For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (9 page)

Gigi finished up a conversation with Tristan, who winked and waved at me before he jogged away. Tristan was the one I could remember, with his James Bond looks and British accent. Normally, I might be attracted. I’ve been a sucker for a man with an accent ever since my first Cary Grant movie. But I already had one man too many. Besides, I had a firm rule to not flirt with murder suspects.

I caught Gigi’s eye and was surprised when she made her way across the room toward me. Maybe it was my frantic waving at her that did it.

“Audrey, was it?” She held out her hand.

As I shook it, I fumbled with words. “I’m sorry about your loss . . . of your co-host.” I reminded myself I wasn’t supposed to know about her secret marriage.

She was made up like I was used to seeing her on television, but the rims around her eyes were red, and puffy circles were barely hidden under thick under-eye concealer. How hard it must be to hide a marriage, much less the loss of a spouse.

She didn’t answer, just stared at our hands, which I had inadvertently held for too long a time to be polite.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Thank you.” Whether she was grateful for my sympathy or my letting go of her hand, I couldn’t tell. “How are the flowers coming?”

“Stalled, for the moment.”

She tilted her head and stared. On the show, that expression meant a snarky tirade was coming.

I decided to head her off. “Gary never picked a design before . . .”

She sucked air between her teeth, then nodded. Her face was a mask. I couldn’t tell if it was the result of good acting, pancake makeup, or Botox. I tried to read something from her eyes, and I thought I saw a hollowness, a depth of grief chained deep inside, forbidden to bubble to the surface. Or maybe that’s what I wanted to see.

Or maybe I read that in a novel somewhere.

At that moment, a cell phone rang—the theme song for the show—and Gigi pulled a smartphone from her pocket. In a flash, I saw the caller name: a major life insurance company. “Just a moment.” She walked away to an empty corner of the room.

Of course, even if their relationship were a secret to the rest of the world, she would have life insurance on her husband. This would probably mean that she, more than anybody, had something to gain from his death. Aren’t they always saying on those TV shows that it’s usually the spouse? Probably why cop shows are not my favorite. I’m rather fond of happily-ever-afters that involve two people walking off hand in hand, not one being led off in handcuffs while the other decomposes in a casket.

I didn’t want to believe that these two people who made wedding dreams come true for so many others could have had such a train wreck of a marriage that one of them resorted to murder to end it. But could Gigi have killed Gary—or had him killed—for his financial holdings and insurance money? As I watched her talk on the phone, she turned away, letting me know that I’d been staring. Maybe she was worried I could read lips. Unless her phone conversation was about a “white rhinoceros,” her privacy was safe from me. I made a mental note to look online for lipreading courses.

I wandered away and absentmindedly picked up a scone.

Nick handed me a lemonade. “She sure holds it together well, doesn’t she?” He nodded off in Gigi’s direction. “Cold as ice, that one.”

“I don’t know. I think she’s more upset than she’s letting on.”

“They had such great chemistry on television, but maybe they weren’t all that close.”

“No.” I shook my head. “They were closer than people even knew.”

Nick raised an eyebrow, and I longed to tell him what I’d learned about their secret marriage. But in a small town, rumors were hard to stuff back into the bottle, and I wouldn’t hurt Mrs. June for anything.

“Have you met the rest of the crew?” I leaned in closer. “And any idea who was present and accounted for at the Ashbury at the time of Gary’s death?”

“I may have learned a few things. But please don’t go getting into trouble.”

“I figure I’ll have less trouble if I know who I’m dealing with. Any impressions?”

“A few. That producer is a bit full of himself. Not sure how that ego would have gotten along with Gary. And no one at the inn recalls seeing him earlier this afternoon.”

“Tristan? He seems nice.”

“Appearances can be deceiving. He’s nice to the people who do stuff for him and ignores the rest. He’s really nice to Gwyneth, if you get my drift.” He gestured discreetly toward the buxom young intern I’d seen the first day of filming. “And no one can account for her whereabouts earlier, either.”

“Got it. The cameraman’s sweet on her, too, by the way.”

Nick huffed. “Wouldn’t doubt it. Marco seems like the type.”

“Aren’t all men the type?”

Nick drew a hand to his chest and feigned innocence with a flutter of his eyelashes. “Not all men are the type to take advantage of a young girl like that.”

I chuckled. “I’m not sure she’s not the one taking advantage of them. A lot of interns end up filing, retrieving coffee, or doing the jobs everyone wants to get rid of. But with her, the rest of the crew is tripping over each other trying to teach her the business.”

“You may have a point,” Nick said. “And yeah, the only coffee she gets is her own. Here she comes.”

“Gwyneth?”

“No. Gigi. And you’ve got . . .” He pointed to my chest.

I brushed off the scone crumbs and whirled around.

“Sorry about that,” Gigi said. “More loose ends. Where were we?”

“I was saying that the flowers were stalled until I know which design to go with.”

“Hey, Marco!” she called across the room to the cameraman. “You got the footage with the flowers handy?”

“I can pull it up,” he said.

“Do it.”

She gripped the back of Marco’s chair while he punched buttons on a console. Soon the preview screen displayed footage of Gary, Suzy, me, and the bouquets. Gigi leaned forward and squinted. “They all look fine to me. Not sure I should be the one picking them. We’re going to have to re-film that scene with Henry, anyway.”

“But if I could get a hint of which one, I could get started on the designs for the rest of the flowers. We’re well behind schedule until we know.”

“Henry?” Gigi waved the man over. I was intimidated enough by Gigi, but Henry Easton? His bridal designs had graced anorexic models on catwalks the world over, and he was heading our way, looking me over from head to toe and grimacing.

He was still looking dapper and exquisitely preened, the little bit of a purple pocket square artfully displayed in his pocket suddenly making me think of larkspur, standing tall and proud in the field. Generally, larkspur can mean
brightness
or
levity
, but the purple signified
haughtiness
.

“Please tell me this is not a bridesmaid,” he said. “I didn’t bring any plus-sized gowns.”

My jaw dropped. “I’m not . . . I’m a twelve. You can check the labels.” And I was sure of that because I only shop in stores where size twelve fits me.

“Sixteen. Maybe a fourteen if you do a body cleanse and lay off the scones. I have a trained eye, my dear. Don’t try to deny it.” He turned to Gigi. “Maybe we should get that on camera. That would add some tension, don’t you think? Perhaps a close-up of bursting seams?”

“Possibly, but she’s not a bridesmaid. She’s the florist.”

Henry breathed out a relieved sigh. “That’s the first thing that has gone right all day.” He placed a hand on my arm. “What can I do for you?”

Frankly, as far as I was concerned he could go jump into the creek. And I’d have told him that, but it seemed petty and probably wouldn’t have been good for our business reputation. “I need to know about the flowers.”

“What flowers?”

“Exactly,” I said. “Gary never picked which bridal bouquet to base the rest of the flowers on, so now I guess that’s up to you.”

“Quite right, quite right. At least for this episode, but I have hopes.” He smiled at Gigi. “Not that I could replace Gary, of course.”

Gigi cast him a frozen smile. “You’re in good hands,” she said to me. “Ta-ta!” And she walked out of the room.

“That poor woman,” I said.

“Naw,” Henry said. “She’s a trouper. She’ll bounce right back. Just watch.”

I bit my lower lip.

“So are we done here? That was a bumpy flight from Boston, and the security lines were terrible.”

“Boston? I thought you were coming in from Philly.”

“After a while, they all look the same. Jetlagged, you know, so if you don’t mind . . .” He started to walk away.

“No, wait. Could you at least take a look at these? It would help us get caught up.”

Henry leaned toward the screen and then pulled out a pair of reading glasses. “Ahh . . . huh. Umm . . . I can’t really . . .” He pulled his glasses to the tip of his nose and smiled at me. “I was right.”

“What?”

“See that?” He pointed to the preview screen, where Gary and I stood behind the foxglove bouquet. “I happen to know that Gary wore a woman’s size sixteen, and don’t ask me
how
I know that. But look! You could be his body double in that shot. Sixteen.”

Twelve. “But what about the flowers?”

“What do I know about flowers?” he said. “That’s what they’re paying you for, right? You choose.”

“I couldn’t do that.” No way was I going to pick between Liv’s, Shelby’s, and my designs.

He balled a fist on the table. “No rest for the weary.” He was leaning closer to the screen when Tristan came up behind him.

“Henry, Audrey. Just the people I was looking for,” he said. “We’re re-taping the flower segment tomorrow at eleven.”

“Good,” Henry said. “I can’t tell from that tiny picture, anyway. Tell you what. I’ll decide tomorrow after a good night’s sleep.”

“Sure, sleep well.” I managed a smile. Meanwhile I was plotting how I could sneak a jar of bedbugs into his room. Jetlagged from a trip south—that was a new one. And three more bouquets. And still no answer on the design. At least we’d sleep tonight, too. I wasn’t sure about the rest of the week.

I was marching my size-twelve frame down Main Street, shoulders held high, swinging my arms in a brisk walk, when something felt wrong. No, not some spooky premonition. I just didn’t normally walk that way. I must have left my purse—that torture device with the same ergonomics as a cannonball—at the Ashbury. Sure, my favorite over-packed bag gave me the posture of Quasimodo, but it fit all my stuff, so I habitually swung it over my shoulder anyway.

As I turned, I spotted Suzy Weber standing in front of the Ramble Historical Society building looking at the display stand of pamphlets. I would have never picked her for a history buff. Then again, one didn’t need to be a history buff to appreciate the significance of the building, a monstrosity of a reworked and over-renovated home. The society had long dedicated themselves to restoring the eyesore to its original glory. The problem was none of them could agree as to what it once looked like. So it sat untouched, a perpetual embarrassment to the society whose name was placarded on the building.

But since Suzy’s wedding seemed to be at the center of whatever was going on, I decided it might make sense to spare a few minutes and keep an eye on her—to see if she did anything suspicious while she was milling around town. So I turned to the nearest building, which happened to be the bank. I pretended to study the latest interest rate information while I watched her out of the corner of my eye. What I discovered was alarming—not that Suzy did anything. But interest rates, while not through the roof, were slowly climbing. I decided I should probably put in an offer on Grandma Mae’s cottage sooner rather than later.

When Suzy put the pamphlet back and headed in my direction, I moved along, too. I figured it would look less like I was following her if I could keep ahead of her. So I inched down to the next building, which happened to be Olé, the town’s Mexican restaurant. Rather than stare at the patrons noshing on their empanadas and enchiladas by the front windows, I kept strolling casually until I was in front of the cheese shop. I was fond of cheese, but never really bothered with anything but cheddar, American, and mozzarella. One of these days, I’d have to rectify that. Some of the cheeses in the display window looked yummy, except maybe for one marked Sofia. I wondered if the owners of the shop knew it was moldy.

While ogling the cheese, I looked for Suzy in the periphery. She’d stopped in front of the Tractor Supply store and seemed to be engrossed by the price tag on a wheelbarrow. She flashed a glance in my direction, then went back to studying the tag. Who was following whom?

I recalled what Gary had said about some brides going to elaborate lengths to snoop. Was that what she was up to? Or did she have something more sinister in mind? I walked to the next building, which happened to belong to the local Realtor. Overpriced homes glared at me from the full-color, glossy listings taped to the windows. Suzy advanced to the bank and stopped.

That was all the proof I needed. I whirled around and quickly made up the distance between the two of us.

“Why are you following me?”

“Oh, hello, Audrey. Following you?”

“Or do you need a bank loan to pay for that wheelbarrow you were pricing a few minutes ago?”

Suzy opened her mouth, as if to argue, then blew out a breath. “Fine. You got me. What’s the big deal?”

“Have you ever thought that following someone right after a murder might be just a little creepy?”

“Wait, no. It’s nothing like that. I saw you talking with Henry Easton. I wanted to know what bouquet he picked.” Suzy wrung her arms. “He didn’t pick the insincere ones, did he?”

“Don’t you want to be surprised?” I asked.

“Hey, lady, don’t you think we’ve had enough surprises today?”

Suzy’s father, Max, jogged down the sidewalk and joined us. “What’s going on?” He was red-faced, but not out of breath from his exertion.

“Just trying to find out more about the flowers, Daddykins,” Suzy said sweetly.

“Only there’s not much I can tell you,” I said. “Henry didn’t pick any of them.”

“He wants new flowers?” Suzy asked.

I couldn’t tell if the question was hopeful or nervous. “No, he didn’t want to choose from a picture. He said he’ll decide tomorrow after the reshoot.”

“Did he really not pick? Or do you just not want to tell me?”

I chewed on my tongue for a moment while I considered how to answer. Of all the things that had happened in less than twenty-four hours—Gary’s death, Brad’s detention, Henry’s unexpected arrival, and the announcement that the show must go on—and here her biggest worry was that she’d end up with foxglove in her bouquet.

“Suzy, all I can say is that your wedding flowers will be lovely. What they will be, I don’t know. And if I did know . . . I couldn’t tell you. I’m under contract.”

“Couldn’t or
won’t
?” With that, Suzy spun on her heels and walked back toward the Ashbury.

Max shook his head and watched her go, looking like he’d aged about ten years. “Sorry about that. Audrey, right? I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”

“It happens.” I shrugged. “The stress of weddings. A lot of young women become . . .”

“You can say it. She’s a bridezilla. But I can’t help thinking this is my fault. After Suzy’s mother passed away, I’m afraid I became a bit overindulgent. I was so stressed out over managing a growing business while worrying about doing the whole single-parent thing wrong that I just wanted her to be happy. I could never tell her no. Especially in the summer when I’m gone so much. I’m in landscaping, you see.

“And I did want to tell you I thought you did a great job with the flowers. A nice blend of colors. If you ever want a career change, look me up. I’m always looking for people who know flowers.” He handed me his business card, which boasted landscaping services in seven different metropolitan areas in the Northeast.

“Oh, wow,” I said, looking at the card. “That’s quite an empire.”

He sighed. “But at what price? Now I suppose Suzy thinks her happiness should be the main goal of everybody’s life, and she’ll pursue it at all costs.”

That perked up my ears. What if she felt Gary stood between her and the perfect wedding—and therefore between her and happiness? I could see the headlines: “The Bridezilla Murder” and “Homicide and the Guilty Bride.”

“I heard you try to talk her out of this,” I said.

“Not the wedding. I have no problem with the groom. It takes a special kind of a guy for Suzy. As soon as she brought him home the first time, I knew he was the one. I just wish she hadn’t signed up for this show.”

“I can see the appeal. Gary and Gigi have put on some lovely weddings.”

“And some major disasters.”

I nodded. I wasn’t sure I totally agreed. Even the disappointed brides had elaborate weddings, probably much nicer than what they would have planned on their own. With the exception of Jackie.

I started strolling back toward the Ashbury.

Max walked beside me. “I offered to pay for one of those special destination weddings, anywhere she wanted to go. After all, it’s not like I can’t afford it. I sent away for all kinds of brochures. A tropical seashore. A Greek temple. An Irish castle. She could have been a blooming princess. I’d still do it, if she’d agree. Under the circumstances, it would make sense for us to pay the penalty and to let the crew out of the contract. Compassionate, even. They have to be reeling. But no, Suzy’s still set on her bell wedding and being on TV.”

“An Irish castle sounds great to me. She must really love bells.”

Max shrugged. “Always loved them for some reason. Bells all over the place when she was a kid. Hand bells, wind chimes, you name it. Other kids wanted to go to Disney World. She wanted to see the Liberty Bell. I thought she’d grow out of it, but it’s really a part of her now. I think her fiancé is taking her on a tour of European bells for their honeymoon, but she doesn’t know it yet. Big Ben and all that.” He rolled his eyes.

“I take it you don’t share her enthusiasm.”

“There are worse hobbies, I guess. And although I’ll miss having her around, I will enjoy being able to sit on the deck at home when there’s a nice breeze without having to wear earplugs because of all those wind chimes.”

By this time, we had arrived back at the inn. Max gave my elbow a kindly squeeze in lieu of a good-bye. I headed toward Nick’s table deep in thought.

In a few days, Suzy and her groom (Marvin? Mark?) would be headed overseas. The crew would pack up and leave for their next destination. Even Tacky Jackie and Dennis Pinkleman would go back to their normal lives, if you could call them that. And if the killer wasn’t ferreted out by then, he might get away with murder.

I did what anyone else might do when confronted with the stress of that realization. I grabbed another scone. Then put it down.

“You touch it, you buy it,” Nick said with a grin.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pick it up. I’m not really hungry.”

“Dopamine and serotonin. Probably the stress.”

“What?”

“Two very potent chemicals released when one eats carbohydrates. Mood enhancers.”

“You, my friend, are a drug dealer.”

“The legal kind. And I’m a drug dealer who’s about to quit for the night, anyway. Would you like these scones to go? I’m assuming you’ll be working into the wee hours again.”

“I can share them with the crew. I don’t think we can do much more tonight—just three more bouquets so Henry can choose tomorrow.”

Nick nodded. “You know, I’m almost glad I didn’t get the contract for the wedding cake.”

“For the show? I didn’t know you were even in the running.”

“I was. I pitched the idea to Brad when he called to arrange the catering. Came real close to making it happen. Gigi claimed she liked my designs, but in the end, I guess she decided to go with a nationally known baker.” Nick didn’t meet my eyes, but used a sheet of waxed paper to transfer the remaining scones into a white bakery box.

“That would have been some nice publicity for you. I’m sorry.”

“Not sure how much the publicity would have done for us. You can’t ship a wedding cake, so we’re not likely to expand our territory much. No, I think expanding our product line was the best decision.” He shrugged, but I could see sadness pull at the corners of his eyes. The chance to take one’s work to the national arena—that’s the opportunity the show had given to Liv and me, and the opportunity that Nick missed out on. A lot of people would kill for a chance like that. Thankfully, Nick wasn’t one of them.

But I couldn’t help thinking that it was a good thing for him that it was Gary and not Gigi found hanging in the belfry, otherwise Nick might have made Chief Bixby’s suspect list.

“Before I head back to the shop,” I said, “I wanted to ask if you’ve been able to figure out more of the whereabouts of the crew during the murder.”

“A few.” Nick gestured to a table where three middle-aged women were sipping tea and playing cards. “For a start, you can eliminate those three.”

“That’s good. Who are they?”

“Two of them are Gigi’s wedding planners. From what I gather, they do most of the real work. The other is Gary’s makeup and hair person. She does up the brides and bridesmaids. And according to rumor, sometimes Gary. But they were apparently here in that same spot at the time of the murder.”

“They look dangerous,” I quipped. “Glad we won’t have to tangle with them. Anybody else?”

“Jordan the sound guy and Nathan—I’m not sure what he does. They were in here, too, arguing about something. Kathleen had to tell them to take it outside.”

“And did they? And what were they arguing about?”

Nick shook his head. “Something to do with the filming. But no, they never left, just settled down and worked things out. So they have an alibi as well. But I’m afraid those are the only folks accounted for at the Ashbury. Everyone else was either in their rooms or about town.”

“Thanks. At least we can eliminate a few people. And the dangerous dames at the corner table.”

He smiled, but it was a weak smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Audrey, we don’t seem to be able to find much time to spend together. Do you have a moment to talk?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Not here.” He glanced at the milling crew members. “Let’s walk.” Then he grabbed my hand and led me through the French doors out onto the patio. A narrow fieldstone path led toward the gazebo and a decorative pond.

Large koi clustered near the surface as we leaned on the wood railing of the bridge that spanned a narrow section of the pond. Water bubbled from a fountain. The sky shone bright blue and small birds and bees jumped from flower to flower. It was an almost idyllic setting. And I hoped Nick didn’t bring me out here to break up. With the busy shooting schedule, we’d never talked about my dinner at Brad’s house. Not that I had anything to hide. But then why was I avoiding the subject? And call me a pessimist if you must, but the Ashbury didn’t hold many happy moments for me in the romance department.

“Look at that guy.” Nick pointed to a large orange and white speckled fish that was eyeing us hungrily.

“I think that’s Curly,” I said. “Kathleen started out with three fish.”