Shear Murder (5 page)

“There's no knife,” she said in dismay, figuring she'd have to get a waiter after all.

Until she stepped behind the table with her back to the wall. Until she saw the woman's arm poking out from under the tablecloth. And until she pushed back the drape and saw the cake knife embedded in Torrie Miller's chest.

Oh, God.
She must be seeing things. But when Marla lifted the drape again, Torrie's body lay there, unmoving, in the same spot.

Was the woman dead?
Making that determination would decide her next action.

Thinking fast, she clutched her ear and said aloud to any passersby, “Oh, my, I've lost an earring back.” That should justify her dropping out of sight for a few seconds.

She crouched quickly, drew in a deep breath, and felt Torrie's clammy wrist for a pulse.

Nothing.

She couldn't bear to touch the woman's neck, not with her glazed eyes half-open. Torrie's chest—dear Lord, Marla had to force her horrified glance away from the knife—wasn't rising, but the bile in her own throat choked her.

Coughing, she covered her mouth and stood upright.
Come on, don't throw up. Think what you should do next.

Regret swelled within her. Jill expected Torrie to watch the cake-cutting ceremony. How awful. She may not have gotten along with her sister, but this presented a horrible end to their troubled relationship.

Uncertain how to proceed, Marla nudged Torrie's arm under the table and released the cloth so nothing showed.

Catching Dalton's eye, she signaled frantically. He'd know what to do. When he reached her side, she sagged against him.

“Don't look now, but there's a dead body under the table,” she murmured under her breath.

“What?”

“You heard me.” She smiled tremulously at a couple who strolled past. Could they tell she was sweating? That her face had lost its color? That she was about to lose her dinner?

Dalton half bent, his dark hair falling forward, but then he straightened with a grin. “Good one, Marla. You almost got me.”

She shuffled her feet. “I'm not kidding.” Any minute they'd call for the cake, or Jill would broaden the hunt for her sister. Chewing on her bottom lip, she lifted a portion of the drape so Vail could see for himself. Her stomach heaved as she almost stepped on a trickle of congealing blood. Forcing down the acid reflux, she grimaced.

“Holy Mother, you aren't joking.” He gave her an incredulous glance that she read as,
Not again.

“I didn't feel a pulse. Can you believe this? I mean, it's bad enough that Torrie met her end this way, but couldn't it have happened after Jill and Arnie left? Their wedding has gone so smoothly until now.” She didn't intend to sound callous, but she felt so bad for her friend, considering the unpleasant events that would follow.

Dalton's lips compressed. “Let me take a look. Anyone watching?”

“Not right this minute.”

“Good.” He bent, muttered an expletive, then straightened. “I have to call this in.”

She let the cloth fall back into place. “Can we do it quietly? I hate to put a pall over everything, at least until Jill concludes the ceremonies. Give her a few more happy memories for the wedding album, if you will.”

“Are you proposing we should keep the lid on an obvious crime scene?” Dalton asked, flabbergasted.

“I'm proposing that we don't let anyone move this table to disrupt the evidence. Think about it.”

Dalton's glance met hers, and she saw by the stormy gray in his eyes that he understood Marla's overwhelming concern for her friend.

“Stay here. I'll go out in the hall to make the call.” He started toward the door behind the alcove, appeared to have second thoughts, and veered in the opposite direction.

Marla gave a sick smile to anyone who passed, saying she was guarding the cake table until Jill and Arnie had rounded up the photographer.

“We'll leave the table here,” Dalton said upon his return, “and just move the cake. That should buy us about fifteen minutes or so before the shit hits the fan.”

“Thanks, Dalton. We can do this.”

Steeling herself, she lifted half of the cardboard base holding the tiered confection while Dalton gripped the other side. Together they started a slow shuffling dance toward the head table. Her breath came short and rapid from the labor, or maybe she was hyperventilating out of fright that someone would discover the body.

“Hey, guys, what are you doing?” Philip Canfield intercepted them. His ponytail had come loose, and he looked hassled.

Marla hadn't realized the florist was still around. “It's time for the cake ceremony.”

“What happened to my beautiful table?” He gestured toward the nook. “Didn't you see the flowers I put around the rim? My magnificent orchids? They match those candied violets to perfection.” He air-kissed his fingers for emphasis.

Marla paused before she tripped and sprayed the crowd with buttercream frosting. “Uh, one of the legs is broken. We were afraid the table would topple over if we wheeled it out. Can you imagine the disaster?” She gave a nervous laugh.

“Good heavens, then allow me to assist you. I'll get a tray. Don't go anywhere.”

“Never mind, we'll be all right,” Dalton reassured him.

“I'm sorry, I didn't introduce you,” Marla said hastily, hoping to distract the man. “Philip, this is my fiancé, Dalton Vail. We're getting married in four weeks.”

“Yes, I remember. I should give you my card in case you run into a snag with your decorator.” He fumbled in his pocket and handed her a business card. “December is such a busy month, what with holiday parties and all. I'd find a way to fit you into my schedule.”

Seeing that she had her hands full, he tucked the card into Dalton's tuxedo jacket.
Leave already,
Marla commanded silently, her arms trembling. If she didn't put the darn cake down soon, she'd splatter it all over the floor.

“Your centerpieces are fabulous,” she said, hoping to spur him on his way. “And I loved how you decorated the gazebo into a chuppah. You did a wonderful job.”

Dalton inclined his head, meaning they should resume their pace. She picked up speed, her grip slick with sweat. Biting her lip, she concentrated on their destination.

“Don't forget,” Canfield said, dogging their steps. “Call me if you need me. I'm tops in the business.”

She grunted with relief when he strolled away and they'd put their burden to rest at the bride's place of honor. Her body shook from head to toe. She dreaded the scene that would follow.

“Where's the cake knife?” Dalton's brow creased in a perplexed frown.

She stared at him, aghast. “Didn't you see? That's what . . . it's in Torrie's chest.”

“Hell. Wait here.”

He ran off and returned a few moments later brandishing a meat knife. “This will have to do. Let's move things along. Yo, Arnie,” he hollered to the groom, dancing to an oldie but goodie at arm's length with an elderly matron.

Arnie's expression, a sort of weary resignation, brightened. “Come and join us on the dance floor.”

Dalton shook his head. “Can't. Time to cut the cake. Where's the bride?”

Marla spotted Jill across the room, chatting with Leanne Oakwood while the wedding photographer jostled with the man from
Boca Style Magazine
for the best angle to snap pictures. She could just imagine Falcon's reaction to a murder on Orchid Isle's opening weekend. Then again, sensational news coverage often brought curiosity seekers to a site. Attendance might increase as a result.

“Excuse us, please,” she told Falcon's wife, steering Jill away by the elbow. “Arnie is waiting for you to cut the cake,” she informed the bride. “We moved it over to the center where everyone can see better.”

“Thanks, hon. I saw you chatting with Philip. Aren't his flower arrangements magnificent? Leanne was telling me how he keeps her vases filled at home. I gather he was instrumental in helping Falcon obtain some of the rarer orchids for his collection.”

“Is that so? He must have good suppliers. Tell me, how are you holding up?”
You'd better be strong, considering the bad news that's about to ruin your day.

“I'm fine.” Jill bustled forward, her gown sweeping the floor. “The cake looks so beautiful, it's almost too perfect to destroy. Don't forget to save the top layer for me to take home and freeze.”

“Here.” Dalton shoved the knife handle at her and Arnie. “Smile for the camera.”

Arnie stared at the knife but didn't make a move to take it. “What's this? It isn't the one we picked out at the store.”

“What do you mean?” Marla's heart skipped a beat.

“We bought a special cake knife. Jill liked the ribbons and engraving. You must have left it on the table.”

“I don't know why you moved the cake, Marla,” Jill added. “The lighting over there was better for photos.”

“It's good here, too. Why don't you go ahead with the ceremony, since your guests are waiting? I'll find your knife later. You can use it on your anniversary when you defrost the remains.”

Her unfortunate choice of a last word brought a different type of remains to mind. Gulping, she pushed that thought aside with another unpleasant memory.

She'd frozen the top layer from her wedding to Stan and easily recalled its bitter taste one year later when their marriage dissolved.

“Arnie, will you look on the other table?” Jill said in a peevish tone.

“I'll go.” Dalton loped off before anyone could object. He returned a moment later, shaking his head. “Sorry, can't find your knife anywhere. We'll ask the caterer later. Meanwhile, I'd suggest you proceed. It's getting late, and people will start leaving soon.”

No bride wanted to see her guests depart before she'd completed all the rituals.

As Jill and Arnie fed cake to each other and the assistant photographer caught them on video, Marla reflected how Jill seemed more concerned about her missing cake knife than her sister. Nor did the bride comment on the matron of honor's absence during the garter and bouquet tosses. How odd, unless she figured Torrie was occupied elsewhere.

Dalton had gone out to make a second call for backup. He'd just reentered the ballroom when a shriek rent the air. A young blond waitress, attempting to move the round table in the corner, stood rooted to the spot with an expression of horror on her face. A pair of legs stuck out from beneath the floor-length cloth, plum high heels stained with a sickly crimson.

“Hold on.” Dalton rushed over. He whispered a few words to the woman, who then stumbled from the room. “Listen up, people,” he said to the shocked assembly, while the musicians on stage froze, instruments in midair. “There's been a, er, an accident. Why don't you gather your belongings and wait on the porch where we had cocktails?” His commanding tone brooked no arguments. “The police are on their way, and they'll want to ask questions before you leave.”

“Who is it?” Jill asked, the words barely escaping her lips. Arnie's mouth compressed as he put an arm around her waist.

Marla scanned the room. Fortunately, his kids were nowhere in sight. They must be outdoors with the other youngsters. “I'm afraid it's Torrie,” she said, feeling she should be the one to break the news. “I'm so sorry, Jill.”

“My sister? Oh, my God. Did they call an ambulance? I'll go with her to the hospital.”

Her next stop is likely the morgue.
Marla's heart went out to the newlyweds. How she'd wanted this day to be joyous.

When Jill started to move toward her sister, Marla blocked her path. People filed past them toward the patio in a somber and silent fashion. In the periphery of her vision, she saw Dalton barring anyone from going near the crime scene.

Marla exchanged a glance with Arnie. There was no avoiding the truth. “Jill, your sister's been stabbed. Torrie is beyond help. I'm sorry,” she repeated.

“She's . . . she isn't . . .” Jill sputtered to a stop.

“Yes.”

“Oooh.” The bride sagged against Arnie, whose eyes reflected painful awareness.

“Look, why don't you guys wait in the bride's room? We'll tell the detective in charge to question you first. There isn't anything you can do by hanging around here,” Marla said.

“I should find our nanny and let her know what's going on,” Arnie told Jill. “She can take Josh and Lisa home.”

“Call her on your cell phone,” Marla suggested. “Dalton and I will handle the traffic at this end. Go on, you two. At least you can have some privacy while we're waiting.”

“Shouldn't I at least look at her? For identification, I mean.” Jill's eyes filled with tears.

“Scott can do that. See, Dalton is talking to him.” Torrie's husband stood with his shoulders slumped and a hand on his mouth while Dalton spoke to him alone by the raised platform.

After more coaxing, Jill finally acquiesced. Watching Arnie lead her away, Marla slouched. She wanted nothing more than to crash at the hotel with Dalton. That wasn't about to happen any time soon, especially when the cops arrived.

Dalton held a private conference with the paramedics on the scene. They had to wait another half hour before a detective showed up, along with his team of crime lab technicians.

“Marla, this is Detective Brody.” Dalton signaled her over from where she drooped by their dinner table. The staff, told not to clear the room yet, hovered by the perimeter.

Brody, in his forties, wore creases beside his eyes like a badge of honor. “I'd like to get your statement, ma'am, before I interview the bride and groom.”

“How can I help you?” Her throat went dry. They sank onto seats draped in lavender.

“Tell me how you discovered the victim.” Brody's deep baritone was worthy of a radio announcer.

Glancing at Dalton for comfort, Marla folded her hands in her lap. “It was time for the cake-cutting ceremony. I meant to help by rolling out the side table, but then I saw an arm sticking out from underneath.”

Brody scribbled in his notepad. “You were able to ID this person?”

“Yes. I took a peek beneath the cloth. Torrie, the bride's sister, had been stabbed with the cake knife.”