For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (25 page)

Bixby focused on the folder, then on Darnell, then gave me a stern look. “Dangerous . . . for everybody.” And then he left the table.

Darnell exhaled. “Something I said?”

“Well, I need to get back to work, too,” Brad said. “I have to make sure the new bride is ready for her big entrance. See you later, Audrey.”

Shelby walked up and took Brad’s spot, setting down a well-balanced plate filled with fruits and vegetables. “Mrs. McGregor sends her regards. Says you still owe her a dollar eighty in fines.”

Darnell pulled out the folder and looked around the room before he opened it. “We thought this might be helpful. Found it using something called
The
Readers’ Guide to Periodical Literature
.” He shoved over a photocopied article about the kidnapping.

“This is recent,” I said.

“A where-are-they-now story,” Shelby said.

I scanned the photo that accompanied the article. Evan Logan—the prime suspect in the case, at least according to the younger version of Gary—was standing next to his wife. The couple had never stopped looking for their daughter. Most of their savings had gone to pay the ransom, and the rest of their assets over the years to pay private investigators and lawyer fees. Their marriage suffered. They divorced a few years after the kidnapping, then remarried each other a couple of years after that.

“We lost our daughter. We only had each other to lean on, to cling to . . . to keep searching.” I squinted at the picture of them taken in front of a more modest home than the McMansion I’d seen on Gary’s videos. The new Logan home was a lackluster ranch with peeling gray clapboards and weeds growing where flowers should be.

“We’re encouraged,” the father was quoted as saying, “by the recent recovery of other victims of child abduction. We rejoice with the families reunited with their now-grown children.”

“Our daughter likely wouldn’t remember us,” the mother added. “But we won’t give up hope.”

“Hope,” I said.

“We figured the dad’s gotta have a motive,” Shelby said. “Gary accused him, and instead of focusing only on finding the child, he had to deal with all the accusations. It took a toll on his marriage.”

“But he’s not someone we’ve seen in town. Have you?” I stared at the picture. “But the mother looks . . . I know I’ve never seen her before, but she looks oddly familiar.”

*   *   *

I hate assigned tables at wedding receptions. It always seemed like all the interesting conversations were taking place elsewhere while I was seated with the guy with the dripping sinuses, the woman detailing her food allergies, the silent and sullen couple on the verge of divorce, and the snarky woman explaining why Emily Post would be appalled at the most recent wedding faux pas. At least the last one was entertaining.

I was relieved when my card directed me to table thirteen—not an omen, I hoped—to find Liv and Eric already seated there.

The room looked absolutely gorgeous and ethereal, probably as a result of all that draping and up-lighting. Near the side door stood a large ice sculpture, towering about five feet above the height of the table it rested upon. It was carved to look like two beribboned wedding bells. “Just shy of five hundred pounds,” I’d heard Gigi say to the camera as we passed her coming in. Guests encircled it, watching it dispense more of that pink cocktail. Ramblers were easily entertained.

Liv waved me to the seat next to hers. “I just had a talk with Gigi.”

“
We
just had a talk with Gigi,” Eric said.

“About how Gary chose Suzy,” Liv added, waving Eric off. “And all those interviews. It seems he was extremely secretive and kept Gigi pretty much in the dark about it.”

“I’m sure that must have raised her suspicions,” I said.

“I guess she drew her own conclusions.” Liv shrugged. “She was a little more open this time. Said she figured her marriage was pretty much over anyway at that point. But they figured a secret divorce would be even harder to carry off than a secret marriage.”

“Hence her taking up with Sven the lighting guy,” I said.

“Well, hey, y’all.” Mrs. June set her punch on the table and scooted in next to me. More guests had arrived, and the room filled with the chatter of conversation. “Wasn’t that a lovely wedding? But I think I need to run to the little girls’ room.” She hoisted her pocketbook onto her lap and tapped it meaningfully. If taps can have meanings. These did.

“Let me join you,” I added.

“How many women does it take to go to the bathroom?” Eric said.

“Me, too, I’m afraid.” Liv hoisted herself up. “Baby pushing on the bladder and all.”

Mrs. June led the way to the ladies’ room like a woman on a mission. Cue the
Mission Impossible
soundtrack. The crowd that was milling about the tables parted before her like she was Moses crossing the Red Sea. After we pushed our way into the restroom, she put a finger to her lips while she checked under each stall, then pointed to one that was occupied.

I turned to the mirror and pretended to primp.

Mrs. June plopped onto the upholstered chair near the door and kicked off a shoe, examining it like something was stabbing her support hose.

Liv ducked into an empty stall. “I wasn’t joking when I said the baby was pushing on my bladder.”

And then we waited. And waited. I’d done as much primping as I could. Liv had finished her business and was washing her hands. And still, whoever had occupied that last stall hadn’t budged.

“We can’t stay in the bathroom all day,” Liv whispered.

I looked to Mrs. June, who shrugged.

“Are you all right in there?” I called.

No answer.

And suddenly, my mind filled with everything that could go wrong that could keep someone locked in a ladies’ bathroom stall—from stomach disorders to wardrobe malfunctions to childbirth (Hey, I saw it once on
I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant
) to murder. Was there another corpse attached to those feet I could see under the stall door?

“Can I get you anything?” I asked, softening my voice. Finally I went to the stall and knocked on the door.

Moments later the toilet flushed and Nevena exited, rubbing the back of her hand under her running nose and then across her mascara-stained cheeks.

I stood back as she went to the sink, washed her hands, and splashed cold water on her face. I handed her a few towels from the dispenser.

“Are you okay?” I asked. Stupid question. Obviously she was far from okay. “Here, sit.” I guided her to a chair opposite Mrs. June and handed her a tissue box from the counter.

She sighed and closed her eyes. “It’s so hard. The wedding . . . without Gary.”

“I didn’t realize you and Gary were so . . . close,” I said.

Nevena nodded, then gasped. “No! Not close. Not like that.”

Liv reached over and held her hand. “How were you close, then?”

Nevena sniffed and reached a hand toward Liv’s belly, stopping inches short. “May I?”

Liv nodded and Nevena rubbed Liv’s belly.

“In Bulgaria,” she said, “there’s old tradition of putting dried honeysuckle into cup of water, and drinking it to speed on labor; something about hand of the Virgin.”

“In the language of flowers,” I said, “honeysuckle means
generous
and
devoted affection
. Of course, the variety matters.”

“Don’t think about it,” Liv said. “I’m not nearly ready to deliver yet.”

This was a nice Hallmark moment, but it really didn’t answer any questions. “About Gary,” I said.

Nevena bit her lip and nodded.

“If you weren’t involved with him romantically,” I said, “what exactly . . .”

“He was helping me. Ever since I come to country, he helps with immigration.”

“He was helping you become a citizen?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I am citizen. I was born in country.”

I wasn’t sure how you tactfully asked a U.S.-born citizen how it was that she knew so little English. But I didn’t need to.

“I grew up in Bulgaria. Gary helped that. He was very good to me and Mother. That’s why I am so sad to think he is dead . . .”

“Gary saw to it that you grew up in Bulgaria?” Liv asked. “How did that happen?”

“Is long story,” she said. “My mother, she was young. So young. And not married. She could not stay with parents, and my father, he was . . . as you call, rat.” She smiled in triumph at her word choice. “People tell her, go to America. Work and have baby there. So she goes . . .”

“The adoption mill,” Liv said. “The one luring Balkan girls to the U.S. to have their babies. Did your mother know Gary from the story?”

Nevena nodded. “You’ve seen story? Mother was so proud of what she did. They tell her no one would believe her. That she has to leave baby and go home, but Mother, she doesn’t listen. She talks to Gary.”

“She was the whistle-blower,” I said.

Nevena knit her eyebrows in puzzlement.

“To blow the whistle means to turn them in to the police,” I said. “She must have testified against them.”

Nevena nodded. “She blow whistle many times in court. Many threats against her, but bad men go to jail. Then we go back to Bulgaria. The government does not help, like here. It was still hard for us, but better to be together. She work in dress shop. I helped.”

“So why all the calls to immigration?” I asked.

“Since I am American citizen, I can live here. And ask that Mother be allowed to immigrate as well. The new people don’t know what she did, how she helped them. So they don’t want to give her visa. Gary was helping me bring her over. He said he wants to hire her. We both work on the show. But now . . .”

“Have you talked to Henry Easton about your mother?” Liv asked.

“Easton, he only scream at me. Talk like I a child. I don’t know what will happen if Mother comes and she has no job. She very good seamstress. Better than me, and I’m hot stuff.”

“Would you like us to talk to Henry?” I said. “Or maybe Brad can.”

“Brad, he is nice. Handsome man, too. Yes, I think Brad can help. I think Henry might like to talk to handsome, young man like Brad.”

Mrs. June snorted, then smiled at Nevena.

Nevena stood. “I have to go to work now. See if bride need anything pressed.”

As the door swung behind her, I shrugged. “So much for my theory that she was having an affair with Gary. Another confirmation that Gary wasn’t a total jerk.”

“But that doesn’t mean that Gigi didn’t think he was having an affair with her,” Liv said. “So I wouldn’t cross her off the list just yet.”

“Of course not,” I said. “We’ll keep adding people until the whole world could have killed Gary.”

“Now, now, girls.” Mrs. June opened her purse. “Maybe I can help.”

“What did you find?” I positioned myself next to her chair so I could read the papers on her lap. Liv took a position on the other side.

“What I found was more details on an old kidnapping. All of this is pretty much public record, so it wasn’t much trouble to get.”

“Oh, you got pictures.” Liv leaned over Mrs. June’s shoulder.

I was fascinated with the pictures as well. This was Paige Logan’s nursery, shot shortly after the kidnapping. The crib was lined with a lacy bumper, and a mobile was dancing in the sunlight. “I recall the story. Deborah Logan put one-and-a-half-year-old Paige to bed that night and turned on the mobile. And never saw her again.”

Liv put an unconscious hand on her stomach. “I can’t imagine,” she said, her voice cracked with emotion . . . or hormones . . . or hormone-induced emotion.

I leaned in closer. “What’s that?” I pointed to the objects dangling from the mobile. “And that?” I pointed to another shadow in the window.

“I think those are wind chimes in the window,” Mrs. June said.

“And that’s a little bell on the mobile,” Liv said.

“Is there a police report detailing the scene?” I asked.

“What is it?” Mrs. June shuffled through her papers. “You’ve got the ‘
eureka’
look on your face again. I don’t think I’ve seen it this strong since you discovered those tadpoles in the creek with the frog legs half grown on them.”

I snatched up the police report. “There was a good set of prints found at the scene.”

“Unfortunately, there was nothing to compare them to,” Mrs. June said. “Whoever left it wasn’t in the system. Never in the military. Never arrested.”

“But wouldn’t that have been enough to clear Evan Logan?” I asked.

“I’m afraid not. When they start taking fingerprints, they can be found anywhere—and anyone can leave them. Police fingerprint the family to eliminate most of the prints. The few they can’t identify could lead to a suspect. Even then, it’s a long shot. More often than not, they’re left innocently. The uncle that visited once, and the family forgot to mention it. The babysitter. The babysitter’s boyfriend the family never knew was in the house. Even the person in the department store who assembled the crib.”

I read a little more of the report and my hands started shaking. “There was a Tinker Bell doll missing. The parents believe it was taken from her crib.”

“Where’s the picture of the baby?” Liv asked. “Little Paige.”

Mrs. June handed it over. “You’ve got the same look,” she told Liv.

“Is it her?” I asked.

“I can’t tell. Might be.”

“Who are you talking about, dagnabbit?” Mrs. June said.

“Suzy,” Liv and I both said together.

“The bride?” Mrs. June asked. “How do you figure? She has a father.”

“But is her father really her father?” I said.

“Oh,” Liv said, practically jumping up and down, “That’s why the fingerprint guest book thingy was stolen.”

“And why Gary wanted it in the first place,” I added. “It would be odd for the father of the bride not to participate. Then all Gary had to do was compare the signed fingerprint to the one on file.”

Liv inhaled. “That explains the interviews and all the background information Gary wanted. He even had a copy of her birth certificate.”

“Wait,” I said. “He had Suzy’s birth certificate? Was Max listed as her father?”

Liv nodded.

I rubbed by chin. “Are we jumping the gun here?”

“Maybe the certificate was forged,” Liv suggested.

“There’s a fingerprint for Paige in here, too.” Mrs. June shuffled through the papers again. “Is that enough to go to Bixby with? What if Suzy isn’t Paige Logan, all grown up?”

“Then we do what Gary was planning on doing,” Liv said. “We collect fingerprints for him to compare. I mean, even if Bixby doesn’t believe us, he’ll check them just for the satisfaction of telling us we’re wrong, right?”

“Don’t go doing nothing dangerous,” Mrs. June said.

“Nothing dangerous at all,” I said. “This is a wedding. They are going to be touching things. All we”—I glared at Liv—“
I
 . . . need to do is discreetly collect things they touch. Then Bixby can compare the fingerprints to the ones on file and decide what to do.”

A knock sounded at the outer door. “Is everything okay in there?” Eric said. “You’ve been in there a long time.”

“Just peachy,” Liv yelled back. “We’ll be right out.” She rolled her eyes. “Men. He’s probably worried I’ve gone into labor in here.”

“If you’re going to collect things they’ve touched,” Mrs. June said, “try to get smooth and shiny things, like a glass.”

“And put them where?” I held up my miniscule clutch purse, which would only be helpful if the thing they touched were a pack of gum. And not a very large pack, at that.

Mrs. June patted her gigantic handbag. “Right here.”

*   *   *

We took our seats as the wedding party started to file in. A gigantic bell was projected onto the floor, and the couple was introduced and took their first dance . . . to a pleasant acoustical—but totally inappropriate—version of Bob Dylan’s “Ring Them Bells.”

Amber Lee, Shelby, and Darnell had made their way to our table. Mrs. June joined what I learned was her official table, over with the police presence.

And Nick waved as he wandered around with his place card still in its little bell holder, before taking a seat on the opposite side of the room. No, I didn’t need to worry that bellflowers were too literal. Not in the least. But I did wonder if Brad had anything to do with Nick being seated at the farthest point possible from my table. I smiled. The cad.

Amber Lee leaned in closer. “I went over those computer files again.”

“Anything?”

“Not really. Gary seemed equally obsessed with both Suzy Weber and the Paige Logan kidnapping. He had both their birth certificates, if you can believe that. And guess what he was doing with them.”

“Checking to see if one was forged?”

Amber Lee’s jaw dropped. “You take the fun out of everything. But, yes. He had notes on both certificates, checking the markings and signatures.”

“Did he reach any conclusions?”

“He apparently decided they were both genuine.”

The emcee picked that moment to start the program. Toasts followed, and I eyed the table where Max Weber sat drinking from a tall champagne flute. The perfect object from which to get a fingerprint.

After the newly-married couple danced, they sat at a small sweetheart table and rang a little bell. The servers started serving food, first for the couple, and then for the rest of us. I kept rubbernecking the table where Max sat with the groom’s parents. But I couldn’t exactly go over there and steal the champagne glass right out of his hand.

I barely tasted dinner, which consisted of stuffed bell peppers with a really nice cut of steak that had no apparent connection to bells. (The horror!) After dinner, the DJ announced the father-daughter dance.

I watched it for a few moments. Marco had his camera trained on Suzy and Max, but I couldn’t help notice how Max seemed to swirl in a way to ensure that the camera focused on Suzy. Or was he trying to keep from being on camera?

But I excused myself, sent a look to Liv, and carried my untouched champagne glass over to the place where the groom’s parents sat. And where Max’s champagne flute stood unguarded.

“Well, hello, there,” I said, setting my glass coolly on the table near where Max’s glass stood unguarded and waiting. I proffered my hand to the groom’s mother. “I’ve so wanted to meet the groom’s parents. I’m Audrey Bloom, the florist.” They introduced themselves with names, I must admit, just as unmemorable as their son’s, and then proceeded to tell me how lovely the flowers were.

I thanked them profusely, chattered inanely, and, as the dance was coming to a close, bid them adieu. I picked up Max’s champagne flute by the stem, leaving mine in its place, and headed over to Mrs. June’s table. My flute was full since I didn’t want to drink, and his was empty, but I hoped nobody else would notice the switch and that he’d assume some waiter refilled it while he was dancing.

“But it’s empty,” she tried to say, when I set the flute next to her spot.

I cleared my throat.

“Oh!” She then picked up her napkin and wrapped it around the glass before turning to her colleagues at the table.

The one problem with using Mrs. June’s purse as a collection vessel for our fingerprints is that how do you explain to a table full of cops why you’re absconding with the Ashbury’s glassware.

“Evidence,” she said.

They shrugged but then were distracted as a multitiered tray of desserts arrived at the table. Little cheesecakes and cookies shaped like . . . You guessed it. I was saved by the bell.

I’d walked three feet from the table when I felt a hand close around my forearm.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Brad pulled me to the side of the room. “We paid a deposit on that glassware. If any of it goes missing, the show is liable to pay.”

I shushed him. “Listen, it’s not what you’re thinking, and I’ll make sure I clear it with Kathleen.”

“What is going on?” he said.

“Fingerprints.”

“Whose fingerprints?”

“Max Weber’s,” I whispered.

“Why would you want Max’s fingerprints?” he said, a little too loudly for my taste. I took Brad’s arm and led him into the cloakroom.

“Will you be quiet?” I said. “It could be dangerous if anyone finds out.”

“But I don’t understand. I know you’ve been poking around Gary’s death, but I also know that Bixby didn’t find any stray fingerprints in the belfry or church to compare. Did he find some at the shop?”

“No, nothing to do with what happened in town. Well, it does, but the fingerprint is old. Over twenty years old.”

“Will you make sense, woman?” Brad said.

“She’d probably make more sense if you’d let her talk,” Nick said, sliding in next to us.

“What are you doing here?” Brad asked.

“I saw your discussion across the room, and I wanted to make sure Audrey was okay.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

Nick’s brown eyes flashed with concern.

“Really,” I said. “Brad saw me take one of the Ashbury’s glasses and give it to Mrs. June.”

“Who put it into her purse,” Brad said. “I was concerned.”

“Well, if a whole table full of cops had no problem with it,” I said, “I don’t see why you should.”