It was blood that would give him the killer, one way or another. The murderer had made a mess of Carrie, and hadn’t walked away in pristine clothes. Whether her killer had been an enraged vendor, a secret lover, the senator, a pissed-off bloodthirsty bridesmaid, or someone as yet unidentified, blood evidence would tell the tale. Even if the killer had disposed of the clothes he’d been wearing at the time of the murder, odds were that no matter how well he cleaned his car some blood evidence would remain—maybe just a single smudge on the carpet where he’d stepped on a drop of blood—something would show up.

Say the senator was their guy; Eric’s gut was sending out alarm signals on the senator, maybe because he was a cheating shit, but Eric was going to be looking hard at anything out of the way. If Senator Dennison decided to trade cars, well, that would be damn suspicious, so he bet the senator might start driving one of the other cars sitting in that five-car garage but he wouldn’t be getting rid of the silver car. In that case, the blood evidence was still out there, just waiting to be discovered.

He didn’t have anywhere near enough to convince a judge to give him a search warrant for a state senator’s car, though. As for clothing … almost two days had gone by. The killer had had plenty of time to dispose of that evidence, maybe by burning it, maybe taking it out in the country and burying it, or by simply sponging away the visible blood and giving the garments to some homeless shelter. Finding the clothes now would take a huge stroke of luck. The car was his best bet. All he had to do was build a case.

Garvey sauntered in and headed for the coffeepot. “No adventures in buying coffee this morning?” he asked.

“I brought my own.”

“Smart move, the way your luck has been going. I can’t believe you beat me in today,” the sergeant said as he poured coffee into his favorite mug.

“Lots to do,” Eric said. “Lab reports are in.” He waved the manila folder.

“Break it down for me.” Garvey half-sat on the edge of Eric’s desk and took a long sip of the coffee.

“No blood on Jaclyn Wilde’s clothes.”

Garvey grimaced, and frowned down into his cup. “This shit’s left over from the nightshift, isn’t it?”

“Yep. Want some of mine?”

“Yeah.” He went into the break room and poured the offending swill down the drain, then returned and filled up from Eric’s thermos. “Okay, so we call in the senator’s girlfriend and see what we can get from her.”

“I’m on it.”

In spite of herself Jaclyn had gotten a few hours of deep sleep last night. Pitching full-blown temper tantrums was exhausting. Well, not completely full-blown; at least she hadn’t thrown herself on the ground and started drumming her heels, or spitting. But whereas a real tantrum-thrower would have considered hers only a halfhearted tantrum, for her it had been an all-out effort. She’d gone to sleep as soon as she tumbled into bed. She didn’t feel exactly well-rested, but at least she wasn’t dead on her feet.

They were halfway through. This was Friday; if they could make it through today and tomorrow without any major blowups, they’d be on the downhill side of this marriage marathon. They did have the one big wedding on Sunday, an all-out affair, but she and Madelyn were both working it, and Peach and Diedra were available, so they had plenty of womanpower on hand.

Once again she’d rushed out without eating breakfast. Maybe there’d be some brownies left from yesterday, she thought as she drove to work. She needed more of that chocolate. A brownie and a cup of coffee would be perfect.

She wheeled into Premier’s parking lot, and blinked in surprise. Even though she was early, everyone else was already in, which was unusual.

Diedra met Jaclyn in the hallway. Her eyes positively sparkled. “Did you hear?” she asked, excitement in her voice.

“Hear what?”

Diedra lowered her voice, as though it mattered if anyone in the office overheard them. After all, it was just the four of them. “How Carrie was murdered.”

Jaclyn’s stomach did a sick flip. Did she want to know the details? Dead was dead, and how Carrie got that way didn’t seem all that pertinent. Still, since she was smack dab in the middle of this investigation, she was curious. “I haven’t heard anything. What have you heard?”

“She was skewered.”

Oh, ick! Jaclyn’s first thought was that a knife was way messier than a gun. A knife was up close and personal. No wonder Eric had been looking for blood on her clothing!

“Literally skewered,” Diedra continued. “Like, with the kabob skewers that were lying on the table. Not just once, either, but lots of times. Melissa DeWitt found the body. She told her friend Sharon and swore her to secrecy, because she really isn’t supposed to talk about it, but Sharon told Gretchen, Gretchen told Bishop Delaney, and you know once Bishop knows everyone knows.”

Kabob skewers? Double ick! There had been a lot of skewers there, and now she had the image of Carrie with kabob skewers sticking every which way out of her body, and that was just gross.

Peach joined them, a china cup of steaming coffee in her hand. “Makes you wonder why they didn’t immediately question the caterer. Surely the police consider the weapon when making their list of suspects.”

“So, if she’d had a glob of fondant icing shoved down her throat, they’d go directly to the cake decorator,” Diedra said, looking thoughtful.

“Exactly,” Peach responded. “And if there were a hundred floral picks driven into appropriately vulnerable areas, a florist.”

“Choked with a length of white satin, the seamstress.”

“Meatballs in each nostril and shoved into her mouth, caterer again. I’m thinking the caterer is looking better and better for this,” Peach said.

“How about a little bride and groom shoved—”

“Y’all stop it!” Jaclyn said, but she couldn’t help laughing. “That’s terrible. Carrie might have been—well, Carrie—but she’s dead.”

“I like her better that way, too,” said Diedra. “Just saying.”

“It’s not like there weren’t plenty of vendors who wanted her that way,” Peach said with a smile. “Maybe most of them just wished the deed done, but one of them might’ve actually done it.”

“Not with fondant or floral picks, thank goodness.” Jaclyn headed toward her mother’s office, trying to dismiss the idea that someone she knew well, someone she worked with, might’ve skewered a difficult bride. “Y’all do know there’s an old saying about not speaking ill of the dead,” she called back.

Diedra responded quickly. “There’s also an old saying that says honesty is the best policy. In this instance, the two old sayings don’t work well together.”

And wasn’t that the truth.

Taite Boyne was annoyed as hell that the Hopewell Police Department wanted to interview her, but it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been expecting the call. Doug had called her in a panic, but she’d calmed him down, told him she’d handle things. She had better things to do with her time, but for now, she’d play nice. After all, it was in her best interests not to piss off the investigators.