Keeper of the Bride / Whistleblower: Keeper of the Bride / Whistleblower

Sam nodded. “If I can trust my nose.” He turned and eyed the crowd of gawkers. “I’m going to talk to the witnesses. Where’s the minister?”

“They just took him off to the ER. Chest pains. All that stress.”

Sam gave an exasperated sigh. “Did anyone talk to him?”

“Patrolman did. We have his statement.”

“Okay,” said Sam. “I guess that leaves me with the bride.”

“She’s still waiting in the patrol car. Her name’s Nina Cormier.”

“Cormier. Gotcha.” Sam ducked under the yellow police line and worked his way through the gathering of onlookers. Scanning the official vehicles, he spotted a silhouette in the front passenger seat of one of the cars. The woman didn’t move as he approached; she was staring straight ahead like some wedding store mannequin. He leaned forward and tapped on the window.

The woman turned. Wide dark eyes stared at him through the glass. Despite the smudged mascara, the softly rounded feminine face was undeniably pretty. Sam motioned to her to roll down the window. She complied.

“Miss Cormier? I’m Detective Sam Navarro, Portland police.”

“I want to go home,” she said. “I’ve talked to so many cops already. Please, can’t I just go home?”

“First I have to ask you a few questions.”

“A few?”

“All right,” he admitted. “It’s more like a lot of questions.”

She gave a sigh. Only then did he see the weariness in her face. “If I answer all your questions, Detective,” she said, “will you let me go home?”

“I promise.”

“Do you keep your promises?”

He nodded soberly. “Always.”

She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “Right,” she muttered. “Men and their promises.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, never mind.”

He circled around the car, opened the door, and slid in behind the wheel. The woman next to him said nothing; she just sat there in resigned silence. She seemed almost swallowed up by those frothy layers of white satin. Her hairdo was coming undone and silky strands of black hair hung loose about her shoulders. Not at all the happy picture of a bride, he thought. She seemed stunned, and very much alone.

Where the hell was the groom?

Stifling an instinctive rush of sympathy, he reached for his notebook and flipped it open to a blank page. “Can I have your full name and address?”

The answer came out in a bare whisper. “Nina Margaret Cormier, 318 Ocean View Drive.”

He wrote it down. Then he looked at her. She was still staring straight down at her lap. Not at him. “Okay, Miss Cormier,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”

SHE WANTED TO GO HOME. She had been sitting in this patrol car for an hour and a half now, had talked to three different cops, had answered all their questions. Her wedding was a shambles, she’d barely escaped with her life, and those people out there on the street kept staring at her as though she were some sort of sideshow freak.

And this man, this cop with all the warmth of a codfish, expected her to go through it again?

“Miss Cormier,” he sighed. “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can leave. What, exactly, happened?”

“It blew up,” she said. “Can I go home?”

“What do you mean by blew up?”

“There was a loud boom. Lots of smoke and broken windows. I’d say it was your typical exploding building.”

“You mentioned smoke. What color was the smoke?”

“What?”

“Was it black? White?”

“Does it matter?”

“Just answer the question, please.”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “It was white, I think.”

“You think?”

“All right. I’m sure.” She turned to look at him. For the first time she really focused on his face. If he’d been smiling, if there’d been even a trace of warmth, it would have been a pleasant enough face to look at. He was in his late thirties. He had dark brown hair that was about two weeks overdue for a trim. His face was thin, his teeth were perfect, and his deep set green eyes had the penetrating gaze one expected of a romantic lead movie cop. Only this was no movie cop. This was an honest-to-goodness cop with a badge, and he wasn’t in the least bit charming. He was studying her with a completely detached air, as though sizing up her reliability as a witness.

She gazed back at him, thinking, Here I am, the rejected bride. He’s probably wondering what’s wrong with me. What terrible flaws I possess that led to my being stood up at the altar.

She buried her fists in the white satin mounded on her lap. “I’m sure the smoke was white,” she said tightly. “For whatever difference that makes.”

“It makes a difference. It indicates a relative absence of carbon.”

“Oh. I see.” Whatever that told him.

“Were there any flames?”

“No. No flames.”

“Did you smell anything?”

“You mean like gas?”

“Anything at all?”

She frowned. “Not that I remember. But I was outside the building.”

“Where, exactly?”