MURDER at the ALTAR (The Wedding Planner Mysteries Book 3)

by Jeanine Spooner

  When she stepped out onto the sixth floor landing, she got her bearings immediately. Gretchen and David’s condo was up ahead on the right. And number 608, Marcus’ condo sat directly across the hall.

  Of course there was the issue of the front door being locked, but Kitty had come too far to be thwarted by such obstacles. She still had the polarized magnets in her black purse and had binge-watched enough reruns of MacGyver last night to not only have a delusional sense of confidence, but also the show’s theme song going around her head.

  She hummed its catchy tune, hitting the higher parts of the melody with crazed enthusiasm, as she angled the magnet directly in front of the area on the door’s edge where she presumed the dead bolt aligned on the other side.

  The door itself was wood, so it wasn’t too difficult to feel when the magnet clamped then pulled at the metal dead bolt. Once she was sure it had magnetized, she slowly dragged the magnet horizontally back so that the pull slid the lock out of the doorframe.

  “Yes!” She exclaimed in a whisper-yell that had her immediately glancing over her shoulder at the elevator to be sure no one was coming. No one was.

  Kitty tested the doorknob, but it was locked, as she expected it would be. She assessed the keyhole and tried to visualize what kind of lock was on the other side. How could she use the magnet to her advantage?

  After careful study, she wasn’t sure she could. So Kitty did the next best thing. She set the heavy magnet in her purse, took a few steps back, then kicked the door in, grunting then wincing that she’d snapped her purple heel.

  But the door was swinging inward.

  “Yes!”

  She slipped inside and shut the door behind her then realized the metal frame around the doorknob had completely sprung loose. She eyed it then popped it back into place, and finally the front door held closed.

  “Yes!”

  She checked her watch. She had three hours. It should be more than enough time. It had to be just enough time. She crept quietly into the condo, taking uneven steps thanks to her truncated left high heel that was now half its original height.

  The snooping gods were in her favor that day. Marcus couldn’t have lived here long. The condo was almost completely empty except for clothes hanging in the bedroom closet, a rickety Ikea bed, and a large wooden trunk set beneath the window at the back of the bedroom.

  Kitty made a beeline for the trunk and hoisted its heavy lid vertical.

  A number of blankets were resting on top so she lifted those out of the trunk and found a number of shoeboxes beneath, wedged between filing folders that were neatly stacked upright. She set everything she could find on the bedroom floor then opened the first file folder.

  It contained report cards from college. Odd. She set that folder aside and flipped through the next one, which appeared to be a handwritten tally of winnings versus cash lost on various dates. It also noted the bookie’s names and contact numbers.

  She felt her heart race when she noticed check marks next to each bookie, an indication that Marcus had either collected his boon, or paid off his debt. Faster and faster she scrolled through the tallies, flipped to the next page, scrolled through, flipped and flipped and flipped until she found the last page, the last loss.

  There was no check mark beside it.

  That’s when she discovered the name to which Marcus owed money.

  Roberta Downey.

  Gretchen’s mother?

  If Marcus had succeeded in cheating Kip, why wouldn’t he use the thirty thousand to pay off what he owed to Roberta?

  And more importantly, why did he owe Roberta?

  Had she lent him cash to clear a different debt? To smooth things over with Kip Cartwright whom Marcus had essentially stolen from when he’d counted cards?

  Quickly, Kitty pulled her cell from her purse and took several pictures of the handwritten log. Then she set her phone down and opened the nearest shoebox.

  Inside she found a house key on a key chain. Curious. The key chain had a trinket attached; flat silver silhouettes of two men holding hands and initials were carved across its surface in cursive lettering - MJ & CD.

  MJ—that was Marcus Joseph.

  Who was CD?

  Kitty palmed the key chain in her left fist then took to rummaging through the contents of the shoebox.

  Five photos.

  They were all of Roberta and her husband, Cliff.

  How bizarre.

  “Police! Freeze!”

  Kitty nearly had a heart attack when the man behind her yelled. She lifted her hands in the air and slowly turned.

  The officer looked severe and she gasped when she realized his gun was aimed right at her.

  “On the ground! Face down! Now!” he yelled.

  “Oh! It’s Ok! I’m Kitty Sinclair!”

  He widened his eyes as though she was insane.

  “The wedding planner?”

  Chapter Twelve

  It was a little early in the day to be descending stairs into the bowels of the Greenwich Jail, but Kitty had a special gift for throwing Sterling off his natural rhythm.

  Breaking and entering?

  He couldn’t tell if it was a step up or down from her previous grave robbing charge, but one thing was clear: Kitty kept things interesting. He’d give her that much...

  Sterling slowed up when he reached the foot of the stairs and knew he had less than fifteen steps before he’d pass through the secured door that led to the womens’ holding cells.

  He’d wrestled with it all night, drinking beers, seeing but not watching a football game on TV, chain smoking in ways Kitty never allowed in her own little house; how close he’d come to telling her he was in love.

  But she’d stopped him.

  She hadn’t wanted to hear it. She’d made it clear she knew exactly what he was about to say, and she just hadn't wanted to hear it.

  Now who was toying with whom?

  She’d hit him for Christ’s sake. She’d been that determined.

  For as hard as she’d pushed to get to know him, get a commitment, and get him to sleep in her bed until sunrise, she’d been angling for a relationship she couldn’t live up to. Maybe she was a lot more like Sterling than either of them would’ve thought?

  The notion was jarring.

  And no matter how much he’d drank and smoked and spaced out to the tune of a thousand screaming fans on TV, nothing alleviated how crushed he felt.

  Sleeping over had been a big step. He knew it. So did she.

  So badly he wanted to say the words to Kitty, and even more than saying them, he wanted to hear her reciprocate. He’d made the emotional leap seemingly in the blink of an eye, but now that he was ready, she wasn’t?

  How is that fair?

  Maybe it was, he considered as he pressed the call button outside the secured door. Maybe he was getting exactly what he deserved—a taste of his own bitter medicine.

  The door buzzed loudly, unlocking, and Sterling shoved it open and passed down the long row of jail cells that were barely occupied.

  He’d warned her not to be alone with the Downeys, as well as the Cartwrights. He thought he’d instilled fear in her, expressed that she wouldn’t be safe unless he was with her, but she’d completely disregarded him and gone to the one place that could’ve gotten her seriously hurt…or worse.

  Sterling let a little anger wash over him. He needed it. Getting mad would be something to focus on. It’d distract him from the hole in his heart that Kitty refused to fill.

  Get angry, he told himself. And feel free to let her have it.

  Kitty was seated on a bench in the last jail cell on the left. Her arms were folded, her legs crossed. Her mouth was pressed into a line as though she’d been greatly inconvenience by the arrest. Christ, the woman looked indignant. She had no concept she’d broken the law. Yet Sterling found her attitude strangely appealing. Maybe even a little sexy.

  “Where’s Trudy?” she snapped, hopping up from the bench and wrapping her
hands around the bars, another move Sterling found hot.

  “She couldn’t make it. Something about a ploy to keep Gretchen Downey busy? I assumed that was your doing as well.”

  Kitty huffed then pushed her face between the bars, causing Sterling to have to take a look aside to break his sudden urge to kiss her.

  When he faced her again she was staring at him.

  “Are you here to bail me out,” she snapped. “Or are you just going to stare at me?”

  “You’re the one who’s staring,” he barked.

  “Don’t you raise your voice at me—”

  “Well someone has to!” he yelled, embracing the full extent of the anger he’d been feeling since The Black Swan. “What the hell were you thinking breaking into Marcus Joseph’s condo?!”

  “So you knew he had a condo!” she retorted, as though she’d caught him in guilty lies.

  “I know a lot of things, Doll, I’m working a homicide here!”

  She pressed her face between the bars again and looked damn cute doing it, but Sterling didn’t let his fury falter.

  “Marcus bought that condo with money he’d stolen from the Cartwright Casino.”

  If this is tit for tat, she’ll have to show a lot more tit.

  “Why are you grinning?” she demanded.

  “Just thinking about you topless—”

  “Sterling!” She rattled the bars. “Get me out of here!”

  “Calm down. Christ, you’re acting like a wild animal.”

  Sterling nearly called the guard over, but stopped himself. There were advantages to keeping Kitty locked up. He might be able to get an answer or two out of her, that is, if he was brave enough to really want to know.

  “Why’d you cut me off last night?” he demanded, though his tone softened. He was losing his grasp on his anger and felt suddenly vulnerable.

  “I told you,” she said, maintaining irritation in her tone. Why couldn’t she bend for him like he did for her? “I didn’t want to hear it.”

  He shook his head, believing and yet not believing her. She was downright unbelievable.

  “You’re pushing me to be with you and you don’t want to hear it?”

  “Duh!”

  He cocked his head at that.

  “It’s because I want to be with you that I can’t stand for you dishing out any more of your-your-you know!”

  Maybe her time in jail had officially stripped her of every last shred of logic, because Kitty wasn’t making an ounce of sense.

  “I know about your boomerang,” she went on. “And I can’t take it!”

  Boomerang?

  Sterling gave up. She was speaking a different language and there was no point.

  Note to self: don’t tell Kitty you love her. Ever.

  He waved at the guard and soon the man was unlocking Kitty’s cell. It was then that Sterling noticed her left purple heel was broken. Kitty hobbled with an uneven pace along the holding cells then passed through the secured door when the guard held it open.

  Sterling met the guard's gaze then hurried after, already dreading driving Kitty back to her Fiat that he could only assume was parked outside of the building she’d broken into.

  “Marcus owed Roberta Downey a ton of money,” she said, as she plopped into the passenger’s side of his Jeep.

  Sterling chalked it up to more nonsense then closed the door for her and rounded the front of his vehicle. He required a very deep breath of fresh autumn air before he opened his door and climbed in behind the wheel. And it took even longer to shut his door. Kitty was staring at him, appalled that he wasn’t finding her bizarre information pertinent.

  “Are you hearing this? He owed Mrs. Downey money!”

  He groaned out a long sigh and started the engine.

  “I think he was infatuated with Roberta,” she went on, apparently thinking very highly of her investigative skills, as Sterling drove out of the police station parking lot and began heading west on Main Street. “He had all these photos of her. Maybe they were involved...” she mused, trailing off.

  “You think a homosexual gambler was romantically involved with the fifty-two year old mother of his closest friend?” he challenged.

  Kitty glared at him.

  “Marcus had a lover,” she announced. “He’d made a key for the person.”

  Sterling managed to both roll his eyes and keep them on the road ahead.

  “Maybe he was planning on giving the condo key to his lover, but Roberta discovered his obsession with her? Or came after him for the money? Or! Or!” Kitty flew into a manic brainstorm. “Or she felt like his condo belonged to her since he owed her so much money! So she killed him!”

  Kitty trained her gaze on Sterling and seemed to be holding her breath for his reaction.

  “What do you think?!”

  After squeezing the brakes and rolling to a stop for a red light, he turned to her slowly and said, “I think you need constant supervision and I won’t be able to let you out of my sight.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  And he didn’t, which made for a resentful evening—Kitty washing up with the bathroom door cracked, changing into a nightgown in her bedroom in the same manner, keeping an eye on Sterling, who sat disgruntled on her couch, staring at the muted TV, refusing to let her lure him, but wanting her to all the same. She slept in her bed, he on the couch, but neither reached deep, restful sleep.

  In the morning they avoided one another, exercising the same brand of stubbornness. If Sterling spoke at all it was to complain that he didn’t like her cereal or that there wasn’t enough milk or that he smelled like potpourri thanks to her couch and the Chenille throw he had no choice but to sleep under. Kitty one-upped him by not responding whatsoever, which he tried to provoke by pulling cigarette after cigarette out of his soft pack of Camels. Each time she simply plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and held it in the kitchen sink faucet stream then tossed it in the trash without so much as a word.

  If this bizarre dynamic was killing Sterling, he didn’t let on. Kitty stole glances when she could, but never caught him eyeing her. Even when she got all dolled up in a flamboyant, sea foam green dress that hung low at the neckline and high on the thigh in just the way he preferred, it didn’t break him.

  And the long afternoon at the mansion rehearsing the wedding with Gretchen and David, the Downeys and the Cartwrights, and all the bridesmaids and groomsmen, while Christopher Marlowe grumbled his words and fumbled the rings, was no better. Sterling was on her like white on rice, but he never let up his dark, determined agenda of keeping her safe, while also punishing her, but for what she truly didn’t understand.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Sterling had followed her down the corridor and grabbed her arm just before she reached the door.

  “I’m going to tinkle, Sterling.” she stated, enunciating each word as though he was a child hard of hearing. “I’m sure I can manage without you.”

  His face pinched into a grimace. He clearly didn’t appreciate her sarcasm, but she’d run out of patience last night. The problem wasn’t that he’d been following her around like a shadow. It was his dismissive attitude, the way he seemed to be able to shut off his attraction. It crushed her.

  Sterling banged the bathroom door open for her then shut it as soon as her black heels clicked over tiles. She didn’t hear his footsteps walking away. Good Lord, he was going to wait for her out there.

  Making matters worse was the fact that Sterling had refused to put on a suit that morning, claiming it was much too warm and his holster and gun wouldn’t sit right under a formal jacket. The man was about to attend the rehearsal dinner with the entire wedding party and he was dressed in a black tee and worn out jeans as always, gun at his ribs for the entire world to see. The only saving grace, if there was one, was that dinner would be served on the terrace behind the mansion and lit only by candles. It would be dim, romantic, and hopefully the guests wouldn’t take notice of him.

  Kitty ran
the faucet, being sure to set a gentle, tinkling stream, and then rushed to the window, being sure to step on her tippy-toes so her heels wouldn’t click and give her away. She hoisted the glass pane upward and eyed the dark night outside—the stars in the sky and the soft grass that appeared to be only four feet below. It might be awkward slinking through, but it’d definitely be worth it. Anything to escape the likes of Sterling Slaughter.

  She landed with minimal impact and told herself Sterling couldn’t have heard the thud. When she straightened up she checked both her heels. Neither was bent or broken so she scurried off, heels shuffling over cushy grass, as she rounded the back of the mansion and came upon the grand, stone terrace. The guests were filtering through the French doors, like a slow-moving herd of cattle, and wandering through the tables, checking the names on each card to find their seats.

  Kitty took a moment to scan the faces, while at the same time keeping her eye on the French doors in case Sterling barreled through to seize her.

  Gretchen was on David’s arm and laughing it up with a few of her bridesmaids. When Kitty scanned further she saw Elizabeth and Kip Cartwright actively avoiding Roberta Downey, who perused the alcoholic beverages display on top of the bar, while the server on the other side waited for her to make a decision.

  As the crowd of guests thickened, Kitty kept glancing from face to face, but she couldn’t find Cliff anywhere. The server handed Roberta a glass of white wine, the very sight of which made Kitty’s taste buds tingle, then the bride’s mother wandered off to find her seat.

  Kitty was fast to approach.

  “Lovely night,” said Kitty, sidling up to Roberta. Kitty glanced at the stars and drew in a deep breath to really enhance the statement, but Roberta seemed more interested in her wine. “It’s supposed to be just as nice tomorrow for the wedding.”

  Roberta smiled, but it looked more than slightly pained. She sipped her wine.