But she was able to banish Eric while she oversaw the rehearsal, which was much like corralling wild pigs and putting bows on their tails. The bows didn’t help, and the pigs were fractious. The rehearsal went relatively well; a touch of color began creeping back into the groom’s mother’s face—until the minister let out a whoop and directed everyone to the bar for hot wings and beer, to be followed by banana pudding and brownies.

All of the color immediately left the woman’s face again. Jaclyn had seen the spread earlier, and had noted with horror the cans of icing sitting by the brownies and the brightly colored sprinkles on both desserts. Her client had tried—she’d tried very hard—to put together a proper rehearsal dinner. That should’ve been the one aspect of the wedding where she had some control. But the happy couple had insisted that it didn’t make any sense to go elsewhere when there was great food right here, and they already had the place to themselves for the night. Basically, the groom’s mother had been bulldozed.

Jaclyn even heard her whisper to one of her daughters that maybe her son had been switched with someone else’s baby at the hospital, because she could not have given birth to a man who would do this to her.

The bride’s mulleted brother sidled up next to Jaclyn, gave her a come-on smile and a nod of his head. With a knowing look he said, “I can’t believe a pretty thing like you is here all alone. A woman like you should never be without a date.”

“I’m working,” Jaclyn said coolly.

The kid, and he couldn’t be more than twenty-one or twenty-two, didn’t take the hint. He moved in closer, invading her personal space with the smell of fresh beer and stale breath. Oh, good lord, she just caught a flash of rotten teeth. He shouldn’t smile. He really shouldn’t smile. Jaclyn took a step away. Swear to God, if he touched her she’d flatten him. She’d had just about all she could take in the past two days, and if he was the one who pushed her over the edge she wouldn’t hesitate to push back, not this time.

Yeah, that would look good, when she was suspected of murdering Carrie Edwards. Some things, though, were just worth the price you had to pay.

“Let me give you a ride home, sweet thing.”

She gave the mullet-head a quick but decisive “not interested,” and turned away.

Her job here was done, thank God. If she could just make it to her car unmolested, she still had the Bulldog wedding—which would probably come complete with the ring-bearer wearing a football helmet, thanks to Eric—to get through, but Diedra would be there to help. Tomorrow was going to be a very long day, and eventually she needed to get home, to lie down in her bed and pull the cover over her head. Just as she was about to say good-bye to the woman who’d hired her, the door to the restaurant opened. The bride’s mother snapped in her grating smoker’s voice, “This is a private party. Can’t you read the ‘closed’ sign, moron?”

Everyone turned, and Jaclyn’s eyes widened with horror as she recognized the tall, muscled man whose piercing gaze swept the interior of the barbecue joint. Eric gave the mother of the bride an icy stare as he flashed his badge. “That’s Detective Moron.”

The entire room went silent. For the first time all night, you could’ve heard a pin drop. Then the bride’s mother said, in a resigned voice. “Sorry about the moron bit. Come on in.” The “I guess” was unspoken.

A couple of the guests looked truly alarmed, and Jaclyn wondered how many of them thought the cop was here for them. Probably on just about any other night, they’d have been right, but tonight they were safe. Detective Wilder had come for her.

She stalked toward him, chin high, eyes flashing. This was twice he’d interrupted her while she was working. Once was one time too many, and twice was enraging.

“I have a couple more questions,” he said as she came close. Behind her the party resumed, though the guests were more subdued than before and several pairs of eyes were focused on the newcomer. That was a two-way street. Eric didn’t look directly at her, but kept his gaze on the room behind her.

“It can’t wait?” she asked in a tight voice only he could hear.

“No, I need to talk to you tonight.” He glanced around the room, smirked, and said, “Nice work, by the way. I particularly like the Christmas lights. Jazzes things up.”

“Bite me.”

His gaze switched to her face, narrowed with sharp focus. “Any time, sweetheart,” he said. “Anywhere.”

She went white and fell back a step. No. After switching himself off like a lightbulb when all she’d needed had been a quiet reassurance that he believed her, he wasn’t switching himself on again and expecting her to do a moth act. “You don’t get to say things like that to me,” she said coldly. “Not now. Not anymore.” Though she had started it by telling him to bite her, and now she had to apologize to him yet again. This was becoming such a habit she was going to start running in the opposite direction as soon as she saw him—either that or write up a blanket apology, print out a bunch of copies, and simply give him one every time she put her foot in her mouth.

Before she could get the words out, though, his gaze dropped to her mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

Her mind went blank, and her lips parted but nothing came out. Before she could recover he smirked again, and nodded in the direction of the minister. “Why aren’t you wearing your special wedding planner do-rag?”

The urge to apologize was swamped by the urge to dump the remains of a big tray of banana pudding on his head. After humiliating herself with her own lack of control the night before, she clamped down on the vivid thought with every ounce of willpower she had. She refused, absolutely refused, to let him drive her insane. She’d be sane if it killed her. “I’m saving it for tomorrow,” Jaclyn ground out. Excuses and explanations crowded her throat as if they had actual, physical presence. She wanted to tell him how much worse this wedding would have been if she hadn’t been hired, she wanted to run through the whole horrible litany about the barn and the plastic flowers and Brad Paisley’s tick song, but no way in hell was she going to explain anything to Eric Wilder.

She pulled her shoulders back and gave him a flat, unwavering stare. “Ask your questions, and make it snappy. I have another appointment, and I have to be there within the hour. What do you want to know?”

“I thought we could go over Wednesday afternoon again, see if you remember anything else about the man you saw or if you remembered anything Carrie might’ve said that—”

“Give it up, Detective,” she said curtly. “I’ve told you everything I remember. How many times are we going to go through this?”

“As many as it takes.” He looked at her hard, without any sign of the humor he’d displayed a moment earlier.

“Can’t this wait until—”

“Officer,” the minister called, and they both turned to the massive, mustachioed man who stood behind the bar. “How about a beer and some hot wings?”

Eric didn’t correct the minister, didn’t tell him that he was a detective and not an officer, to this crowd that wouldn’t make any difference: a cop was a cop. “No beer, thanks, but I’d love some wings and maybe a tall glass of sweet tea.” He moved past Jaclyn, heading toward the bar.

“You got it,” the big man said. “We’ve got brownies, too. If you’d been a little earlier you coulda had some banana pudding, but it’s about all gone.”

There went her plan to brain him with the banana pudding. Jaclyn spun around and followed Eric to the bar. She was so indignant she felt as if she were caught in some Victorian melodrama. She wanted to point at him and demand How dare you! in her most outraged voice. What in hell was he doing? This was her world, her job, her life, and he was following her around as if he expected to catch her in the middle of some terrorist act. This wasn’t good for business. Once could be explained away as an aberration, but twice? What if he showed up again tomorrow? Word would get around that something weird was going on at Premier, and people to whom that mattered would start looking at other event-planning businesses.

As soon as he was away from the door, a couple who weren’t anywhere close to being finished with their large plates of food whispered a quick good-bye to the others at their table and slipped out the door as surreptitiously as possible, given that they were the first to leave. Another guy quietly got up and left. Mullet-head wasn’t far behind them; he couldn’t get out of Porky’s fast enough. She’d known these people were different from her usual clientele, but what on earth had she gotten herself into?

“How many left?” Eric asked as soon as she appeared beside him.

“Four.”

He grunted. “I was expecting it to be five.”

She knew she shouldn’t be drawn in. She knew she should answer his questions and leave as fast as she could. But curiosity got the better of her and she asked, “Who’s the fifth one?”

Casually he looked over his shoulder, located the person he was talking about. “The woman with her tits hanging out of the red halter.”

Oh, good God. It was the bride.

She hadn’t recovered from that shock when he patted the stool next to him. “Come on, sit with me and we’ll talk.”

Abruptly she’d had enough. She had to get out of here, and if he didn’t like it, then tough. She pointed to a sign behind the bar that proudly read:

Kiss my butt.

Jaclyn turned her back on him and walked to a table where the only three women in the room who hadn’t gone out of their way to show off their boobs sat, huddled together as if they were surrounded by aliens who might attack at any moment. The older woman looked so completely miserable Eric could only conclude her son was the groom. Looking around, he could even spot the guy, who was half-looped but still lacked that doper look he’d recognize in his sleep.