You May Now Kill the Bride

by Deborah Donnelly

  “Actually, I did,” said India proudly. “There’s a monument to him near the visitor center.”

  “Really? I’d like to see that.”

  “About Guy—” I persisted.

  “Give it a rest, would you, Stretch?”

  “All right, don’t yell at me.”

  “I’m not yelling!”

  India stepped tactfully aside to examine a piece of driftwood, while Aaron and I looked at each other sheepishly. Don’t fight in front of the children.

  “Tell you what,” he said quietly. “Give me a couple of hours to be on vacation, and then I’ll help your friend with her interview skills. Deal?”

  “Deal. But she’s not my friend.”

  “Whatever.”

  So I held my peace as we tramped along the water for a couple of hours and then as we joined the other tourists exploring the far-flung reaches of the park. As we strolled through the dry golden grasses, we had to pick our way among the rabbit holes that riddled the ground. In some places there was more hole than ground; American Camp was bunny heaven.

  Our first stop was the officers’ quarters. This was a single clapboard building with a tall flagpole beside it, set in an acre or so of meadow enclosed by a low white picket fence. But here the history buffs were foiled. When we clomped across the wooden porch, we found the door shut and a small typed notice tacked to it.

  Aaron bent to read. “Closed to the public, due for restoration soon, funds are being raised, blah blah. Feel free to walk around the exterior.”

  So we did, listening to the American flag snap in the wind and imagining those long-ago soldiers so far from home. Then we pressed on to the park’s interpretive center, where we learned that the funds were already raised, and soon meant very soon indeed. A large sign announced that beginning Friday the entire park would be closed for six weeks of restoration and construction work.

  “Friday, that’s tomorrow!” said Aaron, and gave India a friendly hug. “I would have missed this completely. Thanks for suggesting it.”

  She shivered happily, like a praised puppy, and the two of them went on exclaiming at our good luck as they examined every last photograph and pamphlet in the place, inch by historical inch. I tried to follow along, but soon lost interest.

  So I went outside again to breathe the salt air and watch the hawks circling overhead. Natural history is more my line. With a high thin cry, one of the hawks folded its dark wings and came dive-bombing down for a rabbit. It’s tempting to root for the rabbit, of course, but birds have to eat too. Still, I was glad when this one missed its target and flapped away in a huff.

  At last the history fanatics emerged, but then they insisted that we search out the monument to good old Pickett. It was a smallish stone obelisk that look more like a grave marker than anything else.

  I frowned at it. “I’ve heard of the Charge, but I can never remember which side Pickett was on.”

  “You’re kidding!” Aaron hooted. “The South, of course. He served as an American captain here, then he resigned his commission to join the Confederate army. The Charge was the high-water mark of the Confederacy before the tide turned against them at Gettysburg.”

  “Sounds like changing sides was a bad career move.”

  “You’re hopeless, Stretch, you know that?”

  As Aaron went on wandering, India and I went off to find a restroom. She sent a glance at him over her shoulder, then shook back her hair.

  “He calls you Stretch, that’s so cute. What do you call him?”

  “Just Aaron. At least out loud.”

  “He’s so easy to talk to, I feel like I’ve always known him. Oh, my gosh, maybe I knew him in another life!”

  You just watch your step in this one, I thought sourly. Not that I had a claim on Aaron, exactly, but all this female fawning was getting on my nerves.

  It didn’t help that when we rejoined Aaron to return to the cars, he fell in step with India and prompted her to tell us all about her journalistic career. At her age, this included college.

  “And then my very favorite class was on obituaries . . .”

  I snorted, but Aaron said, “Don’t laugh, Stretch. If you can write a good obit, really tight but still lively, you can write just about anything.”

  “You think so?” India’s eyes gleamed in the late-afternoon light, and her damn hair rippled in the breeze. “I got an A in that class.”

  “Much deserved, I’m sure. You know, I’m getting hungry. Should we get a snack someplace?”

  It was clear that by “we” Aaron meant the three of us. I pointed out, ever so helpfully, that India was fasting.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” she assured me. “There’s a really nice juice bar near here where I can—oops, I need to get this.”

  Her cell phone warbled a soulful little tune, no doubt something mystical, as she scooped it from her drawstring bag.

  “India Doyle. Sure . . . uh-huh . . . twenty minutes. Got it.” She returned the phone with a sigh. “Warehouse fire. I’ve got to go.”

  “What a shame,” I said.

  “I know. But I make extra cash as a photographer, so I can’t afford to miss this. We don’t get many fires. See you tomorrow, Aaron.”

  He watched as she drove away.

  “Nice girl.”

  “A regular Lois Lane.”

  Aaron cocked his head at me, narrowing his eyes against the declining sun. “Are you jealous, Stretch? I’m flattered.”

  “Well, don’t be. I’m just . . .”

  He moved closer and captured one of my hands. “Just what?”

  This was more like the old Aaron—and I was having my old response to him. A minivan pulled up next to us, and a couple of tourists unloaded a mob of shrieking kids. Better to respond in private.

  “I’m just in a hurry to get back to the bed-and-breakfast,” I said. “I’ve got things to do.”

  He circled the tip of his thumb on my palm. That makes me crazy, as he very well knew.

  “What kind of things?”

  “Why don’t you drive me there and find out?”

  It’s a small island, but in our current state it seemed like a long drive. And then when we turned into the Owl’s Roost driveway, the parking spaces next to 6C were taken—by my long-lost SUV and a patrol car with the motor running.

  “Scarlet!”

  A young woman in uniform was just getting out of her, and a second cop in the patrol car was clearly waiting to drive his colleague back to Friday Harbor. I was torn between relief at getting my own wheels and impatience to be alone with Aaron.

  “Go ahead and park in front of the building, would you?” I told him. “This shouldn’t take long.”

  “It better not.”

  As he drove on, I walked over and identified myself to the woman. She looked at me carefully—memorizing the face of a killer?—then handed over Scarlet’s keys along with a receipt for me to sign.

  “Thanks,” I said, signing. “I told Moonface to send it back to Frugal Fred’s, but now I need it after all.”

  “Moonface?”

  I described the policeman who’d been following me, and she gave a puzzled smile.

  “That sounds like Larry Calhoun—good name for him—but why’d you tell him? He’s not assigned to this case.”

  “Oh, come on. He’s been following me and you know it.”

  She looked at me curiously. “Larry’s on vacation this week.”

  “Have it your way.” I gave her back the receipt. “And have a good evening.”

  As the patrol car departed, my thoughts turned to my own evening. Aaron was now leaning against the door to 6C with his arms folded, and by the ardent look on his face his thoughts were way ahead of mine.

  I joined him on the porch, but we didn’t touch. Not yet.

  “So, Stretch, about all those things you were going to do?”

  “Well, first on the list is inviting you inside.”

  “Good plan,” he said with a wolfish grin. “Becau
se I have some things of my own to—aww, now what?”

  A big black mud-spattered four-by-four, dwarfing even Scarlet’s bulk, pulled up to the porch. The driver got out, reached back inside, and straightened up with a bouquet of yellow roses in his hand. I recognized him, of course, but so much had happened in the last few days that the roses made no sense to me at all. Not until he came up the steps and handed them to me.

  “Sorry about the mud,” said Jeff Austin, smiling warmly at me and nodding politely at Aaron. “I would have washed it, but I figured, better a dirty truck than showing up late for our first date.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Actors call it freezing up.

  It’s a good way to put it, because I went cold all over. I knew I had some lines in this farce, but I couldn’t think of them for the life of me. What could I possibly say that wouldn’t embarrass Aaron? Or Jeff, either, but he wasn’t the one I was worried about. It was a tricky three-character scene, and I was speechless.

  Someone seemed to have handed Aaron a script, though. After a moment of blank surprise, he put on civility like a mask and offered Jeff his hand. His words were normal enough, but his voice was a stranger’s.

  “Hi, there. Aaron Gold, I’m a friend of Lily James. I came up a little early for the wedding.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said the deputy with a broad and friendly smile. “Jeff Austin, like the city, not like Jane.”

  He seemed perfectly at ease, and why not? He had no way of knowing what was going on. He towered over Aaron, and as his own massive hand engulfed Aaron’s injured one, I cringed inside at the thought of him gripping too hard and causing pain. As if he could do worse than I already had.

  Groping desperately for my dialogue, I came up with “Umm . . .”

  “Well, I won’t keep you two,” said Aaron. “Have a good time.”

  Then he walked away without ever meeting my eyes.

  Jeff said, “Do you want to put those in water before we go?”

  “Put what? Oh, of course.” I tore my gaze from Aaron and looked down—to notice my sodden, sandy sneakers. “I’ll change shoes too.”

  “No problem.”

  Easy for you to say. I left the door open, but Jeff remained politely on the porch while I stoppered the kitchen sink and set the roses in it. I couldn’t deal with vases just now. I was working on automatic pilot, body and brain just going through the motions.

  I did wonder dimly about changing my clothes, but Jeff was in jeans and a polo shirt so I just slipped on some sandals. I remembered now, he had mentioned “something casual.” But that was ages ago! Before the search warrant, before . . .

  Before Aaron Gold traveled three thousand miles to watch you going out with another man. I blinked back a ridiculous tear, then went to the mirror to comb my hair.

  Get a grip, girl, I said to the glass. It’s just a meal. Some nice quiet place where nobody knows you. You can find out more about the murder investigation, and then later you can tell Aaron . . .

  Right, as if Aaron will listen. As if he’ll ever speak to you again. My reflection scowled. Well, what was I supposed to do, live in a convent until the man decided to drop in again? After three months, for crying out loud! Who does he think he is, blaming me for an innocent dinner date?

  “Ow.” The comb caught in a tangle and I yanked at it impatiently. “Ow!”

  “You OK in there? I don’t mean to rush you, but this place gets kind of busy so I made a reservation. . . .”

  “Coming.”

  I slashed on some lipstick and presented myself on the porch. Jeff escorted me down the steps, then held open the door of his truck with an easy courtesy. His next comment was courteous too—and given the mischievous fate that had brought him and Aaron together, it seemed somehow inevitable.

  “I hope you like barbecue,” he said.

  I sighed and buckled up. “Love it.”

  Our spot at ZZ Nickles was well worth reserving: a table for two outside, tucked into a corner of the deck that overlooked the marina and the islands beyond. We ordered wine and a couple of the specials, and after that it was easy enough to make small talk about the spectacular view.

  Friday Harbor faces east, which in my opinion is the best way to watch a sunset. Instead of squinting into the sun we could sit back, sip our wine, and enjoy the parade of sailboats and motor craft, big and small, that moved across the water.

  We chatted for a little and then fell silent, as the boats and the forested islands became dark silhouettes against a low white veil of sea mist, which itself was turning to pink and then to rose. Above the mist, the blue sky paled to shimmering swathes of silver and violet, like mother of pearl.

  “It’s lovely,” I breathed, and Jeff nodded.

  “I thought you’d like it here. The food’s good too.”

  My explanation that I’d been to ZZ’s before was interrupted by the arrival of dinner. An older woman had seated us and taken our orders, but Peggy delivered our plates.

  “Hey, Deputy Jeff,” she said coyly, sliding over his honey-smoked pork loin. “You’re looking good tonight.”

  “Thanks.” Jeff’s smile was wary. “This smells delicious.”

  “Extra good, in fact. You’ve been lifting.” Peggy set down my rotisserie chicken without looking at me, then dropped a diminutive hand on the broad shelf of Jeff’s shoulder. “I bet you could lift me right off the ground with one arm.”

  He shifted uncomfortably, which seemed to be her aim, and she gave a husky little laugh. Then she bent over—slowly—to light the hurricane lamp on our table.

  “You enjoy yourself, now.” She winked at Jeff and left us to the twilight.

  “She’s just a kid,” he said sheepishly. “She flirts with everyone.”

  “Including Guy Price, from what I’ve heard.”

  His face went still. “Did he tell you that?”

  “Guy didn’t tell me anything personal. I barely knew him, remember?”

  “Right. Well, tell me something personal about yourself, then. Have you been to the San Juans before?”

  When his smile was genuine, Jeff Austin was a remarkably good-looking man. But I wasn’t here to make first-date chat.

  “I’d rather talk about Guy, actually. Do you think the rumors about his drug dealing are true, or do you think there was some other motive? I assume you don’t suspect me or we wouldn’t be here.”

  I was hoping to startle him into revealing something, but I only half-succeeded. He blinked in surprise, but remained circumspect.

  “Of course I don’t suspect you. But I really shouldn’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”

  “Of course not. Sorry.”

  He refilled my wineglass and tried a fresh tack. “Besides, that’s shop talk. I’d rather get to know you. What does a wedding planner do, exactly?”

  Once again, it was a flattering invitation, so as we ate I once again told my tale about Made in Heaven. But something Aaron had said popped into my mind, about getting people to talk about themselves so you could slide in your real questions.

  Was Jeff using that technique on me to assess my character, or to fish for some connection that I might have to Guy Price? I couldn’t prove that I’d never been to the island before, and no doubt Guy had come to Seattle once in a while.

  Well, two could play that game. I finished gushing about life on a houseboat and emphasized again how much I was enjoying my very first trip to San Juan Island. Then I turned the tables, planning to trail a lure of my own.

  “Now you. If you don’t want to talk shop, tell me what else you do with your free time. Bird-watching is all very well, but what’s the social life like in a place this small?”

  “Oh, but there’s plenty to get involved in. I’m on a soccer team, and I’ve got a buddy with a boat . . .”

  We talked about sailing, and hobbies in general. Then I dropped my hook. I had scoffed at India’s theory about a Masonic plot, but there was no harm in finding out if the police agreed with me.<
br />
  So, claiming that my partner Eddie might retire to the San Juans, I asked Jeff about men’s clubs and civic groups.

  He shrugged. “All the usual ones, I guess. Rotary and Elks and—”

  “And Freemasons?”

  He didn’t really react. “Sure, there’s a lodge here in town. I don’t know much about them, but you could ask Owen.”

  Now I was the one reacting. “Owen Winter?”

  “Yeah, I saw his name in the paper the other day, about some charity event they’re doing. I guess he’s pretty high up in the organization too.”

  Peggy came back then, which was just as well because I needed time to think. When she asked about dessert I just shook my head, lost in this new possibility.

  Owen? I’d meant to work the conversation around to Afterglow Vista, but I hadn’t expected this. Could India’s theory really be plausible, that Guy was killed because he went spying on secret Masonic ceremonies? Spying certainly seemed to fit with Guy’s character, but did murder fit with Owen’s? Jeff clearly didn’t think so, but maybe he’d never observed Owen’s sudden fits of anger.

  I thought it over. Owen had come home late from Orcas on Sunday night, but who was to say that he hadn’t gone out again, after my mother was asleep? And what about—

  “What about you?”

  I looked up, startled from my musings.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You want coffee or not?” said Peggy. Female customers were a mere inconvenience to Peggy.

  “Decaf, please.”

  “OK. But you don’t want decaf, do you?” she teased Jeff. “You drink black coffee at all hours, I’ve seen you. You must stay awake all night! What do you do with yourself all night?”

  Her hand was on his shoulder again, but she snatched it off when a stern voice boomed from behind her.

  “You’ve got orders up, girl!”

  ZZ glowered at her as she scurried away, and then glowered even harder at Jeff. But when he looked at me his expression softened.