“I need to leave something for Rocco Sabatino.” I held out the leather portfolio I had grabbed from the back seat on my way in. Zoey didn’t need to know that the only thing inside was my cable bill.
“Oh, sure. I can get it to him.” Her hand clamped onto the cover. “I wouldn’t mind having an excuse to see him again. He’s quite the stallion, isn’t he?”
Sure, I guess if you like your hairy men to be potential murderers, he’s not half bad.
As she tugged the portfolio, my fingers started to slip. “No,” I said, snapping my wrist and yanking it out of her hand with one violent jerk.
Her eyes widened, and she took a step back.
I gestured toward the TV, now playing a morning talk show featuring the latest in male pattern baldness treatments. “You’re sweet to offer, but I can tell you’re busy, and the producer has sworn me to secrecy. If you can just remind me of his room number, I’ll drop it by.”
“I see I’m not the only lady who has noticed his charm,” she said with a conspiratorial wink. She flipped through a box of index cards on the counter and plucked one out. “He’s in 218, down at the far end of the parking lot on the back side.”
“Great, thanks.” Although I was glad his building sat away from the street so there wouldn’t be too many nosy eyes on us, I was even more relieved she hadn’t called the police because she could see through my plan to break into Rocco’s room.
I gave a wave and spun toward the exit before she could change her mind. “It was good to see you, Zoey.”
I had just shoved the door open when Zoey called my name. My stomach fell, a solid thunk that made my vision swirl.
But when I pivoted, instead of holding the phone, she was shaking a set of keys on a clunky brass ring shaped like a lion’s head. “No point in you leaving sensitive information out there for anybody to get their hands on, especially with all those photographers prowling around. Want a key?”
I chuckled as blood flow returned to my whirling brain. Although it often walked the line between just plain nosy and welcome-to-the-gynecologist invasive, sometimes I really loved Southern hospitality.
I pulled around to the back of the building and parked beneath the shade of a gnarled live oak tree, mentally willing my muffler to keep its cranky mouth shut, and warned Beverlee, “We’re going to make this fast. In and out. We’re just looking for anything suspicious.”
Beverlee held out a small black case she had produced from the bottom of her purse. “I was hoping to practice my lock-picking skills while we’re here. Scoots said she couldn’t sell it because it had bloodstains on it, but with a baking soda and peroxide bath, I made it look brand new.”
After a long, slow inhale, I jangled the keyring in front of her. “We have keys, remember?”
“I know, but maybe you could go on in and have a peek around while I practice,” she said, bouncing in her seat like a toddler.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “The point is to be quick, not advertise that we’re breaking and entering.”
Beverlee huffed, then got out of the car. “Fine,” she conceded, slamming the door with a loud thud. So much for not making a scene.
The rooms at the Budget Inn opened toward an exterior corridor, a gloomy, grime-filled walkway lined with rusty windows and haphazard burgundy and gold squares that had been painted to cover shoddy repairs.
I looked over my shoulder, scanning for security cameras or an errant member of the paparazzi. Nothing ruined a good crime spree faster than getting caught on film.
I knocked on the door, but there was no response.
Satisfied that we were alone, I slid the master key into the lock and walked in, Beverlee close on my heels.
Rocco’s room smelled like a confusing combination of mildew and bathroom cleaner. Two double beds flanked the far wall, with brown and orange floral polyester coverlets tucked crisply underneath stacks of flat pillows the color of day-old pancakes. Floor-to-ceiling lined curtains were pushed back, letting in light and showcasing a flurry of dust-speckled air.
Beverlee closed the door behind me and let out a cheery whistle. “They haven’t changed this room in twenty years.”
She pointed to an amber-domed box on one of the side tables beside a black alarm clock with flashing red numbers. “I wonder if the Magic Fingers bed still works. Do you have any quarters? You know, for old time’s sake?”
I tried not to shudder. “I don’t want to know. Let’s just get this done and get out of here. I’m afraid the space-time vortex is going to suck me in and spit me back out in the wrong decade. And I’m not keen on being arrested by Starsky and Hutch when we walk out of here.”
“I can think of worse ways to spend an afternoon.” Beverlee grinned and stared off into the distance as if she were visiting a pleasant memory.
A low groan escaped my lips before I could stop it. I snapped my fingers and pointed at the stack of papers on the Formica table in the corner. “We need to focus. You can have your nostalgia time after we’re finished.”
She crossed the room and thumbed through the pages while I took a quick look through the drawers.
A moment later, I heard her sharp intake of breath. “You’re going to want to see these,” she whispered.
Her voice had lost its lightness, and my head jerked up at the sudden change in her tone.
Beverlee spread out a stack of pictures. They were taken at different locations and at different times, but they were all focused on the same subject: Lily Page.
“These aren’t publicity photos,” I said, picking up a picture of Lily at the supermarket. It had been shot through a window, as if someone were watching her from afar.
Beverlee opened a folder and a collection of articles spilled out, printed from a prominent tabloid website, The Enchanted Tattler.
I scanned them, a lump forming in my throat. “These are about Lily, too. Rocco has all the dirty details about the pickle affair.”
“Let me see,” Beverlee said as she plucked the piece of paper from my fingers and started reading out loud. “‘An anonymous source describes the family’s deep shame and regret over the incident. Odell Page, the small-town socialite’s father, reportedly put his fist through a wall at their corporate headquarters when he discovered his youngest daughter in a compromising position with the future CEO of his biggest competition.’”
“Sounds like Rocco might not be the only one with issues,” I said.
Beverlee agreed. “But why does he have all these pictures here with him in Flat Falls?”
I examined the room. There wasn’t a printer, or even a laptop. “Do you think he brought the photos with him?”
“This isn’t a simple workplace crush, Glory,” she said, her white-knuckled fingers gripping the edge of the table.
A shiver snaked down my spine as I looked around. Was I standing in the sanctuary of a killer?
Because Rocco wasn’t just enamored with the bride-to-be. He was stalking her.
12
Later that afternoon, I was sitting on my sofa trying to come up with centerpiece options made from twigs, conch shells, and hot pink sequins that wouldn’t make this wedding mirror a beach club stripper’s retirement party, when my cell phone rang.
“Hello?” I answered slowly. I wasn’t in the mood to talk about political candidates or be offered an extended warranty on my fifteen-year-old Honda.
“Glory, is that you?”
I didn’t recognize the voice, but the background, noisy with the clanking of glasses and the upbeat beach music, told me my quiet evening of crafting was about to end.
“It is,” I replied, apprehension roiling in my stomach. “Who is this?”
“It’s Lily Page. I hope you don’t mind me calling, but we’re having a girls’ night, and we thought you might like to join us.”
I pulled the phone away from my face and stared at it in confusion. Even though I hadn’t been a wedding planner for long, getting invited to party with a bride I barely knew didn�
��t seem like a normal part of the job.
When I moved the phone back up to my ear, I shook my head and cleared my throat. “But… why?”
“Hang on a second,” Lily said, followed by rustling and a low mumble.
“I’ve never known you to turn down an invitation.” The voice, high and shrill, held a derisive Southern twang.
I squeezed my eyes closed and wished there was an Advil fairy. “What are you doing there, Maggie?”
“We’re having a bachelorette party, Glory. What do you think we’re doing?”
Although a decade had passed since we’d been in school together, her voice still had the same smug tone that said I didn’t belong there. I could almost picture her look of impatient disdain.
“The location shoot ran long today, and Mimi mentioned needing footage of the brides having fun. So they decided to film an impromptu bachelorette party. Since I already had a meeting scheduled with Hazel, they invited me along.”
“So why did you call me?” I asked. The notion that Maggie and I were suddenly buddies didn’t sit well with me, and the entire conversation had me feeling like I was walking through a funhouse waiting for someone in a creepy clown costume to jump out and scare me.
“It was Mimi’s idea.”
There we go.
“Fine,” I said, studying the sweatpants and tank top I had thrown on earlier. “Give me half an hour.”
I wriggled into my only little black dress and twisted my hair up into a bun. I added a swipe of blush and mascara and finished with a bright red lipstick that had fallen out of Beverlee’s purse and into my sofa cushions.
After arriving with seven minutes to spare, I did a final armpit sniff and yanked open the door to Trolls.
The restaurant was more crowded than normal, and it took me a moment to find the group of giggling women crammed together next to the bar. I wound my way around the camera crew and headed toward them.
With her elbow on the bar and her sister Caroline seated beside her, Lily appeared to be holding court. The other women, including Hazel and Maggie, fanned out in a semi-circle. Beyond them, a crowd of onlookers mingled with the Romance Revival team, giddy to be on the outskirts of celebrity.
Lily was the first to see me. She hopped off her barstool and ran over to greet me with a chipper hug. “You came.”
I caught a glimpse of the camera, its red light flashing less than a few feet away.
Nobody wanted a grumpy wedding planner who would rather spend the evening at home in her pajamas, so I manufactured a smile. “Wouldn’t have missed it.”
She tugged me toward the bar. “Come have a drink. Do you like sangria?”
I eyed the pitcher of dark wine filled with cinnamon sticks and bright slices of oranges, lemons, and green apples. Sangria was one of my favorites, but only because it always made me think of the person who could make it better than anyone else.
“Do you know Ian?” Lily asked as I finally noticed him leaning against the wall at the other end of the bar. His mouth curved up into a slow smile, and the room suddenly felt about ten degrees warmer and a hundred square feet smaller.
I heard a chuckle from behind me and I turned to see Maggie, who was pulling a glass of chardonnay away from her lips. “Yes, you could say they know each other.”
Lily looked back and forth between me and Ian and bounced on her stool. “I had forgotten what a small town this is, and this seems like an interesting conversation. Tell us everything.”
I shrugged and reached for a glass from the bar. “Nothing to tell. Really.”
“Don’t be so modest, Glory,” Maggie said, then glanced at Lily. “Glory here was the love of Ian’s life. And she blew it by marrying another man.”
Caroline cast a doubtful glance at Ian, whose muscles were flexing as he wiped down the counter with a bar towel. “There was somebody better than him?”
Back in high school, Ian had been my entire world, the person who tethered me to the ground when I got a wild idea or found myself in another bout of trouble. But I let the promise of big city life lure me away from him, and it wasn’t long before I was swept away by Cobb Mulvaney.
Cobb had sweet talk down to a science. Too bad he was a lousy husband and an all-around thief.
Sadness washed over me as I thought about the complicated history between me and Ian. But I wasn’t about to give Maggie the satisfaction of witnessing me rehash my regret over leaving him behind, so I took a hefty swig of sangria and raised my glass toward the other women. “Tonight isn’t about me. How about a toast to the brides-to-be instead?”
My eyes focused down the bar where Ian stood watching me, and I was only vaguely aware of the cheers and the clinking of glasses.
I lifted my glass again in a mock salute, then turned back to the group, hoping to hide the flush creeping up my cheeks by completely ignoring it.
“Tell me how the filming went today,” I said to Lily. “How is Dan?”
Lily’s smile wavered. “He was fine. Mimi said the camera loves him.”
Caroline gave her sister’s arm a gentle squeeze. “He seems like a nice guy. Kind of quiet, but maybe a pleasant, stable businessman is just what you need right now.”
“I don’t think Daddy’s ever going to bury that hatchet, though,” Lily said. “I overheard him on the phone this morning with his lawyer, trying to figure out if there’s a lawsuit hidden around here somewhere.”
“Are you kidding?” she scoffed. “Everybody knows you have questionable taste in men, and he forgave you for bringing that wrestler home, even though that guy broke Dad’s favorite chair during his after-dinner show.”
“Mmmm,” Lily murmured, her attention riveted on something else.
I followed her stare.
Rocco sat, unmoving, in a dark corner across the room. Watching, like a predator.
“Is he bothering you?” I asked, anxiety prickling my skin.
Her gaze held Rocco’s for a few moments before she turned back to the group, finishing the rest of her drink in one long swallow. She set her glass down on the bar. “He’s not bothering me at all,” she said with a soft shake of her head as an upbeat song played through the speakers. “And I’m ready to dance.”
“You heard the bride,” I said, pointing toward the center of the room where all the tables had been shoved to the side to form a dance floor. “It’s time to cut a rug.”
A small, pulsing crowd gathered behind them, and the sangria-fueled group blended into the party on the dance floor within minutes, long arms and ombre hair extensions whirling through the air.
Lily’s sister lost her inhibitions first, kicking her heels under a barstool before spinning back into the fold. Lily followed suit, dangling her silver sandals from her fingertips until she finally let them drop in a heap on the floor next to her. Hazel’s normal scowl lessened into more of a displeased frown as she gyrated to the music.
The Romance Revival crew circled the group, with Mimi at the front of the pack issuing directions and making sure they didn’t miss a single shot of the action.
Even the paparazzi seemed to enjoy the show. The redhead’s hooded sweatshirt was gone, and in its place, he sported a casual T-shirt advertising a local brewery.
I hung back at the bar, hiding my chuckle behind my wine glass as Lily attempted an awkward version of the Running Man. She resembled the spindly needle on an old record player, lurching and weaving to the music.
“It’s not nice to laugh at the less fortunate,” Ian said from behind me. His voice was low and silky and, like always, sent a shot of fire coursing through my veins. “Not everybody had the experience of winning first place for her break-dancing routine to “Like a Virgin” in the school talent show.”
Heat prickled my cheeks. “I was in the third grade, Ian.”
“And I still remember you flashing your day-of-the-week underwear to the entire school while you tried to spin around on your head. You were wearing Tuesday.” He leaned in closer. “But it was Friday. You wer
e an untouchable rebel, even then.”
I groaned, then pressed my forehead to the bar. “Don’t remind me. Elementary school was hard.”
I heard the twist of a cap and he placed a bottle of water next to my head. “Looks like watching other people dancing has gotten you overheated. I’m going out to the deck for my break. Care to join me?”
I stared at his outstretched palm as he stepped around the bar.
“Only if you promise to not talk about my underwear again.”
His eyes got dark, and that elusive dimple flashed in his cheek. He grabbed the water bottle off the counter with one hand and hauled me off the stool with the other. “No deal,” he said, dragging me through the crowd toward the back door. “That’s one of my favorite subjects.”
As soon as the door to the bar closed and I stepped out onto the deck, I took a deep breath. The weather had cooled down, a slight breeze stirred the air, and my brain wasn’t being rattled by a frenzy of too-loud pop music and overly perfumed socialites. Bamboo tiki lamps flickered along the railings, their amber flames reflecting on the water that lapped up to the wooden dock. The whooshing echo of cars driving over the bridge above made the rest of the world seem far away.
Ian held out the bottle of water, and I accepted it with a nod of thanks. “When did I become the one who wanted to leave a party early so I could go home and eat microwave popcorn and watch a chick flick?” I mused.
I still liked to dance, but these days, I did it in the privacy of my living room.
Ian laughed and inclined his head toward the bar, where the muffled sounds of celebration drifted out. “What’s really going on in there?”
I shrugged. “I’m not allowed to talk about it. Just trust me when I say you should be careful the next time you want to date somebody. People are crazy, and love can get you killed.”
Ian raised a brow and leaned in close, his breath a whisper against my cheek. “I know firsthand how dangerous love can be, Glory.”
A strange combination of panic and pleasure shot through me, and my eyes darted toward the door as I felt an impulse to run.
Tying the Knot (A Wedding Crashers Mystery Book 2) Page 11