Read Online Weddings Can Be Murder by Connie Shelton - Free Book Online

must have gotten all the footage
they wanted of the crime scene. I sighed and forced myself not to
think of it that way.
    Ron parked the truck a block off the nearest
major street and we began taping flyers to light posts, bus stops,
and any other unmovable object where people might pause a few extra
moments. I covered six blocks east and four south, with Ron doing
the same in the opposite direction. It felt like a meager effort.
We really needed these all over the city. The television coverage
might accomplish that—getting her picture and the story widely
broadcast—and my heart became a little less hardened toward their
intrusiveness. We couldn’t have it both ways, I supposed.
    My phone bleeped at me from down in my
jacket pocket. Ron. He’d finished his distributions about the same
time so we agreed to head for our vehicle. We only had about twenty
minutes to make the appointment at the lawyer’s office, which made
me glad I’d convinced my brother to change into something a bit
more reputable than his slept-in clothes. He’d even shaved for the
occasion. I got to the truck first so I drove.
    Ben Ortiz’s office sat on a side street
about a block from the cluster of municipal buildings downtown, in
an area that was once residential about a hundred years ago. Now,
the small former houses that escaped demolition have become
oh-so-cute restaurants and offices. The one we were looking for was
a two-story upright box with brown siding, dark green trim, and a
waist-high wrought iron fence around its postage stamp of a lawn. A
narrow driveway led to the back where, presumably, the old backyard
had given over to employee parking—our own office a half mile away
has a similar arrangement.
    For customers, there was the street and not
much of it. Each narrow property did well to accommodate two
vehicles. We had to go three blocks west and around a corner to
find a spot. By now we were running late and Ben was waiting at the
door when we approached. Sending us a look, he suggested that we
talk as we walked toward the police station. The narrow sidewalk
necessitated that Ron and the lawyer walk side by side, so I
dropped back and barely caught the gist of their conversation.
    Basically, Ortiz had prepared a written
statement for Ron to deliver. “Don’t deviate from this message and
don’t extemporize,” was one of the phrases I did catch. I gathered
that I was to hang back, look supportive, and keep my big yap
shut.
    Ron attempted to read while walking, with a
couple of stumbles due to old sidewalks buckled by ancient tree
roots.
    “I’m sure Detective Taylor will have
something to say first,” Ortiz said as we approached the steps of
the police department where a podium and scads of microphones
waited. “Then I’ll give a brief statement to paint Ron as the
devastated fiancé. Then Ron’s going to make his plea for help from
the community.”
    The first part went according to plan,
anyway.
    Kent Taylor, to his credit, remained very
neutral in his words. He told the gathered crowd basically what we
already knew. Victoria Morgan, on her wedding day, had disappeared
from her home in the northeast quadrant of the city. There had been
signs of a struggle. It was feared that she had been injured
because she’d made no attempt to contact her family. Her
whereabouts and condition were unknown at this time. He didn’t use
the word ‘abducted’ but his message sort of left that impression.
He gave the number of a special hotline which had been established
and asked that anyone with information please call.
    I stood where I could watch Ron during
Taylor’s briefing. He was bravely trying to hold it together, his
mouth clamped in a firm line to avoid trembling, his eyes straight
ahead. I wished I’d taken the time to review his outfit a bit more
closely. The jeans were rumpled and the plaid shirt was one he’d
plucked from his overnight bag. My iron and I are practically total
strangers but I could have run them