What the Hatmaker Heard. Sandra Bretting
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That didn’t surprise me. Like me, Lance originally hailed from Texas, and he’d only been working as a police detective for three years or so.
“What do you think happened to the groom?” I asked.
“I’ll know more once I examine the body. To the best of your knowledge, did anyone come or go from the water tower this morning?”
“Not that I know of. The door was shut tight, and nothing looked out of place. At first, I thought Wesley’s body was only a puddle of clothes. One of Darryl’s coveralls, to be exact. I have no idea how he ended up there, Lance.”
Lance flipped the notepad closed. Once he shoved it back in his pocket, he started to return to Darryl.
The houseman was still waiting for us by the tower, and he seemed relieved when Lance told him he could leave the scene.
“But please don’t mention this to anyone yet,” Lance said. “I want to be the one to break the news to the family.”
That was another tidbit I’d learned from Lance about police investigations. A detective assigned to a case normally told the family about someone’s death, so he or she could study the reactions of the next of kin. Some people were incredible actors, and they faked grief at the drop of a hat, while other people were unable to hide their emotions. Lance once apprehended a woman who murdered her husband, and she implicated herself when she couldn’t stop giggling during the interview. While that was an extreme case, it encouraged Lance to take the lead and announce a death himself.
Once Darryl walked away, I turned to him. “You know, this is going to devastate the bride. Even though…”
Lance watched me carefully. “Even though what?”
“Well, it’s probably nothing.” I was unable to shake the memory of Lorelei and Wesley arguing behind the hedge. “But I overhead the bride and groom fighting yesterday.” Far be it from me to keep any information I had from Lance. He trusted me to be as forthright as possible, and it was one of the reasons he’d include me in these investigations.
“What were they fighting about?”
“Apparently, Wesley felt sick, and he didn’t think he could make it to the rehearsal last night.”
“Did he?”
“No, he didn’t. Lorelei’s dad had to stand in for him. I thought he would stay in bed this morning to recuperate. I think that’s what a lot of people expected.”
“Interesting.” Lance whipped out his notepad again and wrote something else down. “I think it’s time we headed for the house.”
I didn’t look back as we walked across the grass. I knew the next time I saw the area, yellow caution tape would separate it from the rest of the property. To be honest, I wanted to forget the view of Wesley lying face-down in a half-inch of water, his body twisted around the base of the ladder like a wadded-up blanket.
So I remained silent as we made our way to the house. Halfway there, something else caught my attention. The stairwell that led to the wine cellar—the same stairwell I took yesterday to avoid the rain—was now blocked by a small statue. A winged statue of an angel about to take flight. Like the rest of the property, the statue looked expensive but timeworn.
“Well, that’s weird.” I paused by the stairwell, my thoughts retreating to last night’s thunderstorm. I definitely didn’t run across a blockade when I ducked down the stairs and ran into the wine cellar. Someone purposefully blocked the path now. But, why?
“What’s weird?” Lance asked.
“That statue wasn’t here last night. The staircase leads to a wine cellar, and I went downstairs when it started to pour.”
“That is strange.” Lance didn’t hesitate. He automatically bent to move the statue out of the way. Although it didn’t look heavy, his shoulders strained with the effort.
“Here, let me help you.” I placed both hands on the wings and gave a hearty push.
Once the statue ended up on the grass, Lance hopped ahead of me and went down the steps. I followed him, and my eyesight automatically dimmed as I entered the shadowy cellar.
There, across the room, hulked the long bar I’d spied earlier, with the initials HH carved into the wood. Across from it was the display of casks that stairstepped up the wall. Everything looked the same. Everything, that was, except for two of the barstools, which had been moved to a side table by the wall. The monogrammed stools sat cheek by jowl in a shadowy corner of the room.
“I’ll hit the lights.” I reached for the switch I found yesterday and fired up the chandeliers behind the bar. Sure enough, the barstools had been moved to a high-top table that sat by the casks.
“That’s different.” I made my way over there. The table was dented and nicked, an obvious antique, and the legs didn’t quite match up, so it leaned forward a bit.
“What’s different about it?” Lance joined me by the table and placed his hands on his hips. He’d already given the room a brief once-over. Knowing him, nothing escaped his notice, and he’d probably observed several things I hadn’t even seen.
“It’s just that someone moved the chairs.” I pointed to the monogrammed seats. “And it had to happen after I left the room. I think it was about nine by the time the rain stopped and I finally went inside the house.”
“Wasn’t there a wedding rehearsal last night?’ Lance asked. “I always thought they hold those things earlier in the evening, because the minister has to come out, too.”
“Usually, yes. But this one didn’t start until later. And it didn’t get over until midnight. I remember that because the bride’s father gave a toast, and he talked about the late hour.”
“Maybe some of the wedding party came back here after the rehearsal.” Lance seemed to be talking more to himself than me, because he spoke softly as he appraised the chairs.
“Could be, but most people were talking about going straight to bed after the toast. We were all pretty tired by that point.”
Lance bent to inspect the table more closely. Just when I thought he was about to touch it, his gaze darted sideways, to a ledge built into the stone wall. I glanced at it as well, and spied two wineglasses tucked on the wood outcropping. Something watery and red colored the bowls of the wineglasses, and ruby liquid dribbled down the sides.
We both moved closer to a get a better look. Sure enough, the remnants of a merlot, cabernet, or some other crimson wine stained the glasses.
“What do you make of that?” I didn’t recall seeing the glasses the night before. I remembered seeing the shelves, which staggered up the stone walls, but I didn’t remember them holding anything.
“I’d say someone had a little party here.” Lance didn’t touch the glasses. Instead, he removed his cell from his pocket and snapped several pictures. “I need to get my investigator in here to take some measurements before I move these. You said you didn’t notice them last night?”
“No, I didn’t. I remember liking the shelves because they added character, but I don’t remember seeing anything on them.”
“Okay, then.” Once he reappraised the barstools and table, Lance suddenly squatted.
“What’s wrong?”
He must’ve spotted something on the ground.
With a quick motion, Lance withdrew some latex gloves from the pocket of his khakis. Once he put them on, he picked up something small, white, and rectangular from the floor. It looked like a piece of paper, or perhaps a wrapper of some sort.
He studied it, too, before he placed it in a plastic evidence bag he kept in the same pocket as the gloves. When he finally zippered the bag shut, he turned to me. “It’s a paper someone would use to roll a cigarette.