'Til Death Do Us Part (27 page)

“So she thinks someone changed it?” I asked.

“Someone
must
have changed it. What other explanation is there?”

“I know this girl was your friend, but I need to ask this: Is it possible she messed up the dates on purpose?”

“But why would she have done that?” she asked, almost in a wail.

I hesitated, choosing my words.

“Maybe she’d been treated poorly here—yelled at by Peyton—and she was looking for some way to express her anger.”

Again, she shook her head sadly. “No. Melanie wanted to be like Peyton Cross. She even made excuses for her when she’d blow a gasket.”

She glanced up over my shoulder again. It was clear she was nervous about being caught chatting, and I decided I should get out of there before she developed some full-blown fear of flogging. I asked for Melanie’s number, which she gave me after consulting a pink leather address book from her purse.

I hurried toward my Jeep, trying to digest all the tidbits I’d just learned. Unlocking the Jeep, I also realized that my stomach was rumbling. I hadn’t had more than a passing interest in the croissant this morning, but my appetite had returned now with a vengeance, and so had my yearning for caffeine. There were a few little tea shops along Greenwich Avenue, and I decided to drop by one before I found Andrew Flanigan’s house. Before firing up the Jeep, I glanced around the parking lot. There was no sign of anyone or anything suspicious, but I did spot Peyton’s Range Rover. She must have just arrived.

Downtown Greenwich was bustling, and just when it appeared as if my hunt for a parking place would be in vain, a white BMW abandoned a spot right in front of me. I walked half a block and discovered a small café under a blue-and-white awning. The two window tables were filled with several sleek Lycra’d women in their thirties who’d obviously dropped by for lattes and a chat after spinning class, but there was a table in the back all by its lonesome. That’s where I set up shop.

Since it wasn’t eleven yet, breakfast was still being served. I ordered a mushroom omelet, and by the time it arrived I’d drunk a cup and a half of coffee. I’d also pulled out my composition book and jotted down the details of my disgusting encounter with Detective Pichowski and started on the fascinating pieces of info that the salesclerk had shared.

For starters, the Trip thing. From what I’d been able to determine so far, the guy would come on to a hand broom if it would only tell him how hot he was, so his flirting with Robin might be nothing more than Trip being Trip. But then again, it might not be. Maybe his conversation with David at the church had revealed more than it should have, and Jamie had realized that. Had he been trying to ingratiate himself with Robin to see what she knew? It still seemed far-fetched, though. If there had been something so explosive in Trip and David’s argument at the rehearsal, wouldn’t I have remembered it? And why take so long to silence all the bridesmaids? No, I couldn’t put Trip at the top of my suspects list just because I disliked the guy.

Then there was Brace, the ex-husband. I hadn’t thought much about him until now, but I didn’t like the fact that he’d been hounding Robin this fall. Ashley, of course, had mentioned that he’d pestered Robin, but she’d never mentioned the time frame quite the way the salesclerk had. Over the years I’d done more than one article on women who’d been murdered by former partners. The guy would at first make every effort to win her back, often in the most sane way he could manage—flowers, love letters, sappy poetry, even skywriting. When she didn’t take the bait, he might lie low for a few weeks, waiting for her to miss him and realize the error of her ways. When he finally saw that his case was hopeless, he’d kill her. Brace lived in both Greenwich and New York, giving him access to all three women. And he could have easily followed Ashley and me to the farm the day she died. But why would he kill Ashley or Jamie—or, for that matter, come after me? That idea seemed to lead to a dead end, too.

I was also very intrigued by the shopgirl’s conviction that the secretary Melanie could not have written in the wrong dates for the parties. Which meant one of two things: Either she didn’t realize how careless—or possibly evil-minded—her friend was, or Melanie
hadn’t
messed up the dates. Someone might have purposely changed them around in order to wreak havoc in the world of Peyton Cross. And that someone would have to be a person who worked at the farm and who knew that changing the party dates for established clients was likely to go unnoticed.

And last but hardly least was the news that Robin had stopped by the farm on her way to Vermont. She was a known grazer, and she could easily have grabbed something to eat there that day—or been given something to eat by someone. Something with too much tyramine in it.

It didn’t take long for Phillipa to pop up on my mental screen. She was most likely working the Friday Robin died. She also could have snuck into the office at some point and mucked up the party dates. And she was missing in action at the very time Ashley was killed. God, could being banned from the bridal party have really turned her into a serial killer? Or could some older, nastier grudge Phillipa held against her cousin cause her to try to destroy Peyton’s business, even going so far as to kill her bridesmaids?

It was all so bewildering. And of course, none of these scenarios—involving Trip, Brace, or Phillipa—seemed to have anything to do with a strange occurrence at the wedding, which I hopefully would soon be learning about in Miami.

I always despised people yakking on cell phones in restaurants—in voices so loud that the whole room had to hear. But my table was pretty secluded, and I decided to make a few quick calls. After finding her number on my Palm, I phoned the woman I hoped to interview in Ft. Lauderdale. She seemed taken aback when I announced that I was hoping to talk to her
this
week—anytime on Thursday or, if that was out of the question, Wednesday afternoon after I arrived from New York. After running me through a list of everything she needed to accomplish this week, including having her dog checked for diabetes, she agreed to shift her plans around to accommodate me before work on Thursday morning. With that in my pocket, I called the travel agency
Gloss
uses and asked them to get me a flight to Miami on Wednesday morning with a return on Thursday midday, as well as book a room at the Delano, a hotel I’d stayed at once before. I tried Chris’s cell phone after that and left a message on his voice mail saying that I was coming to Miami tomorrow and to please call me back.

Next, I got the main numbers for Merrill Lynch and Smith Barney from 411 and after several calls found that Robin’s ex-husband worked at the Wall Street offices of Merrill Lynch. I left a message on his voice mail, giving my name and saying simply that I needed to speak to him and would call back. He wasn’t exactly at the top of my suspect list, but I figured it would be worth speaking to him to see what he knew about Robin. If she’d been in touch with him in the fall, she might have mentioned her concerns to him—and perhaps with more specifics than she’d shared with Ashley.

At this point the waiter shot me an annoyed look, as if he didn’t appreciate the fact that I was using the café as a home office. I lowered my voice even more as I called the fact checker at
Gloss
, switching an appointment I had with him tomorrow to late this afternoon.

I also quickly checked my messages at home and at work. Landon had called, wondering if I was okay, and so had my mother, who was in Boston between jaunts abroad and fortunately didn’t get the New York papers. There were also several calls from friends, including Cat. I promised myself that I would return calls later and also drop in on Cat when I swung by
Gloss
.

Hearing all the messages, thinking about my trip to Miami—it made me eager to be back in New York. I briefly deliberated bagging the trip to Andrew Flanigan’s house. But I just as quickly talked myself back into it. I didn’t want to leave any unfinished business in Greenwich before heading off to Miami. I’d already decided not to pay Andrew an unexpected visit. If for some reason he
was
the one after me, I’d be putting myself in too much danger by doing that. But I hoped to pick up a vibe by looking at his place and maybe, if he wasn’t at work, to see what kind of car he drove.

I paid the bill, leaving a generous tip. It took me twenty-five minutes to find the Flanigan place, stopping three times to ask for directions. Davidson Street turned out to be on the wrong side of the tracks in Greenwich, though up until this point I hadn’t realized there even
was
a wrong side. The house was a small two-story clapboard, painted a robin’s-egg blue that looked ugly as sin with the chocolate-cherry-hued shutters. There were a couple of banged-up aluminum-and-mesh folding chairs on the porch, as if no one had gotten around to bringing them indoors when the seasons changed.

I drove by the house and ended up circling the block because there was no easy place to turn around. Back on the street, I pulled into an open spot catty-corner from the house. I noticed two things as soon as I killed the engine. There didn’t appear to be a single light on in the house, suggesting that no one was home. And at the end of the driveway was a one-car garage with the door raised about two feet. I could see the wheels of a vehicle.

So someone might be home after all.
Or
, this was a second car. Was it a black SUV?

I watched the house for about ten minutes. No sign of movement anywhere. I had come in hopes of getting a vibe, but I wasn’t feeling anything one way or the other. I decided that the least I could do before leaving was determine if the vehicle was an SUV.

I climbed out of the Jeep and checked the street in both directions as I crossed to the other side. Not a human in sight. The driveway was slick with ice and frozen snow, and I almost landed on my ass a couple of times as I made my way along the length of it, keeping my eye on the house for activity. There was a small porch attached to the side of the house with a couple of steps leading down to the driveway, and an old brown rag rug lay over the railing. Through the door I could suddenly hear a dog begin to yap. Shit, I thought. I needed to move fast.

I reached the garage and peered underneath. I was staring at the rump of a Honda Civic. I straightened up and started back down the driveway. I hadn’t taken five steps when I heard the crack of a door opening. A woman in her early forties with fried blond hair stepped out into the cold, a scowl on her face.

“Can I help you?” she asked, sounding not at all as though she wanted to. She was wearing only a black turtleneck and stretchy brown pants. She folded her arms against the cold.

“Uh, sorry,” I stammered. “I was just looking for someone.”

“Who?”
she demanded. She was too old to be Andrew’s wife or girlfriend—could it be his
mother
? Maybe he didn’t even live here anymore.

“Uh, Andrew,” I said. By using his name I would find out once and for all if he lived there. If she said he was home, I would just take off.

“Is that right?” she said, her voice hardening even more. “Well, you’re out of luck.”

Good, I thought, this was my chance to elicit some info.

“I was just passing through, and I thought I’d look him up. It’s been ages since we’ve seen each other. How’s he doing, anyway?”

She stared at me suspiciously for a moment, doing some kind of mental calculation.

“Not good,” she said finally. “He hung himself last summer.”

CHAPTER 14

I
—
I’M SORRY
,” I said. I was too thunderstruck by the news to think of anything else to say.

“I’m Andrew’s mother, by the way. Sue. You better come inside. I don’t want to be talkin’ about it out here.”

“Sure, thanks,” I said, crossing the short distance to the house. I felt a pang of guilt, but I needed to know what had happened. As I climbed the steps to the small porch, I saw that up close she looked much older. Her skin was lined with age and grief. She opened the door and the dog, a Pomeranian, I thought, immediately started yapping again, trying to jump on me.

“Shut up, Nugget,” she said, shooing her gently with a foot. “If you pet her, she’ll stop.”

I obliged by bending down and patting Nugget’s head a few times. She licked my hand with a tongue that felt like wet sandpaper.

The room was a mess of dirty dishes, dusty tchotchkes, and houseplants that looked as if they were watered every four or five weeks. One ivy plant was growing out of a ceramic floor pot in the shape of a lower torso, waist to knees—with no clear sex.

“Here, have a seat,” Sue said, pointing to the kitchen table. It was littered with bunched-up sections of the newspaper and a plate hardened with egg, like something from the last days of Pompeii. I sat down gingerly, pushing away a cup and saucer with the tip of my finger.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you like that,” she said, flopping into a seat across from me. In one hop Nugget was nestled in her lap. “But there’s no easy way.”