Page 13 of The Wedding Party

He sips his whisky. “It’s just a little odd to suddenly have an FBI agent in attendance.”

I turn to face him, suddenly concerned his stress is over something bigger than a box. “Do we have something to hide? What don’t I know?”

“No,” he says quickly. “Of course not. But I have no idea what any of our guests might be into.”

“Surely we’re aligned with friends that are as honest as we are? Which brings me back to, What don’t I know, Oliver?”

“Nothing, babe. It just feels off to me.”

Unsettled, I say, “If anyone on your crew of friends crossed the law, and brought it to our event, I’m going to be upset, furious even. So if you know something about someone, get them out of here.”

“I don’t,” he says. “But I’m certainly going to gauge reactions over drinks tonight. If I get a read on a problem, I’ll handle it.” He cups my face and steps closer. “You know I’ll always protect you, right?”

“I told you, I don’t need—”

“Protection. I know. But you have it anyway.” His hands slide away from my face and he glances at his watch. “It’s six thirty. We need to be downstairs for those drinks by eight. I need to work until then.”

“I thought we’d celebrated this deal being closed.”

“We did. But as is normal, verbal agreements can turn into disagreements when the contract is produced for execution.”

“And that’s what’s happened?” I push.

“Paperwork is my hell right now. I’m just working through the legalities of the issues.”

That’s not really an answer, I think, but I just want him to finish what he has to finish. “Is this going to consume you all weekend?”

“I’m close to getting this handled,” he promises me. “I just need another hour.”

“Okay. I’m going to shower and change for tonight.”

I leave him to his work and head into the bathroom, but everything about the exchange bothers me. Why is he worried about the FBI agent at our party? And what was that whole “I’ll protect you” declaration? He’s still not right. And I go back to what I keep going back to. That box. He’s not been right since he got that box.

Chapter Eleven

DETECTIVE BOONE

Franklin, Tennessee

Six months ago . . .

“Detective Boone, you want to see this.”

I’m standing over Elsa Ward—staring at the placement of the gun next to the body, with alarms going off—when that shout-out occurs.

I lift a hand with confirmation but keep my eyes focused on that weapon. I don’t need anyone to tell me the placement is off. Elsa didn’t kill herself. I step away from the body and find Nathan, one of the lead forensics guys, waiting on me. I follow him to the kitchen table, where there’s a red gift box with a ribbon draped off the side. There’s also a stack of papers placed haphazardly inside.

I’m already gloved up and I grab them, giving them a gander, and what’s inside is not a pretty picture of Elsa’s morality. The documents indicate that she works in accounting for a local who she’s been stealing from for years. A card outside the envelope reads: I know. You’re over.

I tap the table and think about the gun placement, forming a working hypothesis. Someone wanted us to believe Elsa killed herself over these documents. The question is: Who? And why? I’d assume revenge over the stolen money, but the biggest rule of detective work is never assume. The suicide is smoke and mirrors. That means everything about the first look at this crime could be smoke and mirrors, which may have been the killer’s intent.

I eye the dog bed by the table and then the front door as David, the first responding officer, walks in. “Where’s the dog?”

“Neighbors got the dog,” he says. “Apparently, they found it on the road and knew something was wrong. She never leaves that dog’s side.”

And yet, she did, I think.

This is not a killer who understands the art of details.