Yellow Rose Mysteries 02 - A Wedding to Die For Read Free Page B

snake and try to kill a stick.
    Megan blushed and said, “Hi, Abby. I was hoping to convince my uncle to try the coffee. We rented this huge silver urn and it’s filled to the brim, but no one seems interested.”
    “Maybe he and I could sample the coffee together,” I offered, setting my champagne glass down on a small side table near the wall.
    Graham attempted to focus on me, his head wobbling with the effort. “Don’t I know you?”
    “We met last night at dinner. Abby Rose.”
    “That’s right. Megan’s little rich friend. So you want to force-feed me some caffeine? I’ll bet you could ante up for a whole Starbucks. Gold mine, those Starbucks. Who’d have thought us Texans would willingly pay five dollars for steaming coffee in our ninety-degree summers? Shoulda got in on that action when they first came to town.”
    “Uncle Graham, forgive me, but there are guests I haven’t even spoken with yet,” said Megan.
    He gulped the last of whatever he’d been drinking and slid the rocks glass on the table, nearly tipping over my champagne flute. “Well, forgive me for monopolizing you.”
    But Uncle Graham didn’t move and Megan seemed reluctant to leave him, though if I were in her place I would have done so in a heartbeat.
    I took Graham’s arm. “Let’s you and I chat.”
    Megan mouthed a thank-you once he seemed willing to depart with me.
    I wasn’t simply being a Good Samaritan. He’d called me the “rich friend,” and I wanted to know how he’d learned about my financial circumstances, considering I hadn’t mentioned my background to anyone last night. I hadn’t even told Megan. Despite being well-off, I charge for my services, using everything I make to support a home for unwed mothers in Galveston—a home I have a special interest in. Kate and I were born there.
    “So, Mr. Beadford,” I said, my hand on his upper arm. I guided him in the direction of the dining room. “What’s your line of business?”
    “Not computers like you, that’s for sure. Computers are getting to be like goddamn cars. Too much maintenance to love ’em, but you can’t live without ’em.”
    Had I still been working for CompuCan, my late daddy’s company, I might have said he obviously needed one of our computers. But I’d spent the last several months shedding myself of anything but minimal involvement, deciding I was never cut out to be a CEO. But obviously Graham Beadford thought I still worked there.
    “So what do you do, Mr. Beadford?” I repeated.
    He stopped in the middle of the room, his square chin raised. “Plenty. I do plenty. I’ve owned my own business and I’ve worked with my brother, James, on the oil equipment supply side. But if you need a computer man, I can do that, too.”
    “Sorry, but I’ve changed jobs. Can’t help you there. I’m in . . . social services now.”
    “Really? The Internet is behind on their information, then.” It was his turn to pull me toward the dining room. “But even so, you inherited some big bucks, Ms. Rose.” Graham made a sudden weave to the right and slammed his shoulder into a woman wildly overdressed in black sequins and a mink stole.
    Graham was a small, burly man, similar in stature to Megan’s father—and he hit the lady square on the collarbone. When he failed to offer an apology, she shot him a “go directly to hell” look, readjusted the dead animals around her shoulders, and resumed her conversation.
    “Excuse him,” I whispered as we passed, wondering what else this guy had turned up on me. There were plenty of news stories to be found considering the home I’d recently vacated in ritzy River Oaks had become a crime scene after the gardener was killed. But why was this man plugging my name into some search engine in the first place?
    I must have looked concerned because Graham patted my back. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything about your little brush with death at the hands of your ex-husband or mention your mountains of