A Wedding to Die For by Leann Sweeney

Author:Leann Sweeney
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin USA, Inc.

True to Kate’s report, Diva was aloof when I arrived home that evening. But she warmed up as soon as I sat down in the living room with my Diet Coke. I gave her some much-needed attention, then called Kate to tell her I was home. I filled her in on my trip, not sharing exactly how I’d learned the things I was telling her. She must have been tired because she didn’t ask too many questions. I had just hung up when my doorbell rang.

I went to the foyer, saw Angel through the peephole, and quickly opened the door.

“Did a drive-by to see if you were home yet and saw your car,” he said after I let him in.

“Want a drink?” I asked. “Got some nice rum.”

“No, thanks.” He was holding a large brown envelope and as usual looked like he came right off the dry cleaner’s rack—pressed white shirt, creased khakis, and a silver belt buckle, this one so huge it must have weighed five pounds.

“Come on in and sit awhile,” I said, leading him through the foyer.

He glanced around as we entered the living room. “Nice place. Nice neighborhood. You like this better than River Oaks?”

“A million times better. So were you able to find out anything on Blythe Donnelly?” I asked, eager to get my hands on that envelope.

“What there is to know.” He sat on one end of the sofa and crossed his legs, which showed off his worn but well-cared for alligator boots.

“Because she’s lived in Jamaica so long?” I sat, too.

“There’s not much to know because she didn’t live all that long.” He opened the envelope.

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“She’s dead, Abby. She died in 1974.” He removed a sheet of paper and handed it to me.

It was a copy of a small newspaper article from the Dallas Morning News, the death notice for Blythe Donnelly, who had passed on from “complications of cancer” at the age of thirteen. The notice was very detailed, probably a last tribute written by a devastated family who had lost someone they loved far too soon.

I said, “Okay, so maybe the woman in Jamaica is a different Blythe Donnelly. Maybe—”

“That’s possible, but not likely. I don’t think two Blythe Donnellys were born on the same day in the same year in Dallas, Texas, do you?”

“You’re right,” I said. “And considering what I found in Donnelly’s house—cash transactions, a large bank account disappearing, the lack of friends—I’m betting there’s an explanation.”

“I won’t ask how you gained access to that information,” he said.

“I seem to have forgotten myself,” I said with a grin.

“Just so you understand that this person you’re tracking is using a stolen identity and could be in big trouble.”

“I understand. So now what?” I said.

“This could be tough,” he answered. “We’re not dealing with someone stealing personal information to rob a person blind. This sounds more like a woman who needed to disappear. And there could be a hundred reasons why.”

“Criminal reasons?” I asked.

“Or personal,” he said.

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