A Wedding To Die For yrm-2 Page 5

  “Sure. But the administrator I spoke with said their birth records only go back twenty years.”

  Angel huffed a sarcastic laugh. “Really? Hospitals do not destroy birth or death records, my friend, so I suggest you return and find someone else to talk to.”

  “But why would that man...” I didn’t finish the question because I knew the answer. Why does anyone lie? Because it creates less problems for them than the truth.

  Angel nodded sadly, reading my expression. “You see? Everybody lies. But as I tell my son, the truth is worth hunting down. Each nugget you find is like a treasure from God. Our job is to collect those tiny pieces and pass them on to the client. Sometimes those little nuggets turn out to be priceless jewels.”

  I smiled. “You have a way with words, señor.”

  “One more thing. The birth certificate is a lousy copy. Have you had a good look at the client’s state-issued document?”

  Texas does not issue original birth certificates but rather certified copies with the state seal. The last time I saw it was when I scanned Megan’s copy for my files. “No. I thought since all I needed was the hospital and city of birth, then—”

  “Get another look at hers.” He stared at me with an intensity that made his velvet brown irises seem almost black. “A good look.”

  “Okay. But did I miss something?”

  “We all miss things.” He tapped a manicured finger to his temple. “To see the answers you need a clear mind, but a clean copy doesn’t hurt.”

  I laughed. “So I did miss something.”

  “I do not know, Abby. I can tell you only what I would do if I were you.”

  “Then that’s good enough for me.”

  4

  I arrived back home around one P.M. and had a message from Quinn Fielder. Sounding polite but authoritative on my machine, she informed me my assistance was needed with some photos taken at the reception. She gave the address of the Seacliff Police Station and told me she expected me by four P.M. at the latest.

  Great. Thanks. I poked the delete button. Felt good to delete her. But of course I had to comply. This was about helping Megan, not about my own ego.

  I went to my office to put away Megan’s file and found Diva asleep on my desk. She knew the most pleasant spot in this house of chaos, maybe even sensed my new office was where I felt most at home.

  The room had been shipshape since the day after I moved in. My work space. All mine. I had moved in Daddy’s computer desk and it took up most of the room, that and his worn red leather wing chair, which I now reserved for clients. I’d mounted his gun case and added my own two handguns to his collection. Since I hadn’t been to the shooting range in over a year, that’s where they belonged. Daddy always said you shouldn’t carry a weapon if you’re not trained or you’re out of practice, and he was right.

  I sat on my standard issue but comfortable office swivel chair and lifted Diva into my lap. She tolerated me for twenty seconds before jumping away and hopping onto the windowsill. She inserted herself between the vertical blinds and did some window-shopping for the many birds and squirrels that populated the neighborhood.

  After turning on the computer and checking my e-mail, I did a search for Caleb Moore, the attorney used for Megan’s adoption. I wanted to be prepared to act should she change her mind about contacting him. Most firms had a Web site these days, but since Megan was twenty years old, this guy could be retired or dead. Sure enough, when I got a hit on Moore it was for the man’s death notice in the Galveston Daily News archives two years ago. More searching found him to be the attorney of record in the bankruptcy of a local manufacturing plant, but that was all. Literally a dead end.

  I sat back, wondering what I should do next. My Internet options were limited. Maybe after I worked at this job for a while, I’d have more courage to deal with the underground searchers, those less-than-legal resources who can gain access to private information in exchange for considerable money. Hacking into closed adoption files was not a good idea for someone working toward a PI license. There had to be a less risky way to get what I needed.

  I glanced at the computer clock and decided to let the detecting go for now and head for my meeting with Fielder. But when I reached the kitchen and pulled my car keys from my purse ready to head out the back door, I glanced down at what I was wearing. Jeans and a Houston Rockets sweatshirt. New, expensive jeans since I trimmed down to a size six, but still jeans.

  I had to change. And comb my hair. And—wait a minute. What the hell was wrong with me?

  I left dressed as I was, before the green-eyed monster had me hunting through boxes for one of my old low-cut, sequined prom dresses.

  The sand-colored brick Seacliff Police Station sat on a side street off Highway 146 several blocks from the bay. Sago palms flanked the double glass doors and inside a pockmarked young man wearing the tan uniform I had become so familiar with yesterday after Mr. Beadford’s murder sat at a dented metal desk to my right. The speckled vinyl tile bore grayish mop streaks and untouched grime had collected in every corner. The place smelled musty even though dry hot air blasted from a ceiling vent.

  The young man stood. “Can I help you?”

  “My name is Abby Rose. Chief Fielder wanted to see me.”

  “Yeah, she said to—” His desk phone rang and he picked up, listened for a second, then said, “The chief has no comment. This is an ongoing investigation.” He replaced the receiver gingerly, still staring at the phone. “Reporters have been calling all day. Last murder we had was five years ago, and it was nothing like this. Vietnamese fisherman got into it with his partner and stabbed him right through the gut with this old shark spear. Only had two calls from the press on that one. But this here? I can tell you—”

  “Thanks, Officer Henderson,” came Fielder’s voice from a hallway straight ahead. “I’ll meet with Ms. Rose in my office.”

  She gestured from the shadowy corridor for me to follow her, and I left Henderson sitting at his desk doing nothing, probably because that’s what he was good at. That and running his mouth.

  Dark wood paneling, circa 1970, lined the hallway and the worn dingy carpeting was probably about the same vintage. Fielder disappeared through a doorway to my right and I came in on her heels.

  The old world ended and the new millennium began inside her office. The wood floor gleamed, her huge oak desk commanded the room, and an air purifier hummed in one corner. I caught a hint of lemon polish and above me an antique brass and walnut ceiling fan looked as if it was hot off the assembly line.

  On the wall to my right hung a massive framed photograph of a man wearing the Seacliff uniform, only with a lot more brass than I’d seen on Henderson at the front desk. The man in the portrait looked to be in his sixties and an engraved metal placard confirmed this: “Chief Quinton W. Fielder, 1940-2002.”

  So policing was a family business, huh? Was that how she’d landed the top job at such a young age? Probably.

  “Thank you for coming, Ms. Rose,” Fielder said.

  “No problem.” To my left photos were spread on a conference table and the map I’d drawn yesterday was tacked to a bulletin board on the adjacent wall.

  Fielder’s eyes bore shadows beneath, evidence of a sleepless night. She wore blue trousers and an aqua-striped oxford shirt, the buttons strained thanks to her more than adequate breasts. Badge and gun were attached to her belt. Maybe she was going straight from here to compete for a spot in a “Girls with Nightsticks” Playboy layout. Good thing I was wearing a sweatshirt. Sweatshirts hide even what you don’t have.

  She had walked over to the table. “I hope you can help me with something.”

  “Sure.” I joined her, deciding that being polite and cooperative were the order of the day for Megan’s sake.

  She held up a picture, one taken on the front steps of the Beadford house. It showed the bride and groom entering, the crush of guests in their wake and the professional photographer snapping away.

  “Th
is was taken about the time Kate and I arrived,” I said.

  “Good. Now, here’s the same photo.” She slid an identical 5 by 7 across the table, but this one had grease pencil cross outs on all the people in the picture but one, the woman in the beige pantsuit and brown hat. She was standing alongside the photographer and looking down into the viewfinder of a digital camera pointed at Megan and Travis.

  Fielder tapped the unmarked face. “Did she sign the book?”

  “No. She came late to the church. Mrs. Beadford might have gotten her signature, though. Have you found the book?”

  Fielder reached into a file box under the table and produced the album. “Mrs. Beadford tucked it away in an upstairs bedroom for safekeeping. But after interviewing her—”

  “Is she okay?”

  “She’s doing better. Came home from the hospital last night. But she claims everyone at the reception signed or made congratulatory notes except for her.” Fielder nodded toward the picture. “Neither Mrs. Beadford nor anyone else in the family knows who she is. And if she came inside after taking her photos, no one remembers seeing her. How about you?”

  I mentally scanned the room where the strings played, then searched my memory bank for images of the great room. Nothing. But I was certain that if I had seen her, I would have remembered her because of my failure to get her to sign the book. “We never crossed paths in the house, but I spent most of the time in the kitchen with Kate and the caterers. She could have come and gone by the time I had a chance to mingle with the guests.”

  “Maybe,” said Fielder.

  “James Beadford could have invited her,” I said. “Or she could have been someone’s escort.” But another possibility popped into my head. Had the questions I’d asked a few weeks ago at the hospital where Megan was born or even Megan’s request to the adoption registry flushed a bird from cover? A mother bird who couldn’t resist a wedding?

  “I’ve considered those obvious possibilities,” Fielder said. “You didn’t see anyone with this woman at the church, did you?”

  “No. She was alone.” Shoving aside my excitement at the possibility the mystery woman could be Megan’s mother, I said, “Maybe she was a reporter for the local paper? The Beadfords seem well-off and the newspaper might have wanted to cover the event for the society page.”

  Fielder’s eyes narrowed and I surmised from the twitch in her jaw muscle that she didn’t appreciate I may have come up with something she hadn’t considered.

  “I know this town, Ms. Rose,” she finally said, her tone as frosty as the air outside. “Number one, I doubt she works for the paper. Number two, unlike where you come from, we don’t have a society page.”

  Unlike where I come from? Was she referring to Houston in general or had Jeff told her about my former life as a do-nothing heiress while I had been imprisoned in the laundry room yesterday?

  “I need more information from you, Ms. Rose,” Fielder went on, her demeanor controlled, her voice devoid of emotion now. She walked over to her desk and sat, gesturing at the armchairs across from her.

  I took a seat.

  “I’d like to hear more about the rehearsal dinner,” she said.

  “I told you what I know.”

  Fielder leaned toward me, fingers intertwined on top of the desk. “Are you sure?”

  “As I said before, I noticed lots of bickering, but I got the feeling the family was pretty much acting as they always do, or at least that’s what Megan indicated.”

  “I want facts, not guesses,” she said.

  I pictured a scarlet A for “Attitude” embroidered on her shirt. Trying not react to my emotions, I said, “I already told you about the tension concerning the TV that Holt brought with him. And I noticed Travis and his new father-in-law engaged in a lively discussion at the reception.”

  “They argued?” She pulled a legal pad toward her. Patches of new color spread beyond her blush.

  “That would require an assumption,” I said.

  She looked down at her pad, jotted a few notes.

  “Anything else you saw or heard that might be important?”

  “No,” I replied.

  “You’re free to go,” she said abruptly.

  “Gee, thanks,” I said, “but I was always free to go.”

  Since I was already in Seacliff, I swung by the Beadford house to see Megan, hoping I could also pick up the birth certificate as Angel had suggested. I parked the Camry on the Beadford’s cul-de-sac and slid from behind the wheel, deciding I would keep my speculation about the mystery woman to myself. Megan had enough on her plate right now.

  The setting sun tinged the horizon beyond their house a deep orange, seagulls squawked above me, and the smell of dead fish hung in the air. The crime scene tape had been removed, but one forgotten strip on a front hedge blew in the breeze like an enemy flag. I grabbed the remnant and stuffed it in my jeans’ pocket before I knocked on the door.

  Courtney Beadford answered. Unlike the day of the wedding, both earlobes were cluttered with rhinestones and metal studs. She also had an amber stone embedded in one side of her nose, and a small gold ring pierced an eyebrow. Her blunt-cut hair of midnight black looked uncombed, and her pasty face was powdered unevenly with makeup too dark for her skin. Bloodred lipstick completed the attempt at modern art.

  “Oh. It’s you,” she said tonelessly. “She’s in the kitchen.”

  Leaving the door open, she turned, shuffled through the foyer, and started up the left staircase. She was wearing an orange middrift T-shirt and low-rise jeans that had slipped down past her protruding pelvic bones. Anorexic? I wondered. Or just too busy abusing substances to eat?

  I made my way to the kitchen and found Megan and Travis hovered over Sylvia, who sat at the table with documents, several sets of gold cuff links, and a row of men’s ties before her. A woman in a peach jumpsuit with Enchanted Occasion Caterers embroidered in coral on the pocket stood near the sink stacking trays and plates onto a wheeling cart.

  Some enchantment here yesterday, I thought.

  “Hi,” I said quietly. “Decided to drop by since I was in town.”

  Megan looked up. “Abby. Thanks for coming.”

  I walked over to Mrs. Beadford, whose eyes were swollen from crying. “How are you today?”

  She stood, took my hands, and squeezed. “I’m better. Really. I heard you were wonderful yesterday. You and Graham stepped up and I am so grateful.”

  “And I am so sorry for your loss,” I replied.

  She bit her lower lip, looked down. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

  Megan patted Sylvia’s back. “Mother, you need to decide on a tie for Dad while I talk to Abby.” Megan then came around the table, pulling Travis along by the hand. “Maybe she can decide if we leave her alone for a few minutes.” She started for the hall, her new husband in tow.

  “Glad you’re feeling better,” I said over my shoulder before I followed Megan and Travis out of the kitchen. But Sylvia, fingering a navy blue tie, didn’t seem to hear me.

  “Sorry, Abby,” Megan said, once we were halfway to the foyer. “But I worry the more she sees you, the more likely she is to ask questions about our friendship.”

  Travis squeezed Megan’s shoulder as we walked. “Meg, you know she’s bound to find out.”

  “But not now,” Megan said. “I don’t know what she’d do if she found out right now.”

  We passed a stripped-clean dining room and stopped in the foyer. Megan and I looked up at Travis. Great-looking guy, I thought. He was clean shaven with deep brown eyes and bed-head hair. But the way he stared at Megan revealed the most about him. I saw a vulnerability in his expression, the kind only love creates.

  Travis placed his palm on Megan’s cheek. “You worry so much about everyone else. You need to take care of yourself.”

  “He’s right, Megan,” I said. “I’m thinking I should put the investigation on hold. It’s too much to deal with right now.”

  “No, it’s
not,” Megan said, all her stubbornness showing in her jutting chin. “I’ll keep my mother focused these next few days, and that will help us both. Meanwhile, you do what you can. Do you need more money? I know Mr. Molina gets a percentage, so—”

  “Slow down.” I took her hand between both of mine. “You’re talking fast enough to confuse God.”

  Travis smiled. “Wait until she really gets going.”

  She punched his arm playfully. “Shut up, you.”

  He bent and gave her a quick kiss. “I will when you do.”

  She grinned, and then it was as if she decided she had no right to be happy even for a second. Her eyes filled and Travis read her distress instantly and brought her to him, pressed her head to his heart.

  “I do need one thing if you’re certain you want me to continue the job,” I said.

  Megan pulled away from Travis and produced a crumpled tissue from her jeans pocket. She wiped under her eyes and said, “Sure.”

  “Can I trouble you for the original copy of your birth certificate?”

  Her brow furrowed. “But you scanned it. I saw you.”

  “Humor me. I need the state-issued one.”

  She cocked her head. “Okay.” She hurried through the foyer and up the right-hand staircase.

  When she was gone, Travis said, “Wish she’d do as you suggested and put this mother search on the back burner.”

  “Have you known all along about Megan’s adoption hunt?” I asked.

  “Nope. She told me Friday night after I asked her why she picked you to help out. I mean, no one, including me, knew about your friendship.”

  “I think Megan wanted me to meet the family.”

  He smiled. “You got that right. She hoped you’d see exactly why she wanted to find her mother. She and her father were pretty close, but it’s been hard for her with the others. She rarely sees her cousins, and Sylvia has a big heart but—”

  “I did notice a distance between Megan and Sylvia,” I said.

  “Megan denies it, but I think that’s because she always felt guilty for favoring her dad over her mother. Megan was a daddy’s girl, and though she and James never shared blood, she’s as tough as him underneath that beautiful skin.”