8 A Wedding and a Killing Read online

  “When he came in today,” David said, “did he mention that we had officers at his house searching for his gun?”

  “Never mentioned it,” Edna said. “He did say how devastating it was about Eugene getting shot. He kept asking if there was anything he could do for me or the church.” She squinted. “Now that you mention it—” She turned to Bogie. “Do you think Helga skipped town for good?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “Well, Sirrus was in a really good mood when he came in.” She moved the last bite of her dessert on her plate. “He actually had a little nip to his step. He once told me that the very sound of Helga’s voice made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.” She giggled. “He said that after telling me what a nice, sultry voice I’ve got.”

  “Sultry is a good word for it.” Brewster’s gaze never left her face.

  “Down, boy,” Bogie said under his breath.

  “How about Bill Clark?” Mac asked Edna.

  “We haven’t seen him in years,” Edna said. “And we’d like for it to stay that way.”

  David pushed his plate, with all the food eaten, away. “As much fun as this might be for now, Ruth can’t stay here in this church indefinitely.”

  “Who says she can’t?” Edna asked.

  “The guys from New York will not sit idly by,” David said, “even if Carmine’s lasagna is to die for.”

  “You haven’t tried the Death by Chocolate yet,” Fleming said.

  “Give me twenty-four hours,” Mac said.

  “Twenty-four hours to do what?” David asked.

  “To go to New York and rattle a few chains,” Mac said.

  Mac gave the signal to David to walk out to his car with him when Carmine started lining the guests up to do the bunny hop. While everyone was hopping into the sanctuary, Mac and David scurried out to the parking lot.

  Once they were able to hear each other speak over the music, Mac asked, “If the police were searching your house for a murder weapon, would you leave them behind to go to the church to fix a toilet?”

  “That struck you as strange, too,” David replied.

  “His wife is a murder suspect,” Mac said. “She’s in the wind and he doesn’t care?”

  “All he’s worried about is that she’ll come back,” David said. “I really don’t think this guy is into his wife or anything she does. You heard Edna. He has left the business for Helga to run and the very sound of her voice makes the hair on the back of his toupee stand on end …”

  Slowly, Mac shook his head while opening his car door. “In theory, that makes sense. But I was a homicide detective for twenty years. Never do I remember someone taking off, except to run, while their house was being searched for a murder weapon.”

  “Sirrus isn’t the suspect,” David said. “His wife is.”

  “Have you found any real evidence against her yet?” Mac asked.

  “As in the gun? No,” David said. “Forensics didn’t find anything against her on the laptop that we can use. She took off before we could get her fingerprints and they aren’t in the system. They did find a lot of information that the IRS can use against her and Sirrus. She was fast and loose with the company funds. She put down her masseuse as a company expense.” He added, “But we do have a strong circumstantial case. There were a ton of emails that she sent out regularly stoking the fire for Eugene and Edna having a love affair. But it looked like only a few church hens put any stock in it.”

  Mac’s response was silence. With his arms folded across his chest, he stared beyond David into the night. “Wouldn’t Sirrus still stick around during the search, even if only out of curiosity?”

  “Unless he honestly didn’t care,” David said. “I interviewed this man, Mac. He’s extremely strange. Strange people react … strangely.”

  Resigned, Mac shrugged. “You’re right … I guess. I mean, Sirrus may have a motive for killing his wife, but why Eugene Newton?” He slipped into the driver’s seat of his sports car.

  “Exactly.” David held the car door open when Mac reached out to close it. “Can I ask your opinion on something?”

  “Since when have you had to ask for my opinion?”

  “Our victim … Eugene Newton …”

  “Yes?” Squinting up at him, Mac waited.

  “He was the chief trustee of this church,” David said. “This church that, according to the pastor, doesn’t even have enough money to replace the plumbing, and has enough fix-it jobs to keep Sirrus Thorpe occupied practically daily. And yet, Newton’s death made his widow an heiress.”

  “I see what you’re saying,” Mac said. “You’re thinking that our victim was in a prime position to help himself to church money.”

  David nodded his head. “Won’t be the first time that a trusted member of a church embezzled all of their money. And if one of his fellow trustees or Reverend Deborah found out, they could have gotten pretty mad at him. All of them had keys to the building. They could have come in to catch him with his hand in the cookie jar, things escalated, and Eugene got killed.”

  “Didn’t Deborah say there were regular audits?” Mac asked.

  “If he was smart, he could have found a way to get past the audits.”

  Mac grinned at him. “Sounds like you already have it figured out.”

  “I’m checking into Eugene’s personal finances to find out exactly where all this money that made his wife an heiress came from.”

  “I’ll be interested in what you find out,” Mac said.

  Grinning at Mac’s approval, David released the car door for him to close. “Don’t take any unnecessary chances in New York.”

  “Hey, Chief,” Brewster hurried up to them, “do you mind if I ask you and Mac a question?”

  “I thought Bogie already answered your question,” Mac said through the open window. “She’s not married. She’s divorced with two little girls.”

  “I was that obvious?” Brewster asked.

  David held up his finger and thumb to indicate a small amount. “Only a little.”

  “You didn’t offer to bring me dessert.” Mac pretended to be offended.

  “You don’t have bedroom eyes,” Officer Brewster said.

  “Yes, I do,” Mac said. “Archie told me just last night.”

  “My question is,” Brewster said, “is Edna a suspect? I mean, would I get into trouble if I were to ask her out to lunch or? Nothing fancy. Or do I need to wait until you make an arrest?”

  Mac and David exchanged questioning glances.

  “Bogie checked her alibi,” David said. “She was with her mother, sister, and two daughters at the time of the murder.” He asked Mac, “Can you see any issue with Brewster taking Miss Bedroom Eyes out?”

  “Asking her,” Brewster corrected him. “She may say no and break my heart. Or even worse, say yes and we can end up getting married and then she’ll rip out my heart and put it in a blender.”

  David smiled. “Brewster, she works for a church. I don’t think that while you’re on the graveyard shift, she’s going to be cruising the bars looking for quickies in the men’s room like your ex-wife.”

  “You better hurry,” Mac said in a low voice. “There’s Miss Bedroom Eyes now. She’s leaving.”

  Brewster glanced over his shoulder. Seeing Edna loading two little girls in the back seat of her red sedan, he ducked back behind David.

  “I thought you wanted to ask her out on a date,” David said.

  “What if she says no?” Brewster asked.

  “What if she said yes?” David replied.

  “Forget it.”

  Mac leaned out the car window to say in a low voice, “Brewster, ask her to dinner at the Spencer Inn. Your dinner will be on the house and she’ll be impressed.”

  “But I’d still have to ask her out,” Brewster said.
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  “Be a man, Brewster,” David said. “That’s an order.”

  “She’s leaving,” Mac hissed when they saw her climb into the driver’s seat of her car. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you go over now and ask her. When she leaves, my offer is off the table.”

  When Brewster hesitated, David stepped around and shoved him in the direction of the car.

  Seeing him stumble toward her car, Edna rolled down her car window. “Officer Brewster, is everything okay?”

  “Yes.” Brewster cleared his throat. “I was just getting some last minute instructions from the chief.” He bent over to peer at the girls in the back seat. “Are these your daughters?”

  The two dark haired little girls smiled and waved at him while their mother introduced them. “That’s Allison,” Edna said. “She’s seven years old. And the big sister is Kiersten. She’s nine.”

  Brewster was uncomfortably aware of Mac and David watching him from across the parking lot. It’s do or die. “Edna …”

  “Yes, Officer Brewster?”

  He stared into her face. Her voice sounded as sultry as her dark eyes framed in thick black lashes that matched her lush hair.

  “Officer Brewster …”

  Aware of her hand on his arm, he realized that he had been staring at her.

  “Did you want to ask me something about Eugene’s murder?” she was asking.

  “No.”

  “Then what is it, Officer Brewster?” Her dark eyes were filled with concern.

  “Uh, would you be willing to have dinner with me this Friday night …” Fearful of a possible rejection, he rushed to add, “At the Spencer Inn.”

  “Are you asking my mommy out on a date?” Allison, the younger of the two girls, squealed from the back seat. “Ee-ewww!”

  “Quiet, dummy!” Kiersten grabbed the back of the seat in front of her. “Say yes, Mom! He’s dreamy!”

  “Is that a real gun?” the younger girl called out. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

  “Will you two be quiet?” Edna yelled to be heard over their argument. “Gee-whiz!” When she turned back to Officer Brewster her cheeks were bright pink. “Do you want to reconsider your invitation?”

  He laughed. “No. Friday night okay?”

  “Friday night,” she replied.

  “All right, Mom!” Kiersten yelled. “Way to go!”

  “Don’t worry, Officer Brewster,” Edna said, “I’ll get a babysitter. I promise.”

  “Call me Nate,” the officer said. “Friday night then. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty?”

  “Do you know where I live?”

  “I’m sure the chief got that when he ran a background check on you,” Officer Brewster said with a smile. “I’ll get directions from him.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad.”

  Once she was out of sight, Mac held his hand out the window of his red sports car as he drove past Officer Brewster. With a grin, Officer Brewster snatched the hundred dollar bill from his hand.

  Chapter Fourteen

  New York—Next Morning

  Mac woke up with a blazing headache. Pushing through the pain, he remembered where he was when he had drifted off to sleep. The sound of someone throwing up in the next cell brought it all back with a jolt.

  The draft through the cell accentuated the cold of the cement floor and steel bars in his tiny room. Hugging himself, he shivered to fight off the chill. The shiver stung when it traveled across two raw spots in his back.

  Oh, yeah, now I remember. He clutched his neck where the sheriff’s deputy had grabbed him from behind before shooting him in the back with the stun gun. When Mac came to, he was handcuffed and being tossed into the back of the police car.

  How long have I been asleep? He looked around the holding cell area in search of a clock. There was none. Twenty-four hours isn’t much time. David’s right. Ruth can’t stay in the church forever. Eventually, she’ll have to turn herself in and when she does, she’ll end up here, unless we can expose the truth.

  He was on the verge of drifting back to sleep when the clang of a baton on the cell bars yanked him back to consciousness.

  “On your feet, Forsythe! There are some people who want to talk to you!” the guard continued to bang on the bars with his baton while Mac slowly climbed out of the cot, stood up, and then stretched his arms up over his head.

  While the guard eyed him with disdain, Mac picked up his sports coat, casually slipped it on, and then sauntered over to the door. “I’ll take my coffee black and tell the chef that I like my eggs medium, over easy.”

  The guard took in a deep breath. His lips curled up into a sneer that Mac recalled feeling on his own lips when he’d gone up against men who had complete faith that their fat wallets contained a license that allowed them to operate above the law.

  “You’re no different than the rest of them.” His beady eyes looked even smaller due to his extremely wide jaw, which resembled that of a robot Mac recalled on a children’s cartoon from his childhood.

  Mac swallowed down the churn he felt in his stomach. He was making himself sick. “You have until the count of ten to open this door or next week you’re going to be working the school crossing.”

  “Next time you lay a hand on your wife in this town will be your last,” the guard hissed.

  “Is that a threat?” Mac asked in a low voice.

  “It’s a promise.” The guard yanked open the door.

  Keeping distance between himself and the guard, who was begging to be given an excuse to “defend himself,” Mac side-stepped out of the cell and went down the short hallway to the door leading into the check-in area for the holding cells.

  On the other side of the door was a small receiving area, beyond which was another door leading to the stairwell that went up to the sheriff’s department. The guard poked Mac in the back with his baton to send him stumbling into the door. “They’re waiting for you upstairs, big man.”

  Turning to him, Mac held up his hands. “Don’t touch me again.”

  The guard stepped in close to him. Mac could feel his hot, foul breath on his face.

  “What are you going to do about it, big man? Whack me around like you did your wife?”

  Without saying a word, Mac glared at him. For just an instant, he dropped his eyes to check the name on his nametag pinned to his breast.

  Stacey. Sheriff’s Deputy Stacey.

  The deputy uttered a laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I figured. Not man enough to fight a real man. For them, you let your lawyers and your money do your fighting. When you need to feel like a real man, then you slap around your woman.”

  “What I do with my wife is none of your business,” Mac said in a low threatening voice.

  With a final glare, Mac went up the stairs and waited while the guard unlocked the door to lead him down a corridor to the door at the end. Throwing open the door, Deputy Stacey stepped aside and jerked his head to indicate that he was to enter.

  Mac stepped inside to see two men. The barrel-chested one with a gray military buzz cut was clad in a uniform and wearing a gold police shield of sheriff. His companion was short and scrawny with dark hair that was silver at the temples. The smaller of the two men was dressed in a tailored suit.

  Crooked lawyer.

  The sheriff gestured at the empty chair facing the two-way mirror that filled one wall in the room. “Sit down, Mr. Forsythe.”

  With as arrogant an air as he could muster, Mac strolled to the chair, dropped down into it, crossed one leg over the other, and folded his arms. Attached to one corner of the ceiling, he saw the green light on the surveillance camera indicating that the interview was being recorded.

  Winking at the lawyer, he said, “I guess now is where you tell me what a naughty boy I’ve been.”

  “Mickey Forsythe,�
� the man in the suit said with an air of formality, “I’m Winston Hawkins, the county prosecutor, and this is Sheriff Quinton Nichols. He’s investigating your case and it is my job to decide how we are going to proceed with the evidence that he has uncovered.”

  “County prosecutor, huh?” Mac looked from one of them to the other. “Brought out the big guns already? I’m impressed. They don’t usually break out the lawyers until I bring in mine.”

  Sitting across from Mac, Hawkins thumbed a folder under his hand. “You’ve been through this before, huh, Mr. Forsythe?”

  “Once or twice,” Mac said with smirk. “I assume you ran a background check on me.” With a laugh, he turned to the sheriff. “They all do.”

  Sheriff Nichols leaned over the table. “Rape and murder are not a laughing matter, Mr. Forsythe.”

  “I didn’t rape anyone,” Mac said.

  “That’s not what your victim says,” the lawyer said.

  “That victim is my wife.” Unfolding his arms, Mac sat up in his seat. “For the record, she says a lot of things.” Chuckling, he brought in his chair. “When we met, she said she was a virgin. Now how a whore can be a virgin, you tell me.”

  “We have witness statements to back up her statement that you forced her,” Sheriff Nichols said.

  “Who else was in our suite?” Mac asked. “So she got loud. She’s always loud. And as for the bruises on her arms? She likes to be held down.” He shrugged. “It’s our thing.”

  “Is her running down to the hotel lobby in hysterics claiming that you killed her lover also your thing?” Prosecutor Hawkins asked.

  “Did she see me kill him?” Mac asked. “We had a fight a couple of days ago. Kendra got mad and decided to make me jealous, so she picked up some guy and came here—after stealing a hundred thousand bucks of my money. I followed them here and had a word with this other man. Once I told him the score, he decided it was in his best interest to leave. So my driver took him to the airport and dropped him off.” He shrugged both of his shoulders with an exaggerated look of puzzlement. “I don’t know where he went from there. Did you ask Brutus?”