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kind of guy who’d walk away from his life and not look back? Welsh on a debt? Publicly spurn and mortify a woman who loved him?
    “If he wanted to end things with Madeline, wouldn’t he just dump her?” I asked. “How did he call it quits with other girlfriends?”
    That question brought a long pause on the speakerphone. Suddenly I wished we were face-to-face so I could read him better, because I must have hit on something he didn’t want to discuss.
    “You know what I mean,” I pushed. “Normal it’s-not-working breakups or crazy business?”
    Still no answer.
    “Gabe, what aren’t you telling me?”
    I explained that I needed to know the truth about Mark if I was to have any chance of finding out what happened. Now was not the time to hold back facts, or even suspicions, for fear of embarrassing anyone.
    “This is tough on Madeline, Gabe, but she’s cooperating. I need your cooperation, too.”
    With clear reluctance, he told me that Mark had been engaged to someone else when he met Madeline. But it wasn’t serious.
    “How can being engaged not be serious?” I asked.
    “They hadn’t picked out a ring, much less a wedding date,” Gabe answered. “It was more like an understanding.”
    “So how understanding was she about Mark’s new fiancée?”
    Another pause. “Not very,” he finally admitted.
    “And Madeline was okay with it?”
    “I’m not sure she knew.”
    When the two men got together it was typically a boys’ night out, so Gabe had only met Mark’s old flame a few times. Her name was Sigourney. He couldn’t recall her last name. They’d dated on and off for a couple of years. A few days before Madeline and Mark’s wedding, Gabe was visiting his old pal when the phone rang. Mark let the machine pick it up. Sigourney started leaving a we-need-to-talk message. Mark disconnected the call without saying a word.
    “A WHIRLWIND COURTSHIP?” I smiled at the maid of honor, trying to put the best possible spin on the engagement.
    “A quickie wedding,” Libby Melrose corrected me.
    The first thing I noticed was her hair. Cropped short and carrot red. She wore a leather beret like a crown, but a few curls escaped to frame her face. Unlike Madeline, who wore very little makeup, Libby was a cover-girl combo of lip gloss, blush, and mascara.
    She and Madeline had attended the same exclusive prep school. Then Madeline went to college on the East Coast, Libby on the West. Both returned to Minnesota and still saw each other socially at places like the elite White Bear Yacht Club, where the wedding reception was supposed to be held.
    Once I assured Libby that I just wanted to talk for background, not on camera, she was fine with meeting with me. So I continued that approach. “You must have been touched when Madeline asked you to be her maid of honor.”
    “Surprised was more like it.”
    I liked Libby’s blunt style. Sure, she and Madeline were friends, though she’d never considered theirs the bosom buddy-best woman type of friendship of which maids of honor are made.
    “Let’s just say I’m not planning on reciprocating when I get married,” she said. “Frankly, I have friends I’m tighter with, but I held up my end of the deal for Madeline. Same can’t be said for the groom.”
    “What was Mark like? What were they like together?”
    We were sitting outside and people were walking by, so she lowered her voice. “They’d only known each other a couple of months. I suspected she was pregnant. When he skipped out just before the ceremony, I was certain. Guess I was wrong.” Libby held her hands palms up in a playful but non-apologetic gesture.
    Like many reporters, I had a knack for making people comfortable and getting them to open up. It transcended age, sex, or occupation. Most of the time people want to talk, otherwise the media wouldn’t exist. It’s a question of approaching them the right way and helping them understand how they benefit.
    Sometimes they agree to an interview