Cancelled Vows

by Lauren Carr

  “May I ask who wants to know?” the woman asked with suspicion.

  “Mac Faraday.” Mac shifted over so the woman could see him. “Polly and I talked yesterday about Carl’s death. I wanted to let her know that we have some answers about what happened.”

  The news made the woman step aside and invite the three of them in. “I’m Sandy Williams, and this is my husband, Vic.”

  In the cozy living room, Vic, a big man with a thin beard, made a halfhearted effort to rise from the recliner and to shake David’s hand while Sandy called into the bedroom for Polly. A big cat was lounging across the back of the chair where Vic was watching a horror movie. The volume was up so high that they had to talk loudly in order to be heard.

  “We saw on the news that Ryan Ritter was shot and killed,” Sandy said breathlessly. “Some unidentified sources are saying that he was involved in Yvonne Harding’s murder and maybe in Audra Walker’s, too.”

  “Does that mean Carl was set up?” With hope in her eyes, Polly Langley rushed into the room and stepped up to Mac.

  “We believe so,” Mac said. “Because of the media attention he got when he threatened to sue Yvonne Harding and ZNC, the killer—”

  “Ryan Ritter?” Sandy asked.

  While Polly and her guests devoted their attention to discussing the details of the shooting that had resulted in the death of Carl, Dallas eased backward toward the bedroom and peered inside. Her suspicion confirmed, she stepped back into the living room’s doorway and shot a smile in David’s direction.

  “Ryan Ritter seemed like such a good man,” Sandy said. “So sophisticated and well educated. He was a distant relative of the Kennedys, you know.”

  Thinking about Ryan Ritter’s fictional background, which included ancestors going back to the Mayflower, Mac and David exchanged glances.

  “We can’t discuss the details of the case,” David said. “But we wanted to let you know that the forensics evidence indicates that Carl was accidentally shot when the killer tossed away the gun.”

  Tears came to Polly’s already red eyes.

  “It’s so tragic,” Dallas said. “Sad enough to bring a tear to a glass eye when you think about it. If someone hadn’t killed his wife, Ruth, then Carl would still be alive today.”

  Polly hiccupped.

  “Figures,” Sandy said with spite. “Ruth was trouble with a capital T. She was nothing more than a jealous shrew—driving that writer to suicide.”

  “She was a bitch on wheels,” Vic grunted while popping open a can of beer.

  “I’m a member of that book website, and I saw all those horrible, awful things Ruth and her troll friends said about that writer and her book,” Sandy said. “I had no idea it was Ruth until Yvonne Harding revealed it on the news. But I’d read the comments. When Melissa O’Meara committed suicide, and it hit the news, Ruth’s comment was ‘Good riddance. If she was so weak, she had no right being a writer.’” Anger seeped into her tone. “She drove that young girl to suicide, but she was so consumed with bitterness and jealousy that they had eaten up every bit of human decency and compassion that she might’ve once had inside her.”

  “That’s why she was on disability,” Vic said. “She’d become such a bitter old hag that she couldn’t hold a job—she actually got a doctor to sign off on it. She stayed home in her bathrobe all day collecting disability—which is paid for by us stable, hardworking folks who pay taxes—so she could troll the Internet and make good people’s lives miserable.”

  “Whoever killed her was doing a public service,” Sandy said.

  “But if she were still alive, then Carl would be, too, because he wouldn’t have been set up to go to the studio, where he was killed,” Dallas said.

  When Polly burst into tears, Sandy rushed to get a tissue for her.

  “Have the police made any progress in their investigation into Ruth’s murder?” Mac asked.

  Unable to speak, Polly shook her head.

  “Carl Rubenstein sounds like he was a good man,” David said.

  “Mac told us ’bout how he used to take really good care of you when you’d get headaches,” Dallas said. “You get migraines?”

  “Yes,” Polly said. “Bad ones.”

  “Didn’t you tell me that you got one the other night?” Mac asked. “You had company for dinner, and you watched the game?”

  “Vic and me and the Seinfelds,” Sandy recalled. “You made that pork roast with acorn squash, Polly. Delicious. You said you’d give me the recipe.”

  “Then you got a migraine,” David said.

  “My aunt Trudy gets migraines,” Dallas said. “Sometimes she has to go to the emergency room to get a shot. Did you go to the hospital that night, Polly?”

  “No,” Polly said. “Usually, I just take some over-the-counter medication and go to bed.”

  “Is that what you did the other night?”

  Sandy turned suspicious. “What’s this about?”

  Dallas didn’t let up. “If you’re like Aunt Trudy, you probably had to turn off the light. Aunt Trudy says light only makes the headache worse, so she has to lie down in the dark.”

  Polly raised her eyes from the floor to look at Dallas and then Mac and then David.

  Mac drew her attention back to him. “How long were you alone in the bedroom in the dark that night, Polly?”

  “Why are you asking her that?” Sandy stood up from her seat next to her friend.

  “Sandy,” Dallas said, “the other night, the night Ruth Rubenstein was murdered, did you go into the bedroom to check on Polly?”

  Sandy stared at her with wide eyes. “No,” she replied in a soft voice. “Carl did.” Her mouth dropped open. Pointing to the front door, she added, “We were all right here. She couldn’t have gotten out—”

  “She used the fire escape.” Dallas pointed to the bedroom.

  “Sandy, tell them!” Polly said.

  “But Carl checked on her during every commercial,” Sandy said. “He would have said something if she’d left.”

  “All that proves is that he was in on it,” Dallas said.

  “You can’t prove—” Sandy said.

  “Polly would’ve had to take the subway or a cab to get to the Rubenstein place,” Dallas said. “Am I correct in thinkin’ she has a monthly pass for the subway? All the police have to do is check to see if she used it durin’ the kill zone.”

  “Unless she used one of our cards,” Vic said. “All of the coats and purses were in the bedroom.”

  “Then we’ll tell the police to check everyone’s passes,” David said. “If all of you were here together watching the game, then how could one of your passes have been used on the subway—unless Polly used it to go to the Rubenstein apartment to kill Ruth and free up Carl so that he could marry her?”

  “It’s only two blocks to the subway and three stops to the Rubenstein place,” Dallas said. “Polly could’ve gotten there, killed the troll, and made it back here in a little more than an hour.”

  “Polly would never kill anyone!” Sandy said. “She wouldn’t. Tell them, Polly!”

  Polly broke down into loud, hysterical sobs.

  Sandy jumped back from the sofa as if her friend had just announced that she had a contagious disease. “Polly, did—”

  “It was all my idea.” She raised her red and swollen eyes to look up at each of them. “She was an ugly, bitter troll filled with nothing but spite and jealousy. Nothing enraged her more than seeing others happy. The only way we could be free of her was if she died.” She sniffed. “It was just like Vic said. When I tightened that cord around her ugly little neck and choked the life out of her, I felt like I was doing the world a public service.”

  Epilogue

  “Do you have any more murders we need to solve?” Mac asked while closing the rear door of the cab that had returned them to th
e Four Seasons. Dallas was grasping David’s arm with both of hers.

  Mac had noticed that whenever possible, Dallas had her hand on David somewhere. During dinner, she had rested it on his thigh. In the cab, she had held his hand. It was as if she were afraid of losing him—which Mac concluded was most likely the case.

  “We’re good for now,” she said.

  In the lobby, Mac felt that awkward moment he’d been hoping to avoid. He wanted to go upstairs to the suite and call Archie—to have a few minutes of quiet talk alone with her, even if it was only on the phone. But with the way Dallas had attached herself to David, he half expected her to go upstairs with them, which meant less of a chance for privacy.

  She’s been living in New York for five months. Doesn’t she have her own place? Mac didn’t even know where she lived. When she needed something, she’d buy it at a nearby shop. Is she planning to jump on the plane and go back to Spencer with us? Thank God I don’t have to explain her to Chelsea. That’ll be David’s job.

  Thinking it would be rude to ask Dallas about her intentions, Mac preferred to let David take the lead. And he finally took it in the lobby, with a glance and a toss of his head in the direction of the elevator.

  “Well,” Mac said on cue. “I need to get upstairs to check on Gnarly before he eats all of the furniture.” He gave Dallas a kiss on the cheek. “See you later.”

  “If I have anythin’ to say ’bout it.” She shot a cryptic glance in David’s direction.

  Grateful to escape, Mac hurried over to the elevators and was doubly thankful when one opened up immediately to carry him upstairs and away from whatever was about to happen.

  “I guess it’s time for us to talk,” Dallas said with a heavy tone.

  David led her by the hand over to the sitting area. Gesturing to the love seat, he said, “Let’s sit down.”

  Even as he took a seat, she stood in front of him. “I don’t wanna sit down. When people tell me to sit down, it’s to give me bad news.”

  “Okay.” Feeling awkward looking up at her from the love seat, David stood up. He took both of her hands into his. Peering into her light-brown eyes, he swallowed.

  Gradually, her face filled with dread. She sat down on the love seat. “You’re goin’ back to Spencer to marry Chelsea, aren’t you?”

  With a sigh, David sat back down. “I have no idea what I’m going to do.”

  “You said you loved me.” In spite of her effort to be strong, a sob escaped from her throat.

  “I do, Dallas.” He kissed her hand. With tenderness, he stroked the top of it from the wrist down to the fingers—studying it like he wanted to brand it into his memory forever. “I really do love you in a way I’ve never loved anyone—in a way I never thought I could love. You came crashing into my life and turned everything I thought I wanted to do, everything I thought I felt, and everything I thought I knew right on its side.”

  “But?”

  He dragged his gaze from her hand to her face. “I love Chelsea, too.”

  Feeling weak, Dallas slumped in her seat. David took her into his arms.

  “I don’t love her the same way I love you, Dallas,” he said. “That, I do know. But I love Chelsea too much to hurt her by going back on my promise to marry her—not after all that I put her through. We could have a happy marriage—”

  “Even if you’re in love another woman?” Dallas asked.

  “I am in love with another woman.”

  Dallas sat up tall. “I’m not gonna be your mistress.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to be.” David caressed her cheek. “You mean too much to me, and I can’t allow you to cheapen yourself like that. If I do marry Chelsea, it’ll have to be good-bye forever.”

  Tears spilled from Dallas’ eyes. David pressed his forehead against hers.

  “I wouldn’t be able to trust myself around you,” he said in a soft voice. “And there’s no way that I would disrespect Chelsea by cheating on her.”

  “But you will be cheatin’ on her, my love,” Dallas said. “Even if we never see or speak to each other ever again, you’ll be cheatin’ on her—not with your body, but with this.” She pressed her hand flat against his chest.

  David wrapped his fingers around her hand.

  She lifted his head by the chin to force him to look her in the eyes. “You need to ask yourself, if you truly love Chelsea and don’t wanna hurt her, whether you can marry her on Saturday knowin’ that you’ll be cheatin’ on her from the very instant that you say those vows?”

  David reach up to touch her hair. She was so close that he could feel her body heat. Her scent filled his head so that it was difficult for him to think of anything except grabbing her and making love to her right there and then—in the lobby of the Four Seasons. He combed her hair with his fingers.

  She looked up at him through her long eyelashes. “Say somethin’, my love.”

  “I would love nothing better than for you to be with me in Deep Creek Lake,” he whispered. “I have a nice big house right on the lake. It’s not a ranch, but Spencer is a great little town. Yvonne left me enough money that you’d be free to concentrate on your investigative journalist career as a freelancer, and I could take care of you.”

  She blinked. “You wanna take care of me?” The corners of her lips curled.

  He clasped her face in both his hands. “I need you, Dallas. You make me feel whole. Without you, I would feel like a part of me were missing.” He kissed her hard on the mouth as if to commit her kiss to his memory so he would never forget her—or maybe so she would never forget him.

  Excited to finally have some company, Gnarly stretched out across the sofa and rested his head in Mac’s lap. It took several calls before Mac was finally able to reach Archie on her cell phone, and when he did reach her, she was difficult to understand.

  She and Chelsea’s bridesmaids were out on the town in Oakland, Maryland, for the bride’s bachelorette party, and Archie had gone over her limit in champagne. Luckily, neither she nor any of the bridesmaids were driving, because Archie had been proactive enough to lease a limousine to drive the drunken ladies about town without worry.

  “I guess you ladies are having lots of fun,” Mac said after getting a blow-by-blow description of the male strippers who had provided the main event for the evening. “That should have helped Chelsea forget about her discussion with her future mother-in-law yesterday.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Archie said.

  “Why not?”

  “Chelsea’s not here.”

  “Huh?”

  “She didn’t come,” Archie said. “She was still too tired after her seizure yesterday and wanted to rest up for the rehearsal and the wedding. But she insisted that we all go without her.”

  “You’re having the bachelorette party without the bride?”

  “Well the groomsmen are out having the bachelor party without the best man and the groom,” Archie said.

  Reminded that the bachelor party was indeed that night, Mac sat up so fast that he knocked Gnarly in the snout, causing the dog to sneeze. “How are they having the party without me? As the best man—”

  “Bogie took the police department and the groomsmen out on your credit card.”

  “Where’d he get my credit card?”

  “I gave it to him,” she said. “Mac, is it just me, or is this the weirdest wedding ever? It’s even weirder than ours. The groom is in New York, trying to divorce a wife he didn’t know he had, and the bride is just plain absent. The bridal party is taking bets on whether this wedding is actually going to happen, and, in case it doesn’t, on who is going to call it off.”

  The door to the hotel room opened. After slamming the door behind him, David went into his bedroom—and then he slammed that door as well.

  “Who are you betting on?” Mac asked Archie.

  “One thousan
d on the bride,” she said. “Why? What’s happening there?”

  “I’m betting one thousand on the groom.”

  The chartered flight was scheduled to leave JFK at ten o’clock the next morning. David was already packed when Mac got up. One look told Mac that he hadn’t slept a wink the whole night.

  “Is Dallas staying on in New York?” Mac asked in the cab on the way to the airport.

  “She’s going back to Texas today,” David said. “She misses her dog.”

  Mac reminded himself that Dallas had mentioned Storm, her Belgian shepherd.

  The cab pulled up to the hangar where their chartered flight was waiting. Brooding in silence, David followed Mac and Gnarly onto the plane. During the whole hour that the jet waited its turn to lift off, David said nothing. Meanwhile the flight attendant served the flight’s two passengers drinks, covered up Gnarly with a fleece blanket, and made sure everyone was comfortable.

  Unable to take David’s silence any longer, Mac finally asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “Try to take a nap, but I don’t think it’s gonna happen.”

  “I’m talking about with Chelsea.”

  As if he feared Mac could see the truth in his eyes, David directed his focus to the clouds passing by during the jet’s flight toward Maryland.

  “Are you in love with Dallas?” Mac asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you can’t marry Chelsea,” Mac said. “You can’t take those vows knowing that they’re a lie. It’s not fair to Chelsea, and it’d be foolish of you to deprive yourself of the happiness you could have with the woman you love all because you don’t want to hurt Chelsea by backing out of your wedding.”

  David’s voice was soft when he finally said, “I do love Chelsea.”

  “So do I,” Mac said. “Which is why I’m resigning as your best man.”

  David jerked in his seat to look at Mac. He expected a grin to cross his face to indicate that he was joking. But Mac was serious.

  “If you’re in love with another woman, you can’t marry Chelsea,” Mac said. “You think you can spare her by going through with the wedding? You won’t be sparing her. She’ll be humiliated when she realizes that you’re in love with someone else—and she will find out, not from any of us, but from you. She may not realize it on the day of the wedding or during your honeymoon, but she will figure it out—just like your mother figured out your dad was in love with Robin. Then your worst nightmare will become a reality. You’ll be repeating Dad’s life—a lifetime of loving someone you can’t have because you made the mistake of marrying the wrong person.” He paused. “We can only pray that Chelsea won’t go mad the same way your mother did.”