Murder on the Bride's Side (24 page)

My hope that David’s departure would result in a chance for sensible ruminations was ridiculously short-lived. No sooner had the front door slammed than Bridget yanked Colin, Peter, and me into the foyer. Anna skittered after us, her tail wagging in anticipation of a walk.

Bridget lost no time. Laying her palms on the hall table, she leaned toward us, her gaze stern. I’d seen that look before, and it did not bode well: Bridget had gone into battle mode. “Colin,” she said, her voice brisk, “I want you and Peter to keep everyone downstairs. Elizabeth and I are going to search everyone’s room, starting with David’s.”

“Are you crazy?” I yelped. Next to me, Anna sensed my agitation and barked excitedly.

“Hush, they’ll hear you,” Bridget admonished. It was unclear if she was talking to me or the dog. “Look, this may be our only
chance. We don’t know how long Claire and David will be gone. If we want to help Harry, we need to work quickly.”

Words failed me. I turned in mute appeal to Colin, but he had been struck dumb as well. Only Peter retained the power of speech.

“You want us to what?” he stammered. It wasn’t a brilliant oration, I’ll admit, but inasmuch as it was five words more than I was capable of stringing together, my heart swelled with pride.

“Come on, guys,” Bridget pleaded. “Harry is at the station right now; they’re probably getting ready to arrest him. He’s my cousin, for Christ’s sake! I have to help him. I don’t know what else to do!”

“But what do you think you’ll find?” asked Colin.

“I don’t know, really,” Bridget admitted. “I realize it’s a long shot, but then again you never know—we might actually find something that helps Harry. Someone killed Roni. It wasn’t Harry. We need to find out who it was!” she finished, slapping her hand on the table. The lacquered blue-and-white vase shuddered in response, sending yellow rose petals plummeting to the table.

Bridget stared at me, her eyes pleading. The idea of rummaging through the Matthewses’ personal belongings made my stomach twist in protest, but she was right—there
was
a murderer on the loose. I knew Harry didn’t do it, and despite Bridget’s conviction that David was the killer, I wasn’t convinced. Which meant that the killer was probably in the house this very minute. The hairs on the back of my neck rose at this thought. The last thing I wanted to do was get caught searching the room of the
person who’d brutally stabbed Roni. However, from the steely expression in Bridget’s eyes, I realized that she was going to search with or without me. I couldn’t let her do that alone.

I glanced at Colin and Peter. From the expressions on their faces, I think they felt as positive as I did about our endeavor. My left temple throbbed. Then my right. Then both eyeballs. After that, I gave up tracking the pain.

“I need aspirin,” I mumbled.

“There’s some in my dopp kit,” said Peter. “Grab yourself a few while you’re in there searching.”

“Very funny. Have you any idea—” I began but was interrupted by Bridget.

“Come on! Enough chitchat. Let’s move!” Grabbing my hand, she yanked me down the hallway and up the stairs. Anna padded happily along. With a cautious glance in both directions, we crossed the hallway to the door of David and Claire’s room. I felt like we were teenagers again, sneaking back into the house after curfew. Except this time, the repercussions if we got caught were far worse than being grounded.

With a quick twist of the knob, Bridget swung the door open and marched into the room. After glancing uneasily over my shoulder to make sure we hadn’t been noticed, I threw myself in after her and shut the door behind me.

David and Claire’s large room held a mahogany queen-size four-poster bed and two massive dressers. The walls were a soft white, and the linens and upholstery were various shades of green and blue. On either side of the bed, a long window overlooked the side terrace. To the left of the bed was a blue-and-green-striped
club chair and matching ottoman. A crumpled blanket and sheet thrown across the chair indicated that it had also served as a bed.

Bridget crossed to one of the dressers. Yanking open the top drawer, she stuck her hands in and felt around. After a second, she gave a triumphant cry.

“What is it? Did you find something?” I asked, pushing my frame off the door.

“You could say that,” Bridget said. In one hand she held a pair of men’s black dress socks. In the other was an empty vodka bottle. “I’d say it’s a safe bet that this is David’s dresser,” she said, proudly thrusting the bottle toward me.

“I would have thought the black socks would have told you that.”

“Whatever. I’ll search this one. You get Claire’s.”

“Claire’s?” I repeated stupidly.

“Yes, Claire’s. I don’t suspect her, of course, but David might have hidden something in her things.”

“Hidden what?” I asked.

“That’s what we’re looking for!”

Reluctantly, I thrust my hand into the drawer and prayed that “something” wasn’t in there.

We were in the room for only about ten minutes, but it felt like two hours. My palms were sweaty and my nerves were shot. Every noise, every creak sent a fresh wave of adrenaline pumping through my veins. I half expected someone to burst into the room and attack us. Pathetically, our efforts yielded two empty
vodka bottles and a pack of rubbers. Finding the latter among David’s things had escalated my headache to that of a migraine. It also explained the nausea.

Unfortunately, our dismal results did nothing to dampen Bridget’s enthusiasm. If anything, she grew more determined.

“Okay, so we didn’t find anything,” she said, as we cautiously slid out into the hallway. “We’ll just have to keep searching.”

My right temple throbbed again and I remembered that Peter had aspirin in his room. “I’m going to Peter’s room,” I said, turning in that direction.

Bridget followed. So did Anna. “Hey,” she said, “I don’t think we need to search there, do you? Unless . . . do you think that David might have planted something in Harry’s things?”

“What I think is that you’re crazy,” I replied. “I just need some aspirin.”

She didn’t seem to hear me. “I wonder if that’s what he did,” she muttered to herself. “I wouldn’t put it past him. He steals the necklace, then panics and hides it in your room. Maybe he thought he was putting it in Harry’s room. He goes around half drunk, I could see him making a mistake like that. It might explain why he was so intent on pointing the finger at Harry this morning.”

I ignored her and entered Peter and Harry’s room, aka the green room. The room was actually painted cherry red. Its name came from Elsie’s father. He had been color-blind, a limitation he steadfastly refused to acknowledge, and to him, the red looked green. He always referred to it as the green room, and eventually the name stuck. Even if David was three sheets to the
wind, I doubted that he couldn’t notice he wasn’t in a bright red room.

I opened the leather dopp kit on the dresser and dug through it. I pulled out bottles containing vitamin A, B, C, herbal supplements, and No-Doz, but no aspirin. I was wondering when Peter had become such a health nut when I realized that I was digging through Harry’s kit. I quickly repacked it and found Peter’s kit and the aspirin two drawers down. Shaking two tablets from the bottle, I glanced up at Bridget. Seeing that she was intently searching the closet, I dumped two more into my palm for good measure.

As soon as Bridget declared that the room was “clean,” we returned to the hallway. Thirty minutes later, we had finished all the rooms—David’s, Harry’s, Millie’s, Elsie’s, and even Roni’s. All we had learned was that David preferred light vodka, Harry was a health nut, Millie was painfully neat, and Elsie had a stash of miniature Snickers bars in her nightstand. Roni’s room, which we’d hoped would shed some light on her murder, was the worst. Her flowery perfume still lingered in the room—a faint, sickly reminder of her presence. We were forced to nix a search of Avery’s room as it was downstairs and we doubted we could get in and out unseen.

We returned to my room. I collapsed on my bed, the four aspirin starting to take effect. Bridget restlessly paced the floor.

“Nothing,” she moaned. “We found nothing. If only we had more time . . .”

I was only half listening. Events and facts swirled in my head. I was missing something—something important—something
about the
time
of the murder. If I could just remember what it was. Suddenly, the increasingly murky surface of my brain cleared and the solution to the puzzle swam to the surface.

“Wait!” I cried, pushing myself off the bed so suddenly that Bridget started backward. “I think I have it!”

Santa Claus has the right idea; visit people once a year.

—
VICTOR BORGE

Within minutes, I was once again seated opposite Detective Grant in the study. Only this time, I was in a good mood. Although Peter would need to speak with Detective Grant himself, I hadn’t pulled him into the room with me yet. First, I wanted to confirm that my suspicions were correct.

“You said that the murder was committed between one and three
A.M
.?” I said.

“Yes,” said Detective Grant slowly.

“Then Harry couldn’t have done it!” I cried triumphantly.

“I see. And how do you figure that?” he asked, leaning back into the desk and folding his arms across his wide chest.

“Wait and I’ll tell you!” In two quick strides, I was across the room. Swinging open the heavy door with a flourish, I looked out into the living room for Peter. Once again, Chloe stood close to his side. I swallowed the words I wanted to shout and instead merely bit out, “Peter! Can you come here?”

Within seconds he was in the doorway. I ushered him in and shut the door. With a wary glance at Detective Grant, he asked. “Are you all right? What’s happened?”

As there weren’t enough hours left in the day to coherently catalog all the things that were currently wrong with me, I opted to ignore his first question and focus on the second. “According to the coroner, Roni was killed between one and three
A.M
.,” I said. “If that’s true, then Harry couldn’t have done it! You and I were with Harry right after his fight with Roni.” Peter nodded. I continued. “Immediately after which, Harry took a shower while we waited for him in the hallway. And then . . . he went to bed. And . . .”

Realization dawned in Peter’s eyes. “And I was with him the rest of the night!” he cried.

“Exactly!”

Detective Grant did not share our enthusiasm. His bulky frame remained reclined against the desk. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean that he didn’t leave the room once you fell asleep” was his calm reply.

“But he didn’t—he couldn’t have!” said Peter.

Detective Grant’s brows snapped together. “Why not?”

“Because I couldn’t get to sleep last night. I stayed up reading until around three! After that, I tried to sleep but Harry snored like a jackhammer. Trust me, if he had stopped, I would have noticed.”

I looked expectantly at Detective Grant. He said nothing, but he did blink several times. After an eternal pause, he asked, “Would you testify to this if necessary?”

“Of course,” Peter replied.

“Well, then I guess I need to make a few phone calls about Harry,” said Detective Grant with a sigh. He reached for his phone.

Peter turned to me, a wide grin on his face. I momentarily forgot my anger with him and returned it. Detective Grant spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece before shutting the phone with a loud click.

“Well?” I asked.

“I’ve asked one of my deputies to drive him home. He should be here later this afternoon.”

“That’s great!” I said.

Detective Grant nodded slowly. “It’s great news for
Harry.
But I wouldn’t say it’s great news for certain people,” he said with a meaningful look at me.

Without thinking, I said, “People? I ain’t people.” However, quoting from
Singin’ in the Rain
didn’t seem to change Detective Grant’s low opinion of me, judging by the scowl on his face.

Shit. My brilliant deduction had just opened up the spot of main suspect for someone else in the Matthews family or for me.

This kind of crap never happens to Nancy Drew.

Three hours later, everyone was gathered in the living room anxiously awaiting Harry’s return. No one spoke, preferring the soothingly monotonous ticking of the grandfather clock’s swinging pendulum to conversation. At the first sound of tires crunching over Barton Landing’s driveway, everyone scrambled outside to the front steps. Well, almost everyone. David was absent from our group, opting instead to stay in his room and keep a previous engagement with a fresh bottle of vodka.

Gingerly pulling his long, bedraggled frame out of the squad car, Harry quietly surveyed us with a shadow of his old smirk.
“I have an announcement to make,” he said. “Contrary to popular belief, jail is
not
good for you.”

Although his tone was light, I could see that he wasn’t kidding. His pale complexion and bloodshot eyes were evidence of his obvious miserable state. Granted, he was hungover, but I doubted that was the sole cause of his haggard appearance. Any of his friends had seen him hungover a dozen times, but I’d never seen him like this.