For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (24 page)

“Somebody stole the Range Rover,” he said.

Bixby took Brad by the arm and gestured to a spot in the churchyard farther away from the throng behind the barriers and we followed him there. Dennis Pinkleman had his cell phone camera focused in our direction. I didn’t see Jackie and her crew among the group of onlookers, but they could have headed out for more coffee. Or more margaritas, for that matter. Hopefully not in the Range Rover.

“And you’re sure it’s stolen?” Bixby asked. “Maybe someone else from the show needed to use it.”

Brad shook his head. “That was my first thought, too. But I checked already.”

“When did you last see it?” I asked.

“I didn’t misplace it, Audrey,” Brad barked back. “It was stolen.”

“I didn’t say you misplaced it,” I said. “I simply asked when you had last seen it.”

Bixby crossed his arms and looked amused. “I’d answer the lady. It’s a good question. In fact, it was the next one I was going to ask.”

“I carried the guestbook and supplies out just before the wedding began.”

“That’s a big window,” Bixby said. “Could have been taken during the wedding, or after.” Bixby scanned the crowd and sighed. “I should try to establish a time frame for who left and when. I don’t suppose the Pinkleman kid would relinquish that cell phone voluntarily, would he?”

“You might be better off waiting until he posts his pictures on the fan site. I suspect he’s not your number one fan. Wait!” I turned to Brad. “Did you say the guestbook was in there? What else?”

“Odds and ends, mostly. The street clothes for the whole wedding party. They changed here. An extra outfit for Gigi, just in case. Thread, ribbon, emergency supplies.”

“No expensive video equipment or anything like that?” Bixby asked.

Brad shook his head. “Anything valuable is either locked up or being used. I was going to run this stuff back to the inn, unload, and come back for some of the cast and crew.” Brad froze for a moment, the blood draining from his face.

“What is it?” I asked.

“The marriage license,” he said. “It was in the van, signed, but not filed yet.”

“But that means . . .” Bixby started. Nobody finished the sentence.

Someone had managed to stop the wedding after all.

I sent a group text to Liv and all the Rose in Bloom employees. “Meet me at the shop in twenty.”

I showered quickly, dried off in front of the air conditioner in the bedroom, and slipped into a jade dress. I pulled into the alley behind the shop just before Amber Lee.

When I unlocked the back door, I was amazed at how clean the place looked—and how incorrectly Eric and his crew had managed to put all the salvageable supplies away. It would take us weeks to find everything and straighten it all out after his straightening.

I turned the thermostat down to bump on the air conditioning.

“Do we have a floral emergency?” Amber Lee said.

“No, I just—”

Darnell was the next to peek his head in the door. Followed by Shelby. I hadn’t bothered texting our irregular interns. When Liv and Eric arrived, looking every bit as confused as the others, I started.

“I think you all have heard that a
Fix My Wedding
Range Rover was stolen,” I said.

“With the wedding license,” Liv added.

Amber Lee raised her hand. “But I heard Bixby got the county clerk to issue a replacement. They got it signed and filed, so the wedding
was
valid.”

Our little group applauded that, and since Amber Lee’s gossip sources were generally reliable, I was happy for the couple.

“But someone did try hard to stop the wedding from being official,” Shelby said.

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe they were after something else.”

“Like what?” Liv asked.

“Range Rovers go for a chunk of change,” Eric said.

“True,” I said. “But how coincidental that someone would steal that particular vehicle, even if the keys were left in the ignition.”

“The theft of the Range Rover has to be tied in with the other things,” Liv said. “The break-in here. The damage of the wedding dresses. And maybe Gary’s murder.”

“All to stop the wedding?” Amber Lee asked. “Then he failed. Or do you think there’s another angle?”

“Suzy’s wedding does seem to be the focus of it all, doesn’t it?” I said. “Liv, you mentioned there were a bunch of interviews that Gary did with Suzy on the computer disk. Was that disc taken during the break-in?”

“No,” Liv said. “It was still in the computer.”

“Good. Then we still have access to it.”

“But whoever vandalized the shop was interested in those old videotapes of Gary’s,” Shelby said.

“Which is why I’d like you and Darnell to head to the library. Take a copy of the list of Gary’s news stories, and see what you can dig up. Ask for Mrs. McGregor, the research librarian. Those stories are over twenty years old, so not all the information might be available on the Internet.”

“Mrs. McGregor is like seventy,” Shelby said.

“Who better to know how to find something that’s not on the Internet?” Amber Lee said. “Now shoo. It takes longer with microfiche.”

As our two part-time employees made their way out the back door debating what microfiche might be, Liv squinted at me. “You know more than you’re telling us.”

“It’s not something I know. Just . . . what if the person who took the Range Rover wasn’t after the marriage license?”

“What would they be after?” Amber Lee said.

Liv’s eyes grew wide. “The guest book . . . or poster . . . or whatever they want to call it.”

I nodded. “With all the fingerprints on it. It’s a cute keepsake, but it caught my attention because it really didn’t have much to do with the theme of the wedding. Yes, there were a few bells hanging from the tree, but not enough to stand out. Yet Brad told me that Gary had specifically chosen it.”

“Gary was investigating—trying to get someone’s fingerprints,” Liv said. “Maybe someone with a record? Someone who was at the wedding.”

“The story that was going to relaunch his career,” I said.

“His last story,” Amber Lee said.

“And it’s not finished,” I said. “But what put Gary onto this new investigation that was going to relaunch his career? Does it tie in with an old story he worked on as a reporter? Or something he came across in his interviews with Suzy?”

Liv gnawed on a cuticle. “Gary must have had some suspicions prior to his interviews with Suzy.”

“Why’s that?” Eric asked.

“Because we learned from Jackie that Gary normally doesn’t . . . didn’t . . . do such in-depth interviews with the brides,” Liv said.

“At least he didn’t then,” I added. “It is possible that he started that later. Although Gigi did tell me that Gary seemed especially fascinated with Suzy. Maybe you could talk to Gigi? See if she knows more about Gary’s interviews and why Suzy was chosen.” I turned to Eric. “Is that okay?”

“Only if I can go with her,” he said. “We’ll be at the reception anyway.”

“Do I have an assignment?” Amber Lee asked.

“Could you go over the computer files again, maybe jot down some notes? Try to follow what Gary was asking. You’ve seen all the videotapes. See if you can draw any correlations.”

Amber Lee saluted and made her way to the computer.

“And where will you be?” Liv asked. “So if I hear sirens, I know whether or not to panic.”

“Not going anywhere dangerous. I’m checking in with the police to see how the investigation is going.”

“Bixby’s not going to tell you anything,” Eric said.

“Who said I was going to talk to Bixby?”

*   *   *

Mrs. June ushered me into the conference room of the police station. Her normal chair was occupied by another retired member of the police force, a red-cheeked man with a shiny bald head and a beer gut that looked like he’d swallowed a Clydesdale.

“In case any unrelated emergencies happen today,” she said, gesturing to her normal chair as we passed it. “Not that I think the miscreants will venture out in this heat—at least not until after dark.”

“So Bixby has you going to the wedding and the reception,” I said.

“Not as an investigator, I’m afraid. More of an errand boy, I think.” She quirked her face into a half smile. “Unless he’s trying to keep me in sight so I don’t participate in the
informal
investigation.”

I gave her my most innocent look and batted my eyelashes.

“If you want to know what Bixby’s come up with, it amounts to a lot of data that doesn’t add up to anything. We did get word of a torched vehicle over behind the high school. He’s headed there now to see if it’s our missing Range Rover.”

“That proves someone was after something inside the SUV, doesn’t it?”

“Or a malicious prank,” Mrs. June said. “He sent a couple of men out to verify the whereabouts of Jackie and her crew. And he’s got someone bringing in that poor Pinkleman kid again.”

“Probably for his cell phone.”

“And he’s already talked to Brad.”

“Rounding up the usual suspects.” I bit my lip. My next question would be harder to ask. And possibly more dangerous to Mrs. June’s employment if Bixby found out.

“What do you need, child?”

“Gary had told more than one person that he was leaving the show to break back into serious journalism.”

“So he was working on a new story.”

“But was it a new story? Or was it an old one?” I said. “Gary was fixated on the case that ended his journalism career. Can you get official police records? From other departments? Quickly?”

Mrs. June exhaled through pursed lips. “Maybe. Depends on which departments, how old the case, how sweetly I ask them, and how cooperative they’re feeling. What are you looking for?”

“Boston. The Paige Logan kidnapping.”

*   *   *

Kathleen Randolph was probably right about the show being good for business. Most of Ramble was just outside the police barriers in front of the Ashbury. I recognized Tacky Jackie and her cohorts by their protest signs as they were being interviewed by a local news reporter. And more than one of our local teens were walking behind them, probably trying to get their faces on camera. That’s what this whole thing was about, wasn’t it?

I entered the Ashbury as Kathleen’s white-gloved crew was placing the hors d’oeuvres into steam trays, a task probably not made easier with the white gloves. I couldn’t help but ogle the food first. There were soft cheeses under bell-shaped glass canopies, hard cheeses on bell-shaped cutting boards—surrounded by fruits and vegetables, including plenty of bell peppers. Baskets of bell-shaped pretzels. Other foods were cut with bell-shaped cookie cutters or shaped in large molds to resemble bells. And the bell-shaped croquettes made my mouth water, even if they were looking a little droopy.

I was staring at a tray of mac and cheese when Kathleen came up behind me.

“Campanelle,” she said. “The bell-shaped pasta. I thought of you when I ordered it.” She pointed to the bluebell arrangement we’d placed on the serving table, and then down to the pasta. “To me it looks more like the flowers. Sure soaks up the cheese, though.”

The anteroom was mostly empty still, with plenty of space at the high cocktail tables to set down drinks and food. I looked over the small crowd, waved to a few townsfolk, claimed a glass of punch, and set it on an unoccupied table.

My head was spinning and my stomach so stressed that the punch felt like pure acid as it worked its way down my esophagus. Just a few more hours of reception, and the cast and crew would leave town, and someone would literally get away with murder.

And I had no idea why that bothered me so much.

It wasn’t my job. The flowers were finished and looked lovely. Since the wedding took place, we would get paid. And if the episode ever aired, it should help our business. And since the killer was undoubtedly part of the cast or crew, once they left town, Ramble streets would be safe again. And although that meant not catching whoever broke into our shop, either way, it wouldn’t happen again.

And it’s not as if Gary and I were best buds. Our brief meeting left me a bit ambivalent to him, personally. I thought of the sprig of foxglove he had placed in his lapel.
Insincere.
And it fit, which was why investigating his murder turned out to be so difficult. He represented himself as a sweet, caring wedding planner, a fairy godfather who only desired to make nuptial dreams come true. But instead, he tended to be ambitious, self-centered, and definitely not sweet. At one time, he was a very good reporter. And when he was murdered, he was apparently on the heels of some breaking news. Had he kept better notes on what he was working on, the killer would probably be in jail already. Did he have more secrets that we’d never discover?

Still, Gary didn’t deserve to die. He’d done a lot of good, too. Like stopping that Balkan adoption ring scandal. I drained the rest of my punch, wincing at the burn in my throat.

“I sure hope that’s not spiked.” Brad set his phone and a small leather notebook on the table. “And if it is spiked, I’ll get you another if you let me take you home tonight.” He snapped his fingers. “But we have to take your car. Mine is still smoldering behind the high school.”

“So that was the Range Rover they found.”

“Yes, but if someone was trying to stop the wedding, they messed up.”

“I heard Bixby helped expedite the new marriage license.”

“Didn’t know the man could be so helpful. I still don’t think he trusts me.”

“He doesn’t get paid to trust anybody. And you do have a history.”

“The record of all of my youthful misdeeds has been sealed since I turned nineteen. Expunged is the word I think they used. And nothing after that has ever been proven. Not that Bixby would forget.”

“Someone called?” Bixby sidled up behind Brad, and I could see Brad’s posture straighten.

“I was saying how helpful you were in replacing the wedding license.”

Bixby set his punch down at the table, then removed the small floral centerpiece to a neighboring table before returning. “When do the cast and crew plan to head out?”

Brad inhaled audibly. “First thing in the morning. The first stop is the funeral, to show our support for Gigi. Without the Range Rover, we’ll just squeeze in a little tighter. We’ll ship ahead everything we need for the next wedding—and we’ve one less person. Oh, that sounded insensitive. I just meant that Easton has his own ride.”

“So the show goes on,” I said.

He nodded, reaching over to take one of the new couple’s signature cocktails from the tray of a server, a pink concoction called a spiced silver bell. “At least until the network says otherwise.” He sipped cautiously at his drink.

I glanced at Bixby. The departure time would give him a few more hours to work on the case, but how much investigation could he reasonably accomplish when most of his suspects would be snoring under their down duvets?

“Anything new in the investigation?” I asked sweetly.

He gave me his condescending Mr. Rogers smile. “Nice try, Audrey. But word gets out—both ways, you know. You need to stop this snooping of yours. I know it was your shop that was broken into, your business reputation on the line, so I can see where you feel you have a personal stake in this. But you could impede our investigation. And meddling with murder could end up being dangerous.”

Darnell slid up to the table, plopping a heaping plate of mac and cheese on top of a manila folder. “Hey there.”