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Authors: Kate Collins
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flounced up the path in the opposite direction. I followed Reilly.
“Why aren’t the detectives here?” Reilly snarled. “Did anyone think to call them, or is that asking too much?”
“Lt. Corbison is away at a conference,” one investigator reported. “Lt. Williams should be on his way.”
“Sergeant?” Officer Benson called, striding up the path behind us. Reilly stopped so abruptly I almost ran into him.
He glowered at me, fists planted at his waist. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Up to the gazebo with you.”
By the expression on his face I could tell that my answer wasn’t working for him. Luckily, I had the power of female persuasion on my side, and since he liked quick, clear, logical answers, that’s what I gave him. “The way I see it, Reilly, you’ve already got my fingerprints on file, and you know who I am, so why should I sit inside and stare at the walls when I might be of assistance out here?”
He turned me to face the building and gave me a gentle push. “If I need your help I’ll ask for it.”
I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for that to happen.
The young cop stepped aside to allow me to pass, but since I didn’t want to miss hearing what Benson had to report about Jack’s car, I went about two yards up the path, stopped, took off my left shoe and pretended to shake a pebble out of it.
“What did you find out?” Reilly asked the young cop.
“The victim’s vehicle had been moved from its original parking space, Sergeant.”
I stopped shaking my shoe and stood there balancing on one foot, thinking about the timing. Jack had been escorted to his car around eight twenty. Sometime between then and when Grandma Osborne found his body, he’d moved his car, had donned a waiter’s uniform, and was killed.
Reilly spotted me and crossed his arms over his chest. “Forget your way to the building?”
“Had a pebble,” I said, holding up the offending heel. He didn’t look convinced, so I put on my shoe and left, still mulling over the information. Jack must have known Josiah would still be gunning for him, so why had he come back? Was it to even the score?
CHAPTER SIX
I entered the glass doors and found the reception area empty, so I walked up the hallway past the coatroom and the restrooms, opened one of the ballroom doors, and was promptly met by two policemen standing guard. “Reilly sent me,” I told them, trying to look official.
One of the cops held up his walkie-talkie and said with a dry smile, “Yeah, we heard you were coming.”
Ignoring their snickers, I stepped inside and glanced around. The guests had been divided into four groups and were talking among themselves in hushed voices, while police officers diligently collected pertinent information. Across the dance floor, the musicians were packing up their instruments, the bored photographers were snapping anything that moved, and the banquet’s cleaning crew was gathering dirty linen, folding tables for storage, and lining chairs along the walls. The videographers were gone, and I was fairly certain Jillian had managed to smuggle them and the second video out of the building. She wasn’t about to let the cops confiscate her party entertainment.
“Abigail,” my mother called, holding up a hand so I could find her in the crowd. She was sitting beside my father in a group that contained all the Knights and the Osbornes, so I motioned for her to come to me so we wouldn’t be overheard. She guided my father’s wheelchair toward the two folding chairs I had moved to one side.
My dad is a paraplegic, the result of a stroke suffered during an operation to remove a bullet from his thigh. He’d been caught in an ambush while chasing a drug dealer. Amazingly, he’d never had regrets, nor had he allowed himself any self-pity. He’d done his duty. That was what cops did. I was still in awe of his courage.
“Is there any more news?” my mother asked quietly. “We’ve heard
“Why aren’t the detectives here?” Reilly snarled. “Did anyone think to call them, or is that asking too much?”
“Lt. Corbison is away at a conference,” one investigator reported. “Lt. Williams should be on his way.”
“Sergeant?” Officer Benson called, striding up the path behind us. Reilly stopped so abruptly I almost ran into him.
He glowered at me, fists planted at his waist. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Up to the gazebo with you.”
By the expression on his face I could tell that my answer wasn’t working for him. Luckily, I had the power of female persuasion on my side, and since he liked quick, clear, logical answers, that’s what I gave him. “The way I see it, Reilly, you’ve already got my fingerprints on file, and you know who I am, so why should I sit inside and stare at the walls when I might be of assistance out here?”
He turned me to face the building and gave me a gentle push. “If I need your help I’ll ask for it.”
I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for that to happen.
The young cop stepped aside to allow me to pass, but since I didn’t want to miss hearing what Benson had to report about Jack’s car, I went about two yards up the path, stopped, took off my left shoe and pretended to shake a pebble out of it.
“What did you find out?” Reilly asked the young cop.
“The victim’s vehicle had been moved from its original parking space, Sergeant.”
I stopped shaking my shoe and stood there balancing on one foot, thinking about the timing. Jack had been escorted to his car around eight twenty. Sometime between then and when Grandma Osborne found his body, he’d moved his car, had donned a waiter’s uniform, and was killed.
Reilly spotted me and crossed his arms over his chest. “Forget your way to the building?”
“Had a pebble,” I said, holding up the offending heel. He didn’t look convinced, so I put on my shoe and left, still mulling over the information. Jack must have known Josiah would still be gunning for him, so why had he come back? Was it to even the score?
CHAPTER SIX
I entered the glass doors and found the reception area empty, so I walked up the hallway past the coatroom and the restrooms, opened one of the ballroom doors, and was promptly met by two policemen standing guard. “Reilly sent me,” I told them, trying to look official.
One of the cops held up his walkie-talkie and said with a dry smile, “Yeah, we heard you were coming.”
Ignoring their snickers, I stepped inside and glanced around. The guests had been divided into four groups and were talking among themselves in hushed voices, while police officers diligently collected pertinent information. Across the dance floor, the musicians were packing up their instruments, the bored photographers were snapping anything that moved, and the banquet’s cleaning crew was gathering dirty linen, folding tables for storage, and lining chairs along the walls. The videographers were gone, and I was fairly certain Jillian had managed to smuggle them and the second video out of the building. She wasn’t about to let the cops confiscate her party entertainment.
“Abigail,” my mother called, holding up a hand so I could find her in the crowd. She was sitting beside my father in a group that contained all the Knights and the Osbornes, so I motioned for her to come to me so we wouldn’t be overheard. She guided my father’s wheelchair toward the two folding chairs I had moved to one side.
My dad is a paraplegic, the result of a stroke suffered during an operation to remove a bullet from his thigh. He’d been caught in an ambush while chasing a drug dealer. Amazingly, he’d never had regrets, nor had he allowed himself any self-pity. He’d done his duty. That was what cops did. I was still in awe of his courage.
“Is there any more news?” my mother asked quietly. “We’ve heard
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