To her relief, he didn’t pursue that line of questioning. Perhaps he’d realized how far he’d pushed her. How close to the emotional edge she was already tottering. As they drove the winding road into Cape Elizabeth, she felt her calm facade at last begin to crumble. Hadn’t he warned her about it? The emotional aftermath. The pain creeping through the numbness. She had held together well, had weathered two devastating shocks with little more than a few spilt tears. Now her hands were beginning to shake, and she found that every breath she took was a struggle not to sob.
When at last they pulled up in front of her mother’s house, Nina was barely holding herself together. She didn’t wait for Sam to circle around and open her door. She pushed it open herself and scrambled out in a sloppy tangle of wedding gown. By the time he walked up the front steps, she was already leaning desperately on the doorbell, silently begging her mother to let her in before she fell apart completely.
The door swung open. Lydia, still elegantly coiffed and gowned, stood staring at her dishevelled daughter. “Nina? Oh, my poor Nina.” She opened her arms.
Automatically Nina fell into her mother’s embrace. So hungry was she for a hug, she didn’t immediately register the fact that Lydia had drawn back to avoid wrinkling her green silk dress. But she did register her mother’s first question.
“Have you heard from Robert yet?”
Nina stiffened. Oh please, she thought. Please don’t do this to me.
“I’m sure this can all be worked out,” said Lydia. “If you’d just sit down with Robert and have an honest discussion about what’s bothering him—”
Nina pulled away. “I’m not going to sit down with Robert,” she said. “And as for an honest discussion, I’m not sure we ever had one.”
“Now, darling, it’s natural to be angry—”
“But aren’t you angry, Mother? Can’t you be angry for me?”
“Well, yes. But I can’t see tossing Robert aside just because—”
The sudden clearing of a male throat made Lydia glance up at Sam, who was standing outside the doorway.
“I’m Detective Navarro, Portland Police,” he said.
“You’re Mrs. Cormier?”
“The name’s now Warrenton.” Lydia frowned at him.
“What is this all about? What do the police have to do with this?”
“There was an incident at the church, ma’am. We’re investigating.
“An incident?”
“The church was bombed.”
Lydia stared at him. “You’re not serious.”
“I’m very serious. It went off at 2:40 this afternoon. Luckily no one was hurt. But if the wedding had been held…”
Lydia paled to a sickly white. She took a step back, her voice failing her.
“Mrs. Warrenton,” said Sam, “I need to ask you a few questions.”
Nina didn’t stay to listen. She had heard too many questions already. She climbed upstairs to the spare bedroom, where she had left her suitcase — the suitcase she’d packed for St. John Island. Inside were her bathing suits and sundresses and tanning lotion. Everything she’d thought she needed for a week in paradise.
She took off the wedding dress and carefully draped it over an armchair where it lay white and lifeless. Useless. She looked at the contents of her suitcase, at the broken dreams packed neatly between layers of tissue paper. That’s when the last vestiges of control failed her. Dressed only in her underwear, she sat down on the bed. Alone, in silence, she finally allowed the grief to sweep over her.
And she wept.
LYDIA WARRENTON was nothing like her daughter. Sam had seen it the moment the older woman opened the front door. Flawlessly made up, elegantly coiffed, her slender frame shown to full advantage by the green gown, Lydia looked like no mother of the bride he’d ever seen. There was a physical resemblance, of course. Both Lydia and Nina had the same black hair, the same dark, thickly lashed eyes. But while Nina had a softness about her, a vulnerability, Lydia was standoffish, as though surrounded by some protective force field that would zap anyone who ventured too close. She was definitely a looker, not only thin but also rich, judging by the room he was now standing in.
The house was a veritable museum of antiques. He had noticed a Mercedes parked in the driveway. And the living room, into which he’d just been ushered, had a spectacular ocean view. A million-dollar view. Lydia sat down primly on a brocade sofa and motioned him toward a wing chair. The needlepoint fabric was so pristine-looking he had the urge to inspect his clothes before sinking onto the cushion.
“A bomb,” murmured Lydia, shaking her head. “I just can’t believe it. Who would bomb a church?”
“It’s not the first bombing we’ve had in town.”
She looked at him, bewildered. “You mean the warehouse? The one last week? I read that had something to do with organized crime.”
“That was the theory.”
“This was a church. How can they possibly be connected?”
“We don’t see the link either, Mrs. Warrenton. We’re trying to find out if there is one. Maybe you can help us. Do you know of any reason someone would want to bomb the Good Shepherd Church?”
“I know nothing about that church. It’s not one I attend. It was my daughter’s choice to get married there.”
“You sound as if you don’t approve.”
She shrugged. “Nina has her own odd way of doing things. I’d have chosen a more…established institution. And a longer guest list. But that’s Nina. She wanted to keep it small and simple.”
Simple was definitely not Lydia Warrenton’s style, thought Sam, gazing around the room.
“So to answer your question, Detective, I can’t think of any reason to bomb Good Shepherd.”
“What time did you leave the church?”
“A little after two. When it became apparent there wasn’t anything I could do for Nina.”
“While you were waiting, did you happen to notice anyone who shouldn’t have been there?”
“There were just the people you’d expect. The florists, the minister. The wedding party.”
“Names?”
“There was me. My daughter Wendy. The best man — I don’t remember his name. My ex-husband, George, and his latest wife.”
“Latest.”
She sniffed. “Daniella. His fourth so far.”
“What about your husband?”
She paused. “Edward was delayed. His plane was two hours late leaving Chicago.”
“So he hadn’t even reached town yet?”
“No. But he planned to attend the reception.”
Again, Sam glanced around the room, at the antiques. The view. “May I ask what your husband does for a living, Mrs. Warrenton?”
“He’s president of Ridley-Warrenton.”
“The logging company?”
“That’s right.”
That explained the house and the Mercedes, thought Sam. Ridley-Warrenton was one of the largest landowners in northern Maine. Their forest products, from raw lumber to fine paper, were shipped around the world.
His next question was unavoidable. “Mrs. Warrenton,” he asked, “does your husband have any enemies?”
Her response surprised him. She laughed. “Anyone with money has enemies, Detective.”
“Can you name anyone in particular?”
“You’d have to ask Edward.”
“I will,” said Sam, rising to his feet. “As soon as your husband’s back in town, could you have him give me a call?”
“My husband’s a busy man.”
“So am I, ma’am,” he answered. With a curt nod, he turned and left the house.
In the driveway, he sat in his Taurus for a moment, gazing up at the mansion. It was, without a doubt, one of the most impressive homes he’d ever been in. Not that he was all that familiar with mansions. Samuel Navarro was the son of a Boston cop who was himself the son of a Boston cop. At the age of twelve, he’d moved to Portland with his newly widowed mother. Nothing came easy for them, a fact of life which his mother resignedly accepted.