Serial Bride. Ann Voss Peterson
air.
But no Diana.
Was she preening in front of the mirror in the adjoining restroom? Sylvie crossed the lounge and opened the door. The vanity was vacant, the wide mirror catching no reflection but her own—a slip of seafoam satin, a fall of blond hair, the gleam of worry in light-blue eyes.
She ripped her gaze from the image and peered down the row of bathroom stalls. “Diana?” Her voice echoed off the white tile.
She gathered her gown in a fist. Bending low, she looked under the stalls. A wisp of white touched the floor in the large stall at the end, a dark shadow behind it. “Diana? Are you okay?”
Only the organ answered, its bass tones trembling through walls and centering deep in Sylvie’s chest. She straightened and stepped down the row of bathroom stalls. Reaching the end, she grasped the handle and pulled.
A body lay face against the wall. Wetness glistened in black hair and trailed down the back of the tux. Motionless fingers clutched Diana’s veil, the antique lace red with blood.
“Reed. Oh, my God, Reed!” She knelt beside him. Slipping her hand along the side of his throat, she felt for a pulse.
A thready beat drummed against her fingertips.
He was alive. Thank God, he was alive. But he needed help. He needed an ambulance.
And Diana. Where was Diana?
The hum in her ears roared loud as a freight train bearing down.
Chapter Two
Sylvie watched the paramedics wheel the stretcher down the long church hall and out to the waiting ambulance. Reed was still unconscious. The white sheet cupped around him as if he was a child tucked into bed. Thick black straps hugged him to the gurney.
She wrapped her arms around her own middle, trying to warm herself, trying to feel strong. Stains marred the long seafoam silk of her gown, rust-colored smudges of Reed’s blood.
“You’re the one who found him?” a cigarette-roughened voice asked from behind her.
She turned around and faced a man with hard eyes and the jowls of a bulldog. “Excuse me?”
He let out an impatient sigh. “I need you to answer some questions for me. I’m in charge of this case. Detective Stan Perreth.”
Her stomach lurched. She’d never met Perreth, not in the flesh, but she’d heard enough stories about him to inspire a bout of nausea. On one of her first visits to Madison, the detective had hauled Reed in front of a review committee for a punch Reed had delivered when Perreth’s wife, a 911 dispatcher, had come to work with a battered face and a walking-into-a-doorknob explanation. Bad blood ran deep between the two men. And Perreth was now in charge of finding out who had attacked Reed and taken Diana?
“The first officer to the scene said you found Reed McCaskey.”
Sylvie forced a deep breath. Surely Perreth could see beyond the bad blood. Surely he would do his job despite his personal feelings. “Yes. I found him when I went to check on my sister.”
“Did you touch anything? Move anything?”
She thought back, trying to reconstruct what she’d done. “I checked his pulse. I ran out into the lounge. I went through Diana’s bag to find her cell phone.” And she’d grabbed her own purse. Had she touched anything else? She couldn’t remember.
He held out a hand. “Give me the phone.”
Sylvie looked down. Sure enough, the phone was still clenched in her fingers. She handed it to Perreth.
Perreth gripped it gingerly, his hands encased in clear plastic gloves. “Did your sister voice any doubts about this wedding?”
“No. I don’t think so, anyway. She’s been looking forward to marrying Reed as long as I’ve known her.”
“Did she and McCaskey have a fight?”
“A fight?”
“I’m trying to figure out what happened here this afternoon. Answer the question, please.”
“There was no fight. They were both excited about the wedding. Anxious to get married.”
“Anxious.” He scribbled the word in his notebook.
Sylvie had an uneasy feeling about where he was heading. “You’re taking this wrong. They were happy. They loved each other. They were eager to be together, to start their new life.”
He nodded, but she got the feeling he was still concentrating on the word anxious.
Had she chosen that word subconsciously? Maybe she had. Diana had been anxious the past few months. But not about her love for Reed. Not about her marriage. At least, not that Sylvie was aware of. “I don’t think you’re understanding me.”
He glanced up at her from under bushy brows. “Oh?”
“Diana and Reed were in love. They wanted to get married.”
“Did you notice any tension between them recently?”
Back to the same track. Like a bulldog worrying over a bone. “Between them? No.”
“But you noticed tension.”
What was she supposed to say? She couldn’t lie. “Diana seemed tense about something, yes. But not about her marriage.”
He nodded, but she wasn’t at all sure he had heard what she said. Not all of it, anyway.
“Where does your sister live?”
“She has an apartment on Pinckney Street. In the old Mueller building.”
“Apartment number?”
“Three B.”
He jotted it down. “Good, we’ll get a warrant and take a look.”
Unease niggled at the back of her neck with the force of a toothy bite. “If looking in Diana’s apartment will help find her, I can let you in.”
“Do you live with her?”
“No. I’m just visiting for the wedding.” She’d been considering moving to Madison. To live near her sister. She could just as easily wait tables up here. Or maybe get a more fulfilling job. But she hadn’t yet taken the plunge. “Diana gave me a key, though.”
“No good. You don’t have legal standing.”
“Legal standing?”
“We need permission from someone with legal standing.”
“Why?” The buzz in Sylvie’s ears grew, making it hard to think. The only time she’d heard the term legal standing was on an episode of Law & Order. And then it had been used to argue the admissibility of evidence—evidence used against someone charged with murder. “You think Diana did this? You think she hurt Reed?”
He held up a hand as if to shield himself from her hysteria. “I don’t draw conclusions until I finish looking at the evidence.”
“It sounds like you’re drawing a conclusion to me. A wrong conclusion.”
“I assure you that’s not the case.” He looked down at his notes. “But there was a history of abuse in your sister’s adopted family, isn’t that correct?”
“What are you getting at?”
“They say women who are abused as children often choose men who—”
“Hold on right there. You think Reed hit Diana?”
The detective stared at her, a smug look in his deep-set eyes. “Like I said, I’m still looking at the evidence. But there’s a good chance your sister isn’t to blame, no matter what happened. There’s a chance she was merely defending herself.”
She