Finley relaxed. She could work with this. “No need. I worked at her father’s office. I’ll just go catch her at the hospital.” She used the past tense because that made the statement true. She hoped the housekeeper didn’t notice. Finley was counting on her desire to be helpful.
“She’s off this afternoon,” the housekeeper explained. “Her wedding dress came in and she had to go to a fitting.”
Finley smiled. There were two wedding shops the young, rich, and famous of Nashville preferred. She opted to go with the older of the two. “I’ll catch her at Winnie’s,” Finley said.
“Yes, okay.”
The sear of anticipation rushing through her, Finley made the drive to Hillsboro Pike in record time. The parking area in front of the bridal shop was fairly empty. Not surprising since appointments were required. The moment she stepped into the shop, a fleeting sense of regret washed over her. She hadn’t bothered with a wedding dress or a chapel wedding. She’d grabbed something from the rack at her favorite shop, and off they’d gone to the justice of the peace. The only photos were the few on her phone a clerk had snapped.
The whole big-wedding thing was overrated, Finley had told herself. She shook off the nostalgia. An overpriced dress and a proper chapel wouldn’t have changed the way things had turned out.
The shop reminded Finley of New York with its urban style and harsh lines. All the silk and lace in various shades of white stood out against the heavy concrete floors, the background walls of wood and metal. Gave the space an unexpected appeal.
A well-dressed clerk appeared. Her smile warm. “Welcome to Winnie’s. Is there anything I can help you with? Perhaps you’d like to make an appointment with a consultant.”
“I have a delivery for Bethany Briggs.” Finley patted her messenger bag.
The woman nodded. “This way. She’s just finished her fitting.”
She guided Finley to a room filled with mirrors, doors, and racks of dresses. She walked to one of the doors and tapped. “Ms. Briggs, your delivery has arrived.”
“Thank you,” Finley said in dismissal.
The clerk nodded and disappeared.
“Come in!” came the gleeful response from the other side of the door.
Finley opened the door and stepped into the surprisingly large dressing room. Two walls were mirrored. There was a sofa, a bar, a rack holding what she suspected was Bethany’s wedding dress. Bethany stood at the dressing table studying her face in a mirror surrounded by Hollywood lights.
“I’m Finley O’Sullivan. I’m here to speak with you about the accusations Charles Holmes has made against Cecelia Legard.”
The brush Bethany had been holding hit the table. She whirled around. “What?”
The blonde hair was the same as her father’s, only longer and without the streaks of gray. The gold eyes she’d gotten from her mother. Her father’s were more brown. Bethany was tall and thin and looked as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks. The wedding preparations, no doubt.
“You and Cecelia were close friends at the time of her father’s murder, and we’re attempting to determine if you played any part in her interactions with Holmes.”
A deer-in-the-headlights expression claimed Bethany’s face, then she blinked. “I . . . I . . . know you.”
Oops. They’d never actually carried on a conversation, but they had passed in the hallowed corridors of her father’s domain. “We’ve met,” Finley agreed.
“At my father’s office. You work for him.”
Good. Finley smiled without answering. “I’m sure he has discussed the Holmes situation with you.”
Bethany grabbed her bottled water and moved to the sofa. Collapsed there as if the fitting had worn her out. “He did. I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about it.”
“I hope you’re following that order. There will be reporters and all sorts of people trying to get a sound bite from you considering you and Cecelia were best friends at the time.”
“He told me.” The fear and surprise were gone, and impatience had taken its place.
Finley wandered to the sofa and settled at the opposite end. “He’s trying to protect you.”
“Trust me,” she said, “I’m aware. I’ve spent most of my life listening to his lectures about what we can and cannot do in public.”
“Cecelia mentioned that the two of you had a number of pretty exciting adventures your senior year in high school.”
Bethany grinned. “We did some wild shit, for sure. My father would die if he knew half the stuff we did.” She seemed to catch herself. “I was immature. I would never do those things now.” A frown tugged at her face. “How is Cecelia? I haven’t heard from her in years. She like never leaves the house.”