Temporarily out of Luck

by Vicki Batman

  What??!! Other fingerprints, not just Tracey's? Thank God. I tilted my head. “Then, whose are they?”

  Allan hit his waist with his hands, shoving aside his coat. He looked past the parking lot to the other stores along the street. “I don't know. Just let me do my job and quit interfering.”

  I bristled. “I. Am. Not. Interfering.”

  Allan angled his brow. “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  He gave me the “so not believing you” look.

  “I'm not.”

  “Then tell me, please, who talked to Dee and Mr. Ryan before me?”

  I rubbed my finger along my nose and across my mouth to my chin. I needed to speak with the right words, not babble like an idiot. I did enough babbling on ordinary days. “I had a…necessity. Yah, a necessity.” I pulled my lower lip and sank deeper into the front seat.

  “I can’t wait to hear your explanation.”

  “Yes, a necessity. Because—because—”

  Allan rolled his finger. “I don’t have all day.”

  Sigh. My stall tactics didn’t work. I lifted my chin. “Because I needed donuts and pizza. Besides, Dee’s a family friend. So’s Mr. Ryan. I can talk to whomever I want.”

  Allan said, “Didn’t say you couldn’t talk to your friends.”

  I bobbed my head. “I had to have Dee’s donuts. Our chat turned to Jonson’s murder. She graciously supplied me with—”

  “Recordings from her security cameras. Imagine that.”

  I ignored Allan’s answer. “And Mr. Ryan’s a long-time family friend. He gave me a pizza—”

  “I know. I know.” He huffed, his arms crossing his chest. “Your favorite. Canadian bacon with crispy bacon—”

  “And during our conversation, he mentioned the”—I looked in the distance and pulled a stray curl—“security cameras. One thing led to another.” I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. “Did you use thumbscrews?”

  “Not necessary.” Allan buzzed my forehead. “Just flashed my badge, like normal cops.”

  He stepped away and closed my door with an irresistible grin sure to stir my flustery feelings to life again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning, I dragged myself into Wedding Wonderland. Pictures tornado-ed through my head, like ones of Allan and me hot and sweaty in a body-lock, which kept me from sleeping most of the night. When shut-eye finally came, I dreamt of us tying the knot. I grew restless. The tossing and flailing turned my body black and blue. Cue hot shower and two ibuprofens.

  At Wedding Wonderland, I hollered a greeting to Miss A. in my usual way.

  She called her “hello, dearie” reply from the belly of the stockroom, her typical routine. A few moments later, she opened the office door and bustled to the front of the store with a long, satin gown draped over her arms. “Hattie, I’m so excited. Your sister’s dress arrived. Can you ask her to come for alterations?”

  I doodled on a scratchpad, then dropped my pencil and frowned. “Miss A., you know how the police are investigating Tracey?”

  She laid Tracey’s dress on a reception chair. “Still?”

  I nodded, picked up my pencil, and twisted windmills on the desk. “My sister’s not doing so well.”

  She tutted. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry to hear.”

  “I don’t understand why my sister’s not fighting back.” I palmed my chin. “Tracey’s hibernating in her bedroom at Mom and Dad’s. Drastic, I say. Is it possible… Can we wait…on the fitting?”

  Miss A. pulled off her cheaters. They dangled by a chain in the vicinity of her ample chest. “Hattie. We must do it now, or the dress won’t be ready. We have very little time—”

  “You’re right.” I scratched my temple. How to solve my problem? I sighed. “I see no other alternative. I’ll phone her.”

  Grabbing my cellphone, I pounced on Tracey’s speed dial number, but instead of my younger sibling answering, my mom did, which nearly sent my body into spasms. Mom’s implications about hooking up with Allan to persuade him to help Tracey still annoyed me. She bridged a line no mother should cross. I didn’t say a word in case I needed to disconnect.

  “Hattie? Hattie!” Mom asked. “Is that you?”

  Lord, save me. My reflexes have dulled. “It’s me. Mom, let me speak to Tracey. She needs to try on her gown for alterations.”

  “She’s…um. Well, she’s, uh… Yes, she’s indisposed.”

  Indisposed? What the hell? “Last night at tango lessons, I subbed for her because Tracey and Stuart did a no-show. That kind of indisposed?”

  “Well, yes, you could say that.”

  Mom’s pause went on forever. From the corner of my eye, I saw Miss A. continued to watch me, and I sure as hell knew she thought my sister’s wedding could and would be the stupidest on record.

  “How did the lesson go?” Mom asked.

  “Very well—aw, Mom, not the point.” I picked up the pencil and slammed it on the desk. “Tracey should’ve gone.”

  “You know how she feels.”

  “If anyone does, it would be me. Ask Tracey to talk to me right now.” I hated to beg anything from my mother. But I had to. “Please.”

  “Fine. I’ll check again.”

  I rolled my eyes and rotated my neck. My spine released a satisfying unkinking pop. In the background, I heard someone—most likely Mom—murmur. She even sounded like she pleaded. My sister needs to get over being an ass.

  “Hattie?” Mom asked.

  “I’m still here.”

  “Tracey says she wants you to try on the gown.”

  “She what?” Ridiculous. “Mother. I’m taller than her.”

  “You and the seamstress will figure out what to do.”

  I flicked my left hand toward the ceiling. “But—”

  Mom disconnected. What?! Still holding the phone to my ear, I turned to Miss A. I was stunned. Outraged. Infuriated. How could she? My mother hung up on me, her oldest daughter.

  Miss A. scooped Tracey's dress in her arms. “Hattie? Is your sister coming?”

  I pressed the phone to my chest. I still can’t believe what Mom said. “I’m supposed to—”

  “—yes, dearie?”

  “—I’m supposed to wear the dress for her.” Guess who is beginning to feel like The Bride. First, the tango lessons and second, the alterations. Who knew “maid of honor” meant “bride in training”?

  Miss A. frowned with a pout. “I’m not understanding. You’re a stand-in for your sister?”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “Mom insisted.” I bit my lower lip before asking. “Is it bad luck to wear your sister’s wedding dress?”

  “I don’t…think so.”

  “Maybe we should do a search on bad luck and weddings.” What would be the point besides knowing the minutiae about wedding day karma? I clenched the phone and walked toward the changing rooms. “Let's get this over with.”

  Turning in my boss’s direction, I touched her arm. “And please, Miss A.—”

  She paused. “Yes, my dear?”

  “No photos.”

  Why is she laughing?

  ****

  Later in the afternoon, Miss A. called me to the office. “Have a seat, Hattie.”

  I lowered myself into the chair across from her desk. A strong aroma of coffee found my nose. I checked the room, noting the samples, the rack of freshly altered gowns, the white mug by her phone inscribed with “Wedding or Bust” in a flow-y script.

  “Is something up?” I asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No-no-no. No worries.” Miss A. took a sip of her high-octane brew. With a dainty “aah,” she set the cup on her desk. “I wanted to discuss with you about possibly attending a wedding conference with me. All the latest trends, fashions, etc. will be on display. We might connect with the hottest new vendors and find exclusives for Wedding Wonderland.”

  A business trip? How fabulous. “Where is the conference?”

  Miss A. shuffled through a stack
and selected a piece of correspondence. “I’m sorry, I should have said. In Smithville. Of course, we will stay overnight, and I will cover the room costs, meals, and conference fees. We can drive to Smithville Saturday evening, stay, go to the event all day Sunday, and drive home on Monday.”

  Miss A. peered over the rim of her blue-framed bifocals, the same color she had used to embroider her name on her white coat.

  “What do you think?”

  I thought for a bit. Not costing me a dime computed. So far, working for Miss A. and learning the wedding business was ideal. No weird monkey stuff. She was a great mentor. And a three-hour drive wouldn’t be a hardship. “What about the shop?”

  Miss A. tapped her calendar book. “We would only miss Sunday, and Wedding Wonderland’s closed on Mondays. A problem for you to go out of town?”

  “Not at all. When do we go?”

  “I’m a tad late in registering.” Miss A. manipulated and clicked the mouse. “The date is next weekend, three weeks before Tracey’s wedding. Any problems?”

  I shook my head and stood. “Shouldn’t be. Everything wedding-related should be done—thanks to my mom—and snap-snap-snap, fall into place like clockwork.”

  Miss A.’s mouth drooped a bit. “Are you having a bachelorette party?”

  “Jenny said something about hostessing one the night before the wedding at our apartment. She hired someone to give us massages, do our nails, and ordered a hot fudge sundae bar, which I’ll have to pass on because I need to watch calories to fit in the pink dress.”

  “Ice cream sundaes sound terrific. Let me know how I can help.” Her eyebrow quirked as she waved the information sheet. “Do you want to attend the convention with me?”

  Deeply, I wanted to go with Miss A. to Smithville. I would learn tons and be a better asset to Wonderland and beef up my resumé. “I'm a definite yes.”

  Miss A.’s face beamed like a new morning sun. She pressed the phone to her ear. “Great. I’ll make the arrangements now.”

  I hit speed dial two on my phone. “I’ll just let my mom know what’s going on. I don’t want her to have a panic attack when I’m a no-show for what she considers important.”

  Miss A. paused. “Aren’t the mother of the bride’s worries the pits?”

  ****

  Twilight settled in as I steered my Jeep into a parking spot steps away from Kella's apartment.

  I sensed my phone vibrate. “Yes?”

  Dweller Kella asked, “Are you on your way?”

  I killed the engine. “Just parked.”

  “Did you remember to buy the glass votive holders?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Two for a dollar at the 99-cent store.” I scooped up my handbag and the plastic grocery sack containing the requested items. I asked the clerk to wrap the candle holders individually as I would never hear the end of the Funsisters’ grief if I showed with broken or chipped ones.

  “Good. That’s all we need.”

  I rang her doorbell, and Trixie let me inside. The Funsisters came together to make tabletop decorations—Jenny's idea—for my sister’s rehearsal dinner. Another way to help Allan Wellborn throw the party Stuart’s mom should be hostessing.

  After I entered, I felt a brush along my arm—Trixie.

  “Before we start on our project, we need to know if Tracey and Stuart are getting married for real.”

  I knocked aside her hand and gave her my best “what are you talking about” look. “Of course, they are. Trace’ll be exonerated, and all will be copasetic. Besides, Stuart told me so.”

  A small look of confusion swept Trixie’s face. Her head slanted and her mouth pursed. “You’re sure?”

  “I pinkie swear positively positive I’m sure. We talked.” I crushed the bag in her arms and proceeded to Kella’s kitchen. The Funsisters promised dinner, and my stomach vocalized its hungry noises. “The detective on the case said some of the fingerprints weren't hers.”

  Maggie joined us, tossing her hands. “Just say his name.”

  “Whose name? Allan, like in Allan Wellborn?” My friends loved to irritate me. I dumped my handbag in the center of the table and motioned for Trixie to add the plastic bag.

  Maggie gave a bare nod.

  “All right, fine. Allan said so.”

  Maggie’s shoulder knocked my shoulder. “Hard to say?”

  Jenny waltzed in and handed me a glass of iced tea. Spying the dollar store bag, she took out the votive containers, unwrapped them, and held each to the light for imperfections. She polished a few on her jeans to erase the smudges. “These look perfect.”

  “Thank you. Seriously”—I set down my glass—“someone pass me food before I collapse.”

  Trixie passed me a plate loaded with a hot croissant filled with ham, gruyère cheese, and green apple slices. A bag of gourmet potato chips followed. She pressed a napkin in my free hand. “Happy now?”

  I bit into the sandwich. Hot, smooth, and crisp at the same time. Delicious. I took a second bite. Around crumbles of bread, I mumbled, “Yes, and thank you.”

  “Enough with the chitchat. We need to get busy.” Trixie scrubbed her palms. “Jenny, what’s first?”

  The Funsisters sorted the supplies for the decorations into piles. Jenny passed Kella a piece of paper printed with the faces of Tracey and Stuart. “You cut out the heads. And please do a good job. Sometimes, your cutting—”

  Kella snatched the scissors and trimmed a Tracey head. “I’m not in first grade, you know. My mother says I’ve improved.”

  I noticed how everyone stared at her. Improving her scissoring technique sounded funny.

  “Fine.” Jenny rolled her eyes ceilingward. “Trixie, you glue the heads on these paper dolls I copied.”

  Trixie took the glue stick from Jenny and saluted. “As you command.”

  “Hattie.”

  I shoved the rest of the sandwich in my mouth. Boy, I needed more time to eat. “Yes?”

  “You hot glue the pipe cleaner to the back of the paper dolls. I made twelve of each sex. One groom and one bride for each table.”

  “Ten-four.” After the face was glued on the paper doll, I applied the pipe cleaner to the back. When finished, I held it for everyone to see—a Tracey paper doll. “One word—adorable.”

  “Wait until you see what I do.” Jenny coiled the lengthy leftover pipe cleaner into a button-like shape and hot glued it to the votive, which she’d tipped base-side up. She added the groom to another votive. She set them side-by-side and waved her hand over the creation. “What do you think?”

  Kella clapped her hands and bounced on her toes. “I like it. Like-like-like. We should save them and reuse when Hattie marries Allan.”

  Holding the glue gun in mid-air, I froze. “Wh-hat?”

  Trixie waved her hand in a flighty way. “It’s just a matter of time.”

  “But-but-but we haven’t dated like normal couples do.” I slid my hand over my mouth. “We haven’t had”—I lowered my voice—“s-e-x.”

  Consumed by hysterical giggles, Trixie doubled over. “Even I know how to fix that.” Hiccups followed, and she ran from the room. “Water. Water.”

  Kella said, “Look. The Stuart doll doesn’t have feet.”

  “I’ll add a doily and feathers and stuff.” Jenny rummaged through another grocery sack and located a package of paper doilies and feathers. “No one will notice.”

  “So, Hattie…” Kella manipulated the scissors around Tracey's photocopied head. “Why haven’t you two done the nasty? Seems like you had plenty of opportunities. I’d be all over him—if he was my type.”

  “One.” I ticked my finger. “We seem to be angry with each other.”

  “Two.” Jenny raised two fingers. “His cell phone interrupts.”

  “True,” Kella said. “Three. He dated Blonde Bimbo.”

  “Four.” I signaled with four fingers.

  Everyone looked at each other.

  Their expressions read, “There’s a four?”

  �
�I don’t know if he’s in love with me.”

  “Dimwit. Who said anything about love? A major orgasm is the goal. A giant one.” Trixie returned to her spot and looked at her sticky fingers. She picked off a stuck paper sliver. “We know Allan cares for you. The whole world knows.”

  “I’m begging…” I pressed my palm to my chest. “Move on. Surely, somebody has a more exciting love life.” I flung my hands skyward, only to stop when the glue gun's cord didn't extend far enough. “Like Jenny and Mr. Who-Uses-All-The-Hot-Water—”

  My friend gave a curious eye and a subtle shake of her head.

  She wanted to shush me about Mr. Who-Uses-All-The-Hot-Water—which was fine. But why was she reluctant to tell the other Funsisters where their relationship was headed?

  “Ladies.” Jenny studied the bride and groom paper dolls. “These decorations aren’t getting done.”

  Trixie passed a completed groom. “Here you go, Hattie. Maybe you should have snagged Stuart.”

  I jerked the paper from her hand. “Not in this lifetime.”

  ****

  Another banner new day at Wedding Wonderland.

  “Hattie, dear?”

  I followed Miss A.'s call to her office. If I remembered correctly, several brides-to-be scheduled appointments. Perhaps, she wanted to discuss them. “Morning, Miss A. Whatcha know?”

  Miss A.’s shoulders slumped as she returned the phone to its stand. “I have some news which might compromise our trip to the wedding convention in Smithville.”

  I didn't like the sounds of “compromise.” Hopefully, her small problem could easily be solved. “What’s wrong?”

  “You see, dearie, I had to take my car to the shop this morning. The service manager phoned a minute ago, and well”—she smoothed her hand over her forehead, pushing back the springy curls—“I have a huge, oh, what's the right word? Drawback. I feel awful about this.”

  “Car problems are no fun, Miss A.” I nodded. “I don't know what I'd do if someone hurt my Jeep baby.”

  She smiled. “Your car is so darling. Someday, you'll have to let me cruise the parking lot.”

  I choked back a laugh. Who wouldn’t want to see Miss A. handling my sporty vehicle? We could take the top off. Her white curls flying helter-skelter in the breeze. A goofy smile shaping her mouth as she wheeled about. “Anytime. What’s wrong with yours?”