The Wedding Caper
Bridal Mayhem Mysteries
(Book One)
By
Janice Thompson
Copyright 2014 by Janice Thompson
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Dedication
In loving memory of Kay Malone, “Super Sleuth Extraordinaire!” Thank you for being the “real” Sheila in my life.
To my four daughters: Randi, Courtney Rae, Megan and Courtney Elizabeth: Four weddings in four years? Crazy! But you were worth it, and so were those amazing fellas!
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Gone with the Groom Sample Chapter
Prologue
I’ve had an aversion to Tuesdays ever since the day my husband robbed the Clark County Savings and Loan.
Okay, I can’t prove it was my husband—at least not yet. And I guess you couldn’t exactly call it a robbery, since no one witnessed the crime. But I’m fairly certain it happened on a Tuesday. My mind is a little clouded where the facts are concerned. That’s what happens when you go into shock. Details slip right out of your head.
This much I do remember for certain: Warren arrived home from work at six thirty in the evening, as always. Loosened his navy blue tie. Grumbled about the unseasonably warm weather. Shrugged off his jacket. Scratched our dachshund behind the ear. Muttered a “How was your day, Annie?” Planted a kiss on my cheek.
Nothing unusual about any of those things. Nope, my suspicions didn’t really kick in until he pressed a 9 x 12 manila envelope stuffed full of cash into my unsuspecting palm.
“Enough to pay for both weddings,” he said with a smile. A knowing smile. A suspicious smile. And the wink that followed did little to squelch the knot that suddenly gripped my belly.
Now, I’ve heard people talk about how your whole life flashes before your eyes right before you die, and I’m pretty sure I thought my small-town world had come crashing to a halt right then and there. But somehow I managed to muster up two words: “W–What?” and “H–How?”
He just shook his head and kept walking. Into the bedroom. Away from my questions. Away from my probing stare. Away from the envelope, which now vibrated in my outstretched hand like a pit viper waiting to be tossed into the fire.
I hurled the demon thing onto the kitchen counter and stared in disbelief. He’d done it. Sure, I’d heard him joke about robbing the bank for weeks, ever since our twin daughters, Brandi and Candy, both announced their engagements on the same night. With two weddings to pay for, who wouldn’t have kidded about such a thing, especially with college loans to cover and a teenage son in football? But, to actually do it? That was another thing altogether.
I stared at the envelope once again, the bills inside peeking out, tempting me—no, begging me—to count them. My palms sweated in anticipation as I reached to finger the first greenback, to make sure my imagination hadn’t gotten the better of me.
It hadn’t.
I began to count. One hundred. Two. Three. Four.
Ten minutes and still counting. By the time I reached $25,000, my palms had completely dried out. Handling cash can do that to you. I guess that’s why bankers always kept that little container of fingertip moistener available. Made sense to me now.
Ironically, my tongue seemed to have dried up, too. I wanted to call for Warren—wanted to ask him where in the world this cash had come from—but didn’t dare.
I knew. In my gut, I knew. He was the one the police had been looking for, ever since last Tuesday. And now I had the proof.
Chapter One
Two days after I tucked the manila envelope into my underwear drawer, I paced the house and prayed. Pleaded with the Almighty to show my husband the error of his ways. Begged Him to give me peace if I’d somehow misinterpreted the situation.
Just ask him where the money came from.
How many times had those words flitted through my brain? A hundred? A thousand? A logical person would have done so, surely. And yet, every time I worked up the courage to approach Warren about the $25,000, an image from the past flashed before my eyes. The third year of our marriage, I’d made a royal mess of our finances. With frustration mounting, I’d approached my husband with great dramatic flair. “You’re the banker,” I had announced with tears in my eyes. “And I’m not. It’s just not my calling.”
On that day, I passed my Peterson Family Budget folder off to Warren, vowing never again to pick it up again. Never. No matter what. He could have it—lock, stock, and barrel. I didn’t want to know the whos, whats, whens, and wheres of budgeting or investing.
When it came to the planning of our family finances, I’d taken a hands-off approach. To be honest, my darling husband had handled things with such finesse over the years that I scarcely thought about money at all. Unless something big came up. Like two weddings, for examples.
Even so, with $25,000 residing beneath my lingerie, I needed answers and I needed them quick. Where and when would I find them, though? With two weddings to coordinate, a new freelance editing business to expand and a tight-lipped husband to absolve, I found my plate completely overloaded. How could I keep up with it all?
I settled down at the computer and signed on to the Internet. After deleting some unnecessary e-mails, I read through my morning devotional, focusing on the verse of the day, Philippians 4:6-7: “Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”
I leaned back against the chair and spent a little time in prayer. I needed to rid myself of the anxiety, and I did my best to present my petition to God. I couldn’t help but wonder how many other wives had prayed the Dear-Lord,-please-show-me-if-my-husband-robbed-the-bank prayer like I now found myself doing. It did make me feel better to share my concerns with someone else, though. I no longer felt alone.
A wave of peace rushed over me, and with newfound determination, I set out on what I believed to be a God-ordained course of action—a sure-fire way to put an end to my anxiety.
I browsed the World Wide Web for information on crime solving.
When I stumbled across the site: www.investigativeskills.com, I almost fell out of my chair. Ah ha. Here, a world of information awaited me. Perhaps, with the help of the experts, I could determine my husband’s guilt or innocence. And if proven innocent, maybe I could catch the rea
l perpetrator in the process.
All for a small one-time fee of $150.00.
I read through the fine print, curious to see what I’d get for my money.
InvestigativeSkills.com is proud to offer this amazing course for professional and novice investigators, alike. Increase your skills in crime solving with ten concise courses. For a small fee of $150.00, you will receive one e-mail lesson per day for ten days. Each day’s teaching will bring you one step closer to solving crimes, large and small. Don’t be fooled by other companies claiming to offer similar services. InvestigativeSkills.com can teach you everything you need to know—and more.
I whispered a quiet Praise the Lord as I reached for our credit card. What was $150.00 in the grand scheme of things? This money—albeit borrowed at 21 percent interest—would buy my husband’s freedom.
I entered the required information and clicked the “send” button. Less than two minutes later, an e-mail arrived in my box with the first day’s lesson. I glanced at the title and smiled. LESSON ONE: A GOOD INVESTIGATOR STICKS TO THE FACTS. I skimmed the article, gleaning as much as I could from the teaching.
Stick to the facts, eh? Visions of Joe Friday danced through my brain as I took it all in. Just the facts, ma’am.
All-righty then. Just the facts. And I would make note of every single one. I would purchase a new spiral notebook just for the occasion. And I would fill it with information that would eventually lead me to the truth—the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
As a professional copy editor, I certainly knew how to come at things from a left-brained, logical approach. I’d go back through the details leading back to Tuesday—one by one. I’d contemplate every suspect, turn over every rock, and examine every motive.
In short, I would do this thing right.
Oh, and one more thing. I would do it all without raising suspicions. If my daughters learned their mother had taken on the task of crime fighting—even on the local level—they might think she didn’t have time to devote to their weddings. My editing clients might be a little nervous, as well. And if my husband found out. . . .
A shiver ran down my spine. What would I do if Warren discovered I suspected him of robbery?
Or was it burglary? I still hadn’t quite figured that one out.
Mental note: Check the Internet to find out if your husband will be tried as a first- or second-degree felon.
With new resolve, I made my daily trek to our local Super Center, anxious to find just the right notepad to house my newly discovered facts. Nothing too frilly, not for the wife of a vicious criminal. But nothing too ordinary, either. Heaven only knew who might stumble across my scatterbrained ramblings years from now. I wanted them to look sensible, with a decent cover and flowing handwriting. That way, when the folks from Hollywood decided to turn our story into a Movie of the Week, they wouldn’t have any trouble deciphering my notes. Naturally, I managed to select the only cart in the store with a broken wheel. I clack, clacked my way along, doing everything in my power to still my fractured nerves. As a temporary distraction, I glanced over my list. Laundry detergent—Mental note: get the new lavender scent—toilet paper; 300 bottles of wedding bubbles, the kind guests blow at the bride and groom; spaghetti sauce (there’s clearly no better place to examine your husband’s alter ego than over a bowl of steaming pasta).
Oh, and the notebook. I couldn’t forget that.
With my Super Center know-how firmly in place, I raced about, gathering up most of the necessary items, then headed over to the school-supply aisle to select one last thing. My notebook. As I rounded the corner, I ran my basket headlong into another customer.
“Hey, why don’t you watch where you’re—” She stopped almost as soon as she started and laughter rang out. I stared up in disbelief at my good friend, Sheila.
“Girl!”
“Girl, nothing!” Sheila stammered. “You almost gave me a heart attack.” She clutched her chest with dramatic flair—not an unusual move on her part. “And I’m too young to go. At least yet.”
Now, truth be told, I had no clue as to Sheila’s real age. She’d pressed forty-nine for so long it was pleated.
“What’s your hurry, anyway?” she asked. “House on fire?”
“No, I, uh—”
Sheila, perceptive gal that she is, must’ve grown suspicious from the hesitation in my voice. Her narrow eyebrows arched and she leaned in to whisper, “Whatever it is, you can tell me, Annie. I have no problem keeping secrets.”
“Well, I—”
“It’s only the people I tell.”
She erupted in laughter and I couldn’t help but chuckle. Leave it to Sheila to bring a smile to my face. However, it didn’t take long for my façade to crack. She dove into a lengthy discussion focused on an article she’d read in today’s Clark County Gazette about the “bank job” as she called it. Then she said the one thing I’d avoided for two days. “They took $25,000, you know. Twenty-five thousand!”
I’d known the amount all along, of course. But hearing it spoken aloud made it even more real.
And my husband even guiltier, if that were possible.
“It’s the strangest thing, isn’t it?” she pondered “Almost as if the money just got up and walked out of the bank on its own. And the police can’t seem to get a handle on who’s to blame.”
I struggled to answer, “Oh? Didn’t I read something about a drifter being arrested? Haven’t they focused their investigation on him?”
“For now.” She shrugged. “But I think—” she lowered her voice and drew closer to share the rest “—it was an inside job.”
I didn’t mean to gasp, but couldn’t seem to help it. She clamped a hand over her mouth, realizing what she’d said.
“Oh, my goodness. I hope you don’t think I’m saying. . . Well, of course I’m not. You know me better than that. And I know Warren better than that.”
Clearly unnerved, Sheila turned her attentions to the stack of spiral notebooks on the bottom row. She selected one with a lovely rose on top. “This is so pretty. I think I’ll buy it for my grocery lists and new recipes. Not that I do much cooking these days. Now that the kids are grown, Orin and I have discovered the world of take-out.” As she flashed a crooked grin, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows arched.
I reached down and came up with a black and white notebook with a puppy on the front. Dachshund. Ironic. “I’ll take one too. You just never know when the Lord will lay something on your heart.”
Just the facts, ma’am.
We said our good-byes and I headed to the checkout. Afterwards, I opted to drive through a nearby fast-food joint for chicken nuggets and a diet soda.
I arrived home at two fifteen, checked on the package of hamburger meat I’d set out to thaw, took the puppy for a walk, and then settled down onto the sofa, notebook in hand.
“Just the facts, ma’am.” I spoke the words to the dog, whose ears perked up, as if in response. “Just the facts.” My Joe Friday impersonation improved with each rendition.
Sasha, ever my faithful companion, leapt into my lap, nearly knocking the notebook to the ground. I scooted over in the chair to accommodate her then pulled the cap from my pen to begin my list.
Fact #1: Clark County Savings and Loan is missing a cash night deposit in the amount of $25,000. Said depositor, Clarksborough Catering, telephoned the bank in advance to provide a heads-up of their plan. The owner of the catering company claims to be in a panic over the missing funds.
Fact #2: My husband, Warren J. Peterson, is a personal banker at the Clark County Savings and Loan, where he has been employed for twenty-three years. He often handles the night deposits.
Fact #3: Said husband has mysteriously turned up with $25,000 in cash to cover the cost of two weddings. Without explanation.
I gnawed at the end of my pen and did everything in my power to ignore the nausea that now ripped through my tummy. Was it the chicken nuggets, or had coming face to face with my husband’s future be
hind bars caused this sudden rumbling? I pressed the feelings aside and focused on my list. More facts remained; facts that could not be ignored.
Fact #4: The police have already interrogated all bank employees, who came up clean as a whistle. Whew! Warren, I knew you were innocent!
Fact #5: The Clark County Electric Company has verified that a power surge on the night in question left the bank without electricity for several hours, thus disabling all cameras.
Fact #6: The police have turned their attentions to a male drifter from nearby Philadelphia, approximately twenty-four years of age, who was seen hanging around outside the savings and loan at all hours of the day and night. Mental note: Check date of arrest and question police regarding grounds.
Fact #7:
Hmm. No Fact #7, at least not yet. Of course, there was that matter of the bank’s new security guard, the pretty little blonde who had sashayed into town just one month ago. Nikki. What kind of name was that for a security officer? And what kind of security guard spent her evenings doubling as a waitress at a diner? Sure, she was rumored to have come from the quaint town of Lancaster, just a little more than an hour away, but one could never tell. No—something about Nikki felt wrong.
Fact #7: New security guard raises suspicions.
Hmm. Just the facts, ma’am. I chewed the end of my pen as I contemplated what I’d written. Was a suspicion a fact? The editor in me opted to reword.
Fact #7: New security guard has arrived on the scene just prior to the bank’s first-ever robbery. Or is it burglary?
Hmm. I still hadn’t looked that up.
I did a quick Internet search using the words “Criminal Classification, State of Pennsylvania” and got my answer in a flash.
Fact #8: Said crime at Clark County Savings and Loan is considered a burglary, since no bodily injury or death took place. In the state of Pennsylvania, burglary is considered a second-degree felony.
Fact #9: Perpetrator of said felony could serve anywhere from two to twenty years in the state penitentiary.
The Wedding Caper Page 1
