Garvey’s sharp gaze was taking in everything, from every detail of the stylish town house to Jaclyn herself. The sergeant had put in years on the detective level, in some rough places, before settling in Hopewell and moving up the ranks. As for Eric, given his previous involvement with Jaclyn, there wasn’t any way he’d be allowed to question her by himself, which was fine with him. Whether she was guilty or innocent, Garvey was there as another set of eyes, another honed instinct, and as a witness that the job had been done right.

“Carrie Edwards was murdered this afternoon,” he said. “How were you aware of this?”

“I wasn’t,” she said. “Not that it was Carrie, I mean. I got a phone call—” She waved a hand toward the living room, which was evidently meant to indicate a phone was in there somewhere, then took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Let’s sit down, please. Would you like some coffee? I can put on a pot of coffee.”

“No, thanks,” Eric said hastily, before Garvey could accept. He didn’t want to deal with that swill again, not even a polite sip or two. They all sat down, and Jaclyn picked up the remote to turn off the television. He slipped his notebook out of his inside jacket pocket and made some notes.

“Who called you?” he asked, keeping his tone as conversational as possible.

“Bishop Delaney. He’s the floral designer who’s doing Carrie’s wedding. Was doing it, anyway. He’d heard—A friend of his had called, told him a woman had been killed at the reception hall, so he called me.”

“Why did he call you?”

“Because this afternoon he and the other vendors left me there alone with Carrie and he thought—oh.” The last word escaped her on a little gasp and she froze, her face going even whiter as she stared at him. She swallowed, her lips moving several times even though nothing else came out.

He watched her reach the inescapable conclusion, watched the expression in her eyes change from blank shock to a quick flash of anger, before going blank again. This time, though, the blankness was more of a deliberate shield.

“You know what happened this afternoon,” she said flatly. “You think I killed her.”


Chapter Ten

“WE’RE QUESTIONING EVERYONE,” HE REPLIED IN A smooth tone. “Why exactly did this Bishop Delaney call you?”

She didn’t believe him. Oh, she believed they would eventually question everyone who had been at the reception hall that afternoon, but considering what had happened, she had to be at the top of their suspect list.

The sharp twist of pain in her chest both surprised and dismayed her. She didn’t want to feel hurt. It was stupid. Intellectually, she knew that Eric was doing his job, knew she couldn’t expect him to do anything else. They had no ties. They hadn’t even dated. There was nothing between them other than a one-night stand.

But however sound and rational her intellect could be, emotionally she felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. It wasn’t any one thing, it was everything together: the shock and uneasiness over learning someone had been murdered at the reception hall, and thinking it might be Melissa, who was a friend even if she wasn’t a close one; then there had been the visceral, unreasoning panic when she’d thought Eric had come to notify her that something had happened to Madelyn. Jaclyn thought of herself as a basically strong person, but in that moment the black terror had almost sent her to her knees. Just when she’d been pulling herself back from the edge of that, she’d been body-slammed by the realization that Eric, to whom she’d given more of herself in one night than she’d ever given to her husband, actually suspected she was a murderer.

She had barely been able to keep from hurling herself into his arms, seeking refuge and comfort from the horrible moment when she’d thought something had happened to her mother. She’d wanted to curl up on his lap like a child, hide her face in his broad shoulder, and let him close out the world. What had she thought? That one night together meant anything more than sex? If so, he’d certainly disabused her of that silliness. Instead of comfort from him, she’d gotten an interrogation. Boy, what a wake-up call.

She could barely breathe from the weight pressing on her chest. Even realizing that the sense of betrayal she felt was irrational didn’t neutralize the hurt she felt. For a mortifying second she thought she might embarrass herself by bursting into tears, but she swallowed hard and focused on the other man, whose name she couldn’t remember. He was older than Eric, shorter, graying hair, but there was breadth to his shoulders and a direct alertness to his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she managed to say, though her voice was still a little thin and shaky. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Garvey,” he said. “Sergeant Randall Garvey.”

“Sergeant Garvey,” she repeated, and swallowed again. The weight on her chest loosened and she was able to suck in some much-needed air. Her head cleared a little. Eric had asked her the same question twice, and neither he nor Sergeant Garvey would like it if they had to ask it a third time. “Bishop—I think he was worried that something had happened to me. The afternoon meeting with Carrie was a disaster, and he and the other vendors left me alone with her, except for Melissa—Melissa DeWitt—but she was in her office.”

“Why was he worried?”

“Why ask when you already know she slapped me?” Jaclyn flared, but she kept her gaze locked on Sergeant Garvey even though it was Eric who asked the question. It would be too weird to meet Garvey’s eyes while she was talking to Eric, so instead she focused on his tie.

“We’re just trying to find out what happened. Why did she slap you?”

“I’m not certain. She’d insulted Estefani Morales, the veil-maker, and Estefani was on the verge of quitting. The dressmaker had already quit, just before I got to the reception hall this afternoon. Carrie took a call from her fiancé, Sean Dennison, and while she was talking to him I tried to calm Estefani down. Bishop and I were talking to her, and I said we’d move on to the wedding cake and decide about the veil later. When Carrie got off the phone with Sean, she knocked everything off the table, came rushing over, and slapped me and told me I was fired.” Automatically she put her hand to her cheek, though the sting was gone.

“I imagine handling the Dennison wedding paid you a hefty fee.”

“It did, yes.” She knew exactly where he was going with this, and thanked heaven that their standard contract had them, and her, covered.

“You’d have had to refund the money when you were fired?”

She was on solid ground here, and her voice gained a little confidence. “No. Our contract clearly states that in case the job is terminated, our fee will be prorated based on the amount of work done. Because Carrie’s wedding is—was—so soon and I’d already overseen most of the event, I’m guessing that the amount we’d have had to refund was in the neighborhood of a thousand dollars. Everything was in place, except for the details she hadn’t decided on yet. The proration clause is in there to prevent people from firing us at the last minute and refusing to pay anything. It’s happened.”

“The dressmaker is …”

“Gretchen Gibson. She’d finished the dresses, but yesterday Carrie decided she didn’t like them, wanted to change them. I told her there probably wasn’t time, not to mention the bridesmaids probably couldn’t afford to have other dresses made, and Gretchen told her the same thing. Carrie doesn’t—didn’t—like being told ‘no.’” She couldn’t remember to use the past tense. Somehow she couldn’t absorb that Carrie was really dead, that someone had murdered her. She’d been a nasty piece of work, but Jaclyn hadn’t wished her any harm … nothing beyond wishing she’d fall on her face as she walked down the aisle, maybe. Or that someone would spill a glass of pink champagne on her head. That would be fun to see. But murder? No.

Eric was making notes; though she didn’t look directly at him, she could see him in her peripheral vision. Lest Sergeant Garvey think she was staring at his chest, she moved her gaze down to his knees, then thought better of that and moved on to his feet. His shoes were scuffed on the toes.

“When Ms. Edwards slapped you, what did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” He sounded skeptical. “Come on, Ms. Wilde, you had to have done something.”

“I didn’t hit her back, if that’s what you mean,” she told Garvey’s shoes. Maybe it was time to focus on something else, because how long could she be expected to stare at someone’s shoes? She shouldn’t have turned off the television; if it were on, she could stare at the screen while she answered Eric’s questions. She might not be able to focus on whether the buyer bought house number one, two, or three, but at least she wouldn’t look as if she had a shoe fetish. “I wanted to. I wanted to punch her in the nose. But I didn’t. Planning events is my livelihood, and punching a client wouldn’t exactly be good advertising.” Unless all potential clients knew Carrie, she thought, in which case punching her might be considered a plus. She didn’t share that particular observation, though.

“But what exactly did you do?”

She took a deep breath, trying to organize her jumbled memories of the afternoon. She might as well tell them everything she could remember, even the things that didn’t make her look good, because hearing them from her had to be better than hearing them from someone else, right? “Carrie threatened to ruin Premier’s reputation; she said that no one would ever use us again. I really wanted to punch her then, but Bishop told me not to, that she’d have me arrested for assault if I did, and right then I was the one with the advantage because she’d hit me. So I didn’t. I decided to be as professional as possible, under the circumstances. I got all of the vendors out of there, told them to reschedule, and told Carrie that if she hit me again I’d have her arrested.” That particular memory burned, because it connected to Eric, and how she’d told Carrie she was involved with him and any complaint Carrie made wouldn’t gain any traction. Evidently that was so not true.