For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (6 page)

Brad closed his eyes and exhaled slowly from pursed lips. He looked like he was meditating. “I got a text from Gary, telling me to meet him at the church. He wanted to check out the bell. Which . . .” Brad’s eyes opened in surprise.

“Isn’t right,” I said.

“The venue has always been Gigi’s domain.” Nick cocked his head. “Why would he suddenly be interested in the church or the bell?”

“So now you’re an expert on the show?” Brad said, a little bit petulantly.

“I have to keep current.” Nick held up a bridal magazine. “I’m in the bridal industry, too.”

“Which is beside the point,” I said. No, Nick and Brad together was not a good idea. I turned to Brad. “Do you still have Gary’s text on your phone?”

“Yes. That should help me, right? I can show it to Bixby to prove to him why I was there.”

“But it doesn’t prove that you didn’t arrive and then kill him,” Nick said. “Or that the text even came from Gary. Who’s to say you didn’t kill Gary, text yourself using his phone, set him swinging, and then pretend to find him?”

“Thanks a lot!” Brad said.

“Nick’s right,” I added. “Nothing in that proves you didn’t kill Gary. So let’s go on. You got the text and then what?”

“I drove the Range Rover to the church. As soon as I stepped outside, the bells started ringing. I didn’t see any of our staff cars, but the door to the church was unlocked. I figured it must be Gary checking it out, so I climbed the stairwell that leads to the belfry and found him . . . dangling from the rope.”

“How did you know where the belfry was?” Nick asked.

“I grew up here. I used to ring that bell when I was a kid. It was considered a special honor. I’d leave to ring the bell, and half the time nobody noticed if I didn’t make it back to the pew. It was one way of going to church without getting a sermon. Besides,
campanologist
looked good on my college application.”

“Campanologist? Like campanula.” I smiled. I liked connections I could understand.

“I know campanologist is the study of bell ringing,” Brad said, “but what is campanula?”

“The flower she used in the bouquet this morning,” Nick said. “If you’d been paying attention. A bellflower.”

“You were watching?” I asked.

“They had a live feed set up in the Ashbury,” Nick said.

“But you didn’t see the argument?” I asked.

“When the cameras are cut, the feed ends,” Brad said to Nick, as if trying to display superior knowledge.

“So you found Gary swinging,” I said. “Then what?”

“I’m afraid I stared at him for a while. I couldn’t believe it. I managed to dial 911, but I think I dropped my phone after giving the location. I didn’t want Gary to suffocate. I remembered I had a knife in my pocket. So I grabbed him.” Brad blanched again. “You don’t suppose that’s what killed him, do you? Because when I grabbed him, the rope tried to pull him back up. And that bell must weigh at least a ton.”

I bit my lip and thought about what I knew about hanging—which was more than I wanted to know about hanging. “If Gary was dropped suddenly from a sufficient height, like they did in official executions, then his neck would have been broken. Nothing you could have done afterward could have helped or hurt him.”

When the two men looked at me, I explained. “Remember, I studied nursing for a while. One time when I was working emergency, we—” I closed my eyes. Interning in emergency at a large urban hospital had seemed so exciting at first, even if I was just supposed to stand in a corner and observe. But I’d felt each trauma as if it were my own, and still had nightmares over some of the things I could do nothing about. “I’ve seen it.”

I looked up to see two sets of caring eyes staring back.

I averted my gaze to Chester, who seemed to be trying to lick his own shoulder. Good luck with that.

“But if the action wasn’t sudden enough,” I continued, “I suppose he might have suffocated from the pressure of the rope. It could have cut off air flow and possibly even blood flow.”

“And when I pulled on him?” Brad asked. “Audrey, I have to know if I made things worse.” He seemed to struggle to swallow. And when he spoke again, his voice came out hoarse. “If I could have killed him.”

“I’m sure he was already dead.” I wish I felt as sure as I tried to sound. Tugging on Gary as the momentum of the bell tried to pull him up could have resulted in the same kind of force as a drop hanging. Brad could have broken Gary’s neck while trying to help him. Or closed off an already narrowed trachea. Hopefully the autopsy would reveal something that would clear Brad. “They’ll know you tried to help.”

“At least that makes me feel a little better,” he said.

“It does put your DNA all over the body, though,” Nick said.

Brad threw up his hands in exasperation. “Of course it does!”

“Let’s keep going. I’d like to hear everything before Bixby gets here,” I said. “So you cut him down. Then what?”

“I felt for a pulse. Nothing. So I tried CPR. Moments later the police arrived. I felt a little woozy, so the cop took me outside. And that’s when Audrey showed up.”

“Was there anything else at the scene? Anything left behind or out of place? Something that would suggest who might have been there?”

Brad shook his head as he focused on an empty corner of the room. “Nothing in the room but Gary. Only . . .”

“What did you notice?” I asked.

“I had told him the belfry wasn’t very nice and tended to be a bit dusty. I don’t know why he would want to go up there—and why he’d go up there wearing the same clothes he had on from the shoot this morning, including the jacket, even in this heat. He still had the flower in his lapel.”

Foxglove.
Insincerity.
I wasn’t quite sure why that thought came to mind. And I hoped the one lapel flower wasn’t enough to get Bixby all cranky.

“What do you think?” Brad asked. “Do I still need a lawyer?”

“I’d get one,” Nick said.

I nodded.

A short time later, Ken Lafferty arrived. At first I was relieved, since I knew Bixby would want to question serious suspects himself. Ken’s presence would mean Brad was low on his list. Instead, Ramble’s resident rookie was there to ask Brad to come with him to the station for questioning. My relief evaporated.

I watched out the window as Brad was transported in one of Ramble’s three police cars.

Nick came up behind me, put his arm around my waist, and leaned his head against mine. “What do you think?”

“Well, he didn’t kill Gary, that’s for sure.”

“That’s good enough for me. So where do we start?”

“We?” I spun around in his arms to face him. “Start what?”

“I know you. You’re going to jump right in and prove him innocent. Which, I’ve noticed, you’re pretty good at. I’d like to help.”

“I can’t ask you to do that. You must know that Brad is a former boyfriend.”

“So I gathered,” he said. “The key word, I hope, being ‘former.’ But you must have an idea where to start.”

“Not really . . . unless. Brad said there were no cars at the church. So how did Gary get from the Ashbury to the church? He could have driven, and the killer took his ride. Or he could have caught a ride with someone else, in which case that person is either the killer or the last to see him alive.”

“Or he could have walked,” Nick said.

“But not without being noticed by half the town. Maybe somebody saw him with somebody. Maybe somebody followed him.”

“How would you find that out?”

“One way.” I turned my air conditioner down and headed to the door. “I have to get back to the shop.”

“Whoa, you’re going too fast.” Amber Lee jotted down questions in a small floral-patterned notebook. We sell them in our gift department, and she gets an employee discount. This one was on the house. “I get the idea. You want us to visit the shops on Main Street, hang around, and then ask if anybody saw Gary Davoll or any of the
Fix My Wedding
people headed toward First Baptist.”

“Bixby’s not going to be happy when he hears someone’s horning in on his investigation.” Liv crossed her arms. “Especially after he made you promise last time.”

I shot her a look. “Then we make sure he doesn’t hear about it. Last time was a fluke, anyway. And Brad needs our help. Besides, everybody in Ramble is going to be talking about the show and the murder, anyway. All we have to do is be everywhere at once to hear it.” I looked over my recruited volunteer spies: Nick, Amber Lee, Eric, Shelby, and Darnell. Liv had tried to volunteer, but if I hadn’t nixed it, Eric would have. Although there certainly wouldn’t be any harm in heading to the coffee shop or drug store, and anything I learned about snooping, I’d learned from spending all those summers and vacations growing up with her. Instead, she would mind the shop.

“Now,” I said, “does everyone have their assignments?”

“I head west and stop off at Pete’s BBQ for a sandwich and a ‘Hey, has anyone heard what happened today?’” Nick said. “And then head back to the Ashbury. I man the catered food tables and nonchalantly try to figure out which of the cast and crew were at the inn at the time of the murder and therefore have an alibi.”

“And I head east.” Amber Lee checked her notes. “I get a stool at the Underdog Sports Bar and pretend like I’m interested in whatever’s on the screen and try to engage someone in conversation. I’m going to have to get a burger, I think. Long time since I had one of their burgers. Then I hit the beauty salon for some gossip time with the girls, casually ask if they saw any of the celebs in town head toward the church. And if there’s time, I finish off with ice cream. I love my job, by the way.”

“I head back to the office to see if my receptionist has seen or heard anything,” Eric said. “Her desk faces Main Street, so it’s possible. Then I’ll double back to the barber shop and get a trim.”

“More than a trim.” Liv fingered his hair, which was just beginning to reach his collar. “You’re getting a little shaggy.”

“Yes, dear,” he said with a syrupy sweet sarcasm. “Then I’ll head to the hardware store to see if any of the locals saw one of the strangers milling around town. I have a couple of things I need to pick up, anyway. Then to the candy store and the jewelry store—window-shopping for a gift for my wife.”

“More than window-shopping, if you’re smart,” I teased.

“I’ve got the Brew-Ha-Ha,” Shelby said, “and the craft store, and then I’m going to check in with my dad, I think.”

“That’s not going to be too uncomfortable for you, is it?” I asked. Shelby and his father, who ran an automotive repair garage, were at odds over the young man’s choice of vocation.

“Naw, not too bad. We’re talking now, at least. And since his shop is kitty-corner to the church, maybe he saw or heard something.”

“And I’ll hit the deli,” said Darnell, “before I double back and hang out at the soccer fields. Should be plenty of people to talk to there.”

“And where will you be, Audrey?” Liv asked.

“I want to see if Mrs. June has learned anything.” Mrs. June, an old friend and neighbor of our Grandma Mae, worked the front desk at the police department. Very little happened there that she didn’t know all about. And while she didn’t share it with everybody, a cheery bouquet of flowers for her desk had been known to loosen her lips, just a little. To me, anyway.

“And then,” I added, “I’m going to check if that crowd of people is still hanging around outside the Ashbury.”

“The protesters and the groupies?” Nick asked.

“I’m sure they had their eyes locked on everything that happened today. Who better to ask?”

“You shouldn’t do that alone,” he said. “It’s one thing asking our friends and neighbors if they saw anything. But those rabid fans and that wacko bride . . . Not all of those people seem completely sane. Give me a call when you get there, and I’ll come out and join you.”

“My bodyguard?” I couldn’t help a smile.

“Worth guarding,” he said, not meeting my eyes.

*   *   *

Mrs. June was leaning over to look at something in her desk drawer, her poufy head of “decadent mocha” hair the only thing visible from the window separating her from the lobby. She startled when she looked up to see me there, then flashed me a jowly smile and buzzed me right in.

I set a small vase of colorful gerbera daisies on her desk.

“I still can’t believe these aren’t dyed.” She let her reading glasses fall on the chain around her neck. “I always used to tease your grandma that someone was spray painting her flowers overnight. Child, you have no idea how much I miss her and her garden.”

“I think I do.”

“Oh.” She patted my hand with her pudgy one. “I know you do. I wish someone would move into that cottage and clean up the place.”

“Not until I’ve saved enough pennies. I’d be heartbroken if someone else bought that old place. But I guess there’s no danger of that. Eric told me Rawling isn’t putting a lot of money into his properties these days.”

“I guess I’ll have to wait for the right neighbor then. Even if it’s someone who primes me with flowers before she pumps me for information.”

I flashed her an innocent “Moi?” look before I pulled a couple of Hershey’s Kisses from the bowl on her desk and sank into the chair next to her. “Anything interesting?”

“Well, Bixby’s still got your boyfriend cooling his heels in the interrogation room.”

“Ex-boyfriend. What do you mean, cooling his heels?”

“He left him in there alone. I’ve seen Bixby do it before. He’s trying to freak him out, make Brad more likely to talk. And I’d say it’s working. Every time I peek in on him, he’s pacing the room, talking to himself. I sure hope he has nothing to hide, because he looks like he’s about to spill everything he’s ever known. And while I doubt he could have had anything to do with the death of our visiting celebrity, I’ll lay odds he was part of the crew that disassembled Mr. Riggleman’s old Dodge and put it back together on the roof of the high school. Although I gather the statute of limitations for that little escapade has run out.”

“No comment. Did he ask for a lawyer during questioning?”

“That’s just it. Bixby hasn’t even been to see him yet. He keeps heading out the door to talk to other possible witnesses. He popped in long enough to interview the grieving widow in his office, and—oh, Audrey, you did
not
hear that from me.”

It took a moment to register. “Grieving
widow
?” Although Brad had chided me for my lack of gaydar, even I had enough to pick up on Gary’s tendencies. Eventually. “Gary Davoll was married? To a woman?”

Mrs. June shushed me, then pulled her chair closer. “Audrey, you have to keep that on the down low. I’m not even supposed to know it, and I can’t believe I let it slip out. But yes, Gary was married. And to a woman. Been married a long time, but it was all hush-hush because of the show and his reputation. Apparently nobody trusts a straight man to choose their wedding fashions. I mean, my husband, God rest his soul, couldn’t tell the difference between satin and flannel. I didn’t overhear all of the conversation, mind you, but Gary most definitely was married.”

“To whom? You saw his wife? Was she someone from the show?”

Mrs. June nodded and then whispered, “Gigi Welch.”