I followed her out, and we parted after reverencing the altar. As she began announcing the plan, I scooted in next to Dean, who gave me a questioning look. I read it as, WTF? But knowing him, it probably meant, What’s wrong, and how can I help? He had a history of going above and beyond.
The woman next to me tapped my shoulder.
“Is everything okay?” she asked quietly.
“I hope so. I’m the priest’s niece.” I pointed at Liz, who was giving directions to the hotel.
“I’m Raina, Mia’s college roommate from Maryland State. This is my husband Evan. Do you know what’s going on?”
“No,” I answered honestly.
“I know Bruce’s mom is sick. Is she okay?”
“I think so,” I said.
By now, Liz was done, and I was disappointed I’d missed what she said. Whatever it was hadn’t panicked the crowd.
“I’m Nicki, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you.” Raina stood and smoothed her dress. “I guess we’ll see you at the reception.”
Dean and I stood too.
“This is my friend, Dean.”
“I’m Raina,” she said demurely as she stuck out her hand, which she hadn’t for me. Her husband smirked and introduced himself to both of us. Dean’s heat wasn’t lost on anyone. Even Liz was a little bug-eyed when they met.
Dean said a friendly hello and rested a hand on my back, radiating tingles that rose like champagne bubbles to my head.
“See you at the reception,” I said, turning toward the aisle with Dean. We needed to talk privately. Would he go ahead of me to the hotel? Or wait while I helped Mia and Liz? Or just go home? “I’ll explain everything downstairs,” I told him.
He kept his hand in place as we inched toward the narthex with the crowd. We were both quiet, and I assumed we were doing the same thing: listening to hushed comments float through the air. Everyone was stunned by the turn of events. I heard, “Poor Mia,” “I hope he’s okay,” “Do you think he got cold feet?” and a blunt, “What an ass.”
It was like an accident scene, complete with worry, questions, anger, and heightened energy. Thankfully, there was no visible wreckage.
The crowd moved through the church’s massive oak archways and doors, but I turned down the interior steps, hoping only Dean would follow. A stooped, elderly gentleman fell in behind us, but I redirected him. I felt like putting up crime scene tape.
Before venturing back to Mia, I stopped at the stairwell’s base and smiled at Dean.
“I’m really sorry about this,” I said.
“Don’t be sorry. Tell me what you know.”
“Basically, the groom didn’t show up, and no one knows where he is, including the police. His bachelor party was last night, and apparently that’s the last time anyone saw him. His car is missing, too, and a search party is looking for him.” I told him about Bruce’s mom and Mia’s concern for her.
“What a nightmare.”
“Ever had a case like this?” I asked, only half-joking. Dean was a PI, but his specialty was technical surveillance countermeasures—also known as debugging.
“No. I’ve heard of runaway brides, but this is a new one for me.”
“You don’t have to stay,” I assured him. “This night could be a disaster.”
Or a miracle, I thought. I imagined Bruce showing up sweaty and disheveled, saying his car had broken down and his cell phone was dead, so he’d jogged to his bride. Cheers would rise from the crowd, and the couple’s vows would burst with romance and meaning.
“I can leave and pick you up later to give your family some privacy. But I don’t mind staying and helping out.”
That sounded good to me. It also sounded like he wanted to be there, and that meant a lot.
“Thanks. I’d love that.” I took a deep breath and reached for his hand. “So, ready to see Mia?”
“Whenever you are,” he said.
I pretended I was and led the way.
In the short time since I’d seen her, Mia had changed—meaning she’d put on jeans and a fitted, pink T-shirt, while her wedding gown hung forlorn on the door, its train buttressed up the back. Her makeup was jarring without the dress, and her updo was half down. She looked like a distraught actress who’d just come offstage. One who wanted to go home—not to an after-party. Everyone else was still in costume, silent.
“You guys go to the reception,” she mumbled to no one in particular. “I can’t do it.” Tears streaked her cheeks with dark makeup, which she wiped carelessly while stuffing her bouquet into a white trash bag, hopefully to preserve it, but maybe not. I cringed. Maybe Dean’s “uncomfortable” was already here.
“Where will you go?” a bridesmaid asked quietly.
“To Bruce’s mom’s. The police will meet us there. I’ll text you if I need anything.”
Bruce’s mom nodded on the laptop and wiped her eyes with a tissue. “Yes, sweetheart, come here. Bring anyone you’d like.”
Light, quick footsteps in the hall were followed by Liz rushing in to give Mia a long, tight hug. “Honey, I’m so sorry.”
If Mia was anything like me, I knew what was next: a downpour. Liz’s caring nature—plus her commitment to confidentiality—helped people let go. Really let go.
I turned to sneak out, but Mia caught my eye.
“Stay,” she insisted. I paused mid-step. “I need to talk to you.”
I wished it was about something simple, like transporting her flower arrangements to the reception in my minivan. But I knew it wasn’t. She didn’t even know I had a minivan. She also didn’t know that the last time I’d found a missing person, I’d had beginner’s luck—plus help from a retired FBI agent with a soft spot for endangered kids. Since then, I’d focused on simple, safe pre-employment screenings from the comfort of my home. My new PI firm, Sky Investigations, had barely gotten off the ground.
“Please help me find Bruce,” Mia said. “I can’t live without him.” My heart went out to her, but I believed the police were her best resource. Then she added, “And neither can his mom.”
Aunt Liz gave me a pleading look.
Oh, dear. I wasn’t confident about giving Mia much more than the laundry sorter I’d picked from her wedding registry, but I’d do what I could. I just hoped no one would regret it.
Two
Dean and I talked Mia into giving the police some time before we potentially stepped on their toes, but we took Bruce’s full name (Bruce James Fallon) and all the information we could gather.
We also convinced her the reception was the best place for us to help, since the police probably wouldn’t be there, and we could talk with his friends and relatives. I couldn’t picture going to Bruce’s mom’s house yet, although Mia told us something intriguing: Lydia Fallon was a medium. Her “spirit guides,” Mia hoped, would reveal Bruce’s whereabouts, although they tended not to say much about family. For example, they hadn’t predicted his disappearance.
I’d considered seeing a medium about my late husband, Jason, who died while cheating on me. I wanted to know why he’d been unfaithful, when he’d fallen for his coworker Megan, and what happened the day they were kayaking on the Potomac River and drowned. Even if he wasn’t in love with me, how could he have betrayed me and our children? Like always, I pushed away such questions to maintain my sanity.
“I hope to see you tonight,” I told Mia, “but if not, let’s talk tomorrow.”
“I’ll give you Nicki’s number,” Liz said, holding her at arm’s length and looking into her eyes. “One way or another, everything is going to be okay,” she said. “Now let’s get over to Lydia’s with your parents. We’ll go from there.”
There were a few stragglers outside, including a middle-aged couple chatting on the steps and a clean-cut young man squinting at
the church from his idling car, probably waiting for a delayed bridesmaid. While sliding into Dean’s nearby Aston Martin, on semi-permanent loan from his successful but relatively unknown actor dad, all I could say was, “Wow.”
I wasn’t talking about the gorgeous, deep blue car or the way it growled when it took off. Nor was I talking about the way Dean’s muscular hand somehow made shifting gears look erotic. I was talking about the scene we’d just witnessed and what we might have to do about it. Wow.
I resisted the urge to flip down the visor mirror and see if cosmetics companies lived up to their miraculous claims. I’d applied twelve-hour, oil-absorbing powder, skin-tone-matching blush, and lipstick that would outlast dinner and—God willing—kisses. I also wore waterproof mascara, invisible deodorant, an up-and-at-’em bra, and an expression meant to exude relaxed confidence I didn’t feel. All for under fifty bucks at Target. Confidence not included.
“That was intense,” Dean agreed. After reviewing the night’s events, he asked if I believed in mediums.
“I don’t know.” About as much as I believe in wrinkle-erasing foundation. “I mean, it’s possible, but I think there are plenty of con artists out there. What about you?”
“I’d love it to be true. But I don’t buy it.”
Dean’s mom had died of cancer when he was twelve. Like me, maybe he protected himself with skepticism. Seeing a medium might only add questions to our questions.
“In this case, though, the medium would be trying to help herself and her family. I guess that’s different.”
“Yeah.”
Quiet set in. Dean and I were used to communicating online. What if our long-distance rapport didn’t work in person? My overactive brain leapt to the crumbling of our potential romance. Imagining worst-case scenarios was a terrible, reassuring skill. If the worst was manageable, everything else was okay.
“I applied to be on Midwest Medium,” I blurted.
Great. Dean knew I de-stressed with reality TV, but being on a show took things to a whole new level.
“Is that a reality show?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “It’s about a medium who’s an everyday single mom with three kids and a dog, but she sees spirits wherever she goes. She’s really convincing.”
“And you wanted to talk to her?”
“I did a long time ago. She looked so genuine. But they never called. Probably a good thing.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to get fooled.”
“Makes sense. Especially on TV.”
I hadn’t considered how I’d look on TV. I’d been desperate for peace of mind. That’s probably how most of the show’s guests felt, and they inevitably bawled for all to see.
“Good point. Anyway, I don’t know much about Bruce, or even about Mia. But I feel awful for her, and I’ve told you how close I am to Aunt Liz. I have to help somehow.”
“Of course. I understand. We’ll make the best of it. Are you hungry?”
“No.” Nerves either fueled or destroyed my appetite, depending on the situation. This was a suck-the-glutton-outta-me event. “Are you?”
“Starving.”
He’d chosen salmon on the RSVP, and as a longtime vegetarian, my only option was pumpkin ravioli. At the time, it sounded amazing. Now he was welcome to it.
“Should we have a strategy for the reception? I don’t interview people in depth too often.” Most of my PI work involved computer databases and telephone work—modern tools of the trade. I was more likely to get carpal tunnel syndrome than a bullet wound. Based on my past, however, gunfire wasn’t out of the question.
“I’m looking at this like an undercover job. Just act natural and be yourself, but extra outgoing and curious,” he said.
That wouldn’t be easy. My least favorite part of investigation was surveillance—being uncomfortable and bored in a car while desperately needing a bathroom. Next on my “to-avoid” list was pretext, a.k.a. lying to get information. Now the son of an actor would be watching my performance. Stupendous.
The mood at the reception was somber, but based on the popularity of the open bar, which had more customers than the hors d’oeuvres table, that might improve. Dean offered to get me a drink, but I declined, not wanting to risk its effects there, on the dance floor, or at home. I was a rap and R&B fan. I was also used to dancing solo in my living room or with my kids and their tabletop disco ball. My moves needed minimizing.
“Let’s find our table,” I suggested. I was hoping for gossipy company—relatives who would bend our ears without much prodding.
We found our spots at table four, on the edge of the empty dance floor and just below the wedding party’s table. I set my clutch on a pink-taffeta-covered chair and sipped ice water. As another couple approached, Dean offered his hand to greet them.
“I’m Dean,” he said to a young woman and her date, who looked in their twenties. She wore a low-cut, white sheath dress with spaghetti straps. A little too bridal. A little too revealing. His suit was shiny with sleeves that rose high when he shook Dean’s hand. They resembled Jason and me early in our marriage. Low on money and style…big on carefree happiness.
“I’m Greg, and this is Maisy,” he said. Maisy’s dark hair fell toward me as she reached across the table to shake hands.
“We’re Mia’s neighbors,” she added with a warm smile.
“Where does Mia live these days?” I asked.
“In Westfields.” That was an attractive D.C. suburb east of my home in King County, Virginia. “Oakland condos. Bruce is supposed to move in after their honeymoon.”
“Have you gotten to know him well?” Dean chimed in quickly.
“They’ve been to a couple cookouts at our place,” Maisy said, glancing at Greg and then me. “How about you? Didn’t I see you talking to the priest earlier?”
I explained my unofficial relationship to Mia, hoping to build rapport, the first step in most interviews. “So,” I said, lowering my voice. “I feel awful for Mia. Are you guys as shocked as we are? I mean, did you sense any potential problems?”
A couple with two kids walked up, and I hoped they wouldn’t interrupt her answer. My kids, Jack (seven) and Sophie (five), had been invited, but they wouldn’t have known anyone except Liz, and I wasn’t ready for them to spend that long with Dean. I could come up with a million excuses: They didn’t know him, they might embarrass me, and their questions—especially Sophie’s—could be endless. But truthfully, I wasn’t prepared for dating, and bringing kids into it wouldn’t help, so they were at home with my mom.
“The only problem we knew about was Bruce’s mom’s sickness,” Maisy said. “Mia and Bruce have been so worried about her.”
The family settled into their chairs, completing our table for eight.
“Hi,” said a little girl in a brown dress with a huge, black bow. Her little sister wore a matching ensemble. “I’m Louise, and this is my sister Amy. She’s three.”
“Hi,” I said cheerily. “I love your dresses.”
The parents introduced themselves, and I asked how they knew the bridal couple. The husband was Bruce’s cousin.
Dean asked if anyone wanted to hit the appetizers, and both men joined in. The kids ran to the dance floor, chased by their mom, and I turned to Maisy before she could leave.
“I hope I’m not prying, but do you know what kind of illness Bruce’s mom has? It must be really serious to miss her son’s wedding.”
“Mia hasn’t said much about it, so I’m not sure. I know his mom had endometrial cancer, and her treatments went well, but now she’s homebound with something else. Mia said she needs a procedure soon, and Bruce is helping with it. It’s been really time consuming and stressful, especially with the wedding and all.”
“I can imagine. My aunt mentioned something about a proc
edure too, but I’m not sure exactly what it is.” Liz had said transplant, and Mia hadn’t elaborated, so I wanted Maisy’s story.
“I don’t know.” She looked around self-consciously. “It had something to do with her stomach. Like I said, Mia didn’t want to talk about it.”
“I understand.” But I didn’t. Something to do with her stomach and a transplant? Did intestinal transplants even exist? I’d Google it on my phone when no one was around.
“Well I sure hope she and Bruce are okay.” I felt an awkward segue coming on, but I couldn’t stop it. “Are you hungry?”
“Uh, sure.”
As we walked toward the appetizers, we chatted about the striking stargazer lily arrangements and which guests would be brave enough to dance first. I stopped at the stuffed mushrooms while she moved on.
“Anything helpful?” I asked Dean, who was filling his plate with pigs in a blanket (more like a burial shroud) and cheese puffs. I wasn’t a bitter vegetarian, but I didn’t like thinking about animals suffering. In general, I kept my views to myself and didn’t push them on others.
“I made some progress,” Dean said. “You?”
“A little,” I said.
“Get some food,” he suggested. “You might not want to eat after hearing what I learned.”
I force-fed myself a mushroom, a rice ball, and a cheese puff. Dean had tried them all and declared them meat-free. I’d trusted him, not wanting hunger to interfere with investigation. It was unthinkable that Mia and Bruce wouldn’t taste any of it.
“So what did you find out?” he asked after patiently waiting for me to finish. Proper meal etiquette took so much focus that I wondered how I usually ate. Or scarfed. Apparently I’d been eating alone with kids for too long.
“You first,” I said. “Yours sounds much more interesting.” Our table was empty, and I wanted to take advantage of it.
Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2) Page 2