Marriage, Monsters-in-Law, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  Mitch eased over a bump onto the ramp then punched the gas, and we sailed down to the asphalt road. A weathered sign with faded red letters on a white background welcomed us to Camden Island. The dock area consisted of a stand selling ferry tickets and a building with two gas pumps and a small convenience store with a sign proclaiming burgers, sandwiches, and ice cream could be found inside. The area had a no-frills vibe of a national park during the off-season.

  “Nathan, how many roads are there on Camden Island?” Mitch asked.

  “One!”

  “Very good. You were paying attention,” Mitch said.

  “We can only drive to the hotel. No cars allowed anywhere else,” Nathan said. Ninety percent of Camden Island was a conservation area and no additional development was allowed.

  “How will we get around? Are we going to have to ride the horses?” Livvy asked suspiciously.

  “Golf carts!” Nathan shouted. “You’d know that, if you hadn’t been reading your book.”

  “Nathan, inside voice,” I said.

  Livvy made a face at him, then turned her shoulder and propped her book up on the window, but I could see she wasn’t reading.

  The road left the clearing by the dock and entered the forest abruptly. The sharp-edged fanned leaves of low-growing palmettos crowded the road while live oaks, their twisting branches draped with Spanish moss, rose on either side. Branches thicker than telephone poles arched over the road. Spanish moss hung motionless in curtains from the thick limbs.

  We drove a few more minutes, the flat road ambling through the trees. The sun splashed down on us occasionally through gaps in the canopy, then the shade swallowed us again. The asphalt ended at a gate set into a stone wall. Gateposts connected with a curved iron arch marked the switch to a crushed shell road. The gates stood open, grass and vines entwined through them, indicating that it had been a long time since they had been closed.

  The wild growth ended at the gate. Inside the stone wall, a grassy lawn spread, broken only by the widely spaced massive live oaks. In the distance, a single spot of white blazed against the green background. As the road curved closer we could make out the lines of a white gazebo positioned between two fountains.

  “Is that where Aunt Summer will get married?” Livvy asked, breaking the silence, and I realized that the kids had been quiet for the last few minutes as we drove through the forest. It was probably the sheer uniqueness of the scenery that had kept the kids’ attention. We had stands of pine trees in North Dawkins, but those copses were nothing like the lush vegetation here.

  “I think so. I don’t see any other gazebos, so that must be it,” I said.

  We crunched around a bend in the road and the resort came into full view. I’d seen plenty of pictures of it as I planned and prepped and double-checked wedding details, but the photos didn’t compare with a firsthand look.

  Built in the late 1800s by a wealthy sugar baron as a winter escape, it was a blend of Italianate and Queen Anne architecture. A mix of stone, stucco, and shingle, the two-story white central building glowed blindingly in the sun. The dominant feature was a square bell tower with tall arched window cutouts that rose above the main roofline in the center of the building. Orange roof tiles glowed warmly in the sunlight, giving it a Mediterranean flair.

  Mitch parked at the foot of a wide stone staircase that led to a covered veranda, which ran across the right-hand side of the building in front of a row of large bay windows. A turret with curved windows rose on the left-hand side of the shallow stairs. Two stories of balconied windows marched along the wings stretching out on either side of the main house.

  “Wow.” Livvy closed her book. “That doesn’t look like a cottage.”

  I’d read them the part of the guidebook that described how the wealthy industrialists from the North discovered the Georgia barrier islands and built “cottages.” Most of these retreats were located on nearby Jekyll Island, and their owners were members of the Jekyll Island Club, the roster of which included names like Morgan, Vanderbilt, and Pulitzer. But even among millionaires there are some quirky folks. Archibald Q. Trumont liked his privacy and built his “cottage” on Camden Island, after purchasing the entire island, of course. “These were very wealthy people,” I said. “These houses were small in comparison to their other houses.”

  Mitch unbuckled his seatbelt. “Let’s go check in.”

  “Yeah, I want to see inside the cottage-mansion,” Nathan said.

  I stepped out of the van and stretched, enjoying the pleasantly clear air that only held a faint trace of humidity. I’d been worried that the muggy Georgia summer would arrive early and we’d all be sweltering during the outdoor wedding. The aroma of freshly mowed grass mingled with the scent of flowers. I thought I caught a whiff of jasmine and perhaps gardenia.

  A slim figure in white flew down the stairs, arms wide, her red hair streaming behind her. “You’re here! Group hug.” Summer crushed Livvy and Nathan to her. They submitted for a moment then wiggled away. Mitch gave Summer a one-armed hug as he said, “Hey, Sis. How you holding up?”

  “Great. So excited you’re here.”

  The kids were impatient to see the resort, and Mitch let himself be dragged to the stairs. As the kids peppered him with questions about the pool and the beach, he called over his shoulder to me, “I know you two have a lot to talk about. We’ll check out the room and come back for the luggage.”

  Brian, his brown hair with red highlights glinting in the sunlight, followed Summer down the stairs at a slower pace. He and Mitch paused to shake hands.

  Summer squeezed me close, then tucked her sleek long bob behind her ears. “So good to see you.”

  “You too. How are you?” I leaned back to look at her. Her naturally pale skin was flushed with a happy glow, and she was smiling widely.

  “Great. I’m so glad it’s finally here. This waiting is killing me. It’s worse than waiting for Christmas when I was a kid.”

  Brian joined us. Looping his arm around Summer’s shoulders, he pulled her close. “I told her we should have eloped.” He wasn’t movie-star handsome—no square-cut jaw or elusive charisma gene that drew all eyes to him when he came on the scene—but he was good-looking in a more conventional sense with his dark hair, a tall, broad-shouldered build, and soft brown eyes. He was dependable and reliable and thought Summer was the best thing that had ever happened to him, which made him a keeper in my book.

  She grinned and rolled her eyes. To me, she said, “He just wants to go on the honeymoon.”

  “You bet I do.”

  Summer’s cheeks flushed. “Yeah, well, too late now. The napkins have been printed with our names. Patricia would kill me if we skipped out now.”

  “Yeah, she wouldn’t be happy with all the bigwigs she’s invited,” Brian said, but the idea of an angry stepmother didn’t seem to bother him. “The elopement option is still on the table,” he said firmly.

  “A few days and then we’ll be on our own,” Summer countered as she sent me a glance. “He says that, but there’s no cutting and running now.”

  “We wouldn’t be cutting and running. It would be a strategic retreat,” Brian said.

  “I doubt your stepmom would see it that way,” Summer said.

  The crunch of tires on the shell drive sounded, and we turned to see a MINI Cooper emblazoned with a Union Jack making its way leisurely up the drive. “That’s my aunt Nanette. She must have come over on the ferry from Jekyll Island,” Summer informed Brian. “She’s an Anglophile.”

  “Never would have guessed.” Brian said, deadpan. The car eased to a stop beside the minivan. The door opened, and Nanette emerged. “And that’s Queen,” Summer said as a gray Afghan hound leapt out lightly.

  I’d heard about a study that found dogs tend to look like their owners, and I’d been ready to scoff, but then I had thought of Aunt Nanette and Queen. With their feathered gray hair and pointed noses, there was an uncanny resemblance between owner and pet.

 
Mitch and the kids descended the stairs, and the next few minutes were a confusion of greetings. Nanette gave Livvy a quick hug and asked what she was reading. Nanette was almost as big a bookworm as Livvy.

  “The Secret Garden.” Livvy pulled her book out from under her arm and held it out.

  “Excellent choice for a weekend at a Victorian estate.” Despite her rather reserved manner, Nanette had developed a rapport with Livvy and Nathan. She fanned through the pages. “And you have the edition with the classic illustrations. This is one of my favorite books, you know. You’ll have to tell me later about what you think of Robin.” Nanette was a favorite with the kids, and I thought it was because she didn’t talk down to them, but treated them exactly like she treated everyone else. She turned to Nathan and formally shook his hand. “And what about you, young man? It’s not all video games for you, is it?”

  “No. I can read,” Nathan informed her. He’d been reading basic, one-syllable words last year in kindergarten, but now that he was in first grade he was reading chapter books on his own. “I brought Nate the Great books with me.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Nanette said.

  Queen was sitting prettily as Livvy ran her hands down the dog’s back while Nathan rubbed one ear. “Mom, we could have brought Rex,” Livvy said, referring to our dog.

  “Rex is having a wonderful time at the doggie kennel, playing with his friends.” And I was glad he was there. I loved Rex, but I had enough things to juggle on this trip without adding a dog to the mix.

  “Come on, kids, let’s get these suitcases upstairs,” Mitch called.

  “I’ll be there in a minute.” I watched Nathan tug his heavy roller bag through the shell drive. “I think his suitcase is half filled with toy cars and action figures, and Livvy’s is mostly books,” I said to Summer and Nanette.

  “Smart kids to bring their own entertainment, not that they’ll run out of things here,” Nanette said, then turned to Summer. “Now, I have a message for you. Your mom and dad couldn’t leave town this morning. Caroline has a finicky client who—wouldn’t you know it—picked today to turn in a contract on a house. There’s a bidding war and her assistant’s son broke his leg, so she can’t leave until she gets it squared away, but she’ll be here as soon as possible. Might be tomorrow, depending on how the negotiations go.”

  “Well, if that’s the only thing that goes wrong this weekend, I can handle that.”

  Aunt Nanette patted Summer on the arm, an extreme show of affection, coming from her, then went to check in.

  A car horn tooted and a vintage red Corvette with the top down whipped around the curve and slowed to a stop next to the MINI Cooper, spraying bits of the shell drive. “And that’s my mother,” Brian said before moving to open the car door for her. The woman’s brassy red hair swung around her shoulders as she climbed out of the car. She wore a red tank top and a pair of white capri pants with little red hearts embroidered across the fabric. She’d accessorized with a gauzy red and white scarf, white-framed sunglasses, and three-inch red heels.

  “Darling!” She gave Brian a quick death-grip hug, then moved to Summer. “Sweetie!” She grasped Summer’s hands and drew her arms wide. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”

  “Er—thanks, Yvonne,” Summer said.

  Nanette stepped forward, extended her hand, and said firmly, “I’m Nanette.” I suspect it was to prevent Yvonne from calling her something like Honey. Summer introduced me as well.

  “Charmed,” Yvonne said, then turned back to Brian, dismissing Nanette, Summer, and me. Yvonne looped her arm through Brian’s elbow. “Let’s get my luggage. Now, tell me . . .” Her voice faded as they walked across the crushed shell drive toward the cars.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Shakespeare?”

  “She’s always doing that. Just roll with it—it’s easier.” Summer’s forehead creased in a frown as she watched Yvonne and Brian.

  “Everything okay?” I asked as Brian hefted several Louis Vuitton suitcases out of the trunk of Yvonne’s car.

  “She’s always doing that, pulling him away to go chat on their own. And lately she’s been hinting that Brian and I should put off the wedding. I wish—” Summer broke off as a stocky blond woman strode down the stairs. “Oh, boy. Brian’s stepmom, Patricia. Here we go.”

  The two women met on the staircase, paused, nodded to each other, and then continued on their way. Summer let out a whoosh of breath. “Okay, we might actually make it through this weekend.”

  “So Brian’s stepmom and dad didn’t come over on the ferry today?”

  Summer nodded to the silver Mercedes parked at the front of the line. “No, they’ve been here since last night. Helping,” Summer said in a tight voice.

  Patricia crunched across the shell drive, her pale blue linen jacket and wide-leg trousers flapping around her. She raised the cell phone she held in her hand and waved it like a flag. “Great news,” she said in nasal tones. “I just heard from Judge Ratliff and his wife, Colleen. They can make it. And so can the Mayburns.”

  “I don’t know if we can do that.” Summer looked at me. “Do we have any open seats left?”

  I’d slung my tote on my shoulder when we got out of the car, and now I reached for the white binder.

  “What are you talking about?” Patricia said, “Of course we can find room for the judge. And the Mayburns are top-notch. You don’t want to turn them away and get off on the wrong foot with them. So influential, you know.”

  I paused with the binder in my hand. “I know you had a few last minute add-ons yesterday and that filled the extra table we’d left open.”

  “Well, add another table.” Patricia tossed her champagne-colored bangs and eyed me critically. “And you are?”

  Summer threw me an apologetic look. “Patricia, this is my sister-in-law, Ellie. She’s the reason everything is running so smoothly.”

  Patricia thawed slightly and turned up the corners of her lips. “So nice to meet you. Do you have the seating charts in there?” She reached for the binder. “I’ve been waiting on those.”

  I shifted the binder to my other arm, away from her. “Yes, but Summer hasn’t had a chance to look at them. We were just about to go over them.”

  “Yes, let me sort this out,” Summer said, “and I’ll drop off a copy for you once we have seats for the Ratliffs and the Mayburns.”

  “I’ll help,” Patricia said in a voice edged with steel.

  Summer’s gaze focused on something beyond my shoulder. “That would be lovely. Let’s sit there in the shade and work it out.” She moved across the lawn to a white wicker table and a trio of chairs under the spreading branches of a massive live oak.

  Patricia hesitated, then said, “On second thought, you take care of that. I have to make sure that caterer got my message about the beef.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I called to her departing back.

  Patricia turned, waved like the Queen of England, a perfect little half swivel of her forearm. “Don’t shove the judge and Colleen somewhere in the back. They need to be near the head table,” she called before resuming her trek to the resort.

  Summer moved in the direction of the table, her sandals sinking into the thick grass as she walked from the drive to the lawn. “I knew she wouldn’t stay. She hates being outside.”

  The wicker creaked as I dropped into one of the seats. “No wonder you’re such a success in politics.”

  “She’s tougher than some politicians I’ve come across, that’s for sure. Okay, quick, let’s sort out the seating, but no one who RSVP’d weeks ago is getting bumped to a back table.”

  We huddled over the binder, shifting names and table placements until we’d worked out a new arrangement. Then, Summer made a call to the resort’s catering department, who agreed they could squeeze in another table at the midpoint of the room.

  “But that will leave four open seats at the new table. Do you want to move someone else over?” I a
sked.

  “I have no doubt that the table will be full before tonight,” Summer said as she sent a text.

  A golf cart decorated with white tulle, gold ribbons, and a BRIDE AND GROOM sign attached to the canopy bumped off the shell path onto the grass and headed our way. Brian wheeled the cart to a stop and removed a picnic basket from the seat.

  “Peach ice tea or lemonade, compliments of the catering staff.” Brian removed three glasses, an ice bucket, and two carafes from the basket along with a container of nuts and dried fruits.

  “There.” Summer put the phone down on the wicker table. “Done.” She reached for a glass. “This is nice, although I might need something stronger than ice tea.”

  “A Long Island ice tea?” Brian said. “I saw you talking to Patricia.”

  “Two more late RSVPs. It’s taken care of,” Summer said.

  Brian handed me a glass. I took a long gulp as Summer and Brian clinked their glasses and recited together, “Three more days.”

  I took a sip of the lemonade. “Oh, this is good. Such a rich, tangy taste, but it’s not too sour.”

  “Yes, it is. It tastes exactly like Aunt Gloria’s lemonade.” Brian ran his thumb over the glass through the thin layer of condensation that had already formed, his face suddenly sad.

  Summer reached out and squeezed his hand. “I wish she could be here too.”

  Brian nodded. “She was looking forward to it.”

  Summer looked toward me and explained. “Brian’s aunt Gloria passed away last month.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

  Brian shifted his gaze toward Camden House. “She really wanted to be here to see this place. I talked about it so much when I was a kid, though, she probably didn’t need to see it in person. I used to come here camping with my dad when I was a kid for a few weeks in June, then we’d go to Aunt Gloria’s house for Fourth of July. I’m sure I talked her ear off.”

  “I bet she loved it,” Summer said. “She wanted to see this place because you love it, but there’s a more important reason—to see you get married. She was so proud to have two nephews go into law.” Summer leaned toward Brian and lowered her voice to a mock-whisper. “I think you were her favorite, though.”