Not yet.
I returned to the ballroom to collect my coat.
Lucia had remained nearby, concerned about how I was feeling.
She approached me beside the service corridor.
“Beatrice, do you want me to drive you home?”
“I’ve arranged a car, thank you.”
She looked at my scalp.
“You should have those abrasions examined.”
“I will.”
She reached toward the wig in my hand.
“Would you like me to help you put it back on?”
I considered the question.
Then I shook my head.
“Not right now.”
Lucia nodded.
“I’ll get your coat.”
While she was gone, I sat near an alcove away from the guests.
My purse rested on the chair beside me.
I was reviewing the recording when I noticed another conversation I’d barely registered earlier.
It had taken place during the photographs at St. Andrew’s Church, only a few seconds after Sabrina whispered that she expected me to stay home.
A bridesmaid had approached us.
The photographer was changing lenses, and I’d stepped aside with my purse under my arm.
The bridesmaid’s voice came through the recorder.
“Sabrina, are you okay? You seem nervous.”
Then Sabrina answered.
“She wasn’t supposed to come. That was the whole point.”
The bridesmaid sounded puzzled.
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind. Just make sure Michael doesn’t start asking questions before the ceremony.”
I replayed it.
