But however sound and rational her intellect could be, emotionally she felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. It wasn’t any one thing, it was everything together: the shock and uneasiness over learning someone had been murdered at the reception hall, and thinking it might be Melissa, who was a friend even if she wasn’t a close one; then there had been the visceral, unreasoning panic when she’d thought Eric had come to notify her that something had happened to Madelyn. Jaclyn thought of herself as a basically strong person, but in that moment the black terror had almost sent her to her knees. Just when she’d been pulling herself back from the edge of that, she’d been body-slammed by the realization that Eric, to whom she’d given more of herself in one night than she’d ever given to her husband, actually suspected she was a murderer.

She had barely been able to keep from hurling herself into his arms, seeking refuge and comfort from the horrible moment when she’d thought something had happened to her mother. She’d wanted to curl up on his lap like a child, hide her face in his broad shoulder, and let him close out the world. What had she thought? That one night together meant anything more than sex? If so, he’d certainly disabused her of that silliness. Instead of comfort from him, she’d gotten an interrogation. Boy, what a wake-up call.

She could barely breathe from the weight pressing on her chest. Even realizing that the sense of betrayal she felt was irrational didn’t neutralize the hurt she felt. For a mortifying second she thought she might embarrass herself by bursting into tears, but she swallowed hard and focused on the other man, whose name she couldn’t remember. He was older than Eric, shorter, graying hair, but there was breadth to his shoulders and a direct alertness to his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she managed to say, though her voice was still a little thin and shaky. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Garvey,” he said. “Sergeant Randall Garvey.”

“Sergeant Garvey,” she repeated, and swallowed again. The weight on her chest loosened and she was able to suck in some much-needed air. Her head cleared a little. Eric had asked her the same question twice, and neither he nor Sergeant Garvey would like it if they had to ask it a third time. “Bishop—I think he was worried that something had happened to me. The afternoon meeting with Carrie was a disaster, and he and the other vendors left me alone with her, except for Melissa—Melissa DeWitt—but she was in her office.”

“Why was he worried?”

“Why ask when you already know she slapped me?” Jaclyn flared, but she kept her gaze locked on Sergeant Garvey even though it was Eric who asked the question. It would be too weird to meet Garvey’s eyes while she was talking to Eric, so instead she focused on his tie.

“We’re just trying to find out what happened. Why did she slap you?”

“I’m not certain. She’d insulted Estefani Morales, the veil-maker, and Estefani was on the verge of quitting. The dressmaker had already quit, just before I got to the reception hall this afternoon. Carrie took a call from her fiancé, Sean Dennison, and while she was talking to him I tried to calm Estefani down. Bishop and I were talking to her, and I said we’d move on to the wedding cake and decide about the veil later. When Carrie got off the phone with Sean, she knocked everything off the table, came rushing over, and slapped me and told me I was fired.” Automatically she put her hand to her cheek, though the sting was gone.

“I imagine handling the Dennison wedding paid you a hefty fee.”

“It did, yes.” She knew exactly where he was going with this, and thanked heaven that their standard contract had them, and her, covered.

“You’d have had to refund the money when you were fired?”

She was on solid ground here, and her voice gained a little confidence. “No. Our contract clearly states that in case the job is terminated, our fee will be prorated based on the amount of work done. Because Carrie’s wedding is—was—so soon and I’d already overseen most of the event, I’m guessing that the amount we’d have had to refund was in the neighborhood of a thousand dollars. Everything was in place, except for the details she hadn’t decided on yet. The proration clause is in there to prevent people from firing us at the last minute and refusing to pay anything. It’s happened.”

“The dressmaker is …”

“Gretchen Gibson. She’d finished the dresses, but yesterday Carrie decided she didn’t like them, wanted to change them. I told her there probably wasn’t time, not to mention the bridesmaids probably couldn’t afford to have other dresses made, and Gretchen told her the same thing. Carrie doesn’t—didn’t—like being told ‘no.’” She couldn’t remember to use the past tense. Somehow she couldn’t absorb that Carrie was really dead, that someone had murdered her. She’d been a nasty piece of work, but Jaclyn hadn’t wished her any harm … nothing beyond wishing she’d fall on her face as she walked down the aisle, maybe. Or that someone would spill a glass of pink champagne on her head. That would be fun to see. But murder? No.

Eric was making notes; though she didn’t look directly at him, she could see him in her peripheral vision. Lest Sergeant Garvey think she was staring at his chest, she moved her gaze down to his knees, then thought better of that and moved on to his feet. His shoes were scuffed on the toes.

“When Ms. Edwards slapped you, what did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” He sounded skeptical. “Come on, Ms. Wilde, you had to have done something.”

“I didn’t hit her back, if that’s what you mean,” she told Garvey’s shoes. Maybe it was time to focus on something else, because how long could she be expected to stare at someone’s shoes? She shouldn’t have turned off the television; if it were on, she could stare at the screen while she answered Eric’s questions. She might not be able to focus on whether the buyer bought house number one, two, or three, but at least she wouldn’t look as if she had a shoe fetish. “I wanted to. I wanted to punch her in the nose. But I didn’t. Planning events is my livelihood, and punching a client wouldn’t exactly be good advertising.” Unless all potential clients knew Carrie, she thought, in which case punching her might be considered a plus. She didn’t share that particular observation, though.

“But what exactly did you do?”

She took a deep breath, trying to organize her jumbled memories of the afternoon. She might as well tell them everything she could remember, even the things that didn’t make her look good, because hearing them from her had to be better than hearing them from someone else, right? “Carrie threatened to ruin Premier’s reputation; she said that no one would ever use us again. I really wanted to punch her then, but Bishop told me not to, that she’d have me arrested for assault if I did, and right then I was the one with the advantage because she’d hit me. So I didn’t. I decided to be as professional as possible, under the circumstances. I got all of the vendors out of there, told them to reschedule, and told Carrie that if she hit me again I’d have her arrested.” That particular memory burned, because it connected to Eric, and how she’d told Carrie she was involved with him and any complaint Carrie made wouldn’t gain any traction. Evidently that was so not true.

She cleared her throat. “I also told her that I take kickboxing, and if she hit me again I’d wipe the floor with her ass. I don’t. Take kickboxing, that is. Anyway, I figured the lie would stop her if she’d been about to take another swing at me.” She simply couldn’t stare at Garvey’s shoes any longer. Desperately she looked at his left hand. Wedding ring in place. A few freckles on his thick fingers, maybe, but with just the lamps on she couldn’t be certain.

“What happened then?”

“Um … she threatened to sue us to get all of her money back. I told her to go ahead, that she’d signed a contract and she’d hit me in front of five witnesses. She said the witnesses wouldn’t say anything if they wanted to keep their jobs, and I told her they didn’t need her job. Then I told her to have a happy wedding, that maybe someone would show up other than the poor fool who was marrying her, or words to that effect. Then I left.”

“Who were the five witnesses?”

She gave them the names of the four vendors who’d been there, plus Melissa DeWitt.

“I thought you said Mrs. DeWitt was in her office.”

“She was, at that time. After Carrie slapped me, I asked Melissa to let me handle things, so she said she had some phone calls to make and left. Then I got the vendors out of there, before they got drawn into a fight. Carrie and I had it out alone, then I left.”

“What time was this?”

“I don’t know exactly, but I called my mother—she’s also my business partner in Premier,” she said for Garvey’s benefit, as Eric already knew that. “We met at Claire’s for some coffee and a muffin, and I filled her in on what had happened. The time will be on my cell phone,” she said, pointing to it. “Also the time that Bishop called me, if you’re interested.”

Evidently Eric was interested, because he picked up her phone, then paused and said, “May I?”

“Of course.” She didn’t have anything to hide, and they couldn’t prove she’d killed Carrie for the simple reason that she hadn’t. There was that pesky thing called circumstantial evidence, though, plus cause, and she had to admit she could be in some trouble there. She had to forget her hurt feelings and concentrate solely on the current situation, which was serious.

He flipped her phone open and ran through her call log, jotting down times and numbers. “Did anyone see you leave?” he asked in a casual tone as he closed the phone and placed it back on the table.

“A man drove up as I was leaving, but I don’t know who he was.”

There was a pause. “A man?”

“A gray-haired man. He was wearing a suit. That’s really all I can tell you.”

“Did you see his car?”

“Um … it was silver. A sedan. I didn’t notice the make.”

“Did he go inside?”

She thought about it for a moment. “Not really. He was walking toward the side door, but I didn’t actually see him go inside.”

“Did you go straight from the reception hall to Claire’s?”

“Yes. Mom had some time before she had to be at the wedding we had scheduled tonight.” Automatically Jaclyn checked the time, vaguely noticing how nice it was to look at something other than Garvey. “The reception should be over soon; she might check in to tell me how things went.”

“What did you do after you left Claire’s?”

“I came home. I had a pile of laundry to do.”

“Did you see anyone, talk to anyone?”

“No, not until Bishop called to tell me someone had been murdered at the reception hall.”

“Did you go back to the reception hall?”

“No, why would I?” she asked blankly.

“Your briefcase was found on the floor. Maybe you went back to retrieve it, found that Ms. Edwards was still there, and the two of you had another altercation.”

“My br—” Jaclyn stopped, blinking in astonishment. How could she have forgotten her briefcase? Why hadn’t she noticed it before now? Having it in her hand was as natural as having on clothes. She looked around, as if it might magically appear, but he was right: no briefcase.

She stared into the middle distance as she mentally reconstructed what had happened. “I’d put my briefcase on the table, but Carrie must have moved it. I’d taken my appointment book out, though, because I’d had a couple of calls from my assistant about scheduling, and it was on the table. When Carrie threw her temper tantrum and knocked everything off the table, Melissa picked up my appointment book and handed it to me before she went to her office. I had it in my hand when I left, so I never missed the briefcase.”

Oh, God, the briefcase was bad news. It gave her a reason for going back, and she had no witnesses otherwise.

“What clothes were you wearing today?”

The question seemed to come out of nowhere. Surprised, Jaclyn almost looked at him before catching herself and instead focusing on the coffee table. It took her a minute to remember what she’d had on, and in that minute she realized that they already knew what she’d been wearing, that they had already interviewed Melissa and probably gotten a description of her clothes. A chill ran down her spine.

“Black capri pants, and a black top.”

“May we see them?”

This wasn’t good either. She bit her lip. “They’re in the laundry.”

“Laundry? You washed them?”

Suddenly she’d had enough, temper flaring and pushing out the shock and hurt. “That’s what one does with dirty clothes,” she said curtly. “Though maybe you don’t know that.” The instant the words left her mouth she knew she shouldn’t have said them, shouldn’t have made the conversation personal. She made an abrupt gesture. “Sorry, that was uncalled-for. The clothes are still in the washer, I haven’t dried them yet.”