That’s why, when I opened my e-mail box after fetching Sasha from the bank, I knew I’d struck gold. The title of Lesson Two jumped off the page: A GOOD INVESTIGATOR DEVELOPS SOCIAL GRACES. I could scarcely control my enthusiasm.
The more I read, the more intrigued I became. Turns out, a skilled investigator needed more than just a keen intuition. She needed to be trained in the art of proper etiquette. Dinner parties, political gatherings, public events—a socially adept investigator should find herself at home in them all. I rubbed my hands together in anticipation. Now this, I could sink my teeth into.
With my back perfectly straight and my right ankle delicately crossed over the left, I scanned the lesson to review the basics of etiquette. I doubted there would be much to learn, all things considered. I might live in the North now, but my genteel Southern upbringing would surely give me an added advantage. If anyone understood the importance of the unspoken rules of society, a proper lady from Mississippi would.
Hmm. Turned out, there was a bit more to this than met the eye. Some of the questions threw me a little.
How do you receive a compliment? Graciously, of course, offering one in return.
Do you take a gift to the hostess of a party? Hmm. Looks like I owe Sheila a gift for that little soirée she held last Saturday night.
Does the twenty-first-century man still open the door for a woman? If he knows what’s good for him.
If a wedding is called off, should the bride return the engagement ring? Whoa, Nellie. Stop right there. Return a diamond? Are you kidding?
On and on it went. After a while, I had to rest my eyes. I pondered the things I’d read. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how “seating party guests in appropriate places” at my next big event could help me solve the Clark County Savings and Loan mystery, but I would give this “social awareness” thing my best shot. Yes, I would be a social butterfly before day’s end.
Before day’s end? A gasp erupted as I glanced at the clock. Five twenty-five? After my escapades at the bank, the afternoon had pretty much slipped away from me. Warren would arrive home in less than an hour, prepared to leave for the steakhouse. And me. . .
Man, oh man. I flew into action, nearly tripping over poor Sasha in the process. “I’m sorry, little one.” I gave her a scratch behind the ears, but she didn’t respond with her usual burst of joy. She’s probably still mad at me for leaving her at the bank. I crouched down to make a proper apology, one befitting a lady of honor. “I’m truly sorry for tying you to the flagpole, Sasha.” Her tail gave a hint of a wag. “And I promise not to do it again.” This time she leapt into my arms, as always, tongue lapping at my face in shameless glee. “Atta girl.” One more pat on the back for my canine crime-solving partner and I sprinted off to the bathroom.
It never ceases to amaze me, the ability of a woman to get ready for an “event’ in a hurry. Truly, this has become almost an art form for me. I managed to shower, dress, curl my hair, and apply makeup—all within a matter of forty-five minutes. Granted, my shoes didn’t match, my eyeliner came out a bit heavier on the right eye than the left, and my blue silk blouse required rebuttoning, but all-in-all, I think I made remarkable time.
As I headed to the closet to fetch the proper shoes—a lovely pair of fall pumps—I heard Sasha let out a joyful “yip” from the living room. Ah. Warren’s home. I gave myself another once-over in the full-length mirror. Not bad, not bad. The face staring back at me conveyed genteel confidence. Etiquette, schmetiquette. I’ve got this thing covered.
Less than an hour later, we met up with Brandi and her fiancé, Scott, at Clarksborough’s first-ever “fancy” steakhouse. CC’s Steaks-n-More practically buzzed with excitement and some of it rubbed off on me. I couldn’t still my nerves and the chaos of the place didn’t help much. I glanced down one more time, just to make sure I’d remembered to put on my skirt. I’ve had that dream one too many times, I guess. You know the one—where you show up in public dressed in little more than your smile?
Brandi and Scott must’ve picked up on my nervousness. He nodded and smiled as she whispered, “You look great, Mom. They’re going to love you.”
God bless that precious daughter of mine. She hit the nail right on the head this time around. For whatever reason, I was a little nervous about meeting Scott’s parents. Sure, they were supposed to be wonderful people, but what if they didn’t like us? What if we didn’t get along or had nothing in common? Would Brandi’s new mother-in-law sweep in and take my place, turning my daughter’s head—and heart—away from the family? Would she talk Brandi and Scott into moving to Georgia? Would she raise my grandchildren in my stead?
Where in the world is all of this coming from?
I’d almost calmed myself when a syrupy voice near the door rang out: “How wun-duh-ful you look, dah-lin!”
I pivoted on my heel and swallowed my fear. There she stood, in all her glory. Scott’s mother. Nadine Cunningham. With her arms around my daughter, proclaiming Brandi’s beauty to the masses.
Yep. She was definitely going to end up with the grandchildren. I could feel it.
On the other hand, she did have a pleasant-enough smile, and as she approached, I saw the laugh lines around her eyes. A very good sign. I reached out to take her hand and we bonded the moment we touched. Tears rose to cover my lashes. The words must have come from the Lord. I certainly hadn’t planned them. “We’re going to be the best of friends,” I found myself saying.
“Oh, dah-lin, we are. I can feel it!” Nadine wrapped me in a warm embrace and all the rules of proper etiquette flew right out the steakhouse window as two Southern women reveled in each other’s presence. For a moment we giggled like schoolgirls, then began to ramble. “How lovely you look.” “What an a-dah-rable shade of blue. Looks mah-vuh-lus with your eyes.” I found myself caught up in the wonder of it all—and in the wonder of Nadine. It had nothing to do with her undeniable physical beauty; this was something different, altogether. We were truly kindred spirits. I could sense it right away.
I also sensed Warren’s humor as he watched me slip back into “Southern” gear. A playful smile crept across his lips. I smiled too—until, of course, I remembered how he had acquired the money to pay for the wedding we’d gathered together to discuss.
“Are you cold, dah-lin?” Nadine gave my fingers a little squeeze. “Your hands are trembling.”
“No, no.” I clasped them behind my back and tried to imagine how my new friend would take to the idea that her daughter-in-law’s father had stolen the funds to cover the cost of the wedding.
Thankfully, Brandi and Scott chose that moment for a “get-acquainted” session. The tall, silver-haired man to Nadine’s left was introduced as Scott’s stepfather, Brad. With his soft round face, slightly protruding belly, and warm, laughing eyes, I couldn’t help but think of the fellow as a pre-mature Santa Claus. Warren reached to take his hand for a friendly shake and I noticed the look of relief in Brandi and Scott’s eyes. Only then did I realize they had probably stressed over this meeting more than I had. Somehow, that put everything in perspective for me.
We spent the better part of the evening focused on the wedding. Brandi and Scott beamed as they shared their ideas. We all joined in with excitement, like school children released to the playground. Within an hour, most of the particulars had been penciled into my notebook, which I’d stashed in my oversized purse.
Date: Saturday, February 14th—Valentine’s Day.
Time: 7:00 p.m.
Locale: The new Be Our Guest wedding facility about halfway between Clarksborough and Philly.
Colors: Wine-colored dresses for the ladies, black tuxedos for the gentlemen
Wedding Party: Four bridesmaids (Candy and three of Brandi’s best friends from church and school); four groomsmen (mostly college buddies); one flower girl (Nadine’s “dah-lin” granddaughter, Madeline); and one ring bearer (my great-nephew, Shawn).
Invitations: Personally designed and printed by th
e bride and groom, to be mailed early January.
Showers: Two. One for wedding gifts, another for lingerie. Mental note: Don’t ask if you’re invited to the second. Assume it’s for the girls.
Food: Clarksborough Catering—Italian cuisine
I bit my lip as I wrote that last one. I couldn’t help but wonder how the fine folks at Clarksborough Catering would feel if they knew we were paying them with money my husband had stolen from them in the first place.
Thankfully, the wedding talk turned to other things, and Brandi and Scott lost themselves in each other’s eyes. Warren and Brad took to discussing the ins and outs of investment banking, and Nadine and I. . . well, we talked about everything from our joy at becoming mothers-in-law to the Bible study she led on Monday mornings at her church in Savannah. Apparently there was more to this woman than met the eye. As she talked about caring for the homeless and feeding the poor, my heart twisted every which way. The love of the Lord literally beamed from her eyes, and I found myself captivated.
Throughout the meal, my mind wandered back to the lesson of the day. I couldn’t help but be taken with Nadine’s social graces as the evening continued on. Nothing contrived or fake. Simple. Genuine. Real. God-given.
If Nadine Cunningham didn’t have her hands so full caring for the poor, leading a Bible study and ministering to the sick, I dare say she would make an excellent crime fighter.
Chapter Four
Ah, Saturday. My favorite day of the week.
On the morning after our steak dinner, about halfway into a lovely dream about hauntingly beautiful willow trees in Savannah, Georgia, the piercing ring of the telephone roused me from my slumber. I groped for it and knocked my alarm clock off the bedside table in the process. It, too, rang out several times before I finally managed to shut it down. Amazingly, Warren slept through the whole thing.
That settled, I answered the phone, doing all I could to hide the grogginess, as morning phone-answerers often do. “H–Hello?”
“Mom?”
“Brandi, is that you?”
“Yep.” She dove headlong into a lengthy, animated conversation about a wedding dress she’d seen in a bridal magazine, one she’d “have to have or die.” I leaned back against my pillows and listened in rapt silence as I attempted to come awake. Hearing her happy-go-lucky voice reminded me of the plans I’d made for my own wedding, over twenty-seven years ago. Had I been this ecstatic, this. . . high-pitched?
“Sounds great, honey.” I’m not sure how many times I spoke those words. At least a dozen. After Brandi finally wound down, she informed me that Candy wanted to chat. I couldn’t help but grin. Even living on their own, these girls still needed their mama—nearly as much as I needed them.
True to form, Candy approached our conversation from a quieter, less emotional stance. And why not? Two very different girls. Two very different ways to handle a wedding. Not that I minded. Thankfully, this daughter would give my pocket book a bit of a rest. She and her fiancé, Garrett, had settled on a date in June, giving us a little breathing room between ceremonies. The two really seemed to suit one another. Warren and I had secretly confided in one another that Garrett would probably prove to be lower maintenance than Scott. And, of course, the fact that he worked as a computer tech didn’t hurt. Might even come in handy one day.
I found myself relaxing as Candy spoke. She told me about the music she’d chosen for their first dance. My mind soared back to my own wedding. Warren and I had danced to “At Last,” one of my personal favorites and from that day on labeled “our song.” Ah, love. The melody floated through my head and temporarily carried me off to a blissful state.
Until my husband let out a snore from his spot in the bed next to me.
I glanced his way, and found him twisted up in the covers with Sasha sleeping soundly at his side. Nudging him with my elbow did the trick. He rolled over and the room once again fell silent. The puppy whimpered then settled back down again, this time lopped across his feet. Warren never suspected a thing.
Warren. Suspect.
No, I wouldn’t let my mind go there. Not this morning. I tried to focus on happier things—like wedding plans.
Candy continued on with her well thought-out discussion, laying out an organized plan for the day, an hour-by-hour approach. I could hear Brandi arguing in the background taking issue with this point or that, and found myself smiling. What interesting roomies these two made.
At some point, Candy’s words sent my antenna shooting straight up into the air. “We’ve set up a 2:00 appointment at Clarksborough Catering.”
“Clarksborough Catering? Today?” I whispered the words again, so as not to awaken Suspect #1. “Clarksborough Catering?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like me to go with you?” I offered.
When Candy answered in the affirmative, I knew the Lord must surely have special plans for me on this lovely fall day.
With my social graces firmly in place, I met the girls for lunch at the local diner. We giggled our way through soup and sandwiches as they showed me wedding dress photos. How many squeals of sheer delight could they possibly manage?
After the meal, we drove to the tiny converted house that was Clarksborough Catering. The owner, Janetta Mullins, met us at the door. Even after years of doing business amongst us, the woman remained something of an oddity in Clarksborough—certainly not typical small-town material and not the sort to join our organizations—but what was it about her that intrigued me now? Perhaps her spiked hair with tips of blue? Or maybe the tattoo of a weightlifter on her upper arm, which she showed off by strategically rolling up the sleeve of her Don’t Mess with Mama t-shirt?
She might look gruff on the outside, but Janetta had catered nearly every big social event in Clark County over the past ten years—and we knew better than to call on anyone else for our big to-dos.
I smiled as I reflected on my current www.investigativeskills.com lesson. Standing before me was a woman of social awareness, if I ever saw one.
Sheer curiosity settled in as she seated us at a table to discuss our options. Janetta got us off on the right foot. “Girls, take a look at this book while I go track down that daughter of mine to help out.”
As she sprinted from the room, I couldn’t help but wonder which daughter she meant. I understood her to have four or five. And a couple of sons, to boot. Of course, most had grown up and moved on, like my own children.
Nearly everyone in town knew Janetta had never married, and certainly more than one fella had been seen coming and going from this place through the years. Most of us never could quite put together which child went with which father, but I guess we figured that was none of our business. The family had managed not only to survive but to thrive. Their business was known for miles around. Catering business, not personal business.
A lovely young woman with sandy colored hair and sparkling green eyes entered the room.
“Hi, Kristina.” Brandi gave her a warm smile. “How’ve you been?”
Kristina responded with “It’s so good to see you!” and joined my daughters at the table, where they caught on all they’d missed since graduating from Clark County High years prior. That done, Kristina handed out catering brochures and the work began.
“Oooh! This looks great!” Brandi pointed to a photo of an elaborate serving table loaded with Italian goodies. “And look at that chocolate fountain!”
Candy’s nose wrinkled in disagreement. “I was thinking of something much simpler than that. Hors d’oeuvres. Finger sandwiches. That kind of thing.”
The three began a lengthy discussion as they flipped through the pages of the brochure and I turned my attentions to the caterer herself. Perhaps, in getting to know Janetta better, I could learn some things about the burglary.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” I shifted my gaze, so as not to make her uncomfortable, “How are you faring since the—”
“The unfortunate event at the bank, you mean?” Jan
etta let out a lingering sigh and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. But would she open up and share her heart with someone she scarcely knew? I hoped so, and not just because the “need to know” stirred the opening question. I wanted her to know that she had been on my mind and in my prayers.
“I’ve thought about you so many times,” I started. “And so many of us have been praying, of course.”
Her eyes locked into mine and, much to my surprise, I realized I’d stumbled upon another kindred spirit.
“Thank you for that. It’s been tough, I’ll tell you.” She sighed and a certain sadness set in. “We worked our tails off for that money—catered a three-day conference just outside of Lancaster with two hundred fifty attendees. In a little town called Paradise.”
“Oh? Do you cater a lot of big events like that?”
“Quite a few,” she explained. “But none like this. See, a lot of the Pennsylvania Dutch merchants from the area come together every fall to talk about new ways to promote their products. They called it the All Things Dutch conference. Very interesting. I met a lot of new people, too.”
I tried to picture Janetta in the Amish country, but my mind just wouldn’t take me there.
She continued, oblivious to my thoughts. “I knew it was risky to make such a large cash deposit at night, but what choice did I have?”
Mental note: Why would a group of professionals, Amish or not, pay a caterer in cash? Something about all of this just felt fishy.
“If I had it all to do over again, I’d change everything,” Janetta buried her head in her hands. “I feel like such a fool. But, to have it just disappear like that—”
My heart thumped madly as guilt settled in. Don’t worry, honey. You’ll get some of it back as soon as we pay you.
The Wedding Caper Page 3
