Page 7 of Charlotte's Story
I blinked. “Besides us getting married today and then this happening?” I resisted the urge to glance at Dahlia’s body or Firth. “I don’t really know. He seemed normal enough.” Or asnormal as he ever seemed considering his awkwardness. He’d checked our calendar and hotel check-in information three times and had everything lined up and ready to go.
“Charlotte!” Tessa hurried across the yard, the handcuffs at her belt jingling with the movement.
“Tessa.” Some of the tension in my stomach uncoiled at her appearance, at least until I took in her expression.
“What happened? What are you two still doing here?”
“Firth got a call from Lady Catherine and said we had to postpone a day so he could go see her.”
“Lady Catherine de Bourgh?” The first officer’s eyebrows shot up.
“Didn’t he tell you that?” I asked.
“No. I’m afraid he hasn’t been able to tell us much at all.” The man’s tone was odd.
Tessa glanced between us, then held up a shattered ornament that looked like a cracked snowflake. “Do you recognize this, Charlotte?”
I studied the small silver pieces. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“It was found near the body, but we’re not sure if it’s the pastor’s or Dahlia’s.” Her voice choked on Dahlia’s name, and she scrubbed at her eyes.
“Are you okay?” I put a hand on her arm.
She gave me a grim smile. “I will be once I find out what happened.”
An officer across the yard called, “Dusty. Tessa.”
The officer speaking to me turned at the sound. “What?”
“Can you two help canvas the area? We want to make sure we don’t miss anything.”
“We’ll be right there.” He turned back to me. “Don’t go anywhere. We might have more questions for you.”
“It’ll be okay, Charlotte. We’ll figure this out.” Tessa gave me a quick hug, then headed across the yard.
I nodded and stomped my feet in place, trying to keep them warm inside Firth’s old boots. Firth couldn’t be guilty of killing someone—not the sweet man who’d promised to treasure me even though he’d admitted he didn’t love me—but what other explanation was there?
Despite the late hour, a few neighbors had gathered, their whispers surrounding me.
“What happened?”
“Could Pastor Collins have done this?”
“Didn’t Dahlia start volunteering at the church lately?”
I stiffened and made my way over. If Dahlia had been volunteering at the church, then she must have known Firth. But what was she doing volunteering if she was just visiting?
“How lucky that we had our midnight gardening club today at Harold’s house,” the woman said to her friends. “Otherwise we would’ve missed all the drama.”
“Hi.” I pretended I didn’t hear her and waved at the group, the woman with beautiful long white hair, a small sprite with shimmering green wings, and the man from earlier, the lights around his neck hanging askew. He must have been Harold. The woman sipped from a mug of what smelled like cocoa, as if she were always ready for drama in the middle of the night.
“You’re the new wife,” the small sprite said in a trilling voice.
“That’s right.” And of course I found my husband standing over a dead body on the night of our wedding. That was what I got for saying I had my life figured out—it just had to throw a curveball at me. “Did one of you say that this woman volunteered at the church?”
The tall woman shrugged, her thick scarf matching her white hair. “I’ve seen her there a few times with Pastor Collins around.”
“Me too,” the sprite added. “Weren’t they arguing at church last week?” The sprite shot a pointed look at Firth, who was talking to a policewoman from the car’s backseat.
