A Wedding to Die For

by Leann Sweeney

  And then just as ferociously that door came flying back at me, the edge hitting my left cheek with the force of a baseball bat. I fell to the floor, white light shattering my vision. I made a futile grab for a blacktrousered leg as someone stepped over me, but I was too stunned by the blow to even think or move. I blinked hard and looked into the room, trying to focus. The blue sheer liner drapes that covered the glass doors to a balcony blew toward me in the ocean breeze.

  Then numbness and confusion gave way to unbelievable pain. I tried to get up, knowing I needed help. Mistake. The room went all cockeyed, then bile and the awful taste of Pepto rose in my throat. I could only slump against the wall and close my eyes.

  14

  “Señorita? You okay?” a woman asked.

  I opened my eyes and saw a blurry brown face close to mine. Pretty face. “I’ll be fine, but what’s that noise? Because it’s damn annoying.”

  “Sirens outside. You don’t look so good. Your husband hit you and leave you here like this?”

  “Husband? Last time I checked, I didn’t have one of those. Listen, would you mind helping me up?”

  She was squatting in front of me, and I saw she was wearing a gray cotton maid’s uniform. She took my upper arm, and with her support, I stood. I had to lean against the wall once I was upright since I felt dizzy and as sick as ever. And my face. Yikes, could anything hurt more than this?

  “I could use some air,” I said.

  She helped me across the room, saying, “I gotta call my manager. You need a doctor.”

  Those sirens, a persistent whine before, were now much louder and when we got out on the balcony, I understood why.

  A man was lying below on the well-lit stone walkway, his body surrounded by a small crowd. One leg was bent at a sickening angle and blood was pooled around his head. A rescue truck came speeding up, and two paramedics jumped out and pushed the gawkers aside so they could get to the man. Being this far up I couldn’t tell if it was Graham, but I remembered the anguished shout I’d heard right before I got smacked in the face. I had definitely recognized his voice.

  “Oh no,” I whispered.

  “You and the man have some trouble?” the woman said.

  I didn’t answer her. I was watching a police car arrive. It lurched to a halt, lights flashing so brilliantly in the dark I had to squint. Two cops got out simultaneously. A second later, a woman in the crowd was standing next to the policeman and pointing up to our balcony. Pointing at us.

  It had taken the cops only about three minutes to reach Graham’s room. By that time, I was sitting on the floor in the hallway with an ice bag pressed to my face, thanks to Maria—the woman who had come to my aid. One cop asked me my name while the other went into Graham’s empty room. He asked if I needed a paramedic and I told him no, I was fine. Then he said, “You and the jumper have a fight?”

  “Are you crazy?” I said.

  That didn’t go over too well.

  “Why don’t you think about what happened and we’ll talk in a minute,” he replied sternly. He stood outside Graham’s room, his hand on the billy club hanging from his waist, his posture saying he’d give me a swat on the other side of my face if I made any more references to his mental health.

  The responding officers were from the county, but since this was Seacliff, I figured my favorite chief of police would be here soon. So when he asked me again what happened, I told him I’d prefer to wait and talk to Fielder.

  Sure enough, she came up to the twelfth floor several minutes later. She had Maria open one of the unoccupied rooms, and I stayed there while Fielder talked to the maid.

  I sat in a gold velvet armchair by the window, my ice pack dripping down my arm, my face was blessedly numb now. Fielder entered a few minutes later, shutting the door after her. Her red blouse and straight, short black skirt complemented her thin, long-legged figure.

  She sat across from me, the standard hotel issue round table between us. From her expression, I guessed she was plenty pissed off. “What the hell happened in that room, Miss Rose?”

  “I have no idea,” I said.

  “Oh? So you’ve got amnesia?” she said. “Because Graham Beadford is dead, and I need you to recover your memory damn quick.”

  So it was Graham who fell. “I do not have amnesia,” I said. “But I don’t—”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Would you let me talk? I almost shouted, but instead came back with, “I think the monkey pox has affected my memory.” I held up my free arm to show off a few of my thousand mosquito bites. I said this with a smile, but the pain had now been replaced by a white-hot anger—anger at myself for not being quick enough to keep Graham from dying, along with anger at Fielder for being surly with me for no good reason.

  She took a deep breath and leaned back. “Let’s start over. Did you and Graham argue? Did he hit you? Because self-defense in Texas can get anyone off.”

  I looked at her dumbfounded. Jeff always said that cops who jump to conclusions destroy cases, miss evidence and to quote him directly, “are royal fuckups. The worst kind of cop.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” I said calmly. She was pathetic. Not even worth getting mad at if she was making assumptions like this.

  “Am I? The maid said she found you in his room, and it couldn’t have been more than a minute after Beadford went off that balcony.”

  “I need more ice,” I said, meeting her gaze. “And after that, maybe a lawyer.” I dropped the leaky ice pack on the middle of the table. It fell with a splat, and water spilled out around the broken plastic. Thanks to the gravity gods, a stream of icy water headed in her direction.

  She pushed away from the table to avoid getting wet, then stood. “I’ll send one of the paramedics to check out your injuries. But I’m not done with you.”

  She strode out, and once she was gone, I went to the mirror that hung over the long Spanish-style dresser against one wall.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered. It was a miracle I still had any enamel left on my teeth. A purple line extended from cheekbone to chin on the left side of my face, the door mark surrounded by a deep blue swelling on either side. I touched a finger to the bruise and winced. Just then a paramedic arrived, and without so much as a second glance at my injury, he got on his walkie-talkie and told whoever was on the other end that they needed a stretcher in room 1240.

  “I walked in here and I can walk out,” I protested, but when he told me my face could be fractured, I decided a trip to the emergency room might not be such a bad idea. I was feeling sick to my stomach again and knew I might have a hard time driving. Besides, this was the best way I could think of to get away from Fielder.

  The most ridiculous thing about my ride in an ambulance to the same hospital where I’d met with Sister Nell only a short time ago was how they strapped me like a mummy, neck brace and all, to what felt like a frozen surfboard. Turns out the backboard hadn’t been refrigerated, though. I was simply freezing. And even after I was x-rayed, scanned, and shot full of medicine for the nausea that just wouldn’t quit, I still shivered and shook like it was ten below zero in the hospital.

  “You’re a little shocky from the trauma,” the nurse who gave me the injection told me. She then wrapped a warm cotton blanket around my shoulders, placed another on my lap, and said she’d be back.

  The medicine had burned like the dickens when it went in, but now my stomach was finally feeling better. Better, that is, until Kate showed up looking all panicked and upset. I hadn’t called her, so how had she found me?

  She stood in the doorway to my emergency room cubicle for a second, swallowed hard, and forced a smile. But knowing her, she didn’t like what she was seeing.

  I quickly held the ice pack up to my face to hide the enormous bruise. “It’s really not as awful as you think,” I said.

  “The doctor said you’ve got a hairline fracture in your maxillary bone. I’d say that’s awful enough.” She walked over next to me and started to
touch my face, then thought better of it. Instead she took my hand and squeezed. “So what were you doing at the hotel, Abby?”

  “I went to see Graham and was about five seconds too late. But how did you know?”

  “An Officer Henderson called me. Did you see what happened to Mr. Beadford?”

  “Nope. I didn’t even see the door hit me, it happened so fast.”

  “Jeff is on his way, and he is going to be so upset to see you like this.”

  “On his way from Seattle?”

  “No, he came home and called me when he didn’t find you at your place, asked if you were with me. Then Henderson called on the other line while we were talking and said you’d been hurt, so I picked Jeff up and we drove down here together.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, holding up a hand. “Maybe getting whacked upside the head has—”

  Just then Jeff appeared in the door. He looked tired and worried, but if there was any leftover anger in his eyes over my stupid, impulsive remarks, I couldn’t tell.

  “Are you okay?” he said quietly.

  “Yes,” I said. “And now that this stomach thing is better, I’m about ready to leave this place.”

  “Stomach thing?” Kate said. “What are you talking about? Did you get punched there, too?”

  I removed the ice pack. “I was never punched. Can’t you see the imprint of a door on my face?”

  Jeff nodded. “Oh yeah. Think we’ll be seeing that for a while. Did they give you something for pain?”

  “A nurse shot me up with some medicine for this little stomach problem, but as for pain, my face is numb right now.”

  “Do you have a stomach virus, then? Or is it from being hit so hard?” Kate asked.

  Uh-oh. I could see her homeopathic wheels turning. Yup, she was wearing that “I have just the thing to fix a stomach problem” look.

  “My stomach’s been upset all day, but now it’s almost gone. I did drown myself in salsa, and combined with all that wonderful Jamaican food, I think I did this to myself. I do know why they call it jerk chicken now. It’s because you feel like a jerk when you puke all over the place.”

  Jeff smiled. “If you’re cracking jokes, you’re feeling better. Maybe even well enough to tell me what went on tonight.” He came over to my gurney and picked up the ice pack I’d set down. He gently rested it against my cheek.

  “It’s kind of hard to think right now.” I looked at Kate. “Would you mind getting me a Coke? I feel better since I had that medicine, and I could use something to drink.”

  “Sure. Diet?” she asked.

  “Regular,” I said.

  “You?” Kate looked at Jeff.

  “Coffee.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin with a knuckle. “Haven’t slept since I don’t know when.”

  After she left, I said, “Did you get my messages? Because I’m so sorry—”

  He leaned over and kissed me lightly on the lips, then said, “Shut up. It’s over.” He dragged a chair beside me, sat down, and gripped my hand.

  I felt every muscle in my body relax. We were gonna be fine. “Did you get to talk to Fielder?”

  “Only for a minute. Kate dropped me off at the hotel so I could pick up your car, and Quinn was wrapping up the scene. Graham Beadford most likely got some help off his hotel balcony—a witness saw a shadow of someone else behind him right before he fell—so she’s got two homicides now.”

  “I feel so awful, Jeff. I was right outside his room when it happened.”

  He gripped my hand tighter. “Looks like you dodged one, Abby. You sure you want to be a PI?”

  “I have to do this,” I said. “Just like you have to do your job.”

  “Yeah, I know, but . . . if anything happened to you—”

  “Hey, just because someone tried to knock me senseless doesn’t mean I’m quitting.” I punched his arm playfully. “I’m as tough as you are.”

  “Probably tougher,” he said with a grin. “You’re gonna have a shiner to go with the rest of your blue and purple face tomorrow.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “What upsets me is that I didn’t see the guy.”

  “It was a guy?” he said.

  “Honestly, I’m not sure.”

  “So your memory hasn’t returned yet?” came a new voice from the doorway. Fielder. Great.

  Jeff stood and nodded. “Quinn,” he said politely.

  I swear she blushed, but I wasn’t sure why.

  “Hello, Jeff,” she said. “I’d like to ask Ms. Rose a few questions now that she’s been treated for her injuries.”

  “Give her until tomorrow,” he said. “She needs a good night’s sleep and some time to recover.” He reached into his pocket for his Big Red and offered Fielder the pack.

  She refused by shaking her head and said, “I’m working a homicide, and you know better than anyone that I need answers. Now.”

  “Abby’s been through a lot. She’ll know just as much tomorrow as she does now.”

  “It’s okay, Jeff,” I said. “Ask your questions, Chief.” I had something she wanted, and I liked being in that position. And I also had knowledge of other things, things I’d learned in Jamaica and things I’d learned since coming home. Things that might help her solve her case if she’d quit acting like she’d had a major power failure in her brain.

  “You don’t have to say anything, Abby—and those are words I never thought I’d hear myself say.” Jeff opened two sticks of gum and folded them in his mouth.

  Fielder wasn’t about to give me time to reconsider my generosity, though. “What went on inside Graham Beadford’s hotel room? Did he attack you first?”

  “Attack me? I didn’t even talk to the man. If you think I killed him, you’re nuts.”

  “You were there when a man died. I need to know why,” she said coldly.

  “You’re fucking up big-time, Quinn.” Jeff’s eyes had darkened. I couldn’t remember seeing him look so angry.

  She glared at him. “You don’t supervise me anymore, Sergeant. And maybe you should open your eyes. Your girlfriend pretends to cooperate on the first murder, but when I try to find her, I learn she’s left the country. And the minute she comes back, I’ve got another dead Beadford and no apparent motive. She’s been at the scene of two homicides and—”

  “Get out,” Jeff said, his voice as hard as Superman’s kneecap. “She’ll talk when she’s got a suit sitting next to her.”

  “Fine,” Fielder said, but then pointed a finger at me. “You go anywhere, you tell me.”

  But before I could even nod, she whirled and left.

  “I could have handled her, Jeff,” I said quietly. This wasn’t my rational, calm cop. Not that a little fire in support of me wasn’t very much appreciated.

  Jeff let out a huge sigh. “Jeez, I’m such a fool. See what you do to me?”

  “The word for fool is bobo in Jamaican,” I said. “And being a bobo isn’t all bad. Now would you find Kate and please get me out of here?”

  He grinned, chomping away on his gum. “Good idea.” He turned and started out the door, but stopped and looked back at me. “Bobo, huh?”

  “Yeah, mon. You be some bobo.”

  15

  The next morning, while I was still trying to wake up, Jeff brought me a fresh ice pack. He was on his way to work and kissed me good-bye after telling me he’d written down the name of the man he considered the only decent criminal defense attorney in Houston. Then he pounded down the stairs, leaving me wondering if I really needed a lawyer. Surely Fielder would screw her head back on this morning and figure out I had no reason to kill the Beadford brothers.

  Jeff’s footsteps reached the front door, but after I heard the door open, the word “shit” echoed up the stairs.

  Okay. Something was wrong. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and got up to see what was the matter. The room spun for a second, and I had to keep myself from toppling over by clutching the corner of the nights
tand.

  Jeff strode back into the bedroom and came over to help me. “When you get your sea legs, the press is waiting for you, Abby.”

  “The press? Why are they here?”

  “Because there’ve been two homicides, and somehow they’ve learned you’re involved. Get with the lawyer and tell Quinn Fielder exactly what happened last night so those buzzards will leave you alone.”

  “And what about the rest of it? Should I tell her everything I learned in Jamaica?” The wood floor was cold on my bare feet and I shivered.

  He picked up my bathrobe off the chair and draped it around my shoulders. “What do you mean by the rest of it?” But before I could speak, he held up a hand. “No. Should have known better than to ask that question. I’m still a cop and—”

  “Why does that make a difference?” I lowered myself with his help and sat on the edge of the bed. I’d set a bottle of Motrin and a glass of water on the nightstand last night just in case and now spilled three pills into my hand and gulped them down.

  “This is Fielder’s case, and it involves your client. The less I know about it, the less I can say if she asks me.”

  “She’d ask you?” I realized how naive that sounded as soon as the words left my lips. “Yeah, she would. So I shouldn’t tell you anything?”

  “Not now. To Quinn, you’re a suspect, and she seems bent on proving you have something to do with these murders. I know her pretty well, and considering she didn’t leave HPD willingly—”

  “Hold on. Maybe it’s my messed up head, but I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  He sat next to me. “I told you she and I had a history. What I didn’t tell you is that after our relationship ended, Quinn got a little weird, made some pretty bad calls in the field. A few of her collars fell through even though the perps were guilty. She didn’t do the groundwork and paperwork to make them stick. Made a lot of bad assumptions and, well, the department suggested she get a fresh start somewhere else.”