For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (26 page)

Nick turned an inquisitive eye back to me.

“Okay, but try to keep quiet about this.” And then I explained to them our whole theory about Suzy being the missing Logan baby. “Crazy?” I asked.

“Yes,” Brad said.

“No,” Nick said.

“Well, not a crazy theory,” Brad amended, “but you have no proof.”

“Which is why she was taking the glass.”
You lunkhead.
Nick didn’t say that last part, but my Spidey sense picked it up loud and clear. Or maybe it was his eye roll when Brad wasn’t looking.

“So you’re going to give the glass to Bixby?” Brad said. “To compare it to the prints found at the scene of the Logan kidnapping?”

“As soon as I get one more set of prints.”

“A backup?” Nick asked.

“No. The police also had Paige Logan’s fingerprints on file.”

“So you want Suzy’s,” Brad said. “Just be careful.”

“We will be,” Nick said.

“We?” Brad said. “You’re going with her?”

Right at that moment, Mrs. June pulled open the door. “Audrey, are you okay? Did you get . . . ?” She looked at Brad, and then Nick, then back to me. “Did I interrupt something?”

“No. I was about to get Suzy’s glass.
Alone.
” I fixed a look at Nick and then at Brad. “Anything else might be too suspicious. Don’t move. Wait here until I get back.”

I walked out of the coatroom without another look back and focused on the sweetheart table where Suzy and (Michael? Mark?) fed each other bell-shaped desserts. Then rinsed them down with champagne. From the same glass. Ugh. And by the look of the pastry grease smeared on the outside of the flute, I doubted—even if I could somehow switch glasses without anyone noticing—whether it would yield a clean print.

But her bouquet, still in the silver reproduction holder, sat at the front of their table. I hadn’t seen anyone else handle it since their arrival, and the shiny metal surface that she had grasped should yield a clear print. I headed in that direction, almost reaching their table when the bells started ringing—a signal for the bride and groom to kiss. Which they did, with a lip-lock that felt like it lasted a good fifteen minutes, at least when I was standing there towering over them.

“Congratulations to the happy couple!” I said, when they finally came up for air.

Suzy stood and gave me an air kiss, missing my cheek by about eight inches. “Oh, Audrey! I never should have doubted you. The flowers look lovely.”

“Thank you.” I then shook the groom’s hand. “But I know they’re still filming, and I’d really like to freshen your bouquet for you.” I grabbed the bouquet by the ring of embossed bells on the bottom, a place unlikely to yield many fingerprints. “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” I said with an exaggerated smile.

“You can’t take those,” Suzy said, then lowered her voice. “I’m not supposed to know it, but they have a surprise for me later. They’ve got confetti and balloons and streamers in the ceiling.”

“Suzy, have you been snooping again?” her groom asked.

“Maybe just a little. And I need to look surprised for the camera. And I’d really love the flowers to be in the shot.”

“All the more reason for me to spruce these up,” I said. “Won’t take a minute.”

“But they look fine to me. Don’t they look fine to you?” she said with a pouty lip to her new husband.

“Well, I don’t know that much about flowers . . . ,” he started. Then, when Suzy sent a glare in his direction, he added, “But if Suzy says they look fine . . .”

“Oh, but they must be perfect,” I said. “All part of our service.” And I started walking away.

“Michael, stop her,” I heard, but I quickened my pace.

“I think you should put those back,” a male voice said behind me. But it wasn’t the groom’s uncertain tenor. It was Max Weber.

“Smile, pet,” Max said, gripping my arm. “Weddings are such happy occasions.” Then I knew what all those mystery novels meant by “a viselike grip.” Already I felt my fingers growing numb from lack of blood flow.

“Of course I’m going to smile.” I tried for nonchalance, but my cracking voice betrayed me. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Lovely wedding. I was going to freshen up these flowers.”

“Don’t play dumb,” he whispered, then laughed, as if we were having a perfectly normal conversation. “Mr. Glock doesn’t like it when people play dumb.” He patted a lump in his suit coat pocket. “Set those flowers on the table. You and I are going to take a little walk.”

“But I have to—”

“Leave them.” His face held the oddest contradiction I’d ever seen. Angry gray eyes, but a huge fake smile. Across the room when you couldn’t see his eyes, it would look like we were best buds shooting the breeze.

“You can’t do this. Someone is going to notice.”

But right at that moment, the emcee announced the cake cutting, and all eyes—and the camera—focused on the opposite corner of the room as the nationally known baker, dressed all in white, wheeled out his huge cake, surrounded by sparklers.

“Like I was saying,” Max said, “you and I are going to take a little walk outside so we can have a nice quiet chat.”

“You can’t get away with this. I know that Suzy is not your daughter. And I’m not the only one.”

If possible, his grip tightened. “Who else? Who else knows?”

I thought of Liv and the baby and everyone else who could be put at risk if Max knew who they were. I bit my lip. Had my boast escalated the situation? After all, he’d proven his propensity to kill anyone who could expose his secret. If I forced his hand, involved more people, who could predict what he would do? Would he fire into the wedding guests? Sure, the police would eventually take him down, but how many of my friends and neighbors could he take out with one Glock?

I shook my head. “No one,” I said. “No one knows.”

“That’s what I thought. I’m not a bad man,” he said. “I’m not a bad father.”

“But you’re not Suzy’s father.”

“Yes, I am,” he rasped into my ear. “I raised her. Changed her diapers. Told her bedtime stories. Comforted her when her mama died. Drove her to school on the first day of kindergarten. Paid for her braces.
I
raised her.”

“Her mama died?” Since Paige Logan’s real mother was still alive, this must have been a Mrs. Weber. Was she in on the kidnapping with her husband?

We walked about five feet toward the side door, pushing through townsfolk who were still rushing toward the cake. I guess Max was smart enough to avoid the main entrance, where the whole town, the police, and the TV reporters would see us leave. Since the side door led only to Kathleen’s back garden and could only be opened from the inside, it was likely to be unguarded. And if we made it that far . . . My best chances were to get help before we made it outside. With Max to my side but slightly behind me, I made odd faces at my neighbors, trying to get their attention. But I suppose the draw of cake, or perhaps being on camera, made them not raise an eyebrow.

“Come gather round to see the cake cutting,” the emcee said again.

“What happened to your wife?” I asked, trying to inject as much sympathy in my tone as I could.

Max shook his head. “She was sick. Ever since the birth of our daughter.”

“Your daughter? Suzy?” I remembered that Liv and Amber Lee had both remarked on finding Suzy’s birth certificate in Gary’s research. “Something happened to Suzy.”

“Margaret had given Suzy a bath. When I came home, they were both asleep in the tub. The drugs they gave Margaret did that sometimes. It wasn’t her fault.”

“Suzy drowned?”

“Suzy was
asleep
,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “I put Margaret to bed. Told her Suzy was sleeping. But I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t bear to see what would happen . . .” He let out a shaky breath. “When Margaret woke up, Suzy needed to be there.”

“So you found another Suzy.”

“I’d done some landscaping work for the Logan’s neighbors. When I saw the little girl next door, I thought right off that she looked like our Suzy.”

“And your wife never noticed the difference?”

“If she did, she never said. She just picked up where she’d left off, and everything was fine. It was a mistake, you see. An accident. Why should Margaret have to pay for an accident?”

“But Gary had to?”

“Gary was about to destroy my family. I could tell by the questions he was asking Suzy. Asking me. He was thinking he was so smart. Just because I work with my hands doesn’t make me stupid, you know. I caught on to what he was doing. So I told him that I had something I needed to get off my chest. I mentioned the church. When he got there, I told him I wanted to check out the old bell tower.”

Finally the last cluster of cake groupies separated to rush past us, and Brad stood in front of the door, arms folded across his chest. “Audrey, you can’t leave now,” he said with a teasing voice while he wagged a finger at me. “You promised me that dance.”

“I did,” I said to Max. “I did promise him a dance.”

Max squinted at Brad, then smiled that disturbing grin of his. Or maybe it wasn’t the grin so much as the context. “Of course. Why don’t you join us outside for a breath of fresh air first? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you, too.”

Brad’s Adam’s apple bobbed, but his friendly facial expression didn’t change. “Sure,” he said, with even a semblance of enthusiasm. And then he took my other hand and gave it a little squeeze.

Max let go of my arm. “Okay, you two head toward the door.” He put his hand in his pocket. His Glock pocket. “I’ll be right behind you,” he said in a creepy singsong.

“He’s got a gun,” I mouthed to Brad.

“Quiet,” Max whispered.

I balled up my hand, trying to get feeling back in my fingers. No one was watching our little drama. All attention was still on the cake as the national baker gave a little speech saying how honored and humbled he felt to be included. There was maybe fifteen feet left before we reached the door. I exhaled. Not a lot of time or opportunity to get away, and no way to hatch a plan with Brad. If I survived this situation, I vowed to learn Morse code, because then I could at least tap a message in Brad’s hand. Not that even that would be practical in the short time we had left walking to the door. And it would only help if Brad knew Morse code, too.

We were right in front of the ice sculpture when Nick jogged over and laid a hand on Brad’s shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Nick, no,” I said.

“I’m talking to Brad.” Nick gave Brad a little push to the shoulder. “Where are you going with my girl?”

My girl?
What was Nick playing at? Did he not see Max Weber behind us?

Brad gave a little push back. And then I figured it out. An element of surprise, and they had Max’s attention on them. Now, if I could only sneak away and maybe get to the table of cops. Any second and Max could pull out Mr. Glock and start a massacre.

I inched backward. My closest path to the table where Bixby sat with some of his officers would be right through the spot where Brad and Nick were staging their little fight, but if I could sneak behind the ice sculpture . . .

“Stop it,” Max said. “Let’s discuss this outside.”

Nick and Brad scuffled right in front of the ice sculpture, unfortunately drawing Max’s attention to where I was trying to make my escape to get help. I crouched behind the satin-draped table, then shifted so that the massive ice sculpture was between Max and me.

One of them—Brad, I think—fell against the table with a thud, and I watched as the sculpture started to wobble. It would be just like me to escape a deranged killer only to be crushed by five hundred pounds of ice in the shape of two wedding bells. And at the Ashbury, of course.

But then Nick shouted, “No you don’t, you coward.” I felt the table move, and soon Brad crawled out from underneath, followed seconds later by Nick.

Through the clear parts of the sculpture I could see an angry Max approach the table, his features distorted by the curves of the ice, taking on the appearance of a fun-house mirror. He drew the gun out of his pocket and pointed in our direction. Gasps went up in the crowd.

“Now!” Brad said, and he and Nick pushed on the table. When I saw what they were doing, I helped.

Max stopped suddenly, looking googly-eyed at the wobbling bells. The legs of the table gave way, sending the mound of ice in Weber’s direction. A single shot rang out, but his arm was directed straight up as he tried to shield himself from the mountain of ice. Then the bells crashed on top of him, sending chunks of ice, and thankfully Mr. Glock, sliding in a huge arc, like an exploding sun, across the newly polished floor.

“Daddykins!” I heard over the gasps of the crowd. And all around us, bell-shaped confetti and ribbons rained down from the ceiling from where Mr. Glock had released it early.

Most of the guests had gone home, with Bixby’s blessing. And the last time I peeked out the front window, the only ones left standing under a streetlight were Dennis Pinkleman and Ken Lafferty. Even the news truck was gone, leaving shortly after Bixby had gone out to give them a brief statement in time for the ten o’clock news. I suspect Jackie left after the news truck did.

Gigi sat at a table, her heels kicked off and her bare feet resting in the lap of her lighting guy. He massaged her arches while she murmured into a glass of champagne.

Henry Easton, disheveled and working on a ten o’clock shadow, busied himself with his cell phone. Most of the film crew were sleeping, heads down on tables, except for Marco, who had stretched out on top of a table, hands folded across his chest like a corpse. Only his snores reassured us that he was alive. I’d been tempted to put a lily in his arms.

Eric had already insisted on taking Liv home to get some rest, under Liv’s protests, of course. But even Bixby hadn’t been able to resist Eric’s protective instincts. “You know where to reach us,” he’d said. Liv’s wide eyes were focused backward on the scene of the wedding-turned-crime-scene as he practically dragged her out of the room. I’d imagined she would have been a good model for a painting on Lot’s wife as he dragged her out of Sodom. Grandma Mae had often told us that old Bible story. If it contained a cautionary tale about looking back, I never quite got it, but Liv and I did spend a delightful afternoon trying to figure out how to make salt stand up in a pillar.

A red-eyed Suzy, still in her wedding dress with the bell sleeves, shredded a tissue in her hands as she sat between Mrs. June and her new groom. He untied his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt as Mrs. June patted Suzy’s hand and tried to explain to her why her father had been handcuffed before being placed on the gurney when the ambulance came. I was certain Mrs. June would hit up Bixby for overtime. She deserved it.

Speaking of Bixby, he cleared his throat to regain my attention. “So you suspect that Gary discovered that Max Weber was the Logan kidnapper. Gary planned to expose the whole story to reboot his journalism career, which is why Max killed him. Allegedly.”

“And if I’m right, the fingerprints should prove it. Max’s and Suzy’s.”

He nodded. “I’ve already gotten a print from Suzy and compared it to the one in the file found conveniently in my receptionist’s purse. The one for the missing Logan baby.”

“And?” I leaned forward in my seat.

“I’ll send it to a qualified expert, but I suspect it won’t even take him ten seconds to verify that they’re a match. And we’ll take Max’s when we book him to compare.”

“It also explains the beard.”

“Okaaay.”

“Sorry. It’s not really a non sequitur. I was just thinking about the full beard Max Weber came to town with. Suzy wanted him to shave it off, but they compromised on a trim.”

“I don’t see what the man’s choice of facial hair has to do with anything,” Bixby said.

“Don’t you see? It’s why Weber wanted to stop the show, and why he seemed so camera shy. He must have started growing that beard as soon as Suzy signed up for
Fix My Wedding
. He’d been trying to convince her to drop out of the show all along. He must have been terrified that the Logans would see him and recognize him as one of their neighbor’s gardeners—and see Suzy as the spitting image of Deborah Logan.”

“So we have him for the kidnapping. Compiling enough evidence to charge him for Gary’s murder might be a little harder, but we’ll have your testimony and we’ve got time to pull everything else together.”

He looked across the room at Suzy. “Perhaps Suzy . . . or Paige . . . whatever she decides to call herself . . . can place him at or near the scenes of the crimes.”

“Someone needs to look into what happened to the real Suzy.”

Bixby inclined his head.

“Suzy Weber has a real birth certificate. From what Weber told me, she died in his wife’s care, but he said Mrs. Weber wasn’t all that
healthy
at the time. It was really unclear to me whether it was an accident or the wife killed her.”

“But he’s at least an accessory.” Bixby pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his raw nose. Poor guy. All these crimes happening in rooms full of allergens. I was beginning to have a little sympathy.

“They must have hid the body. Dang. Those are more charges there. Another municipality. And we found those missing videotapes still in Max’s room. So we have him on the B and E. But you really should have come to me. Going after those fingerprints was a dangerous thing to do.”

“It didn’t seem very dangerous at the time,” I said. “I thought you would have wanted more proof. I was trying to bring you that. What would you have done if I’d told you earlier?”

He worked his jaw for a minute. “Probably pass on the information to the appropriate jurisdiction, since the Logan kidnapping is way out of ours. And maybe they’d have taken me seriously.”

“But this way, it’s solved here. If you were worried about the town’s reputation—”

“And what about the town’s citizens?” he shot back, but then calmed his tone. “Please, don’t put yourself in that kind of danger again. And I promise, I will listen to whatever wild, crazy theories you come up with.”

I flashed him my most innocent smile. “Pinky swear?”

He shook his head and laughed. “Get out of here.”

When I rose from the table, I spotted Brad and Nick on the other side of the room, sampling the uneaten cake.

“Have you no shame?” I said.

“We were hungry,” Brad said.

Nick scrunched up his nose and tossed his plate back onto the table. “Not
that
hungry. Dry as anything. Probably because he had to transport it here. That’s the problem with not buying local.”

“Well, don’t worry, my friend,” Brad said. “The baker won’t get any accolades for this one. This episode is definitely kaput.
Although
we might be able to sell a good chunk of the footage to the news services. The kidnapping and all.”

My friend?
When did Brad and Nick get so chummy?

Brad turned to me. “Sorry, Audrey. That means the Rose in Bloom doesn’t get the exposure, either, but we will honor our contract to make sure you get paid as originally agreed.”

Nick cleared his throat.

“And maybe a little extra,” Brad said, “if I can swing it. You deserve it. Here I thought I was doing you a favor, getting them to do the show in Ramble.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said. “Besides, I really appreciate you two saving my life. Did you conspire to—?”

Nick shook his head. “There wasn’t time.”

“All I told him was that I was going in,” Brad said.

“And when he couldn’t get you away from Max,” Nick said, “I knew that something was up. My first idea was to stage the fight and draw some attention.”

“When he pushed me toward the ice sculpture, I saw it wobble,” Brad said.

“And then I came up with the idea,” Brad and Nick both said, almost in unison.

I chuckled. “Well, thanks for saving my life, no matter who figured it out first.”

Brad and Nick eyed each other in a way to suggest that it did matter, and that they were going to settle it, one way or another.

“Well, thanks again,” I said, “and good night.”

“Audrey?” I froze for a moment, afraid to turn around when I recognized Suzy’s voice. On what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life, she’d had her whole life turned around, and I wasn’t sure if she was going to thank me or blame me for my part in it.

“Yes?” I would say that I tried to inject sympathy into my voice, but this time it oozed out naturally.

“Don’t go yet. I wanted to . . . I know you could have been killed, and that you were only trying to help. I wish I could thank you, but please understand, I’m not there yet. Part of me is grateful. But Da . . . Max Weber was always good to me. Part of me doesn’t believe it and hates you for messing up my life. It’s too much to process.”

“I understand,” I said. Not that anyone could. I’d lost a father, but I’d never had one stripped away from me and branded a killer—only to then find out he wasn’t really my father to begin with. “I suspect you have new parents to meet.”

“They’re on their way. Should be here by morning.” Suzy closed her eyes and exhaled a shaky breath. “I hope I can pull myself together for them. I’m afraid I won’t know how to react. The woman with the police”—she pointed toward Mrs. June, who smiled and nodded encouragingly—“said they’d been searching for me all my life, but I don’t remember them.”

“Maybe you remember more than you think.” I leaned in to hug her. “I saw the pictures of your nursery. Bells everywhere. And the Tinker Bell doll you loved—it was given to you by your real parents. So maybe . . .”

“Maybe I remember more than I think? But they’ll want me to love them.”

“But they love you, so I’m sure it will come. And they’ll be patient.”

Suzy nodded and turned back toward her groom, who threw his coat around her shoulders and pulled her into a long embrace.

“I’m glad she has somebody to care for her,” I said.

“That’s going to put a kink in the honeymoon,” Brad said.

“Can I take you home?” Nick offered.

“No.” I watched Michael comfort his bride. “I have the CR-V here—and a very hungry cat waiting for me.”

*   *   *

Chester was curled up on the back of my living room couch, one of his favorite perches, as evidenced by the gray and white hair always collecting on it and the pronounced sag visible even when he wasn’t there. Instead of getting up and running for the door, he lifted one eyelid, identified who I was, then curled up tighter into his ball.

“Sorry to be so late, old man,” I said, slipping off my shoes and curling up next to him. I rubbed his ears, and soon I could feel rather than hear his gentle purring. I tufted the fur on his head into a spiky fauxhawk.

“This apartment living isn’t good for you. You need to be out in the country, chasing birds and butterflies.” I then thought of the hawks, coyotes, and even bears. “Or maybe you can just stalk them from the window. But as soon as the money comes in . . .”

Chester meowed at me. Not sure if he was making conversation or if his new hairdo rubbed him the wrong way.

“Don’t get a hair ball. You’ll love it out there. So quiet.” I leaned back and rested my head for a moment. And before long I was dreaming of Liv and me as children, running in with dirty clothes and faces. And Grandma Mae standing at the door, her arms crossed in front of her flowered apron while she tried to maintain a stern look. But the smile radiated from her eyes.

*   *   *

After a few days the Ashbury reopened, but the film crew was slow to leave town. I’m not sure they were on the clock, but they seemed to be filming a documentary about the finding of Paige Logan. I guess it was a case of being at the right place at the right time.

Gigi and Henry left first, driving a small caravan, which consisted only of the wedding planners, makeup artist, seamstress, and, of course, Gigi’s lighting guy. Where they were headed after the funeral was anyone’s guess. Even Brad didn’t know if the next wedding was going to be filmed. The town that had welcomed the mass caravan in with a fanfare barely gave a nod to the limo and deluxe RV as they skulked out of town. It seemed Ramble had had its fifteen minutes of fame, but was glad it was over.

So was I. Although I have to admit I did take some pride in looking over Dennis Pinkleman’s viral posts on the
Fix My Wedding
fan site and on Pinterest, all of which he’d entitled “The Episode That Wasn’t.” His pictures of the bouquets and centerpieces were truly gorgeous, and he had heaped all kinds of praise on the flowers, calling me the “florist to the stars and a genuinely nice person.” I guess it was better than “Dr. Dolittle.”

The fan site was also a magnet for Jackie, who’d decided to get with the program and posted a careful apology for her rants against Gigi and the now-deceased Gary. “Mistakes were made . . .” (She had a career in politics.) She’d also posted that she and her husband—I guess he was now her ex-husband—were in couple’s counseling and considering reconciling. Poor guy.

Meanwhile the show appeared back in the tabloids when an enterprising member of the paparazzi captured a photograph of Henry Easton in Boston with a family alleged to be his wife and five kids. Easton neither confirmed nor denied . . . yada, yada, yada.

Life at the shop resumed a sense of normalcy, even if we were still putting things back to rights after Eric’s reorganization. On Monday, which was my day to start late, I poked my head into the back room where Liv was up to her elbows in gladioli.

Then the shop bell rang, and I headed to the front to greet the latest customer. “Suzy?”

She looked much more somber and, frankly, older since I’d seen her last. She was flanked by a couple I recognized from the news footage as the Logans.

“Actually,” she said, “I think I’ve decided to go by Paige.”

Deborah Logan smiled at that, and Evan Logan looked ready to shed a tear or two.

“I wanted to come by and say thank you,” Paige continued. “Without you I might have never known my parents.”