'Til Death Do Us Part (20 page)

“And Lilly was okay with being in her father’s wedding to another woman?”

Phillipa snickered. “I’m sure she wouldn’t have cared if it was his
funeral
as long as she got the chance to dress up like a fairy-tale princess. She was the one who came up with the idea of being a junior bridesmaid, and Daddy consented. But when he ran it by Peyton, she ixnayed it immediately. And I got dragged into the middle of the whole thing.”

“How do you mean?”

“The day of the wedding? I somehow managed to get stuck keeping an eye on Lilly. David doesn’t have much family left, and the relatives he
does
have apparently had no interest in coming to see him pledge his undying love for the third time. And of course, all
my
relatives figured that because I’m fat and single, I wouldn’t be having any fun anyway. Lilly couldn’t have been more of a brat that day. I mean, her mommy had bought her an
alternate
little princess dress—which, honestly, looked better than the one you all wore—but that didn’t cut it for her. Finally, about a quarter of the way through the reception, she starts bawling her eyes out and says she wants to leave.”

That explained why I had so little memory of Lilly that day.

“Did you take her home?” I asked.

“No. She called her mother on her—get this—cell phone, and then I waited with her in the parking lot for thirty minutes until her mother drove over and picked her up.”

“Mandy was
there
that day?” I asked, feeling the goose bumps spring up along my arms.

“Well, she didn’t exactly help herself to the raw bar. But yes, she was in the parking lot. She gave me this incensed look through the car window, as if I were somehow to blame for her daughter’s troubles.”

“And then?”

“What do you mean, ‘and then’?” she asked, seeming suddenly annoyed.

“Did she drive off?”

“How the hell should I know? I figured once Mommy arrived, my baby-sitting responsibilities were over. So no, I didn’t see her drive off. I turned around and went back inside while she was sitting in the front seat, trying to talk little Lilly off the ledge.”

No wonder Mandy had seemed momentarily disconcerted when I’d mentioned Lilly and the wedding. Boy, she’d done a bigger snow job on me than I’d realized. But what did it all add up to? Was Mandy knocking off bridesmaids out of revenge for the slight against Lilly? No matter how much she doted on Lilly, it hardly seemed like a motive for murder. Maybe, however, she resented the divorce and David’s lack of attention to Lilly far more than she let on—and the junior bridesmaid slight was the last straw.

Another thought: Now that I knew that Mandy was on-site the day of the wedding, did that play into the “something strange” comment? Did Jamie witness Mandy and David having an altercation? Or Mandy doing something spiteful? I couldn’t imagine what it could be, though. She didn’t seem like the type to slash the tires of the honeymoon car.

I turned my attention back to Phillipa. The rash on her face—eczema, perhaps, or some kind of reaction to a toxic level of snarkiness in her system—appeared to have worsened in the few minutes since I’d arrived. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. Her bitterness clearly ran deep, springing from experiences and injustices long ago. Had
she
been a little girl who’d yearned to be a princess and then been mocked or denied? Despite Phillipa’s protestations, being banned from the wedding party
must
have bothered her. Maybe it really had troubled her enough to exact a horrible revenge. And she’d been missing in action for about half an hour the afternoon Ashley died.

“It must have been a drag having to deal with all that on the wedding day,” I said.

“Is that something they teach you in journalism school?” she asked, letting the sarcasm work its way around the edges of each word. “Get people to warm up to you by acknowledging their
feelings
?”

“I don’t know—I didn’t go to journalism school. Look, you seem kind of annoyed with me, and really all I’m trying to do is find some answers. Something bad is happening here, and I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

“You mean, like yourself?”

“Sure. But others, too. What can you tell me about Robin and Ashley? Did you know either of them very well?”

“Well, we weren’t bosom buddies, if that’s what you mean. But I knew them. Ashley was in and out, but Robin ran the shop, so I saw her almost every day.”

“What’s
your
job here?”

“I’m part of the catering crew—also known as the kitchen slaves. I get to do fun things like stuff crème fraîche in four hundred red potatoes and add a dollop of caviar to each one.”

“You don’t sound as if you like it too much.”

“Would
you
? I wanted to design jewelry, but it’s impossible to get a job doing that. I had to let my mother beg Peyton to give me a job here.”

“In the past couple of months, have there been any problems with the business? Problems, for instance, with competitors or clients?”

“There are barely any competitors left. Peyton’s driven most of them out of business.”

“Anyone especially angry?”

“I wouldn’t know. Since you’re interested, there is
one
freaky thing that happened. Late last year we had some near disasters with a few parties. The dates were down wrong on the calendar, and though we ended up pulling the parties together, we were short on food and it was all a huge mess. Mary thought the new office secretary had screwed up, and Peyton had her canned.”

“Do you think that’s really what happened?”

“I haven’t a clue. I’m in the kitchen most of the time. But I can tell you this—it was almost worth it to see Peyton and Mary scrambling around in a total tizzy. For one party we were so desperate for food that we came within an inch of offering that dip you make with sour cream and dried onion soup mix.”

She glanced up at a large black clock on the wall and slid awkwardly off her stool. Glimpsing her outfit, I realized how much her very appearance must antagonize Peyton. Her blue man-style shirt nearly reached her knees, and she had paired it with black capri-length leggings. On her feet were thick, lumpy white socks and filthy athletic shoes.

“I imagine Peyton isn’t the easiest person to work for,” I said, knowing I was running out of time with her.

“Didn’t you live with her in college?” she asked. “Surely you must know all about coexisting with her.” She crossed the room as she was talking and slid open a large wooden door, revealing shelves and shelves of canned and packaged food. She pulled down four or five items and gathered them in her arms.

“The other day when I was here,” I said, ignoring her comment, “Peyton said something that upset you and you left the kitchen. Did you come in here to get away?”

“Actually,” she said, her voice thickening with sarcasm, “I believe I went to the bathroom to take a chill pill.” She made no eye contact when she said it, and I thought she might be covering up something. The question, though, was what.

“Speaking of Peyton,” she continued. “I really need to get these over to the main kitchen. We’re planning to test some recipes once the cooking class is over.”

Off she went, without a good-bye. I felt sorry for her, yes, but she disturbed me, too. She was bitter and mean—and she seemed to like me about as much as she liked kids who wore Juicy Couture.

I wanted to catch up with Peyton, and Mary, too. But since I had the room to myself, I decided to use a few minutes to gather my thoughts. I pulled my composition book out of my bag and jotted down notes from my conversations with Mandy and Phillipa. Then I checked my various voice mails. At my work number was a call from a source finally getting back to me on my dead wife story, as well as another message from that reporter for the
New York Post
. On my home phone there was a message from Landon, checking in after the weekend. And last but not least, on my cell phone was a message from Jack.

“Bailey, let’s talk, okay?” was all he said. I felt relief wash over me.

I couldn’t wait to talk to him, but I didn’t want to do it in the back kitchen of Ivy Hill Farm, where anyone could burst in on me at any moment. I tucked my composition book back into my handbag and found my way to the big kitchen. The cooking class had disbanded, and the work space had been taken over by Phillipa and two other helpers. Mary and Peyton were sitting at the table near the fireplace, which once again hosted a roaring fire. As I strode in their direction, they both rose in greeting from the table. Peyton even gave me a hug.

“I tried to signal for you to join the class,” she said, “but you turned away too quickly. Where did you go?”

“I was just down the hall in the smaller kitchen. What’s happening? Obviously the cooking school is up and running.”

“Barely,” Peyton said bitterly. “There are four fewer people than when we started. And we’ve had two dinner party cancellations.”

“Those really might be legit, Peyton,” Mary said. “The weather’s been awful, and people all over town are sick. I think we need to wait and see what happens.”

“It must be nice to have so much fucking patience,” Peyton told her, rolling her eyes. Then she turned to me. “Have you figured anything out yet? About Ashley?”

“No, not yet,” I said. I didn’t feel comfortable going into details in front of Mary. “But then I’m just getting started.”

“Well, I’ve got work to do. Are you okay finding your way back to my house later?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Well, just show up whenever you want. Dinner’s at eight. I hope you don’t mind, but Trip is joining us.”

Perfect. That would save me another visit to David’s office.

“Not at all,” I said.

“See you later, then. Mary, make absolutely sure no one disturbs me.”

She strode to the back of the barn and flung open a door, revealing an enclosed wooden staircase. We could hear her stomping all the way to the second level of the barn.

I turned back to Mary, who offered me one of those smiles that involves only the mouth, not the eyes, so you can tell it’s phony.

“Do you have a few minutes to chat?” I asked. “I’d love to get your take on things.”

“Sure,” she said, glancing over to inspect what was happening in the kitchen area. “But why don’t we go over to my office in the farmhouse. We’ll have more privacy there.”

I bundled up in my coat and followed Mary outside and up the path to the farmhouse. The late afternoon sun was shining brightly enough to make me squint but giving off as much heat as a refrigerator light. The ground floor of the little farmhouse had been divided into a reception area and several offices. As Mary led me down a narrow corridor toward her office, I noticed a big office to the right. The girl who I assumed last week was Peyton’s assistant was fussing with papers on the desk in there.

“Is this Peyton’s office?” I asked. “Where was she going in the barn?”

“This is her main office, but she keeps a small writing office in the barn. As you might imagine, she’s interrupted constantly during the day, so that’s a place she can go without being disturbed. She’s got a book to finish now.”

“A book? I thought her book was coming out this year sometime.”

“It is. This is the
next
one.”

Later in the year, a small publishing company was bringing out a collection of my true crime pieces, hoping to turn me into the next Anne Rule. Just watch I thought—Peyton’s books would end up best-sellers and I’d end up on the remainder table.

“Is that why Peyton hired you?” I asked. “To keep everything sorted out?”

She smiled in that automatic way of hers.

“There are actually two aspects to the growing Peyton Cross empire,” she said matter-of-factly. “One is the personal celebrity aspect—press, public appearances. She’s got an assistant who’s helping her deal with all that, as well as a new PR firm. Then there’s the business here—the store, the catering, the cooking school. That’s what I’m in charge of. David made a big investment in all of this, and Peyton wants to be sure it’s a success, that it’s not seen as some glorified hobby for her.”

We had entered Mary’s office, a small room fairly cluttered with books and papers but decorated charmingly in muted greens. On the wall was a series of framed photographs of what appeared to be Provence—you could tell by all the lavender fields and big sunflowers.

“And how is it all going?”

“It’s been a huge success. At least so far.”

She took a seat behind a wooden table that served as a desk and indicated with a hand that I should sit across from her. As I slipped out of my coat and sat back in the chair, my eye caught sight of a bowl of perfect Granny Smith apples on the table.