Murder on the Bride's Side (13 page)

I pushed past Chloe. “Call the police,” I yelled at her over my shoulder. I bolted into the house, and taking the stairs two at a time, dripping and sobbing, ran straight to Peter’s room. I pounded frantically on his door until he opened it. “Elizabeth?” he said, as I fell into his arms. “What’s going on? You’re sopping wet.”

I buried my head in his chest. “It’s Roni. I found her outside. She’s dead.”

Peter grabbed both of my arms and eased me back. “Dead? Are you sure?”

The horrible image of Roni’s dead, staring eyes came back to me and I pushed his hands away. “Yes, I’m sure. I’m not a medical expert, but usually when someone has blank, staring eyes and a large kitchen knife sticking out of her chest, it’s a pretty safe bet that she’s not coming back.”

“Christ! Are you okay?”

I covered my face with my hands and realized that I was still clutching the hotel key. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just . . . it’s just so awful. She’s lying out there . . . dead!” I looked down at the plastic card. It was from the Jefferson Hotel.

“What’s that?” Peter asked. Silently, I handed him the key. Confusion registered in his eyes.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“It was outside. By . . . by the body.” My legs turned to jelly. I must have swayed because Peter suddenly caught me and pulled me close. “Jesus. This is unbelievable,” he murmured.

Behind him, I could see Harry sprawled across his bed. He was snoring.

“Have you called the police?” Peter asked.

“No. I asked Chloe to do it.”

“Chloe’s here?” Peter asked with surprise.

My stomach lurched at the sound of his voice saying her name, but now didn’t seem the time to address the matter. “Yes,” I said, pulling away. I peeked up at him. He looked terrible. His face was haggard and his eyes bleary. “She and the crew were
out back taking down all the chairs and stuff. They all ran over when I started screaming.”

“I guess we’d better let everyone here know what’s happened. Before the police arrive.”

We both turned and looked at Harry. He let out another loud snore. “He did that all night,” said Peter wearily, running his hand through his hair. “For some reason, I couldn’t get to sleep last night. I read until around three and even after that I didn’t sleep very well. I doubt I slept more than two hours.”

“Well, we’d better wake him,” I said. “I think he should be the one to break the news to Avery.”

Waking Harry and telling him that Roni was dead was not easy. Not because Harry was upset or anything. He was just extremely hungover. For the first five minutes, he swatted at Peter and me as if we were nothing more than bothersome flies. For the next five minutes, he seemed to think we were playing a prank on him. It was only when he heard the sirens screaming up the driveway that he took us seriously.

Within a half hour the whole house was up and gathered in the living room under the watchful eye of one Detective Paul Grant. He was probably only in his early fifties, but his sun-ravaged face and prematurely gray hair made him appear older. With his wide, solid body, blunt features, and crooked nose, he looked like an ex-boxer. Dressed expensively in a tailored gray pin-striped suit, crisp white linen shirt, and red-and-cream-striped silk tie, he looked like an ex-boxer who had done very well for himself. From the way he studied us with hooded gray eyes, he also looked as if he didn’t like us very much.

I can’t say that I blamed him. We didn’t present a particularly caring picture. Harry had to excuse himself twice to throw up. By comparison, David looked almost healthy. Claire stared bleakly out the terrace window, methodically chewing her fingernails. Blythe sat woodenly on the sofa, repeatedly offering to get breakfast started. It was an offer no one took her up on. Behind her, Graham paced up and down the carpet, trying to reach Bridget on her cell phone. Elsie sat in her usual high-backed chair. She watched Detective Grant with a thoughtful expression. Anna lay at her feet, alert and watchful. The only one who showed any real emotion over Roni’s death was Avery. After telling Detective Grant that he’d gone straight to bed after leaving the reception and had slept through the night, he’d fallen into a zombielike silence. He sat off to one side, slumped over in his chair, his head buried in his hands. Next to him, Millie stood with her arms firmly crossed over her massive chest, watching her patient with worried eyes.

A soft tapping at the French doors caught my attention, and everyone else’s for that matter. It was Chloe. She stood uncertainly on the threshold between the patio and the living room, her perfectly manicured hands still on the door, the heavy rain providing an almost Wuthering Heights–like backdrop for her beautiful image. Next to me, Peter stiffened. Just what the hell was the attraction with her, anyway? I mean, other than the fact that she was beautiful . . . and thin . . . and talented . . . and . . . I stopped. Not because I’d run out of things to list, unfortunately, but because the potential length of the list was making me nauseous.

“Excuse me?” Chloe said. “I was told that a Detective Grant wanted to see me.”

“Are you Chloe Jenkins?” Detective Grant asked. His appraising glance took in her snug little black gabardine suit, still crisp and clean despite the torrential rain outside. Even her black leather boots were spotless. Detective Grant tipped his head forward infinitesimally in a nod of approval. So she’s pretty and dresses nicely, I wanted to sneer. What kind of idiot wears leather boots—
Prada
leather boots, no less—during a rainstorm?

“I’m Chloe,” she answered. “Are you Detective Grant?”

“Yes. Please come in. I understand that you were on-site when Ms. Parker discovered the body?”

“Yes, sir,” Chloe answered, her eyes flickering in my direction. But her gaze did not rest on me. Instead, it landed slightly to my right, where Peter sat. I suppressed a childish urge to frantically wave my hand and call out, “Over here, dear!”

“I see. Please take a seat, Ms. . . .” Detective Grant looked down at his notebook bound in glossy black leather and paused. “Is it Miss or Mrs. Jenkins?” he asked politely. Again Chloe’s gaze briefly landed on Peter before she answered wistfully, “It’s
Miss
.”

Was she kidding? She couldn’t have been more obvious if she’d wrapped her bra around her house key and flung it at Peter’s head. I looked about the room at everyone else to gauge their reactions to this gaudy spectacle, but no one had seemed to notice. Their eyes were all steadily focused on Detective Grant.

He cleared his throat. “I will need to take a statement from
everyone. Is there somewhere private I can do that?” His voice was surprisingly soft, completely at odds with his appearance.

“I think the study will suit your needs admirably,” Elsie said. She rose gracefully from her chair and walked past Detective Grant. “If you will just follow me.”

Detective Grant turned and followed her. Pausing at the study’s doorway, she politely ushered him inside. “Would you care for any coffee or tea while you work?” she asked.

“Coffee would be fine.”

“Cream? Sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you hungry? Can I get you something to eat? I’m sure we have plenty.”

“No, thank you,” he repeated firmly.

Elsie nodded her head briskly. “Coffee it is then. Black. I’ll just be a moment. Whom shall I send in first?” Elsie’s solicitous tone and conversation seemed to catch Detective Grant off guard. As I’m sure Elsie intended.

Detective Grant squared his shoulders in an attempt to regain control of the conversation. “I’d like to talk to the young lady who discovered the body.” He flipped through his notebook and read, “Ms. Elizabeth Parker.”

At the sound of my name, my headache, which had started to subside, came back in full force. I stood up on shaky legs. “That’s me,” I said in a voice that was more of a squeak. Next to me, Peter grabbed my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Detective Grant’s eyes locked on mine. I had the sensation that he was searching my soul—and didn’t like what he’d found. As he had done with Chloe, his eyes quickly took in my outfit,
touching briefly on my old flip-flops. Just as quickly, he looked away, as if offended by what he saw. There would be no nod of approval for me, I thought. After a brief pause, he gave a curt dip of his head and disappeared into the study. I took an unsteady step in his direction. Elsie reached out and grabbed my arm.

Leaning in close, she whispered fiercely, “Delay him all you can, Elizabeth. We’ve got to find Megan before that man realizes she’s missing!”

Delay him? Me? Was she kidding? I had been known to freeze up when a cute guy asked me what time it was. Did Elsie really think I had the wherewithal to battle wits with the likes of Detective Grant?

My ineffectual sputterings of reluctance were ignored. Still holding tightly on to my arm, she marched me toward the study. Rapping her knuckles briskly on the open door, she thrust me inside. “Here she is, Detective Grant,” she said brightly. “Now, I’ll just go and get that coffee.”

With one last meaningful look at me, she shut the door firmly behind her. I turned back to Detective Grant. His blunt features were bunched in a ferocious scowl. Not at me, but at the door where Elsie had just stood.

Outside, heavy rain splattered against the terrace doors. Thunder and lightning blasted across the black sky. The overhead chandelier flickered, sending dark shadows across Detective Grant’s unsmiling face.

And I was supposed to stay in this room with him as long as I could. The story of Daniel and the lions came to mind. All things being equal, I think I would have preferred the lions.

Surprises are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable.

—
JANE AUSTEN,
EMMA

I sat down in the leather club chair opposite the desk. After a brief glance in my direction, Detective Grant turned his back to me and stared out the window. Neither of us spoke. The only sound came from the rain pelting the windows and the grandfather clock’s swinging pendulum.

Sadly enough, this wasn’t the first time I had been interviewed by a detective in a murder investigation. While I was visiting my Aunt Winnie’s B and B last New Year’s, one of her guests was murdered. I spent the majority of New Year’s Day being interrogated by a humorless detective by the name of Aloysius Stewart. That in and of itself says a great deal about the man. I mean, if you had been named after the teddy bear in
Brideshead Revisited
, you would think you would have developed
some
kind of a sense of humor.

I watched Detective Grant warily from my chair. While this kind of interview wasn’t new to me, it was still nerve-racking. A thin sheen of sweat covered my palms, and the vein next to my left eye throbbed spasmodically. The only thing that could
make my appearance any more suspicious would be the sudden manifestation of a facial tic.

After an interminable pause, Detective Grant turned back to face me. With rapid-fire intensity, he asked me all of the regular questions, my name, age, and relationship with the family. Finished, he strode around to the front of the heavy mahogany desk. Leaning back on its scalloped edge, he crossed his arms over his chest and simply said, “So, tell me about Megan.”

Shit. I felt a facial tic coming. Too late, I slapped my hand up to hide the twitching of my cheek. My heart jumped thickly in my chest. I’m quite sure I looked like a page in the police academy’s textbook training manual, the page labeled “example of a witness with something to hide.” Plus, I was wearing ratty flip-flops.

“Um,” I finally mumbled, “she’s Roni’s daughter.”

“And where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

He stared at me unblinkingly, his expression nonjudgmental. I wasn’t fooled. “I haven’t seen her since last night,” I went on, my voice unfortunately again beginning to squeak. “She never came to her bed last night.”

That made him blink. Reaching behind him, he picked up his leather notebook from the desk and, with a click of his gold-plated pen, scribbled something before turning his attention back to me. “How was her relationship with her mother?”

I didn’t want to answer that. Megan was already under suspicion because of her absence. I didn’t want to push her farther under the bus.

“Well . . .” A roll of thunder sounded. If it was a sign from
above on how I should continue, I missed it. Detective Grant waited patiently. “You know how teenagers can be,” I said feebly.

“Actually, I don’t,” he said curtly. “I don’t have kids. Enlighten me.”

Great. “Oh, you know, they all fight with their parents.”

“I see. And did Megan fight with her mother?”

Considering that Elsie asked me to stall this conversation for Megan’s sake, I was doing a doozy of a job. “Um, yeah, a little, I guess.” Megan’s enraged face last night as she spit out, “I hate you!” to Roni swam before my eyes. Why was I lying for a girl I hardly knew? But I already knew the answer. There was something about Megan that made me feel protective. Probably because she reminded me of myself at that age: overweight, insecure, and desperate to belong.