, Detective Grant looked at Megan. “Miss Matthews, would you like a moment as well?”

Megan did not immediately respond. Raising her head, she met Detective Grant’s eyes. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t think I can do that.”

Detective Grant nodded and stepped out onto the terrace, shutting the door behind him.

There was a two-second pause before all hell broke loose.

Elsie led the charge. “You ridiculous buffoon!” she hissed at David. “I knew you were a wretched person, but I didn’t know
how
wretched until now.”

“Me? I’m the bad guy?” David spit out indignantly. “
I
didn’t do anything! That detective wants the truth. If we try to hide facts, then we’ll only bring his wrath down on all of us.”

“Have something to hide, do you, David?” said Graham from his chair.

“Me? Hiding something? Don’t be stupid,” David snapped back.

“I don’t know. You seemed in a pretty big rush to direct the detective’s attention to Harry. Why is that?” Graham’s voice was deceptively calm. If you ever wanted a read on Graham’s emotions, you watched his eyebrows. They were a barometer of his emotions. Right now they were bristling. When Bridget and I
were little, bristling eyebrows meant it was time to run for cover.

David’s own brows pulled together ominously and he aggressively shifted his shoulders. “I’m not trying to direct anything. I’m only trying to help.”

In a deceivingly casual move, Graham stretched his long legs out in front of him and stood up. Next to him, Blythe tensed. “Graham . . .” she warned.

“No, I’m interested in hearing about how David wants to help.” He crossed the room and stood directly in front of David’s chair. Graham moved so quickly that David had no time to react. He sat pressed against the back of his chair, forced to stare up into Graham’s face.

“For instance,” Graham went on, “when you get blind stinking drunk, how are you helping? When you verbally abuse my sister, how exactly are you helping?”

“Graham, please,” said Claire.

“Now listen here,” David barked, but Graham wasn’t listening.

“And when you stupidly try and pin this tragedy on Harry, how the
hell
do you think you are helping?”

These last words were shouted, and David shoved his large frame out of his chair and faced Graham. His body was trembling and his hands were balled into fists. “You know what?” he hissed menacingly. “I don’t care what you think of me because I know that I’m innocent. I was with Claire all night. I have an alibi. Do you?” He turned to the rest of us and sneered threateningly. “Do any of you?”

A soft cry escaped from Megan, and David’s eyes landed on
her. Strangely, upon seeing her pinched expression, his face blanched with regret. “Megan,” he said, his voice oddly constrained, “I am so sorry about . . . about all of this. If there is anything I can do . . .”

“Anything
you
can do!” Megan shot back. “Just what do you think you can do, David? From what I’ve seen,
you’ve
done quite enough!”

“From what you’ve . . .” He stopped abruptly. “Megan, I know you’re . . . upset. But I’d like to help.”

“Help,” Megan scoffed. “Here’s an idea, David—how about you do the right thing? For once, why don’t you just do the right thing?”

“I—” David began.

“Leave it. I can’t deal with you now,” said Megan quietly.

“Megan?” began David.

Graham cut him off. “David! Shut the hell up! Can’t you see that every time you open your mouth you only make things worse?” Graham’s eyebrows were now standing straight out and I looked for a place to seek shelter. Before I could find one, the terrace doors swung open, letting in a chilly gust of rain and wind and Avery.

“It’s gone,” Avery gasped.

“What’s gone?” Elsie said.

“The necklace, Roni’s necklace. The one she was wearing last night. The one I gave her. It’s gone!”

We looked mutely at one another.

“Someone killed her for her necklace?” asked Elsie. Her voice held a tinge of hope. If Roni had been killed for the necklace,
then the realm of potential suspects would widen considerably. Right now, it was decidedly claustrophobic.

Detective Grant stepped into view behind Avery. “We haven’t come to any conclusions yet,” he said, “but I’d like a guest list from last night’s reception.”

Elsie nodded and hurried off to the study.

“How much was that necklace worth?” asked Blythe.

“I just had it appraised for two hundred thousand dollars,” came the reply.

Someone gave a low whistle.

My sentiments exactly.

Anything that begins “I don’t know how to tell you this” is never good news.

—
RUTH GORDON

Still stunned by this latest development, we all heard the front door slam and Bridget’s voice carry into the living room. “Mom?” she yelled. “Dad?”

“We’re in here, honey,” Blythe responded.

Bridget rushed into the room and ran straight to her parents. Bridget and Colin were booked to go to Bermuda for their honeymoon and Bridget was clearly dressed for the trip. She was wearing neon yellow Bermuda shorts, a blue-and-green-striped tank top, lace-up espadrilles that added a solid three inches to her height, and what appeared to be a small frog on her right shoulder blade.

With a mother’s instinct, Blythe’s eyes homed in on the mark. It was a tattoo. Bridget had told me that she was planning on getting one. From the “Oh, shit,” expression on her face now, it was clear that she hadn’t planned on sharing this acquisition with Blythe. Colin saw Blythe’s expression and quickly draped his arm over Bridget’s shoulder, blocking the tattoo from view.

“We came as quickly as we could, Mrs. Matthews,” said Colin smoothly. “What’s going on?”

“It’s about Roni,” said Graham, his eyes darting to where Avery sat. “She’s dead. Murdered.”

Bridget let out an exclamation. It would have earned her few points with her new mother-in-law, but it managed to accurately sum up the general mood.

Graham nodded his head. “Exactly. Elizabeth found her this morning.” Bridget’s eyes flew to mine. I could see her thoughts taking shape and knew what she was going to say. The only problem was, I couldn’t stop her.

“
You
found her! Jesus! Not again! Christ, what are the odds?”

“I’m sorry,” interrupted Detective Grant, his voice ominous. “What are the odds about what?”

I winced. Bridget answered breathlessly, “Elizabeth found a body before. Last New Year’s . . .” Belatedly, she saw the dark suspicion building in Detective Grant’s eyes. “Oh, I mean, Elizabeth had nothing to do with it, of course. She just happened to find the . . . um . . . body.”

Detective Grant turned and stared at me. For a long time. I tried to calm my shattered nerves by thinking of Detective Grant as a kind of modern-day singing detective, but it was no good. My nerves won out. Unfortunately, when I get nervous I tend to ramble. I did so now in rather spectacular fashion.

“That was different,” I said. “I mean, yes, I found a body. She’d been beaten, though, not stabbed. Not that any of that
matters
, of course. But I didn’t have anything to do with it. I mean, I did, kind of. I helped the police find the killer. Not that I’m saying you need any help, of course . . .”