Tailed by Brian M. Wiprud

instead.
    â€œNicholas’s wedding.”
    Like a dog intent on a squirrel, Gabby cocked her head and looked intently into my eyes.
    â€œA handfasting? To whom?”
    â€œDoes it matter?” I knew I shouldn’t say what came out of my mouth next, but I was frustrated by her imperiousness and wanted to take her down a peg: “She’s not a nudist, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
    Color came into her cheeks. “Don’t you dare insult me, Garth.”
    I looked away, and saw that the people lounging on the other side of the pool had turned to see what was brewing on our side. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œNo, you’re not.” She struggled up out of her chair. I could see by her crooked fingers that her hands were wracked by arthritis. “You don’t approve of being skyclad? Well, it’s not for you to approve. This is my life. You and Nicholas go off and lead yours, how’s that?”
    â€œGabby, I said I’m sorry.”
    â€œYes, you are sorry. Insurance! You boys are both pathetic.” She waved a hand at me, turned, and started for the pool cabana.
    OK, I did feel guilty, but only a little bit. Nobody likes to disappoint a mother. But when you grow up a constant disappointment, you eventually become desensitized. Well, some people never do—but I had. I’d warned Nicholas that this wasn’t going to work.
    â€œNicholas asked me to come.” I made a last plea to my mother’s retreating back. “He wanted me to invite you. He wants you there.”
    All I got was another dismissive wave.
    What was a son to do?

chapter 6
    S o despite Angie’s and Otto’s entreaties, I wasn’t what you’d call predisposed to return Gabby’s call. The hell with her. What I couldn’t quite figure out was why Nicholas wanted her at the handfasting…I mean, wedding. I’d tried to get it out of him, but he kept saying that it was the bride-to-be’s idea. I suspected, somehow, there was some other motive behind this invitation.
    After Colonel Dr. Lanston’s brief grilling, I was excused from the FBI’s meeting somewhat summarily. Here I thought I’d been brought to Seattle just to offer expert opinion about trophy collections. But no dice. I turned out to be as much a part of the problem as the solution. Head Coach apologized for taking me out of the game, but he hoped I’d understand that they had things to discuss that were confidential.
    Needless to say my mood was uneasy. Like an ant in a room full of aardvarks.
    I didn’t like the way Lanston was focusing on me. She was playing I Have a Secret.
    I didn’t like the killer killing my clients. Somehow it made it seem like my fault.
    I didn’t like the killer calling me, having me discover the body. Unless he meant to kill me, there was no apparent reason to whisk me to Upper Crust, Illinois. He could have just not called and I would have sat in my hotel room until the next day and found out Sprunty was dead the way the rest of America did.
    Something was going on. I didn’t know what it was and I didn’t want to know what it was. But something told me I was going to find out sooner or later, whether I liked it or not.
    It was in that mood that I checked into my Seattle hotel room, which wasn’t too far from the Space Needle. My room was clean but more or less a concrete cell dressed up to look like a hotel room. The headboard, the desk, and the TV were bolted to the walls. Last-minute travel arrangements had resulted in the subpar lodging. No feather bed. No minibar. No fresh flowers, fruit baskets, or home-baked cookies. None of the accoutrements I’d become accustomed to.
    Just the sound of the highway outside my window. I was homesick, and called Stella.
    â€œCan I go home?”
    â€œStay put. We want you to follow this investigation. The meeting: what happened?”
    My heart sank, and my stomach cramped.