Page 32 of The Wedding Party

“Perfect,” I say. “The hotel cameras should support your alibi. I’ll get you marked off the list of suspects so you can at least get that monkey off your back.”

“Alibi. I don’t need a fucking alibi. You know who killed Oliver.”

“It’s procedure. Did your brother own a knife?”

“God, no. He was not that guy.”

“What kind of guy is that?”

“I don’t know. The kind of guy who owned a knife. A biker or hunter or outdoorsy type, I guess. Oliver liked to ski. That’s about the only outdoor activity he liked. He didn’t like bugs or the heat.”

“Did he own a gun?” I ask.

“Yes. And so do I. For protection.”

“Were either of you ever threatened?”

“Not directly, no, but we’re rich, Agent Castle. We’re targets.”

“By anyone specific?” I query.

“Oh, good grief,” she says, throwing her hands up in frustration. “You really don’t understand the rich, do you? From assholes and bastards and, of course, pretty little witches who want our money. Correction: pretty little witches that pretend to be pretty little innocent girls who don’t want our money. Like Carrie.”

She’s direct. I give her that. “Thanks for your time.” I start to turn, letting her believe I’m about to leave, but I face her again. “Oliver was outside your door the night we all arrived, pacing and agitated. Why was that?”

“He was outside my door pacing?”

“He was.”

“And you know this how?”

“My room is on this floor,” I state. “I spoke to him.”

“That must have been when I was at the bar. He texted me and said we needed to talk,” she replies. “He said it was urgent, but when I arrived, he was gone. I sent him a text and he didn’t reply.”

“When was that?” I ask.

She pulls her phone from her pocket and checks the message and then surprises me by handing it over. I read the short text exchange that confirms what she’s told me.

I return her phone to her. “Any idea what he wanted to talk about?”

“None.”

“He was working this weekend when I ran into him. He appeared stressed, urgent even. Was he closing a big deal or managing a major problem?”

“Nothing I know of,” she states. “We closed up a huge acquisition a week ago. He should have been in celebration mode.”

But he wasn’t, I think. Quite the opposite. Something doesn’t add up.

“Do you own a knife?”

“What? No. No knife.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay?” she asks. “What does ‘okay’ mean?”

“‘Okay’ means ‘okay.’ I’ll be in touch,” I tell her, and this time I offer her my back to exit the room, but I find it’s not a comfortable feeling.