Page 34 of The Wedding Party

Still pondering those questions, I spy two purses hanging on a towel rack. One is a large Louis Vuitton bag and the other is a petite Gucci evening purse. Homing in on the evening bag, I inspect the contents to find only a lipstick, powder, and travel hair spray inside. The Louis is more fully equipped, with a full-size wallet, a cosmetic bag, more hair spray, and a bottle of unlabeled pills. I open the bottle and find several different drugs inside. I stick the medication in a baggie I have with me and store it in my field bag. It’s going with me to the hospital. The doctors need to know what is in Carrie’s system, and so do I.

I search the documents in her wallet, but there’s nothing that stands out. There’s no knife or blood in the bathroom. Oliver’s and Carrie’s cellphones remain sight unseen. I grab my phone and call Lana, who I lost somewhere in the blood and confusion as I was swept into the crime scene. She answers on the first ring.

“Oh my God, Andi,” she gushes. “What the hell is going on?”

“We’ll talk later,” I promise. “Right now, I need to know if you have Carrie’s or Oliver’s cellphone number.”

“I have Carrie’s, and I can get Oliver’s.”

“Text them both to me. I’ll call you later.” I hang up and Lana sends me Carrie’s number right away. I dial it, walking around the bathroom and then the room, listening for the ring. There is nothing. Another text from Lana produces Oliver’s number. Again, I dial it, but there is no ringing to follow.

I find the missing phones more than a little interesting. Carrie wasn’t exactly hiding them when we found her naked and bloody.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Detective Edwards joins me in the room, and I send him off to the attic to look for the missing cellphones as well as order appropriate warrants. I stay behind, examining the crime scene, my quest to understand what the blood patterns might tell me about the struggle that occurred in the last moments of Oliver’s life. Unfortunately, the carpet is a dark burgundy with flowers that create visual challenges. I’ve given up on my efforts with the blood when the forensics team finally shows up. I chat with them on the basics of the crime scene and bottle of medication before stepping into the hallway.

There I’m greeted by detective number two, Detective York, a man I’d age to sixty, with gray hair and a potbelly, who gets right to the point. “I know your father. Don’t tell him I said hi. He’s trouble, and I’m near retirement. Are you going to be trouble?”

“Only for the bad guy.”

He smirks. “I’m not sure how I feel about that answer.” But he also moves on, updating me on the search for the weapon he has well underway. We both agree: we need to know who in this group carries a knife and/or hunts. It’s at least a logical place to start.

“I get the idea the wifey-to-be’s a real delicate creature, not a violent bone in her body.” Sarcasm laces his tone.

“Her words are as gentle as her actions,” I assure him.

“Maybe the ghost of some asshole of old residing here in the hotel made her do it.”

“I’m fairly certain every ghost in this place is afraid of her,” I assure him. “I’d suggest staying away from her if you want to protect that retirement you’re pining after.”

Detective Edwards reappears and announces, “No sign of Oliver’s or Carrie’s phones in the attic. And yes, of course, before you ask, I pinged them.”

“So where the hell are the phones?” York asks.

“Beats me,” Edwards replies. “But I have a hard time believing a bloody, naked woman was running around and hiding those phones so well that we can’t find them.”

So do I.

It’s time for me to head to the hospital and have a one-on-one with Carrie.

Chapter Thirty

I arrive at the hospital and find Carrie’s room guarded by one of the police officers who escorted her there. The doctor in charge is Roberto Mendez, a Hispanic man with a goatee and kind brown eyes, who is quick to meet me in an empty room just down from the closed door of Carrie’s.

“How is she, Doctor?” I ask.

“Ms. Reynolds has a concussion,” he says, shoving his hands inside his white coat. “She’s quite dazed and confused. We’ve done blood tests and we’re sending her in for a CAT scan as soon as the tech is free.”

“Did she arrive high or drugged?”

“She believes she was drugged at the party.”

He didn’t exactly answer my question, but I go where he’s leading. For now. “And she makes this assessment why?”

“Because she can’t remember anything,” he replies. “She has hours that have disappeared.”

“Is she right? Was she drugged?”