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  “Do you think that’s why your”—Sutter hesitated—“wife was murdered?”

  Blythe’s lips tightened. “All I know is someone murdered her. People don’t stab themselves in the back, do they, Inspector?”

  “I haven’t seen any members of her family here,” Rebecca said. “Does she have any family?”

  “She does.” He didn’t even attempt to hide the bitterness in his tone. “Her folks are in Chicago. Her mother was going to come, but at the last minute, her bitch sister Kaylee talked her mother into staying home. She said it wasn't worth the time or money it would take to travel to San Francisco since Taylor didn't have time to spend with her. Taylor was a very busy person, but she was furious that her sister would have interfered that way.”

  “So neither her mother or her sister, Kaylee, attended?” Rebecca asked.

  “Correct.”

  “What do you think happened to Taylor?” Sutter abruptly asked. “Who wanted her dead?”

  Blythe clenched his fists. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  After Leland Blythe left, Rebecca and Sutter talked to his parents and his brother, Mason, who had come up to San Francisco from Los Angeles for the wedding. Each of them seemed completely baffled by everything that was going on. The only thing Rebecca picked up was that they didn’t know Taylor very well. The brother only met her the day of the wedding, and the parents had only met her once before, even though they only lived thirty miles from the city. They had invited her to dinner many times, but she was always too busy to accept. Leland’s mother seemed especially resentful of that, but it was hardly a killing matter.

  The family was allowed to leave, and then Rebecca and Sutter quickly questioned the other guests, each taking half, saving the members of the wedding party for last.

  It was getting close to two o’clock in the morning before they got to the bridesmaids and groomsmen. Between shock and booze, no one was thinking or speaking clearly. They had brought bottles of bourbon and scotch, plus a bag of ice, from the wet bar down to the living room, and proceeded to empty the liquor. They were soon sent home.

  The kitchen staff was saved for last. The murder weapon had been a part of the knife set from the kitchen, and had been used to carve the roast beef that was served. No one could remember if it was returned to the kitchen after dinner with what remained of the roast beef, or if it had been left in the anteroom with other used cutlery.

  Finally, the kitchen staff was also let go.

  Alone in the office, Rebecca and Sutter faced each other. They were also tired, and sat on each end of the leather sofa that graced the room. “What do you think?” Sutter asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “Other than the groom, I didn’t see one honest tear over Taylor's death.” Rebecca put her elbow on the sofa’s arm and rested her head in her hand.

  “I noticed. Very strange, considering they're supposed to be her close friends.”

  “But they weren't. They were people she would be working with on a movie.”

  “Yeah, some movie.” Sutter smirked. “Outbreak. It sounds like a movie about acne, not people from outer space who eat steel, and as a result, destroy our skyscrapers, bridges, and appliances. Why doesn’t anybody make good movies anymore like Doctor Zhivago?”

  Rebecca did a double-take. Did Sutter actually have a heart?

  “Those bridesmaids were odd,” Rebecca said, sitting straight again and trying to clear her head. “Not close to her at all.”

  “No one was,” Sutter said. “Except the groom.”

  One of the questions they always asked each individual when dealing with a group, was who they were with at the moment of the “incident.”

  “Did you find anyone who was alone or talking to no one?” Rebecca asked.

  “Nope,” Sutter said. “Everyone said he or she was talking with someone else. As far as I can tell, although I'll go over my notes again later, all the so-called clusters of conversations seemed to back each other up. But both the groom’s buddies and the movie people were really packing away the booze, and probably started doing so long before the murder. So they could have been talking to the wall, for all some of them knew.”

  “Agreed. But if they’re right in what they told you, we've got a murder that took place in a room where the bride was supposedly alone—although why she would go into that room was anybody's guess—she was stabbed, no one cared but the groom, and all of them had alibis. Does that sum it up so far?”

  Sutter nodded. “It does.”

  Rebecca frowned. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  The two walked down the hall to see John Lodano, the owner. He was the only person not connected with police work who remained. A heavy-set, balding man, with a large head and hang-dog expression, he sat in the reception area, seated on a sofa and drinking coffee to stay awake. He had left the wedding after the dinner was served to go home and nap while cake, toasts, and dancing were going on. He had planned to return after the party ended to oversee the clean-up, but Sally Lankowitz’s startling phone call had changed those plans.

  “You can go home, now, Mr. Lodano,” Rebecca said. “We'll contact you if we need any more information. The Crime Scene Unit will be here for a few more hours tonight. You’ve met the lead detective, Inspector Hwang. He’ll make sure everything is locked up when they leave. This building is now a sealed crime scene, and everyone will need to stay out of it. We'll let you know as soon as we can release it back to you.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” Lodano’s body seemed to swell up as he spoke. “What do you mean stay out? How long? I have wedding receptions coming up. Big ones, on both Saturday and Sunday.”

  “We’ll release it as soon as possible, but it all depends on how the investigation goes. If we quickly find the killer, we’ll open it immediately. If not, we may need to hold onto it until we know we've checked everything. This is such a large facility, with so many nooks and crannies, that it might take a while.”

  “How long,” Lodano asked, his voice low and deadly, “is a while?”

  “We understand the importance of reopening your business.” Rebecca tried to calm him. “I promise we'll be as prompt as possible, but we must be thorough. Usually we keep the crime scene no more than three or four days. We'll try to have it back to you by Monday or Tuesday.”

  “How can I disappoint my customers who have been planning their wedding receptions here for months and months?” he bellowed. “I need to have my hall back.”

  “I'm sorry, but a woman was murdered here tonight.” Rebecca’s words were firm, her gaze every bit as lethal as his had been to her. “Catching her killer takes precedence over a party. Or don't you agree?”

  He shut his mouth and walked ahead of her out the door.

  Chapter 5

  Thursday, 10 a.m. - 2 days, 5 hours before the wedding

  Angie awoke earlier that morning filled with cheer, enthusiasm, and love of the world, despite having to go to Wholly Matrimony with new napkins to take care of the lemon/lime color situation.

  But, she had reasoned as she got ready to go out, this trip would give her a chance to double-check that everything was in place for the big sit-down wedding reception dinner. Since she was, after all, a gourmet cook who had studied at the Cordon Bleu in Paris, everyone expected a delicious meal, and that was what she intended to give them.

  She had requested that each table have a collection of French cheeses, a classic goose liver pâté, and French bread. She planned the meal to begin with escargot, followed by French onion soup, then scallops (Coquilles St. Jacques), a mixed-green salad with buttermilk and crème fraiche dressing, and after that, a main course of veal in cream sauce with wild rice. For dessert, the guests would be served apricot clafoutis topped with whipped cream and sliced almonds. After dinner, there would be dancing, which should work up an appetite for a slice of the gargantuan wedding cake she had ordered made with rum-flavored Italian cream.

  She was just about to leave the apartment
when the phone rang. She happened to glance at the clock as she took her cell phone out of her handbag—9:28 a.m. A time that would live in infamy.

  “Caller ID” told her the call was from John Lodano, the owner of La Belle Maison. Alarm bells went off as she saw his name, but she told herself he was only calling to tell her how thrilled he was to host her wedding reception on Saturday. A charming and gracious gesture, nothing more.

  The bells, however, turned into a full scale siren when he asked if he could stop by her apartment that very morning for a “discussion.”

  “What discussion?” she had demanded.

  “It'll take me ten minutes and I'll be right over,” Lodano said, which did nothing to lessen her nerves.

  The man who arrived at her apartment was quite different from the suave self-important fellow she met briefly at La Belle Maison before she’d been turned over to Sally Lankowski. He looked beyond nervous as she invited him into the living room and had him sit.

  She guessed he had broken the news as gently as possible, all things considered. But how gently could one explain to a bride that her long-awaited wedding reception location had been declared a crime scene? Especially when he was forced to include that, unless the police released it, she was going to have to find another location for her reception.

  She had stared at him in speechless, open-mouthed wonder. Oh, certainly, Mr. Lodano. It’s no problem at all to find a location for three hundred people in less than two days.

  Finally, she managed to croak out, “What do you mean, a crime scene? What happened?”

  Lodano went pale. His hands shook and he was visibly sweating. “There was a-a-a death. I'm sorry to say.”

  “A death?” she repeated. “What, someone choked on the food? Slipped and fell? What?”

  “No, it was a little more serious. It”—he stuck two fingers in the knot at his tie and waggled it loose—“it might have been murder.”

  “Murder?” The word came out so shrill and sharp it could have etched glass.

  He nodded.

  She thought a moment. “Okay, that might not be so bad.”

  Lodano gawked. “Not bad?”

  “I mean, not that it’s good. What I’m trying to say is my husband-to-be is a homicide inspector. He might even have the case. I'm sure he'll move heaven and earth to get me the reception hall of my dreams. I'll talk to him.”

  Lodano looked skeptical. “It might not happen. I mean, the detectives there last night sounded very—”

  “Who was there?”

  He pulled out two SFPD business cards and read the names. “Rebecca Mayfield and Bill Sutter.”

  Angie stiffened. She knew Bill Sutter wouldn’t be a problem. The man would fold like a cheap lawn chair and release the crime scene as soon as any pressure to do so was put on him. Rebecca Mayfield, however, was another story. She was notoriously by-the-book, and besides, she didn't exactly approve of Paavo marrying Angie.

  Angie folded her arms. Over the years, she had been quite sure Inspector Mayfield wanted Paavo for herself. Short, brunette Angie had spent a lifetime feeling second fiddle to tall, buxom blondes from the time Jimmy Soares asked Dinah Turner to the Junior Prom instead of her. It had broken her heart. But it must have been true love because, years later, the two got married. Still, Angie couldn’t help but laugh out loud when she realized that from that day forward the bane of young Angie’s life would be known as Dinah Soares.

  This time, however, Angie had gotten her man, despite the attractive blond he worked with.

  She all but drilled a hole into Lodano’s head with her eyes. “Somehow, my wedding reception will take place in your facility.”

  She watched his Adam’s apple bob several times. He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his sopping brow. “I suggest ... just to be safe, mind you … that you contact your caterer and warn him there might be a change in plans.”

  Angie shut her eyes. She hated to admit it, but he might be right. From all she’d heard about Rebecca.... Damn! Why did it have to be Mayfield on the case?

  “I guess so,” she said. “But I don’t see how I’m going to find another place in this short amount of time.”

  Lodano jumped to his feet. “You might try outside the city. I’m truly sorry. And please tell your Cousin Richie that it wasn’t my fault, okay? It wasn’t my fault.”

  Angie walked him to the door. “Okay, it’s not your fault. But how maddening! Tell me, who was it who was killed?”

  Lodano hesitated, then said softly, “I’m sure the name will mean nothing to you.”

  “Still ...”

  He ran a thick tongue over his lower lip. “A young woman, Taylor Redmun.”

  Angie gasped, and without thinking blurted, “Somebody killed Bridezilla?”

  Lodano nodded. “I’m afraid so.” Then, realizing what he had just admitted to, he began stuttering and stammering to make up for his mistake.

  They quickly said good-bye, and as Angie shut the door, she couldn’t help but think she could name a prime suspect: Sally Lankowitz.

  o0o

  Again alone, Angie sat on the petit-point sofa in the living room. Her feet were flat on the floor, her hands in her lap, as she stared at the wall across the room and tried to process all that John Lodano had told her. She was in shock. Complete, unadulterated shock.

  She hadn’t liked Bridezilla, but the thought of a bride, any bride, being killed on her wedding day was horrible. She felt bad about that. Adding that Bridezilla had been killed at La Belle Maison felt kind of creepy, all things considered.

  But right now, Angie had her own wedding plans to think about. The reception guest list stood at nearly three-hundred people.

  And after the visit she had just received, her blood pressure was probably double that.

  Her world had been turned upside-down. As she sat too stunned to move, across her mind danced all the little things that had bothered her—like napkin colors—and she realized how foolishly inconsequential they were.

  She had two choices: to sit here feeling sorry for herself, or to do something about it.

  Angie was never one to sit still.

  She rushed straight to the Hall of Justice, a broad gray cement building located amidst ugly freeway exits and entrances just south of downtown San Francisco. The Hall held courtrooms, cells belonging to the city’s jail system, and the police department’s Bureau of Inspections.

  She went straight to the Homicide Division on the fourth floor. This was too important for phone or text messages. This required face-to-face communication. And maybe tears.

  Angie knew Homicide's secretary, and waved to Elizabeth as she hurried past her into the bureau’s main room. It was big and messy with desks piled high with papers, binders, files, and computer monitors. On the edges were the interrogation rooms and the chief’s office.

  Paavo was at his desk when she stormed in. His partner and best man, Toshiro Yoshiwara, aka Yosh, was also there, as was Luis Calderon. The other three inspectors, Mayfield, Sutter, and Calderon’s partner, Bo Benson, were out—hopefully trying to determine who killed Bridezilla so she could get her wedding reception venue back.

  Paavo stood as she entered, looking surprised, but handsome as always. Tall, broad shouldered, with a slim build, he had short, dark brown hair, high cheekbones, a firm mouth, and the palest large blue eyes she had ever seen. It was those eyes that first caught her attention, well, no—it was the body, then the handsome face—but the eyes were the icing on the cake.

  She couldn’t think about his looks now. She had a disaster to avert.

  “Angie! What a surprise. Is something wrong?”

  “You haven't heard, I take it.” At his quizzical look, she sat down on the guest chair beside his desk. “Where is Rebecca Mayfield?”

  He sat as well, scooting his chair closer to hers. “I suspect she’s out working the case she and Bill Sutter got hit with last night. They’re the on-call team this week.”

  Angie nodded. “So, they haven
't solved it yet?”

  “I guess not, but why are you asking?”

  “What are they doing now?”

  “What’s going on, Angie?”

  “Please, Paavo.”

  He grew more confused with each non-answer she gave. Finally, he stopped asking questions. His face stern, he said, “I haven't heard anything. They were apparently up most of the night, and haven't come in yet this morning. Tell me why you want to know. Is someone you know involved?”

  Angie drew in her breath and shut her eyes a moment, wondering how to break the terrible news to him. She took his hand in both of hers, but the words wouldn’t come.

  “Angie,” he said softly, worried, “what’s wrong? I want to know what’s happened.”

  She drew in her breath again, and then held his gaze. “I had met the victim. She was … she was Bridezilla.”

  “What?” He looked pained.

  Like a drain unplugged, the words gushed from her. “Bridezilla. You know, the obnoxious bride I told you about. The one who interrupted so much when I was talking to Sally Lankowitz, our wedding consultant at La Belle Maison, I had to reschedule. And ... and ...” Angie's eyes filled with tears as the enormity of what happened hit her. How could she ever tell Paavo what a disaster their wedding day had become?

  He put his free hand on her narrow shoulder and gave an affectionate squeeze. “Angie, don't let it upset you. I'm sorry the person you met was killed, but it has nothing to do with you as a bride. If there's some weird superstition about it, it's just a superstition. Things will be all right.”

  His words made no sense. How silly did he think she was? The more she thought about it, the more annoyed she became. She let go of his hand, her cheeks flaming. “A superstition? Is that what you think is troubling me? What? Something old, new, dead and blue? Is that it? Or maybe it’s the one that says don't hang around dead brides before your wedding.”

  “Angie, take a deep breath.” She knew he wanted to sound soothing, but she grew more irritated with each word. “I can imagine that meeting a bride and now learning that she's dead is a trifle, well, more than a trifle upsetting and—”