Murder on the Bride's Side (14 page)

Detective Grant was watching me. From his expression, I wondered if he knew what I was thinking. I’ve never been very good at hiding my feelings. I’ve been told that my face gives me away every time. Running his blunt fingers through his short gray hair, he said only, “I see. Why don’t we come back to Megan later? Tell me about finding the body.”

Relieved not to have to rat out Megan any more, I launched into my tale, numbly reciting my quest for coffee, my assumption that the body was Megan’s, Mr. Big Arms, and telling Chloe to call the police. I briefly toyed with the idea of suggesting that Chloe might have something to hide but quickly dismissed the idea as childish—satisfying, but childish.

As I spoke, Detective Grant nodded and added, “Yes, well, that fits. The knife used is a standard kitchen knife. I doubt if we’ll ever be able to determine if it came from here.”

“Oh!” I said suddenly. “I almost forgot! I also found a key.”

Detective Grant’s head snapped up at this. “A key? What kind of key?”

Reaching into my pocket, I drew out the item. “This was lying next to Roni on the ground—” Detective Grant’s giant paw of a hand shot out and snatched it from me before I could finish.

His lips pulled down into a tight frown. “Where was this again, Ms. Parker?” he asked, his tone ominous.

I squirmed in the chair. “Um . . . by the body?” I said. Then, realizing that I sounded like a schoolgirl caught passing notes in class, I forced myself to sit up straighter. “It was by the body,” I repeated in a firmer voice. “That’s why I’m giving it to you. I think it’s obvious that it’s a clue and—”

Again he cut me off. “Why don’t you let
me
decide what is obvious and what isn’t,” he said. “However, I must say I find it strange that you are just giving it to me now.”

“There’s nothing strange about it. With all the commotion, I just . . . forgot.” Damn it, he was right. It did sound strange. Detective Grant said nothing but continued to stare at me, his gray eyes inscrutable. Then he rapidly scribbled away in his little black notebook, no doubt adding other various comments about my evasive and suspicious nature.

When the scratching of his pen on the paper subsided, he looked up at me, his cold eyes boring into mine. “Did you happen to see anything else, Ms. Parker?”

“No, just the key.”

“I see,” he said. After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled what looked like a sandwich baggie from a folder in front of him.
Inside was a note written on heavy white paper. “Any idea what this might mean?” he asked, handing me the letter.

Across the top was the logo for the Jefferson Hotel. Below that ran the message. In thick black words, it read, “
MEET ME OUTSIDE THE SIDE TERRACE AT 2 A.M. OR I TELL ALL
!” It was written in all capitals; there was no signature.

I looked back up to find Detective Grant studying me intensely. I handed him back the letter. “Where did you find that?” I asked.

“Inside the deceased’s purse. Any ideas?”

“Well, it would seem that someone who was staying at the Jefferson wanted to meet Roni at two
A.M
. And based on the room key I found, it would appear she kept the appointment.”

“Quite a lot left behind at the scene, I’d say,” he said.

“I suppose.”

He eyed me in silence before continuing on a different track. “How was the deceased’s behavior during the wedding? Did she seem upset? Nervous?”

“No, she seemed fine.” I paused, thinking back. “I sat with her and Avery for a while, and then Avery said he was tired and wanted to go to bed early. Roni said that she’d be along shortly to say good night to him, but she stayed at the reception. I remember because she came inside a few minutes after I did, and I remember . . . feeling sorry for Avery.”

“Wait a minute. She stated she was going to say good night to her husband when she got in? Weren’t they sharing a room?”

“No. Avery recently had a stroke. He said he’d been having trouble sleeping lately and didn’t like keeping Roni up. He has a room here on the first floor. Roni has—had—a room upstairs.”

A faint line formed between Detective Grant’s eyebrows. He flipped through his notebook until he found what he was looking for. “I have here”—he tapped the page with his pen—“that Mr. Matthews stated he slept through the night last night.” He looked up at me.

I shrugged. “I didn’t say it was true that he was having trouble sleeping, I just said that was the reason given for the separate rooms.”

“Ah, I see.” He closed the notebook and drummed his fingers on the desktop. “So you saw Mrs. Matthews at the end of the night. What time was this?”

“Around one thirty, I guess.”

“That is interesting.” It was? My heart beat faster. Not to be outdone, my head picked up the thumping beat. Great. I had a band of pain pulsating through my body.

“Why is that interesting?” I asked.

“The coroner places the time of death between one and three
A.M
.”

“Really? Well, then that means that the note was probably from the killer!” I said excitedly. “They met at two and . . .” Seeing Detective Grant’s exasperated expression, my face flushed. I shifted gears. “Right. Well, you probably already figured that out for yourself,” I said, trying to undo the damage.

“Yes, my brain was actually able to make that rather astounding leap of logic,” he said. “But thanks for the tip.”

As there seemed to be no intelligent response to this, I remained silent: I wished I would stay that way, but experience assured me that in mere moments I would again be saying something stupid.

“Quite a bit of luck for the family, you finding this key and us finding the note, wouldn’t you say?”

From his tone, I gathered that he meant anything but that. “What do you mean?” I asked warily.

“Just that this note, written on hotel stationery,” he said, giving it an accusatory shake, “and this key left at the scene, sure do point to someone outside the Matthews family committing this crime, now don’t they?”

“Well, maybe that’s because someone outside the family
did
commit the crime,” I shot back.

He shrugged his large shoulders, the action sending a wave of movement across the expensive fabric of his suit. “Maybe. But it’s a rather neat little find you made, wouldn’t you say?”

I wouldn’t. I stared back at him with what I hoped was a look of sublime innocence at his sordid meaning.

After a beat, he smirked. “Let’s get back to last night. You said you last saw Mrs. Matthews around one thirty. Was anyone else with you?”

“Oh, yes!” I replied, glad to prove that I hadn’t been alone with Roni. “My boyfriend, Peter, was with me. And Claire and David were in the room. And Harry was there, too . . .” I came to an abrupt stop before I chucked Harry under the bus next to where I’d thrown Megan. If Detective Grant noticed my sudden cessation of speech, he didn’t say. Instead, he looked at his notebook—for a very long time, it seemed to me. Finally, he looked back at me. “How would you describe the deceased?” he said.

“How would I describe her?” I repeated, startled by his abrupt change of subject. Was he trying to catch me off guard, hoping
I’d say something stupid? I debated telling him that if this were the case, he needn’t bother. I was quite capable of saying something stupid without any help from him.

“Yes. What kind of person was she?”

Was he kidding? She was an egotistical bitch, but I couldn’t very well come out and say that. He might
really
start to think I killed her. “I didn’t know her very well, so—”

“Don’t give me that crap. You are a longtime friend of this family. You strike me as a moderately intelligent young woman. Surely you must have formed some kind of an opinion about the woman. Was she well liked?”

I bristled. “
Moderately
intelligent?”

His lips curved into a malicious smile. “Well, let’s see how you answer my questions before we upgrade that assessment, shall we? Now, why don’t we try this again? Was she well liked?”

“Her husband loved her,” I said, still stalling for time. I knew that he would eventually discover that most of the Matthews family hated Roni. I just didn’t want it to be from me.

“Okay,” said Detective Grant, with exaggerated slowness. “But that leaves”—he silently counted on his fingers—“at least eight other people I need to know about. Can you enlighten me on
them
? Ever overhear any of them talking about her?”

At the word
overhear
, the memory of Roni on the phone slipped into focus. Glad to have something to give the detective that wasn’t related to the Matthewses, I sat up straighter in my chair. “Wait a minute,” I said. “I did overhear something yesterday. It was in this room, actually. Roni was in here alone. She was talking on her cell phone about her efforts to get Avery to
sell the family’s landscaping business.” I tried to glide over the part where I stood outside and blatantly eavesdropped, fearing it might suggest nasty things about my basic character. “From her end of the conversation, it sounded not only as if she was working with the person at the other end but that she was also having an affair with him. Maybe
he
was the one who sent her the note and dropped the key!”

Detective Grant stared at me. I don’t know for how long exactly, but long enough for my upper lip to start twitching.

Pushing himself off the desk, he strode around to the other side and sat down heavily in the chair. Muttering something about the stupidity of people withholding important evidence, he grabbed his pen again and furiously scratched in his notebook. I had a sneaking suspicion that my “moderate” rating had slipped a notch.

“Start at the beginning,” he said. “What’s this about the family business being sold?”

I took a deep breath. “From some conversations last night, I gather that Avery—he’s president of the Garden—received a buyout offer. He was mulling it over and was going to get input from the whole family before making a decision, but it was clear that Roni wanted him to sell.”

“Did she say why she wanted him to sell?”

“Avery is a workaholic. He had a stroke last year and a lot of us thought his work habits were to blame. Roni said she was worried about his health and wanted him to retire.”

“And what did you think?”

I shrugged. “The Garden is worth a lot of money. Avery would be very wealthy if he sold it.”

“Could you tell what Avery thought about the deal?”

I hesitated. “I think he wanted to get the family’s opinion first. After all, Elsie’s father started the business. Selling it would have to be a family decision.”

Detective Grant wrote something down. Tapping his gold pen thoughtfully on the desk, he asked, “But Mrs. Matthews—Roni—thought she could convince her husband to sell?”

“Well, from what little I heard of the phone conversation, she did seem pretty confident, yes.”

“And you’ve no idea who she was talking to?”

“No, she never said his name.”

“But you assumed it was a man?”

“I did, yes.” He wrote something again and I thought about his question. The phone conversation had been loverlike, but Roni a lesbian? I dismissed the idea. I had never seen her look twice at a woman and I had seen the way she looked at men. No, it had to be a man on the other end of that phone call.

“Okay, so you said it sounded as if this person wanted to meet her but she said no?”

I thought back. It had all happened so fast. What
had
Roni said? “She told the person not to come and meet her, that it wouldn’t be safe. Whoever it was must have gotten angry because Roni got upset and said that she wasn’t going to double-cross them.”

“Double-cross them,” he repeated. “Did she use those exact words?”

“Yes.”

“Did she say anything about a meeting later?”

“No.”

“Did you happen to”—he paused significantly—“
accidentally
overhear any other phone calls?”

I flushed. “No, but I noticed Roni did receive several more during the day. I happened to be nearby when some of them came in, but she didn’t take the calls. She kept hanging up, claiming that it was either a wrong number or a crank call.”

“But you don’t believe this was the case?”

“Not really. I guess because of what I’d overheard earlier, I just assumed that the person from before was calling again and she didn’t want to take the call.”

“Did anyone else overhear this first conversation?”

I hesitated. All I had was a suspicion. And that suspicion could potentially implicate someone in Bridget’s family.

“I can see from the expression on your face that the answer is yes. By the way, if you don’t already know this, let me offer you a word of advice—never play poker. Now, who else overheard this conversation?”

“I don’t know for sure. When Roni left the study, she went out to the terrace to have a cigarette. Through there.” I pointed to the French doors behind him. “She smoked when she got upset and I didn’t want to bother her just then,” I continued in a rush, not caring for the knowing smirk Detective Grant directed my way. “I stepped back inside the house through the French doors leading to the living room. It was then that I heard the footsteps. I followed them but didn’t see anyone. When I came back, I saw that the door to the study was open a crack.”

“Meaning someone could have been listening.”

“I guess so. But as I said, I didn’t see anyone.”

“And where did these footsteps go?”

“Down the hallway, toward the upstairs staircase.”

“Describe the footsteps. Were they heavy, light, lumbering?”

I thought back. “They were rapid and loud, as if someone was wearing a hard-heeled shoe.”

“High heels?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so.”

The sound of footsteps rapidly approaching the door caught my attention. Detective Grant stared at me. “Were they like those?”

They were, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer. As it turned out, I needn’t have bothered. Detective Grant took one look at my face and knew the answer as surely as if I’d screamed it at him.

In silence we watched as the door swung open and the owner of the footsteps entered. It was Elsie. She was bearing an elaborately set tray, with a coffeepot, cups, a pitcher of cream, and sugar, as well as a plate of assorted tea cookies. I noticed that the coffee service was her best set. She was certainly pulling out all the stops.