“Bixby looked like he had a lot to say,” I ventured.
Brad poured himself a cup of coffee and stared into the brown liquid. “He wanted to ask me about the latest threat.” He looked up. “Audrey, what is happening? This is a nightmare. He has a point that the person who wrote the note has to be one of the cast or crew. Who else could get in? But why would any of us want to stop the show?” His eyes panned the room until he stopped to look at Nick.
Nick raised an eyebrow and stared back at him.
Brad set down his cup. “You have motive to stop the show.”
“Why would I—?” Nick started.
“Brad, don’t be silly,” I said
“No, I mean it.” Brad set his focus straight on Nick. “You were turned down to be on camera. That could have done your career some good. But then I come back to town. Maybe you thought I was a threat to your relationship, is that it?” Brad had raised his voice. Several cast members—and Bixby—were looking in our direction.
“Brad,” I said, purposely calming my voice and trying to drag him into a quiet corner. “You can’t possibly think Nick had anything to do with this?”
But Brad held his ground, even if he did lower his voice a little. “You’ve had access to the Ashbury. You could have written the note and slipped it on the desk as easily as I could have. More so, since nobody is watching your coming and going.” He said that last part extra loud and focused his attention on Bixby, who wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he was listening intently to this conversation.
“But I didn’t,” Nick said. “And I was in the shop baking, with another employee present, during the time of Gary’s death.”
And I hoped that Jenny would not be pulled into this. She’d had enough of Bixby earlier this year.
Brad’s eyes became no more than slits as he scrutinized Nick. “Well, if they’re watching me, I’ll be watching you.”
“Why do you have such an intense interest in turning suspicion in my direction?” Nick said. “I think you’re grasping at straws to save your own neck. If anyone needs watching, I say it’s you.”
“Fine, watch each other,” I said, crossing my arms, not trying to disguise the pique in my voice.
Two heads swiveled in my direction.
I propped up what was probably a scary-looking fake smile. “And while you’re busy watching each other, Gigi and the rest of the crew—and the whole town of Ramble—will be in danger, because there’s a killer still out there, maybe plotting another murder, while you have your jealous little staring contest.”
“Sorry,” Nick said, almost instantly, with just the right amount of penitence in his brown eyes.
Brad worked his jaw for what must have been a full minute, then turned to Nick. “Look, I don’t know you very well, but I do trust Audrey to be a pretty good judge of character. I have no reason or right to accuse you like that. Sorry.” And he held out a hand.
Nick whipped off his food service glove and shook.
Bixby walked away, and other heads turned back to their work. Show over.
“Listen, Brad,” I said. “I was wondering if you could help us with something.”
Despite the hand-shaking gesture, Brad looked leery. “What is it?”
“We were trying to figure out what happened with security.”
“What do you mean?”
“The security guards who were with the crew the first day. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them since.”
One corner of Brad’s lip curled up. “There is no security—well, except for the local LEOs. That’s ‘law enforcement officers.’”
“I know what it means. I watch NCIS.” I said. “But who were those guys in the shirts and dark glasses?”
“Audrey, look at the crew.”
I turned to look at the crew members milling about. Then shrugged my shoulders at Brad.
“You weren’t looking at their faces that day, were you? Most people don’t. They see security guards and decide they’re too much trouble to mess with.”
“I still don’t . . .”
Brad shook his head. “The crew were the security guards. We put on those black shirts and dark glasses when we roll into town, and then cross our arms and try to look imposing. People think we’re secure, so they don’t try to horn in on filming and shout and wave to their grandmothers. Up until now, it’s been all the security we’ve needed.”
“You were there, at the welcome rally?”
“’Fraid so. I saw you on the stage with your tuba.”
“You did?”
Brad smiled and nodded. “And that cute little hat.”
Nick cleared his throat. “That still leaves the rest of the crew. And the cast.”
“How many are there?” I asked. “Have I seen the whole crew? There are still too many nameless faces.” I was especially curious about the blond I’d met earlier.
“Then let’s fix that right now.” Brad took my arm and tucked it around his, sent Nick a curt nod, and then began escorting me around the room.
“You met Gary and Gigi, of course. Beyond them and their staff, we operate a basic six-man crew. I know I introduced you to Tristan, the producer. Marco, he’s the camera operator.”
“I’ve met him, too,” I said.
“He’s been in the industry a long time and been with Fix My Wedding from the beginning. Really knows his stuff. Nathan is his assistant. This is his first gig.” Brad pointed to a young man weighed down with shoulder bags and backpacks. Looked like he functioned more as a pack mule.
“Hey, Jordan!” Brad shouted and waved to a man wearing headphones. He was the same one who’d been holding that dreaded boom mic over my head. He waved halfheartedly and went back to his work. “Jordan is our sound mixer.”
Brad then pointed to Gwyneth. The young woman wore a low scoop-necked top and short shorts. “And that’s Gwyneth, our production coordinator. She’s interning with us for the summer.” Gwyneth smiled a flirty smile at Brad.
“That’s basically the production crew.”
“So six people from the production crew could be considered suspects, but Nathan and Jordan were here at the Ashbury when the murder took place, so that leaves four viable suspects without an alibi.”
“If you want to include me in that list, yes.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Three suspects from the production crew. Marco was seen in town at the sports bar, and nobody saw Tristan or Gwyneth all afternoon.”
“And then there’s Gary and Gigi’s staff. They’re the ones that make the weddings work. Gigi has a couple of event planners who do almost everything—or hire locals when we need more help. Sven, our lighting guy, is here.” Brad pointed to the muscle-bound blond I’d seen earlier, who could have been Sweden’s contestant for Mr. Universe.
“For the filming?”
“No, he does the up-lighting for the reception. Travels to all the weddings. Gigi wouldn’t have anybody else.”
I’m sure she wouldn’t.
“Gary also traveled with a seamstress and stylist.”
“The stylist and the wedding planners were here playing cards at the time, so they’re out. I guess that leaves Gigi, Sven the lighting guy, and the seamstress without alibis. I think I’m getting a headache.”
Brad chuckled. He leaned in and gestured his head toward a striking young brunette sewing beads on a filmy veil that she’d stretched across a table. “I’ll introduce you to the seamstress, but I warn you, she’s Bulgarian and knows very little English. Not sure how long she’s going to be with us. Spends half her time talking to the State Department and Immigration Services.”
“Zdrasti, Nevena,” Brad called with a wave. She looked up and smiled.
“Nevena, meet Audrey,” he said, and she reached over and shook my hand.
“Nevena—that’s a very pretty name,”
I said.
She paused for a moment, then nodded. “You the flower lady. Nevena mean marigold,” she said, as if establishing some long-lost connection. “When I young, I have the yellow hair.”
In the language of flowers, marigold had come to mean grief and pain. Maybe I let the language of flowers seep into my impression of this woman, because her blue-gray eyes seemed older than her twenty-some years—and infused with pain. Was she that upset to lose her boss? Or could he have been more than a boss?
Brad led me toward an empty table and we sat down. “That’s pretty much everybody it takes to put on one of these weddings. Of course, the national baker won’t be arriving until later today, and Henry Easton didn’t arrive in town until after the murder.”
“Easton might have had more motive than anybody. Any chance he could have sneaked in earlier?” After that bursting-seams crack, I hate to admit it, but I would have loved to see him handcuffed and put into the back of a Ramble police car.
“I don’t know, Audrey. He’d be pretty recognizable.”
I nodded. I recalled how the crowd instantly called out his name and made such a fuss when he rolled down the window of his limo. Certainly someone would have seen him around town.
“And then there’s the cast,” Brad added. “The bride, her father. The groom. His parents. They won’t arrive until tomorrow, so you haven’t met them yet.”
“I’ve barely met the groom.” I tried to recall his name. Martin? Matthew?
“I suspect Suzy is a little more . . . predominant,” he said. “You think the future in-laws might have wanted to stop the wedding?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “It seems like an extreme move, don’t you think? Even if for some reason they hated Suzy, there have to be simpler ways to stop a wedding.”
I rubbed my forehead, trying to process all this new information. “That’s a lot of people with means. Maybe we should concentrate on motive. Any chance that Dennis or Jackie could have gotten in?”
“With Ramble’s finest parked out front?” Brad rolled his eyes. “But, Audrey . . .” He leaned forward and reached for my hand. “I’m not sure I like you poking around into a murder. Maybe you should let the local police handle it. I’m sure they’re processing evidence and following leads. They might have a suspect under surveillance at this very moment.”
I glanced up at Bixby, who was still staring at Brad.
Brad followed my gaze, then slumped into his chair. “Or maybe not.”
* * *
It was déjà vu all over again as Suzy and I—this time with Henry Easton and not Gary—stood in the gazebo looking over the flower bouquets.
“Come stand by me, Daddykins?” Suzy asked her father.
But Max shook his head and took a place on the other side of the camera, standing beside Nathan, the camera assistant. With, I might add, a good view of Gwyneth in her short shorts. She was probably the only one of us not wilting in the heat.
By this point, Suzy had time enough to practice making her pick. She oohed and aahed and her eyes lit up during the reveal of my Victorian-inspired bouquet.
“I love the bell-shaped flowers and all the meanings. And the little silver holder is just to die for.”
At this point, Tristan cut the filming, and had her go back.
“I love the bell-shaped flowers and all the meanings. And the little silver holder is just super cute.”
“Very lovely.” Henry barely glanced at the flowers. “But tell me, why bells?”
“I don’t understand.” Suzy scrunched up her face.
“What is it about bells that you love so much?” It was a good question. I didn’t get her fascination, either. Apparently Gary was the only one who had.
“I don’t know. I just do.” Riveting answer.
“Think about it,” Tristan coaxed. “Take your time.”
Suzy thought. And thought. By this point, sweat was pouring down my back from standing outside in the increasingly warm and humid weather.
Finally, she cocked her head to one side and started talking softly. The boom mic dropped even lower over her head.
“I think I love them most when . . . I miss my mother. There’s something comforting about them when the wind catches them. The sound doesn’t stop right away. It echoes, and I can almost hear her voice in the echo. Like she didn’t just end right away when she died, either. Echoes of her live on . . .”
Where did that come from? The crew must have been thinking the same thing. Tristan had a huge smile on his face. Max wiped away a tear.
To my right, Henry Easton leaned over and gave Suzy a big hug, his voice cracking with emotion as he murmured assurances in her ear. The boom microphone continued to hover overhead.
And I found myself trying to wipe away an unexpected tear without streaking my face with mascara.
After Tristan yelled, “Cut,” he turned to Brad. “Seriously, ‘Echoes of a Mother’ would make a good episode name. What do you think?”
As the rest of the crew started packing up, Henry began to walk toward the Ashbury.
I chased after him. I was not leaving without a decision on the flowers.
He startled as I touched his arm.
“Look,” he said, “I must get out of this heat. I’m simply melting away like the witch in The Wizard of Oz.”
“Fine,” I said, half jogging to keep up with his pace, and agreeing wholeheartedly with his analogy. “All I need from you is a decision on which bouquet.”
“The first one, obviously. That Victorian fussy mussy one. The bride was nuts over it. That last one was interesting. Very dramatic. But it would take away from the dress, I think. The dress should be the center of attention.”
“You mean the bride.”
“Um, yeah.”
* * *
With just three days before the most elaborate wedding we’d ever done, we were on full staff and late nights. A couple of Shelby’s fellow students from nearby Nathaniel Bacon University—good old Bacon U—took time from their summer break and joined our crew. They’d helped us in the past when we’ve been swamped, and seemed to enjoy the experience. Melanie was a peaches-and-cream young lady who displayed an affection for ponytails, pastel floral shirts, and denim skirts. Opie, short for Opal, was our resident goth. Whatever wasn’t covered in black leather was tattooed with flowers. Shelby had made some great recommendations, I thought. Both girls were hard workers, had good attitudes, and could barely hide their excitement about working on flowers that might be seen on a reality TV show. And despite their differences, they seemed to work pleasantly together.
We’d put Darnell to work, greening up some of our more elaborate arrangements. He tried to pretend he was too macho to work on flowers, despite a clear natural gift. But since the greenery didn’t have petals, it wasn’t the same, right? At least we’d been able to convince him of that distinction. Both Liv and I were longing to see what he could accomplish with flowers, with a little instruction. Anyway, he did a fantastic job with the greenery.
“My dad wasn’t too happy about me coming.” Opie set her cell phone on the corner of her workstation. “’Cause of the murder. He’s saying Ramble is becoming a dangerous place. But I told him I wouldn’t miss this for anything. Still, I have to text him every two hours.” She rolled her eyes.
“Oh, pshaw.” Liv repeated one of our Grandma Mae’s favorite phrases. “This latest . . . unpleasantness . . . has nothing to do with Ramble. It has to be one of those outsiders with the show.”
“Maybe,” Amber Lee said. “Or one of our locals with the show.”
I bit my upper lip. No, best to face this one head-on. “Meaning Brad. That’s what people are saying.”
“Not everybody, mind you.” Amber Lee sliced her knife through a fresh block of floral foam. “Lots of people say Gigi. But then folks can’t help notice Bixby paying close attention
to Brad.”
“Chief Bixby doesn’t always get it right,” Shelby said.
“And Audrey is too good of a judge of character to have dated a murderer.” Liv patted my shoulder on the way to the cooler. “And no one else from town had motive, really.”
“So, could Gigi have done it?” Darnell asked.
“It’s usually the spouse,” Opie added.
There was that rule again. “I don’t know. Gigi got a threatening note today, warning her to stop the show. She seemed genuinely shaken up by it.”
“Gigi also spends a lot of time on TV,” Amber Lee said. “She should be able to fake being shaken up by now.”
“True.” I thought about Gigi’s call from her insurance company. “And it looks like Gary’s death will help her financially.”
“Not if they connect her with the murder,” Opie said.
“You know,” I added. “Henry Easton also had a financial motive to kill Gary, since he wanted to take over as co-host. But that note muddies things up a bit. He wouldn’t want to stop the show.”
“So you’re thinking Gary was killed to stop the show,” Liv said. “And when Gigi decided to continue filming, the killer resorted to the threat to scare her and the rest of the crew off.”
“Then the question to ask is who would want to stop the show?” Amber Lee asked.
“Someone less than satisfied with the work environment,” I suggested. “Brad doesn’t really seem all that happy in his dream job. Gary had hinted at advancement, but then referred to him as a gofer. That had to be a tremendous letdown. Perhaps that’s why Bixby suspects him.”
“Your friend should call my dad.” Opie’s father was a high-powered lawyer who lived in the next town over. “Maybe he wouldn’t mind my coming out if I sent a little business his way.”
“I’ll mention it to him,” I said. “But Brad wasn’t the only crew member with motive. I happen to know from personal experience that Gary wasn’t the easiest person to work with, and it didn’t take much to put him over the edge.”
“Prima donna?” Liv asked.
“Oh, yes, and he threatened not only firing, but blackballing. I think he liked the crew to be cowering in the corner, afraid to cross him.”
For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (A Bridal Bouquet Shop Mystery) Page 12