Killer Bridal Party

by London Lovett

  When Edward grew defensive he could stretch his ghostly physique so that it was taller. His dark eyes gazed down at me. "I don't like him. Surely you caught the proprietary way he looked at you. As if he owned you or at the very least considers you his."

  I laughed so loud it brought Ursula out from the other room. Edward stuck around, knowing only I could see him. Ursula glanced around with an expectant smile. "Did Brady leave?"

  "Yes, he's gone. I'm just in here laughing to myself about what a huge task it is to scrape wallpaper."

  Ursula readily accepted my excuse and went back to her work. Then it occurred to me that Ursula and Henry had not heard Edward's remark, and they had been standing in the same room.

  "Why do you think Detective Jackson heard you when the words were just meant for me?"

  Edward glanced back outside, but Jackson's car was long gone. "I have no idea."

  Chapter 21

  Monday or not, it was a lovely summer morning. The warm, dewy air smelled like green grass and wildflowers with the occasional dash of pine sweeping down from the mountains. I played my morning's agenda in my head several times on my drive to the Junction Times. I was determined to make at least one trip to Stockton Tools under the guise of writing an article about the bridge. Naturally, I'd be working on that too, but I had another better topic to cover—a murder. And since Tory had been employed by Stockton tools, I was going to be killing two of the proverbial birds with one stone. (Probably not the most appropriate metaphor for the situation but it worked.)

  I turned my jeep onto Edgewood Drive, the main street that cut the commercial district in two even slices. My focus was on finding a parking spot near the newspaper office when I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure walking along the south sidewalk. It was Cindy. She looked slightly better than she had on Saturday leading me to conclude that whatever flu or virus had gripped her at the campsite was well out of her system. My mind shot back to the hate-filled text conversation between Cindy and Tory. It sure left some reason to suspect Cindy as a person of interest.

  Cindy slipped quickly into the Junction Pharmacy. I grabbed the first available spot, even though it meant a three block walk to the newspaper. Suddenly, it seemed in my best investigative reporter's interest to find out what Cindy was doing in the pharmacy. It would probably contribute little toward solving the murder, but it couldn't hurt to do a touch of snooping.

  The pharmacy was set up in rows of shelves. As I walked inside, I saw Cindy's bright blue t-shirt disappear around the second to last aisle. Thanks to a well organized drug store, it was easy to conclude that she was buying some kind of vitamin or food supplement. It was possible she was buying some sort of pro-biotic after her bout of stomach troubles. It seemed my mission was going to end in disappointment, but since I'd gone through the trouble of following her into the pharmacy, I decided to see it through until the end.

  I stayed securely out of sight in the shoe insert aisle and busied myself with the vast array of orthopedic gels and pads. There were inserts for every level of activity. The pharmacist, a serious looking woman with thick glasses and gray hair bound tightly at the nape of her neck, finished explaining the directions for taking a medicine to an older couple. I stayed hidden in my shoe insert aisle and waited for Cindy to make her supplement selection.

  The pharmacy counter was directly at the end of the aisle I stood in, but the customers faced away from me. With any luck, I'd be able to see what Cindy was buying without her seeing me. Even though I'd had little interaction with her, I could only assume she'd recognize me after spending so much time at the campsite together.

  I was perusing the athletic shoe inserts when I heard the pharmacist ask, "Is that all?"

  "Yes." Cindy had her black hair pulled into a ponytail. It swung back and forth as she put a box on the counter and reached into her purse for money.

  I had to lean far to the right to look past Cindy's shoulder and see what the pharmacist was placing in the bag. The box was pink and had bright green lettering, but I couldn't read what the label said. I tucked a mental image of the box in my head. As Cindy turned to leave, I slipped around the back of the aisle and out of view. I turned up the vitamin and supplement aisle. For as many shoe inserts as there were, there were at least a dozen types of supplements. I scanned both sides of the aisles until the pink and green box caught my eye. I picked it up off the shelf. It seemed my mission wasn't such a disappointment after all. Cindy was buying prenatal vitamins. And unless she was buying them for someone else, which was entirely possible, that meant she was pregnant.

  Suddenly, her physical state at the campsite made perfect sense. She'd been suffering morning sickness.

  "Can I help you find something?" the pharmacist called from behind her counter.

  "Uh no, I'm fine. Thanks." I hurried out of the pharmacy and headed toward the newspaper office.

  Tory had threatened Cindy with revealing her secret. Could it be the pregnancy? And if so, why was it a secret? Possibly even more important—why was Jeremy was so attentive to Cindy on the day of the murder?

  Chapter 22

  Myrna was busy taking old flyers and advertisements off the cork board in the newspaper office when I walked inside. She was trying out a new plum colored lipstick that made the foundation on her face take on a ghoulish yellow cast. The woman loved to experiment with cosmetics, but some of the time she took the experiment a bit too far.

  "Sunni, there you are. I didn't see your jeep roll past. I thought maybe you were out on assignment." She took the stack of old flyers, some of which had been posted on the board since I started the job back in April, and dumped them in the trash.

  "I parked farther up Edgewood, near the pharmacy."

  "I brought some of my cousin's rhubarb pie if you're interested. We had a family shindig this weekend, and there were so many leftovers, we all left with our arms full of food."

  "Sounds delicious." I put my laptop down on the desk and sat in my chair. The editor's door was closed. "Is Parker meeting with Chase?" I hadn't seen Chase since he tried to stick me with the election article.

  Myrna was wearing sandals. They clacked along the tile floor as she scurried over to my desk. "Yes, they are talking about Chase covering another murder case. Apparently a woman who works for Stockton Tools was killed up at a campsite in the mountains. Not much is known yet, but Chase is preparing to head over to the police station to find out the details."

  Since I had every intention of skirting right past Chase's pathetic investigative skills to find out the details on my own, I decided to keep what I knew about the murder at a minimum. Myrna had no big love or admiration for Chase, but she was good at relaying gossip to anyone who would listen.

  "Yes, actually I knew about the murder. It just so happened that Lana helped plan the bridal shower camping trip for Jeremy Stockton's fiancée."

  Myrna leaned her hip on the edge of my desk. "So you knew about it?" She waved her long plum colored nails. "Of course you did. Nothing gets past Sunni Taylor, crack reporter at the Junction Times."

  I sniffled a laugh. "Yes, that's why I'm writing a story about the bridge reconstruction project and Chase is inside Parker's office laying out a plan to cover the murder."

  "And we know he'll do a lackluster job of it," Myrna added. "What else do you know? Any gritty details? I suppose a murder put a quick end to the festivities."

  "The actual festivities never got started. My sister will be eating chicken pot pies and s'mores for the next three months. Lana swallowed half the cost just to keep the bride-to-be's business for the actual wedding."

  "Of course, I can't blame your sister. And I imagine a Stockton wedding is going to be lavish and expensive. Was it one of the guests?"

  I was reluctant to share too much. "Maid of honor. Apparently she was a salesperson for Stockton Tools. Which reminds me, do you think Parker has any connections with the Stockton company? I'd like to get in to interview them about the bridge project. They are one of the l
arge private investors."

  Myrna hopped off my desk. "You're in luck then. Parker occasionally plays golf with Gary Stockton. He's semi-retired from the company now. He's put his eldest, Jeremy, in charge of things. I'm sure Parker could get you in for an interview."

  Right then, Parker's office door flung open. Chase strode out looking less than enthusiastic about his new assignment. As usual he had smoothed his hair back with gel, exposing his freshly scrubbed, overly handsome face. His mouth was pulled in a straight line as he walked back to his desk with angry steps.

  Parker watched him stomp off like a grumpy kid with more than a good deal of irritation. "If you're not interested, then I can hand the assignment over to Sunni."

  That suggestion was all it took to change Chase's demeanor. He truly was like a child in many ways. "Nope, I'll cover the murder. I've just got a few calls, then I'm heading down to the station." He was forcing the enthusiasm, but the notion of me taking over the assignment left a sour enough taste in his mouth to make him swallow his spoiled pride.

  Parker's nose was red from the man squirting far too much nasal spray into his sinuses. He insisted he had allergies, along with every other malady in the world. It seemed to give him satisfaction to be suffering from some dreaded illness, even if he was perfectly fine.

  "And what are you up to, Taylor?" he asked with a gruff, nasal tone.

  "Actually, I'd like a few minutes of your time if you have it." I stood up from my seat.

  He motioned me into his office. I sat in the metal chair across from his desk.

  Parker circled around. "I sent the article on the brewery back to your inbox. I put in a few changes but it looks good. Nice piece."

  "Thank you. I'm glad. I'll put the polishing touches on it today."

  Parker grabbed a cluster of used tissues from the top of his desk and tossed them into the trash. He then proceeded to smooth antibacterial lotion over his hands. "What did you want to talk about?"

  I scooted forward. The tangy, pungent smell of the lotion stung my eyes. "I've got a favor to ask. I'm moving full steam ahead with the article about the Colonial Bridge."

  "Good, good." He finished cleaning his hands and pulled out a new pile of tissue from the box. He mounded it on his desk. His chair squeaked as he leaned back. "What do you need from me?"

  "I did some research and found that Stockton Tools is one of the private funders of the project. So I thought I'd start there. Myrna mentioned you played golf with the owner, Gary Stockton."

  Parker sat forward and pulled his rolodex closer. "Sure do. In fact, I was just going to call him and see if he wanted to meet this Sunday. Not too sure though, with the tragedy this weekend and all." He squinted one eye at me. "I'll bet you already know about it."

  My cheeks warmed some. "I might know a few details."

  He slapped the desk, startling me and scattering his clean tissue in every direction. "I knew you would. And I'm stuck giving that walking head of bear grease the good stories. But I can get you in to see Stockton. I'll make the call right now."

  "Thanks. I'm hoping to get to the bottom of the delay on the project." I got up to let him talk to his friend and make golf plans in private.

  He called my name as I reached the door. I looked back at him.

  "While you're over there, see what you can find out about the murder of their top salesperson."

  I nodded. "I'll see what I can uncover."

  Chapter 23

  Somehow I imagined the main offices in the Stockton Tools Company would be far more elegant. The walls along the office hallway needed paint and the art pieces displayed between the office doors and around the waiting area looked as if they had been purchased off the back of a truck. One particular painting of a sailing ship, sitting directly across from the waiting area, looked strangely out of proportion. Dust covered fake ferns sat on laminate pedestals stationed intermittently around the reception area. A young woman sat across the way behind a tall, white counter with a headset clipped over her blonde hair as she answered numerous calls and directed them to the right extension. The leather upholstery on the waiting room chairs was worn so smooth from use, I nearly slipped right off as I sat down to wait for my meeting with the public relations manager. I was disappointed that I wouldn't be meeting with the owner, but as Parker found out from his phone call, Jeremy's father, Gary, rarely came into the office anymore.

  I took great pride in my people watching skills, and as I waited for my meeting, I watched Tory's coworkers come and go. I had no idea what the usual mood was like in the office, but I'd been in enough office situations to know what a normal Monday morning atmosphere would be like. There were usually chats and quick conversations about the weekend that were punctuated by the reality that a long work week lay ahead. Monday morning was always quite dour compared to a Friday afternoon when everyone had visions of weekend plans in their heads, but I would have expected this particular morning to leave the employees in a particularly somber mood. After all, one of their coworkers had died tragically just two days earlier. It was hard to tell how close the staff was, and it was possible, but unlikely, that the office workers had little contact with the salespeople.

  As I sat and waited, I pulled out my phone to check for messages. My thumb accidentally opened my reminders, which served as a reminder that I'd taken a picture of Tory's reminders. After all that reminding, I went back to the pictures I'd taken of Tory's phone and pulled up the one of her reminders. The first entry was a meeting with Sunburst Construction and the name Gilford was typed next to it. If I was interpreting the scant reminder correctly, Tory should have been at a meeting with Gilford this morning rather than stretched out on a metal table in the morgue. The next reminder was to pick up the bridal shower gift at the engraver's. The next line said 'copy behind roses, flash drive Box 673A'.

  The woman answering phones took a break from her usual telephone operator tone and said 'good morning, Mr. Stockton'. My face popped up. Jeremy Stockton was standing at the counter. A leather briefcase hung from his hand, signaling he had just arrived at the office. He looked clean shaven and well groomed, as would be expected of the head of a company, but something about his attention to detail on his appearance seemed callous. A hair out of place or an extra wrinkle in his trousers would have seemed more natural on a morning just after the murder of a woman who was not only an important member of his company but a close friend of his fiancée's.

  I picked up a Country Living magazine from the side table and lifted it in front of my face so I could turn my head and listen in on the conversation.

  "I still can't believe it," the receptionist said with genuine sorrow in her voice.

  "I'm just coming out of my state of shock," Jeremy said. I'd seen him for the entire morning after the discovery of the body, and I never noticed an ounce of shock. Distress maybe but shock never crossed my mind.

  "Do the police know what happened?" the receptionist continued.

  "Not yet. It's possible she just slipped and hit her head. One of those terrible freak accidents. Brooke insisted they have the bridal shower out under the stars. I tried to talk her out of it, but she can be hard headed."

  "How is poor Brooke?" the woman asked with sincere concern.

  "Seems like she'll need to find a new maid of honor before the wedding. Hey, Francine, hold all my calls for the next hour. I need to go over some numbers before I meet with the board."

  "Sure thing, Mr. Stockton."

  With that curt end to the conversation, Jeremy Stockton strode down the narrow hallway to the end office and walked inside. He never noticed the visitor hiding behind the magazine in his waiting area.

  Shock was what I was feeling after eavesdropping on the brief conversation. Francine, the receptionist, had true sorrow in her tone as she spoke about Tory, but Jeremy's indifferent tone was nothing compared to his callous words. Speaking derogatorily about his bride-to-be as being hard headed after the woman had just lost her best friend was bad, but it was nothi
ng compared to his flippant remark about her having to look for a new maid of honor. It was a terribly cold-hearted response. Francine didn't seem to be taken aback. It was possible that it was exactly the response she expected from her boss. It seemed Jeremy Stockton was not a nice man, and it was quite obvious that he just wasn't all that broken up about Tory's death. I was starting to wonder if anyone was distraught about Tory Jansen's murder.

  Chapter 24

  The interview with Ms. Tuttle, the head of public relations for Stockton Tools, went just as I'd expected from the woman who was the smiling, shining face of the company. Public relations people usually had one main bullet point on their job description—make the company look good no matter what the circumstances. Ms. Tuttle was great at her job.

  Ms. Tuttle, a forty something woman, was wearing head to toe green, starting with a pair of green enamel clips in her hair and on through a green blazer pulled smartly shut over a green knee length skirt. The entire look was bottomed off by a sensible pair of green shoes. She never brought up one word about the recent death of a member of their sales force. Instead she bounded directly into her PR spiel about what the company did and how many store chains and independent contractors they supplied with their superior quality Stockton tools. She even had a short speech prepared about how they had been honored and thrilled to be part of the Colonial Bridge reconstruction project, making special note that they were the top private donor. Details and insignificant facts rolled over her peach pink lips. I couldn't get a question in edgewise. I was certain that was her goal. The one question I managed to blurt out—why has the reconstruction been delayed for so long—was the one inquiry for which she had no pretty speech prepared. She seemed genuinely perplexed by the delay and assured me she would check with the Junction City Council and get back to me. It seemed my trip to Stockton Tools was going to be a complete bust until she suggested a tour.