Weddings Can Be Murder (7 page)

“
According to police, thirty-six year old
Victoria Morgan disappeared from her northeast heights home and
hasn’t been seen in a day and a half,”
came the voice from the
television set.

All three of our heads whipped around to
look.

“
We’re here in front of the house where
her fiancé, Ron Parker, is said to be staying …”

The rest of it was lost on me as I realized
in horror that the house behind the reporter in the picture was,
indeed, my own. I pulled back the edge of the drapes—yep, there
were four news vans and bright lights aimed at the various
reporters.

“…
most likely suspect in her
disappearance.”

Ron’s face had gone pasty gray, so I could
pretty well guess the gist of the sentence I’d half missed.

The kitchen phone began ringing but I
couldn’t tear myself from the screen and the news story with its
unwelcome intrusion into our personal lives. Five minutes later it
became apparent the news folks had used up their set of facts; they
began rehashing the same information, trying to freshen it up by
rearranging the order and person delivering it. But there was
really nothing new to be learned. Drake didn’t respond to my
request that we switch off the set, so I headed for the kitchen and
picked up the phone to see who had called.

The mechanical voice told me I had two
messages. Two? I swore it had only rung once, and we’d cleared
everything last night. I pressed all the right buttons. “First
message,” the voice said. A faint clatter, a rustle, the hiss of
static. Not even the courtesy of informing me the caller had gotten
the wrong number. “Second message.” This one came from Ben Ortiz,
informing us that he’d scheduled a ten o’clock joint press
conference with the police to give information about the case. It
would be good for Ron to be there. We were to meet him at nine
forty-five at his office for a short briefing. The address was a
five-minute walk from the steps of police headquarters. I grabbed a
pen and jotted down the details.

A tap at the back door caught my attention
and I jammed the message slip into the pocket of my jeans. With the
debacle out front, I didn’t take any chances. Peering through the
sheer curtain at the kitchen door I saw it was Elsa.

“Come in,” I whispered, practically pulling
her by the arm.

“You’ve seen them too?” she asked.

I merely clenched my teeth.

“Have you all had some breakfast? I made
pancakes for Paul’s family. It’s easy enough to whip up another
batch,” she said.

“That’s okay. We had a little something. No
one’s very hungry anyway.”

“Mainly, Paul wanted to know if they should
change their flight.”

I’d entirely forgotten about their plans.
Had the wedding gone off without a hitch, we would have had
breakfast together and then sent the Arizona group home.

“What time is their flight?” Normally I’m
good with this stuff but at the moment my mind felt like mush.

“Ten o’clock.”

I did a little backward math and figured we
ought to be heading for the airport in an hour or so. It wouldn’t
leave much time for sticking up our flyers all around the area.

“I could—” Elsa started.

“No, I don’t want you doing it.” A woman
whose recent driving experience only includes the grocery store and
church? No way would I put her in the midst of the free-for-all the
airport can be.

“Let me think. Drake can take Paul’s group
to the airport. Ron and I are heading out now to do the flyers and
then we have to meet the lawyer.” I didn’t elaborate on that part
of it. “Don’t let anyone go out front until Drake has the car in
your driveway. We cannot,
cannot
talk to these
reporters.”

She started to open her mouth, thought about
it—picturing Paul’s two kids, no doubt—and nodded. “I’ll keep them
all inside, if I have to throw myself in front of the door.”

The mental picture of tiny Elsa
spread-eagled to block the door made me smile, I realized, for the
first time in awhile.

I worked out the logistics. Drake would need
my Jeep for the four passengers and luggage, so Ron and I would
drive the pickup. Ron’s very recognizable car would surely be
noticed and followed by the reporters. Of course, that could happen
to any of us. What a boondoggle this was turning out to be.

In the end, we sent Drake as the decoy
wearing Ron’s normal Stetson and jacket. He dashed out to Ron’s red
Mustang, hopped in and drove away. A couple of the reporters bit,
jumping into cars and following. They would surely be disappointed
when they ended up right back here in fifteen minutes, but the
little window of time would let Ron and me make our break.

Stockier Ron sucked in his gut and put on
one of Drake’s bomber jackets and ball cap with our helicopter
company logo on it. We didn’t give Drake’s pickup much chance to
warm up, and I only had to say “no comment” once before we were on
our way. I don’t know how these news crews normally spend their
days, but this had to be among the most boring and chilly ways to
do it.

We headed first for Victoria’s neighborhood,
scanning carefully to be sure her house wasn’t also a media target.
Although the yellow tape remained over the front door, luckily
there was not a van in sight. They must have gotten all the footage
they wanted of the crime scene. I sighed and forced myself not to
think of it that way.

Ron parked the truck a block off the nearest
major street and we began taping flyers to light posts, bus stops,
and any other unmovable object where people might pause a few extra
moments. I covered six blocks east and four south, with Ron doing
the same in the opposite direction. It felt like a meager effort.
We really needed these all over the city. The television coverage
might accomplish that—getting her picture and the story widely
broadcast—and my heart became a little less hardened toward their
intrusiveness. We couldn’t have it both ways, I supposed.

My phone bleeped at me from down in my
jacket pocket. Ron. He’d finished his distributions about the same
time so we agreed to head for our vehicle. We only had about twenty
minutes to make the appointment at the lawyer’s office, which made
me glad I’d convinced my brother to change into something a bit
more reputable than his slept-in clothes. He’d even shaved for the
occasion. I got to the truck first so I drove.

Ben Ortiz’s office sat on a side street
about a block from the cluster of municipal buildings downtown, in
an area that was once residential about a hundred years ago. Now,
the small former houses that escaped demolition have become
oh-so-cute restaurants and offices. The one we were looking for was
a two-story upright box with brown siding, dark green trim, and a
waist-high wrought iron fence around its postage stamp of a lawn. A
narrow driveway led to the back where, presumably, the old backyard
had given over to employee parking—our own office a half mile away
has a similar arrangement.

For customers, there was the street and not
much of it. Each narrow property did well to accommodate two
vehicles. We had to go three blocks west and around a corner to
find a spot. By now we were running late and Ben was waiting at the
door when we approached. Sending us a look, he suggested that we
talk as we walked toward the police station. The narrow sidewalk
necessitated that Ron and the lawyer walk side by side, so I
dropped back and barely caught the gist of their conversation.

Basically, Ortiz had prepared a written
statement for Ron to deliver. “Don’t deviate from this message and
don’t extemporize,” was one of the phrases I did catch. I gathered
that I was to hang back, look supportive, and keep my big yap
shut.

Ron attempted to read while walking, with a
couple of stumbles due to old sidewalks buckled by ancient tree
roots.

“I’m sure Detective Taylor will have
something to say first,” Ortiz said as we approached the steps of
the police department where a podium and scads of microphones
waited. “Then I’ll give a brief statement to paint Ron as the
devastated fiancé. Then Ron’s going to make his plea for help from
the community.”

The first part went according to plan,
anyway.

Kent Taylor, to his credit, remained very
neutral in his words. He told the gathered crowd basically what we
already knew. Victoria Morgan, on her wedding day, had disappeared
from her home in the northeast quadrant of the city. There had been
signs of a struggle. It was feared that she had been injured
because she’d made no attempt to contact her family. Her
whereabouts and condition were unknown at this time. He didn’t use
the word ‘abducted’ but his message sort of left that impression.
He gave the number of a special hotline which had been established
and asked that anyone with information please call.

I stood where I could watch Ron during
Taylor’s briefing. He was bravely trying to hold it together, his
mouth clamped in a firm line to avoid trembling, his eyes straight
ahead. I wished I’d taken the time to review his outfit a bit more
closely. The jeans were rumpled and the plaid shirt was one he’d
plucked from his overnight bag. My iron and I are practically total
strangers but I could have run them through the dryer to take out
some of the wrinkles. I sent him a tiny smile of encouragement.

Cameras clicked away as Ben Ortiz took the
podium. I could only pray that the attorney’s vigorous reputation
would work in Ron’s favor. I still wasn’t convinced that showing up
this early in the game with an attorney was the best move. Wouldn’t
my brother appear more innocent, less defensive if he simply got up
there and spoke from the heart?

By the time he finished speaking, however, I
had to admit Ben Ortiz’s words had gone a long way to explain Ron’s
disheveled appearance and sleep-deprived face. Ron took a deep
breath, clutched his prepared speech in his hands and stepped to
the front. I scanned the crowd and didn’t see a lot of sympathy out
there in the gang of reporters.

“Thank you for coming this morning,” Ron
began. “As you may imagine, the disappearance of my fiancée has
come as a shock to our family. We have heard nothing from Victoria
since Friday night and we fear for her safety. We very much
appreciate this opportunity to connect with the community and to
ask your help in locating our loved one. Vic did not leave the
house of her own free will, of that I am convinced. It’s not a case
of a runaway bride. We were looking forward to our life
together.”

Beside me, Ben Ortiz tensed. Ron must have
gone off-script, but I had no clue what he’d said that the attorney
didn’t like.

“Please keep Vic’s picture visible. Please
let every citizen of Albuquerque—of New Mexico—know that we are
searching for her, that we want her back. Even a phone call,
anything to assure us that she’s all right.”

“Mr. Parker,” one reporter called out, “how
is it that no one knew Ms. Morgan was missing until just an hour
before the wedding? Did you know she was gone but withheld that
information from the police?”

Ron’s mouth flapped open mirroring, I’m
sure, my own astonishment. Ben Ortiz stepped up quickly.

“Since this is an ongoing police
investigation, we cannot comment on details.” He took Ron firmly by
the elbow and led him off the podium.

My mind spun. Wouldn’t it have been better
to set the reporter straight? I’d arrived at Vic’s house exactly as
planned a couple hours before the wedding and had immediately
informed the police. Well, almost immediately.

I turned and followed closely behind Ben
Ortiz, who led us inside the municipal building. Outside, Kent
Taylor stood facing the crowd, hands up, apparently telling them
the meeting was over.

“What just happened?” I demanded as soon as
Ron, Ben and I had stepped into a small alcove.

Ben faced Ron, his face tense. “Didn’t I
tell you to read the statement verbatim?”

“I said everything it said. Reading aloud
always sounds wooden and fake.”

“There are reasons. You referred to her in
the past tense. You
were
looking forward to a life together.
Somebody’s going to construe it to mean things changed between
you.”

Seriously? One word?

“And the runaway bride comment? Ron, that
thought was never out there—now you’ve planted it. They’ll start
looking for proof the two of you were unhappy.”

Ron’s expression closed. He’d heard enough.
I took a deep breath and ran my hand down his arm.

“Let’s go.” I was trying to fix a map of the
surrounding streets in my head, wondering the best way back to the
truck without being waylaid by the media throng, when Kent Taylor
walked into the lobby.

“Let’s talk a minute,” he said.

I braced myself for another lecture on what
to say and not to say.

“You all can visit the hotline room anytime
you want,” he told us. “We have people to man the phones, so don’t
worry about that. Just saying—if you want to know what’s going on.
I want all of you to have your phones with you at all times. Leads
can come from friends and family as well as the 800 number.”

Ron and I both patted our pockets. “I’ve had
this with me the whole time,” Ron said. “Vic will call me. I know
she will.”

I wished he’d displayed the same emotion and
sincerity outside a few minutes ago. It was nerves—I knew that. I
just hoped everyone else could see it.

Taylor started toward the elevators and I
caught up and tapped his shoulder.

“We wanted to see if we could get into
Victoria’s business files, Kent. Ron felt we should notify her
clients … let them know there might be delays in their
projects.”

“Charlie, we picked up her calendars and
current files as evidence. I have no idea where this will go. Once
we’ve checked out the leads we need, we’ll release everything, but
I have to warn you it may be awhile.”