Ditched 4 Murder

Chapter 27

I eyed the mattress as if it was a medieval rack. It was past eleven and if I was going to get any sleep, I’d at least have to make an attempt. To compensate, I arranged the pillows so the upper part of my body would have some support. I was about to turn down the sheets when the buzz of my phone went off—a text message.

Please tell me it’s not the damn tent company.

It was Nate with a three-word message. No explanation whatsoever. Three words that kept me awake for an hour as I tried to interpret them. All he said was “Hang tight, kiddo.” Was that supposed to mean he’d found Louis and would be at Petroglyph Plaza in time for the ceremony? Or did he mean something more literal like “good luck with this mess”? I had no idea. All I knew was that two murderers associated with my aunt’s wedding were still at large and the groom had vanished. The only good news was there was no evidence indicating Louis might have been the one responsible for Theodore Sizemore’s death. As for Roland’s death . . . well . . . technically, it was the snake. Of course, the snake wasn’t responsible for getting him in the ditch to begin with, but I didn’t want to dwell on that. I had enough disturbing thoughts clogging up my mind and I didn’t need one more.

Some people count sheep or count backward from a hundred in order to fall asleep. I counted possible murder suspects.

The sous chefs from Saveur de Evangeline whose names I didn’t bother to get because I was a lousy investigator . . .

The glamour girl hostesses from Saveur de Evangeline. . .

My mind flipped back and forth among the names as if it were a remote in search of a decent channel. When I finally slipped into oblivion, the alarm app on my phone went off. I was like a zombie. I don’t even remember taking a shower or slipping into shorts and a top, but I must have because my hair was wet and I was fully dressed when I drove to the Petroglyph Plaza to make sure the tent people had arrived.

Last I knew, unless my aunt had changed something without telling me, the guests were supposed to arrive around five and proceed up the trail between five and five-thirty, where they’d take their seats to watch the ceremony.

My God! I hope Jake and Everett remembered the chairs.

At approximately six-thirty, Louis Melinsky would be wed to wife number four and the guests would proceed to the pavilion/tent for the reception. That was, unless Louis was still married to wife number three, in which case, I’d proceed with Kirk’s contingency plan.

A bizarre thought crossed my mind as I reviewed the plan. I had forgotten to tell Kirk that, above all else, he absolutely had to make sure my aunt’s wedding dress was packed away for storage. Even if she insisted on wearing it home. Last thing our family needed was our own version of a gothic romance gone wrong.

As I started for the ancient ruins, I kept telling myself all I needed to do was make sure the tent was completely set up and the catering trucks were prepared to deliver the meal. I took slow, deep breaths and tried to cleanse my mind of any disturbing images. Like someone heaving the pastry birds in the air or, worse yet, stabbing the tent with culinary knives. I told myself over and over again, all would be well and I would then be able to go back to the Cactus Wren and dress for the wedding.

Halfway up the road to the Petroglyph Plaza, a haze of light illuminated the entire area. It was a van from Feltons’ Pavilions, Tents, and Awnings, complete with its own generator. I started to relax. They had arrived on time and were setting up the tent. In addition, I spotted a medium-size moving truck open in the rear, exposing the tables and chairs needed for the setup. Jake’s green Dodge Ram pickup truck was parked a few feet from it. Still filthy and dusty. The tarp, however, looked as if someone had brushed off some of the dirt. It was rolled back, exposing a few small poles and miscellaneous items.

In the darkness, only the design elements of the bhurj tent were visible. They stood out like a large paisley print left over from the seventies. I half expected George Harrison to appear and start playing a Hare Krishna mantra. I tried not to think about it. Voices echoed across the rocks. Men’s voices shouting orders as well as obscenities. Yep, the Felton brothers had arrived.

In an odd sort of way, the voices were pretty comforting because they blocked out the creepier sounds of coyotes, toads, and owls. I didn’t have to rely on the light from my cell phone in order to walk over to the wedding spot. Thanks to the Feltons, everything within a five-mile radius was lit up. I’m sure the campers down the road were really appreciative.

As I got closer, I saw the shadowy outline of someone running across the path and ducking behind one of the large rocks. Instinctively, I froze. All I could think of was Roland’s killer and the fact that maybe they had returned to lure someone else into that ditch.

I started to tiptoe backward before turning completely around to head for my car. I wasn’t about to get killed because my lunatic aunt wanted a sunrise ceremony. Midmorning would work just as well in my mind. I had taken five or six steps when I heard a female voice.

“Hey! I hope I didn’t scare you!”

As I spun my head around, a tall, slender woman dressed in a black top with black knee-length leggings was holding something, and I prayed it wasn’t a gun. Before I could respond, she shouted again. “I’m Sylena, the photographer.”

My hands were still shaking as I walked toward her. “The photographer? The wedding photographer?”

“Uh-huh. Ina Spangler hired my company—Sylena’s Stealth Photography. My boyfriend and I specialize in taking behind-the-scenes photos of weddings and special events. We blend the candid shots together along with the recordings we’ve made in order to create a visual montage.”

What the hell ever happened to sitting and posing for a picture?

“I’m . . . I’m . . . er . . . Phee Kimball, Ina’s niece, and I’m kind of in charge of making sure everything goes smoothly. Um . . . isn’t this a bit early to start taking pictures?”

Sylena shrugged as she let the camera rest on the strap over her shoulder.

“Yeah, I suppose. But my boyfriend and I are camping out here for the week and that blasted light from the tent setup woke me. So I figured what the heck. Might as well take some shots of the setup. Boy, those guys have the worst toilet mouths. Have you met them?”

“I’m afraid I have. In fact, I’m on my way over to make sure they’ve got everything they’re supposed to.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll poke around, take some shots, and come back in a little while. Have you ever camped here?”

“No.”

“It’s wonderful. One of Arizona’s best kept secrets. We were here a few weeks ago when they found a body in the Petroglyph ditch. Awful thing, huh?”

I took a step closer. “You were camping out here that night?”

“Yeah. Ian, that’s my boyfriend, likes to camp a few times a month. He’s into night photography and makes a pretty decent living freelancing for magazines. The stealth photography is more my thing.”

“Um, about that body . . . did anyone question you regarding what you might have seen?”

“Nope. No one. I mean, it wasn’t as if we were hanging around the campsite. And both of us dress completely in black, so we kind of blend in to the rocks and crevices. Even if someone wanted to question us, they’d be hard-pressed to find us. You have to really know the terrain in order to do what we do. It’s downright dangerous hiking in the dark. I imagine that’s what got that guy killed. He probably tripped over something and landed in the ditch. At that point, he became fair game for the wildlife. Like I said, awful thing, huh?”

“Uh-huh. Really awful.”

“Anyway, I’d better get going. It’ll be sunrise in no time. Nice to meet you, Phee.”

Then she glanced at my sandals. Clearly visible, thanks to the Feltons’ lighting. “It’s none of my business, but seriously, you should buy yourself some nice, sturdy hiking boots. The baby scorpions are vicious this time of year.”

In the blink of an eye, she disappeared. I instinctively shook my feet, just to be safe. A few yards away, I heard the continued barrage of expletives. Getting closer, I saw three men were working on the canopy. The pavilion/tent was already up.

“HELLO! HELLO! It’s me, Phee Kimball. How’s it going?” My voice seemed to echo around me.

“YO! Hang on. I’m coming.” Jake Felton left the other two guys and started to head my way.

I met him a few yards ahead on the trail. “Hi! I wanted to be sure things were going all right for the setup. They are going all right, aren’t they? I mean, I could hear you arguing.”

“We weren’t arguing. We were working. And yeah, everything’s good. Got the tables, got the chairs. We’ll be putting them on pallets and rolling them into the tent and the plaza area. Where did you want the setup for the music? I wrote it down somewhere. Seven or eight chairs for musicians, right?”

“Uh . . . um . . . yeah, seven or eight. I suppose you could place them off to the side of the plaza by the ruins.”

“Okay. I’ll stick ’em away from the edge.”

“Good. Good thought. Away from the edge. Oh . . . and I’ll need one chair by the start of the walkway for a flutist.”

“One chair. Got it. Anything else?”

“No, I think . . . Oh, look! It’s getting brighter down the hill. Must be the headlights from the food trucks. Good thing we’ve got a great view from up here. That’s got to be one of the caterers driving up the road. I’d better go check.”

No sooner did I finish speaking than a voice shot through the air like a cannon. “YOU GONNA GET YOUR BUTT OVER HERE ANYTIME SOON, JAKE?”

“That’s not arguing”—he started back to the canopy—“that’s working.”

I got back to the parking area in time to see the food truck from Saveur de Evangeline pull up. It was immediately followed by the one from La Petite Pâtisserie. Sebastian and one of the sous chefs, whom I recognized from the afternoon when I crawled on their kitchen floor, stepped out and greeted me. Luckily it was rather dark and I doubted the sous chef recognized me.

A few more employees would be joining them to assist and they would be arriving in their own vehicles. The sous chef took one look at the bhurj tent and asked Sebastian if they’d gotten the menu right. The guy muttered something about “not cooking Indian food” and Sebastian shushed him.

I don’t remember what I said, but I immediately hustled over to Julien’s truck, not expecting Julien to be the one driving it.

“Good morning, Miss Kimball. Rochelle and I are looking forward to delighting your guests. Antoine should be along shortly. He insisted on driving his own car, leaving me no choice but to get behind the wheel of our patisserie preparation van.”

I thanked him, pointed to the tent, which really didn’t need any pointing out, and then started to head back to the Cactus Wren to get ready for the wedding. Sylena had gotten me really unnerved with her comment about the baby scorpions, so I was looking down at my feet as I tried to walk. Suddenly, I remembered something. Cecilia and Myrna were tasked by my aunt Ina to “help the caterers.”

I immediately rushed back to tell Sebastian and Julien. Neither of them was pleased. I almost considered thrusting Cecilia and Myrna on the Feltons, but I honestly couldn’t do that to the Feltons. That being said, I left things as they were and went back to the B and B.