Wildflower Wedding

by Becki Willis

  While she was doing math, Madison added up some other numbers in her head. Even after selling to Brash and Tony, Nigel Barrett retained four hundred acres of land. Leasing rights on that could amount to as much as $400,000, plus the retained rights on Tony’s land. Add the income from the two existing wells, the actual value of the land itself, the cattle and the crops, and his estate was worth a fortune. The house wouldn’t amount to much, Madison conceded, but the electronics inside might.

  The old man’s net worth added a new dimension to his death. It wasn’t hard to imagine someone might kill him to get access to his millions, but without an heir apparent, who would benefit the most from his death?

  The sick feeling plagued her stomach again, making her queasy.

  Joel Werner would ask that very question, and Madison didn’t like the answer he would undoubtedly supply.

  She did the math again, gasping when she realized that the bonus consideration on Brash’s two hundred acres could amount to as much as $200,000, and that every penny would be his. Theirs.

  To some, particularly Joel Werner, that could be construed as reason enough to commit murder.

  Brash returned home an hour later. In the space of a single day, her handsome husband seemed to have aged five years. His face looked haggard and drawn, and his color was slightly off. His knee popped as he lowered himself into the welcoming cushions of the couch.

  When he tugged on her hand, she landed in a heap beside him, sinking into the butter-soft leather and the indention beside his two-hundred plus pounds of solid muscle. The feel of his warm, hard body next to hers momentarily distracted her.

  “You aren’t really going to arrest Tony, are you?” she asked, searching his dark eyes in concern. She couldn’t remember him ever looking so weary.

  “I don’t want to. But I’m already getting pressure to do so.”

  “From where?” she demanded. Who dared pressure her husband, thinking they could do his job better than he could?

  “Both mayors. The Juliet city council. There’s a call on my phone from Billy Blackburn that I haven’t answered, so I’m guessing the Naomi city council feels the same. And now the media is involved, so you can imagine what’s to come.”

  “Why is the media involved?”

  His sigh was heavy. Head tilted back to rest against the sofa cushion, Brash opened one eye to consult his new bride. “You really have to ask that question? You’re still HOME TV’s little darling, you know. Even if I didn’t come with my own small claim to fame, there’s Tony’s time in the spotlight to consider. Pro-Ball Hall of Famer, former Super Bowl Champion, that gig on the prime-time dance show. We may not have invited the cameras to the wedding, but they were set up outside at the reception, and they caught plenty on tape. I’m guessing you haven’t had the television on today?”

  “No.”

  “They keep showing a clip of Tony storming out of the party, just after he and Nigel had words. They like to point out that less than fifteen minutes later, paramedics arrived on the scene to try to resuscitate one of our guests, the very man Tony was reported to have had a heated argument with. For added punch, they remind people of who you and I are, and why Tony was on the guest list.” He rubbed his hand over his face, as if trying to smooth out some of the fatigue.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know how hard this must be on you.”

  “To his credit, Tony came in voluntarily today and answered every question I had. Despite the circumstantial evidence against him, I really don’t peg him for the crime. I’ve known Tony for almost twenty years. I just don’t think he’s capable of murder. But if not him, then who?”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same thing. The only people who could possibly gain anything from his death were Tony, any relatives Nigel may or may not have, and… and you.”

  Instead of looking perturbed, Brash looked amused. “You mean us,” he reminded her, winding his arm around her shoulders. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re married now. Everything I own is half yours. If I gain from his death, so do you.”

  “Believe me, I haven’t forgotten. Even though I spent the day elbow-deep in research, the thought was never far from my mind. I am now Mrs. Brash Andrew deCordova.” She curled into his side, her voice a soft sigh. “Loosely translated, that means the luckiest—and happiest—woman on the face of the earth.”

  “It’s been a rough day, Mrs. deCordova. Show me just how happy you are.”

  Several kisses later, Madison laid her head upon his chest and snuggled in for a good hug.

  “There’re two things I need to tell you,” she said after a while.

  She felt him heave a deep sigh. “From the sound of your voice, neither is good.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to tell you about it, but Friday night after the rehearsal dinner, Collette called me and talked for forty-five minutes. She told me she finally decided to have an autopsy performed on Bobby Ray’s body.”

  His voice lifted. “I stand corrected. That’s good news.”

  “Not really. She was too late. They had just completed cremating his body.”

  His chest deflated beneath her once again.

  “But,” she said, interjecting a hint of optimism into her voice, “as it turns out, perhaps his death was natural, after all. Collette confirmed something his friends told me. Like Nigel, Bobby Ray was allergic to seafood, particularly shrimp. Someone said they saw him eating a shrimp earlier in the day, and Collette claimed he was known to sneak a bite every now and then. Even though no one was aware of him ever having a severe reaction in the past, it doesn’t mean it couldn’t have happened this time.”

  “I suppose he had many of the symptoms.” She glanced up to catch the thoughtful expression on Brash’s face. “Blotchy skin, difficulty breathing, disoriented. The way he staggered away from the cannon suggested he was confused and a bit dizzy. Anaphylactic shock can cause a sudden drop in blood pressure, dizziness, and lightheadedness.”

  “I’ve heard that a person’s sensitivity to shellfish can worsen over time, and that each episode can be worse than the previous one. It’s possible that this episode was the big one, so to speak.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So, in a way, you were still right,” Madison pointed out. “He didn’t die of the heart attack everyone assumed.”

  “There’s another possibility, you know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I could have been flat-out wrong.”

  Madison pretended to consider the possibility before discarding it. “Nah,” she decided. “That couldn’t be it.” She turned her face up to accept his dropped kiss.

  “So that was one thing you wanted to tell me. You said you had two.”

  When Maddy extricated herself from his arms and twisted to look at him, he braced himself for the worst. She soon delivered.

  “Cutter dropped by earlier. He said he was in town and heard rumblings. To begin with, word of Nigel’s wedding gift to us has already climbed its way through the grapevine.” Seeing his infamous smirk, she nodded. “I agree. Fast, even for our grapevine. But it gets worse. Knowing you would own full mineral rights on the two hundred acres, Joel Werner has pointed out that it could be to your advantage if Nigel died.”

  Brash stared at her in surprise, blinking as if to better comprehend her moving lips. His voice was deceptively calm as her words sank it. “He’s accusing me of murdering Nigel?”

  “Not yet,” she was quick to point out, “but Cutter thinks he’s planting the seeds. Right now, he’s merely pointing out how you and Tony are old and personal friends, and how you could be in cahoots to fatten your pocketbooks.”

  “That’s assuming, of course, that the oil company leases the land,” Brash pointed out.

  “I heard one already made an offer. However, that didn’t come from Nigel. But yes,” she agreed, “assuming.”

  “So how did this supposedly work? Tony and I teamed up to get our hands on a lease that, so far, doesn’t even exist, and
we thought my wedding reception would the perfect place to commit murder?” Brash shook his head in disbelief. “If Joel Werner can sell that one, he’s even slicker than I give him credit for.”

  “We already know the man is gunning for you. This just gives him more ammunition.”

  “He’s firing blanks,” Brash said flatly. “Look. I’m sure he’ll try to make a mountain out of a molehill, but when it’s all said and done, it’s still a molehill.” He tried gathering her back into his arms. “Let’s forget about Nigel, and Tony, and especially Werner, and concentrate on the two newlyweds in the room.”

  Madison resisted, but only slightly. “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough. I hate to point this out, but you just spent the entire afternoon questioning Tony over a molehill.”

  “A molehill with fire ants,” he corrected. “This wasn’t the first time Tony and Nigel argued over the rights. And enough people heard Tony’s comment about ‘do us all a favor and kick the bucket’ to have it construed as a threat.”

  “Still…” Her protests weakened as Brash nibbled her earlobe.

  “Still, I feel you are seriously neglecting your husband,” he murmured. His words were a low rumble against the delicate column of her neck.

  Her reply came out husky. “I—I am?”

  “Absolutely.” His mouth left a trail of moist heat down the side of her neck, over her collarbone and worked its way beneath the collar of her shirt. His fingers deftly dispensed of the buttons, exposing more skin to his wandering ministrations. “We’ve been married for over twenty-four hours, and you haven’t made love to me half as many times.” He pushed aside the troublesome blouse. “Definitely neglect.”

  “Hmm. Tell me, officer, is that a criminal offense?” She tried for a playful tone, but her words were breathless.

  “Oh, yes. Punishable,” he informed her in a deliciously low voice, “by a fine twenty-four hours in bed.” He deliberately omitted the word ‘and.’

  As his mouth wandered lower, Madison knew it would be a fine punishment, in deed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  She knew hoping for twenty-four hours was being greedy.

  At best, they managed eight. The phone started ringing early the next morning. After the third call, they gave up and crawled from the tangled covers.

  “I guess you’re getting off early for good behavior,” Brash told her. A sexy twinkle appeared in his dark eyes as they trailed over her body. “Very good, as a matter of fact.”

  After accepting his kiss, Maddy made an observation of her own. “Reality is no fun.”

  Brash cupped a hand around her neck, and his expression turned sober. “You’re sure you don’t mind delaying our honeymoon? Because we can still go to Maryland.”

  “Of course, I mind. But I understand. Now is too crucial of a time for us to leave.” When he would have spoken, she placed a finger to his lips. “Not only do you need to be here for the case, and for Tony, but we can’t afford to turn our backs on Joel Werner. The man will twist our absence to his advantage, making it seem that you’re running away.”

  “I know. But this was the perfect time for you and me to get away. The kids are gone all week, skiing in Aspen with Charles and Annette.”

  Madison slid her arms around his neck. “So we’ll still have a kid-free week and this big ole house, all to ourselves. We can honeymoon at home, and then later, when things have settled down, we’ll go to Maryland like we planned.”

  “I was looking forward to seeing that Spy House you talked so much about.”

  “Why?” she teased, initiating a seductive kiss. “We might not make it out of the bedroom.”

  “Speaking of such… I notice the phone stopped ringing,” he murmured, edging her back toward the bed.

  “And technically, you have the day scheduled off...”

  Brash paused long enough to set the ringer to silent. “Your sentence just got reinstated, Mrs. deCordova.”

  “The charge this time?”

  “Skipping out on your honeymoon.”

  By the time they made it downstairs for coffee and a late breakfast, they had a dozen missed calls on both their phones, and several messages on the home phone. They spent the next fifteen minutes, sorting through which were important, which were noisy neighbors, and which were reporters.

  While Brash canceled their plane tickets, Madison called The Columbia Inn at Peralynna and explained their situation. She, Genny, and Granny Bert had visited the stately mansion-turned-boutique-hotel (so like the Big House, in many ways) last month as part of Genny’s bachelorette trip. The trip had turned out much more adventuresome—and dangerous—than anticipated, but it had also made them new friends and snagged them a free return visit. The innkeeper quickly assured her the offer was still good, redeemable at their convenience.

  “All done,” Madison reported. “Sophie was very gracious and understood completely. Given her close association with the CIA, FBI, and all those other alphabet organizations, she understands the need to be flexible. I promised to call as soon as this is all straightened out.”

  “I promise, we will go,” Brash said, brushing a kiss into her hair. “Hey, I left something I need in the squad car. I’ll run get it and be back to help you with breakfast.”

  “Don’t be long,” she warned. “I’m about to start the toast.”

  Brash quickly realized the difference between living in his previous modest-sized home and living here in the Big House. When he came downstairs earlier wearing just his jeans, he gave no thought to the rest of his wardrobe. Now, only half-dressed, he needed to run to the car, which, oddly enough, was closer in proximity than the master bedroom. The sheer size of his new home would take some getting used to.

  Stuffing his bare feet into the cowboy boots he had abandoned last night at the front door, he reasoned that by the time he went upstairs and found a shirt, the toast would be ready. Or, he could slip outside—shirtless—and be back in time to help his bride in the kitchen.

  He threw open the door and started onto the front porch. When an insect landed on the back of his neck, he crooked his elbow and slapped it.

  “Chief deCordova!”

  Hearing his name called, Brash looked up in time to see the flash. A half dozen or more reporters stood lined up along the fence, cameras flashing and television film rolling. After a full moment of shock, caught in broad day like a deer in the headlights, Brash retreated into the house and slammed the door.

  “Maddy!” he bellowed. “You won’t believe what’s outside!”

  The pictures quickly made the rounds of all the news outlets.

  If the name Brash deCordova made for a good headline, the photo of a shirtless Brash deCordova made for an excellent one. The shot caught him with sexy bed-head hair, dark stubble on his jaw, and half-zipped, low-slung jeans. With his elbow up and his hand behind his neck, he could have easily been posing for a pin-up calendar. Add the exposed tops of his rugged cowboy boots, the broad expanse of bare chest, the satisfied look of a man in love, and the photo went viral by nightfall.

  “I didn’t realize I was married to a sex symbol,” Maddy teased.

  Brash tossed the remote control onto the couch in disgust. “That’s the third network to run that stupid picture,” he complained. “I didn’t get this much attention when I was in the NFL!”

  “Should’ve put a shirt on before you went outside,” she teased.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson. Leave a spare shirt in the foyer closet.” He paused for a moment in reflection. “Is there a foyer closet?”

  “Under the stairway.”

  “Got it. Leave a spare shirt and a pair of shoes handy, so I don’t have to hike all the way back upstairs to the bedroom.”

  “A house this size does take some getting used to,” Madison admitted.

  “The problem with that silly picture,” he continued, picking up the thread of his complaint as if it had never been broken, “is that, without it, no one would pay a
ttention to this story yet. I’d have time to conduct more interviews, talk to the DA about possible charges, and make a rational, conscientious decision. But with it, and with all the attention it’s bringing, the brass is breathing down my neck to charge Tony with murder.”

  “Not everyone reads the newsprint, you know. Most get hung up on the photo. Oh, and the sensational headlines, like my personal favorite.” She panned her hand across an invisible billboard. “Role Model, or Model Role?”

  Brash growled at his wife’s antics. “This isn’t funny, Madison.”

  Schooling her face into a solemn expression, she managed a contrite nod. More or less.

  “I’m serious,” he insisted.

  Madison vigorously nodded in agreement, biting her inner lip to keep from grinning.

  “If I knew which one of those reporters took the picture, I’d sue!”

  “I’ve seen about five versions of the same basic shot, so I think they all took one. And why not? You make an excellent subject. Very handsome, and oh, so sexy.” She couldn’t help but waggle her eyebrows.

  “I’m glad you find my humiliation so amusing.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she said sincerely, slipping her arms around his waist. “I’m just trying to make the best of a bad situation.”

  Before Brash could make a comeback, Maddy’s phone rang. Seeing her grandmother’s name pop up on the screen, she answered.

  “Are you watching the news?”

  “No, we turned it off.”

  “Turn it back on! That fool Joel Werner is talking. Channel 50.”

  As her grandmother disconnected without as much as a goodbye, Maddy grabbed the remote and turned the television back on. She waved away Brash’s look of confusion, motioning toward the screen.

  A news reporter held the microphone to Joel Werner’s carefully poised face. Madison had no doubt he had practiced the pose, achieving just the right mix of vulnerable citizen and seasoned leadership. He was dressed in a button-down shirt and tie, not a single hair out of place, as he crooned into the mic.