The Wedding Caper

by Janice Thompson

  Maybe they knew I carried a large amount of cash in my purse at this very moment to pay the Clarkborough Catering Company toward the balance on Brandi’s wedding reception.

  I opted to change gears. “Has it occurred to you that the Mullins family might not have actually made the deposit? Perhaps Jake’s sister pocketed the money. Or maybe—” I was going to bring up Janetta’s obsession with being paid in cash, but something stopped me.

  “Mrs. Peterson, we’re more than aware of all the angles.” O’Henry looked more than a little perturbed. “That’s why we’re here. We’ll look under every bush, I can assure you. And we’ll catch our man. Or woman. The right person will be brought to justice.”

  He shifted the conversation to the weather as we approached the parking lot. I tried to do the same, tried to think happier thoughts. But they would not come. Out of habit, perhaps, I reached to give him a hug before leaving. The bullet-proof vest served as a reminder of the weight of his job.

  He is an expert. And I am.…

  Hmm. Not sure what I am. Mother of the brides? Editor? Housewife? Responsible pet owner?

  I made the drive home in a mixed-up state of mind. Even after all of my conversations with Jake and the police, I didn’t feel any smarter. True confession: Sergeant O’Henry had made me feel, well, a little dumb. Kind of like Jake’s conversation yesterday had done.

  Nope. I surely didn’t know much about crime fighting. Or life on the streets. Or drug busts. Or missing cash. Or anything, outside the realm of my own safe little world. And perhaps that’s how it was supposed to be.

  If you call out for insight and cry aloud for understanding, and if you look for it as for silver and search for it as for hidden treasure, then you will understand the fear of the Lord and find the knowledge of God.

  The niggling voice of the Holy Spirit whispered in my ear again. Maybe I’d been going about this “street smarts” thing all wrong. I’d been digging, all right, but didn’t find myself much closer to the truth. Honestly, it felt like I’d been digging myself deeper and deeper into a hole.

  I opened the door to the house and Sasha met me, tail wagging. I didn’t notice anything amiss—at first. It wasn’t until I entered the living room that reality hit. The room was covered in white fuzz. It kind of looked like someone had peeled back the roof and invited in a snowstorm.

  What in the world?

  The throw pillows had been shredded to smithereens. The white fluffy stuff now spread about in wisps. Sasha jumped up onto the sofa, her tail wagging a hundred miles a minute. I stared down at her in disbelief. “Bad girl, Sasha. Bad girl.” After that, I vaguely remember muttering, “Daddy’s going to kill me.”

  I went to work, cleaning up her mess, all the while trying to figure out why she would have done something like this. Boredom? Rebellion? Frustration?

  Had I somehow played a role in all that? Perhaps I been so busy “out there” that I’d forgotten to take care of things “in here?”

  Perhaps.

  After racing through the living room with the speed of Mr. Clean, I headed off to the kitchen to load the dishwasher. Sure, I’d meant to do it last night before bed, but the time had gotten away from me. Mental note: Remember that speech you used to give the kids—“Dishes do not wash themselves.”

  After thoroughly cleaning the kitchen, I shifted my attentions to the bedroom. Piles of laundry greeted me. I even noticed a pair of panties sticking out from under the bed. What in the world? Note to self: Be careful where you leave your laundry basket, particularly when there are unmentionables involved. Sasha enjoys hiding things.

  After loading the washer, I settled down at the computer. I found a note from Devin taped to the monitor. Don’t forget the food for the homecoming party. Oops. I had almost forgotten about the party he’d planned for this coming Friday night after the homecoming game.

  Hmm. I’d have to deal with that later. Right now, a monstrous stack of e-mails from clients awaited me. I couldn’t help but groan. Had my investigation really taken me away from my work this long? I read through them all, surprised to find a couple of my favorite clients weren’t terribly happy with me right now. Good rule of thumb: Never make a promise to a client then walk away and forget about it.

  After responding to the e-mails, I decided to listen to my phone messages. Whoa. Eleven. Had it really been that long since I’d checked them? I zipped through the messages, startled to hear one from my mother and another from our pastor, asking for my help with the church’s booth at the annual Get Out to Vote rally later in the month.

  I leaned back in my chair and drew in a deep breath. I’d let life pile up on me. And now I had to pay the piper.

  I thought back to my last lesson. Street smarts, eh? Looked like the only kind of “smarts” I needed were the kind that would teach me how to stay on top of the day-to-day things. I very nearly picked up the phone to call Sheila, to ask her advice. But, why bother? I could pretty much imagine what she’d have to say: Annie, you used to have a handle on life. . .but it broke.

  And she’d be right.

  To further torment myself, I decided to open up the next lesson from www.investigativeskills.com. I’m pretty sure it was accompanied by a heavenly choir this time around, that’s how powerfully the words hit me when I read the title to Lesson Six: A Good Investigator Is Able to Multi-Task.

  Yikes.

  I stared at the screen in disbelief. Why even read the lesson? Hadn’t I already struggled enough in this area? Hadn’t I proven that I couldn’t handle one thing piled upon another? Why in the world would I want to rub salt into an open wound?

  Still. . . I could use a few suggestions for how to bring balance to my life, as the opening paragraph suggested. I needed to know how to be all things to all people.

  Didn’t I?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sometimes I wish life had subtitles.

  Seriously. There have been certain instances in my life that would have been greatly enhanced by a few carefully thought-out words written beneath them. Take, for example, the time I tried to rewire the thermostat in the downstairs hallway and short-circuited the fan in the air conditioning unit outside. Subtitle: If you don’t have a sense of humor, you probably don’t have any sense at all. Or the time I insisted I could change the oil in the car and ended up in the emergency room with eight stitches in my right hand. Subtitle: Should have gone to Jiffy Lube.

  Yep, there were just some things a twenty-first-century woman shouldn’t attempt without subtitles. In fact, there were some things a woman like me shouldn’t be allowed to attempt. . . at all.

  So why, then, did I agree to make all of the foods for Devin’s post-homecoming game party next weekend? Thirty high school boys and their dates? Was I crazy?

  I sifted through the bags of groceries with a sigh and attempted to put together a plan of action. Where should I start? Animal, vegetable or mineral? I took a look at the hodge-podge of high-carb, high-calorie goodies and slapped myself in the head. What a way to spend my Saturday afternoon. I could think of approximately ten thousand other things I’d rather do.

  The bag of frozen meatballs looked up at me, teasing, taunting. Get to work, they screamed. I supposed I could drop them into the crock pot before next week’s game and pour some barbecue sauce over them. I glanced through my cookbook for a recipe for sausage and cheese puffs, which Devin had specifically requested. Hmm. That doesn’t look too complicated. But they’ll have to be made earlier in the day.

  I stared and the monstrous bag of frozen hot wings. What in the world was I supposed to do with those? I’d never cooked a hot wing in my life. I flipped over the bag and drew in a relieved breath as I read the instructions. Looked like they could be popped in the oven on a cookie sheet to be warmed just before serving. No problem.

  Now for the complicated one—the salsa dip. I read Sheila’s hand-scribbled instructions one more time before starting: Take a jar of salsa and mix it with creamy cream cheese. Spread it in a dish and
chill. Then spread chopped onions, tomatoes, and peppers all over the top. Cover with shredded taco cheese mix and serve with chips.

  Goodness. Why didn’t I just buy a container of dip at the store?

  I finally turned my attention to the things that troubled me most—the sweets. Devin had shown up with the oddest assortment of goodies to be pieced together, everything from chocolate chip pizza cookies to homemade caramel corn. Add to that about a zillion bags of chips, enough for a small army, and I knew my hands were more than full.

  I paused a moment from my ponderings to think about Janetta Mullins. The woman was terrific at pulling together food for parties like this. A real pro. Should I give her a call?

  Thinking about Janetta got me thinking about the missing money. Thinking about the missing money got me thinking about Jake. Thinking about Jake got me thinking about the plight of the homeless. And thinking about the homeless made me feel kind about bad about complaining about food preparation at all.

  The telephone rang, interrupting my reverie. Thank goodness.

  “Mom?”

  Brandi. She sounded anxious. Nothing new there.

  “What’s up, honey?”

  “I need you.”

  Ah, the bliss of those words. They were enough to make any mom throw her son’s snackables overboard and focus on the things that really mattered in life.

  My child needs me.

  I quickly put the groceries away, content in the fact that next week’s game night would be a smashing success. Within minutes, Brandi arrived at the house with a large bag in her hand and a suspicious gleam in her eye. I knew that look all-too-well, which explained the sudden niggling of fear that coursed through me.

  My beautiful eldest daughter gabbed all the way from the front door to the kitchen. When we arrived at the table, she pulled from the bag the loveliest red rose I’d ever seen. It was large, full, breathtaking, and. . . fake. I had to look twice just to make sure my eyes hadn’t fooled me.

  “What made you decide on silks?” I asked as I fingered it.

  Brandi shrugged. “We’re spending so much on the facility and the food, I needed to cut back. So I thought silk flowers would be a nice way to do that. They’re so real looking, no one will ever know. Aren’t they pretty?”

  Indeed, they were. In fact, they were eerily true-to-life. I had to give it to her. The girl really knew her roses. Then again, with nearly a dozen boyfriends coming and going over the past several years, she should.

  “So, here’s the thing,” she said with a crooked grin. “I know you’re really crafty and all—”

  “I’m really what?” My mind gravitated at once to the women in the Amish country, seated with their quilting projects in their laps.

  “Crafty. You’re so good at putting things together. Remember those centerpieces you and Nadine worked on? They turned out great.”

  “Well, yes, but she did most of the work,” I argued. “To be honest, I’m not—”

  Brandi continued on, undaunted. “I’ve had the most fabulous idea and it will save us so much money. I want you to put together the bridesmaids’ bouquets for the wedding.”

  “S–Say what?”

  She emptied the bag of voluptuous roses out all over the clean end of the table.

  I took one look at the whole mound of red silk goodies and clutched my head in my hands. Subtitle: When life gives you lemons, make. . . wedding bouquets?

  My mind reeled. What do these kids think I am—a decorating diva? Sure, I watch a little home improvement TV, but that’s purely recreational.

  Brandi rambled on and on. Something about boutonnières for the guys and corsages for the mothers and grandmothers. I’m not sure I heard a word of it. I mean, I saw her lips moving, but it was almost like I’d instantaneously lost all of my hearing the minute those roses hit the table.

  Funny thing was, it returned when she began to sing my praises once again. “You’re the best, Mom!” She finished her zealous speech, planted a kiss on my cheek, and beamed with joy. “I just can’t wait to see what you come up with.”

  Um, me either.

  My expression must’ve spiraled downward, because Brandi reached out to give me what felt like a sympathetic hug. “I need you, Mom,” she whispered.

  Ah, those words. Those magical, lyrical words. They sprinkled pixie dust on a mother’s weary soul. They roused her from her slumber and caused her to believe she could attempt the impossible. Even when she knew in her gut she shouldn’t.

  I thought about my lesson plan once more. A good investigator is able to multi-task.

  Accomplishing several things at once might appear difficult to the average human being, but I’d never claimed to be average. No, in my daughter’s eyes, I was Super Mom—able to leap tall buildings in a single bound—and certainly capable of piecing together red silk roses in a fashionable display. I could do this. I could.

  My courage rose as I chewed on that idea. Hadn’t I already proven myself as an editor, investigator, wife, friend, neighbor and civic leader, and overall terrific person? Surely I could make my mark as a floral designer, as well.

  Brandi’s eyes lit with pleasure as she looked over the flowers. “Oh!” She clutched her hand to her chest. “I nearly forgot. Nadine asked me to call when I got here. She wants to talk to you.” Brandi pulled her cell phone from her purse and within seconds I found myself chatting by phone with my sweet Southern sister. The words just flowed.

  “Yes, dah-lin, the roses are luv-lee!” and “Bless your heart, Nadine, I do hope I can do them justice.”

  She went on to encourage me in my task, even giving me pointers. Question: Why does it not surprise me that Nadine has conquered the art of floral arranging? Is there anything the woman can’t do? Truly, I wanted to be Nadine when I grew up.

  Um, if I ever grew up.

  By the time I hung up the phone, I felt strong, invincible. It’s amazing what ten minutes of chatting with an “Encourager Extraordinaire” will do for you.

  Brandi left with a smile on her face and an “I love you” on her lips. Then, with scissors in one hand a hot glue gun in the other, I turned my attentions to transforming my kitchen table into an artist’s pallet.

  The red roses toyed with my imagination. I picked up a few and rehearsed my strategy by pressing them together in a bundle and winding a bit of ribbon around the stems. Yep. I could do this.

  Subtitle: Woman of God discovers amazing new talents and abilities. Story at eleven.

  I put the bouquet to my chest and practiced walking the aisle, just to see how it might look. With no mirror in sight, I tried to follow my reflection in the kitchen window. No such luck.

  I hummed the wedding march and reflected back on my own big day. Somehow, prancing around the kitchen with a bundle of flowers in my hand got me tickled. The giggles began quite innocently, but quickly escalated into full-blown laughter.

  Sasha sprang up and down, up and down, trying to get in on my glee. I snatched her up in my arms and danced around in circles, flowers now forming a halo around her head. Round and round we went, spinning like maniacs.

  “Annie?”

  “W–Warren.” Subtitle: Oops! “Sorry, I thought you were replacing the windshield wipers on the truck.”

  “I’m done.” He gave me the strangest look. “Are—are you okay?” He reached to take Sasha from my arms, as if sensing the need to protect her from me.

  “Who, me?” I snatched a lone red rose from the bundle and stuck it in my teeth, tossed the rest on the table, then took the pose of a Spanish dancer. “I’m just terrific!” I mouthed the words through clamped teeth and very nearly dropped the flower. For effect, I clapped my hands in a cha-cha-cha off to one side.

  “Annie, I—” Warren shook his head then stared in silence.

  I pulled the rose from my teeth. “What?”

  “Nothing.” He put Sasha on the floor and she rubbed up against my leg, ready to play once more.

  “Come on, honey.” I stuck the ros
e behind his ear then slipped my right arm around his waist and my left into his unsuspecting palm. I leaned in to whisper, “Doesn’t all this talk of love and weddings make you feel like dancing? Doesn’t it make you feel—invincible?”

  “Um, I—”

  Subtitle: Confused husband contemplates psychiatric help for deranged wife.

  But I didn’t need psychiatric help. On the contrary. I simply needed to know that the man of my dreams would still ask me to our high school homecoming game all over again, if he had the chance.

  I managed to get him to take a couple of turns around the kitchen with me. He even added an impromptu spin at the end of our choreography, a sure sign I’d gotten to him. Warren tipped up my chin with his finger and gazed into my eyes. A feeling of warmth flooded over me as he leaned down to plant a gentle kiss on my lips. Yep. He’d still ask me to the homecoming game.

  After a moment, he snapped to attention. “I almost forgot why I came in here.”

  “Ah. I have that effect on you, do I?”

  He laughed as he pulled the rose from behind his ear and placed it back on the table with the others. “Yes, you do. I came in to tell you that Richard Blevins just called on my cell phone. Something about the Get Out to Vote rally. He wants to pass off the brochures and placards to you. He’s not going to be able to participate this year.”

  Something about hearing Richard’s name sent a ripple of guilt through me. I’d been so busy, I hadn’t gone back to visit Judy. And from what I’d heard through the prayer chain, she had taken a turn for the worse.

  “When is he coming?”

  Warren shrugged. “Sometime tomorrow afternoon. Is that okay?”

  “Sure. The kids are all coming over for dinner after church. I’m making pot roast.”

  “Mmm.”

  “We’d planned to play board games after,” I explained. “But nothing out of the ordinary, so it’s fine if he stops by.”

  Still, it did hurt my heart a little. In the old days, Richard would have passed the items off to me before or after Sunday School. I still couldn’t get used to the idea that he wasn’t teaching our class anymore. In fact, I couldn’t get used to the idea that he seemed to have distanced himself from the rest of the world. Something about that just felt. . . wrong.