The Perfect Couple(91)

Featherleigh wheels in her roller bag and sets a handbag bursting with stuff—a paperback novel, a hairbrush, an open bag of pretzels, which spill all over the floor—on top of the suitcase, then she grabs a smaller clutch purse from within the bag and brings it with her to the table, where she proceeds to put on fire-engine-red lipstick.

Nick waits for her to get settled and thinks, This woman is too disorganized to kill anyone, even accidentally. But maybe he’s wrong. Featherleigh Dale is in her mid-forties. She’s a bit chunky, she has hair halfway between blond and red—it looks like she changed her mind in the middle of a dye job—and she’s wearing what looks like a jumpsuit issued by the air force in 1942, minus the sleeves.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Nick asks.

“Not unless you have a decent chardonnay,” she says. “You interrupted my lunch.”

Nick takes a seat. “Let’s get started, Ms. Dale—”

“Feather,” she says. “My friends call me Feather.”

“Feather,” Nick says, and he nearly smiles. There used to be a transvestite prostitute on Brock Avenue in New Bedford named Feather. He pauses to remind himself that this is serious business and he needs to be thorough. “Let’s start with how you know the Winburys.”

Featherleigh, now Feather, waves a hand. “Known them forever,” she says.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, let’s see… Tag Winbury went to Oxford with my older brother, Hamish, may he rest in peace, so I’ve known Tag since I was a kid. I reconnected with the family at my brother’s funeral, and after that, our paths kept crossing. I own a business finding antiques for people like Greer, people who have more money than God and don’t mind plunking down thirty thousand quid for a settee. I found her some salvaged windows from a church in Canterbury. Those went for ten thousand quid apiece and I’m pretty sure she’s still got them in storage.”

“So you have a business relationship with the Winburys, then,” Nick says.

“And personal,” Feather says. “We’re friends.”

“Well, yes,” Nick says. “You came over from London for the wedding. How well do you know Benji and Celeste?”

“I know Benji a little bit,” Feather says. “Celeste not at all. Just met her last night. Her and her friend. Shame what happened.”

“What happened?” Nick says.

Feather’s eyes widen. “Have you not heard? The bride’s friend, Merritt, drowned. The maid of honor. I thought that was why you had questions.”

“No, right, it is, I do,” Nick says. Her disarray is throwing him off his stride. “I meant, what happened last night? You were part of the group that sat out under the tent drinking rum, correct?”

“Mount Gay Black Barrel,” Feather says. “Out of Barbados. You know, I’ve been to the estate where it’s made. I love the stuff.”

“Who exactly was sitting at the table with you?” Nick asks.

“Tag, Thomas, myself, and Merritt,” Feather says. Then she adds gravely, “The deceased.”

“So you say you just met Merritt last night,” Nick says. “How did that come about?”

“It came about the way those things do at a party,” Feather says. “I noticed her right away. She was pretty and stylish and she had natural confidence. I love confidence.” Feather beams at Nick. “You have natural confidence. I can see it. It’s a very attractive trait in a man.”

“So you noticed her from afar,” Nick says. “Were you properly introduced?”

“Not until later,” Feather says. “Much later, in fact—after the party was over.”

Nick makes a note and nods. He senses Feather needs only the slightest encouragement to keep talking.

“I was desperately seeking another drink. The young kids went into town—bride, groom, best man, Thomas—but no one thought to invite old Feather, and I just wasn’t ready to go back to my inn. I tried to wrangle a bottle of booze out of the catering help but that didn’t work, so I went on a hunt.”

“A hunt,” Nick says.

“I was stealthy,” Feather says. “Because I knew if Greer saw me, she would put me right into a taxi.”

“Oh, really?”

“Greer doesn’t like me, doesn’t approve of me. She’s old money, landed gentry, grew up on a manor called Swallowcroft, went to Wycombe Abbey, all of that. And she suspects I’m after her hubby. Ha!” Feather hoots. “He’s way, way too old for me.”

Nick needs a verbal leash for this woman so she doesn’t go wandering off, although he makes a note: Greer suspected Feather + Tag??? “Back to how you met Merritt…”

“So I was sneaking around a bit, tiptoeing, dodging behind bushes, harder than it looks because of motion-detector lighting. I figured if I could get to the pool house, I would find alcohol.” Feather taps a finger against her temple. “Clever bit of sleuthing on my part there. Anyway, I stumbled across the maid of honor sitting in Greer’s rose garden. She was crying.”

“Crying?”

“I asked if she was all right. Yes, she said. Then I asked if there was anything I could do. No, she said. I was surprised because I’d pegged her for naturally confident and then there she was, like a little girl on the playground whose friends had all forsaken her. So I asked if she wanted to join in my caper.”