by Vicki Batman
He skirted me in the calm and cool manner of James Bond and stepped further inside.
“Top of my bucket list.”
After locking the door, I circumvented him to walk to the transaction desk, where I placed the cleaning bucket on the floor next to the table leg. When I pivoted, I found him staring slack-jawed at the whole wedding enchilada. Chandelier, mirrors, flowers, crystals—all floored him. His swallow betrayed his normally unflappable countenance, the one cops perfected for pulling over speeders and writing a nasty citation.
Not surprising. Bridal shops and their glory were intentionally decorated to catch the customer’s eye. In the few days of my employment at Wedding Wonderland, I’d seen a boatload of out-of-their-depth fiancés. Just entering the shop humbled the most confident of men. Allan Wellborn looked to be no exception. He acted exactly like every other regular Joe who didn’t know what he had gotten himself into.
He refocused on me and said evenly, “This p-place is…different. Not exactly Dollar Bonanza.”
“Wow. What a gourmet shopper you are.”
“They have good prices on cat food—”
“And plastic cutlery.”
“If you say so.”
Our inane conversation drove me batty. “And how is my furry friend Lucky?”
“He could use some company.” Again, he looked over the store.
I teased, “First time in any bridal salon?”
“No comment.”
That meant yes.
He flashed his badge with picture ID. “Official police business.”
I squeezed my forehead into a “V” as I bent closer to study Allan’s identification picture. His photo looked more like a mug shot—as if I had any experience with mug shots except what the news showed on television. The side-to-side views of the criminals weren’t so bad, but the frontal one with a towel covering the bad dudes’ shoulders, and a big bad hair day? Ick.
My passport photo looked better than his license one. Could anything be so awful? I pursed my lips and tweaked my mouth sideways. “Not your best effort. Sorta geeky like an accountant.”
He shoved the ID in his navy suit coat’s breast pocket.
Numbers coursed through Allan Wellborn’s blood and in his family. His dad worked as an accountant, and I was pretty sure his sister said something about his grandfather had punched numbers as well. After a few years of calculators and creating Excel spreadsheets, Allan abandoned his career for the excitement in police work.
I stabbed my finger in the area where he stashed the ID. “Where’s the pocket protector and pens? Oh-oh-oh, we can’t forget the yellow highlighter.”
I got the “go to hell” face policemen excelled at bestowing, part of their training along with the deadpan “not saying anything” look.
He pointed to the reception chairs. “May I?”
“Sure. Want a bottle of water?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m good for now.”
I removed a bottle from the mini-fridge and sat opposite him, smoothing my black knit skirt along my thighs. Over and over, I rubbed while wondering what legitimate business brought him to the store. I frowned. “Do you want to talk about the rehearsal dinner? That’s not official business. I arranged everything on my part. Did you—”
“The rehearsal is not official business. But I’m making headway on my end.” His big body took over the chair with a creak. He shifted delicately, and when the sound squeaked again, he bent and checked the legs. “Sure this won’t collapse on me? It seems…fragile.”
“Positive. What do you want?” I slanted my head. “Oh, I know. Let’s get back to the discussion about you abandoning your date in a parking lot like a superhero bent on a mission to save the world from some evil crime lord descended from another realm. At least, the guy kissed the girl passionately before racing off.”
I slid back in my chair and took a long drink. Do I sound a little bitter? Probably.
One brow arched. “Funny.”
I lifted my water bottle. “You aren’t.”
“I know you’re mad, and I apologize. The job comes—”
“First. Don’t I know. Yet, I still come back for more. I must be a masochist.”
Allan looked at me from the corner of his eye while removing a notebook and pen from his coat pocket. He thumbed through and stopped after about twenty pages. “Yesterday, in the parking lot of Super Saver Grocery, a store cart retriever found Jonson Leggett the Third dead in his car.”
I set aside the bottle and stood. I clapped more than vigorously. I clapped and clapped until my palms stung. “Well done. Well done. Who did it? I want to thank him-slash-her?”
His whistle reverberated low and long. “Pretty disrespectful. I should be stunned.”
“I’m not, nor have I ever been a fan.” Dropping back in the chair, I flipped my hand dismissively. “Someone did the world a ginormous favor. Ask anyone in Sommerville. They’ll agree with me.”
“Wow. Don't hold back.”
My sister’s pickle with Jonson had made the front page of the Sommerville Express, captioned with a “Jilted Wife” headline. The accompanying photo of Tracey with scary witchy hair and raccoon eyes didn’t help. The town added two plus two and grasped the sordid story.
“Yup. Cold-blooded.” Allan rolled his pen through his fingers. “Don’t you feel bad for his family?”
I pendulum-ed my finger. “Aren’t Jonson’s parents the ones who instilled crappy values?”
His head bobbed. “You have a point.”
He sure spent a lot of time on Jonson and his death. Why? “So, why are you here?”
“We’ve notified Ms. Barbie Fenster, his fiancée, who informed us Mr. Leggett and Ms. Fenster have been planning their wedding through the shop”—he consulted his notebook—“Miss Anastasia’s Wedding Wonderland.”
I nodded my affirmation. “Until recently—”
“Recently?”
“Yes. Don’t you remember what I told you last night over dinner? Until he fired us.”
“Right.” He fumbled through some more pages. “I’m here because Ms. Fenster said something about an altercation. To interview you and a Miss Anastasia Fernholly, the owner.”
“Okay.” Miss A.'s errand to Super Saver resurrected. “As I said, my boss should return soon.”
“When?”
I consulted my watch. “Any minute. She had to stop several places before work.”
“In the meantime, let’s chat.” He crossed his leg, resting his notepad on his thigh.
Yep, the same muscular one which failed to wrap around my hip. Parts of me went squirmy and boiling. I coughed. “Why?”
“You know—your sister, Tracey. And the argument with Jonson. You heard it, and I need to know in great detail what transpired.”
I teethed my lower lip. Is Allan investigating Tracey as a possible murderer? I swallowed hard and deep, feeling a greasy sickness swilling in my belly. What if he wants to arrest Tracey? But what for? She didn’t do anything. I ran my finger over and over the length of my nose while I considered how to proceed.
Slowly, I drew myself upright and stared at The Great Detective, not trusting him. Fury raced through my head. I didn’t know what to think or believe, and I certainly didn’t want to get Tracey in trouble. No way in hell would he get any information from me. The turd. I’ll keep my mouth shut tight.
“Leave.” I exploded to my feet faster than fast and pointed to the door. I stalked toward the entry as quick as I could and yanked open the door. “Leave. Leave. Right now.”
On my heels, Allan followed, but he didn’t go anywhere. Instead, his hand rested on top of mine.
I sensed the heave of his chest against my shoulders. His warm breath bathed my hairline right below my ear, a very vulnerable spot sending sizzles over my neck. An ache for more, the same as when I anticipated a round of almost wild, almost sex, rooted in my heart.
With a deep breath, I composed myself and said, “No, Allan. Go.”<
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“Nope. Come on.”
He took my hand and pulled me back to the reception area.
I was not a happy camper. Resisting, I stood firm. Immovable. But with one glance, my stubbornness threatened to wilt, and I dumped myself in the chair.
He said, “Sorry. I can’t say so enough.”
I pinned on him a firm glare, the despicable evil-eye kind which could make an ordinary person flinch, but not him. Maybe because he’d seen mine on multiple occasions. “Possibly, time to find a new phrase.”
“Ouch.”
I stared and stared, waiting for the words to gush from his mouth, while the wrath entrenched in my soul threatened to erupt again. “How could you, Allan? Seriously. How could you come here and accuse my sister of something foul? You should have blamed me instead of Tracey. She doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. For gosh sakes, she doesn't kill bugs. She sets them free.”
Allan gave a double-take. Raising his palms, he made a minute shrug. “You know the drill. It’s my job. I have to ask.”
“Your job,” I spat. “Not such a good family friend, are you?” Cynicism seeped into every single word.
“I guess not, at least, not this time.” He crooked the right side of his mouth. “I’ll probably hear from my mom. She doesn’t like me bothering you.”
“I’ll hear from mine.” With the option he could be struck from the potential son-in-law list.
“I’ll steer clear of yours.”
Me, too, because Mom’s lecture on Mr. Saintliness’s pluses ran too long.
Allan slanted his head. “At what point does their shtick end?”
How funny. A small curve tweaked the corners of my mouth. But my sensibility reigned, and I recovered. “Never”—I crossed my arms and squeezed—“ever. Mothers, especially the kind like ours, will always inject themselves in their children’s lives. Part of their DNA makes them.”
He snorted and lifted one eyebrow. “Did you inherit the gene?”
I matched his brow lift with one of my own. I raised my bottle of water close to my lips and said before taking a drink, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I would, sweetheart.”
Allan’s answer surprised me, making my hands quake. I knocked back some water. He had an odd way of saying he cared to unearth the tiniest thing about me. “Don’t call me sweetheart.”
Neither of us said anything for a bit. I gave in first with a sigh. “What do you want to know?”
Chapter Eleven
Allan pulled a recorder from his coat pocket, pressed a button, then stated my name, Harriet Lee Cooks, the date, the time, his name, and credentials. “Are you acquainted with Jonson Leggett the Third?”
I didn’t want to divulge my sister’s private affairs because Tracey should tell the story, not me. Besides, I more than hated Jonson—my mouth would get me into trouble—and could be accused of dispatching his body like I wanted to on multiple occasions. However, when the scandal broke, the public saw my sister’s past based on the vast spread in the paper. “God, yes. My sister was married to Jonson Leggett the Third for one year.”
“What?”
Not often had I startled him.
He recovered his police professionalism. “I mean, would you repeat that?”
“Everyone knows. Jonson Leggett the Third eloped with my sister, Tracey, to Vegas four years ago. The marriage was dissolved within twelve months.”
“I didn’t know all the details. You know how our mothers gossip. I don’t listen. Go on.” Allan scribbled. “Tell me what you know.”
He trotted out his “tell me” phrase to obtain information from people in a gentle, folksy manner, probably part of his detective training. I’d been on the receiving end several times. The first was when he found out I worked at the insurance company where he investigated stolen car parts and a related murder. The second time was when the Blonde Bimbo picked off guys in the accounting office—the same male co-workers I’d been friendly with.
I told Allan, “Jonson and Barbie arranged a consultation with Miss A. to begin the wedding planning process. Preliminary information was inputted via a form on the store tablet and auto-forwarded to our laptops. Barbie tried on several gowns and headpieces and purchased a selection. She looked stunning.
“While Miss A. helped Barbie, Jonson sat in the reception area—in the same chair you’re sitting in now—and thumbed idly through the invitation book, the one on top of the table.” I pointed to the tome by his side.
He glanced at it.
“Yes, that one. When bored, Jonson finally looked in my direction and recognized me. I pretended to be glad to be reacquainted with him. Pretend is the operative word. He disgusted me.”
I relayed all the gory details, the same ones I passed on to Miss A. the afternoon after Jonson and Barbie’s first visit.
Detective Wellborn listened to the whole story. “Anything else?”
“No. On the day of the grand opening of Wedding Wonderland, he rammed his way into the store and insisted, I mean, insisted-insisted on a ten percent discount.”
Again, his eyebrow arched. “And you said—”
“No.”
“Because—”
I shifted to one hip. “I said no because they purchased Barbie’s gown before the opening. In exchange for their help in promo materials, Miss A. prepared a package that reduced their costs significantly. The discount he tried to use became effective on the day of the grand opening, not before.”
“And what did Mr. Leggett do?”
I rubbed the length of my nose. “Jonson made incredibly rude comments. He cursed, called me names, and shoved Barbie. Rather abusive. Probably verbally abusive. Tracey walked in the store, all happy and care-free. I had pre-selected a few gowns for her to try on. At first, she didn’t see Jonson, who stood on the other side of Barbie. But when he interrupted Tracey’s chat with me, everything changed. My sister was not happy. I was not happy. Barbie was not happy. He said ugly things to Tracey, too. He said ugly things to all three of us. So fed up with his nonsense, I informed Barbie about his marriage to Tracey.”
“Yikes. Sounds”—Allan worked his mouth—“combustible. How did Barbie take it?”
“Poor thing. She just about burst into tears. She begged Jonson to tell her the truth. He didn’t pay her any attention.”
“What happened next? Did Tracey threaten Jonson?”
“Fuck no.”
He tick-tocked his finger. “Language, sweetheart.”
I set a finger to my lower lip, letting the endearment pass by. “Sorry. That would be a plain, ol’-fashioned…no. Tracey would never, and I repeat, never-ever hurt anyone.”
The store door banged open as Miss A. shoved her way inside. The bags and laptop she carried nearly made it impossible for her to walk.
Being the polite gentleman, Allan set his notepad and pen on the tabletop and stood to assist her.
“Hi, Miss A.” I rose as well, waving my hand at Allan. “May I introduce you to Detective Allan Wellborn from the Sommerville Police Department?”
Miss A. surrendered her packages to him, and after he set them on the desk, she dropped her handbag and shook his hand. “So nice to make your acquaintance, Detective. Are you a special friend”—she shot me a playful, inquisitive look which had me roll my eyes—“of Hattie’s?”
“Our mothers are good friends,” he said. “And my sister’s Hattie’s best friend.”
“Uh, Miss A…” Summoning the right words wouldn’t be easy. I firmed my lips.
“Yes, dearie?”
“Detective Wellborn is here to interview both of us.”
Her brows notched together. “Interview? Why?”
“I don’t know how to say…” I shot him a look. “Do you want to tell her, or shall I?”
He nodded his head. “Go ahead.”
“I’m afraid it’s not good news. I’m sorry.”
Miss A. gripped the back of a chair. Her fingers curled into the wood. White crease
s striped her knuckles.
I inhaled deeply. “Someone found Jonson Leggett in his car in Super Saver’s parking lot. He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
Miss A. looked from Detective Wellborn to me and back again. Her face dissolved of all color to sickly white. She stumbled backward.
I shot a hand her way to grasp her elbow before she crashed.
“I-I don’t believe it,” she spluttered.
“I’m sorry.”
She stared at Allan.
He nodded. “Yes, ma'am, it's true.” He filled her in on all the gruesome details.
“How surreal,” Miss A. said.
My employer shifted again in a wobbly way. Concerns for her well-being took precedence. “Do you need to sit, Miss A.?” I asked.
“I believe I will, my dear. Shopping—what a nightmare. And the awful news on top…” She touched her forehead. “I think I'll go to my office.”
Allan said, “I need to conduct a one-on-one interview with you, Miss A. Can we have a private chat?”
“Of course. Hattie, can you manage?”
Comprehending what Miss A. hadn’t said, I smoothed my hand over her arm, feeling the crisp white fabric of her store jacket. “I can. You’re just a phone call away. No worries.”
“I’ll carry your packages.” After Allan stuffed his pen, notebook, and recorder in his suit pocket, he picked up her purchases.
Miss A. led the way to the office in the back, closing the door behind them.
Approximately thirty minutes later, Detective Wellborn and Miss A. emerged.
I looked their way, noting she looked less pale, undoubtedly due to the never-ending pot of coffee she brewed in her office. She gave a brief tour of the premises and, with a wave, also gave Allan an abbreviated version on how the wedding business operated.
While they talked and strolled about the store, I did data entry work on the computer—Misses Jacobs, Watson, and Wilson would be notified by email of upcoming decisions regarding flowers; however, I kept one eye on the twosome. And sharpened my hearing, too. I didn’t want to miss any details, although I believed Miss A. would fill me in later.
Their excursion ended at the transaction desk.
I stopped typing and launched myself to my feet.
