Love Kills (17 page)

“Why do we have to change planes twice?” I complained to Lacey. Our route to Minneapolis seemed oddly circuitous. “Why do we have to go all the way to Dallas/Fort Worth and change planes again in Cincinnati?”

“Airline rules,” Lacey said. “Even when you die, you have to go through Cincinnati.”

I like window seats, horizon, endless skies, and towering cloud banks. I love bird's-eye views of my destination and the surrounding terrain. Lacey prefers the aisle. That made us ideal traveling companions. But there was a flaw in the arrangement, a fly in the ointment: For me, aisle seats were now more practical.

The third time I disturbed Lacey to visit the restroom, I felt I owed him an explanation. “I could swear something's pressing on my bladder.”

“Wonder what on earth it could be?” he asked, with a straight face.

“Don't make me laugh,” I warned, “and pray that I don't sneeze.”

When he wasn't the sad and moody boy, his sense of humor was droll. He perked up and seemed more cheerful after we left Baton Rouge.

By 11
P.M
. we were camped out on a row of hard plastic chairs in a chilly concourse at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, our connecting flight blown off schedule by a line of thunderstorms.

Onnie had e-mailed the names of about two dozen Miami Ski Club members. The president was out of town. I caught the secretary at home on Pine Tree Drive, in Miami Beach. My late call, she said, struck fear into her heart.

“I have teenagers,” she said. “Now that they're driving, it terrifies me whenever they're out at night and the phone rings. You know how it is.”

No, I thought, but I guess I will.

I asked if she had skied in Colorado on the date Colleen died. She hadn't, she said. There'd been a family wedding she couldn't miss.

I mentioned the accident.

“Oh, I know the one you're talking about. The young bride who skied into the trees. I've heard the story.”

She'd heard it from Mitzi and Richard Findlater, the couple who could prove Marsh Holt lied. When I called, they were enjoying their customary nightcap on the balcony of their high-rise Portofino apartment overlooking South Beach and the sea.

“That lovely young girl,” Mitzi said, “the bride.”

“On her honeymoon,” Richard said in the background.

“That's the one,” I said.

“We rode up on the lift with them a number of times,” Mitzi said. “A rather nice-looking but nasty fellow; too bad the girl didn't live long enough to dump him.”

“They didn't seem like a match?”

“Hardly.” Ice tinkled in her glass.

In the background, her husband mumbled a few mitigating words in support of the bereaved bridegroom.

“A bad day?” she responded to him. “A bad day, sweetheart? On his honeymoon? Tell me you had a bad day on our honeymoon. I think not.”

I liked Mitzi.

“It was our last day,” she said. “We had to leave very early in the morning. It was late and starting to snow. We wanted one last run ourselves, so the four of us waited for the lift. She kept begging to go back to their room. She said she was exhausted. He insisted she go up the mountain with him one last time. She didn't want to.

“Skiing conditions deteriorated even more as we waited. By the time the lift arrived, it was snowing harder and the visibility was worse. We decided against it. It was our last night. We'd had a wonderful trip; why push our luck? We turned to leave and she tried to follow.

“He absolutely glowered. Kept saying, ‘Don't be a baby, Colleen, get
on
the lift.' He smiled when we stared, but it was a chilling smile. He gripped her arm. She was in tears. He nearly dragged her aboard. She turned to me with a pleading look I'll never forget. I'll always regret not intervening, insisting that she come back to the hotel with us. If he was bent on playing king of the mountain, we should have left him to do it alone, without dragging that poor dear girl along.

“At dinner, we heard there'd been a fatal accident on the mountain. I suspected it might be them. As we left at dawn, we saw a ski patrol medic who confirmed it. He said they knew she was dead the moment they saw her. Her head was lying back on her shoulders, her neck broken. How horrible.”

“Wasn't it unusual for him to be skiing ahead of her?” I asked.

She agreed. Richard took the phone to explain.

“In the flat light those conditions bring about,” he said, “skiers find it extremely difficult to differentiate between smooth terrain ahead and a drop. Generally, the man doesn't go ahead, but he was wearing those expensive tinted goggles that help in that light and should make it easier for the skier following behind him.”

He handed the phone back to Mitzi. When I said that Lottie Dane, a
News
photographer, would call her for an appointment, she was fine with it. But I heard Richard grumbling in the background.

“Nailed it,” I told Lacey, after hanging up.

He went off to inquire again about our delayed flight. I wandered down the concourse in my never-ending quest for food and restrooms, my flip-flops slapping the soles of my feet. The restroom I found had a vending machine, but it dispensed only combs, condoms, tampons, and temporary tattoos. Nothing edible.

Lacey returned: no new information on our flight. We watched an electrifying lightning display through the big windows, then opened our laptops. Lacey checked his e-mail and tackled a few job-related tasks.

I polished my interview with the Findlaters and e-mailed it to Lottie along with their telephone number, asking her to schedule a photo assignment and shoot them together.

It was nearly midnight and cold. Lacey put his arms around me to keep me warm as we talked about Suzanne, the other victims, and why it's so difficult to persuade law enforcement to reopen a closed case.

“Does anybody aside from the immediate survivors even care about the misery that murder brings?” he asked plaintively. “How many have to die before people notice? They see it on TV, read about it in their newspaper, sip their coffee, and shrug it off.”

“Some murders aren't even reported in the newspaper,” I said. “But good reporters and good cops become part of the immediate family. We do notice and we do try to do something about it. Believe me, when this story hits the paper, everyone will care.

“In this world full of bureaucratic clock-watching time-wasters, journalists are among the few people left who can make a difference. Report it right, put it in the newspaper, and stand back. The story takes on a life of its own. It's like magic. That's one of the joys of being a journalist. It's certainly not the size of the paycheck.”

“I've learned so much watching you work,” he said. “The way you glean information from people and then put it all together. I wish I had taken more journalism courses.”

“It's never too late.”

He nodded, his boyish face earnest. “Hemingway once said that everyone who writes novels should work for a daily newspaper first.”

Our flight was finally called at 3
A.M
. Then we sat in line on the runway for another hour and three-quarters before takeoff.

“What if we don't get there in time?” I worried.

“If our connections go smoothly from here, we'll be all right,” he said.

“But we can't cut it too close,” I persisted. “We need time to sit down and explain to the bride and her family. It'll be traumatic, not something you can do five minutes before she's supposed to walk down the aisle. She'll freak.”

“Better freaked than dead,” he said. “Better to have loved and lost than to be married to a psycho.”

Lights were out, most passengers asleep, when the seat-belt warning flashed on and the captain warned of turbulence ahead. More thunderstorms.

As the plane bucked and bounced and was buffeted about, I wished I didn't need to go to the restroom again.

Queasy, I used my willpower to keep us airborne and our captain on course. I exhausted all that energy for nothing. After twenty rollercoaster minutes, our flight was diverted to Davenport, Iowa.

I panicked.

“We won't make it.” I squeezed Lacey's arm until he winced. “We can't let an innocent woman leave on a honeymoon with that man; it's signing her death warrant.”

“Don't get upset,” Lacey said softly. “We'll figure something out. We'll catch the next flight to Minneapolis.”

“He'll kill her!”

An older woman in the seat in front of us turned to stare, then whispered to her companion, who also turned to look. I decided to keep my fears and frustration to myself.

We landed in a driving rain. There was no next flight to Minneapolis. No jets were departing for Minneapolis, and all commuter flights had been grounded due to weather.

I used the
News
corporate card to rent a car, knowing as I pushed the card across the counter that Fred expected me in a few hours. What would he say if he knew how far I'd traveled from Miami since we spoke? Now I was using
News
credit to distance myself even farther.

Saving a woman's life was my objective now. Fred would approve of that, I told myself, though I didn't give him the opportunity.

We waited forever at the car rental counter. Neither of us knew the area, so I asked for a car with OnStar or a GPS system. None was available.

All they had was a tiny compact car. The
News
bean counters would be delighted.

We drove north. I was starved, famished, so hungry I felt as though I hadn't eaten for days. But we had no time to stop. Rain pounded in horizontal sheets, crashing nonstop into the windshield as though hurled by a bucket brigade of madmen.

Despairing of arriving in time, we pulled over and I called the bride's home. Reception was poor. This would be so much better done in person, I thought.

A young woman answered against a backdrop of giggles and girlish chatter. “Is this Nancy Lee Chastain?”

“No, she's sort of busy right now,” the woman sang out good-naturedly.

“Can I speak to her? This is an emergency.”

Bursts of static on the line made hearing difficult, and I feared losing the connection.

“She's about to leave for the church, hon. Nancy's getting married today.”

“No,” I said firmly. “She mustn't. That's why I'm calling.” I spoke calmly and distinctly. “I have to talk to her. She's in danger. Don't let her do this.”

“Say again?” she said skeptically. “Is this a joke? Sue Ellen, is that you?”

“No. Put Nancy on the telephone. Now. Please.”

“Does she know you?”

“No. My name is Britt Montero, I'm a reporter for the
Miami News.
”

“She doesn't have time for an interview right now.”

“Can I speak to her mother?”

“The bride's mother is busy right now too. Please call back another time.”

“This is an emergency.”

“I don't know who you are”—the young voice became petulant—“but show a little respect. This is Nancy's wedding day.”

She hung up.

“Let's go,” I told Lacey hopelessly.

“Which way?” He tried without success to see through the flooded windshield.

I bit back a sob of sheer frustration. Our tinny little rental didn't even have a compass. Where the hell were we? Several times we pulled over to consult a road map, but the rain was so torrential that we couldn't even read street signs without one of us getting out of the car and drenched. This was madness. Lacey and I began to snipe at each other as what should have been a three-hour drive took twice as long.

By the time we arrived in Minneapolis, it was too late to go to the house. We had to find the church. I had the address.

“What if the ceremony's already started?” Lacey asked. “What do we do then?”

“You know the part when the pastor asks that anyone who knows why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony should speak now or forever keep their piece? And everybody holds their breath?”

“Oh, shit,” Lacey said. “I'm not doing it.”

“You have to,” I insisted. “How would it look to a church full of strangers for a woman in my condition to stand up and object? Think about it.”

“What do they do when someone speaks up?”

“I don't know. I never saw it happen.”

We stopped for directions again and were told that the church was about forty minutes away.

The wedding was scheduled for 2
P.M
. It was now 1:35
P.M
.

As we passed a police station I shouted for Lacey to pull over.

I trotted inside, cold, drenched, faint from hunger, wet hair plastered against my skull, my flip-flops squishing at every step.

“You have to help me!” I told the sergeant. “You have to send a patrol car to the Church of the Little Flower to stop a wedding. Right now!”

The pudgy middle-aged sergeant looked up from his crossword and regarded me, his gaze puzzled. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Long story,” I panted. “But it's a life-and-death matter. The bride's life is in danger if she marries him.”

His look was long, sad, and searching. “I'm sorry for your trouble, ma'am. But you can't keep a man from getting married.”

“Okay,” I impatiently conceded. “Yes, I am pregnant. That is obvious. But it has nothing to do with why the wedding has to be stopped.”

We went round and round. I displayed my press card and attempted to explain. “The bride's name is Nancy Lee Chastain, she's a local television celebrity. That's what attracted him to her.”

“Nancy Lee? The gal on TV with the food show? I watch her all the time.” He began to look interested. “That's right, they said something on TV about her getting married. Lucky man. He'll never go hungry.”

“He's a serial killer.”

His eyebrows shot skyward. “You have proof that he's wanted?”

“He's not wanted yet, no charges have been filed, but there are homicide cases in five or six different jurisdictions. We don't want her to be his next victim.”

“You know the case numbers on the homicides?”

“Well, right now,” I said, “they're listed as accidental deaths.” I listened to what I was saying and knew that even I wouldn't believe me.

He sighed. “You're a long way from home, honey, and I sympathize. But what you have here is a civil matter. It belongs in domestic court. You need to hire yourself a lawyer.”

Lacey came through the door at that moment, streaming rainwater, soaked to the skin after parking the car some distance away.

“He won't listen!” I told him.

I turned angrily back to the officer. “I need to see the watch commander!”

“Don't raise your voice to me.” The sergeant suddenly seemed less sympathetic. “The watch commander doesn't need to see you. He's a little bit busy right now.”

“He won't listen.” Lacey instantly assessed the situation. “We're just wasting time. Let's go.”

“Good idea,” the sergeant said. “You best stay away from that church,” he called after us. “Don't you cause any trouble.”

Backing out of the parking lot in the rain, Lacey hit a barricade. We climbed out to assess the damage. The rental car's left rear panel had folded like an accordion.

No damage to the barricade.

As we began to drive away, a young cop emerged from the station to flag us down.

We had to file an accident report, he said. He insisted, despite our arguments that we—actually the
News
corporate credit card—would reimburse the rental company for the damage.

In Miami, police don't even respond to accidents without serious injury or major property damage. Drivers can phone in accident reports later. But this was Minneapolis.

The young officer, rain dripping off his cap, was adamant. The desk sergeant watched from just inside the door. I wondered if this was his idea, to delay us, or document our identities in the event we created a disturbance, or worse, at the church.

I tried to call the church, hoping to reach a priest, a wedding planner, a custodian, anybody, but I had no cell signal. The battery was low. I plugged the adapter into the car's cigarette lighter. At least our crappy car had one of those.

The accident report took more than thirty minutes to complete. Then the officer wrote Lacey two tickets, one for careless driving, the other for damaging police property.

Outright lies. There was no damage to police property, not a scratch, not a smudge. Not fair. But would we be there to defend ourselves and dispute the charges in Minneapolis traffic court? They knew we wouldn't.

“There's still a chance,” I said, as we finally drove away. “Some wedding ceremonies take more than an hour. And brides are often late. Really late. Latina brides in Miami sometimes keep their grooms waiting for two–three hours or more.”

“Nancy is not Latina,” he muttered.

“Maybe they started late because of the weather.”

Lacey grunted. I got the impression he had stopped speaking to me.

“Seriously, I went to a Greek Orthodox wedding once. The ceremony took ninety minutes. The bride and groom wore crowns and marched around the church three times, I swear.”

“Is Nancy Greek?”

“I doubt it.”

At least he spoke, but his sidelong look was snide.

“If you hadn't hit that barricade, this wouldn't have happened.”

“If you hadn't ticked off that desk sergeant—” He bit his lip. “Britt, it's just you and me. We're strangers here and at a big disadvantage. Let's not fight. If we don't work together, we've got nothing.”

“You're right.” I teared up and kissed his cheek. “I'm sorry. I think it's hormones.”

 

The weather was pristine by the time we careened up to the Church of the Little Flower. Perfect wedding weather. Blue skies, puffy white clouds. The door to the beautiful church was open, the interior yawned empty, silent and sweet smelling. No one was there. Perhaps my message had reached the bride, giving her second thoughts, an epiphany, a gut feeling, cold feet, and the urge to run.

The evidence said otherwise. Rose petals and birdseed were everywhere, scattered about the church entrance, littering the flagstone path. Many brides use them now instead of rice, which can be harmful to wildlife. The trail of seeds and petals led into the parking lot.

It was as empty as the church.

“What's the address of the reception?” I asked Lacey, my voice shrill.

He murmured something I couldn't quite make out as I clambered back into the car.

“What?” I asked irritably.

“I said, I think we're out of gas.”