A Wedding to Die For Page 8

  “Good. Go on.”

  “She still wore the hat when I saw her later on. More hair revealed. Gray streaked.”

  “Could you see her face better?” he asked.

  I took a deep breath, exhaled, and closed my eyes again. “Yes. Her cheeks were bright from the wind.”

  “Tell me about the shape of her face.”

  “Oval.”

  “And could you tell how old she was?”

  “She moved like a young person, but there were lines on her forehead and around her eyes. Blue eyes, but a dark blue.” The more I concentrated, the better I could visualize her. This was amazing.

  “Crow’s-feet?”

  “Not that severe, but she did have age lines. And frown lines. Made her look . . . sad. Yes. She looked sad. I’d guess she was in her forties.”

  “Eyes close together, far apart?”

  I reached up and felt the bridge of my nose with thumb and index finger to gauge the space. I’d never thought about these little things when I looked at people before. “Maybe a half inch farther apart than mine,” I said.

  I went on to describe the thin-lipped mouth, the straight nose, the slightly hollow cheeks, and even the freckles where her throat met her collarbone.

  “And she never smiled? Showed her teeth?”

  “If so, I didn’t notice. Of course we were all focused on Megan—she’s the bride. She looked so wonderful and she had on this lace coat over her wedding dress when she got out of the limo, sort of a 1940s look and—”

  “Abby, please move your mental camera to the woman. If it helps, think about where she was standing in relation to the bride.”

  “Sorry. She was waiting on the steps near the professional photographer, but sort of off by herself. And she was focused on her own camera, trying to get a shot of the bride and groom as they arrived.”

  “Ears are very distinct. Did the hat cover them?”

  “I could see the lobes but not much more. She was wearing pierced earrings—small pearl studs.”

  “Okay. I think I have enough to go on.”

  I stood. “So do I come back tomorrow or—” “This will take about fifteen minutes and I still need your help.” He was digging around in the crate again and this time pulled out a sketchbook along with a box of charcoal pencils.

  “Only fifteen minutes?”

  “I can work as fast as the computers stealing what used to be a decent side income. Don’t get me started, though.” He flipped open the book and chose a pencil from a tennis ball can seconding as a brush and pencil holder.

  I dragged my chair beside him, and for the next quarter of an hour we worked together creating the composite. The guy was unbelievably talented, and soon we were both staring at the woman in the church.

  Dryer pulled a spray can from the crate. “This is fixative. Not good stuff to breathe in, so you might want to step back.”

  I stood and moved about three feet away. While he sprayed I kept staring. Something about the picture made it impossible for me to stop looking at the face I had pulled from my memory. What was it? But then the cloud of fixative hit me and I turned my head and had a minor coughing fit.

  Dryer, meanwhile, retrieved a camera case from under the Futon and snapped several shots of the drawing with his 35mm. He then opened a drawer in the desk, removed a large manila envelope, and carefully placed the drawing inside. “Chief Fielder wanted this by tomorrow at the latest.”

  “Is she coming here to pick it up?” I asked.

  “She said Officer Henderson would come when we were done.”

  “She’s paying you on delivery?”

  “No. Some city official has to cosign on the check, so she’s mailing me the money.”

  “Then you wouldn’t care if I delivered it? Because I’d be happy to drop the composite off.” Since Kate had seen the woman, too, I wanted her to have a look, see if she had the same feeling I had that this face was familiar.

  “She might not contract with me again if I don’t follow her directions,” Dryer said. The eye must have twitched because he pressed the heel of his hand against his brow.

  “If I could get the drawing to her more quickly than waiting for Henderson, then she’d be happy, right?”

  “Yes . . . but, she’d have to okay the arrangement and—”

  “Let’s just forget it.” Fielder might not okay anything that had to do with me, even if it benefited her.

  But he picked up a cell phone from the desk and dialed a number off a scrap of paper he took from his jeans pocket. “She said to page her as soon as we were done, so I might as well ask her.” He listened for a second, then punched a few numbers and disconnected.

  “While we wait for her to call back,” I said, “can I see what you’re working on?”

  He smiled. “Are you sure you’re interested?”

  His cell trilled. If that was Fielder, either she had no life aside from her job or she needed the composite in the worst way.

  It was her, and after Dryer explained he extended the phone in my direction. “She wants to talk to you.”

  I took the phone. “This is Abby.”

  “How soon can you bring me the drawing?” she said curtly.

  “When do you need it?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Megan and her mother will be home until around nine thirty and I wanted to show it to them.”

  “I can meet you there. I need to talk to Megan anyway.”

  “Okay . . . and thank you.” She disconnected.

  A please and a thank-you all in one day? Well, slap me naked and sell my clothes.

  Dryer and I spent the next half hour looking at his paintings. No gentle landscapes or country cottages for Mason Dryer. He’d painted ballerinas on tightropes suspended in fluid skies, monkeys and cats in vivid color riding through clouds in an old-fashioned motor car, jesters dancing on domes. I loved his stuff. So when I left, I was carrying not only the envelope, but the monkeys and cats, too.

  I pulled into my driveway twenty minutes later, and Kate showed up just as I was taking my new painting from the trunk. I’d called her on my way home since I wanted her to look at the composite. Would she see what I thought I was seeing in that face?

  “You didn’t waste any time getting here,” I said, lifting out the canvas.

  “I was leaving my office when you phoned, so I wasn’t far away.” She stared at the covered canvas. “But I thought you said you visited a sketch artist. I didn’t realize they painted their subjects these days.”

  “Funny. Get the back door for me, would you?” I tossed her my keys.

  “So where’d you get the painting?”

  I told her about Dryer’s day job as we went inside. After I turned on the kitchen lights, I tore the brown paper off the canvas and showed her my purchase. She seemed less than impressed, but Kate’s tastes tend to lean toward the comfort of Monet or Renoir.

  “Tell me about tonight,” she said after offering a polite comment about my cats and monkeys. “I always wondered how a person could create a picture from someone else’s memory.”

  “Dryer’s good. Almost like a hypnotist. I mean, I was sitting in that church looking at the woman again.”

  “Okay, so let me see.”

  I carefully removed the pencil drawing from the envelope. “Is this how you remember her?”

  Kate stared at the picture. “Wow. That’s her all right. He did this in fifteen minutes?”

  “Yup. There is something special about this face. He captured her accurately, but . . .”

  “I know what you mean. She looks . . . kind of familiar, but maybe that’s only because we saw her Saturday.”

  “Take a longer look—especially at those eyes and the shape of her face.”

  “My God, Abby, she looks like—”

  “Megan,” I finished.

  7

  When the alarm went off the next morning I resisted the urge to hit the sleep button. I had to get an early start to be in Seacliff by nine A.M. After I showe
red, dressed, and fed Diva, I rummaged through boxes until I found my digital camera. I took several shots of the composite, downloaded them to my computer, printed 8x10 and 4x6 copies and added them to Megan’s file. The more I stared at the drawing, the more of Megan I saw in the woman’s features.

  Kate and I might be putting too much stock in the likeness, but what if Megan’s mother had secretly kept track of her daughter? And what if the wedding drew her out of the shadows for an event no mother would want to miss? But this was still speculation, and I wasn’t about to present this theory to Megan. Not yet, anyway.

  I arrived at the Beadfords by eight forty-five, and this time Roxanne admitted me to the foyer. She wore oatmeal-colored sweats, no makeup, and a thick red fabric headband that revealed a patch of blemishes on her forehead. In my khakis and off-the-shoulder blue sweater I looked like a supermodel compared to her.

  “You didn’t have to make the trip here, though I do appreciate it,” Roxanne said. I must have looked confused because she added, “She came home.”

  “Who came home?” I said.

  “Courtney.”

  How could I have forgotten our strange conversation yesterday? “I’m glad she returned safely,” I said with a smile.

  “Perhaps I fret too much,” she said. “But with Uncle James quitting the earth in such a horrible turn of events, I suppose I overreacted.”

  Quitting the earth? Turn of events? I decided Roxanne had been spending way too much time reading gothic novels. I was saved from further pained conversation by someone ringing the bell. I turned and opened the door to find that Chief Fielder had come to my rescue. Now there was some black irony.

  “Good morning, Ms. Rose . . . Miss Beadford.” Her gaze rested on the large envelope in my hand.

  “Good morning.” I handed her the drawing once she crossed the threshold, wondering if she would pick up on the resemblance to Megan.

  “Are you satisfied with the composite?” Fielder asked.

  “Very,” I answered.

  “Composite of what?” Roxanne asked.

  “I’ll fill you in later, Miss Beadford,” Fielder said. “But for now, I’d like some time with your aunt. Can you tell her I’m here?” Fielder sounded about as pleasant as I’d ever heard her. Guess she saved up her best stuff for the victim’s family—and I couldn’t argue with that approach.

  “Certainly,” Roxanne said. Then she lowered her voice. “Aunt Sylvia’s upstairs preparing for her trip to Galveston. The medical examiner will be performing a postmortem examination on Uncle James’s remains, and she must complete the paperwork for the eventual release of his body.”

  I swear she almost smiled before she walked through the foyer and made a slow ascent up the right staircase. Hmmm. Maybe someone forgot her medication today.

  I caught Fielder rolling her eyes. Then she said, “I appreciate you coming down here, Ms. Rose.” She wore black trousers and a herringbone blazer, but even her expertly applied makeup couldn’t hide her fatigue. Definitely puffy around the eyes.

  “I’m much more comfortable with Abby,” I said.

  “Certainly.” She forced a smile.

  The awkward silence that followed was broken by Sylvia and Megan’s appearance. Megan had on the same clothes she’d worn yesterday, but Sylvia was dressed in a throat-high black knit dress that made her look like she was already headed for the funeral.

  We exchanged greetings, and before Fielder escorted Sylvia into the formal living room off the foyer, she told Megan to wait, that they’d only be a minute or two.

  Keeping her voice low, Megan said, “Sorry I had to hang up on you last night. Why do we need to go to the Bureau of Vital Statistics? I thought the Adoption Registry was a dead end.”

  “I’ve been digging deeper, and you may not have been born at St. Mary’s,” I whispered. “Maybe a new copy of your birth certificate will confirm this.”

  “Not born at St. Mary’s? But—”

  “I don’t think this is the best place to talk,” I said.

  “You have a real lead?” she asked, eyes bright.

  “Could be the break we’re looking for,” I replied.

  “Okay. We go today.”

  “But Fielder wants to show you the composite. And you said you had to take Sylvia to Galveston.”

  “Travis will fill in for me with Mother.”

  “She won’t mind if you bail?”

  “Oh, she’ll mind,” Megan said. “But Travis is good with her. He’ll think up a decent excuse—like I need some time away from everything, which happens to be true.”

  “Okay, we’re on,” I said.

  The living room door opened and Sylvia came out. “Chief Fielder would like to see you now, sweetheart.”

  Megan brushed past her mother, and Sylvia’s sad gaze followed her daughter as she entered the room and pulled the door shut after her. The weekend events seemed to be taking their toll on everyone.

  “How are you, Mrs. Beadford?” I asked.

  She glanced at the closed door. “I’m upset.”

  “I think Megan’s handling this situation as well as anyone could under the circumstances.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Is it something the chief said?” I asked, curious now.

  “The chief’s doing a fine job. Seems to be working hard on this horrible murder. But she showed me that drawing, and I never saw that woman before. Why would a stranger invade our home, destroy our beautiful wedding, and kill my husband?”

  “Did the chief tell you that the woman in the composite is the killer?” I asked.

  “She wouldn’t say. But it seems the only logical explanation.”

  Not the only explanation if that stranger came here to see her child get married. But I certainly couldn’t offer this insight. “Maybe there are other possibilities,” I said. “The chief may find some other clue to Mr. Beadford’s death once she’s sorted through all the evidence—and there seems to be plenty of that to go around.”

  Sylvia’s eyes flashed. “Do you know something I don’t? Has that policewoman been discussing my husband’s death with—” She stopped, closed her eyes, and pressed a shaky hand to her forehead. “I am so sorry, Abby. I’ve been snapping at everyone today. First Megan and Roxanne this morning at breakfast and now you. There’s just so much to deal with and . . .” Tears filled her eyes.

  I put an arm around her shoulders. “No need to apologize, Mrs. Beadford. I understand. By the way, is that coffee I smell?”

  She nodded.

  “Could I bother you for a cup?”

  “Certainly. Yes. Coffee would be good.”

  We went to the kitchen together with her tottering on yet another pair of ridiculous shoes similar to the ones she’d chosen for the wedding—pointy with one-inch narrow heels—throwbacks to foot binding, in my opinion.

  The kitchen had far more to offer than coffee. A silver tray filled with breakfast pastries sat on the counter beside platters of cookies, covered sheet cakes, and a huge fruit basket.

  “The neighbors have been so supportive,” Sylvia said, gesturing at the food. “Help yourself while I get your coffee.”

  I chose a raspberry kolache and sat at the kitchen table. Sylvia placed a white mug of steaming brew in front of me and sat down with her own cup.

  After my daddy died, I’d wanted to talk about him in the worst way, but had little opportunity. People seemed almost afraid to say his name in front of me. So maybe Sylvia needed time to talk about her husband. “Tell me about Mr. Beadford. I met him only once, at the rehearsal dinner, but he seemed to command the room.”

  She smiled and her whole body seemed to relax. “He could grab your attention, couldn’t he?”

  “And he owned his own business, right?” I bit into the kolache, the pastry so rich I figured I was about to consume enough fat calories for a week.

  “Built the company from the ground up twice. There was no quit in that man.”

  “Twice?”
I said around a mouthful of berry heaven.

  “The first time we went bankrupt. Not through any fault of James, mind you. Running a small business is tough, and supplying equipment for the oil business is very competitive in Texas. James thought he’d do better here than in Dallas, and as it turns out, he was right.”

  “So you’re not from this area originally?” She definitely seemed calmer and happy to talk about her husband’s accomplishments.

  “We came south for a fresh start, a move that also allowed James to put some space between him and his brother, Graham. They’d been in business together, but it’s very difficult working day in and day out with family members.”

  “I understand,” I answered, wondering if Graham had something to do with the first failure. That might explain the animosity between the brothers.

  “Graham stayed in Dallas,” Sylvia went on. “His wife had a decent job and supported the family for several years, but when she passed on from breast cancer—horrible time for Courtney and Roxanne—Graham never seemed to recover. He’s lost one job after another.”

  “So he and his daughters are only staying here because of the wedding?”

  She nodded, her chubby right hand working the fingers on the left. “They arrived two weeks ago. Graham is at the Surfside Resort, thank goodness, but the girls wanted to be near Megan, so they’ve been with us. Having relatives underfoot day and night, well, I’m not coping very well, Abby. Not with James . . . not with the—”

  “I think you’re doing fine,” I said quickly, hoping to abort a round of tears.

  “Tell me more about yourself, Abby,” she said. “Megan met you at the health club, right?”

  Before I could answer, someone rapped on the back door. Saved again, thank goodness.

  She rose to answer, and a second later Graham entered carrying a case of beer. “Saw you were running low and—” He stopped, nodded my way. “Nice to see you again.”

  “I’m not sure we need more beer.” Sylvia backed away from Graham like he’d brought in a keg of dynamite.

  “We may not, but I do,” he answered. “They charge five dollars for one beer at the damn hotel, and I bought this whole case for ten bucks.”