Weddings Can Be Murder

by Christie Craig

  He’d surged into the room before he realized what he’d said. He wasn’t with the police anymore. Not that he missed it.

  Like hell you don’t. He hadn’t stopped loving this: the excitement, the rush that came with catching the bad guys. He gave his once-injured shoulder a good roll.

  Moving in a little more, his gaze cut back to the victim on the carpet. He started to check for a pulse, but the blank stare in her eyes told him not to waste his time. Dead. She was dead. This part of police work he didn’t miss.

  A banging noise from the back of the house sent another shot of adrenaline down his spine. He reached for his phone to call for backup, but then remembered he’d left his phone in his car. “Shit!”

  Choices flipped through his mind: grab his cell, wait for backup, or rush in like a fearless hero. He hated making quick decisions. Particularly those that involved life and death. Especially when it involved his life and death.

  He’d taken two steps toward the door to grab his phone when another scream split the silence. “Fuck!” He always had to be the hero, didn’t he? He swung around and took off down the hall, his gun held tight.

  The deeper he got inside the house, the creepier the place felt. Most of the windows were covered with plywood. The doors were metal and had the old-fashioned bar-across-the-door lock. The hall dumped him out into one big room, with only one window, then spidered off in several directions. The outlying halls were darker and colder.

  He chose one to follow.

  “Police!” he called out again. “Throw down your weapons.”

  This time, he’d purposely said the words. Yeah, he could be arrested for impersonating an officer, but something told him the person he was after wouldn’t have the authority to make the arrest. Besides, Police! sounded better than PI—I don’t have a right to be here, but I am anyway.

  Okay, maybe he had some right. Tabitha Jones had been about to hire him to protect her and investigate her bride situation. And if it wasn’t Ms. Jones dead on the living room floor, then she might be the one screaming, needing protection.

  Carl moved with his back against the wall, almost blinded by the surrounding darkness. Another crash echoed close by. The hall ended at a heavy metal door that stood ajar. He gave the dark room a quick overview, tightened his grip on his gun, then stepped inside.

  Raspy breaths filled the darkness. Feminine breaths. Not that being female made a villain less vicious. Carl believed in equal opportunity. Hell, he’d been confronted by some pretty scary broads. And he wasn’t just referring to Mr. Logan in that pink nightgown.

  Sucking air into his tight lungs, he listened, hoping to get a fix on the person in the room, hoping even more they didn’t have a fix on him.

  After blinking, his eyes became a tad more accustomed to the darkness. He made out what he thought was a woman crouched beside a table. The sounds of her breathing grew intense—hyperventilating intense. Following the raspy sounds came whimpers, soft crying. He inched in. Smelled a flowery scent. Nice. His gut told him this wasn’t a villain, but another victim.

  Which meant someone else could be in the room.

  He shifted his gaze around. Too dark, so he depended on hearing. Finally, semi-satisfied he was alone with only a crying, perfumed female, he knelt in front of her. “Ma’am, I—”

  She charged him, and her head slammed into his abdomen. Like most of her gender, she was a hardheaded little twit. Carl landed with a thump on his back. The hyperventilating, sweet-smelling individual—definitely a woman—fell right on top of him. Soft curves and breasts pressed against him. For just a second, he let himself enjoy it.

  But all good things must end, and this one did as soon as all that softness started hitting, kicking, and clawing. Fingernails raked his jaw. Her knee shot up between his legs. Thankfully, she missed his balls and only connected with his thigh.

  He caught her by one shoulder. “Stop! I’m the poli—I’m here to protect you.”

  She stopped. He heard her inhale, backed by a sighlike whimper. But then came a scuffle from behind them and a loud squeak of metal on metal, followed by an even louder clank. It took Carl about two seconds to realize what had happened.

  Someone else had been in the room.

  That someone had shut the heavy metal door.

  That someone had set the bar on that fucking heavy metal door.

  “Shit!” He pushed the woman off. On his feet, he felt his way to the door, and sure enough, it was shut.

  Sure enough. It was locked.

  Sure enough. They were royally screwed.

  Chapter Five

  As soon as he set the lock, Tabitha’s murderer took off down the hall. He didn’t breathe until he got to the front room, until he left the darkness and saw the blood. Lots of blood. His heart continued to race. His mind, however, calmed.

  He walked by Tabitha’s body, loving how the red appeared against all that white. White carpet. White suit. She wasn’t wearing a wedding dress, but the color was right. He loved how red looked against that pristine brightness. Blood against virgin white. A shame he hadn’t brought his camera, or a bouquet of flowers to set beside her.

  He circled the wedding planner’s body, humming “The Wedding March” to keep the laughter from echoing in his head. Tabitha wasn’t a bride. He hadn’t wanted to kill her, hadn’t needed to kill her the way he needed to kill the others. Just as he hadn’t needed to kill the other one. But…

  His gaze shot down the hall. It had been too dark to recognize her, but he’d checked her hand. No ring. She wasn’t one of his brides. But had she seen him shoot Tabitha?

  Probably. That meant he needed to kill her, as he’d killed Tabitha, because Tabitha knew or thought she knew. She hadn’t figured out who was doing all the killing, but she’d told him her suspicions. He was proud of how he’d scoffed. Sometimes he really fooled people. They thought he was normal. Tabitha had thought he was normal. She’d even slept with him…but she’d have slept with anyone.

  He stared down the hall, humming. He would pretend she was a bride. Too bad he hadn’t brought his knife.

  Suddenly he remembered: she wasn’t alone. Police. He recalled the man yelling that out. He gripped his hand tight around his gun. How could he have forgotten? He couldn’t start messing up, losing focus. They’d send him back, back to that hospital where his mother had sent him so many times. He had to act normal. They had to believe he was normal. He couldn’t make mistakes.

  Think. Think. Think. Why had the police come? His pulse thundered through his body. He rocked back and forth on his heels. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Had Tabitha been telling the truth when she’d said she called them?

  What was he going to do? Should he take Tabitha’s body with him? No. She wasn’t his bride. She didn’t belong with the others.

  His gaze shot from the hall to the front door. Run. Should he run? Maybe the woman he’d chased hadn’t seen him. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to identify him. Or maybe he just needed to finish it. Maybe he needed to kill them both.

  The laughter in his head echoed louder, and he started humming again. “Here comes the bride, all dressed in white.” He gripped his gun tighter in his hand and started down the hall.

  The party had bottomed out, and Les Grayson’s mom had walked her two sisters to their car. Les’s brother had been given “Mimi duty.” At age ninety, Les’s grandmother always had someone assigned to her, just in case.

  Les’s gaze moved around her mom’s kitchen. It felt weird being back home. Nothing had changed. Her dad still hid behind the shed to smoke cigars, as if her mom didn’t know, and her mom still compulsively clipped coupons. Tim, her twin brother, still searched for the perfect woman, and if given half a chance would probably skip out of helping her with the dishes, even when it had been their chore for as long as Les could remember.

  And everywhere she looked, she saw Mike: sitting at the kitchen table helping her mom organize coupons, slipping out the back door to talk to her dad while he poisoned hi
s lungs.

  Les had left Piper, Texas, to forget, but someone had forgotten to tell her hometown it was supposed to forget, too.

  “You okay, sis?”

  Les turned to face her twin brother, the dish-washing escape artist. “Don’t I look okay?” She feigned a smile.

  “You look like you did the day Mom’s cat invited your gerbil to lunch.” His gaze moved to her hand where she toyed with the ring that lay beneath her shirt.

  She dropped her hand. “I’m tough.”

  “I’ll bet the cat thought your gerbil was tough, too.” He shot her a grin. “Are you dating yet?”

  Les raised an eyebrow, proud of this much at least. “Yes.”

  “Anyone I need to go beat up?” That was Tim’s way of asking if she’d had sex.

  “My last date asked if I had penis envy. You could beat him up.”

  Her brother smiled. “Give me his address.” He glanced back into the living room. “Oh, crap. Mimi’s taking her clothes off again.”

  “Stop her,” Les insisted. “Mom left you in charge.”

  Tim snickered. “I’m a guy. I’m morally opposed to stopping any woman from taking her clothes off.”

  Les scowled at him. “Even when it’s your grandmother?”

  “You’ve got a point.” Tim poked his head out the door. “Stop that, Mimi. It’s not bedtime yet.” He glanced at Les. “Are we sure she wasn’t a stripper back in the day?”

  Les laughed. “Oh, yeah. I can see her pole dancing.”

  Tim studied her. “I’ve missed you, sis.”

  “Me, too,” she admitted. They’d already done the hug thing when she’d come in, or she would have given him another. Tim pretty much had a one-hug rule.

  “Then move back home. Boston’s bad on Texas girls. I’ve heard you say ‘you guys.’ Twice. Hurt my ears and everything.”

  Grinning, she studied her Diet Coke. “I’ll move back soon.”

  “You’ve got to get over it, you know?”

  “I’m working on it.” Les didn’t attempt to lie. Not to Tim. “I’m making progress. Seriously, I’ve had three dates in the last month.”

  “And I’m assuming none of them cut the mustard.” He pulled a soda for himself from the fridge. “Maybe you’re too picky.” He popped the top. “Like you accuse me of being.”

  “I’m not picky. I just want…”

  “What?” he asked.

  “The spark. That little voice in my head that says, ‘Wow.’”

  “You haven’t felt ‘wow’ about any of the guys you dated?”

  “Not even a baby wow,” Les admitted. Then she met her brother’s eyes, the exact same bright green as her own. “It’s as if my wow voice box is broken. I want it to work. I want to feel wow. But I don’t.” Her throat tightened.

  “Maybe you just haven’t met the right guy.”

  Maybe the only “right” guy for me died.

  The thought ran a circle around her heart. Of all Les’s most recent fears—yes, she had a few—this one plagued her the most. Because while she still missed Mike so much her fingernails hurt, she wanted to get past the hollowness living in her chest. She wanted to know the thrill of flirting again, of being flirted with, of sharing secret smiles. She wanted another first kiss, first touch. She wanted wow. And some really hot sex, too.

  Tim set his drink on the counter. “Mom said that Katie is getting married.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You don’t like the guy?”

  “Haven’t met him.” And bam, just like that, the thought slammed into Les’s scruples. Could she be jealous that Katie had found a wow and she hadn’t? Oh, crap. Nothing like realizing you’re a jealous bitch. Add fear of unfair jealousy to her phobia list.

  “Woohoo!” Mimi’s voice came from the living room. Tim took one step out the door, put it in reverse, and came back.

  “ ’Fraid you’re going to have to handle this one,” he said. “Damn, I’m never going to be able to look at a pair of boobs the same way.”

  Before Les could ask, Mimi came strolling into the kitchen. The only thing she wore was a smile and the new hot-pink tennis shoes Les had brought her from Boston.

  Les glanced away from Mimi’s naked, wrinkled body to Tim’s panicked look. “Darn,” she said. “I’ve gotta run or I’ll be late meeting Katie.” She shot her brother another smile, kissed Mimi’s cheek, and walked out, leaving Tim to contend with their naked grandmother.

  “Poetic justice!” she called out and chuckled. “How many times did you leave me to deal with the dishes?”

  Katie heard the tap-tap of angry pacing and occasional curse words. Shaking so badly she also heard her own teeth chatter, she scooted across the cold concrete floor to the even colder stone wall and curled up into a ball. The chill that shot through her didn’t feel real. Maybe it wasn’t real, but her buns sure felt frozen.

  “Shit. Fuck!”

  This had to be a bad dream. She couldn’t have seen someone get shot. Couldn’t just have been chased through a dark, dungeonlike passageway and had a gun jammed into her ear.

  More pacing. “Shit. Fuck.”

  Or was it all real? Her stomach hurt and rumbled, but Katie was too scared to throw up.

  Hiccup.

  She was too scared to think.

  Hiccup.

  Too scared to…God, let this just be a dream.

  “It’s going to be okay,” a deep voice said.

  Had she spoken aloud? She stared into the darkness and tried to make out her companion, but only a dark shape loomed over her. Letting out a slow breath, she pushed the nails of her index fingers into her thumbs. She’d read that could prevent a person from having a panic attack, and while she’d never been plagued with panic attacks, just nervous puking, if there were ever a time she’d be close to panicking, it was now. Right now.

  Her breath hitched again. She heard a little whimper escape her throat. Crying had never been a big recourse for her, either. Sure, she’d spilled her share of tears—mostly over boys. Later in life, she’d cried over men, over the art critics’ reviews of her work, and she’d cried for a week after she’d gotten the dark news about her family. Sometimes she still cried about that, but most of the time she could control it. Right now wasn’t one of those times.

  More whimpers escaped her throat, and she cupped a hand over her mouth.

  Hiccup.

  She heard the footsteps move closer.

  “It’s okay,” the masculine voice said again.

  This man obviously didn’t know what she knew. He didn’t know Tabitha had been shot, that Katie had almost been shot, that she, along with this stranger who said fuck and shit way too much, was apparently locked in a dark prisonlike room.

  “Oh, God!” The words escaped her tight throat as tears started rolling down her face.

  She heard him kneel down. She saw the dark figure looming over her, and like lightning, her thoughts flashed back to the other person who’d chased her. Before she knew she’d done it, she kicked the hell out of the looming stranger.

  He let out an oomph of air and then spoke. “Damn it, lady, I was…just trying to help.”

  Okay, she was definitely having a panic attack. Why else would she have kicked him when she really didn’t think he was a bad guy? She couldn’t remember why she felt that way, but it had been something he’d said. Hadn’t it?

  She drew in another shaky breath and dug her nails deeper into her fingers. “Sorry.” She pulled her knees tighter to her body.

  A lengthy pause passed before he spoke. “Are you hurt?”

  She did a quick mental assessment of her body. She remembered being tossed against a wall, feeling something cold and metallic press against the side of her face while…while that creep had started running his hands down her left arm and feeling her hand, her fingers. Feeling, as if…as if looking for a ring. He’d probably meant to rob her.

  But she didn’t have a ring.

  The thought slammed against her brain. Sh
e’d flushed her eight-thousand-dollar ring down the toilet this morning.

  Okay, she was clearly getting less scared, because the urge to throw up hit her hard. She cupped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late. She lost the rest of her lunch on the floor.

  Immediately, she heard another gagging sound. She wiped the back of her hand over her mouth. The silence played Russian roulette with her sanity and she spoke before she thought.

  “Nervous puker,” she muttered.

  “Sympathy puker,” he muttered back.

  It was so inappropriate, so insane—laughing at a time like this—but it happened. The sound of his chuckle followed hers: a deep, husky, pleasant sound. Her head instantly cleared of what she’d assumed was panic. Or at least she felt more in control of her thoughts and breathing. However, her butt, plastered to the floor, was frozen for good now.

  She leaned her head back. They both laughed for several minutes. Then there came a silence. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed—maybe five minutes, maybe more.

  “Are you okay?” he asked again.

  “I think so.” She moved several feet away from the mess she’d left. As she scooted, her brain scooched closer to the reality of what had happened. She remembered seeing Tabitha fall to the carpet. She remembered the blood.

  “Someone shot Tabitha.” Sudden fear settled in her stomach. Her heart raced. Her mind zipped back to the wedding planner. “I tried to call for help, but there wasn’t a phone. She needs an ambulance.”

  Her companion inhaled. “I…don’t think that will help now.”

  Katie closed her eyes—not that the blackness behind her lids was any darker than the blackness in the room. “Is she dead?”

  “It appeared that way,” came the reply, sounding as if the man had gotten closer. “So, I’m assuming you don’t have a cell phone.”

  “Left it in my car.” Why hadn’t she brought it in?

  Another pause. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  She took a deep breath. “Someone shot Tabitha.”