My mother’s longtime driver had to be at least eighty years old. She’d used him forever to take her to parties and teas and funerals, whenever she wanted to make an impression or just didn’t feel like driving herself. The Bentley pretty much sat in the garage these days, gathering dust.
Cissy wrinkled her nose. “He said I could call him if it was an emergency.”
“Well, it’s not,” I remarked and caught her arm. “Come on. Time’s a’wastin’.”
Reluctantly, she followed me outside and locked up behind us. She frowned as she headed toward my car even though I opened up the passenger door and held it wide for her.
“You need a boost?” I asked.
She wasn’t any taller than I was—five-five if I stood up very straight—and the step up was pretty steep with or without high heels.
“Should I get a footstool?” I asked when she stood and surveyed the situation.
“No,” she said and flicked her bag onto the seat. “If I could get onto an elephant’s back in a pair of strappy Jimmy Choos at that circus fund-raiser Mirabelle Braxton threw for the children’s hospital, I can surely get into this rattletrap single-handedly,” she announced. Then she hiked up her skirt a few inches and proceeded to climb her way in.
I was a little surprised she didn’t just will herself inside.
“Are you okay?” I asked as she settled into the seat.
“Well, I didn’t dislocate anything,” she replied.
I shook my head, walking around the hood of the car to the driver’s side. I opened the door just in time to hear my mother let out an inelegant grunt as she shut the passenger door. She brushed at a piece of hair that had come unglued from her perfect ’do and gave me a look that said, “Well?”
“You ready to go see some dresses?” I asked, pulling on my seat belt.
“I will be if I survive the drive,” she said and smoothed her skirt before finding the seat belt. I heard it click before I started the engine. “So how am I supposed to act today?” she asked as I pulled away from the house. “Am I the good cop or the bad one?”
I bit the inside of my cheek and played it straight.
“You’re the mother of the bride, remember?” I said, trying hard not to snicker. “So that must make you the bad cop.”
She scowled. “Very funny.”
I grinned and steered the Jeep onto Beverly Drive and away.
It took about twenty minutes to get downtown to the World Trade Center building, although I used the time to fill my mother in on what had happened that morning with Jasper Pippin. She mostly made ah and um-hmm sounds throughout, not offering much in the way of comments, which wasn’t like her. She seemed distracted, and I thought I knew why.
After I parked and we’d exited the Jeep, I walked beside her toward the glass doors beneath the portico.
“Does Stephen get back this afternoon?”
“Yes, thank heavens,” she said with a weighty sigh. “I’d hoped he’d come back sooner but he didn’t want to cut out early on his chums.”
I was actually surprised to hear that. “You told him what’s going on, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did!” She bobbed her blond head. “But he seems to think I should let the police do their job and stay out of Millie’s troubles.” She sniffed.
I felt an unfamiliar sense of solidarity. “He sounds just like Malone.”
And Janet, for that matter, I mused. My very own George (or was it Bess?) didn’t seem to be nearly as into this investigation as I was. Maybe she believed the police would entertain other suspects besides Millie but I had my doubts.
“If only Stephen had been here with Millie last night,” my mother went on. “He wouldn’t say that. He’d understand why she needs all the help and support she can get.”
“Amen, sister,” I said and scrambled to hold open the door.
Mother strode in before me, and I paused just inside the lofty atrium with the circular fountain bubbling ahead. My gaze immediately ascended each of the fifteen stories, taking in all the showrooms and their glass storefronts filled with color. Music swirled around us, and I smelled fresh-roasted coffee coming from one of the ground-floor restaurants.
“So where are we headed?” Mother asked, and I dug into my shoulder bag for the slip of paper on which Terra had jotted down Draco’s suite number. “The fourteenth floor,” I said and nudged Mother toward the glass elevators.
As I pushed the up button and waited for the elevator to descend, Cissy leaned nearer to whisper, “Maybe we’ll get lucky and this Dracula fellow will blurt out a confession that he killed Olivia. Do the police know if he drank her blood?”
“No, he didn’t drink her blood. He’s not a vampire. He’s a designer,” I said, grateful for the ping as the elevator arrived and a pair of doors slid wide-open. I was about to remind her that his name wasn’t Dracula when she piped up again.
“Oh, even better, maybe we’ll actually find you a wedding gown!” she drawled happily. She had such an eager look on her face that I knew she was way more excited by that prospect than Draco confessing to Olivia’s murder.
“We’re not here to buy a dress,” I said, thinking, Not a chance in hell.
“We’ll see,” Mother countered in a singsong voice and smiled.
I pressed 14, the elevator doors closed, and we went up.
Chapter 25
Terra was waiting for us outside the doors to Draco’s showroom. She looked none too pleased, and I wanted to ask how her second interview had gone with the police, though I figured she hadn’t talked much if they’d sprung her so quickly. And she’d been afraid she might be très late.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” she said and checked the clock on her phone. “You’re late.”
“We are?” Cissy piped up from behind me. “How can that be when Andrea drove like a bat out of hell?”
“Thank you, Mother,” I said.
I glanced at the clock on Tara’s phone. We were only five minutes behind schedule. Whoop-di-do. Then my eyes widened as I caught a glimpse of something else: the tattoo on Terra’s ring finger, which I’d missed entirely yesterday. Mother was right. It looked like an inky wedding band. What else could it be?
So Terra was married? If she was, it certainly hadn’t come out on the finale of The Wedding Belle. Terra played the show like she was single. That might be why she had the tattoo and no shiny rings on her finger. Could be it was part of the plot.
My gaze must have lingered on her hand, as Terra quickly stowed away her phone in her giant hobo bag and said, “We’d better hurry. Once the show starts, they’ll shut the doors.”
“Sorry,” I apologized, “but it’s been a busy morning.”
“So I’ve heard,” she snapped.
Wow.
I looked at Mother, who shrugged and mouthed, PMS?
Honestly, I didn’t care about watching a parade of wedding gowns. I just wanted to meet Draco in the flesh and see if I could sound him out about his real relationship with Olivia. And maybe I’d ask Terra a question or two about Jasper Pippin.
“I saved us seats,” Terra said, gesturing impatiently. “They’re in the front row.”
“Fab,” I chirped, trying to act enthusiastic, though Mother didn’t have to pretend at all.
“Oooh,” she cooed, “I love VIP seats,” and pranced giddily after Terra.
The minute we’d entered, a security guard did indeed shut the doors behind us, so Terra hadn’t been lying.
The showroom had been staged with a raised runway jutting out between rows of white folding chairs. Giant screens at the rear displayed Draco’s name in a burnished gold, the classic script nearly filling the entire space with “Fall Bridal Collection” in smaller black print just below it. En route to our chairs, we passed several dozen gowns worn by black vel
vet mannequins missing their heads. They were an eclectic mix of over-the-top satin ball gowns with flounces and rosettes and simple sleeveless A-lines. Draco was certainly a man of stark contrasts.
“This way,” Terra said, indicating a trio of white chairs with RESERVED cards set across the seats. Thank goodness she’d saved them for us, as all the other chairs appeared to be filled with women holding clipboards with paper forms on their laps. The buzz of their voices sounded rather like a swarm of cicadas.
“My, oh, my, but Draco has a lot of fans,” I remarked as Terra settled into the first available seat, and I took the next empty one. Mother settled in beside me.
“They’re buyers from various department stores and bridal shops,” Terra informed us. “They’ll mark the gowns they like best and place orders with Draco.”
“Are mothers of the bride allowed to place an order?” Cissy asked, leaning forward to look across me at Terra. “I particularly like bateau necklines on a princess cut gown. Something like that would look lovely on Andrea.”
Dear Lord. I rolled my eyes.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Kendricks,” Terra told her, “Draco and I have already pulled some gowns from his sample inventory specifically for Andy to try on after the show.”
“Marvelous,” my mother crowed.
Yep, she was doing a picture-perfect impression of a pain-in-the-ass mother of the bride, which definitely made her the bad cop.
Before I had a chance to join in that conversation, the lights went dim and music began to thump from unseen speakers. I couldn’t say exactly what the tune was except that it wasn’t anything from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. It sounded more like Japanese bubblegum pop.
I heard my mother murmur, “What in heaven’s name is this? It sounds like cats in heat.”
It made sense the moment a pair of models began to slink down the runway in Draco’s gowns. They had Manga makeup: big eyes with even bigger faux eyelashes.
“They look like cartoons,” Cissy whispered.
“Shush,” I said, for all the good it would do.
She—and the weird makeup—had distracted me so that I didn’t really see the first two dresses. But I did catch their bustle bows and winced. If that was an example of Draco’s fall collection, I wondered how he was going to pay the bills.
Then all of a sudden there was the noise of a record scratching. The lights went dark again, and the audience began to murmur as a voice announced over the speakers, “Ha! Got you! Consider that a belated April Fools gift. Let the real show begin!”
I heard Terra sigh. “Mel has such a warped sense of humor.”
“Mel?” my mother whispered and pinched my arm. “I thought his name was Dracula?”
“Shhh,” I murmured and rubbed my skin, wondering why she couldn’t read the giant letters of Draco’s name printed on the background screens and get a clue. Sometimes I think she played dumb just to get my goat.
And it worked.
Abruptly, the spotlights went back on. They formed heart shapes as they zeroed in on the next model emerging from the wings on either side of the screens. Lovely, lilting music began to play what sounded like an Irish melody. I actually caught my breath as the first gown came into view, the model holding a ribbon-tied cluster of daisies. Her hair pulled back in a loose chignon and makeup subtle, she looked ethereal yet casual despite the long dress, its hem floating about her ankles. Her bare feet peeked out from beneath the swooshing fabric, and something about that earthiness tugged at my heartstrings. I could imagine a bride wearing that gown and walking through a field of clover.
“It’s beautiful,” I said of the dress that seemed so light and airy.
“It’s far too plain,” Cissy whispered.
Nope, I thought, we would never agree.
And so it went throughout the show, which had its share of simple dresses that appealed to me as well as full-blown princess gowns that had my mother patting my knee and nodding in approval. She was taking this way too seriously, especially when the gown that was the grand finale appeared. It was like an updated Princess Di affair with a lot of layers and lace. The elongated train went on for days, and I imagined a dozen doves holding it up with their tiny claws in a Disney flick.
“Oh, my word”—I could feel my mother tremble as she squeezed my thigh and panted in my ear—“now that’s a dress!”
“No, that’s a costume,” I shot back. It was so not for me.
Before the lights turned up, the screens with Draco’s name parted and a tall man emerged from between them. He was dressed all in black and had dark hair that skimmed his shoulders. He opened his arms, and the models appeared from the wings to take his hands and walk down the runway alongside him. The audience jumped up from their seats, dropping clipboards on their chairs, as Draco paused to bow before them. He could have been a rock star, for all their thunderous applause.
“That’s him,” I said, recognizing him from the episodes of The Wedding Belle. I noticed Terra’s eyes watching his every move, like every other woman in the room.
“He’s very handsome,” my mother whispered, and she was right.
When the lights came up, Draco didn’t leave the stage. Instead, he addressed the crowd via a microphone on his lapel. “Thank you so much for coming,” he said in a throaty voice with a slight accent that I couldn’t place, “as this particular show means more to me than most. I want to pay respects to the woman who helped bring my name to the spotlight.” He tipped his face toward the ceiling. “Olivia, this was for you,” he said then blew a kiss heavenward. “Rest in peace.”
Terra made a sound like a cat with a fur ball caught in its throat.
“Are you all right?” I asked as Draco left the runway and we rose from our chairs.
“I’m fine. Let’s go backstage. You can meet Draco and then try on the gowns we’ve pulled for you,” she said with a stony expression.
Oh, yeah, she was clearly ticked off about something, and I didn’t think it was because Mother and I had shown up five minutes late.
“I guess I could try on a few,” I replied, though I didn’t really want to play Bridal Barbie. I wanted to talk to Draco.
“Maybe you’ll want to take a look, too, Mrs. Kendricks,” Terra said to my mother, and I inwardly groaned.
“Oh, my dear, I can’t wear an actual gown at my nuptials. I’m far too old,” Cissy insisted. “But I do have a vintage Valentino suit that I’ve been saving for a special occasion. It’s ivory and has the most gorgeous, one-of-a-kind crystal buttons.”
“It sounds lovely,” Terra said.
“Yes, it’s lovely,” I repeated, nudging Mother along. “Now let’s go see the gowns, shall we? I have to meet Brian this afternoon so I can’t be here for hours.”
“You said Brian’s a lawyer, right?” Terra remarked.
Had I? I hesitated, wrinkling my brow. I didn’t recall mentioning that.
Mother stepped in to answer, “Yes, and he’s brilliant.” She touched my shoulder. “He’s quite the catch.”
“I’m a lucky girl,” I said, and I got that funny tingling at the back of my neck. Something was up. I suddenly wondered if Terra had Googled me, just as I’d Googled her. That was an easy answer for how she’d found out about Brian’s job. There was little privacy in the world anymore unless you lived off the grid.
“Let’s head back,” Terra said and started walking.
“To the gowns we go!” my mother chirped, like a rallying cry, and we followed Terra through the crush of women busy scribbling on their order pads, past a cluster of headless mannequins in wedding gowns, around the screens with Draco’s name to the backstage area.
Terra ushered us through a door marked PRIVATE into a quiet room staged like a giant dressing area with mirrors, hanging racks filled with at least a dozen gowns, and pink tufted and fringed settees that were
round with elevated centers, like from an old-style hotel lobby. The walls appeared papered in pale pink silk wallpaper. Malone would have said, “It looks like a chick room,” and it did.
“Why don’t you both take a look at the gowns while I go off to fetch Draco,” Terra said. “He’s going to take a break from schmoozing the buyers to come back for a few minutes. So stay put,” she instructed and quickly disappeared through the door, shutting it soundly behind her.
My mother dumped her handbag on the nearest round settee and headed to the racks first. She pulled out a princess-cut gown with wispy cap sleeves and embroidery on the satin skirt. “Oh, Andy, you have to try this one first.”
“You do know we’re not really here to find my dress,” I told her as she hurried over to hold the gown up against my chest. “We’re here to dig into Olivia’s relationship with Draco. I think it was as staged as her show.”
“Of course we’re here to help poor Millie, but why not take advantage of the situation,” Cissy said, swiveling so she could see my reflection in one of the many full-length mirrors. “It’s beautiful, Andy. Go on”—she shoved me and the dress toward an enclosed dressing room—“do it for your dear old mother if for no other reason.”
Hello, American Airlines? I’d like to book another guilt trip.
“For Pete’s sake,” I mumbled and snatched the hanger from her, shutting myself and the voluminous dress into the enclosed space that had several pink upholstered wing chairs bookending a tiny table, even a tiny oil painting of lilies of the valley on the wall.
Muttering all the while, I dropped my small cross-body bag onto a chair and began to systematically pile my things atop it: first, my T-shirt, then Capri pants. Standing in my bra and underwear—and slip-on sneakers—I unzipped the gown and stepped inside, wriggling my arms through the cap sleeves as I tugged it up.
I avoided looking into the mirror until I had the dress on and halfway zipped, which was as far as I could reach. But when I’d tucked my bra straps beneath the sleeves and lifted my chin, I bit my lower lip.
Oh, wow, I thought as my eyes got vaguely teary. It was the first time I’d seen myself in a white gown since the fitting for my debutante dress over a dozen years ago. That dress hadn’t meant anything to me except to symbolize how Mother was twisting my arm into doing something I didn’t want to do. This dress meant more than I could say, and I was struck by the fact that I looked like a real bride, not someone playing pretend. Suddenly, I had flashes of walking down the aisle to a waiting Brian and dancing in his arms at our reception, my gown swishing around my ankles.
Say Yes to the Death Page 20
