“Gary was investigating—trying to get someone’s fingerprints,” Liv said. “Maybe someone with a record? Someone who was at the wedding.”
“The story that was going to relaunch his career,” I said.
“His last story,” Amber Lee said.
“And it’s not finished,” I said. “But what put Gary onto this new investigation that was going to relaunch his career? Does it tie in with an old story he worked on as a reporter? Or something he came across in his interviews with Suzy?”
Liv gnawed on a cuticle. “Gary must have had some suspicions prior to his interviews with Suzy.”
“Why’s that?” Eric asked.
“Because we learned from Jackie that Gary normally doesn’t . . . didn’t . . . do such in-depth interviews with the brides,” Liv said.
“At least he didn’t then,” I added. “It is possible that he started that later. Although Gigi did tell me that Gary seemed especially fascinated with Suzy. Maybe you could talk to Gigi? See if she knows more about Gary’s interviews and why Suzy was chosen.” I turned to Eric. “Is that okay?”
“Only if I can go with her,” he said. “We’ll be at the reception anyway.”
“Do I have an assignment?” Amber Lee asked.
“Could you go over the computer files again, maybe jot down some notes? Try to follow what Gary was asking. You’ve seen all the videotapes. See if you can draw any correlations.”
Amber Lee saluted and made her way to the computer.
“And where will you be?” Liv asked. “So if I hear sirens, I know whether or not to panic.”
“Not going anywhere dangerous. I’m checking in with the police to see how the investigation is going.”
“Bixby’s not going to tell you anything,” Eric said.
“Who said I was going to talk to Bixby?”
* * *
Mrs. June ushered me into the conference room of the police station. Her normal chair was occupied by another retired member of the police force, a red-cheeked man with a shiny bald head and a beer gut that looked like he’d swallowed a Clydesdale.
“In case any unrelated emergencies happen today,” she said, gesturing to her normal chair as we passed it. “Not that I think the miscreants will venture out in this heat—at least not until after dark.”
“So Bixby has you going to the wedding and the reception,” I said.
“Not as an investigator, I’m afraid. More of an errand boy, I think.” She quirked her face into a half smile. “Unless he’s trying to keep me in sight so I don’t participate in the informal investigation.”
I gave her my most innocent look and batted my eyelashes.
“If you want to know what Bixby’s come up with, it amounts to a lot of data that doesn’t add up to anything. We did get word of a torched vehicle over behind the high school. He’s headed there now to see if it’s our missing Range Rover.”
“That proves someone was after something inside the SUV, doesn’t it?”
“Or a malicious prank,” Mrs. June said. “He sent a couple of men out to verify the whereabouts of Jackie and her crew. And he’s got someone bringing in that poor Pinkleman kid again.”
“Probably for his cell phone.”
“And he’s already talked to Brad.”
“Rounding up the usual suspects.” I bit my lip. My next question would be harder to ask. And possibly more dangerous to Mrs. June’s employment if Bixby found out.
“What do you need, child?”
“Gary had told more than one person that he was leaving the show to break back into serious journalism.”
“So he was working on a new story.”
“But was it a new story? Or was it an old one?” I said. “Gary was fixated on the case that ended his journalism career. Can you get official police records? From other departments? Quickly?”
Mrs. June exhaled through pursed lips. “Maybe. Depends on which departments, how old the case, how sweetly I ask them, and how cooperative they’re feeling. What are you looking for?”
“Boston. The Paige Logan kidnapping.”
* * *
Kathleen Randolph was probably right about the show being good for business. Most of Ramble was just outside the police barriers in front of the Ashbury. I recognized Tacky Jackie and her cohorts by their protest signs as they were being interviewed by a local news reporter. And more than one of our local teens were walking behind them, probably trying to get their faces on camera. That’s what this whole thing was about, wasn’t it?
I entered the Ashbury as Kathleen’s white-gloved crew was placing the hors d’oeuvres into steam trays, a task probably not made easier with the white gloves. I couldn’t help but ogle the food first. There were soft cheeses under bell-shaped glass canopies, hard cheeses on bell-shaped cutting boards—surrounded by fruits and vegetables, including plenty of bell peppers. Baskets of bell-shaped pretzels. Other foods were cut with bell-shaped cookie cutters or shaped in large molds to resemble bells. And the bell-shaped croquettes made my mouth water, even if they were looking a little droopy.
I was staring at a tray of mac and cheese when Kathleen came up behind me.
“Campanelle,” she said. “The bell-shaped pasta. I thought of you when I ordered it.” She pointed to the bluebell arrangement we’d placed on the serving table, and then down to the pasta. “To me it looks more like the flowers. Sure soaks up the cheese, though.”
The anteroom was mostly empty still, with plenty of space at the high cocktail tables to set down drinks and food. I looked over the small crowd, waved to a few townsfolk, claimed a glass of punch, and set it on an unoccupied table.
My head was spinning and my stomach so stressed that the punch felt like pure acid as it worked its way down my esophagus. Just a few more hours of reception, and the cast and crew would leave town, and someone would literally get away with murder.
And I had no idea why that bothered me so much.
It wasn’t my job. The flowers were finished and looked lovely. Since the wedding took place, we would get paid. And if the episode ever aired, it should help our business. And since the killer was undoubtedly part of the cast or crew, once they left town, Ramble streets would be safe again. And although that meant not catching whoever broke into our shop, either way, it wouldn’t happen again.
And it’s not as if Gary and I were best buds. Our brief meeting left me a bit ambivalent to him, personally. I thought of the sprig of foxglove he had placed in his lapel. Insincere. And it fit, which was why investigating his murder turned out to be so difficult. He represented himself as a sweet, caring wedding planner, a fairy godfather who only desired to make nuptial dreams come true. But instead, he tended to be ambitious, self-centered, and definitely not sweet. At one time, he was a very good reporter. And when he was murdered, he was apparently on the heels of some breaking news. Had he kept better notes on what he was working on, the killer would probably be in jail already. Did he have more secrets that we’d never discover?
Still, Gary didn’t deserve to die. He’d done a lot of good, too. Like stopping that Balkan adoption ring scandal. I drained the rest of my punch, wincing at the burn in my throat.
“I sure hope that’s not spiked.” Brad set his phone and a small leather notebook on the table. “And if it is spiked, I’ll get you another if you let me take you home tonight.” He snapped his fingers. “But we have to take your car. Mine is still smoldering behind the high school.”
“So that was the Range Rover they found.”
“Yes, but if someone was trying to stop the wedding, they messed up.”
“I heard Bixby helped expedite the new marriage license.”
“Didn’t know the man could be so helpful. I still don’t think he trusts me.”
“He doesn’t get paid to trust anybody. And you do have a history.”
“The re
cord of all of my youthful misdeeds has been sealed since I turned nineteen. Expunged is the word I think they used. And nothing after that has ever been proven. Not that Bixby would forget.”
“Someone called?” Bixby sidled up behind Brad, and I could see Brad’s posture straighten.
“I was saying how helpful you were in replacing the wedding license.”
Bixby set his punch down at the table, then removed the small floral centerpiece to a neighboring table before returning. “When do the cast and crew plan to head out?”
Brad inhaled audibly. “First thing in the morning. The first stop is the funeral, to show our support for Gigi. Without the Range Rover, we’ll just squeeze in a little tighter. We’ll ship ahead everything we need for the next wedding—and we’ve one less person. Oh, that sounded insensitive. I just meant that Easton has his own ride.”
“So the show goes on,” I said.
He nodded, reaching over to take one of the new couple’s signature cocktails from the tray of a server, a pink concoction called a spiced silver bell. “At least until the network says otherwise.” He sipped cautiously at his drink.
I glanced at Bixby. The departure time would give him a few more hours to work on the case, but how much investigation could he reasonably accomplish when most of his suspects would be snoring under their down duvets?
“Anything new in the investigation?” I asked sweetly.
He gave me his condescending Mr. Rogers smile. “Nice try, Audrey. But word gets out—both ways, you know. You need to stop this snooping of yours. I know it was your shop that was broken into, your business reputation on the line, so I can see where you feel you have a personal stake in this. But you could impede our investigation. And meddling with murder could end up being dangerous.”
Darnell slid up to the table, plopping a heaping plate of mac and cheese on top of a manila folder. “Hey there.”
Bixby focused on the folder, then on Darnell, then gave me a stern look. “Dangerous . . . for everybody.” And then he left the table.
Darnell exhaled. “Something I said?”
“Well, I need to get back to work, too,” Brad said. “I have to make sure the new bride is ready for her big entrance. See you later, Audrey.”
Shelby walked up and took Brad’s spot, setting down a well-balanced plate filled with fruits and vegetables. “Mrs. McGregor sends her regards. Says you still owe her a dollar eighty in fines.”
Darnell pulled out the folder and looked around the room before he opened it. “We thought this might be helpful. Found it using something called The Readers’ Guide to Periodical Literature.” He shoved over a photocopied article about the kidnapping.
“This is recent,” I said.
“A where-are-they-now story,” Shelby said.
I scanned the photo that accompanied the article. Evan Logan—the prime suspect in the case, at least according to the younger version of Gary—was standing next to his wife. The couple had never stopped looking for their daughter. Most of their savings had gone to pay the ransom, and the rest of their assets over the years to pay private investigators and lawyer fees. Their marriage suffered. They divorced a few years after the kidnapping, then remarried each other a couple of years after that.
“We lost our daughter. We only had each other to lean on, to cling to . . . to keep searching.” I squinted at the picture of them taken in front of a more modest home than the McMansion I’d seen on Gary’s videos. The new Logan home was a lackluster ranch with peeling gray clapboards and weeds growing where flowers should be.
“We’re encouraged,” the father was quoted as saying, “by the recent recovery of other victims of child abduction. We rejoice with the families reunited with their now-grown children.”
“Our daughter likely wouldn’t remember us,” the mother added. “But we won’t give up hope.”
“Hope,” I said.
“We figured the dad’s gotta have a motive,” Shelby said. “Gary accused him, and instead of focusing only on finding the child, he had to deal with all the accusations. It took a toll on his marriage.”
“But he’s not someone we’ve seen in town. Have you?” I stared at the picture. “But the mother looks . . . I know I’ve never seen her before, but she looks oddly familiar.”
* * *
I hate assigned tables at wedding receptions. It always seemed like all the interesting conversations were taking place elsewhere while I was seated with the guy with the dripping sinuses, the woman detailing her food allergies, the silent and sullen couple on the verge of divorce, and the snarky woman explaining why Emily Post would be appalled at the most recent wedding faux pas. At least the last one was entertaining.
I was relieved when my card directed me to table thirteen—not an omen, I hoped—to find Liv and Eric already seated there.
The room looked absolutely gorgeous and ethereal, probably as a result of all that draping and up-lighting. Near the side door stood a large ice sculpture, towering about five feet above the height of the table it rested upon. It was carved to look like two beribboned wedding bells. “Just shy of five hundred pounds,” I’d heard Gigi say to the camera as we passed her coming in. Guests encircled it, watching it dispense more of that pink cocktail. Ramblers were easily entertained.
Liv waved me to the seat next to hers. “I just had a talk with Gigi.”
“We just had a talk with Gigi,” Eric said.
“About how Gary chose Suzy,” Liv added, waving Eric off. “And all those interviews. It seems he was extremely secretive and kept Gigi pretty much in the dark about it.”
“I’m sure that must have raised her suspicions,” I said.
“I guess she drew her own conclusions.” Liv shrugged. “She was a little more open this time. Said she figured her marriage was pretty much over anyway at that point. But they figured a secret divorce would be even harder to carry off than a secret marriage.”
“Hence her taking up with Sven the lighting guy,” I said.
“Well, hey, y’all.” Mrs. June set her punch on the table and scooted in next to me. More guests had arrived, and the room filled with the chatter of conversation. “Wasn’t that a lovely wedding? But I think I need to run to the little girls’ room.” She hoisted her pocketbook onto her lap and tapped it meaningfully. If taps can have meanings. These did.
“Let me join you,” I added.
“How many women does it take to go to the bathroom?” Eric said.
“Me, too, I’m afraid.” Liv hoisted herself up. “Baby pushing on the bladder and all.”
Mrs. June led the way to the ladies’ room like a woman on a mission. Cue the Mission Impossible soundtrack. The crowd that was milling about the tables parted before her like she was Moses crossing the Red Sea. After we pushed our way into the restroom, she put a finger to her lips while she checked under each stall, then pointed to one that was occupied.
I turned to the mirror and pretended to primp.
Mrs. June plopped onto the upholstered chair near the door and kicked off a shoe, examining it like something was stabbing her support hose.
Liv ducked into an empty stall. “I wasn’t joking when I said the baby was pushing on my bladder.”
And then we waited. And waited. I’d done as much primping as I could. Liv had finished her business and was washing her hands. And still, whoever had occupied that last stall hadn’t budged.
“We can’t stay in the bathroom all day,” Liv whispered.
I looked to Mrs. June, who shrugged.
“Are you all right in there?” I called.
No answer.
And suddenly, my mind filled with everything that could go wrong that could keep someone locked in a ladies’ bathroom stall—from stomach disorders to wardrobe malfunctions to childbirth (Hey, I saw it once on I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant) to murder. Was there another corpse attached
to those feet I could see under the stall door?
“Can I get you anything?” I asked, softening my voice. Finally I went to the stall and knocked on the door.
Moments later the toilet flushed and Nevena exited, rubbing the back of her hand under her running nose and then across her mascara-stained cheeks.
I stood back as she went to the sink, washed her hands, and splashed cold water on her face. I handed her a few towels from the dispenser.
“Are you okay?” I asked. Stupid question. Obviously she was far from okay. “Here, sit.” I guided her to a chair opposite Mrs. June and handed her a tissue box from the counter.
She sighed and closed her eyes. “It’s so hard. The wedding . . . without Gary.”
“I didn’t realize you and Gary were so . . . close,” I said.
Nevena nodded, then gasped. “No! Not close. Not like that.”
Liv reached over and held her hand. “How were you close, then?”
Nevena sniffed and reached a hand toward Liv’s belly, stopping inches short. “May I?”
Liv nodded and Nevena rubbed Liv’s belly.
“In Bulgaria,” she said, “there’s old tradition of putting dried honeysuckle into cup of water, and drinking it to speed on labor; something about hand of the Virgin.”
“In the language of flowers,” I said, “honeysuckle means generous and devoted affection. Of course, the variety matters.”
“Don’t think about it,” Liv said. “I’m not nearly ready to deliver yet.”
This was a nice Hallmark moment, but it really didn’t answer any questions. “About Gary,” I said.
Nevena bit her lip and nodded.
“If you weren’t involved with him romantically,” I said, “what exactly . . .”
“He was helping me. Ever since I come to country, he helps with immigration.”
“He was helping you become a citizen?” I asked.
For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (A Bridal Bouquet Shop Mystery) Page 24