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.
“This 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.