Murder On The Bride's Side Part 5

"Roni, please," said Avery in a low voice. He glanced uneasily in Elsie's direction.

"I'm going outside to have a cigarette," Roni bit out before turning on her not insubstantial heel and striding away.

Avery turned to Harry. "Why do you always have to start something with her?"

Harry's mouth twisted in irritation. "I didn't start anything, Dad. She treats Megan like c.r.a.p and you know it. Since n.o.body else thinks to stand up for the girl," he said pointedly, "I thought maybe I should. But apparently it's more important to you that Roni not be upset." Harry, too, threw his napkin down and left.

An awkward silence followed his departure. We all stared at our plates, studiously pretending not to have heard the exchange. All except Elsie. With her eyes still on the newspaper spread out in front of her, she said matter-of-factly, "The boy's got a point, Avery."

"I don't recall asking your opinion, Mother," Avery snapped, backing his chair out from the table and wheeling it toward the door.

Elsie sighed heavily, her eyes trained on Avery's retreating form. Graham watched his mother warily. He must have seen something alarming in her expression for he suddenly tensed and said sharply, "Let it go, Mother."

"Let what go?" she responded, her eyes wide with a practiced look of innocence. No one was fooled.

"Whatever it is that you're planning," said Graham. "Let them sort out their own troubles."

Elsie sniffed and got to her feet. "I can't imagine what would give you the absurd notion that I could ever involve myself in other people's affairs," she said loftily. "And now, to announce my departure, I will also throw down my napkin in a fit of pique."

After matching her words to action, Elsie marched out. Anna, who had been happily receiving sc.r.a.ps from almost everyone in the room, reluctantly followed. At Elsie's exit, Bridget laid her head down on the table and put her hands on top of her head. "Great. This is just great," she moaned. "I'm getting married in eight hours and most of the members of my family aren't speaking to each other."

Blythe walked over to her daughter and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Never mind, dear. I'm sure they'll all have sorted everything out by then. In the meantime, I need to go over a few last-minute details with you." Noticing Bridget's hands, Blythe leaned in and suspiciously peered at her fingernails. "Bridget! You've painted your nails purple! No! Absolutely not! What happened to the pink shade I bought you?"

Bridget popped her head back up. "You were serious about that? It looked like overdone cotton candy. I thought you were kidding."

Blythe took a deep breath, while Bridget gazed appraisingly at her nails. "I think they look nice," she said stubbornly.

"We'll talk about it later," said Blythe firmly. As she propelled Bridget out of the room, she launched into a rapid recitation of the two dozen or more things that needed immediate attention.

Graham watched his wife and daughter leave, his black eyes sparkling with laughter. "In about five minutes, I expect Bridget will wish her mother was one of the nonspeaking family members," he predicted. "But speaking of last-minute details. Peter, could I borrow you for a few seconds? Since you are in the hotel business, I want to ask your opinion on the setup for the reception tonight."

Peter stood up. "Sure. I'll be glad to help."

"Thanks. This way," said Graham, as he exited through the French doors at the back of the room.

Peter squeezed my shoulder lightly. "See you later," he said, following Graham.

I waved good-bye, took another sip of coffee, and finished my bagel. Claire sat with me for a few more minutes before excusing herself as well. The dining room was now empty save for me, and I settled into my chair and enjoyed the quiet. Resting my head against the top rung of the high-backed chair, I idly studied the long room. Icy lime green walls were topped with intricately carved crown molding. To me, it had always looked like thick icing on a wedding cake. A long mahogany sideboard ran along the left wall. Along the right stood two enormous hutches, each displaying several patterns of china and crystal. At the far end of the room was a set of tall French doors. There were three sets of these double French doors in all: one in the dining room, one in the living room, and one in the study. Each led to the stone terrace that ran along the back of the house.

After finishing my coffee, I stepped out onto the terrace. It was still early but the sun was already blazing. The weathermen had predicted that we were going to have an Indian summer today and apparently they hadn't been kidding. It was going to be a scorcher, I thought, cupping my hand over my eyes to block out the sun's glare. Below me the lawn swarmed with the staff from the catering agency. Clad in bright blue T-shirts emblazoned with the logo ELEGANT EVENTS, they appeared to be everywhere at once. One group was transforming the normally lush green lawn into a sea of circular tables to seat tonight's three hundred guests. To my right and left, another group was raising crisp white tents that would serve as the food and drink stations. At the base of the terrace, still more were hammering down an enormous parquet dance floor. A canopy of tiny white lights hovered above. In the midst of the organized chaos, Chloe patrolled the grounds. A dark tailored business suit clung to her lithe form and her white-blond ponytail snaked down her back in a long shiny coil. As she surveyed the crew's progress, she methodically checked off items on her clipboard and barked orders into a walkie-talkie.

I spotted Graham and Peter huddled over by one of the tents. Graham gestured animatedly while Peter nodded thoughtfully. Spotting Chloe, Graham called her over. She briskly strode in their direction and then, strangely, faltered. Over the last few months, I'd never seen Chloe do anything that wasn't deliberate and organized. She seemed more machine than human. After the misstep, Chloe righted herself and made her way to Graham and Peter. She quickly spoke to Graham, and then she laid her hand on Peter's arm. She kept it there a good eight seconds longer than necessary (by my count, anyway). My stomach tilted. Chloe was an inhuman tyrant, but she was also exceedingly pretty. Sophisticated, chic, and worst of all, thin, Chloe had an air about her that made me feel as if my ancestors had only recently started walking upright. Graham said something and Chloe was forced to remove her talons from Peter's arm so she could take notes. Graham's gestures intensified and Chloe scribbled on her clipboard and spoke rapidly into her walkie-talkie. Peter's shoulders shifted uneasily and he shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced around. I recognized that stance; he wanted out of the conversation. I wanted him out of it, too, for that matter. Women like Chloe had been ruining my love life as far back as I could remember. Jutting out my chin in an imitation of my boss when she asks me to pick up her dry cleaning, I walked along the terrace, intent on rescuing Peter. As I pa.s.sed the French doors leading to the study, a low voice inside caught my attention. The syrupy floral scent told me it was Roni. I peeked around the door frame. Her back was to me and she was talking to someone on her cell phone.

"I know, sweetie. I miss you, too," she purred, "but I have to stay here this weekend." I froze. My brain shouted at me to keep walking, but somehow my feet didn't have the same moral integrity. "Yes," she continued, "I think he's going to sell. What? No. Don't come here. It isn't safe. Just trust me, okay?" She paused. Her voice rose petulantly. "I'm not going to double-cross you, honey! Look, I'll see you Monday, okay? Just calm down-it'll be fine. Wait, I think I hear somebody coming. I have to go." With a soft click, she snapped the phone shut. Just as she turned to move toward the terrace, I ducked through the doors leading into the living room. Hidden behind the heavy curtains, I watched Roni walk out onto the terrace. Pausing, she reached inside her purse and pulled out a cigarette. With shaking hands, she lit it. Taking a deep drag, she moved forward and disappeared down the stairs. Before I could process what I'd heard, I became aware of rapidly retreating footsteps behind me. Turning in that direction, I peered across the living room but saw no one. The footsteps headed for the long hallway that led to the staircase, but by the time I got there, whoever it was, was gone. Walking back through the living room, I pa.s.sed by the door to the study. It was slightly ajar.

Someone else had overheard Roni's conversation. The question was, who?

CHAPTER 7.

How was the wedding?

Brief, to the point, and not unduly musical.

-NOeL COWARD At five o'clock sharp, we were standing in the vestibule of St. Paul's Episcopal Church. The richly detailed Greek Revival church dated back to 1845 and had been the Matthews family's place of worship for almost as long. And although that worship was infrequent at best, it nevertheless was the chosen site for the Matthewses' and other established Richmond families' marriages, baptisms, and funerals. Especially funerals, according to Harry, who liked to say that St. Paul's was "where those in Richmond go, when they go."

In spite of Bridget's dire premonitions, the wedding ceremony went off with only one minor mishap. Ashley, Bridget's flower girl, took one look at the long church aisle, chucked her specially ordered rose-filled flower basket, and fled. Her parents spent the remaining part of the ceremony soothing her "shattered nerves" with copious amounts of candy and kisses. Not surprisingly, as soon as she'd consumed one piece of candy, she would burst into tears all over again until another was produced. After twenty minutes or so, it became mildly annoying, but given the intensity of Bridget's fears, it was not the Greek tragedy I half expected.

Back at Barton Landing, the c.o.c.ktail portion of the reception was now under way. From the main terrace the band played a sedate selection of cla.s.sical compositions while below, waiters in starched white coats circulated with a.s.sorted trays of hors d'oeuvres and champagne. The staff appeared pa.s.sionately dedicated to their jobs. As soon as a shrimp puff or a gla.s.s of champagne was consumed, it was immediately replaced with another. At the current rate of consumption, I calculated the entire party would be full and/or drunk by the time dinner was served.

I stood on the side terrace with Bridget and Colin and the rest of their families, waiting to have our pictures taken. We were grouped in front of the enormous rose-covered wooden trellis that ran up the side of the house. The vibrant pink roses stood out full and lush, a glowing testament to Elsie's green thumb.

I shifted uncomfortably. As predicted, the sun's heat was intense and I stared longingly toward the refreshment tents, where there was the promise of shade and cold drinks. Chloe stood off to Bridget's left, impatiently tapping a manicured fingernail against her ever-present clipboard. Even though she was wearing a black sheath dress-a color most Southern women avoid on hot, sunny days-she looked cool and professional. I, on the other hand, felt like an overdone strand of spaghetti in my yellow dress. I was pale, sticky, and limp.

Catching my eye, Chloe moved in my direction. "Goodness, but you look hot, Elizabeth," she said sweetly.

I took that to mean that I looked like c.r.a.p, but I nodded good-naturedly. "I am. I'm looking forward to getting under one of those tents and getting something cold to drink."

"Can't someone get you something? Where's Peter?" She looked vaguely around before turning back to me. "I guess he's wandered off. Same old Peter," she added, giving me a knowing smile.

Same old Peter? I had a.s.sumed that Chloe had only met Peter this morning when he was outside with Graham, hardly enough time to start referencing him as "same old Peter." Something about her smile coupled with the way she p.r.o.nounced Peter's name-slowly, intimately-sent a finger of unease sliding down my back.

"You know Peter?"

From the way her smile increased, I gathered she found the question amusing. The amus.e.m.e.nt was purely one-sided. For the first time, I noticed that her teeth were a brilliant white, a shade normally limited to toothpaste ads-or piranhas. The feeling of unease was gone. It had been replaced by a swelling panic. Please G.o.d, I begged, please don't let this paragon of cool perfection be an ex-girlfriend of Peter's. Please, let her be a cousin or, at the very least, an old friend. I amended the last part to an old friend who was a dedicated lesbian.

"You mean he didn't tell you?" She let out a small giggle, the source of which was not readily apparent to me. I could forgive much, but not that giggle. "He can be so ridiculous sometimes with his old-fashioned ideas of discretion." She fell silent for a moment as if lost in fond memories. "But, yes," she said finally, "I do know Peter. We go way back. We were about to take our own stroll down the aisle ourselves, oh, I guess it was about five years ago. But I was so young. I wasn't sure if I was ready for marriage and a family. We agreed that it made sense for each of us, me, especially, to experience life a bit-you know, date around." She considered me with a complacent smirk, which I interpreted as satisfaction that Peter's latest dating "experience" was a sticky, limp thing in a yellow dress. "Anyway," she continued, "it's been so great to catch up with him. I gather you two are old friends?"

Old friends? Catch up with him? When the h.e.l.l had Peter been catching up with Chloe? And why the h.e.l.l did she think Peter and I were just friends?

"Um . . . yes, I guess you could call us that," I began. "But then actually-"

"Have you met his mother, Jane, yet?"

I longed to say that I had. I longed even more to say that not only had I met her and Peter's father, but that they'd already told me all about Chloe. Then I'd duck my head as if embarra.s.sed, and mumble how "they were very unkind-but I won't say any of that to you."

But the sad fact remained that I had not met Peter's parents. While Peter and I had known each other as kids, it was because we had both been staying with Aunt Winnie. Our own parents had been elsewhere. Since we had begun dating, I had spoken to Jane on the phone a few times, but both she and Peter's father, Patrick, had been so busy with their business that a proper meeting had yet to happen. However, I was d.a.m.ned if I was going to mention this to Chloe. I struggled to answer in such a way as to not give this fact away. Apparently, I needn't have bothered; my face did it for me.

"Oh, so you haven't met her then!" cried Chloe in a voice that sounded suspiciously like crowing to my ears. "She is quite a character. And while I absolutely adore Jane, she is very particular when it comes to Peter. G.o.d, I watched her give so much h.e.l.l to Peter's girlfriends over the years."

"But not to you, I expect," I said, hoping my smile hid my sarcasm.

Chloe glanced down as if overcome with modesty. "Well, no, we've always gotten along just fine."

Honestly. If it weren't for the proximity of the wedding photographer, I really think I might have mashed my bouquet into her smug, perfect face. Inner poise, I sternly reminded myself, inner poise.

Ashley skipped up to us just then, singing loudly and pretending to casually swing her flower-girl basket in an overly cutesy manner. In reality, she was taking turns whacking us in the rear with it.

"What a cutie!" Chloe exclaimed after receiving her whack. Catching Bridget's eye, she added, "Your cousin is adorable, Bridget!"

Bridget was silent. It was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the matter. The photographer called to her and she turned in his direction.

As soon as Bridget turned away, Ashley whacked Chloe again with the basket. Chloe's smile dimmed, but she responded only by saying, "She's certainly full of spirit today!"

"Ashely!" I said firmly. "Stop hitting people with your basket. It's rude."

"I'm not hitting people on purpose," she replied with complete and utter insincerity.

"Ashley," I began sternly. Hearing her daughter's name uttered in a tone that indicated imminent reprimand, Karen suddenly materialized.

"What's going on, pumpkin?" she asked brightly. Ashley used her mother's presence to full advantage.

Letting her basket drop forlornly by her side to the ground, she pushed out her lower lip. "Mother," she whined, "I was just swinging my basket-honest! But now everyone's mad at me." She glanced accusingly up at me from underneath her lashes. For once, Karen did not automatically jump to her daughter's aid. She studied Ashley's face for traces of deception. Sensing that her mother was not going to rise up in her usual lioness defense, Ashley upped the ante. Flopping her slight body onto the ground, she buried her face in her hands and began to cry. "It's because I'm little," she moaned. "Everyone thinks I'm a pain! n.o.body likes me!"

Karen's earlier hesitation vanished in a flash. "Oh, my poor baby," she crooned, bending down to sooth Ashley's huddled form.

Chloe followed suit. "Don't cry, honey," she purred, as she crouched over the girl. "No one is mad at you! Why, how could they be? You are probably the sweetest little flower girl I've ever seen-and I go to tons of weddings! I don't think I've ever seen one as pretty as you!"

Ashley shifted her arms slightly and peeked out doubtfully at Chloe. "You really think I'm the prettiest?"

I rolled my eyes, but Chloe carried on. "Of course! No question! Now don't you worry about anyone being mad at you!"

"But Elizabeth was," she said, glancing in my direction.

Before I could open my mouth to defend myself, Chloe jumped in, "No, she's not, honey. It's just this awful heat." She lowered her voice to a conspiring whisper. "It makes some people grumpy."

While I tried to digest that without obvious rancor, Ashley smiled coyly at Chloe. "You don't seem grumpy. You seem real nice."

Chloe winked at her. "Well, thank you, Ashley. I think you're really nice, too. Now why don't we see if we can't get you something to drink?"

"I'll get you something, pumpkin," Karen said, pulling Ashley to an upright position again. "Thanks very much," Karen added with a grateful smile to Chloe before moving away. I received only a cool nod.

Chloe stood up in one graceful move and smoothed away nonexistent wrinkles from her dress. Catching sight of my annoyed expression, she smiled sheepishly. "I guess I'm just a sucker for kids," she said.

"So I gather."

Chloe glanced carefully around before continuing. Was she making sure her next words were not overheard-or just the opposite? "I can see how you might think she's a bit spoiled, and I grant you that you may have a point. But who could resist that face? She's so cute! I know I'd always be indulging my kids-should I ever be lucky enough to have any, of course. Besides," she added with a glance in Ashley's direction, "I've always had a soft spot for the kids who have a bit of the devil in them. I much prefer them to the polite, well-mannered ones."

"Really?" I couldn't resist, so added, "I confess, every time I see Ashley, I never think of polite, well-mannered children with any abhorrence."

Before Chloe could respond, Mr. Keys, the photographer, anxiously clapped his hands to get our attention. "I need the bride's family now!" he called.

I focused on him rather than on Chloe's obvious ploy to demonstrate to everyone within earshot that she was quite ready to be a mother to Peter's children. Everything about Mr. Keys was round. He had round, wire-rimmed gla.s.ses, a round, soft-looking body, a round, pink mouth, and a round balding head. In his right hand, he clutched one of those large white linen handkerchiefs that were popular in the early 1900s. Peering thoughtfully at our group, he alternately coughed into the handkerchief and mopped his head with it. Peer, cough, mop. Peer, cough, mop. We stood patiently while he did this. Mr. Keys might be eccentric, but he was also talented. Finally, a gleam of inspiration replaced the peering. The coughing and mopping stopped and he methodically arranged us according to some unknown master plan. In the midst of the shuffling, Avery called out, "Wait! Where's Megan?" We looked around, and realizing that she wasn't nearby, began to call her name. Within seconds she appeared from the terrace, flushed and apologetic.

"Sorry, I was just listening to the band," she said. "They're really good."

As Mr. Keys crankily reshuffled the rest of us to create a spot for Megan, Roni eyed her daughter critically. "Megan," said Roni, "is that the dress you wore to the church?"

Megan glanced warily down at her outfit before answering. The full-skirted silk dress of midnight blue was sophisticated and flattering. She looked lovely. Still, Megan tensed. "Yes," she finally said suspiciously. "Why?"

With a perplexed expression, Roni shook her head. "Where did you get it?"

Megan threw her head back and stared defiantly at Roni. "I bought it."

Roni's winged eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch. "Really?" Her eyes flickered disparagingly at the dress. As she turned to face Mr. Keys, I heard her add under her breath, "From whom? Omar the tentmaker?" I wasn't the only one who heard the vicious remark. Megan bit her lip and looked away. Behind me I heard a sharp intake of breath, while another low voice muttered, "That b.i.t.c.h." The camera flashed just then, forever capturing the moment: Roni smiling obliviously, Megan's head ducked in embarra.s.sment, Harry's mouth a hard, thin line of anger, Elsie's eyes narrowed and focused on Roni, and Avery with his eyes closed. Around them, everyone else wore bright, painfully artificial smiles. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. This one was worth twice that.

By eight o'clock the reception was in full swing. The band, abandoning its earlier serene melodies, was now blasting out "Mack the Knife." Guests packed the dance floor and gyrated in inverse proportion to their skill level. The air was filled with the smell of muted sweat underneath expensive perfume. Peter and I briefly joined the fray, but the onslaught of flailing arms and sharp elbows proved too much for us. After a particularly painful jab to my upper arm, I gave up. Deftly avoiding a twirling woman in a fuchsia dress, Peter led me off the dance floor and toward one of the refreshment tents. After getting me a gla.s.s of wine and a beer for himself, Peter shifted uneasily on his feet. "Elizabeth?" he said. "There's something I need to tell you."

My stomach flipped sickeningly and my body temperature instantly rose ten degrees. This is it, I thought. He's going to tell me about Chloe. I had refused to bring up the matter myself with the knowledge that to do so would only make me appear petty and jealous. I had been down this road too many times before and had finally learned my lesson. I would stay calm and cool. I would be-to coin a phrase-mistress of myself.

Taking a deep breath, I put my winegla.s.s down before my shaking hands spilled it down my dress and looked at him. However, his next words were interrupted by the arrival of Harry. As he saw us, Harry's face split into a lopsided grin.

"How come you two aren't dancing?" he asked.

"I forgot to bring my body armor," I said, rubbing my still-tender arm.

"Well, it's a take-no-prisoners kind of crowd. We Southerners take our dancing very seriously," he replied.

"I notice you're not out there," I said pointedly.

Harry took a sip of his beer before answering. "We Southerners also take our drinking very seriously."

"No point in spreading yourself too thin," said Peter with mock seriousness.

"Exactly." Harry nodded, clinking his beer bottle against Peter's.

I rolled my eyes. A woman in a powder-blue linen suit moved past Harry and then stopped and looked up at him. "h.e.l.lo, Harry," she said quietly.

At the sound of her voice, Harry whirled around and stared down at her. She was a plump woman in her late fifties with chestnut brown hair, light green eyes, and an open, kind face. When he saw her, Harry's demeanor changed. The sardonic facade vanished, his mouth lost its ironic twist, and the mocking glint faded from his eyes. Without a word he wrapped his long arms around the woman and enveloped her in a giant bear hug.

"Julia!" he said, once he had released her. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, kiddo. I saw you in town today, but I guess you didn't see me."