Page 18 of The Grave Artist
Jackson nodded. “Guess so. But, sorry to say, didn’t jog any memories. You really think it was a murder?” His voice dropped on the last word, and she supposed he’d be thinking that a homicide at a wedding venue equaled a public relations disaster of a high magnitude.
She employed the typical evasion tactics to avoid revealing specific details of an ongoing investigation. “We’re still gathering facts at this point. But it seems likely.”
“Man . . . we should’ve . . . I don’t know . . .”
Carmen leaned in. “This wasn’t on you or your staff. We think the subject is an organized offender. He was careful to avoid security before he acted.”
His face revealed that this was faint comfort.
Jackson said, “Mrs. Brock is waiting for you in one of our private meeting rooms.”
The designation was a sharp reminder that she had become a widow immediately after becoming just that: aMrs.
They were ushered through a corridor and into a wood-paneled room with leather chairs surrounding a glossy cherrywood table.
In a close-fitting, high-necked and sleeveless black dress with a brocade belt, Allison Brock was sitting on a tapestry divan, looking somewhat regal, Carmen thought. The lean woman wore her black hair in a sleek chin-length bob. Her bright-blue eyes were in stark contrast to her dark brows and lashes. She had an aloof beauty Carmen had seen on the covers of magazines likeVogue, where models seemed to scowl at the camera. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, perhaps sobbing, wailing or hysterics, but she supposed everyone handled grief in their own way. Perhaps the bride was the type to put on a brave front and break down in private.
If Carmen read anything in her taut expression, it was anger.
Frank Tandy, who’d spoken with her earlier over the phone, made the initial introductions. Allison acknowledged their words of sympathy with a stoic nod.
The door opened once more.
Allison said, “Thanks for coming, Ben.”
The burly, barrel-chested young man was introduced as Ben Sutton, Anthony Brock’s college roommate and the best man at Saturday’s wedding.
Allison’s face softened. “He’s been such a comfort to me.” Ben sat beside her, and she leaned against his shoulder.
After she disengaged and sat back, Ben said, “Allison told me there’s some bullshit about Anthony being murdered?”
Again judiciously, Carmen said, “That’s where the facts are pointing. We found a probable murder weapon. And we’ve learned something else. There were two similar killings. In Italy.”
“Similar?”
“A bride or groom killed on their wedding night. Blow to the head. Near water. They drowned.”
“No!” Allison’s eyes widened.
“Jesus,” Ben whispered. “So this is some kind of sicko? A serial killer?”
“We don’t know, Mr. Sutton,” Tandy said. “Sometimes individuals stage killings to look like part of a series to cover up the real motive.”
Echoing Carmen’s thoughts from just a half hour before.
“But Anthony? No way. I can’t believe it.”
“First,” she said, turning to Allison. “Did you see anyone in the garden when you two were up there?”
She looked off, her eyes hollow. “No. But I was ... I was just focusing on Anthony, the night. It was so beautiful.” A brief hesitation. “And, okay, we’d been drinking. More than a little.”
Tandy asked, “Did you have a jealous ex-husband or lover? Stalkers?”
She scoffed. “No. My last relationship ended nearly a year before I met Anthony. We parted on good terms.”
“Anthony?”
“No. Not that he ever mentioned. And he shared everything with me.”
