Presumed Guilty & Keeper of the Bride (24 page)

“Have you heard from Robert yet?”

Nina stiffened.
Oh please,
she thought.
Please don’t do this to me.

“I’m sure this can all be worked out,” said Lydia. “If you’d just sit down with Robert and have an honest discussion about what’s bothering him—”

Nina pulled away. “I’m not going to sit down with Robert,” she said. “And as for an honest discussion, I’m not sure we ever had one.”

“Now, darling, it’s natural to be angry—”

“But aren’t you angry, Mother? Can’t you be angry
for
me?”

“Well, yes. But I can’t see tossing Robert aside just because—”

The sudden clearing of a male throat made Lydia glance up at Sam, who was standing outside the doorway.

“I’m Detective Navarro, Portland Police,” he said.

“You’re Mrs. Cormier?”

“The name’s now Warrenton.” Lydia frowned at him.

“What is this all about? What do the police have to do with this?”

“There was an incident at the church, ma’am. We’re investigating.

“An incident?”

“The church was bombed.”

Lydia stared at him. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m very serious. It went off at 2:40 this afternoon. Luckily no one was hurt. But if the wedding had been held…”

Lydia paled to a sickly white. She took a step back, her voice failing her.

“Mrs. Warrenton,” said Sam, “I need to ask you a few questions.”

Nina didn’t stay to listen. She had heard too many questions already. She climbed upstairs to the spare bedroom, where she had left her suitcase—the suitcase she’d packed for St. John Island. Inside were her bathing suits and sundresses and tanning lotion. Everything she’d thought she needed for a week in paradise.

She took off the wedding dress and carefully draped it over an armchair where it lay white and lifeless. Useless. She looked at the contents of her suitcase, at the broken dreams packed neatly between layers of tissue paper. That’s when the last vestiges of control failed her. Dressed only in her underwear, she sat down on the bed. Alone, in silence, she finally allowed the grief to sweep over her.

And she wept.

L
YDIA
W
ARRENTON
was nothing like her daughter. Sam had seen it the moment the older woman opened the front door. Flawlessly made up, elegantly coiffed, her slender frame shown to full advantage by the green gown, Lydia looked like no mother of the bride he’d ever seen. There was a physical resemblance, of course. Both Lydia and Nina had the same black hair, the same dark, thickly lashed eyes. But while Nina had a softness about her, a vulnerability, Lydia was standoffish, as though surrounded by some protective force field that would zap anyone who ventured too close. She was definitely a looker, not only thin but also rich, judging by the room he was now standing in.

The house was a veritable museum of antiques. He had noticed a Mercedes parked in the driveway. And the living room, into which he’d just been ushered, had a spectacular ocean view. A million-dollar view. Lydia sat down primly on a brocade sofa and motioned him toward a wing chair. The needlepoint fabric was so pristine-looking he had the urge to inspect his clothes before sinking onto the cushion.

“A bomb,” murmured Lydia, shaking her head. “I just can’t believe it. Who would bomb a church?”

“It’s not the first bombing we’ve had in town.”

She looked at him, bewildered. “You mean the warehouse? The one last week? I read that had something to do with organized crime.”

“That was the theory.”

“This was a church. How can they possibly be connected?”

“We don’t see the link either, Mrs. Warrenton. We’re trying to find out if there is one. Maybe you can help us. Do you know of any reason someone would want to bomb the Good Shepherd Church?”

“I know nothing about that church. It’s not one I attend. It was my daughter’s choice to get married there.”

“You sound as if you don’t approve.”

She shrugged. “Nina has her own odd way of doing things. I’d have chosen a more…established institution. And a longer guest list. But that’s Nina. She wanted to keep it small and simple.”

Simple
was definitely not Lydia Warrenton’s style, thought Sam, gazing around the room.

“So to answer your question, Detective, I can’t think of any reason to bomb Good Shepherd.”

“What time did you leave the church?”

“A little after two. When it became apparent there wasn’t anything I could do for Nina.”

“While you were waiting, did you happen to notice anyone who shouldn’t have been there?”

“There were just the people you’d expect. The florists, the minister. The wedding party.”

“Names?”

“There was me. My daughter Wendy. The best man—I don’t remember his name. My ex-husband, George, and his latest wife.”

“Latest.”

She sniffed. “Daniella. His fourth so far.”

“What about your husband?”

She paused. “Edward was delayed. His plane was two hours late leaving Chicago.”

“So he hadn’t even reached town yet?”

“No. But he planned to attend the reception.”

Again, Sam glanced around the room, at the antiques. The view. “May I ask what your husband does for a living, Mrs. Warrenton?”

“He’s president of Ridley-Warrenton.”

“The logging company?”

“That’s right.”

That explained the house and the Mercedes, thought Sam. Ridley-Warrenton was one of the largest landowners in northern Maine. Their forest products, from raw lumber to fine paper, were shipped around the world.

His next question was unavoidable. “Mrs. Warrenton,” he asked, “does your husband have any enemies?”

Her response surprised him. She laughed. “Anyone with money has enemies, Detective.”

“Can you name anyone in particular?”

“You’d have to ask Edward.”

“I will,” said Sam, rising to his feet. “As soon as your husband’s back in town, could you have him give me a call?”

“My husband’s a busy man.”

“So am I, ma’am,” he answered. With a curt nod, he turned and left the house.

In the driveway, he sat in his Taurus for a moment, gazing up at the mansion. It was, without a doubt, one of the most impressive homes he’d ever been in. Not that he was all that familiar with mansions. Samuel Navarro was the son of a Boston cop who was himself the son of a Boston cop. At the age of twelve, he’d moved to Portland with his newly widowed mother. Nothing came easy for them, a fact of life which his mother resignedly accepted.

Sam had not been so accepting. His adolescence consisted of five long years of rebellion. Fistfights in the school yard. Sneaking cigarettes in the bathroom. Loitering with the rough-and-tumble crowd that hung out in Monument Square. There’d been no mansions in his childhood.

He started the car and drove away. The investigation was just beginning; he and Gillis had a long night ahead of them. There was still the minister to interview, as well as the florist, the best man, the matron of honor, and the groom.

Most of all, the groom.

Dr. Robert Bledsoe, after all, was the one who’d called off the wedding. His decision, by accident or design, had saved the lives of dozens of people. That struck Sam as just a little bit too fortunate. Had Bledsoe received some kind of warning? Had he been the intended target?

Was that the real reason he’d left his bride at the altar?

Nina Cormier’s image came vividly back to mind. Hers wasn’t a face he’d be likely to forget. It was more than just those big brown eyes, that kissable mouth. It was her pride that impressed him the most. The sort of pride that kept her chin up, her jaw squared, even as the tears were falling. For that he admired her. No whining, no self-pity. The woman had been humiliated, abandoned, and almost blown to smithereens. Yet she’d had enough spunk left to give Sam an occasional what-for. He found that both irritating and amusing. For a woman who’d probably grown up with everything handed to her on a silver platter, she was a tough little survivor.

Today she’d been handed a heaping dish of crow, and she’d eaten it just fine, thank you. Without a whimper.

Surprising, surprising woman.

He could hardly wait to hear what Dr. Robert Bledsoe had to say about her.

I
T WAS AFTER
five o’clock when Nina finally emerged from her mother’s guest bedroom. Calm, composed, she was now wearing jeans and a T-shirt. She’d left her wedding dress hanging in the closet; she didn’t even want to look at it again. Too many bad memories had attached themselves like burrs to the fabric.

Downstairs she found her mother sitting alone in the living room, nursing a highball. Detective Navarro was gone. Lydia raised the drink to her lips, and by the clinking of ice cubes in the glass, Nina could tell that Lydia’s hands were shaking.

“Mother?” said Nina.

At the sound of her daughter’s voice, Lydia’s head jerked up. “You startled me.”

“I think I’ll be leaving now. Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Lydia gave a shudder. Then she added, almost as an afterthought, “How about you?”

“I’ll be okay. I just need some time. Away from Robert.”

Mother and daughter looked at each other for a moment, neither one speaking, neither one knowing what to say. This was the way things had always been between them. Nina had grown up hungry for affection. Her mother had always been too self-absorbed to grant it. And this was the result: the silence of two women who scarcely knew or understood each other. The distance between them couldn’t be measured by years, but by universes.

Nina watched her mother take another deep swallow of her drink. “How did it go?” she asked. “With you and that detective?”

Lydia shrugged. “What’s there to say? He asked questions, I answered them.”

“Did he tell you anything? About who might have done it?”

“No. He was tight as a clam. Not much in the way of charm.”

Nina couldn’t disagree. She’d known ice cubes that were warmer than Sam Navarro. But then, the man was just doing his job. He wasn’t paid to be charming.

“You can stay for dinner, if you’d like,” said Lydia.

“Why don’t you? I’ll have the cook—”

“That’s all right, Mother. Thank you, anyway.”

Lydia looked up at her. “It’s because of Edward, isn’t it?”

“No, Mother. Really.”

“That’s why you hardly ever visit. Because of him. I wish you
could
get to like him.” Lydia sighed and looked down at her drink. “He’s been very good to me, very generous. You have to grant him that much.”

When Nina thought of her stepfather,
generous
was not the first adjective that came to mind. No,
ruthless
would be the word she’d choose. Ruthless and controlling. She didn’t want to talk about Edward Warrenton.

She turned and started toward the door. “I have to get home and pack my things. Since it’s obvious I’ll be moving out.”

“Couldn’t you and Robert patch things up somehow?”

“After today?” Nina shook her head.

“If you just tried harder? Maybe it’s something you could talk about. Something you could change.”

“Mother. Please.”

Lydia sank back. “Anyway,” she said, “you
are
invited to dinner. For what it’s worth.”

“Maybe some other time,” Nina said softly. “Bye, Mother.”

She heard no answer as she walked out the front door.

Her Honda was parked at the side of the house, where she’d left it that morning. The morning of what should have been her wedding. How proudly Lydia had smiled at her as they’d sat together in the limousine! It was the way a mother
should
look at her daughter. The way Lydia never had before.

And probably never would again.

That ride to the church, the smiles, the laughter, seemed a lifetime away. She started the Honda and pulled out of her mother’s driveway.

In a daze she drove south, toward Hunts Point. Toward Robert’s house. What had been
their
house. The road was winding, and she was functioning on automatic pilot, steering without thought along the curves. What if Robert hadn’t really left town? she thought. What if he’s home? What would they say to each other?

Try: goodbye.

She gripped the steering wheel and thought of all the things she’d
like
to tell him. All the ways she felt used and betrayed.
A whole year
kept going through her head.
One whole bloody year of my life.

Only as she swung past Smugglers Cove did she happen to glance in the rearview mirror. A black Ford was behind her. The same Ford that had been there a few miles back, near Delano Park. At any other time, she would have thought nothing of it. But today, after the possibilities Detective Navarro had raised…

She shook off a vague sense of uneasiness and kept driving. She turned onto Ocean House Drive.

The Ford did too. There was no reason for alarm. Ocean House Drive was, after all, a main road in the neighborhood. Another driver might very well have reason to turn onto it as well.

Just to ease her anxiety, she took the left turnoff, toward Peabbles Point. It was a lonely road, not heavily traveled. Here’s where she and the Ford would surely part company.

The Ford took the same turnoff.

Now she was getting frightened.

She pressed the accelerator. The Honda gained speed. At fifty miles per hour, she knew she was taking the curves too fast, but she was determined to lose the Ford. Only she wasn’t losing him. He had sped up, too. In fact, he was gaining on her.

With a sudden burst of speed, the Ford roared up right beside her. They were neck and neck, taking the curves in parallel.

He’s trying to run me off the road!
she thought.

She glanced sideways, but all she could see through the other car’s tinted window was the driver’s silhouette.
Why are you doing this?
she wanted to scream at him.
Why?

The Ford suddenly swerved toward her. The thump of the other car’s impact almost sent the Honda spinning out of control. Nina fought to keep her car on course.