Page 45 of The Wedding Party

While the women gathered in a hotel room, I’m told that the men, with York’s approval, have gathered in the bar. Booze does tend to make tongues waggle. And who am I to sideline free will? I head in that direction.

I arrive at the bar to find the group huddled around a table, a collection of beer bottles evident. I’m standing in the doorway, observing them, when York shoots me a cheat sheet on each groomsman that includes age and career. The list includes Josh, Cade, Trevor, and a guy named Nick. Brody is on my list, but he’s not in the bar. Which is interesting considering Carrie doesn’t like Brody, at least by his own admission. I’m not sure if that somehow connects to his absence at present, but it sits wrong. And when something sits wrong, it’s worth a mental note.

Another outlander, Josh is alone at the end of the bar, a whisky glass in front of him, his jaw clenched, pain radiating from him. Something tells me he was coaxed out of his room by the sweet numbing effect of whisky, not by his friends, even if they believe differently. I step to the end of the table, and the other three men go silent for a few beats.

“Agent,” Cade greets me, holding up his beer.

“How’s everyone holding up?” I ask.

“Like absolute shit,” Trevor states. “I can’t believe he’s dead. I can’t believe she killed him.”

“I’m definitely inspired to stay single,” Nick says, shoving thick-rimmed glasses up his nose. He’s kind of a Clark Kent geeky sort, obviously smart or he wouldn’t be the CFO of a large security company.

“Says the only guy at the table seeing someone,” Trevor comments, the Rolex on his wrist a flashy number, but then, I get the impression he’s a flashy kind of guy. His hair is neatly slicked back, his nails manicured, the ring on his right hand expensive. Even now, his T-shirt is pressed, though his jawline is shadowed.

“Yeah, well, maybe Sharon’s a little too perfect. Like Carrie.”

“What does that mean?” I ask. “Too perfect?”

“Carrie is Mary freaking Poppins,” Nick says. “She was like everyone’s mother, sister, and best friend. Sharon loves her. The only reason she’s not here this weekend is that her sister went into labor.”

“No one is that perfect,” Cade says. “I told Oliver that about ten times. He didn’t like hearing it. She changed him.”

“He means he wasn’t all about the guys anymore,” Trevor says, “and Cade got his panties all in a wad. His feelings got hurt.”

“Fuck you, Trevor.”

Trevor smirks. “So easily riled up, asshole.”

“In other words,” I say, “he was devoted to Carrie.”

“Very,” Nick replies. “He loved her. I just . . . I really can’t see her killing him. She was too timid and sweet. And damn it, I can’t believe he’s dead.” His voice cracks. “I need to go to my room. What else do you need from me, Agent?”

“Anyone here have a different opinion about Carrie?”

“She was quiet and timid,” Cade says, “but sometimes those are the ones to worry about.”

“Ignore him,” Trevor orders. “He hates everyone.”

“You said she killed him, too,” I point out.

“Because she did it,” Cade asserts. “He’s just feeling guilty for stabbing her in the back. I don’t. She stabbed Oliver all over his fucking body. Don’t expect me to defend her.”

“We don’t know what happened yet,” I state, eyeing the group. “Was Oliver in any kind of trouble?”

The general, quick consensus is no. No one knew of Oliver being in trouble. I move on. “When was the last time any and all of you saw Oliver?”

“I saw nothing but the blonde with big boobs once she got here,” Cade says, flippant considering why I’m here, but I find people, men especially, often hide their feelings.

“He was with me,” Nick says. “He wasn’t into the women. We both felt like our women were going to be pissed. We ended up in a corner drinking expensive whisky. As to when he left, I took a call from Sharon and when I got back, he was gone.”

“What was his mood?”

“He had some work project bothering him,” he says. “But he was happy as hell about the wedding.”

“Was there anyone that might want to hurt Oliver? Anyone he had a dispute with?”

The entire table bristles to such an extreme you’d think I’d just told them to bend over and cough. “Who?” I press.