“The box wasn’t more than four inches square,” Chrissy said. “It couldn’t possibly have held a veil.”
“You’re sure it was up here? You didn’t leave it downstairs, did you? There are so many presents and boxes around—” Susan started.
“Mother, I remember bringing it up here! You may be going nuts running around doing heaven knows what in the middle of the night, but I’m organized. I know what I brought to my room!”
All seven bridesmaids as well as Susan looked around the messy place. Every single surface was covered with stuff. There was a moat of clothing around the bed that Chrissy had displaced last night. Susan realized something was missing. “Where are your suitcases?”
“In the guest room. I’ve been putting everything for Bermuda in there and—” Chrissy jumped off the bed. “That’s it! I put Blues’s box in there! I was afraid it would get lost in here!” She was running out of the room, all the bridesmaids following her, squealing as they went, before Susan could think of something to say. (At least something that wasn’t sarcastic.)
Then, suddenly, the entire female bridal party streamed back into the bedroom, screaming loudly.
“There’s a man out there with a video camera!” Chrissy shrieked, hands held over her barely covered breasts. “Mother, what have you done?”
“I haven’t done anything,” Susan insisted as she stamped out the door to see what was happening.
The first thing she saw was a large camera lens—stuck straight in her face.
“Who are you and what are you doing in my home?”
“Smile, mother of the bride! I’m capturing this moment for posterity!”
She was tired. She was worried. And now she was angry.
Susan kicked the cameraman in the shins. If she’d been a bit more dedicated in regard to her aerobics classes, she’d have hit what she was aiming for.
THIRTY
“Lady, what the hell are you doing? You could have hurt me!”
“What am I doing?” Susan realized she was shrieking, but she didn’t care. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m doing my job. Just doing my job.”
“It’s your job to scare people to death in their own homes? You … you’re probably trespassing. In fact, you are trespassing this very minute!”
“Lady. Calm down. I’m not here because I want to be here, or because I ain’t got no place else to go. I’m here because someone paid me to be here. To tape the wedding.”
“The wedding isn’t until four o’clock this afternoon.”
“And before the wedding. You know, the bride and her bridesmaids giggling while they put on their makeup.”
“But—”
“And after the wedding, at the reception.”
“I—”
“And the bride leaving the reception with her groom. You know, the throwing of the rice and all that shit.”
“What I want to know—” He opened his mouth and she waved her hand to stop him. “Don’t interrupt! What I want to know is who hired you?”
“Lady, how the hell should I know? Do I look like an executive? Do I look like the type of man who would be running a company as large as U Luv Ur Pix?”
“What’s the name of your company?” Susan asked.
He spelled it.
“I’ve never heard of them.” It certainly didn’t sound like a company that would be located in the part of Connecticut where the Henshaws lived.
“We’re nationwide. Look in any wedding magazine. Look in any Yellow Pages. Look—”
“I get the idea. So who do I call to find out who paid for you to be here?” Susan asked. She needed to know; she didn’t want to kill the wrong person.
“There’s an eight hundred number. Just look it up. Not that you’ll get anyone on a Sunday. Tomorrow morning’s the earliest you get anyone to talk to, besides a machine.”
“You’re kidding …” She stopped. She was wasting her time. Besides, it had occurred to her that maybe this photographer was a gift from someone—possibly even the Canfields. “Look, who tells you what to photograph?”
“Hey, lady, this ain’t brain surgery. I do the normal stuff, like I told you. The bridesmaids … the blushing bride going to the church … the walk down the aisle …”
“No way. Chrissy and I talked about this months ago. We do not want any filming in the church.”
“It’s taping, lady. And who the hell is Chrissy?”
That did it. “Chrissy is my daughter and the bride. And you are to listen to me … to every word I say.”
“I—”
“Listen! You may film—or tape—all day long, but from a distance. Do you understand? I don’t want to see you in my house. I don’t want to see you in the church. I don’t want to see you in the Yacht Club. You may fil—I know, it’s videotape. You may tape everything—but from afar.”
“But—”
“That’s all there is to it. If you come close or get in anyone’s way, I will have you arrested for trespassing! Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I—”
“So go!” Susan pointed.
He went—muttering something about mothers of the bride that Susan chose to ignore.
She leaned back against the wall, feeling energized and awake. Apparently yelling at someone was just what she had needed. And it was a good thing she’d done it already, because the next person coming down the hallway was her mother. And, much to Susan’s surprise, Wendy was following her.
“Mother! Wendy! I … I didn’t know you’d arrived already. It’s so earl—” She glanced down at her watch. “Heavens! You’re right on time.”
“You know I’ve always prided myself on my punctuality, Susan,” her mother said.
Wendy merely sniffled.
“Hay fever?” Susan asked, thinking of her own daughter.
“A broken heart,” her mother announced. “Wendy is in love with David. And her parents refuse to allow her to marry,” she added.
“No, that’s not exactly true, Mrs.—”
But Wendy would learn it was a mistake to try to speak for yourself when Susan’s mother was around. “She has loved him since they were childhood sweethearts in that commune thing they were raised in.”
Susan was impressed that her mother had managed to make commune into a dirty word. “Childhood sweethearts?” was all she said.
“Torn apart by their families. Very Romeo and Juliet,” was her mother’s reply.
“Oh.” Susan had no idea what to say to this. After all, it didn’t have to do with either the wedding or the murder—it would just have to wait. “Are either of you hungry? Have you seen the breakfast Kathleen has laid out in the dining room?”
“Susan, we’re here to help this young woman, not eat.”
“I … Actually, I could use some breakfast,” Wendy said hesitantly. “At least some coffee, and maybe some granola?” She looked at her hostess with raised eyebrows.
Oh, great, she’d failed to anticipate the needs of her out-of-town guests once again. “I don’t think there’s granola. But I’m sure you’ll find something. Smoked salmon, bagels, cream cheese with olives, muffins, Danish pastry, cheese strata?”
“Well, I suppose so,” Wendy said slowly.
“Honeydew, cantaloupe, mixed berry compote with mint.” Susan could see her mother was impressed with the selection even if Wendy was not.
“Maybe you would feel better if you ate a bite,” she suggested to Wendy.
“I … I guess so. David … David has never liked me to be too thin.” This last was accompanied by loud sniffling and, Susan thought, imminent danger of a fresh burst of tears.
“You go on down and fill a plate. I’ll join you in a few minutes. I need to talk with my daughter.”
“Okay. You don’t think I’m going to run into my parents, do you?”
“If you do, you just keep your chin up. Young love always wins the day. And weddings are very romantic, you know. Sometimes they give people ideas. Y
our parents may see my granddaughter walking down that aisle and begin to think of you and David just a bit differently.”
“That’s true, isn’t it?” Wendy seemed to brighten up at the thought and almost had a spring in her step as she started down the stairway.
Susan watched her leave and then turned to her mother. “You know—”
“We don’t have time for that now,” her mother interrupted. “I need to talk with you a moment.”
“Mother! I hope it isn’t anything pressing. I have enough on my mind today! And I don’t have a second to spare. Not a second!”
“I can see that, dear. So why don’t I explain what’s going on while you put on your makeup?”
“I …”
“You were planning to wear some makeup this morning, weren’t you?”
“Yes, of course. It will just take me a minute.”
“Good. I thought your cheeks were just a little pink last night, dear. Maybe you have something more … brownish? Maybe something plummy or bronze? It would go better with your sallow coloring.”
Sallow? Susan decided she’d better change the subject before she started leaving the house with a bag over her head. “Tell me about Wendy and David … besides the fact that she claims she’s always loved him,” she said, heading for her bathroom with her mother close behind.
“And he loves her, remember.”
“Mother, the young man has hardly stopped drinking since he got to Hancock. He’s probably not all that reliable.” Susan paused, remembering how alert and helpful this same young man had been just a short while ago.
Her mother, apparently believing that Susan couldn’t talk and apply eyeliner at the same time, took this opportunity to explain her concerns. “You don’t know the entire story, dear,” she began. “David and Wendy were not only raised together in the commune, but they remained friends when that damn thing split up—as they always do. Young idealists think they can change the world and they can’t even manage their own lives—”
“Mother!” Susan grimaced. Maybe she couldn’t do two things at once anymore—a large splat of midnight-brown liner was much closer to her eyebrow than it should be. She rummaged around in the medicine chest for eye-makeup remover while her mother continued rather complacently.
“And, you know, of course, that they went to college together. Berkeley. She started in English lit and then changed to something more practical—health administration or something. Some people seem to realize how ridiculous it is to major in something totally impractical like—”
“Mother!”
“I wasn’t necessarily speaking about you, dear. In fact, I could have been talking about David. He seems to be a young man who had a difficult time figuring out what he wanted to do with his life. Four majors! Can you imagine? Probably the result of the uneven upbringing he had. And then he decides that he wants to be a therapist. Not even a doctor, but a regular therapist—and work in the school system. Just like a teacher.”
“Mother, that’s a wonderful goal! We need good teachers. In fact, this country needs good teachers more than any other profession.”
“I’m not arguing with you. But you can see how it would make Wendy—and, more importantly, her parents—concerned about how he’s going to make a decent living.”
“Mother, one of the things about people in communes is that they don’t base their lives on the acquisition of material possessions.”
“Maybe some people, but according to Wendy, her parents have become serious materialists. And recently, she said, they had become very worried about David’s ability to support her, and any children they might have.”
“So …” Susan leaned closer to the mirror. A pimple? She was getting a pimple on her daughter’s wedding day? What did her medicine cabinet hold that might take care of a pimple—or maybe she could search in the drawers in the kids’ bathroom? There were probably a bunch of half-used tubes of Clearasil, Oxy500, and the like still hanging around from their high school years.
“… so, of course, they refused to accept the engagement and Wendy felt she had to explain why to David.”
“Wendy refused to be engaged to David because her parents didn’t approve?” Why hadn’t she thought of that? Then she might be spending a nice relaxing Sunday around the pool at the Field Club instead of smearing the eye shadow she’d just applied.
“No, she just told him her parents didn’t approve, and he told her they should wait to get married until they had convinced her family it was a good thing.”
“You’re kidding!” That certainly didn’t sound like David. He didn’t seem like a young man who would let others make his decisions for him.
“I’m not kidding. She said, one day he was enthusiastic about getting married and then, almost overnight, he changed his mind. And Wendy’s been heartbroken ever since.”
“Well, maybe the wedding will make him feel romantic. Or maybe her parents will see how happy Chrissy and Stephen are and change their minds about what’s important. What do you think?”
“Well, I suppose either one of those things is possible.”
“I meant about my makeup.” She figured she might as well ask since her mother probably wouldn’t be able to resist telling her anyway.
But apparently it wasn’t even worth a glance. “Nice. I suppose you’ll get the color right when you change into your mother-of-the-bride dress.”
Susan opened her mouth and closed it again. Her mother wasn’t paying attention to her; she had pulled the crisp white pique curtain aside and was staring out the window. “Something wrong?”
“There’s a strange man outside. He seems to be filming the house.”
Susan smiled. Here she had the advantage. “It’s a video camera. He’s taping, not filming.”
“Why isn’t he inside? Considering the amount we paid, he certainly should be getting some personal shots.”
“You hired him?”
“It was your father’s idea. He has always regretted that we didn’t hire a professional to take photos at your wedding.”
That stopped Susan—she hadn’t thought of her father as so sentimental. “Oh, well, I thought … I told him … Why don’t you go see if Wendy is okay and I’ll just run out and make sure he comes inside to fil—to tape.”
It took Susan only a few minutes to explain to the cameraman that she was sorry, she had been mistaken, she hoped he would understand—the tension of giving a wedding, and so on. He did understand, didn’t he? (She got the impression that he didn’t but he figured he had nothing else to do, so he might as well tape.)
“Besides,” he added, as Susan walked him back to the house, “the police keep stopping me and asking what I’m doing hanging around outside.”
Susan, remembering Brett’s concerns about burglaries during the wedding ceremony, wasn’t surprised by this. “Well, it’s their job, after all.
“Why don’t you stay on the first floor of the house and fil—tape the guests at our brunch,” she added, hoping her parents would appreciate his industriousness. “I’ll call you when the young ladies are ready upstairs.”
“Lady, I’ve seen more bridesmaids in their bras than you could shake a stick at. Nothing upsets me.”
“It wasn’t you I was worried about upsetting,” Susan assured him. “I’d better get going. There are dozens of things to do …”
“Always are, lady. Always are.”
But Susan was ignoring him. Her attention had been drawn to the line of creamy yellow antique Bentleys turning the corner and making their way down the street. They had been hired to drive Chrissy and her wedding party to the church. But they were an hour early!
THIRTY-ONE
Susan returned to the hallway, having assured the chauffeurs that coffee and Danish would be delivered to the curb momentarily. The door was barely shut behind her when the mayhem began.
“Mother!” Chrissy appeared at the top of the stairs, wide-eyed, wearing a short white slip that revealed shimmering silver sto
ckings attached to narrow blue garters. Her silky blond hair was teased straight up into the air. “Something has happened to the gloves the bridesmaids are wearing. I’m sure they were in a long gold box on my dresser last night, but now they’ve just disappeared!”
The gaggle of bridesmaids who had appeared in her wake fluttered, giggled, and muttered.
“Did you look—” Susan began, but Jed pushed to the front of the crowd of young women, seeming to think he had a more immediate problem.
“Hon, I can’t find my studs. They’re not where they usually are in the top drawer of my dresser. And don’t tell me I don’t know how to look, I dumped the damn thing out on the bed. They are not there!”
“Jed, I—”
But her mother, coming into the hallway from the direction of the kitchen, interrupted. “Susan, I’ve been thinking. Wouldn’t it be better if your father and I drove over to the church in our own car? Then we’d have it available if … if there was an emergency of some sort. And you might be able to send one of those dreadfully expensive limos home. They must cost a fortune to rent—to say nothing of the gas.…” She stopped and turned around. “Is that Wendy yelling?”
Wendy answered that particular question herself, appearing at the top of the front steps behind Susan, a leather leash (one end chewed to a pulp) in her hands. “Mrs. Henshaw. Back in the commune, the animals used to attend all services, even weddings. Freedom and Hubris were wondering if you wanted them to bring along the puppies—or your dog.”
“I really don’t think—”
“Susan, you just got a call from the Inn. The boutonnieres for the ushers have arrived and they’re the wrong color!” A voice Susan couldn’t identify was yelling from the living room.
“Mother—” her daughter began again.
But the photographer was back. “Lady, where do you want me to stand while the service is going on? Just a still picture of the church for half an hour or more—and it’s usually more, you know how these men of God like to blab when they finally get a good-sized audience—well, a still picture ain’t going to be real good. Not many memories there, lady.”
Weddings Are Murder Page 23
