Shear Murder (25 page)

She turned to the monitor after the lady strode away and flicked through dozens of pictures. After fifteen minutes or so, she finally spotted the wedding cake. It was a beautiful three-tiered confection with buttercream icing, decorated with candied violets and Philip Canfield's orchids. Unfortunately, she couldn't find a single shot of the entire table. Either they were close-ups of the cake itself or views of Jill and Arnie at the head table cutting the cake together and feeding each other.

Gritting her teeth in frustration, she collected her purse, breezed through the lobby, where she collected the promised information, then left.

Sweat beaded her brow outside, where the temperature had risen into the low eighties. She wasn't perspiring from the heat, though. It was the lack of evidence exonerating Jill and Rachel that gnawed at her. She must be missing something important. And what of Detective Brody? Did he suspect Jill hadn't been telling the truth? The news reports all said an arrest had been made, but the police were still following leads in the case. That must mean he wasn't convinced by her story.

Marla shoved aside her theories for now. She and Dalton had a social event to attend that evening. Meanwhile, some repairs in her salon needed supervision and so did a supply delivery at her day spa. Neither were open to the public today, but work crews were there waiting for her approvals. Heaving a heavy sigh as she slipped into her Camry, she wished there weren't so many burdens on her shoulders.

Dalton helped relieve the pressure later, when they were both dressing for the dinner party benefiting the Child Drowning Prevention Coalition, Marla's pet charity.

Smelling like soap and his favorite spice aftershave, he kneaded her tight muscles and trailed his fingers down her bare arms. Privacy enclosed them in his bedroom, while Brianna did her homework in another part of the house. Marla stood in her underwear, her hair damp from the shower. She murmured with pleasure as he attacked the knots in her neck.

“Mmm, that feels so good.”

“So do you.” He turned her around and kissed her. “Do we have time?”

“Not now. I've got to do my hair. Sorry.” With genuine regret, she withdrew from his embrace and padded into the bathroom. She looked forward to this annual event and the fashion show that accompanied it. It helped them raise thousands of dollars to put into educating the public about child drowning prevention measures.

Several hours later, she put down her dinner fork and signaled to Dalton. “Look, do you see who's taking photos? It's Griff Beasley!”

Dalton's head whipped around. “So it is. You can't miss his tall figure.”

Marla got up to greet him. “Hi Griff.” She tapped the blond man on the shoulder. “It's nice to see you again.”

His cobalt eyes widened, then narrowed in displeasure. “Marla. What a surprise.”

“Likewise. I'm glad to see you're covering this event. We could use the publicity. By the way, when is the article coming out on Orchid Isle?”

“Our magazine is bimonthly. Look for it in the bookstore.” He grabbed a passing couple, the woman wearing a billowy taffeta creation. “Excuse me, can I get your photo, please?” He snapped a few shots then copied down their names.

“It must be difficult for you, working without Hally or Torrie's input. Who's covering the write-up tonight?”

He jabbed his thumb toward a statuesque brunette. “Jessica has been assigned the fashion beat. Why don't you ask her about the show?”

“No, thanks. I feel like you and I still need to talk.” She stared him down.

A flush darkened his face. “Look, babe, whatever you think this is all about, it isn't.”

He strode off. Marla thought about following him to ask further questions but a woman she knew accosted her.

“Marla,” exclaimed the fashion boutique owner. It was Yolanda's line of clothing that was being shown tonight. “I should have brought in your people to do the models' hair. Those stylists backstage are too slow.” Black hair in a tight bun, she pressed her wide red lips together.

“We'd be honored to be included next time.”

“Have you met my husband?” She pointed to a man who swaggered over, his Asian features cold as iced plum wine. After introducing them, Yolanda inclined her head. “We're opening two new franchises,” she stated proudly. “I must get you involved in my shows, yes?”

Marla lifted her chin. “That would be great. I've been wanting to do more photography work, too, so please keep me in mind for any photo shoots at your stores.”

“Speaking of photographers, I saw you talking to that Beasley fellow. He's a sly one, although he has a sharp eye with the camera.”

Marla's heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”

Yolanda chuckled, a sound deep from her throat, while her husband gave a grunt and wandered off. Taciturn guy. With his stocky build, he reminded her of a thug in a James Bond film.

“Beasley knows how to butter his bread. A man like him can always find use for his skills.”

Marla hadn't a clue how to decipher the woman's words, but Dalton came to sweep her away to the dance floor and she had to drop the matter. It wasn't until she was on her computer the next morning, checking e-mail and browsing the Web before heading into work, when she got an inkling of what Yolanda had meant.

She'd put Grant Bosworth's name in her search engine, and it popped up with a series of photos. The pictures accompanied an article on
Home & Style Magazine
's Web site. Marla scrolled down, noting Yolanda and her husband's proud grins in one of the digital shots.

A shock of recognition jolted her.

No way.

That
was Griff's secret? That he and Grant Bosworth were one and the same? Now Yolanda's words made sense, and so did the reason why he'd want his colleagues to keep quiet. But had he murdered them? It didn't seem a strong enough motive, but there was only one way to find out.

She needed to revisit
Boca Style Magazine,
see if she could talk to either Rachel or Griff, and get a look at his photos from Jill's wedding.

Neither one would answer if she called them, but they might respond to Jill.

“Why is it so important?” Jill asked when she reached her friend at home. “You have enough to do with your own wedding in a week or so.”

“Yeah, but you won't be there if they cart you off to jail again. We have to solve this now.”

“And you think Griff Beasley has the answers?”

“Some of them. Don't you want to know what was going on between him and your sister?”

“I suppose.”

“And wouldn't you like to give Rachel a defense against a murder charge if she's ever arrested for Torrie's death?”
Once you admit to Detective Brody that you were lying.

“Sure, but—”

“Then call Griff, tell him you know what his deal is and that you'll expose him unless he meets us.”

“Is that safe?”

“Make it a public place. And tell him you want a copy of his digital photos from the wedding. You're aware the magazine owns the rights, but you only want them for your private use.”

“Will he buy it?”

“There's only one way to find out.”

She didn't have to offer any excuses to Dalton, who was working late on his case, and Brianna, who had dance class that evening. Marla drove the teen to the studio a bit early, then hightailed it to the Seagrape Café at Sawgrass, where Griff had agreed to meet her and Jill. They got a table at the outdoor patio overlooking the lake. After ordering drinks and appetizers, they stared at each other in pregnant silence.

“Well?” Griff slumped in his seat, his hand cradling a beer.

Jill cleared her throat. She looked pale but attractive in a wrap dress and heeled sandals. Her wedding ring glinted in the light from flaming torches. The moon had risen, casting a golden glow over the water. A light breeze stirred the current, bringing a faint floral scent their way. It blew away the stench of cigarette smoke coming from another patron.

“I'd like to know what your relationship was with my sister.” Jill drummed her fingers on the table.

Griff shifted uncomfortably. “We worked together.”

“Come on, Griff, we know it was more than that.” Marla's lips compressed. She wouldn't let him dodge the darts this time. “Torrie knew you were taking photos as Grant Bosworth, didn't she? Is that why you played up to her, so she'd keep quiet?”

Griff's expression changed into a sneer. “Good work, babe. You should get a job as a journalist.”

“I saw your photos online from the party last night. Does your editor at
Boca Style Magazine
know you're moonlighting for a rival publication?”

“Nuh uh, and you're not gonna tell her.”

“Why shouldn't I? Two reporters are dead who worked with you. Did you kill them so they wouldn't wreck your cozy arrangement?”

He gazed at her in genuine surprise. “Are you nuts? I wouldn't murder anybody over an assignment. The worst that can happen is that I lose my job, but so what? I'm good at what I do. Someone else would hire me.”

“Then how about this.” Marla hunched forward after the waitress delivered their drinks. Jill seemed content to let her do the talking. “You and Torrie were having an affair. Maybe you truly cared about her, or maybe you just cared about preserving your job. What promises did you make? Did you say you'd marry her if she left her husband, and then you went back on your word?”

He shot her a sheepish glance. “Torrie shouldn't have taken me so seriously. We had a good thing going the way it was.”

Schmuck,
Marla thought.
You probably said that to get her into bed.

“Did she threaten to expose your little secret? And Hally, what about her? She liked you, too, and got jealous. Then she discovered what Torrie knew and became a threat as well.”

“I'd signed an exclusivity clause,” Griff said with a snarl. “If one of those snoops ratted on me, I'd get fired. Still, I didn't kill anybody.”

“Did you bring the photos?” Marla snapped.

He handed over a disk. “Keep this between us, okay? The magazine owns the rights.”

“Jill, is it all right if I look at these first?”

“Of course.” Jill focused her determined gaze on Griff. “Did you know I'd been arrested on the charge of murdering my sister? If there's anything in these photos that will help my defense, I intend to use it.”

He gave a curt nod, a clump of hair falling across his forehead and giving him a rakish look. “You should check out that girl who worked for Torrie. Something strange going on there.”

Jill's eyes iced. “You keep away from her. Give us a better reason why we shouldn't believe you're the murderer.”

“Did you ever think maybe it was something Torrie and/or Hally were investigating?”

Marla's lips parted. “A fashion reporter and a society columnist don't do investigative journalism. You're just trying to throw us off your trail.”

“Oh? Well, check this out, babe.”

Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a folded paper and tossed it to her. Although it was rumpled, she could see that it was a copy of an article from the
Miami Herald.

“I don't get it.” Her brow furrowed as she scanned the print. “Carl Woods Homes is being sued in a class-action lawsuit by homeowners for using defective building materials? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Keep reading. Look whose name is mentioned.”

Her eyes scrolled down the page. “Holy highlights, Falcon Oakwood owns the company.”

Jill, leaning over her shoulder, pointed further down the page. “Isn't that the name of your housing development?”

Marla felt the color drain from her face. “Oh, no. Does this mean Carl Woods is the umbrella company for our builder? I have to tell Dalton. There's no way I'm moving into a house constructed with Chinese drywall.” Her heart sank at the implications.

Jill put a calming hand over hers. “Maybe it doesn't apply to your place. So, Griff, you're saying Torrie had been aware of Falcon's dirty dealings? She may have told Leanne.”

“Leanne said something about being free of his mother's influence. I wonder what she meant,” Marla mused.

Griff reached for a coconut shrimp when the waitress delivered the platter. “Just remember, ladies, you didn't hear any of this from me.”

Always looking out for your own skin, aren't you?

Marla glared at him, unable to think of any other questions to ask while he ate. After finishing his beer, he burped and lumbered to his feet.

“See ya around,” he said before striding away.

“I hope your house isn't affected, Marla.” Jill leaned back in her seat with a weary sigh. She'd already emptied her glass of chardonnay.

“I'll let Dalton deal with it. I have too much to do.” Her head spun with confusion and dismay.

“Assuming I'm not back in the clinker, I'll see you next week at your bachelorette party.” Jill gave her a broad smile.

“Right.” Her stomach churned at the reminder. “Twelve days to go to the Big Day.”

One week. That was all she'd give herself to find the killer and absolve Jill from guilt.

Maybe Griff's photos would shed some light on the case.

She gathered her purse, threw enough bills on the table to cover the tab, and gave Jill a farewell embrace.

Marla squinted at the computer screen in her townhouse home office. She didn't see any evidence of a cake knife on the decorated table. Philip Canfield hadn't actually come out and said he'd put it there, but he had let her assume as much. How, then, had it ended up in Torrie's hand?

Could he have been mistaken? Had Jill entrusted it to her sister to bring to the wedding?

She viewed the photos again, looking for clues, noting who was present in the vicinity of the cake table. Shaking her head, she was ready to give up when she remembered the seating charts. They'd gotten lost in the pile of papers on her desk.

Shuffling through the lot, she found the folder Jill had given her. Ah, there was the diagram. Now, who was seated at which table? There were essentially two rows, tables next to the stage and then a second tier behind them. According to the charts, Jill and Arnie's relatives held the prime spots, followed by their close friends. Marla and Dalton's table was toward the rear, the second from the end to the right facing the stage. The first ones in either row would be closest to the cake table.