A Wedding To Die For yrm-2 Page 20

  Megan closed her eyes and shook her head. “That’s why she didn’t show up at the funeral home today. She was probably busy thinking up this latest drama. What is wrong with Uncle Graham’s girls?”

  “Maybe she’s hungry for attention,” I offered. “I can’t see her killing her own father.”

  “Sorry, but she’s a nutcase as far as I can tell,” said Travis. “I say either one of those cousins is capable of just about anything.”

  “But they’ve had such a rough time, Travis,” said Megan.

  “Lots of folks have a rough time and don’t end up acting psycho,” he answered.

  Megan’s gaze fell to her lap, and she twisted her ring. “I know you’re right, but I still care about them both.”

  “I understand. They’re family,” I said. “And if it helps, the night Graham died, I left Roxanne in the funeral home parking lot and went straight to see her father. I don’t think she had time to get to the hotel before me.”

  “You don’t know for sure, though,” Travis said.

  “Okay, maybe there’s an outside chance she made a dash to her father in travel speed worthy of NASCAR. But even though the girl’s not working with a full string of lights, I’m with Megan. She’s not a killer.”

  “So what do we do?” Megan asked.

  “Let Chief Fielder handle her,” I answered. This was a solution I liked. Oh yes. I liked it very much indeed.

  “After the way the chief treated Travis, shouldn’t we go there or get her a lawyer, too?” Megan said.

  “Why not wait and see what happens? If Roxanne is making this up, the chief will figure it out,” I said.

  Travis reached over and took Megan’s hand. “Abby’s right.”

  “I hope so,” Megan replied. But she didn’t sound convinced.

  They left a few minutes later, the rain again reduced to drizzle. But the temperature had dropped a wicked twenty degrees in the last hour. I hurried upstairs and put on a sweatshirt, then adjusted the thermostat. But a chill lingered, one that seemed to come not from the change in weather but rather from my own discomfort.

  Megan and Travis’s visit had unsettled me. These were two people I had come to care for, but they were both unraveling under the stress and revealing parts of themselves I wasn’t sure I liked. The once soft, sweet Megan seemed as nervous as a horse on a high wire. And Travis? The guy was a seething pot of emotion. Understandable? Sure. But still troubling.

  Diva had followed me downstairs, and recalling the breaking glass, I decided I’d better see what she’d destroyed this week. Another sugar bowl? A glass she just had to stick her snout in?

  Nothing seemed amiss in the kitchen, so I checked the laundry room—no problems there—and then decided she must have done her damage in the small glassed-in terrace. I flipped on the light switch by the entry, and sure enough, a Mason jar filled with clothespins that had been sitting on the picnic table now lay in pieces on the tile. I took one step into the room and stopped.

  I wasn’t alone.

  20

  “I like your cat,” said an unfamiliar female voice. “Very friendly, but a little clumsy.”

  I took a step back, wondering how quickly I could get to the phone.

  “I have a gun, so don’t think about calling for help,” the woman said. She’d been sitting in one of the wicker chairs in the shadowed corner, but now stood. I saw a flash of silver in her hand.

  As Daddy used to say, there is nothing more convincing than the business end of gun. I didn’t move.

  She walked to the center of the room until she was under the ceiling fan light—and I was suddenly glad I hadn’t made that call.

  “I’ve been dying to meet you,” I said, “but please don’t take that literally.”

  Laura Montgomery smiled with all the self-assurance holding a weapon can provide. She wore a green sweater, the shoulders soaked with rain. Not exactly warm enough clothing for tonight’s weather, but you don’t need many warm clothes in Jamaica, so her wardrobe was probably limited. She’d skipped the hat, and curved tendrils of damp hair clung to both cheeks. Her gun hand was mottled by the cold—a small-caliber gun, similar to the .22 Daddy bought me for my sixteenth birthday, the one I wished was in my pocket rather than in my office.

  “Now that the newlyweds are gone, I hope you’ll take a little friendly advice,” she said.

  “Friendly? With a weapon in your hand?”

  “I wasn’t sure what kind of welcome I’d receive. After all, I did break into your house. Damn easy by the way.”

  “Turnabout is fair play,” I said.

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  “Nice little place you’ve got in Jamaica,” I said, adding a tad of my own arrogance.

  Her voice edged with anger, she said, “You are a very busy young woman. That’s why we need to talk.”

  “You don’t need a gun for that. I’m happy to sit down and—”

  “No, thank you. We’ll talk right here, right now.”

  “Okay. You’re the boss.”

  “Tell me what your relationship is to my daughter.”

  “Simple. She hired me to find you.”

  That cracked her “I’m tough-as-nails” demeanor. “What?”

  “You heard me. I’ve been looking for you for months. She wanted her mother at her wedding. Apparently she got her wish.”

  “S-she knew about me?” I’d apparently pressed her panic button because her face had paled.

  But I was a little confused. “That’s why you came out of hiding, right? To attend your daughter’s wedding?”

  “Yes, but not because—are you saying she knows everything about me? Knew I was there that day?”

  Ah. Now I understood. “No. She doesn’t know much of anything yet—how you’re a fugitive, how you’ve been following her. That kind of information has to wait for just the right moment, and with her father murdered and her uncle dead, now is not the time.”

  “I’m truly sorry about all that’s happened,” she said, but I sensed she was distracted, was trying to figure something out.

  “You’re sorry?” I said. “Sorry you killed them?”

  She flinched, stared at me. “From what I overheard between the three of you here tonight, someone else wants to take responsibility for those deaths. And that’s the best news I’ve had since I arrived in Texas. I can go home now.”

  “Go home?” I offered a sarcastic laugh. “I don’t think the police will let that happen.”

  Renewed fear flickered in her eyes. “So you’ve told them about me?”

  “I sure tried to tell them, but that’s a long story. Maybe we can make a little deal here. You tell me what I want to know, and maybe I’ll delay reporting your reappearance to the police.”

  “A deal? If you think I killed two men, what’s to stop me from killing you?” She raised the gun a few inches to emphasize the point.

  What would stop her? I was reading desperation in her tense face and scared eyes, and desperate people do crazy things. The only defense I had was what I had learned in the last few weeks, so I kept talking. “You care way too much about your daughter to kill one of her friends—and I am her friend.”

  That got her. Her shoulders sagged. “I didn’t even know she was alive until a few weeks ago.”

  “You thought she died at birth.”

  “And I suppose you also know that bastard stole my daughter? She was the only reason I ran before my court date. I wasn’t about to have a baby while I was in prison, have my child end up in foster care. And it turns out, she was the only thing that could bring me back here. I swear, if James had been in the room when I learned how he’d taken my child, I would have killed him with my bare hands.”

  And I believed her. Revisiting her anger had her tensing up, and her grip on the gun seemed viselike now. Did she even know how to use it? An untrained person holding a gun is about the scariest thing on earth. “Listen, I don’t plan on running for the phone or screaming for the neighbors, so
could you put the gun down?”

  But she was so wound up she started waving the weapon instead, riding her emotions like some freaked-out kid on a roller coaster. “Can you believe what he did to me? How could anyone be that cruel? I lost my daughter and thought it was somehow my fault she died. I believed I deserved what happened, thought I had to be punished for the crime I’d committed.”

  Adrenaline spilled into my blood and made my skin prickle with the tension. Keeping my eyes on the .22, I said, “I realize Megan was raised by your worst enemy, but—”

  “Her name was Claire.”

  “Right,” I said softly. “Claire. But she’s very much alive. A beautiful young woman. Kind and loving. And I know she wants to meet you in the worst way.”

  Obviously not the right words. She pointed the gun at my chest. “That will never happen. You will not tell her about me.”

  “Okay. Sure. But—”

  “Liar,” she spat. “You’ll tell her the first chance you get if I let you live.”

  “So kill me, then,” I said, sounding braver than I felt. “But one way or another, she’ll find out. She’s determined to learn the truth about you, and if I’m dead, she’ll find someone else to help her.”

  We stared at each other for what seemed an hour, but it had to be only a few seconds. Then she relaxed the gun hand, letting it drop to her side. “He made me pay for what I did to him. For twenty long years.”

  “But he’s gone now and maybe you and Megan can—”

  “No. My daughter couldn’t possibly forgive me for what I did. I’m a common criminal.” Her eyes had misted, and she blinked several times until they cleared.

  “And couldn’t possibly forgive your affair with her father?” I asked, wanting to add, And couldn’t forgive you for killing him? But that question might rile her up enough to make her point that gun my way again.

  She nodded. “Believe it or not, I used to love that asshole.”

  “And he was Megan’s biological father, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Listen, I promise to help you work things out with your daughter, but I need all the facts. How did you know about the wedding? How—”

  “Abby?” came a muffled voice from the vicinity of the kitchen. Aunt Caroline’s voice. Damn her to hell!

  My aunt started pounding on the back door, saying, “I know you’re home.”

  As far as Laura Montgomery was concerned, Aunt Caroline might as well have been the FBI. She whirled and rushed out the terrace door into the darkness, shattered glass crunching underfoot, clothespins spinning on the tile after her retreat.

  A part of me wanted to run after her, tackle her, make her tell me more, but a loud voice in my head overruled this idea. “Let her go for now,” it said.

  So I closed the terrace door and went to let my stupid aunt in. She was the last person I wanted to talk to, especially since she’d just screwed up my chance of finishing the job I was hired for.

  “Abby, what’s wrong?” she asked as soon as I let her in.

  “Nothing. So glad you dropped by.” No hiding the sarcasm. I was too pissed off. I headed for the coffee-pot to refill the mug I’d emptied on my jeans earlier, not trusting myself even to be civil.

  “No coffee for me, thank you. I can’t stay.”

  Now, there’s the best news I’ve had all day.

  “I see you’re upset,” she said. “You’ve got those little furrows between your eyebrows. Do you know how expensive it is to cosmetically repair damage that could be avoided if you’d pay attention to your emotions, Abigail?”

  “No, but I’m sure you do,” I said wearily. “Listen. I’ve had a long day. Why are you here?”

  “I found you some work, just as I promised.” She smiled like she’d just invented Coca-Cola.

  “I told you not to do that,” I said.

  “But Libby needs your help. You remember my friend Libby?”

  I nodded, stirring sugar into my coffee. Libby had a fake British accent and carted an Irish wolfhound around in her Mercedes.

  “She adopted a new puppy from the shelter—got a schnoodle if you can believe it. Schnoodles are very in. Anyway, this dog has seizures, and Libby feels it’s her responsibility to find the original owner and see if there are more puppies who might be afflicted. She hopes to then find them homes with owners who have the resources to—”

  “You want me to work a dog adoption case?” I said through tight lips.

  “Why yes. You fancy yourself an investigator and—”

  “I don’t investigate dogs... or cats or birds,” I said, my voice rising. “And if she adopts an elephant with hives, I won’t do that case, either!”

  Aunt Caroline stepped back, looking indignant. “How ungracious of you, Abigail. I taught you to be—”

  “Save it,” I said.

  She pulled her fur collar up around her chin. “I came here with the best intentions, hoping to show you that I’m willing to embrace the new working girl Abby. Obviously you don’t appreciate my efforts, and so I will bid you good night.”

  She, too, departed into the night, leaving me frustrated and angry.

  And then there was the guilt. How did she manage to be such an idiot and still make me feel like everything wrong between us was my own doing?

  21

  The next morning, after I’d rethought the events of last night, I knew I had to report that Laura Montgomery had returned to the States. Since she had been arrested, though not tried for the embezzlement, that meant the statute of limitations didn’t apply. She was still wanted by the authorities. If I had any intention of moving beyond provisional PI status in the future, I had to play by the rules. I called Angel for advice, and he told me that since Montgomery had fled from a Dallas jurisdiction, I could report my “sighting” on-line. And, since the case was cold, Angel figured it would probably take the Dallas cops at least a week to put someone on it, pull the files, and get back to me. In other words, this approach would buy some time.

  Next I called Kate at her office. With Megan’s mother making an appearance, it was time to tell my client what I had learned. That DNA results I’d been so eager to get didn’t even matter anymore, but Kate’s presence when I spoke to Megan did. The receptionist said Kate would be free for lunch at eleven thirty, which gave me an hour to get my act together and make it to the Medical Center. I also needed to find out what had become of Roxanne the Confessor, and once I was on the road, I called Megan to find out.

  But she didn’t answer. Travis did.

  “Hi, Travis. So what happened with Roxanne’s confession last night?”

  “When we got home and told Sylvia what Roxanne had done, all three of us went down to the police station. Roxanne refused to see us. Fielder told us Roxanne is not under arrest, but she decided to keep her overnight as a material witness.”

  “No arrest. Obviously Fielder wasn’t convinced by this confession—at least not yet.”

  “Yeah. Not yet.”

  “Fielder’s probably being careful this time after what happened when she hauled you in. Does Roxanne have a lawyer?”

  “Apparently she refused legal help, too. Megan’s hoping Fielder will let her out in time for Graham’s visitation tonight. Sylvia’s decided he should be buried next to his brother—which I don’t get since they weren’t exactly best buddies—but I’m not making those decisions.”

  “How’s Megan today? I’m concerned about her. She looked so tired and pale last night.”

  “I’m pretty concerned myself. I wanted to talk to you about—” He paused. “Hang on. I hear her coming down the stairs.” A second later Travis said, “Hey, Meg. It’s Abby.”

  Megan got on the line. “Did Travis tell you they kept Roxanne overnight?”

  “He did, but maybe Fielder wanted to give Roxanne some time to rethink her confession.” I’d reached the Medical Center and had to pay attention to traffic or get myself killed. “If it would make you feel better, I’ll swing by the Seacliff Poli
ce Station later and see if I can find out anything.”

  “Abby, you’ve helped so much already and—”

  “Consider it done. I’ll see you at the funeral home this evening and give you a full report.” Megan gave me the time and location—the same as her father’s services—and I clicked off the phone and plugged it into the recharger.

  Maybe tonight I could get Travis alone. Get his opinion on when I should tell Megan everything I’d learned. Would she be happy to know she’d been adopted by her biological father or angry he hadn’t told her the truth? And would she be happy to know her birth mother was alive or disgusted the woman was a fugitive? I had no way of knowing.

  Finding a spot in the parking garage of Kate’s building proved as challenging as always, and after my fifth trip around winding narrow lanes and concrete pillars, I slipped into a spot meant for a “compact” car. Absurd. Ninety-nine percent of the vehicles in Houston are SUVs or trucks.

  Kate was waiting in the reception room when I arrived in her tenth floor office. She wore blue today, a pale cashmere sweater and navy wool slacks. The colors complemented her creamy skin and dark hair, and I decided it felt good to see a rested, happy female for once. Rather than go out for lunch, she suggested we order Chinese, and we went to the family therapy room after she called King Food.

  I love the therapy room. It’s the most comfortable, homey place imaginable. The lighting casts a pink glow over the spacious area—according to Kate pink is the most calming color. Two sofas and four armchairs surrounded an oval coffee table, and classical music played in the background today rather than Kate’s usual favorite, Jazz. Me? I would have opted for Dave Matthews if I came for a head shrinking. His music is about as real as it gets.

  We sat in the “big chairs” as I call them, two huge overstuffed cranberry chairs you could get lost in. I removed my shoes and tucked my feet up.

  Kate said, “I see you’ve been using the arnica gel. Your face looks so much better.”

  “You were right about that stuff. Worked like a charm. Wish I had a magic fix for this case. Yesterday was chock-full of surprises.”