'Til Death Do Us Part (21 page)

“May I?” I asked. “I realize I’ve forgotten all about lunch.”

“Of course. We should have offered you something when you were in the barn. Here, let me find you something to snack on.”

From a shelf behind her she selected a box of crackers and placed them in front of me. Then she reached into a small refrigerator and pulled out a jar of something a light shade of purple.

“Do you like tapenade?” she asked.

“Love it,” I said. “But it looks different from other types I’ve had—lighter in color.”

“I mix it with some emulsified olive oil, which keeps it light—and a little egg.”

She opened the jar and, using a plastic knife, spread some on several crackers for me. I took a bite of one, savoring the olivey taste and velvety smooth texture of the tapenade.

“This is amazingly delicious,” I said. “And you came up with the recipe yourself?”

“Yes,” she said, seeming almost embarrassed. “I help Peyton develop recipes for the parties we cater. It’s one of the things I like best about my job.”

“Speaking of catering, do you really believe the cancellations are due to the weather—and not to what’s been happening?” I asked.

“It’s hard to say. The next few weeks will be very telling. I’m just trying to keep from alarming Peyton any more than necessary. Ever since Ashley died, she’s been a wreck. Maybe it’s the cumulative effect, but she’s actually been taking Ashley’s death far harder than Robin’s.”

“How about you—how are you doing through all of this?”

“It hasn’t been easy. Robin was a lovely girl, and we’d worked together for several years here. I practically had no dealings with Ashley, but still, her death was a shock, and having it happen so close was just terrifying.”

The phone rang, and after excusing the interruption, she picked it up. She listened intently, her brow furrowed slightly.

“Sixteen,” she said. “And the salmon’s to be poached, not grilled. I’ll be back over in a bit and I’ll go over everything with you then.”

Mary was clearly competent and sure of what she was doing, and from what I could tell, she used none of her boss’s banshee tactics.

“What do you think about the three deaths—or at least the deaths of the two women who worked here?” I asked as she set down the phone.

“I know how odd it looks, and Peyton seems convinced Ashley was pushed, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to harm them.”

“One possibility is that someone might be trying to destroy Peyton’s business. Are you aware of anyone who could be out to get her? A competitor, for instance?”

She blew out a big gust of air. “To be honest, there have been a few
clients
who were less than thrilled lately. We did a couple of parties this winter that got mixed reviews, but they were only cocktail parties, and I don’t think anyone’s nursing a grudge. The bigger problem was a wedding we did a month or so ago at someone’s home. It was a second marriage for both, and they wanted a small, elegant affair. They had a lot of money but weren’t what Peyton would call A-list clients, and her heart just wasn’t in it. She was supposed to supervise that day, but she got tied up at a photo shoot someone was doing on her and she spent very little time there. The couple claimed the food was lackluster and the service lousy. They complained terribly.”

“Hard to imagine them
killing
anyone over it, though. What about any other problems? Phillipa mentioned that there had been a few screwups with the calendar.”

Her lips parted ever so slightly in surprise. Had Phillipa shared private business she wasn’t supposed to?

“Oh, that,” Mary said. “We had a new secretary, and she unfortunately turned out to be an airhead. There was a terrible mix-up about a party.”

“Phillipa said there was more than one incident.”

“There might have been,” she said, seeming suddenly distracted. “I don’t remember off the top of my head.”

“What do you do in a situation like that?”

“You scramble like crazy.”

She seemed anxious to get off the topic. And after a glance at my watch, I realized that if I wanted to make a stop at Wellington House, I needed to get moving.

I thanked Mary for her help and for the tapenade and asked her to give me a call if she thought of anything that might be illuminating. As I left the office, the phone rang and I overheard her sorting out another problem, this one about a missing box of Bibb lettuce.

My Jeep was freezing inside, and I sat for a moment with the motor running, letting it heat up. Off to my right, through the passenger window, I could see the silo, casting a huge blue gray shadow in the snow. I wondered if anyone who worked at Ivy Hill Farm would ever be able to glance at it again without thinking of Ashley’s death.

Before pulling out, I studied the directions to Wellington House. I got lost twice anyway. Finally on Old Hollow Road, I spotted the three-story gabled mansion in the distance.

Getting in was going to be tricky. I had decided to pose as a bride-to-be, fearful that being more direct would cause them to batten down the hatches. But when I’d called on my way from New York and asked if I could stop by today, I was told that the first available appointment was not for three weeks. I would just have to pop in unannounced and hope that with enough begging, they’d allow me to look around and even ask a few questions. I wasn’t expecting to come away with a ton of info. But just being there, I hoped, might jog a memory of some kind.

Though the snow seemed even higher out here than it was in town, the driveway and parking lot had been plowed down to the gravel. Obviously events went on here all year long. After pulling in near a pack of four or five cars, I walked around the front. Everything seemed so different today from the last time I’d been here. I remembered that on the day of Peyton’s wedding the dozens of forsythia bushes that rimmed the house were in full bloom, making me wonder if Peyton had made us wear those hideous yellow dresses so we’d match the scenery.

I reached the front of the building and walked up the steps onto the large wraparound porch. I knocked twice on the door and tried the handle. It was unlocked, so I pushed it open and walked into the foyer.

A dark-haired woman in a black-trimmed pink Chanel-style suit was standing by a desk, reading a sheet of paper. She glanced up in surprise as I entered. She let her eyes run from the tip of my head to my toes, and I could tell by the way her nose wrinkled that she wasn’t fond of my getup. Maybe she’d never seen the cloches Ali MacGraw wore in
Love Story
.

“Hello, I’m Bailey Weggins,” I announced as pleasantly as humanly possible. “I don’t have an appointment, but I happened to be out this way and I was hoping I could talk to someone about the possibility of having my wedding here.”

“I’m afraid you really
do
need an appointment,” she said, clearly pleased to relay that piece of news. She reminded me of one of those doctor receptionists who seem totally invigorated when they get to announce that the doctor is unavailable to take your call.

“Would it be all right if I just looked around for a minute?”

“Unfortunately, we can’t allow people to just wander around the premises unaccompanied.”

“That’s such a shame. I’m very interested in having my wedding here, but with my work schedule, it’s hard to get out this way for an appointment.”

She sighed deeply. “Why don’t I see if Mr. Hadley has a minute to spare,” she said. “He could at least provide you with one of our kits.”

She walked off toward the rear of the house, looking back once in my direction—possibly to make sure I wasn’t going to begin the tour on my own or dismantle the chandelier and abscond with it. While I waited I glanced around the huge foyer/reception area. The style was old-fashioned, but not depressingly so—walls decorated in pale gold striped wallpaper and covered with oil paintings, all in lovely carved wood frames.

Mr. Hadley emerged in less than a minute, swishing slightly as he walked. He appeared to be in his fifties, silver hair thinning on top, a wide, soft face, and an even softer-looking body, but he was dressed dapperly in a navy jacket, crisp white shirt, and yellow tie.

“Bradford Hadley,” he said, offering his hand. “How may I help you?” His tone was effeminate, slightly snooty, but at least he seemed warmer to me than the Jackie Kennedy wannabe.

I offered an improved version of my spiel, one that I hoped would be more likely to secure a short tour. “I’d love to have my wedding here,” I said, “but my mother has her heart set on a sit-down dinner for five hundred. I just wanted to make sure you could handle that number comfortably.”

“Five hundred is
not
a problem,” he declared. “When were you thinking of? We’re completely booked for most of this year.”

“Oh, I realize that. My boyfriend and I just got engaged, and we’re thinking spring of next year.”

I saw his eye fall toward my left hand, checking for the rock.

“In fact, I don’t even have my ring yet,” I explained. “It’s being sized.” It felt weird to pretend I was engaged.

“Why don’t you follow me?” Hadley said. “I have just a few minutes before my next appointment, but I could at least show you the ballroom.”

He led me through a large parlor, decorated in blues and creams and sporting a Steinway baby grand, and then down a long hallway toward the back of the house. On our left we passed a glass-enclosed porch with trees dotted with small oranges and the wood-paneled study where Chris had tended bar. Wedding day memories began to filter through my mind in little wisps and fragments. I’d been cornered in the study by a drunk and blustering friend of Peyton’s father, who’d insisted that the best martinis were made with vodka, not gin, and then asked if I’d ever tried a threesome. Chris, observing my plight, had slipped from behind the bar and announced to the bore that there was a call for him from Hong Kong in the reception area. He’d stumbled off, never to be seen again.

“The house is quite fabulous—
and
enormous,” Hadley said, pulling me away from my memories. “What’s especially lovely is that people can spread out over many rooms, all of them exquisitely decorated. Guests wander in and out, sometimes getting wonderfully lost. We keep thinking we’re going to find someone in a tux someday who’s been here since 1982.

“Cocktails are generally served in the smaller rooms—or, weather permitting, outside—and then dinner and dancing follow in the ballroom. For a larger party like yours, we would need to set up tables in some of the adjoining rooms. Here we are—the ballroom. As you can see, it is
not
a small room.”

It looked even bigger than I remembered, though that might have been because today it was almost totally bare of furniture, except for several long rows of gold-colored dining chairs stacked along the far wall.

“No, it certainly isn’t,” I said.

“I assume you’ve attended events here,” he said.

“The Cross-Slavin wedding,” I said. “Last April.”

“Of course. A stunning event.”

“Were you here that day? I don’t recall seeing you.”

“If I’m doing my job right, you’re not
supposed
to notice me,” he said. “I stay in the background, making certain everything is running smoothly.”

“There was some incident that day, though, wasn’t there? Something with one of the guests?” I was taking a wild stab, hoping that if something
had
occurred that day, he’d give it away.

“Not that I know of,” he said, straightening. He looked truly taken aback, as if I’d suggested that all the toilets had gotten clogged and overflowed. “Well, I wish I had time to show you more, but, as I said, I’m expecting someone.”

He led me back to the front of the house, flicking on lights in several rooms because dusk was rapidly setting in. I swung my head back and forth, as if I were at a tennis match, looking in rooms and hoping to conjure up a memory of something incongruous or strange, but nothing came to me.

A few minutes later, with Mr. Hadley’s card and a promotional kit in hand, I hurried down the front steps. The temperature had dropped precipitously, and my breath came out in long white puffs through the inky blue twilight. Instead of climbing into my Jeep, I struck out onto a shoveled path that ran along the side of the house, just for a quick look at the outdoor property. To my right, beneath a foot and a half of snow, was a wide expanse of lawn where cocktails had been served the day of the wedding—leave it to Peyton to end up with a sunny April day in the seventies. Down the path, past a cluster of thick fir trees, I could see the carriage house, closed up tight for the season, and just before it an arbor with a snow-covered trellis—the one, I figured, where David and Peyton had embraced so passionately the day of the wedding. It looked completely different today, layered with snow. There was a sound behind me, something hushed, and I spun around. But nothing was there. It must have been the fall of snow from a tree onto the ground.