Marriage, Monsters-in-Law, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  “Livvy and Nathan convinced Aunt Nanette that they had to go to the pool. She offered to take them.”

  “She’s so tough on the outside, but inside she’s a big softy,” Summer said.

  “I know! I never would have imagined it, but she is,” I agreed.

  “But never let on that you know it,” Summer said.

  “Never.”

  Summer clasped her hands together and scanned the room. “Okay,” she said briskly. “I’ve got the guest book and the fancy pen to go with the other things for the reception.” Summer nodded at the box I’d brought with me. “I’ll add those to the box later. That’s taken care of. What else do we need?” She checked the time on her watch. “We have to get ready for the bachelorette party.”

  “What’s the plan for the party?” I asked.

  Summer shrugged. “No idea, except I told Meg it had to be tasteful. I thought Mom would be there.”

  Chapter Four

  Summer’s mom, Caroline, a true Southern lady, would have been perfectly comfortable at the party. Summer’s maid of honor and former college roommate, Meg, had planned a perfect, classy bachelorette party, which consisted of a cooking demonstration with dinner included.

  “Not a stripper in sight,” Yvonne commented sadly as she took her seat next to me at one of the tall tables positioned around the resort’s kitchen. A demonstration table with a large, angled mirror sat in the middle of the room. A mix of cookware, utensils, and ingredients covered the table. Delicious aromas of baking bread and savory meat already filled the kitchen. “Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised,” Yvonne continued, “her maid of honor doesn’t exactly look like she’d know how to party, even if she wanted to.”

  Meg, a sturdily built yet soft-spoken woman with raven-black hair, did radiate competent calmness as she shuffled everyone into their seats and consulted with the chef.

  Patricia was passing in front of our table and overheard Yvonne’s comment. Patricia paused mid stride. “Meg made an excellent choice. Strippers would be tacky.”

  Yvonne muttered, “Thou art as loathsome as a toad,” to Patricia’s back.

  Patricia’s steps checked. “What did you say?”

  “She hopes no one got stuck on the road,” I said quickly. “You know, coming in from the ferry,” I said. Lame, I thought, but it was the best I could do on the spur of the moment. Patricia frowned, and I hurried on, scanning the room for a diversion. “I think Meg needs some help getting everyone’s attention.”

  “Of course she does.” Patricia’s voice held a note of exasperation. Patricia crossed the room to the demonstration table, her linen skirt snapping like the sail of a ship under full steam. Meg had been saying, “Everyone—please—can I have your attention?” But her voice didn’t carry across the room, and only a few people noticed.

  Patricia struck a mixing bowl with a spoon, producing a gong-like tone, and the noise level dropped. Meg cleared her throat. I could tell she wasn’t comfortable speaking in front of a group. She spoke quickly, rushing along through her story, but it was a funny anecdote about her and Summer’s first attempt at a dinner party, which ended in disaster. By the end of the story, I could tell she felt more comfortable. She said, “Unfortunately, neither of us has improved as a cook, so that is why Jean-Pierre is here.”

  She turned the floor over to him. While Meg couldn’t wait to get out of the spotlight, Jean-Pierre thrived on it. He was a hit, flirting with everyone with his French accent, which I thought had to be contrived. I’m no expert, but he sounded more Pepé Le Pew than Gérard Depardieu, but, then again, maybe I’d seen too many cartoons lately. I might just have cartoons on the brain. As Jean-Pierre chopped and seasoned and smiled at us, I wondered what Mitch was doing.

  “The boys” were ensconced in the Camden Room, a dark-paneled room, which usually held a conference table for meetings, but tonight green felt tables had been set up for the bachelor party. Mitch and I had recruited one of the older cousins to watch Livvy and Nathan. The baby-sitter and the kids were in our hotel room watching as many kid movies as they could fit in while we were gone. It felt slightly odd for Mitch and me to be out and away from the kids, but on our own separately. If we had a sitter—a fairly rare and unusual occurrence—we usually hoarded that time as couple time for a date, but tonight we’d gone our separate ways.

  Summer and her bridesmaids finished mixing the ingredients for the chocolate soufflé dessert and slipped it in the oven. Summer raised her fisted hands as if she’d won a boxing match. She wore a white T-shirt with the word BRIDE spelled out in sparkly letters and looked as if the paintball incident hadn’t even happened. The wedding photographer, a lean man who kept pushing a swath of his black hair off his forehead, circled the room, slipping in and out of groups, taking candid photos.

  My gaze strayed to the far side of the kitchen where Aunt Nanette and Julia were seated. The bachelorette party invitation had been a blanket invite to all the women who arrived at the resort the first evening, so Summer couldn’t uninvite Julia. We paired Julia with Aunt Nanette. I was pretty confident that Aunt Nanette would keep everything in check where Julia was concerned.

  Summer had also insisted that we not mention the paintball incident. Only Summer, Brian, Mitch, the resort manager, Summer’s mom, and I knew about it, which sounded like a lot of people, but that was only a handful of people compared to the number of guests who would be arriving soon. Summer wanted to keep the news limited to as small a group as possible, and I agreed. The fewer people who knew, the better.

  Of course, the golfing couple knew as well, but they were only on the island for the day and didn’t know anyone in the wedding party. The resort manager was more than happy to keep it quiet. Summer said she didn’t want to have to answer questions about it, which I completely understood. The last thing you want before your wedding is to be asked how the paintball welts are healing.

  Jean-Pierre demonstrated how to make a beef bourguignon. Fortunately for us, he’d prepared it earlier in the day and was only showing us the steps. When he finished, we were served a plate of the delicious beef and vegetable dish along with a tossed salad and fresh rolls. By then, he was removing the soufflé dessert from the oven and the heady smell of chocolate wafted across the kitchen. They had baked the soufflé in individual ramekins. Jean-Pierre placed one on a plate. “It is all about the appearance, no? This looks good, but . . .” He dusted the top with powdered sugar, then positioned two raspberries on the side. “This looks even better, yes?” A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.

  As I took a bite of the dessert, a flash blinded me. Great, just what I wanted, a photo of me with my mouth gaping open. I blinked away the spots on my vision. I’m sure I was scowling at the photographer as he sauntered closer to our table. I swallowed and dabbed my napkin to my mouth. “You’ve got to delete that last one.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t worry. It is flattering.” A name tag clipped to his white oxford shirt read NED. “Very flattering.”

  “I doubt that, Ned. I’d appreciate it if you’d delete it.”

  I’d used my no-nonsense tone of voice that I employed on the playground when Livvy or Nathan misbehaved and I wanted them to stop whatever they were doing, which was usually something like climbing up the slide the wrong way. Ned shrugged, but pushed some buttons on the camera. “Very well. It’s gone,” he said in a tone that indicated he thought I’d made a big mistake.

  “Thank you.”

  He looked up and held my gaze. “But there are very few things as sexy as eating.” His gaze dipped to my lips, then leisurely drifted lower to the neckline of my top.

  Where did Summer find this guy? Did she know he was hitting on the wedding party? I was about to tell him I was too old for him—he looked to be somewhere in his mid-twenties—but before I could say anything else, Yvonne leaned toward him. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Ned turned to her, and it was as if I’d never existed. Within seconds, they were involved in a deep conversa
tion about art, which he reluctantly pulled himself away from when Patricia called out that she wanted formal photos of the bride and bridesmaids.

  Yvonne downed the last of her champagne. “Well, things are looking more interesting now.”

  I really didn’t have a good reply to that, so I kept quiet. We got through the rest of the dinner with only one other Shakespeare quote and a couple of entertaining stories about her time in the theater.

  After the photos were taken, Meg announced that a behind-the-scenes look at the resort would round out the evening and introduced a guide who would lead us through the mansion on a tour from the perspective of the servants. “Oh, what a wonderful idea,” Patricia said.

  Yvonne picked up her glass and motioned a server over. “Good grief. I do not understand this enthrallment with the servant class.”

  “I think it’s an offshoot of our fascination with the opulence of another era,” I said.

  “Oh, fascination with opulence, I understand,” she said as she fingered a gold hoop earring. “It’s the fixation on the domestics that puzzles me. Don’t people realize the servants lived restricted lives of drudgery?” She downed her champagne in one swallow and slid off the barstool. “I’m hitting the bar instead. Care to join me?”

  “No, I better stay here,” I said, thinking that with Patricia safely on the tour and Yvonne in the bar, I could relax for the rest of the night.

  “Your loss. Enjoy those poky little rooms and depressing back stairs.”

  I watched her stroll away and noticed that Ned took note of her departure as well. The rest of us followed our female tour guide, a redheaded woman with ivory skin dotted with freckles, who announced, “My name is Emma, and I’ll be your guide for the behind-the-scenes tour. You’ll see parts of Camden House that are normally off-limits. I grew up on the island and I didn’t see these areas of the house until last year when this tour was added.” She led us down a hall to the butler’s pantry where she informed us that Camden House did have a kitchen. “Surprisingly, a kitchen wasn’t a standard in these holiday island homes,” Emma said. “Many of the grand cottages on Jekyll Island don’t have kitchens at all. The builders of the cottages wanted to encourage socializing at the island clubhouse, so they eliminated kitchens from the building plans,” she continued as we moved into Camden House’s original kitchen, a relatively cramped space, considering the size of the rest of the house.

  “This is only a little bigger than the kitchen in my apartment,” Summer said. “Can you imagine preparing elaborate meals or food for huge dinner parties? I’ve got to take a picture.” Summer patted the pockets on her jeans, then turned back the way we came. “I must have left my phone on the table.”

  “I’ll get it,” I said.

  “Are you sure? You’ll miss part of the tour,” Summer said. On the side of the room, Emma was pointing out ledgers displayed on a rickety wooden table, explaining the entries for household purchases.

  “I can miss a minute or two of the tour,” I said. “You’re the bride. Enjoy the perks. I’ll catch up.”

  I hurried back down the hallway and reentered the resort’s kitchen. The scents of beef bourguignon and the rich chocolate dessert lingered, but were mixed with the smell of cleaning supplies. The tables had been cleared, and the servers were moving around the room, washing dishes and mopping the floor. I spotted Summer’s phone on a table and tiptoed in that direction, careful to avoid the wet areas of the floor. As I moved to the table, I heard Patricia’s unmistakably nasal voice. “That’s not possible.”

  I turned, searching for the source of the sound. Maybe Yvonne hadn’t gone to the bar after all. It would be just my luck for Patricia and Yvonne to cross paths when I thought they were safely separated. But then I spotted Patricia standing next to the door that opened to the parking lot, talking to a man. He was halfway out the door and had turned back to speak to her. I couldn’t see his face, but I recognized Ned’s white oxford shirt and dress pants.

  “No, I won’t do it again.” Patricia’s voice was firm. There was a palpable tension between them that made me pause. With all the activity in the kitchen, neither one of them noticed me.

  “Are you sure about that?” Ned asked. “You wouldn’t want”—a clatter of dishes cut through his words—“to find out.”

  I swiped Summer’s phone from the table and moved back toward the hall as quietly as I could. Whatever they were talking about, it wasn’t any of my business. As long as Patricia wasn’t speaking to Yvonne in that tense, almost angry tone, then I was out of there.

  I rejoined the group at the top floor of the mansion where I handed off Summer’s phone, then peeked into a typical servant’s room. Yvonne was right. It was a sad little room with only the barest of necessities. Two single iron bed frames with thin mattresses were positioned against the walls. Between them sat a beat-up pine dresser. A small mirror along with a washbasin, pitcher, and two chamber pots were the only other furnishings of the room. After a glimpse at a few more rooms as well as a tour of the servants’ dining room, Emma led us to the lobby. “That completes our behind-the-scenes tour. Any other questions I can answer for you?”

  Summer motioned to a roped-off doorway near the grand staircase with a CLOSED sign dangling from the red velvet barrier. “I don’t suppose we could get a look at the bell tower?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Emma said, moving toward the closed door. “It’s under renovation because it’s not safe at the moment.” A sign propped on an easel showed several black-and-white photos of the bell tower alongside an artist’s drawing of what the reconstructed bell tower would look like when it reopened in the summer. “The rotted floorboards are being replaced and safety rails are being installed. Once those changes are complete, it will reopen. The bell is original. It was brought over from Amsterdam and is made of solid bronze. It’s been taken down to be cleaned, but will be replaced when the renovation is finished.”

  “I bet the view is spectacular,” Summer said.

  Emma said, “Oh, it is. You can see everything—the whole island and even the mainland on clear days.”

  “Are you sure we can’t take a quick look?” Summer asked. “We’d be very careful.”

  Emma grimaced. “I’m sorry. I wish I could show it to you. It’s strictly off-limits. No one is allowed up there but the workers, and they have to have harnesses.”

  Summer looked at Emma out of the corner of her eye. “Then how do you know how good the view is?”

  “Oh, I went up when I was a little girl. Years ago, before the floor in the bell tower deteriorated, anyone could go up. You didn’t even have to be a hotel guest. All you had to do was climb the seventy-two steps.”

  “I’m out,” muttered one of the bridesmaids. “I get enough of that at the gym on the StairMaster.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Summer said. “The chances of any of us getting back here this summer are pretty slim. Are you sure we can’t take a look? Just a quick peek? This is the behind-the-scenes tour, isn’t it? What’s more behind-the-scenes than a closed bell tower?”

  “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to give you a glimpse of the staircase. It’s not very exciting, though.”

  Emma opened the door, and I asked, “It’s under renovation, but the door to the tower isn’t locked?” I was thinking of Livvy and Nathan. Their curiosity was boundless. I’d seen the sign and roped-off door, but I’d assumed the door was locked. I could imagine one of the kids sneaking over and trying the doorknob just for kicks. If the door opened, they’d be around that barrier and up the stairs in a moment.

  “It’s a fire exit for the upper floors,” Emma explained. “It can’t be locked here, but the upper area, the part that connects to the actual bell tower, is closed off. Only the construction people can get in there.”

  “Oh, that’s good,” I said, glad that I didn’t have to keep an eye on the kids every second while we were in the hotel or try to warn them away from the door, which would be like pointing out forbidden fruit. A
nd every mom knows that forbidden fruit is the only fruit kids want.

  We craned our necks to get a look at the circular metal staircase that wound up and out of sight. Emma was right. It was a bit of a letdown. “This staircase runs alongside the grand staircase and has access to all the floors,” Emma said. “That’s why it can be used as a fire exit. The servants used it as another set of back stairs because they couldn’t be seen on the grand staircase. Well, that’s it. Now you’ve really seen everything.” Emma firmly closed the door and stood in front of it. “I hope you enjoyed the tour and have a wonderful wedding.”

  Summer thanked Emma for the tour, and I joined her. “Very interesting,” I said to Emma before she left our group. As she moved away, I turned to Summer. “Great party. Really unusual bachelorette party, but lots of fun.”

  “I know. Meg is wonderful.” Summer scratched her sleeve as she lowered her voice. “Thanks for heading off that argument between Patricia and Yvonne at the beginning of the night.”

  “No problem. Yvonne was fun to talk to. She told me some funny stories about the local theater company she belongs to.”

  “Did you hear about her next play?” Summer said with a wicked grin. “Taming of the Shrew.”

  “Tempting, but no comment.”

  “I admire your self-control.” Summer rubbed her hand along her collarbone, moving the fabric of her V-neck shirt a few inches as one of the bridesmaids, Regina, joined our group.

  “Some of us are thinking of hitting the bar. Do you—” Regina pointed at Summer’s neck. “Oh my God. You’ve got a rash.”

  “What?”

  “It’s all red and bumpy.” Regina’s voice rose.