Shadowing Ivy Page 5

  “Detective Fargo, Declan knew full well that I have no money and that my father wouldn’t leave me anything. In fact, my father was against the marriage.”

  His eyebrow shot up. “What were his reasons?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  He nodded and jotted something down in a little notebook.

  There was a knock on the door. “Yoo-hoo? Ivy? It’s Mom. The guests are growing restless!”

  Ivy glanced at Fargo. He said nothing.

  “He doesn’t have cold feet?” she whispered, hoping against hope this was all some nightmare from which she’d wake up. Any second now.

  Fargo shook his head. He opened his mouth to say something, then apparently thought better of it.

  “He’s not coming back?” Ivy asked, hearing the hope in her own voice. “He’s a suspect in a murder and knows it? That’s why he ran when he saw you? My father didn’t somehow set up Declan to be framed for murder on the morning of our wedding, a wedding he didn’t want to take place?”

  “I’d think if your father didn’t want the wedding to take place, he would have made sure you knew about the other fiancée. He wouldn’t have had her killed, Miss Sedgwick. Was your father that ruthless?”

  “I really don’t know,” she responded. What the detective said made sense. Why would her father try to have Declan framed for murder of his other fiancée, when it was that other wedding he would want to happen? And if her father knew about another fiancée, he would have told her immediately. That would have ended her relationship with Declan in a heartbeat.

  So William clearly hadn’t known there was another fiancée. Ivy was just grasping at straws, trying to come up with anything that would explain why her fiancé, the man she loved, had run at the sight of a homicide detective. His own half brother.

  “Everything you’re saying is true about Declan? He had another fiancée? There’s no mistake?”

  Fargo nodded. “I’m very sorry, Miss Sedgwick. I realize today is your wedding day. But I’m also relieved that the wedding didn’t take place.”

  Someone at this table won’t be getting married.... Score one for Madame Weirdo.

  “How did you connect Declan to his alias? I mean, how did you know you were looking for Declan in the first place?”

  “Pictures in the apartment of the victim,” he answered. He glanced down for a moment. “I was investigating a homicide and from photographs all over the home, I realized the victim’s boyfriend—and suspect—was my half brother.”

  “That must have been awful,” Ivy said softly.

  He didn’t respond. The emotion she’d caught a glimpse of was gone. After a moment, he said, “Despite knowing who I was looking for, I still had a difficult time tracking him here. He covers himself well.”

  “You are absolutely sure,” Ivy said, holding his gaze. “Absolutely sure that Declan is your suspect. There’s no mistake?”

  “Trust me, Miss Sedgwick, I wish there were.”

  Ivy felt tears sting the back of her eyes. Some cop she was. She pulled the comb from her scalp and threw the veil across the room, then went to the door and opened it slightly.

  Her mother was waiting outside, her ear practically plastered to the door. “Mom, please tell everyone that the wedding has been called off and that there is no explanation at this time.”

  “But what is the explanation?” Dana Sedgwick asked. “Ivy, tell me what’s going on! Does this have something to do with your father’s inheritance letter?”

  The letter. Ivy had forgotten all about it. Had William learned about Declan’s other fiancée? Why not just tell her, then?

  “Mom, please. Just go tell everyone.”

  Shaking her head, her mother finally headed off, and Ivy went back inside.

  Fargo was now by the window on his cell phone. He hung up when Ivy entered. “I do need more information, Miss Sedgwick. Can we talk at your house? At your station house if you’d feel more comfortable.”

  The station house. How mortifying would that be? “I’d feel better at my house. Privacy.”

  He nodded. “I’ll take you in my car.”

  Ivy took a deep breath. From out of nowhere, Laura Mylar, the bride who was marrying next week popped into her head. She was supposed to deliver her gown to Laura tomorrow morning. A gown symbolizing love and commitment and the future. But the gown was clearly cursed, wasn’t it?

  That was silly. The gown wasn’t a lying, cheating, possible murderer. Declan was. She had to keep blame where it belonged.

  And maybe Declan wasn’t a murderer. Ivy could live with being duped by Declan. But she couldn’t live with having loved a man who would commit murder. There had to be some mistake there. Perhaps the woman really had committed suicide. Perhaps she’d found out about Ivy. Perhaps Declan had been waiting to decide until that morning whom he wanted to marry and had chosen Ivy—which clearly he had, since he’d shown up for the wedding—and the woman had been so devastated she’d taken her own life.

  But Griffin had said something about forensics not backing up the suicide note.

  Okay, so someone else had murdered the poor woman, and Declan had come and found her, knew it would look suspicious that he had two fiancées, and fled.

  That would explain how he’d managed to not look the slightest bit nervous when he’d come to her house that morning, made love to her as though nothing was wrong, as though everything was just peachy keen.

  He’d come to her house and made love to her as though nothing was wrong when he knew his other fiancée was dead? Maybe he hadn’t known then. Maybe he didn’t find out till later, till after they’d picked up the letter from her father’s office. While Ivy had met Olivia afterward to get her hair done for the wedding, Declan had had some last-minute alterations on his jacket done. They’d been separated for most of the day.

  Ivy could think about this a hundred ways and still nothing would add up. She was sure the detective had done his own detecting and would give her his own ideas.

  “What time was the woman found?” Ivy asked Griffin.

  “Eight in the morning,” Griffin said. “The superintendent of the building had come up at eight, as promised, to fix the cold water tap in the kitchen sink, which didn’t work. The door to the apartment was wide open. He found Miss Lexington on the floor of her bedroom.”

  Still, Ivy thought. He might not have known then. It wasn’t as though the two lived together. Declan lived in a dorm, with a male roommate. Whom she’d met once. Only once. Declan had brought her by the room. Maybe he didn’t really live there. Maybe he’d paid some kid to let him say he did. Oh, God, Ivy thought. Please tell me this isn’t happening.

  She was suddenly aware that the detective was watching her, and she knew how she must look. She was a cop, after all, and it must be clear to Fargo that she’d been thinking through everything, trying to see how the pieces added up, not that they did.

  She took a deep breath, picked up the veil and smoothed it. “I need to change,” she said to the detective.

  His cheeks colored for just a moment. “Of course. I’ll wait outside.”

  When he left, Ivy dug into her purse for the letter from her father. It was gone. So was the five hundred in cash she’d taken out of the bank when she’d been in the city. When had Declan taken the letter and the money? In the two minutes she’d stepped outside to talk with her mother right before the ceremony? Had he known the cops might be on his trail? Had he taken the money as a precaution?

  Oh, Declan. Was everything between us a lie? Was everything you said right before I walked down the aisle a lie?

  Apparently so. Time to face the truth.

  Ivy stood in front of the mirror and slid out of her dress, the dress that represented her dreams. Do not cry. Do not cry, she repeated over and over to herself. She picked up the dress and slid it on the hanger and into the dress bag along with the veil. Despite the debacle, the gown was what it was: a beautiful symbol of love, of hope, of commitment. She would give it to L
aura as promised.

  Ivy changed back into her jeans and sweater and boots and wiped off her red lipstick, then opened the door. Her mother and sisters and friends and officers from the Applewood police department stood milling around. “I’m okay, everyone. Apparently, Declan is not who I thought he was. I’d like to leave it at that. Okay?”

  There was a rush of questions, and she heard her idiot partner Dan crack yet another joke about arresting Declan for fleeing the scene of his own wedding. But there were nods and solemn squeezes of her hand from those most important—her family, her friends—and then finally everyone left.

  Fargo stood waiting. “Ready?”

  Definitely not, she thought.

  Chapter Five

  Griffin Fargo had been through his share of “worsts”—those god-awful moments you doubt you’ll recover from. He’d been shot in the line of duty, for example. Partners over the years had as well. He’d seen women beaten within an inch of their lives at the hands of their husbands. Children having to deal with negligent parents, and worse, of course. On the personal side, he’d had his heart broken once or twice. And he’d lost his father.

  But nothing he’d been through had been worse than that moment of recognition, when he realized the man in the photographs, the man who lived with the murdered woman in Apartment 3A, was his kid brother. Declan could change his name all he wanted. His hair color, too (and he had darkened it considerably from blond to a medium brown). But the face, the eyes—those couldn’t so easily change.

  Griffin wouldn’t put it past Declan to use plastic surgery to alter his appearance. Between the murder, which Griffin believed had not been premeditated, and the wedding, Declan had very likely plotted his next steps. A honeymoon out of the country. Plastic surgery.

  As he’d stood in that apartment and looked at the photographs, he’d felt sick to his stomach. There had been a time, albeit when they were very young, that Griffin had loved Declan, truly adored him. Griffin was going to show his kid brother the world—or at least as far as their backyard and its treasures of earthworms to dig up, tree forts to build, and T-ball to play. And until he was around seven or so, Declan was a nice enough kid. Spoiled, yes. Temperamental, yes. But a fun kid brother. And then he’d started changing. Stealing. Kicking animals. Getting into fights. Declan was the nine-year-old bully of his block, then the neighborhood. Now, an entire city. Actually, now he was bullying in two states, New York and New Jersey. Now he very well might be a murderer.

  As Griffin pulled his car up to the house Ivy directed him to, he took in the small, neat Cape with its trimmed hedges and the pretty white picket fence. Interesting. He’d expected something flashier, not that Ivy herself seemed flashy. But Declan was.

  She led the way into the house, her eyes downcast, her hands clutching the dress bag that contained her wedding gown. He was glad she’d changed into regular clothes; he’d had a hard time getting words out when he’d first spoken to her. She’d looked beautiful in the strapless satin gown. She still looked good.

  He couldn’t quite read her. She’d been quiet on the drive over. Because she was heartbroken and duped? Or because she was working on an angle? Were she and Declan both grifters? In cahoots to bilk wealthy women out of their fortunes? If what she said about her father cutting her off was true, perhaps she was Declan’s partner in crime. And if she were a dirty cop, she’d be able to cover his tracks—and her own—quite well.

  He was usually pretty good at reading people, but Ivy was tough stuff. The inside of her house gave nothing away. Tasteful furnishings, not too modern, not too old-fashioned. Sort of shabby chic. She gestured for him to sit on the sofa, and she sat across from him on a love seat.

  What struck him about Ivy Sedgwick was that she seemed truly smart. He could see the wheels turning. So if she wasn’t a player, how could she fall for a con artist? Maybe it was easier than he thought. Maybe Declan was that good. Maybe Griffin just hated to admit it.

  They’d never lived in the same house, but they’d grown up in the same New Jersey town, just a few streets from each other. Griffin had lived with his mother, who hadn’t remarried after her divorce from Griffin’s father, who’d then married Declan’s mother and had Declan. Declan lived with his mother and their father, until they’d divorced when Declan was seventeen. Griffin spent considerable time at his dad’s house, not wanting to be left out, forgotten. His dad had done pretty well on that front, but Declan was such a teenaged delinquent that his father pretty much washed his hands of both boys, spending more and more time away from his own home, let alone swinging by Griffin’s to take him out somewhere.

  Griffin had tried to befriend his half brother again at that point, tried to be the good older brother, but Declan had a mean streak that Griffin couldn’t stand. Once, when Griffin was sixteen and Declan only thirteen, Declan had bet Griffin he could steal away Griffin’s then-girlfriend, a very pretty redhead Griffin had spent months working up the courage to talk to. The bet was twenty -five bucks, which Griffin figured for easy money. His girlfriend might be swayed by the captain of the lacrosse team, but not by some scrawny thirteen-year-old.

  Three days later, Declan told Griffin he and Griffin’s girlfriend were planning to hang out in the library, last row right after school. Sure enough, Griffin found them making out, Declan’s hand under the girl’s shirt.

  It was crazy, but Griffin couldn’t date another redhead for years after that. Of course, the next time he did, he got his heart smashed. Declan had been involved in that one, too. A warning to back off. The girlfriend’s unmistakable underwear (she liked them personalized with her name across her butt) pushpinned to the front door of Griffin’s apartment with a note: Back off, big brother. Just a warning. Griffin hadn’t backed off, of course. Declan had been arrested several times, and several times the charges had disappeared because he’d used the my-big-brother-is-a-cop card. He’d been let off before anyone had bothered to check with Griffin. Because his crimes were considered petty, the victims considered too dumb to live. Sometimes, police work just plain sucked.

  “Were you and Declan close growing up?” Ivy asked, as he took off his black wool overcoat and laid it next to him.

  He snapped out of his memories. “Miss Sedgwick, I—”

  “Call me Ivy.”

  “Ivy. What I was going to say was that I would prefer to ask you the questions.”

  She let out a breath and leaned her head back against the sofa cushions. “Understood. I’m just trying to understand what happened to my life. An hour ago, everything was in place for my future, the future I wanted. Suddenly, it’s been blown to bits. You’re telling me Declan isn’t who I thought he was. That he was a con artist and a thief. You also have the unusual advantage of knowing Declan pretty well since you grew up together. I’m just trying to under—”

  She broke down in tears then. She’d come at him so strong that the tears were unexpected. Was she a good actress? Or the real deal? His partner was interviewing just about everyone connected to Declan and Ivy, so the information would reveal itself soon enough.

  His brother had good taste. Always had. Ivy was very pretty in a clean, wholesome way. No flash, no exposed skin. Just pretty features and a nice body and great blue eyes. When Griffin and Declan were growing up, girls were always hanging around Declan. He was a pretty boy then, like Brad Pitt.

  The dead fiancée was pretty, too. And Griffin had no doubt there were more fiancées.

  Declan had always been a grifter, always working an angle. But a killer—that was new. Didn’t fit. But Griffin wouldn’t put it past Declan to do what served him.

  “I just still can’t believe all this,” Ivy said, wiping under her eyes. “It’s bad enough that Declan had another fiancée, but do you really think he killed her? The Declan I know couldn’t have killed anyone.”

  Griffin raised an eyebrow. “You knew him for what, six months?”

  “We spent a lot of time together,” she retorted, the blue eyes flashing.
>
  “Not so much that he didn’t have time to get engaged to someone else,” Griffin said.

  She shot him a deadly look, then she got up and grabbed a box of tissues from a sidebar, sat back down, and dabbed at her eyes. “If it’s true,” she said. “Maybe you’re lying through your teeth. Maybe you’re the dirty one. Maybe Declan has something on you and ran because he’s scared for his life.”

  He stared at her. “Interesting theory. Would Declan have left you behind to deal with the likes of me, then?”

  She shrugged.

  “I’m telling you the truth, Ivy. I’m sorry it is the truth.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Why the hell would you be sorry?”

  “Because there was a time when I really cared about Declan,” Griffin said. “But he let everyone down, all the time. Said one thing, did another. Made promises, didn’t keep them. On and on. Still, he could do no wrong in his mother’s eyes. No matter what he did, she made excuses. Everything from he was born premature to he had to deal with a father who had another child.”

  She eyed him but said nothing. After a moment she asked if he wanted coffee. He did. She got up and headed into the kitchen. He followed. It was a good opportunity to look around. There were pictures of a toddler and a teenager all over the refrigerator.

  “My nephew and niece,” she said, then began making a pot of coffee.

  He glanced around. Nothing suspicious.

  “I think you’re forgetting that I’m a cop,” Ivy said. “I know you’re looking for evidence that I’m Declan’s partner in crime. Don’t waste your time. What I want to do is find out for myself if what you say is true. If Dylan really did have another fiancée.”

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  She took two mugs from the cabinet. “Where?”

  “To Miss Lexington’s apartment. I think your questions will be answered.” He nodded at the mugs. “Got to-go cups?”

  Jennifer Lexington lived in a brownstone apartment in Greenwich Village, near the New York University campus. The mailbox for Apartment 3A had a sticker with Jennifer’s name and a Dennis McLaren.