Brearely “Brears” Burdette née Rapfogel wasn’t much bigger than Peggy Cho. DMV put her at twenty-nine years old two months ago. Long black hair was twirled into sausage-like ringlets, trembling lips were glossed silver. A pug-nosed pixie face striped by mascara tear-tracks was veneered with too much pancake. Her gown was snow white, backless, sleeveless, semi-frontless, and decked out with seed pearls and lace. She dropped her new husband’s hand and when he put his arm around her shoulder, she shrugged it off.
Garrett Burdette smiled weakly. Thirty-four, stooped and lanky in a gray suit, he had soft brown eyes already framed by crow’s-feet. Even in heels, his bride reached only the middle of his chest. His license said he needed corrective lenses. The eyes were liquid. Contacts for the big day.
“Babe,” he said.
Brears shook her head and sniffled.
“Want me to get you a tissue, Babe?”
“I want you to make this go away!”
Milo said, “Guys, we are so sorry this happened.”
“You’re not sorrier than me!”
“Of course not, ma’am.”
His quick assent, combined with “ma’am,” caused a pouting mouth to drop open, flashing teeth whiter than the gown.
What began as a smile quickly switched to a snarl. She turned her back on us, faced yellow-taped dumpsters and garbage cans.
“This is stressing me out!”
Garrett said, “It’s horrendous, Babe.”
Brears Burdette wheeled and looked at her brand-new husband. “Thank you, Mr. Obvious.”
Garrett said, “Ba—”
She jazz-waved him off. “Just forget it.”
His hands jammed into his pockets as he studied asphalt.
Milo said, “This has to be incredibly stressful, so we’ll try to keep it brief. I know Detective Bogomil showed you a picture of—”
Brears said, “I said we don’t know her and that’s not gonna change. She’s probably some slut who wanted to mess me up.”
“Mess you up how, ma’am?”
“I’m not ma’am! My mother’s ma’am! Everyone calls me what they call me, so just go with the program, okay? I’m not ma’am.”
Garrett looked up, flushed. “Sir, everyone calls her Baby. Except me, I call her Babe—”
“Don’t do their job for them, Garrett. Make them do…” Another wave. “Whatever they do.” To Milo: “How would it mess me up? Like that’s a question? She shows up when she’s not invited, the party’s going awesome and she turns it into shit? What was it, an overdose?”
Garrett tugged his tie. “You’re upset, sweetie.” To us: “Of course we feel bad for her.”
The woman known as Baby growled.
Garrett said, “Right, Babe? We both feel upset for her.”
Bare arms folded across a lace-and-pearl bodice. “Speak for yourself.”
She turned again, took four steps toward the trash bins, stopped. When she showed us her face, it was crumpled and wet, mascara flow reactivated.
“I’m not mean. I really am not,” she said. “It’s sad but I don’t know her, okay? I really don’t and I’m so sorry it happened, I really am, no one wants anyone to…all’s I’m saying is…”
She threw up her arms. Jewelry clanked. “I get it, it’s terrible, worse than terrible, it’s it’s…tragic, I shouldn’t be bitching, it’s tragic for her but it was supposed to be my happy day!”
Garrett went to her and put his arm around her. This time she accepted comfort, flopping her cheek onto his chest and shutting her eyes.
He said, “It’s okay, Babe. We’ll get through this.”
“I know, Gar. But why’d she have to do it at my wedding?”
* * *
—
As we walked them back inside, I said, “Can you think of anyone who’d want to mess you up?”
“No, sir,” said Garrett.
Baby stared at me as if I was dense. “Everyone likes me,” she said.
* * *
—
The couple returned to their table amid a scatter of dispirited applause. As they sat back down, Milo beckoned the three detectives out of the main room and over to the photo booth.
The looks on their faces made it obvious, but he asked anyway. “Any luck?”
Moe Reed was the first to shake his head, Sean following. Alicia Bogomil waited her turn. Still learning the ropes, making sure she knew her place.
“Unfortunately, nope,” she said.
Milo said, “Any signs someone could be lying about not knowing her?”
“Not that I noticed, L.T.,” said Reed.
“Same here,” said Binchy.
Bogomil said, “A lot of them are intoxicated, so we could let them sober up and try again.”
Milo said, “In a perfect world, great idea, Alicia. But we’ve already kept them here for a while and picking people out because they’re tipsy is subjective and risky. We’ve got I.D.’s on everyone plus tags on the cars, will match that to the invitation list. Someone looks iffy, we’ll find them.”
Bogomil said, “Maybe the interesting list is folks who weren’t invited. Like the killer and the victim.”
Reed said, “You get snubbed so you strangle your date?”
“I know it sounds crazy, Moe, but people go psycho over weddings. Both my sisters morphed into evil space creatures and it caught on like a virus, everyone turned scary.” She smiled. “Even me for a few seconds.”
Binchy said, “You’ve got a point, Alicia. And maybe it was more than just a snub. What if it was a serious rejection? Like an ex of the groom. Or the bride.”
“They both deny anything like that but it’s an interesting thought, Sean,” said Milo. “That said, this isn’t the time to ask about it. They’re not going on a honeymoon so I’ll let them be and follow up in a few days. Alex, any psychological reason not to close this down right now?”
I said, “At the risk of adding to the buzzkill, I’d let most of the guests go but hold on to the staff, the woman who discovered the body, and the immediate family for a second go-round. Why no honeymoon?”
Alicia said, “His work, some sort of accounting thing. They’ve got a Maui trip planned for the summer. My group included the bridesmaids so I tried to encourage some girl talk. Leanza—the one who found the body—was in my section, too. That’s her, the chunky redhead in the grayish-tan silk thing. She started off freaked out, had a couple Martinis and loosened up. So, yeah, she’s a good candidate for follow-up. Why hold on to the family, Dr. Delaware?”
“Destroying a wedding has a personal feel.” I picked a piece of paper from the floor. Printed account of the wedding procession. “This should help.”
Milo took it and scanned. “Who’s got the family?”
Reed said, “Me. Time to deliver the good news.”
CHAPTER
4
Binchy went to corral the staff, Alicia beelined for Leanza Cardell, and Reed headed for a table just left of the dance floor where the family waited.
The chosen few; standby travelers watching morosely as everyone around them boarded the flight to freedom.
I took a look at the printed list. Flimsy white paper, computer-generated italics.
Marilee and Stuart Mastro, sister and brother-in-law of the groom.
Amanda Burdette, sister of the groom.
The groom accompanied by his parents,
Sandra and Wilbur Burdette.
A bevy of bridesmaids. No ushers.
Then, in a darker, twice-as-large font:
The bride, accompanied by her parents, Corinne and Dennis Rapfogel.
No kids meant no flower girl or ring bearer. Two sibs for the groom, none for the bride.
A woman everyone called Baby.
The only child.
* * *
—
Leanza Cardell was added to the family table, where no one greeted her. She brought a Martini glass with her, unpinned her red hair, shook it out, and turned her chair to face the stage.
Milo said, “We’ll be taking people two at a time, any voluntee—”
“We’re the bride’s parents, we’ll go first.” A thin brunette around fifty stood and tugged at her dress. Everyone at the table stared at her, including her husband. She said, “Let’s go, Denny.”
Gold-chunk cuff links glinted as the father of the bride got to his feet, suppressing a burp. He followed his wife several paces behind, sat down leaving a chair between them.
Corinne Rapfogel was her daughter grown to sinewy middle age. The dress was a body-conscious black tulip. Spray-tanned and Botoxed as smooth as a freshly laundered bedsheet, she sported a diamond-and-gold mesh choker, four-inch gold hoop earrings, and a flower tattoo on her right wrist. Eyes under architecturally sculpted eyebrows were dark and guarded.