Killer Bridal Party (Firefly Junction Cozy Mystery Book 2)

by London Lovett

  "With Jeremy's baby." I couldn't stop myself from interjecting. Lana made an irritated sound into the phone.

  "Why don't you just tell it then?"

  "No, sorry. Go ahead. I'll keep my big mouth shut," I promised.

  "Brooke sort of tossed all the dirty laundry my way at once. We'd spent quite a bit of time together planning her wedding reception, so she seemed to feel comfortable telling me everything. Plus, it seems she's determined to ruin Jeremy's reputation."

  "Who can blame her?"

  "Yep," Lana agreed. "I guess it all came out as the women were gathered around the campfire. Cindy's phone was sitting on the bench when she got up to be alone in the forest. Apparently, she was having a lot of nausea. Her phone buzzed and Brooke saw a text from none other than Jeremy telling Cindy to 'keep quiet'. He sent a quick second text saying 'he wasn't ready for any of this'." Lana scoffed. "Guess he should have thought of that when he—well anyhow. The secret was sort of out. Brooke told me she was too embarrassed to tell anyone, but that night at the campfire, she confided in Tory that she thought something was going on between Jeremy and Cindy. Brooke wasn't completely sure what Jeremy was talking about, but she started getting a pretty good idea on the morning of the murder. Jeremy was certainly not hiding his feelings for Cindy. Brooke especially didn't want her cousin to know because then her aunt would know and her mom and I'm sure you get the concept of the aunt, mom phone chain. So that's it. I'm out a great party order. I'm just glad it was cancelled early. I'm still eating chicken pot pies for breakfast, lunch and dinner."

  "Well, sis, I'm sorry you lost the job, but thanks for filling us in. I've been scooting around trying to solve the murder. This puts a new light on some of my theories."

  Lana laughed dryly. "My sister, the amateur sleuth. Well, have fun with that. I'll see you later."

  "Bye."

  "I guess this time she can't blame me for the mess," Raine said. "I certainly didn't see anything about this in the cards."

  "Me either. I mean, not in the cards, but in all the evidence I've been collecting. I've been briefly entertaining the notion that Tory was blackmailing Cindy about the pregnancy. It would have been a probable motive for Cindy to kill Tory."

  Raine's eyes nearly popped from her head. "Do you think Cindy did it?"

  "I'm not sure. If Brooke knew about the pregnancy, Tory's blackmail scheme sure would have fallen flat. Did Cindy kill Tory because she was afraid she'd tell Brooke a secret that Brooke already knew? Or maybe Tory, wanting to prove that she was the more loyal friend, confronted Cindy about the affair and Cindy got angry. But this wasn't one of those sudden murders. Who carries a hammer around at a bridal party? Tangled web indeed. And to be perfectly honest, I don't think I'm any closer to solving this mystery than I was the day of the murder."

  Chapter 31

  I'd stayed way too late at Raine's, and I'd eaten way too much. I was going to drop into bed like a sack of potatoes and sleep like a log, even with my mind swimming with possible murder and motive scenarios. As I turned onto Edgewood Drive, a large eighteen wheeler was just pulling away from Layers, probably the driver's dinner stop before heading to the highway with his load. I pulled my jeep over to let the truck pass on the narrow road. As I waited something popped into my head. Detective Jackson had seemed quite interested in the truck that he was sure he saw leaving the Stockton loading bay after business hours. I sensed that he thought there was something odd going on with the tool delivery. It was close to ten o'clock and I was dead tired, but I decided a quick detour wouldn't hurt.

  I headed toward Stockton Tools. Jackson had seen a truck leaving the warehouse around ten o'clock, even though the supervisor had insisted that was impossible. I'd been focused on the interrelationships of the people at the bridal shower, but what if there was something else going on at Stockton Tools that had caused a rift between Tory and a coworker?

  I figured a mild, low risk stakeout couldn't hurt. Chances were, I wouldn't see or hear anything unusual, but it was worth a try. The Stockton company took up an entire city block, and because Ms. Tuttle had been kind enough to give me a tour of the facilities, I knew that the warehouse and loading docks were at the end of that block. A wide driveway led around to the back of the warehouse, which sat adjacent to the loading dock. A tall cinder block wall lined the backside of the property, and a large sliding gate blocked anyone from driving back to the loading area.

  Streetlights lit the sidewalk in front of the various buildings that made up the Stockton complex, but very few lights illuminated the parking lot and passages between the buildings. That was why an unexplained glow at the back of the property caught my interest.

  On the far side of the warehouse, a small walking path led past a few lunch tables toward the back of the property. While my original intention was to sit in my car and wait to see if any trucks left the facility after hours, my curiosity just wasn't going to stand for such a staid plan. I was in the middle of an industrial area. There were very few cars and no people around. I decided on a quick jaunt to the back of the property to locate the source of the glow.

  I parked my car on the opposite side of the street and walked across to the table lined pathway. It ran along a tall wall of shrubs at the end of the property. A nice lawn and flower beds had been planted around the lunch area to give the employees a scenic, peaceful break place. As I passed along between the lunch area and the building, I heard a loud gear turning sound like a truck's tailgate being lowered. A clang was followed by a few low voices. There was absolutely some activity going on behind the shipping warehouse.

  I met up with the expected gate, and of course, it was locked. It was made of widely spaced wrought iron spindles. I gripped the bars and pressed my face through as far as it would go. From the angle I was at, I could only see activity when someone stepped out and away from the loading dock. I didn't know much about trucks, but the one parked at the dock was not an eighteen wheeler. It seemed to be more the size of a large furniture delivery truck. One figure stepped into the shadows, a man who I hadn't seen on my quick tour of the warehouse. He had on a dark beanie and black coat, warm gear for a summer night.

  He spoke gruffly to whoever was standing out of view. "Hurry it up," he growled. "We need to get on the road."

  I couldn't see farther than the last few feet of the truck, but the noises echoing across the lot seemed to indicate heavy crates were being moved. It could easily have been tools. But why was it all happening so late and under such clandestine circumstances?

  I stood quietly at the gate, hidden by the shadows created by the bordering shrubs. I waited patiently, hoping I'd hear or see something that would give me more clues as to what was taking place.

  Suddenly a large hand went around my mouth, stifling my scream. I was pulled back away from the gate by someone with massive arms and a rock hard chest. I tried to kick back and hit a knee or shin but no luck. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would pop out. The hand smothered my mouth, and I struggled to breathe through my nose. My eyes watered and my mind darted to possible nightmarish scenarios of what my captor had in mind.

  The man holding me lowered his head and spoke into my ear. "I'm going to let you go. But don't scream." The familiar sound of Detective Jackson's deep voice made my knees grow weak in relief. "Promise you won't scream?"

  I nodded fervently.

  He peeled his hand away. My heart rate began to slow from its hummingbird pace. The sheer terror of the moment had left me slightly dizzy. I took a deep breath to gain my composure. Then I turned around and threw my fist at his chin. It was like hitting a brick wall. I had to stifle a cry as I squeezed my hand against me to relieve the sharp pain.

  "Ouch, ouch," I whispered loudly.

  Jackson put a finger against his mouth to hush me. He grabbed my hand and led me brusquely along the path and around the shrubs. "What are you doing here?" he asked still keeping his voice low. But it was an angry low.

  I shook my hand to get the fe
eling back. "The question is—how is your chin harder than my fist?"

  Surprisingly, he took hold of my hand and looked it over. "Nothing broken. Not that you wouldn't have deserved at least a jammed knuckle."

  "And the least you could do is swish your jaw side to side to show that you at least felt my punch." I gave my hand one last shake.

  He crossed his arms, a gesture that always made him look even bigger than he was, if that was possible. "Why are you here?"

  I was still working on my explanation, so I shot back with a question of my own. "Why are you here?"

  He reached down and lifted the hem of his shirt to show his badge. "I'm a detective."

  "Yes, I'm very aware of that. Well, I'm a reporter."

  "And I'm very aware of that. And a reporter who is oblivious to danger. You shouldn't be here at night. It's not safe."

  "It's fine. I just happened to be driving past Stockton Tools—"

  "Late at night and on a dead end road. Makes perfect sense."

  "It does. Then I saw the glow behind the—"

  A truck engine started up, rattling the gate. Detective Jackson pressed his finger temporarily against my lips to shush me. He motioned for me to follow him away from the corner, where we would be seen by any truck pulling out onto the road. We crept back to the locked wrought iron gate. His height allowed him to see clearly over, but he was still at the same angle disadvantage as I had been. The truck rumbled out of the loading dock and shook the building. A loud creaking sound signaled that the gates on the driveway were opening.

  "Missed it," Jackson grumbled. He scowled at me.

  "That's not my fault. You were late," I hissed, trying to make a point while whispering was never easy.

  "I wasn't late. I was busy dealing with the nuisance reporter who manages to show up everywhere she's not supposed to be."

  Headlights lit up the street behind us. Before I could respond, Jackson hunkered down (a difficult task for someone his size) and crept back to the corner we'd just come from. He snapped a picture of the truck as it rolled toward the main road.

  Jackson pointed back at me. "Stay there." He found a thin spot in the hedges and pushed through. Seconds later he popped up on the back side of the cinder block wall running behind the warehouse. He hoisted himself up and looked around, then dropped back down behind the wall. Seconds later he emerged from the shrubs, reminding me of a large grizzly bear plowing through the dense forest. I stifled a laugh.

  "Don't know why you're smiling, Bluebird, but you could have gotten yourself into trouble. Whatever was happening at that loading dock tonight had nothing to do with legitimate business. You could have been in real danger if they caught you."

  "I was as quiet as a mouse and everything was going swimmingly until a certain big brute scared me witless and smothered me with his giant hand."

  "I didn't want you to scream and let them know we were there."

  "Well, I'm not a screamer. Most of the time anyhow. I reserve the right when faced with a snake or scaly creature."

  "Let's get you back on the road. It's late." Detective Jackson led me out to the street and walked me to the jeep.

  "Now that we got past that awkwardness, what do you think is happening? Do you think it has to do with Tory's murder or is this a completely separate crime?"

  He leaned against my jeep. "Not sure if it's related or if it's even a crime. Something seems to be leaving the warehouse past business hours. Could be something completely innocuous like hauling broken down boxes to a recycling plant."

  "Only, why wouldn't the supervisor know about it?" I asked.

  "Exactly. I'll have to find out. In the meantime, no more stakeouts in dark alleys."

  "That lush little lunch area is hardly a dark alley."

  Jackson opened his mouth to lecture me further, but I stopped it with an emphatic nod.

  "I will stay away from dark alleys and stakeouts."

  Jackson opened the door and I climbed inside. "By the way, nice jeep, Bluebird."

  "Thanks. Till we meet again, Detective Jackson." I saluted him as he shut the door.

  Chapter 32

  "You're late." Edward's deep voice echoed around the entryway as I stepped into the house.

  "It's not even eleven and I am a grown woman," I answered without even looking around to find him. Sometimes his voice just rained down on me as if he had his own intercom speakers set up around the house.

  Redford and Newman trotted out to greet me with sleepy eyes and slow wagging tails. Their late night greeting wasn't nearly as upbeat as their daytime greeting. But as I walked into the kitchen, they anticipated that I might just be heading to their treat jar. Ears and tails perked up.

  I headed straight to the ceramic cat shaped canister and pulled out two dog treats. They sat obediently, something Lana had taught them, and I tossed them their cookies. They quickly carried them off to their pillows.

  Edward materialized sitting on the brick hearth. "It's not safe for you to be out alone so late."

  I rolled my eyes. "You sound just like Detective Jackson. Sure do have a lot of grown men butting in to my business lately."

  "I'm not butting. And who is Detective Jackson?" He answered himself, saving me the effort. "Wait, that must be that cocksure fellow with the unkempt hair who visited here on Sunday. Were you out with him?"

  I reached into the fridge for the carton of milk. The brief moment of terror at Stockton Tools had upset my stomach. "If I were out with Jackson, I certainly wouldn't have to tell you. Or ask permission. I'm an independent woman. You just happen to take up space in my house." I put the milk on the counter and tilted my head in question. "Or do you take up space? Are you considered matter?"

  "I have no idea what that inquiry even means. You're just trying to avoid the topic."

  "What topic? I'm just trying to figure out scientifically where you belong in the matter chart. Plasma? No, it can't be that. You're definitely not solid."

  "If you're just going to prattle on like some old bird in a lunatic asylum, then I might as well be off."

  "Nope, you're not solid. You're just gas, a lot of hot gas. So yes, billow away. I'm tired and not in the mood. Besides, I've got things on my mind other than listening to your ancient theories on my proprieties."

  Rather than disappear, he moved closer. Sometimes, if he was near enough, I could almost feel a cool mist around him. Only once had we passed close enough that my hand coasted through his arm, obliterating the image and leaving my hand cool as if I'd temporarily stuck it inside the refrigerator.

  I carried my glass of milk to the table and sat down. Edward took that as an invitation to hang out. He drifted over to the counter and perched. "What could possibly be more interesting or important than my ancient theories? Does it have to do with the murder investigation you've been muttering to yourself about?"

  "That's called talking out loud and sorting ideas. And yes, that's what's on my mind. I'm having a hard time finding a link between the murder victim and a possible motive. It seems she was not terribly well liked by anyone, except possibly her friend Brooke. I managed to catch a few text messages on the murder victim's phone," I started but then realized I'd lost my centuries old sounding board with my phrasing. "I didn't actually catch them." I grabbed my phone from my purse. "You know how you laugh at me because I'm always tapping away on my—as you've named it—listening device? I do that to send a written message. I can also use it to take a picture of anything." I pulled up the text messages Tory had sent her contact named Jerkface. I showed them to Edward. He was still puzzled.

  "What a strange way to exchange missives," he said as he squinted at the text. "Who is this, this Jerkface?" he asked.

  "Not sure. But Tory, the woman who was killed with a hammer, doesn't seem to care for him. Using all capital letters on a message is considered sort of passive-aggressive."

  "Passive-aggressive?" he asked.

  "Showing you're angry without actually confronting the person."
/>   "Ah yes, I've done that many times in letters. Only instead of childish capitals, I pushed extra hard on the nib. Left a nice black splotch on words I wanted to stand out. It seems to me, if you find out who this Jerkface is, you will find the killer. Blackmail is always a good motive for murder. I've been a victim of it before, and I can tell you thoughts of murder went through my head more than once."

  My eyes widened. "You didn't kill the person, did you?"

  He pulled down on his blue silk waistcoat sharply as if insulted. "Certainly not. As a member of the gentry, I had a reputation to maintain."

  "Yes, of course. Was that the same reputation that got you tossed onto a boat sailing to America? And exactly what were you being blackmailed for?"

  Edward straightened his forever untied cravat. "Something to do with a quick, meaningless affair with the barrister's wife. Anyhow, let's return to your murder case."

  I blinked at him a moment. "A barrister's wife? Yep, quite the reputation to protect." I shook my head. "I'd considered that one of the bridesmaids was trying to stop a blackmail plot because it turned out she was having an affair with the groom. Only now, I'm not so sure. The bride found out about the affair, so there wasn't much gristle there for a good case of blackmail." I read back through the texts Tory had sent to Jerkface. The last one where she said she could pull the thread that would unravel the person's life definitely sounded like blackmail. Up until the attack on Jeremy, I'd toyed with the idea that he was Jerkface. But that theory fell apart when he became a victim of the hammer wielding killer.

  I swiped back to the picture of Tory's reminders. "Box 673A" I read out loud. "I've got a box at the post office, but it doesn't have any letters on it. So it can't be a mailing address box."

  "You've lost me. You should go to bed. You always talk circles when you're tired. Just remember, your first instincts are usually right. At least that is what I've always found."