For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (12 page)

And I wondered if Gary wasn’t the only one playacting.

Foxglove.
Insincerity.

And with insincerity comes secrets. I wondered what other secrets Gary could have been hiding, secrets that could have motivated someone in this room to kill him.

A moment later, Gigi freed herself from her staff and headed to the coffee table.

“What’s the strongest you got?” she asked Nick. “It’s going to be a rough one.”

“Just regular coffee,” Nick said. “Nobody requested espresso. Although I could run and get one if you wanted.”

She waved off the offer. “Make it a double. Black.”

“Gigi, again may I offer my condolences,” I said. “Not just on the loss of your co-host, but of your husband.”

“Oh, Audrey. Thanks. In a way, it’s a relief for the information to be out there. Now I can grieve publically, without people questioning why I’m so upset.”

“Who would . . . ?”

She rolled her eyes. “Twitter and the tabloids were already spitting out their theories. I killed Gary because of professional differences. I killed Gary to make myself more valuable and better my contract terms. I suppose they’ll say I killed Gary for his life insurance. Oh, now they’ll be even surer. Isn’t it always the spouse?” She reached out and nabbed herself a scone. Good move. I swear Nick’s scones are better than Prozac.

“Sometimes. The police must have asked your whereabouts yesterday.”

She chewed and swallowed. “Mmmm, that’s good. Yeah, they did ask. Unfortunately, I was all over this little town yesterday, including the church. Scouting the venue, picking up some materials. This town is just as quaint as it can be, but not the easiest place to shop.”

“Did you hear the church bell ring?”

Gigi closed her eyes and inhaled. Then shook her head, while breathing out a disgusted sigh. “By that time, I was headed out of Dodge. Someone, I think it was Brad, clued me in to the strip mall in the next town over. Felt like I was driving through the Amazon to get there, though. All these little roads, twisting around these hills. And the GPS lost signal twice. I was half cursing Gary for bringing us out here, at the same time he . . .” She swept her long, manicured fingers under her eyes to remove the beginning of tears.

“It was Gary’s idea to fix this wedding, then?” I said.

She nodded. “Frankly . . .” She looked around before leaning toward me and whispering, “I never understood his fascination with this one. I told him that bell theme was lame-o. But he wouldn’t listen to anybody. He had more fascination with this particular wedding—I would have said with this particular
bride
—than he ever had before.”

Kathleen Randolph stole up to the table. “Excuse me, Miss Welch. I found this envelope on the desk, addressed to you.”

Gigi took the envelope that sported only her name and pulled out a single sheet of paper. She scanned it, then tossed it on the table as if it were radioactive.

I could read the large block letters, even upside down.

“GIGI, LEAVE NOW WHILE YOU STILL CAN. OR YOU’LL GET WORSE THAN GARY GOT.”

Bixby was there in a flash, taking possession of the letter and questioning Kathleen Randolph. Apparently I wasn’t in the way, because he let Nick and me remain, standing behind the coffee table.

“No, it was on the desk when I came back,” Kathleen said. “I have no idea who might have put it there.”

“The envelope and the notepaper are distinctive,” Bixby noted.

“And, yes,” Kathleen said, “they have the name of the inn embossed on them. I provide them for guests in every room. A personalized touch, a reminder of their stay. And I keep more at the desk for anyone who asks.”

Nick leaned in closer to me. “You know, it has to be someone in the cast and crew, then. Because nobody else could have gotten into the inn.”

“I don’t know,” I whispered back. “Security isn’t all that tight. Someone could have sneaked past Lafferty pretty easily. Have you seen any of the show’s security around?”

“What do they look like?”

“When they rode into town, they wore dark glasses and had the word ‘Security’ in big letters on their T-shirts.”

“Come to think of it, I haven’t seen anybody like that at all at the inn.”

When I looked up again, Bixby had moved away from Kathleen Randolph and had Brad pinned against the wall. Well, not literally pinned, but Brad seemed shocked and appeared to cower before him.

When Bixby was done speaking, Brad’s shoulders sank in relief as he made his way over to us.

“Bixby looked like he had a lot to say,” I ventured.

Brad poured himself a cup of coffee and stared into the brown liquid. “He wanted to ask me about the latest threat.” He looked up. “Audrey, what is happening? This is a nightmare. He has a point that the person who wrote the note has to be one of the cast or crew. Who else could get in? But why would any of us want to stop the show?” His eyes panned the room until he stopped to look at Nick.

Nick raised an eyebrow and stared back at him.

Brad set down his cup. “You have motive to stop the show.”

“Why would I—?” Nick started.

“Brad, don’t be silly,” I said

“No, I mean it.” Brad set his focus straight on Nick. “You were turned down to be on camera. That could have done your career some good. But then I come back to town. Maybe you thought I was a threat to your relationship, is that it?” Brad had raised his voice. Several cast members—and Bixby—were looking in our direction.

“Brad,” I said, purposely calming my voice and trying to drag him into a quiet corner. “You can’t possibly think Nick had anything to do with this?”

But Brad held his ground, even if he did lower his voice a little. “You’ve had access to the Ashbury. You could have written the note and slipped it on the desk as easily as I could have. More so, since nobody is watching
your
coming and going.” He said that last part extra loud and focused his attention on Bixby, who wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he was listening intently to this conversation.

“But I didn’t,” Nick said. “And I was in the shop baking, with another employee present, during the time of Gary’s death.”

And I hoped that Jenny would not be pulled into this. She’d had enough of Bixby earlier this year.

Brad’s eyes became no more than slits as he scrutinized Nick. “Well, if they’re watching me, I’ll be watching you.”

“Why do you have such an intense interest in turning suspicion in my direction?” Nick said. “I think you’re grasping at straws to save your own neck. If anyone needs watching, I say it’s you.”

“Fine, watch each other,” I said, crossing my arms, not trying to disguise the pique in my voice.

Two heads swiveled in my direction.

I propped up what was probably a scary-looking fake smile. “And while you’re busy watching each other, Gigi and the rest of the crew—and the whole town of Ramble—will be in danger, because there’s a killer still out there, maybe plotting another murder, while you have your jealous little staring contest.”

“Sorry,” Nick said, almost instantly, with just the right amount of penitence in his brown eyes.

Brad worked his jaw for what must have been a full minute, then turned to Nick. “Look, I don’t know you very well, but I do trust Audrey to be a pretty good judge of character. I have no reason or right to accuse you like that. Sorry.” And he held out a hand.

Nick whipped off his food service glove and shook.

Bixby walked away, and other heads turned back to their work. Show over.

“Listen, Brad,” I said. “I was wondering if you could help us with something.”

Despite the hand-shaking gesture, Brad looked leery. “What is it?”

“We were trying to figure out what happened with security.”

“What do you mean?”

“The security guards who were with the crew the first day. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them since.”

One corner of Brad’s lip curled up. “There is no security—well, except for the local LEOs. That’s ‘law enforcement officers.’”

“I know what it means. I watch
NCIS
.” I said. “But who were those guys in the shirts and dark glasses?”

“Audrey, look at the crew.”

I turned to look at the crew members milling about. Then shrugged my shoulders at Brad.

“You weren’t looking at their faces that day, were you? Most people don’t. They see security guards and decide they’re too much trouble to mess with.”

“I still don’t . . .”

Brad shook his head. “The crew
were
the security guards. We put on those black shirts and dark glasses when we roll into town, and then cross our arms and try to look imposing. People think we’re secure, so they don’t try to horn in on filming and shout and wave to their grandmothers. Up until now, it’s been all the security we’ve needed.”

“You were there, at the welcome rally?”

“’Fraid so. I saw you on the stage with your tuba.”

“You did?”

Brad smiled and nodded. “And that cute little hat.”

Nick cleared his throat. “That still leaves the rest of the crew. And the cast.”

“How many are there?” I asked. “Have I seen the whole crew? There are still too many nameless faces.” I was especially curious about the blond I’d met earlier.

“Then let’s fix that right now.” Brad took my arm and tucked it around his, sent Nick a curt nod, and then began escorting me around the room.

“You met Gary and Gigi, of course. Beyond them and their staff, we operate a basic six-man crew. I know I introduced you to Tristan, the producer. Marco, he’s the camera operator.”

“I’ve met him, too,” I said.

“He’s been in the industry a long time and been with
Fix My Wedding
from the beginning. Really knows his stuff. Nathan is his assistant. This is his first gig.” Brad pointed to a young man weighed down with shoulder bags and backpacks. Looked like he functioned more as a pack mule.

“Hey, Jordan!” Brad shouted and waved to a man wearing headphones. He was the same one who’d been holding that dreaded boom mic over my head. He waved halfheartedly and went back to his work. “Jordan is our sound mixer.”

Brad then pointed to Gwyneth. The young woman wore a low scoop-necked top and short shorts. “And that’s Gwyneth, our production coordinator. She’s interning with us for the summer.” Gwyneth smiled a flirty smile at Brad.

“That’s basically the production crew.”

“So six people from the production crew could be considered suspects, but Nathan and Jordan were here at the Ashbury when the murder took place, so that leaves four viable suspects without an alibi.”

“If you want to include me in that list, yes.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Three suspects from the production crew. Marco was seen in town at the sports bar, and nobody saw Tristan or Gwyneth all afternoon.”

“And then there’s Gary and Gigi’s staff. They’re the ones that make the weddings work. Gigi has a couple of event planners who do almost everything—or hire locals when we need more help. Sven, our lighting guy, is here.” Brad pointed to the muscle-bound blond I’d seen earlier, who could have been Sweden’s contestant for Mr. Universe.

“For the filming?”

“No, he does the up-lighting for the reception. Travels to all the weddings. Gigi wouldn’t have anybody else.”

I’m sure she wouldn’t.

“Gary also traveled with a seamstress and stylist.”

“The stylist and the wedding planners were here playing cards at the time, so they’re out. I guess that leaves Gigi, Sven the lighting guy, and the seamstress without alibis. I think I’m getting a headache.”

Brad chuckled. He leaned in and gestured his head toward a striking young brunette sewing beads on a filmy veil that she’d stretched across a table. “I’ll introduce you to the seamstress, but I warn you, she’s Bulgarian and knows very little English. Not sure how long she’s going to be with us. Spends half her time talking to the State Department and Immigration Services.”

“
Zdrasti,
Nevena,” Brad called with a wave. She looked up and smiled.

“Nevena, meet Audrey,” he said, and she reached over and shook my hand.

“Nevena—that’s a very pretty name,” I said.

She paused for a moment, then nodded. “You the flower lady. Nevena mean marigold,” she said, as if establishing some long-lost connection. “When I young, I have the yellow hair.”

In the language of flowers, marigold had come to mean
grief
and
pain
. Maybe I let the language of flowers seep into my impression of this woman, because her blue-gray eyes seemed older than her twenty-some years—and infused with pain. Was she that upset to lose her boss? Or could he have been more than a boss?

Brad led me toward an empty table and we sat down. “That’s pretty much everybody it takes to put on one of these weddings. Of course, the national baker won’t be arriving until later today, and Henry Easton didn’t arrive in town until after the murder.”

“Easton might have had more motive than anybody. Any chance he could have sneaked in earlier?” After that bursting-seams crack, I hate to admit it, but I would have loved to see him handcuffed and put into the back of a Ramble police car.

“I don’t know, Audrey. He’d be pretty recognizable.”

I nodded. I recalled how the crowd instantly called out his name and made such a fuss when he rolled down the window of his limo. Certainly someone would have seen him around town.

“And then there’s the cast,” Brad added. “The bride, her father. The groom. His parents. They won’t arrive until tomorrow, so you haven’t met them yet.”

“I’ve barely met the groom.” I tried to recall his name. Martin? Matthew?

“I suspect Suzy is a little more . . . predominant,” he said. “You think the future in-laws might have wanted to stop the wedding?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “It seems like an extreme move, don’t you think? Even if for some reason they hated Suzy, there have to be simpler ways to stop a wedding.”

I rubbed my forehead, trying to process all this new information. “That’s a lot of people with means. Maybe we should concentrate on motive. Any chance that Dennis or Jackie could have gotten in?”

“With Ramble’s finest parked out front?” Brad rolled his eyes. “But, Audrey . . .” He leaned forward and reached for my hand. “I’m not sure I like you poking around into a murder. Maybe you should let the local police handle it. I’m sure they’re processing evidence and following leads. They might have a suspect under surveillance at this very moment.”

I glanced up at Bixby, who was still staring at Brad.

Brad followed my gaze, then slumped into his chair. “Or maybe not.”

*   *   *

It was déjà vu all over again as Suzy and I—this time with Henry Easton and not Gary—stood in the gazebo looking over the flower bouquets.

“Come stand by me, Daddykins?” Suzy asked her father.

But Max shook his head and took a place on the other side of the camera, standing beside Nathan, the camera assistant. With, I might add, a good view of Gwyneth in her short shorts. She was probably the only one of us not wilting in the heat.

By this point, Suzy had time enough to practice making her pick. She oohed and aahed and her eyes lit up during the reveal of my Victorian-inspired bouquet.

“I love the bell-shaped flowers and all the meanings. And the little silver holder is just to die for.”

At this point, Tristan cut the filming, and had her go back.

“I love the bell-shaped flowers and all the meanings. And the little silver holder is just s
uper cute
.”

“Very lovely.” Henry barely glanced at the flowers. “But tell me, why bells?”

“I don’t understand.” Suzy scrunched up her face.

“What is it about bells that you love so much?” It was a good question. I didn’t get her fascination, either. Apparently Gary was the only one who had.

“I don’t know. I just do.” Riveting answer.

“Think about it,” Tristan coaxed. “Take your time.”

Suzy thought. And thought. By this point, sweat was pouring down my back from standing outside in the increasingly warm and humid weather.

Finally, she cocked her head to one side and started talking softly. The boom mic dropped even lower over her head.

“I think I love them most when . . . I miss my mother. There’s something comforting about them when the wind catches them. The sound doesn’t stop right away. It echoes, and I can almost hear her voice in the echo. Like she didn’t just end right away when she died, either. Echoes of her live on . . .”