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Shirley’s expression was concerned. “Doesn’t your daughter live in Hopewell?”
Madelyn’s heart gave a little “thump” as she answered “Yes,” her mother’s instinct going on alert. It was obvious that something was wrong. Shirley’s cheeks were red, her eyes bright. “Why?”
“There was a murder at the Hopewell reception hall,” she said, lowering her voice to a forceful whisper. “You know, the big one?”
Madelyn went cold. She could barely force out one word: “Who?” Together she and Shirley moved toward the wall, away from the couple at the nearest white-tablecloth-covered table. What kind of event was taking place at the reception hall tonight? Her mind spun to the possibilities: Melissa, the manager? One of the vendors? Maybe someone she knew well? The victim could be anyone in their fairly small world. She said a silent prayer of thanks that Jaclyn had nothing scheduled, and had said she was going straight home; she should be safely there now, watching her beloved HGTV.
“I don’t know,” Shirley said. “But I heard that the parking lot was packed with emergency vehicles, and somebody is dead.”
Knowing her daughter had come so close to a murder gave her chills, and she had a sudden urge to hear Jaclyn’s voice. Not only that, but Jaclyn might have heard something, and have more details than Shirley could provide.
Madelyn gave a quick glance around the room, made sure no crises seemed to be brewing, then briskly headed for the ladies’ room. As she walked she opened her small, rhinestone-encrusted evening bag, and reached inside for her phone. She’d silenced the ring for the wedding and reception, and as she flipped the phone open she saw that she had five missed calls.
None of them were from Jaclyn, and despite what logic was telling her, her heart began thumping hard at even the remote possibility that her daughter could be the victim. She stepped into the bathroom and began to dial.
Jaclyn answered on the first ring, as if she’d been waiting for the call. “Hello.”
Her knees went a little weak as she heard Jaclyn’s voice, though her tone sounded a little thin and tense. “Shirley just told me—”
“Mom! Have you heard—”
Their words tumbled over each other, and both stopped. Then Jaclyn blew out a breath and said, “You heard about what happened at the reception hall?”
“Shirley told me all she’d heard, which wasn’t much. What do you know?”
“It was Carrie.”
Madelyn blinked as multiple possibilities spun through her brain. “She killed someone? Can’t say I’m surprised, the psychopathic little slut. Bless her heart.”
“No, she didn’t kill anyone. Someone killed her.”
Madelyn blinked again, trying to process the news and come up with something to add. All that came out was, “I still can’t say I’m surprised. She was a psychopathic little slut.”
Jaclyn paused, waiting. When the usual phrase didn’t follow, she said, “You didn’t say ‘bless her heart.’”
“God would know I didn’t mean it. I’d rather be uncharitable than lie. Maybe. Okay, I’d rather lie. Bless her heart.”
Ja
clyn made a little sound that was half-laugh, half-hiccup, then she said raggedly, “The police have been here, asking questions. They know about Carrie slapping me. They think I did it.”
A new horror seized Madelyn. “What?” The word was almost a shriek, and belatedly she glanced around to see if anyone else was in the bathroom. There was; beneath one of the stall doors she could see a pair of sensible black pumps; the wearer was being very still, not peeing or anything—well, she couldn’t say for sure about the anything—obviously eavesdropping. “Hold on,” she said. “Let me step outside.”
Finding real privacy meant she had to thread her way through the crowd again, and step out into the humid night air. Even then she wasn’t completely alone, because several smokers were standing around, the glowing ends of their cigarettes moving back and forth like red fireflies. She threw them a frustrated look, which of course they couldn’t see, and walked several yards in the opposite direction. Only when their conversation became indistinct was she certain that anything she said would be just as indistinct to them.
“Okay,” she finally said. “I’m alone. Are you serious? They actually questioned you about this? Are the cops in Hopewell absolute morons?”
“I was evidently the last one to see her alive,” Jaclyn replied, her tone bleak.
“No, you weren’t. The person who killed her was.”
“Okay, the last one to see her that they know of. Throw in the fact that she slapped me, then fired me, and anyone could say I had motive.”
“Considering her personality, probably half the Atlanta metro area had motive,” Madelyn said fiercely. “Besides, when you left the reception hall, you met me at Claire’s. I’m your alibi.”
“Evidently coming up with an exact time of death in real life isn’t as easy as it is on television shows. Oh … even worse. I forgot my briefcase this afternoon, and left it at the reception hall. They found it there. I could have killed her either before meeting you, or after.”
“But you didn’t.”
