Page 40 of She Doesn't Have a Clue
The man looked at her and back at his camera. “It would look like I am, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m Kate,” she said, putting out a hand before realizing both of his still held the camera. She pulled it back, forcing her smile wider. “Kate Valentine. Nice to meet you.”
He gave her a bemused nod. “Louis. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get a couple more photos of the spread before the guests get to it. We’re not called More Than Memories because we skimp on the wedding day captures.”
“Great,” Kate said, her smile fading. “I was wondering if we could take a look at some of the photos from the rehearsal dinner. Particularly any photos you might have of the bride after the dinner? Anybody who might have been with her maybe?”
Louis paused in front of a silver tower of petit fours. “What?”
Marla gave Kate a frank look, as if to saysee what I mean about Brenda Leigh?“The bride lost her heirloom necklace last night, and we’re trying to help her find it.”
“Oh yeah, that’s good,” Kate muttered. Who looked like the expert now? “I mean, that’s true.”
The photographer straightened up, holding out his camera. “Fine, but could we make it quick? I’ve still got the groom’s fitting and the bridal room prep to photograph. My partner was supposed to be here this morning but they can’t get here with the storm, so I need to be in two places at once.”
“We’ll be quick,” Kate promised, clicking through the gallery. There were the obligatory place-setting photos, a whole series of the bride’s and groom’s rings in various food dishes, the overloaded gift table. And then there it was, Kate knocking Kennedy into the same table, Kate looking deranged and Kennedy looking like the perfect victim.
“Not a great vibe for you, huh, Valentine?” Marla murmured over her shoulder. She leaned in closer for a better look, her frown deepeningas she took in more of the disaster scene. Kate’s finger hovered over the delete button, her good sense warring with her sense of self-preservation. Before she could make up her mind one way or the other, Marla snuck a hand in and pressed her finger down, deleting the photo.
“Hey!” Louis exclaimed, jerking the camera away. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Sorry!” Kate said hastily, holding up a hand. “My finger slipped. Bacon grease.”
“Happens to the best of us, doesn’t it, Louie?” Marla slapped him on the back, the faint whiff of clove cigarettes rising out of her oversize black sweater. She gave Kate a wink, as if to sayyou’re welcome.“I’m sure that wasn’t one of those precious memories the bride was looking for. What if we skip ahead to the end of the night, huh?”
“Fine,” Louis ground out, quickly scrolling through the rest of the rehearsal dinner.
There were photos of Kate running out after the speeches, but she could hardly claim an accident if she tried to delete those now. So, she let the photographer scroll until he reached a series of Kennedy posing with various sets of guests throughout the house. She still wore her necklace in each of the photos, though her face looked increasingly flushed throughout, her smile more strained. Kate clocked the time as it ticked by—11:30, 11:35, 11:42. Several guests flitted in and out of the background of each photo—a bright spot of Rebecca’s floral caftan, the back of Richie’s herringbone jacket, Serena’s fascinator marking the hour of the evening by how low it had slipped over her eye.
The last photo of Kennedy was a candid, in conversation with her bridesmaids as other guests moved past behind them. She looked terrible—sweaty and green, deep circles pressing in under her eyes. But she smiled bravely, where Kate would have already had her head in the toilet praying for the end. She was still wearing the necklace, but that wasn’t what snagged Kate’s attention in the background of the photo.
It was the cut-crystal champagne glass half hidden by skirts andbodies, held by a hand with bright purple nails that stood out even in the tiny viewfinder. Kate was sure if she looked at the photo on a computer screen she’d see the wordBridelaser-etched into the side of the glass. And she was also sure that the hand holding the glass belonged to none other than Juliette Winters, smiling like a shark at the camera.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Valentine, wait up!” Marla hissed as Kate dodged through the growing crowd of wedding guests vying for plates of bacon and heaping cups of coffee. “For fuck’s sake, you move like a hyperactive toddler on coke. What is it? What did you see?”
“Shhh,” Kate said, lurking along the fringes of the crowd and positioning herself in a shadowy corner to do what she did best. “I’m snooping.”
Marla gave her sweater a skeptical look. “Hard to be inconspicuous in that thing. Would you just tell me what you saw in the photo that’s got you all rattled?”
“The missing champagne glass,” Kate whispered. “In that last photo, it looked like Juliette was holding Kennedy’s glass.”
Marla’s brows shot up. “You think she’s our killer? I mean, it fits. The bitch is wound tighter than a corkscrew.”
“I need to talk to her,” Kate said resolutely. “Find out what she was doing last night, and where she was when Kennedy was knocked out. You want to come with me? I can show you the ropes for interrogating what I assume will be a very hostile suspect.”
“Sounds thrilling,” Marla said, “but wouldn’t it be better if I gopoking around her stuff while you’ve got her distracted? Get some of that evidence you’ve been talking about?”
“Oh, right,” Kate said, crestfallen. She’d been enjoying having a sleuthing partner, even if it wasn’t Jake. “That’s a good idea, actually. But be careful. If Juliette really is our potential killer, she’s… well, a potential killer. Who knows what she might try.”
“I’ll be fine,” Marla said with a wave. “Besides, Juliette’s always trying to rattle everybody else. It’ll be good for someone to rattle her cage for once.”
Marla slipped off into the crowd and Kate circulated through the room, keeping one eye out for Juliette or any of her other suspects.
“It’ll never stand, of course,” said an older man in a silk smoking jacket. He’d amassed a small audience of like-dressed people with smooth foreheads and dark blue veins along the backs of their hands. “There’s too much precedent against her. Not that I’d want to go up against Rebecca Hempstead, mind you. She eviscerated her cousins over the inheritance rights. Left them poorer than they started.”
“It’s a bad look, I don’t mind saying,” sniffed a woman in a diamond- and-emerald necklace. “The press will have a field day with it, of course. It’s splashy and tacky, just like her. Always making a fuss, dragging the rest of us into it. They’ll be swarming the Dover benefit next month, you know. It’s obscene!”