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WINSTON SHIELDED HIS eyes from the camera’s flash and asked, “What are you doing here?”
Lyle stopped taking pictures and hung the camera over his shoulder. “We got your message. Didn’t you invite us to your wedding? I caught a Lyft earlier than the rest to take some before shots.”
“Wait, I did what?” Hadn’t he left a message incriminating Viv?
Lyle took out a cloth and started cleaning the camera lens. “You told Viv you saw something in the shack. And to meet you for your wedding.”
Winston thought back to his static-filled phone message and the sleepy clerk. He’d told the messenger about the pin and then said, The wedding starts in an hour.
He did a face palm. He’d wanted Viv to rush and make it before the big event, not to show up for it.
Lyle continued, “Everyone else is getting ready, but they’ll be here shortly.”
Winston took a deep breath in and out. Well, now that Lyle was here, what info could he get out of the photographer? Winston eyed the man’s camera. “Do you still have pics of the Mystery Shack?”
Lyle nodded. “Didn’t have a chance to upload them yet.” He pulled up a picture of the front of the shack and started explaining the lighting he’d used.
Winston interrupted him. “Jazzman said you had a few with Ming on the staircase.”
“Righto.” Lyle scrolled through the shots, passing by a number of staircase photos. It seemed like the entire Chan family had climbed those steps. He stopped at the pictures featuring his stepdad.
One had Ming at the bottom of the steps, pointing to the top. Another had him midway. The next featured Ming—and Bright—on the stairs.
The picture appeared blurry. Bright seemed to have a hand on his dad’s arm, but the details remained fuzzy. Bright’s body was positioned behind Ming’s on a lower step.
“What’s happening here?” Winston asked Lyle, pointing at the screen.
“Bright went up the stairs with Ming. Wanted to hold onto the old man because the steps were so slippery. But Ming flung his arm away.”
Was the grip not malicious then? “So Bright was holding his arm because—”
“He wanted to help. But Ming was stubborn, longed to get to the very top by himself. Which he did—right before he tumbled.”
Winston patted Lyle’s arm as the photographer blinked back a few tears. “Sorry.”
Lyle gulped and said, “Think I’ll take some pics over there.” He pointed to a location across the green space, opposite from where Winston stood.
Looked like Lyle needed time to process things. Engrossed in his quick retreat, Winston jumped when somebody tapped him on the shoulder from behind.
Anastasia had snuck up on him.
A large bag with ribbons spilling over the top lay near her feet. “I’m here to decorate the overly plain chairs.”
She enveloped Winston in a warm hug, her layers of lilac silk swishing over his arms like waves of water.
“Need a hand?”
She huffed to herself. “Yes. Pete always runs late. Can you fill in until he gets here?”
Winston nodded, and Anastasia pulled out some lacy ribbon.
“We’ll place the fabric down the aisle on both sides,” she said.
They unspooled the ribbon and got busy making a fancy barrier. Anastasia also tied big tulle bows at various intervals. “So”—she pointed to Lyle—“is the Chan family crashing the wedding, too?”
Winston tangled his fingers in the gauzy fabric and choked out his next words. “I accidentally invited them. Actually, I had meant for Viv to come alone early to corner her.”
“Rose girl?” Anastasia wrinkled her nose. Too much perfume for even the self-proclaimed Russian royalty to bear? “You suspect her?”
He finally removed the ribbon from his fingers and straightened it out. “She was in charge of Ming’s pills before he died.”
Anastasia took her forefinger, decorated with five gold rings, and tapped at her chin. “That does look suspicious.”
He pulled out another spool from the bag and handed it over. “But what I don’t understand is she’s a girl, so there’s a lack of motive. None of the Chan daughters will get any of Ming’s inheritance under his old-school thinking.”
“Unless she won the contest,” Anastasia said while pinning a bow. They had finished one side and moved to the row opposite.
“What contest?” Winston asked, even as he remembered the Chans mentioning a competition happening during their work retreat.
Anastasia selected another spool of ribbon and gave the end to Winston. “Everyone was to present their ideas to Ming on the best knockoff product to create next. If he picked their suggestion, the person who won would get to lead the company.”
Winston dropped the ribbon and scrambled to retrieve it. He dusted off the dirt. “So Fort wasn’t really next in line?”
“Not by default.”
“Did somebody get picked as the winner?”
Anastasia shook her head as she flattened out the ribbon. “Fort said no. Heard his loud voice gloating about it at the table during your rehearsal dinner.”
They tied the ribbon down, and Anastasia placed bows along the stretch of the material. Although he stayed on task, Winston’s mind reeled. Fort would’ve stayed in power, but with him gone, the next in line would be—
“Doesn’t matter,” said a man’s voice.
Winston turned around to find Pete walking toward them.
“Sorry, I’m late,” Pete said to Anastasia.
She put her hands on her hips while he attempted to fluff a few already prepped bows. “We’re about done now.”
Winston could tell she was going to launch into full-scale scolding, so he jumped in. “Pete, why would you say it doesn’t matter?”
“Don’t you know? Maybe you couldn’t hear from your side of the table near Kristy, but I suffered next to those rehearsal dinner crashers. Everyone grumbled about it at the table. How the business was losing money. How the wife wanted to start their golden years but couldn’t.”
Winston swallowed hard. “And now Orchid will never get to go on those vacations.”
Pete scoffed. “I don’t feel sorry for that snatcher.”
“What did you call her?” Winston stopped Pete from messing further with the bows.
“Orchid’s a thief. I saw her steal at the restaurant. Chopsticks, forks, even something porcelain. Slipped them into a giant Ziploc.”
“Was the ceramic object white?” Winston chewed on his lip. “Did it look like a mini bowl?”
“Yes, it even had traces of sauce still in it.”
Winston could picture the array of delicious grilled skewers . . . and its accompanying circular container of deadly peanut sauce. Had Orchid murdered Fort? Because she sure seemed to have hidden the evidence.
But why would she murder him? Maybe it because of her stepson’s gloating, the disrespect he showed for his sick father in the hospital?
A trembling seized Winston, but he soon realized it was Pete shaking him.
“Hey, Winston,” Pete said. “You’d better get ready. Can’t want to miss your own wedding.”
Winston checked the time and sprinted to the main house.