A Wedding To Die For yrm-2

by Leann Sweeney

  “What did she tell you?” I asked.

  “What did who tell me about what?”

  Typical man. If the conversation doesn’t flow continuously you better have that CNN ticker tape running across your forehead for frequent updates. “What did your friend Quinn need you for so badly? Can’t she do her job alone?”

  “I can’t tell you what we discussed.”

  “This isn’t your case, so why keep secrets?” My voice was hard. The green-eyed monster didn’t want to be contained.

  “Any information I have concerning an ongoing investigation is off-limits. This is no exception.”

  “Fine. Be that way.” I folded my arms.

  He took out another stick of gum while I turned my face to the window. This might be an extra-long ride home.

  3

  Lying in bed the next morning, I thought about what happened between Jeff and me last night—our first fight since he and I started getting serious a few months ago. Problem was, he didn’t seem to realize we were having an argument. When we reached my house and I suggested he go on to his own place, he looked at me as if we’d been playing a friendly game of poker and I’d pulled a fifth ace. Then his beeper went off and a double homicide on the southeast side took him away with hardly a good-bye.

  So I spent the night with my calico cat, Diva, in the chilly house. She had climbed beneath the quilt at some point and now purred at my feet. I’d recently bought this place, a three bedroom brick-and-stone bungalow near Rice University. It was built in the fifties and needed a new furnace among other things. The steps creaked and the wallpaper looked like something from Archie Bunker’s house, but I loved my new home, loved its smallness compared to the mansion I’d grown up in. Aside from a college dorm room, this was the first time I’d truly been on my own, despite more than thirty years on earth. My late daddy had decided that living in the lap of luxury with him was how he was supposed to take care of his girls. But Daddy had been wrong. He’d been wrong about a lot of things. In the months since I’d learned exactly how wrong, I’d almost forgiven him for his lies.

  I laced my fingers behind my neck and thought about Megan, wondered how she was doing and if the loss of her father would mimic mine—a wound that never quite heals. I’d seen a profound sadness in her eyes when I left her house yesterday. It was probably the same look I wore the day Daddy died.

  The phone rang and I saw from the Caller ID that it was Kate.

  “Traitor,” I said when I picked up.

  “I’m sorry I had to leave you there, Abby, but one of my teenage patients attempted suicide, so—”

  “Okay. The guilt ball is back in my court. I was just kidding, anyway. Is the kid okay?”

  “She’s fine. Her parents are transferring her to a private facility this morning. By the way, Terry and I dropped off your car late last night.”

  “Thanks. Might need that today. So Terry helped you with your patient?” Terry Armstrong, also a psychologist, is Kate’s significant other.

  “Yes. He met me at the emergency room.”

  “You two should go into practice together,” I said.

  “Living in the same house is more than enough time spent in each other’s company. Not that I don’t adore him, but there’s such a thing as too much togetherness. So what happened after I left last evening?”

  I filled her in, excluding my own issues with one snarly police chief.

  “So Megan still wants you to find the birth mother?” she asked, sounding surprised.

  “Yes, but I’m consulting with Angel as soon as I can. Should have asked for his help when I came up empty in the first place. I guess pride isn’t so hard to swallow if you chew on it long enough.”

  Diva emerged and blinked her amber eyes several times. I rubbed under her chin with my free hand.

  “Sure you still want to do this job? Megan’s a sweetheart, but the rest of the family? I don’t know, Abby. Graham smelled like a bar at closing time, Holt kept looking at me like maybe we could get together after they got that inconvenient body out of the way, and the sisters? I think they have serious identity issues.”

  “Not all that pretty, huh?”

  “Not.”

  “Can you tell me about Sylvia?” I asked. “I was holed up in the laundry room with a guy meaner than a rodeo bull and about as talkative. I didn’t see what happened to her.”

  “She woke up pretty quick after fainting, but then started crying and carrying on—which is understandable. I heard from one of the paramedics that she got so hysterical they had to give her IV Valium in the ambulance.”

  “And she seemed like such a take-charge person. Guess not.”

  “You can never predict human behavior, Abby. Especially during times of stress.”

  “Okay, Doc. I bow to your superior knowledge.”

  She laughed. “And so you should. Seriously, it may simply have been seeing all that blood that got to her. I’m not too good with blood myself. Anyway, I called only to explain why I ran out on you yesterday. Terry’s up and hungry, so before he starts talking about kolaches or doughnuts, I better get some fruit and bran into him. Call me later.”

  She hung up. Poor Terry. A man who loved to eat as much as he did had no business getting mixed up with my sister. She juiced everything imaginable, even ears of corn, and bought seeds and nuts and vegetables no ordinary person had ever heard of. But Terry surely had psychoanalyzed himself enough to understand his unconscious motivation to subject himself to torture.

  Phone still in hand, I checked the clock. Eight A.M. Angel would be awake. I had his home number on speed dial and he answered on the second ring.

  “You get up this early, huh?” he said once we exchanged greetings.

  “Not usually. But that last case you gave me has proved tougher than I thought. And now there’s been complications. Any chance we could get together at your office and discuss it?”

  “I have a few rules about the office. I never go there on the Lord’s day. You work as long as I have, you can make some rules.”

  “Tomorrow, then?” I asked, unable to hide my disappointment. If he helped me out today, gave me some hints on how to start this thing over, I could get busy Monday morning.

  “Hey, I didn’t say I don’t work on Sunday, I just avoid my damn office answering machine. Meet me at the pancake house—you know which one. Say, eleven o’clock after Mass?”

  “Okay.” I hung up, smiled, and settled back under the covers, Diva purring on my chest. I could sleep for two more hours.

  But not five minutes later I heard the doorbell. Who in hell was ringing my doorbell at this hour on a Sunday morning? Unless Jeff forgot his key. Or maybe this visitor was from the Seacliff police and they wanted to discuss something about the murder.

  Gosh, I hope it’s not Fielder, I thought, catching a glimpse in the dresser mirror on my way out of the bedroom. With the light-socket hair and dark circles under my eyes, I could have scared a maggot off spoiled meat.

  I put on my pink chenille robe and hurried down the stairs, but after looking through the peephole, I stepped back. Damn. I thought I’d permanently parted ways with my aunt Caroline, yet there she was on my doorstep.

  She tried knocking and I crossed my arms, considering whether to answer. I hadn’t returned any of her phone calls and was hoping that once I’d moved from the old neighborhood, she couldn’t find me. But Kate still had contact with her, and she’s a whole lot more forgiving than I am. Aunt Caroline probably had an easy time wheedling my new address out of her.

  Daddy’s sister, Caroline, and I never got along even before I learned she’d taken money from Daddy to keep silent about my illegal adoption. I mean, her nose is so up in the air she’d drown in a storm. But after I found out about how she’d lied for years, lied out of pure greed, I couldn’t stomach the sight of her.

  But now she’d found me, and knowing her, she wouldn’t give up until she had her say.

  Might as well get this over with.

&
nbsp; I unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door.

  If this had been a year ago, she would have marched right in, but she didn’t. She just stood there. “Thank you for answering, Abigail. I know you don’t want to see me, but I have missed you. Missed you very much.”

  Was this early-morning pilgrimage to seek my forgiveness her substitute for church this morning? I gestured with my head for her to follow, and we walked toward the kitchen, Diva leading the way.

  Going through the house was like navigating an obstacle course on a reality television show, and Diva had her usual fun, leaping alongside us from one packing crate to another. Though I had moved in more than a month ago, boxes sat untouched everywhere. We reached the kitchen, where my small stack of cookbooks sat on one chair and clean but unfolded laundry took up the other. I moved the books.

  After taking off her cashmere coat with the fur collar, she placed it on the back of the chair. Aunt Caroline then sat and set her Gucci bag by her feet. She wore a fuzzy peacock sweater with some kind of gaudy beaded strands decorating the neckline.

  Still saying nothing, and hoping the silence would make her squirm a little, I fed the cat and started the coffee. Only then did I toss the clothes off the other chair into an already overflowing basket near the door to the laundry room. Most of them ended up on the tile and I checked Aunt Caroline’s reaction, considering this a test. She flinched a little, but offered no criticism.

  Was this newfound restraint an act?

  “I had a hard time locating you, Abigail,” she said, fingering one strand of beads.

  “Kate tell you where to find me?” I asked.

  “No. Your policeman friend led me here. I hear you’re involved with him.”

  “Is that right?” Instant anger burned in my gut. I could cope with jealousy—after all that was my responsibility—but if Jeff had been talking to Aunt Caroline behind my back, then—

  “And he didn’t tell me anything, if that’s what you think. I had him followed since following Kate seemed... invasive.”

  I blinked. “And following Jeff isn’t invasive?”

  She smiled one of her face-lift afflicted smiles. “He’ll understand. He’s probably used to it.”

  “Right, except he does the following,” I said.

  “Same difference. Anyway, I did learn a few things after what happened last summer,” she said. “I may have been less than honest with you in the past and—”

  “Less than honest? I swear you’d lie even if the truth sounded better.” Was I being harsh? You betcha. After a few decades of deception I figured I owed her about as much respect as a coyote owes a jackrabbit.

  “Can I finish?” she said.

  “Go on.”

  “I’m willing to work on those... less than desirable aspects of my personality.” She said the last few words so fast I nearly didn’t catch them.

  “And so you have Jeff followed to accomplish that goal?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “The detective I hired said there’s nothing wrong with following people. Can you forgive me for my past mistakes?”

  “I don’t know.” I chewed on a cuticle, already feeling myself weakening. Heck, she was pushing seventy. And grudges made you run even if no one was chasing you. I didn’t want to run.

  “Please consider the possibility,” she said, her eyes moist.

  I stood abruptly, a tiny, unwelcome lump in my throat. “Coffee?”

  Her features relaxed as much as the Botox would allow. “I’d love coffee.”

  We sipped and made small talk about her latest charity event. Then Aunt Caroline said, “I’m aware you left CompuCan. They miss you.”

  Kate had told me my aunt still sat on the board of Daddy’s old company. “Right,” I said. “They miss me bumbling around like I knew what I was doing. I have a new job.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I find people,” I replied, avoiding eye contact. I had a working person’s job now, not a token appointment from an inherited business. I was guessing she wouldn’t approve and for some stupid reason, her approval still seemed important. Old habits die hard.

  But she surprised me by actually sounding interested. “So tell me more. Is this a computer job? Because despite your protestations, you’re very good with computers.”

  “The job does involve plenty of Internet searches, but actually... I’m a private investigator specializing in adoption.”

  She slowly nodded. “I see. And have you had much work?”

  “A few cases so far, but I have to build my reputation and—”

  “I could help. Give me some business cards and tell me where your office is. I have plenty of friends who would be more than—”

  “That’s not necessary, Aunt Caroline. In Texas, you have to—how do I put it?—apprentice with a licensed investigator.”

  “So you’re an intern? You’re not even getting paid?” Ah, the old Aunt Caroline hadn’t completely disappeared after all.

  “I do get paid,” I snapped.

  She held up both hands. “Sorry. I’m being judgmental and I vowed not to do that. Do you work downtown?”

  “Angel’s allowed me to work out of my home with my own little branch of his agency. It’s called Yellow Rose Investigations, though technically I’m employed by him. He’s sent me a few clients and I’m advertising on my own as well.”

  She looked around. “You work here?”

  “I have an office in the front of the house in what was supposed to be the formal living room. I’m done with formal anything, Aunt Caroline. This is what I want.” I spread my arms and nodded around the room, hoping she understood this was a warning. I didn’t want any of her snooty society friends sending me business.

  “This place is, well, very like you,” she said, nodding again. “But if you plan to redecorate, remember the traditional look never goes out of style.”

  “I’ll remember.” This visit was dragging on way too long.

  “And if you’re at peace with this new lifestyle, that’s wonderful.”

  At peace? I wondered if I’d ever be at peace with her, but running away wouldn’t solve that problem. I’d accept her back into my life if only to quit running from the past. But that didn’t mean I’d ever forget how she’d betrayed Kate and me.

  Angel Molina mopped a hefty bite of blueberry pancakes through the puddle of syrup on his plate. I’d finished my omelet and was nursing a mug of coffee while he worked on his second stack. Angel’s a strapping, soft-spoken man with steel-colored hair pulled straight back into a ponytail. He usually wore white shirts that looked fresh from the dry cleaner and today was no exception. A longtime Texas Ranger who went private, he took me under his wing after Jeff arranged for us to discuss my future as a PI.

  “Now, fill me in on this case,” Angel said after swallowing a mouthful of pancakes. “The client’s that sweet little girl I sent to you, right?”

  “Yes. Megan Beadford.” I explained what had happened yesterday, then said, “I thought she’d forget the whole mother hunt after her adoptive father was murdered, but she wants me to keep looking. Trouble is, I’ve got next to nothing to go on.”

  Angel dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin and checked the pristine shirt for traces of breakfast. Satisfied he hadn’t spilled anything, he said, “You brought the file?”

  I handed a thin folder across the table. We were sitting in a back booth of Angel’s favorite twenty-four-hour restaurant. Sunday’s after-church crowd, replete with screeching, whining children, filled every table. Another throng of adults and toddlers swelled out the door waiting for their turn at breakfast mania.

  Angel thumbed through the meager pages of Megan’s file and stopped at one sheet. “No match at the Central Adoption Registry. Too bad.” He looked up. “But I see no court filing to open the adoption file. That’s the next logical step.”

  “Megan nixed that suggestion. She believed a court case would be hard to hide from her family.”

  He sho
ok his head, tight lipped. “Secrets. Everybody with their damn secrets. Keeps us working, though, huh?”

  I smiled. “Sure does. That’s why I couldn’t contact the lawyer who handled the adoption. I have a name—Caleb Moore—but since he was hired by James Beadford he would have been obligated to notify Megan’s father before talking to me.”

  “That’s true. So now you’ve learned something about the PI business if nothing else. It’s about pulling rabbits out of sombreros.” He continued thumbing through the file. “What’s this?” He held up Kate’s psychological profile of Megan and the summary of their counseling session.

  I told him about partnering up with Kate and my reasons for doing so.

  “Smart girl. But that doesn’t help you find people, especially those who don’t want to be found. And I see that in this case you’ve got the birth certificate and little else. Pretty challenging.”

  Our waitress passed by, slipping a new carafe of coffee onto the table and nodding when Angel pointed at his empty plate to indicate he wanted another stack.

  I poured more coffee. Bad coffee. Weak and ineffective, like I felt.

  Meanwhile, Angel took a lipstick mirror from his shirt pocket and removed a molecule of blueberry from between his front teeth.

  A lipstick mirror? Who said Vanity, thy name is woman? “Did you just have those teeth bleached?” I asked.

  He grinned. “Friday. Do I look good?”

  “You smile like that again and I might need to put on my sunglasses.”

  He held the mirror eye level and bared his teeth. “So it’s a bad job? Too fake?”

  I laughed. “You’re good-looking enough to make a glass eye blink.”

  “Wiseass.” He tucked the mirror back in his pocket and returned to the folder, this time pulling out my copy of the birth certificate. He studied it for several seconds. “At least you got the hospital name, but where is Kingston Bay?”

  “Right across from NASA, a town with only about a dozen streets. There’s a good-sized medical facility, though. St. Mary’s. It serves the astronauts and the Clear Lake area.”

  “You went there, I assume?”