Keeper of the Bride / Whistleblower: Keeper of the Bride / Whistleblower. Tess Gerritsen
WARRENTON was nothing like her daughter. Sam had seen it the moment the older woman opened the front door. Flawlessly made up, elegantly coiffed, her slender frame shown to full advantage by the green gown, Lydia looked like no mother of the bride he’d ever seen. There was a physical resemblance, of course. Both Lydia and Nina had the same black hair, the same dark, thickly lashed eyes. But while Nina had a softness about her, a vulnerability, Lydia was standoffish, as though surrounded by some protective force field that would zap anyone who ventured too close. She was definitely a looker, not only thin but also rich, judging by the room he was now standing in.
The house was a veritable museum of antiques. He had noticed a Mercedes parked in the driveway. And the living room, into which he’d just been ushered, had a spectacular ocean view. A million-dollar view. Lydia sat down primly on a brocade sofa and motioned him toward a wing chair. The needlepoint fabric was so pristine-looking he had the urge to inspect his clothes before sinking onto the cushion.
“A bomb,” murmured Lydia, shaking her head. “I just can’t believe it. Who would bomb a church?”
“It’s not the first bombing we’ve had in town.”
She looked at him, bewildered. “You mean the warehouse? The one last week? I read that had something to do with organized crime.”
“That was the theory.”
“This was a church. How can they possibly be connected?”
“We don’t see the link either, Mrs. Warrenton. We’re trying to find out if there is one. Maybe you can help us. Do you know of any reason someone would want to bomb the Good Shepherd Church?”
“I know nothing about that church. It’s not one I attend. It was my daughter’s choice to get married there.”
“You sound as if you don’t approve.”
She shrugged. “Nina has her own odd way of doing things. I’d have chosen a more…established institution. And a longer guest list. But that’s Nina. She wanted to keep it small and simple.”
Simple was definitely not Lydia Warrenton’s style, thought Sam, gazing around the room.
“So to answer your question, Detective, I can’t think of any reason to bomb Good Shepherd.”
“What time did you leave the church?”
“A little after two. When it became apparent there wasn’t anything I could do for Nina.”
“While you were waiting, did you happen to notice anyone who shouldn’t have been there?”
“There were just the people you’d expect. The florists, the minister. The wedding party.”
“Names?”
“There was me. My daughter Wendy. The best man—I don’t remember his name. My ex-husband, George, and his latest wife.”
“Latest.”
She sniffed. “Daniella. His fourth so far.”
“What about your husband?”
She paused. “Edward was delayed. His plane was two hours late leaving Chicago.”
“So he hadn’t even reached town yet?”
“No. But he planned to attend the reception.”
Again, Sam glanced around the room, at the antiques. The view. “May I ask what your husband does for a living, Mrs. Warrenton?”
“He’s president of Ridley-Warrenton.”
“The logging company?”
“That’s right.”
That explained the house and the Mercedes, thought Sam. Ridley-Warrenton was one of the largest landowners in northern Maine. Their forest products, from raw lumber to fine paper, were shipped around the world.
His next question was unavoidable. “Mrs. Warrenton,” he asked, “does your husband have any enemies?”
Her response surprised him. She laughed. “Anyone with money has enemies, Detective.”
“Can you name anyone in particular?”
“You’d have to ask Edward.”
“I will,” said Sam, rising to his feet. “As soon as your husband’s back in town, could you have him give me a call?”
“My husband’s a busy man.”
“So am I, ma’am,” he answered. With a curt nod, he turned and left the house.
In the driveway, he sat in his Taurus for a moment, gazing up at the mansion. It was, without a doubt, one of the most impressive homes he’d ever been in. Not that he was all that familiar with mansions. Samuel Navarro was the son of a Boston cop who was himself the son of a Boston cop. At the age of twelve, he’d moved to Portland with his newly widowed mother. Nothing came easy for them, a fact of life which his mother resignedly accepted.
Sam had not been so accepting. His adolescence consisted of five long years of rebellion. Fistfights in the school yard. Sneaking cigarettes in the bathroom. Loitering with the rough-and-tumble crowd that hung out in Monument Square. There’d been no mansions in his childhood.
He started the car and drove away. The investigation was just beginning; he and Gillis had a long night ahead of them. There was still the minister to interview, as well as the florist, the best man, the matron of honor, and the groom.
Most of all, the groom.
Dr. Robert Bledsoe, after all, was the one who’d called off the wedding. His decision, by accident or design, had saved the lives of dozens of people. That struck Sam as just a little bit too fortunate. Had Bledsoe received some kind of warning? Had he been the intended target?
Was that the real reason he’d left his bride at the altar?
Nina Cormier’s image came vividly back to mind. Hers wasn’t a face he’d be likely to forget. It was more than just those big brown eyes, that kissable mouth. It was her pride that impressed him the most. The sort of pride that kept her chin up, her jaw squared, even as the tears were falling. For that he admired her. No whining, no self-pity. The woman had been humiliated, abandoned, and almost blown to smithereens. Yet she’d had enough spunk left to give Sam an occasional what-for. He found that both irritating and amusing. For a woman who’d probably grown up with everything handed to her on a silver platter, she was a tough little survivor.
Today she’d been handed a heaping dish of crow, and she’d eaten it just fine, thank you. Without a whimper.
Surprising, surprising woman.
He could hardly wait to hear what Dr. Robert Bledsoe had to say about her.
IT WAS AFTER five o’clock when Nina finally emerged from her mother’s guest bedroom. Calm, composed, she was now wearing jeans and a T-shirt. She’d left her wedding dress hanging in the closet; she didn’t even want to look at it again. Too many bad memories had attached themselves like burrs to the fabric.
Downstairs she found her mother sitting alone in the living room, nursing a highball. Detective Navarro was gone. Lydia raised the drink to her lips, and by the clinking of ice cubes in the glass, Nina could tell that Lydia’s hands were shaking.
“Mother?” said Nina.
At the sound of her daughter’s voice, Lydia’s head jerked up. “You startled me.”
“I think I’ll be leaving now. Are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Lydia gave a shudder. Then she added, almost as an afterthought, “How about you?”
“I’ll be okay. I just need some time. Away from Robert.”
Mother and daughter looked at each other for a moment, neither one speaking, neither one knowing what