The Wedding Guest (Alex Delaware #34)

I said, “Speaking of vows, was the clergyperson at the reception?”

“Uh-uh, the church was like a rented thing, some old guy showed up and read the vows Brears wrote.” Tomashev scratched his chin. Curly, rusty hairs rustled. “She wanted what she wanted, I tried to give it to her. I’m not really a wedding photographer, sirs, this is basically my first.”

“Did you get paid?”

“No, sir. I was happy to do it.”

Milo said, “Well, even a few crowd shots would help.”

“I’ll look for them, sir, but I didn’t go out for those. Even with the dancing, she was always the focal point.”

“All about Brears.”

“She’s the bride,” said Bradley Tomashev. “My job was trying to make sure I honored that.”

He trundled off, still holding his camera like an infant.

Milo said, “Unhealthy attachment to Ms. Rapfogel?”

I said, “He does seem enamored but I don’t see that leading to murder. On the contrary, he’d want everything perfect for her.”

He thought about that for a while. Hooked a thumb to the final table.

Leanza Cardell remained seated, still engrossed with her hair and the remains of a four-ounce Martini.

Amanda Burdette was up on her feet well before we arrived, hustling toward us swinging her book and her yellow marker. Rapid but stiff walk. The shapeless dress bagged on her.

I got close enough to read the book’s title. Meta-Communication in the Post-Modern Society: A Comprehensive Ethologic Approach.

Milo muttered, “Beach read.”

She flipped the book. A diagonal sticker on the back said Thirsty. Waving the marker, she said, “I’ve got a test tomorrow, I go first.”

Milo glanced at Leanza. She drank and twirled, impervious.

“Sure.”

We brought Amanda to the far right corner of the room and sat. Milo motioned her to an empty chair.

She said, “I’ll stand. Been on my ass all day.”

Small plain girl with dark eyes as animate as coffee beans and a husky, strangely flat voice that verged on electronically processed. She’d piled her ponytail into a careless top thatch. Errant brown hair frizzed like tungsten filament. No makeup, jewelry, nail polish.

No eye contact.

Milo pointed to the book. “The test is on that?”

“No-oh. It’s on chemistry,” said Amanda Burdette. “Chem for dummies but still.”

“A challenge.”

“Staying awake is a challenge because it’s boring as fuck. Is any of this relevant? I don’t see it fitting the narrative.”

“What narrative is that?”

“Death at a wedding. I’m assuming unnatural death. Everyone is because of all the time you’re taking doing your police thing.”

Milo smiled.

Amanda Burdette said, “I didn’t realize I was being humorous.”

He showed her the picture of the dead girl.

She said, “That’s her.”

“You know her?”

“Nope, just acknowledging it’s her. Being phenomenological. As in you already showed me the same picture and I assume she hasn’t morphed or otherwise altered her molecular status.”

Milo looked at me.

I said, “You assume right. Any suggestions?”

“About?”

“The murder.”

“Murder is bad,” she said. “Unless it’s justified. Like killing a Nazi. Or a molester.”

“You’re a communications major?”

“No.”

I waited.

So did she.

I said, “What is your major?”

“I curate my own major.”

“Really.”

“Really,” she mimicked. “As if you care.”

Milo said, “Have we offended you, Ms. Burdette?”

“Your role offends me. The need for your services offends me.”

“Crime—”

“Your presence means the world doesn’t have its act together. By now, we should be more than rampaging baboons.”

“You see the police—”

“Must we have a symposium?” said Amanda Burdette. “I see you as a prime symptom of a barbaric society. And yes, every society has needed people like you. Which is precisely my point: So-called humankind hasn’t evolved.”

I said, “The major you put together—”

“Cultural anthropology slash economic history slash—yes, communications, congratulations for being one-third correct.”

“I went to the U., don’t recall—”

“Obviously times have changed,” said Amanda Burdette. “The powers that be deigned to allow me to construct a personal but informed narrative contingent on taking a certain amount of so-called science courses. Ergo chemistry for the mentally challenged, which ergo I need to pass. Which ergo requires staying awake and memorizing molecular structure so if you don’t mind—”

I said, “Did you notice anything unusual during the wedding?”

“I noticed everything unusual. The phenomenon is by definition unusual. Two people wearing clown costumes and pretending they’ll be able to avoid fucking other people for fifty years.”

I said, “How about something specific to this wedding?”

“For starts she’s retarded.”

“Brears.”

“Brears Brearely Brearissimo.” She let out a metallic single-note laugh. “That sounds like a dog’s name. Yes, Brearely is barely literate.” Barest upturn of lips. “The image in my head is a pampered lapdog that gets its ass wiped by willing sycophants.”

Milo said, “You don’t like your new sister-in-law.”

Amanda Burdette looked him up and down. Twenty years old but well schooled in the withering glance.

“It’s not a matter of like. She’s not worth thinking about.”

“Your brother—”

“Gar’s always been gullible.”

“About?”

“Life. He’s always blinded by something. At this moment it’s alleged love.”

“Alleged.”

“I’m talking your language as a semantic shortcut,” said Amanda Burdette. “Alleged perpetrator until proven otherwise?”

She undid the thatch, drew her hair forward, and played with it. “If it doesn’t last, he’ll be shattered, and she won’t feel a thing because she’ll have already fucked a bunch of other guys and planned her exit strategy. Will he learn? Probably not. Though life will eventually go on for him, too. And in answer to your probable next question, I can see someone hating her and wanting to fuck up her wedding. Could that entail killing this person?” Tapping the photo. “Why not? Depends on the narrative.”

Milo said, “Whose narrative are we talking about now?”

“Obviously the alleged killer’s.”

“What exactly do you mean by narrative?”

Another dehydrating once-over. “I’ll keep it simple. Every reality is tempered by innumerable bio-psycho-social constructs, contaminants, and other intervening variables. Everyone tells innumerable stories throughout their lives to themselves and others as well as to the greater external environment.”

She engaged Milo’s eyes with her own, smallish orbs. “And that means, Mr. Policeman, that your job will always be a giant pain in the ass for you because you will never spend your days dealing with honesty, nor will you ever reach the point where you feel you’ve accomplished anything. Because you haven’t. Because people suck.”

She hefted her book. “Anything else?”

Milo said, “Guess you’ve covered everything.”

“I’ve covered nothing,” said Amanda Burdette. “And by saying I have, you obviously don’t get it.”

She turned her back and walked away.

Milo said, “Did that just happen? Nasty little piece of work. Thinks she’s brilliant but she just made me more interested in her.”

“You’ve got your narrative, she’s got hers.”

“What’s yours?”

“I’d like to talk to her.” Eyeing Leanza Cardell.



* * *





This time, the unlucky bridesmaid got up as we approached. Wiggling to maintain balance and calling out, “My turn?”

Jonathan Kellerman's books