The Trouble with Tulip (13 page)

She cried a little bit more. Danny held her and slowly her sobs gave way to sniffles. Finally, when it was almost dark and she was silent again, he closed his eyes and prayed out loud.

“Father,” he said softly, “we know that what happened today can be used by You for good. Please be with Bradford as he figures out what he wants. Be with Jo as she struggles with the ramifications of his actions. Be with me, as her friend, to show me how I can help. And keep our eyes only and completely on You.”

He left off the “amen” in case she had anything to add. She was quiet for a moment and then she finished the prayer.

“Lord,” she said, her voice sounding strangely determined, “please help me to learn who murdered Edna Pratt. Amen.”

10

J
o woke up early on Sunday morning, glad to have an excuse for not going to church. There was simply no way she could face a room full of people so soon, many of whom had been there yesterday for her wedding and would still be wagging their tongues about it today. Last night she had poked around online until she found a phone number for Sally Sugarman down in Texas. Jo called and offered her condolences, and when Sally mentioned that she was flying in this morning, Jo had quickly offered to pick her up at the airport in nearby Moore City.

Of course, Jo realized, the irony was that she was supposed to have gone to the airport in the morning anyway to begin her honeymoon flight to Bermuda.

What a difference a day makes.

As Jo sailed up the highway on the 40-minute drive to the airport, she thought about the brief visit she'd had with her parents the night before, when they'd stopped by her house to say goodbye on their way out of town. They had described the reception in detail and gone on and on about the food and the wedding cake and the band. But when Jo said all she really wanted to know was what had gone wrong with Bradford, her mother surprised her by saying, “Oh, your father's already talked to him, dear. He's all right.”

“He's all right?” Jo had said, stunned. “He's
all right?
”

“Cold feet,” her father explained dismissively. “We're going to discuss it further at the office on Thursday.”

“You're going to discuss it further? What does this have to do with you, Father? Why isn't he here discussing this with me?”

“Jo, calm down,” her mother said.

“I won't calm down,” she said, surprising even herself. “Why are you in the middle of this?”

Her father paced in the small living room, looking about, obviously wishing that somehow a wet bar or a liquor cart might magically appear. In times of stress he always reached out for a drink.

“Jo, like it or not, Bradford is my employee. He knew I would be upset with what happened, so he called to let me know that he was sorry but that he just got cold feet and he would explain further next week.”

The conversation with her parents had degenerated from there, but the bottom line was that Bradford had thought a conversation with his boss should take priority over a conversation with the woman he had publicly humiliated by abandoning at the altar. Unbelievable.

Once her parents were gone, the entire group of bridesmaids had shown up to offer comfort and to talk about the reception, but there wasn't really all that much to say. Between all of them, they polished off a gallon of ice cream, and then they took one of Jo and Bradford's engagement photos and set it on fire, watching it burn in the empty fireplace as they sang “Na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye.”

It didn't help.

What did help was when they went through every single wedding present, card, and check, and organized them all for returning. Two of Jo's friends split the load between their cars, insisting that this was one of the official duties of wedding attendants—to make sure the gifts got returned in the case of a cancellation.

With that burden off her shoulders, Jo was determined to make the most of the next few days—the days she had already planned to be off work and out of town for her honeymoon. She didn't expect to hear from Bradford anytime soon—and she had no intention of trying to contact him herself. So for now, her derailed love life was utterly on hold. In the meantime, Jo planned to share the facts about Edna's death with Sally. Maybe they could put their heads together over who might have wanted Edna dead.

Jo reached the airport a few minutes early, found a parking spot, and made her way to the central area. She sat on a bench there and watched people milling around, both those coming out of the terminal and those in line to go through security to get in to the terminal.

She was feeling a little sorry for herself, imagining how different this morning would have been had yesterday not gone so horribly wrong. In her imagination, she could almost see Bradford's tall, blond form as he worked his way through the line for security, and she knew she would have been right there with him—as his wife.

Suddenly, she stood up, wondering if that
was
Bradford's tall, blond form working his way through the line for security. She moved forward, trying to get a better look at the man she had spotted, until a uniformed officer told her she could go no further without valid identification and an airline ticket.

She wanted to yell, to call out Bradford's name and see if the man would turn around, but he was too far away—not to mention that she knew such an act might get her in trouble with security.

“Bradford!” she called halfheartedly, her hands cupped around her mouth. “Bradford!”

The man didn't turn, but his line did move forward, around the corner, and then he was out of her sight completely.

“Jo? Jo Tulip?”

Jo spun around to see a woman in her forties, brown hair pulled back into a neat French twist, her navy suit a cut above usual travel attire.

Sally Sugarman.

Jo shook her hand, forced a smile, and tried not to seem as though she were dying inside. Had that been Bradford, getting on a plane?

More importantly: Had he been alone?

Heart pounding, Jo asked if Sally had any checked bags.

“Yes, two.” she replied.

“Do you mind going ahead to baggage claim?” Jo asked. “I'm sorry, but there's something I need to do. I'll meet you down there.”

“Sure,” Sally said. “No problem.”

Trying not to run, Jo made her way to the American Airlines counter, where she waited in a short line and then stepped forward when it was her turn. She explained she had a flight that morning to Bermuda that she wasn't going to be able to take, and she wondered what could be done about a refund.

Confirming her worst fears, the woman pulled up her reservation and stared at the computer screen with a puzzled look, typing in several different entries before finally looking up at Jo.

“I'm sorry, but this reservation was exchanged.”

“Exchanged. For another person?”

The woman typed a few keys and then studied her screen.

“Not exactly. You were to be traveling with a Mr. Bradford Quinn?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Looks like he cashed in the two coach tickets and bought a single ticket to Bermuda, first class.”

“He
what?
”

As the woman went over it again in detail, everything became remarkably clear: Though the wedding was off, Bradford had decided to take the honeymoon anyway. The agent explained Jo's options at this point, but finally she just held up a hand to stop her.

Rather than going all the way to New York City last night as Jo had assumed, Bradford must have driven to Moore City and stayed at their wedding night hotel and then shuttled over to the airport this morning to catch their honeymoon flight to Bermuda. Unbelievable!

“It doesn't matter,” Jo said numbly. “Let him have it. I don't care.”

Almost in a state of shock, Jo wandered through the terminal toward baggage claim. As angry and hurt as she was, she had to admit that Bradford was the one who had paid for the honeymoon in the first place. The tickets had gone on his credit card, as had the deluxe hotel, so in a way he was right to have taken the trip himself.

Oh, who was she kidding? It was all she could do not to run down the hallway and throttle him. Luckily for him, there was just a little matter of airline security standing in her way.

“Hey, Mac, ain't this your stop?”

Simon snapped awake, his eyelids scraping across his eyes like sandpaper. The bus was sitting idle, and the fellow who had been on board and sitting across the aisle since Charleston was poking him.

“This Jacksonville?” Simon asked, running a hand across his face.

“Yep. Just pulled in.”

“Very good, then. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Simon gathered his things and climbed off the bus, waiting beside the luggage compartment as the driver opened it. He pulled out his suitcase, gave the driver a nod, and headed for the nearest pay phone.

Before he got a meal or even cleaned himself up, Simon wanted to touch base with Wiggles. Wiggles was the only one of the gang who kept a steady address and phone number. He lived in a tiny, one-bedroom bungalow his mother had left to him when she died years before—not that the joint was any big prize. In fact, the place was so close to the tracks that a passing freight train could rattle the dishes right off the shelves. But at least it was permanent. Wiggles lived off disability, spent his days walking the beaches with a metal detector looking for lost change, and served as a sort of ad hoc clearing house for the comings and goings of Florida's grifting underbelly.

Simon got Wiggles' answering machine, so he hung up without leaving a message, feeling at loose ends. The growl in his stomach told him he was long overdue for a meal. He used the bus station bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth, and then, wanting to make the money in his pocket last as long as possible, he started walking in the general direction of Wiggles' house. Simon knew he would come across a grocery store in a few blocks, and that he could probably make do with a box of crackers and some sardines or tuna or potted meat—whatever was on sale. Maybe if he slipped Wiggles a twenty, Wiggles would let him crash at his place tonight. Maybe for a hundred, he'd let him stay there all week.

At church Danny's mother was the first to corner him when he walked in the door.