A Wedding to Die For

by Leann Sweeney

  “What are you talking about?” He leaned against the doorframe, his wary blue eyes indicating he was unsure whether it was safe to approach a woman whose sanity might be slipping away.

  “Do you have police friends in the West Indies?” I said. “Anyone who might be capable of utilizing a telephone as a communication tool rather than a weapon of mass frustration? I mean, every single person I talked to acted like they wanted to help and then they’d just go away and never come back to the phone.”

  “New case?” he said, his expression relaxing into amusement.

  “No, my ongoing case.” I rubbed my tired eyes, then ran my fingers through my hair. “Sorry, but I have been on the phone for—” I glanced at the clock. “Four hours.”

  “So take a break.”

  “Good idea.” I left the desk and went over to offer him a proper hello. After we kissed and hugged and kissed again, we went to the living room and sat on the only unencumbered piece of furniture, the green and red chenille sofa.

  I quickly assumed the comfort position with my head in his lap. He began massaging my temples with his strong fingers, reminding me exactly how much pleasure this man could generate with only a simple touch—and I didn’t even have to take my clothes off.

  “I missed you last night,” I said.

  “Two homicides. One perp got away. This city is too damn big and too damn populated.” Out came the gum.

  “You’ve mentioned that before,” I said.

  “And I was so tied up, I forgot to tell you that Quinn asked me for help on IDing a suspect and I suggested she contact an artist I know to—”

  “Mason Dryer?” I offered.

  “Ah, she already called you.” He stuffed his gum wrappers in his shirt pocket. “Did you meet with him?”

  I nodded and told him about the composite, but decided not to mention I’d photographed the drawing. Better if we both remained ignorant as to whether this was somehow “interfering with an official investigation.”

  “So far,” I said, “no one claims to know this woman, but Kate and I think she resembles Megan.”

  “Now, that’s interesting,” he said, switching from my temples and massaging my skull from the crown of my head to the nape of my neck.

  I sighed and closed my eyes. This was so nice.

  “But I hope you’re not jumping to any conclusions,” he added.

  My eyes snapped open. “I remember your lecture on coincidence in murder investigations and—”

  “Glad you were paying attention.” He grinned. “But remember, Abby. People often resemble someone else. I’d be cautious about giving any physical similarities too much weight until you have some hard evidence.”

  I held up my right hand. “I, Abby Rose, do solemnly swear to temper all deductions with common sense and—”

  “Shut up,” he said with a laugh. “Let’s move on to when I arrived and saw you nearly pull your hair out by the roots when I came in—an activity which, by the way, might allow you to grow out your hair.”

  I sat up and looked him in the eye. “Grow out my hair? I had no idea you liked long hair.”

  “I was talking about the color.” He gently tucked a few of the chin-length strands behind my ear on one side.

  “You don’t like the color?” I’d recently gone from auburn to a more highlighted look at the urging of my wacko hairstylist. Goes to show you, you should never trust a man with jeweled teeth.

  “Just kidding,” Jeff said. “I love your hair.”

  But guys do not kid about hair or your hips or how you handle you checkbook, even when they smile and laugh and say they love you just the way you are. I’d consider a change. Maybe.

  “I’m waiting to hear how your ongoing case has you talking to Jamaicans,” he said.

  “Big turn of events today.” I told him about Megan’s altered birth certificate and how many people I’d spoken to in Jamaica in an attempt to get some answers. “Do you understand my frustration?” I said. “How do I get anything out of those island people?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. I interview most of my witnesses in person. I use the phone only to let the nice ones know I’ll be showing up at their door. Not many nice ones, by the way. And now, I could use a drink. How about you?”

  We both stood.

  “Good idea. Rum and Coke, mon,” I said, considering the possibility of a little business trip.

  Jeff had to be in court the following day, so when we woke up, we jogged at the Rice University campus for an hour. I’ve dropped ten pounds in the last six months, thanks to hanging around with a man who has some discipline when it comes to exercise. We even lift weights together. My once pudgy thighs and less than toned arms are now more muscle than fat.

  After our run we shared a shower and plenty of soapy playtime; then Jeff left for the courthouse. I immediately called my travel agent and asked her to investigate flights to Jamaica and hotels in Kingston. She gave me the options, and I chose a flight that left at ten the next morning.

  I needed a new suitcase since mine hadn’t survived the last trip I took, so I spent considerable hours in department stores and leather outlets searching for what I needed. On my way home around six P.M., I dropped by Kate’s place to tell her I’d be out of town for a few days.

  She and Terry Armstrong live together in a West University bungalow even older than mine, which they had completely remodeled inside and out after Kate moved in. I pulled up close to the garage and Kate must have heard me, because she opened the kitchen door and called to me just as I got out of the car.

  “Gate’s open, Abby. Come on in.”

  Her border collie met me when I came through the narrow back hall leading to the kitchen. I gave Webster a scratch behind the ears and he wagged his tail, then ambled back to his blanket by the door. Herding dogs are supposed to be full of energy, but I’d decided long ago Webster either had a missing gene or he was just plain lazy. But no matter what, he was sweet and loyal and gentle—rather like Kate.

  My sister was standing by the sink peeling steaming hot beets. Now on the one to ten “yuck factor” scale, I considered beets a twenty. Glad I’d had that pepperoni slice at the Galleria and could only hope I still had the receipt to prove I’d already eaten should Kate question me. She knows how much I hate vibrant vegetables.

  “Hey, glad you came for dinner,” she said, dumping the beets from the purple-stained cutting board into a saucepan. She turned and placed the pot on the island six-burner cooktop.

  “No dinner. I came to ask a favor.” I leaned against the angled granite-covered counter separating the kitchen from the small breakfast nook behind me.

  “What do you need?”

  “Can you feed Diva and give her some attention for the next couple days? Jeff is hardly ever around and—”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Jamaica.”

  “A vacation? Did you tell me this already?” She now had her hands in what I recognized was a large bowl of bulgur wheat soon to be transformed into her rendition of “meatless loaf.” I felt doubly thankful I had a valid excuse to escape soon. I had packing to do.

  “No vacation. I found out yesterday Megan was born in Jamaica, not Texas.”

  She quit messing with the wheat. “No way. Tell me about this.”

  “I need wine first. Preferably white and cold. And not that organic crap, either.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said, turning to the refrigerator.

  Terry didn’t like organic wine, either, so I knew I wasn’t making an unreasonable request. Once I’d had a sip of a sauvignon blanc, I filled her in on our visit to the Bureau of Vital Statistics.

  “How did Megan handle this piece of news?” Kate asked.

  “How do you handle another bucket of possums? I don’t think she was prepared to uncover a major and obviously illegal deception. But she still wants answers, and I plan to deliver.”

  “You two are a lot alike,” Kate said.

  “I think you’re righ
t, Doc. By the way, I spent some time talking to Graham Beadford, and there was no love lost between him and his brother.” I recapped my conversation with Graham this morning and mentioned my theory that bankruptcy may have created the animosity

  “Is Chief Fielder aware of that?” Kate asked, patting her wheat loaf into a glass pan.

  “She should if she’s been doing her job.”

  “But you could tell her.” Kate removed her beet-stained canvas apron.

  “You mean imply that Graham killed James?” I said.

  “From what you’ve told me, sounds like Graham had years of pent-up resentment.”

  “Maybe so, but my take on Fielder is that she wants to handle this case her way without my help.”

  I heard footsteps in the hall leading to the kitchen and then Terry appeared in the entry. He stretched his arms over his head and said, “Hi, Abby.” I swear his fingers touched the ceiling.

  “Hey, Terry,” I said. “You’re looking especially . . . sleepy.”

  He walked up behind Kate and wrapped his long arms around her waist and kissed the top of her head. “I spent all last week and part of this one giving expert testimony in El Paso. I fell asleep about ten minutes after I got home this afternoon.”

  “You probably had too many fajitas and enchiladas while you were there. Those foods are directly linked to siestas, you know.” I wanted to add, And I hope you enjoyed your time away because the only tortillas you’ll see here will be filled with alfalfa sprouts. But since Kate doesn’t always appreciate my humor, I kept my mouth shut.

  Kate put her hands over his and said, “Sure you won’t stay for dinner, Abby?”

  I drained my wineglass. “No, thanks. If you visit Diva once a day while I’m gone, she’ll be fine. I’ll leave my itinerary on the kitchen table.”

  Kate came over and hugged me. “Have a safe trip.”

  As I left, Terry followed me out to my car. Before I got in, I said, “I tried to sneak you in a rump roast, but it wouldn’t fit in my handbag.”

  He smiled. “Thanks for the thought. So you’re taking a trip?”

  “Kingston, Jamaica,” I said.

  “I went there once for a clinical psychology seminar. Got mugged right in front of the police station. Someone had told me that the tourists have to protect the cops from the criminals there and I knew it was no joke when I left. You be careful.”

  “I promise, big brother.”

  He bent and gave me a hug before I slid behind the wheel.

  9

  The next day I took a crowded flight on Air Jamaica that first stopped in Ocho Rios, a magnificent resort town I once visited with Kate and my father. It had been a high school graduation gift from him. We had climbed up the Dunn’s River Falls and spent an afternoon playing with stingrays on a white beach. But those sweet memories were obliterated once we landed in Kingston. The instant I walked into the chaotic Norman Manley Airport terminal, I wished Megan had been born somewhere else. I might need a shot or two of spiced rum just to survive the trek to the taxi stand.

  This is tourist season, I reasoned, rolling my bag toward the exit. That’s why all these people are shuttling to the U.S. with too much luggage. But the tall women with waists about the size of dimes dressed in brilliant swaths of island fabric or every imaginable shade of spandex did not appear North American. So maybe the Rasta and ebony-skinned natives screeched and argued and laughed all day no matter what the time of year. And all to a reggae beat like the music coming from a far corner of the terminal. I felt crazy by the time I climbed into a lime green and checkerboard taxi manned by a driver who introduced himself as Jug.

  “Where you go, miss?” he asked, steering out of the cab line.

  “The Plaza.” I tried not to look at the grimy seat beside me, knowing I was probably sitting on a cushion in similar condition.

  “Ah, Plaza good choice, miss. Safe part of town.” Jug—whose real name according to the faded license on his window visor was Thomas Anderson—laid on his horn. Why he was honking, I had no idea. Surely not for the ancient, diesel-smoking pickup a good twenty feet ahead of us. All the driver had done was tap his brakes.

  But that was only the beginning. I was about to experience the most noisy, bumpy, and fascinating taxi ride of my life. And did I mention long? It took nearly an hour to travel about five miles because of the goat herds wandering the streets and the packs of wild dogs racing helter-skelter like the rabies-infested monsters they probably were.

  By the time I made it to my very nice hotel room, thank you God, I felt dirty and tired and culture shocked. I may have loved the beautiful Ocho Rios, but this was like meeting her unshaven, potbellied father who was wearing nothing but boxer shorts. I had Jug’s promise, however, that he would make my stay in Kingston as “trouble-free” as possible, or so he said. I hoped he was trustworthy, because he was picking me up at nine A.M. the next morning.

  The hotel sat at the foot of the Blue Mountains, and from my seventh-story room, I had a spectacular view of a brilliant turquoise bay meeting a melon-colored horizon—all this provided free of charge by the setting sun. This vista was in such calming contrast to what I had just experienced on the streets of Kingston, I figured that’s how folks maintained their sanity here. A walk on the beach below me could cure anyone’s road rage in a minute.

  After a fantastic room service meal of cod in white wine with onions and herbs, I used my computer/camera phone to connect to the Internet. I downloaded the address and a map for my trip to the Duchess of Kent Hospital from a Jamaican health ministry Web site and then printed them out with my handy little travel printer. Then I made the mistake of lying down for a nap. I must have fallen asleep the minute my head hit the pillow, and the nap turned into ten hours of hard sleep. I had time only to shower, hop into some linen drawstring pants and a knit peach tank top, and grab two bananas from the breakfast buffet before meeting Jug outside the hotel.

  “You rest good, miss?” he asked after I climbed in the backseat.

  “Too good. I need to go to the Duchess of Kent Hospital. Do you know where that is?”

  “Sure, miss, but if you sick, you can go to better place. I got a doc see you for cheap. Maybe ten bucks U.S.” He had pulled away from the hotel and merged into traffic accompanied by a cacophony of blaring horns.

  “I’m not sick,” I said. “I’m trying to find a birth record.”

  “I know someone can make those, too. Paper like you need for them hard to come by, but this man—his name be Top Hat—he got a way to do anything, miss. Maybe cost you a hundred, U.S.”

  “Thanks again, Jug, but I don’t need a new birth certificate. I need to find an old one.” I smiled at him in the rearview.

  “Sure thing, miss.” His dark eyes glinted in the mirror with amusement. “Just remember everything in Jamaica cost you. You get what you want, but it cost you.”

  With that, the cab hit the largest pothole in the universe and I was catapulted to the cab’s ceiling and hit my head. I slammed back into the seat where my tailbone made violent contact with the springs.

  Jug seemed unperturbed by this bone-shaking experience, but I decided I might need the hospital for other things besides the birth record before this day was over.

  An hour later—and I swear we traveled no more than two miles—Jug dropped me off in front of a dingy, stucco, two-story building that had to be a hundred years old. He gave me his card so I could call him when I’d finished my business and warned me that if I couldn’t reach him, to take only a cab with a red license plate. These were apparently the “good guy taxis” registered in Jamaica.

  I stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the weathered sign over the double wood front doors. This was indeed the Duchess of Kent Hospital, but the building looked like a neglected mission. Inside, however, I found no religiously garbed inhabitants but rather white coats, white nurse uniforms, white walls, and black people. And a volunteer wearing a striped apron who asked me how she could help. I produced a business
card and handed it to her, but not one from Yellow Rose Investigations. This was one of my old CEO business cards from CompuCan. I no longer ran the company, but Kate and I were still majority owners, so the cards told a partial truth. I had decided to use this approach after my conversations with the Registrar General’s Office. I was certain I would get absolutely nowhere with the government in Jamaica, but after visiting Sister Nell, I had learned all good things of value—like birth records—lie in computer databases. If this hospital had someone like her in charge of their records, I preferred to approach him or her directly for what I needed.

  The lady with the striped apron had to make three phone calls to find out that they had a computer liaison with an office on the upper floor in what looked like a converted surgical suite—except the only surgery being done was on hard drives. The floor was littered with the guts of ancient PCs, though a few models were up and looked ready to go. Those sat side by side on a long brown folding table against a far wall. A man with messy bleached-blond hair and wearing a tropical shirt had his back to me. He was hunched over a keyboard, and though he switched off the monitor when I cleared my throat, I saw he’d been playing a video game.

  “Hi,” I said when he stood and faced me. “Are you the computer liaison?”

  “Yeah. Dave. But if you’re from Civil Registration, I’m still moving data. I told the last guy this is gonna take like a trillion years.” Dave looked to be in his mid-twenties and his Valley-speak and freckled face marked him as American through and through.

  “I’m not from Civil Registration.” I walked across the white tile floor and handed him my CompuCan card.

  He studied it so long you’d have thought he was reading a calculus textbook. “So? What’s this mean?”

  “Actually, you’re not going to believe this, but I’m from a major computer software developer via my company CompuCan and I’m here to help.”

  As the unmistakable odor of marijuana permeated the space between us, his golden eyebrows pulled together. Apparently compound sentences triggered confusion in his pot-addled brain.