by Lee Hollis
“Is that the same outfit you wore last night?”
Of course Celeste would notice something like that. It explained a great deal about the fractious nature of her relationship with her daughter.
“Yes, I never made it home last night.”
“Why on earth not?”
“I’ve been out here all night watching the house.”
Celeste, who had been hunched over talking to Hayley through the open window, stood upright. “What’s going on, Hayley?”
Hayley knew they couldn’t hide the truth anymore, especially from Liddy’s nosy mother, so she spilled everything.
Celeste’s eyes widened and she gasped, covering her mouth with her hand, and as Hayley wrapped up the improbable story with the final detail that Liddy had insisted they keep mum until there was a ring on her finger and Reverend Staples had finished his “By the powers invested in me . . .” speech, Celeste was already halfway across the lawn, screaming at her daughter to let her inside.
When a surprised Liddy opened the door and saw the wild-eyed look on her mother’s face and Hayley trailing behind her in the same wrinkled clothes she had worn the night before, she knew the jig was up.
Fifteen minutes later, the three of them were sitting in Chief Alvares’s office, going over the details of what had transpired the day before.
Sergio typed up all the details on his computer as Liddy recounted the horrific attack with Hayley sitting beside her holding her hand for moral support and her mother, a bundle of nerves, pacing back and forth in the tiny office.
“You really should have reported this sooner, Liddy. I may have been able to arrest a suspect by now,” Sergio said with an admonishing look.
“I know, I’m sorry, but I’m reporting it now,” Liddy said, touching her hair, which was still in curlers.
Sergio glanced at Hayley, disappointed that she was a part of this plot to keep him in the dark. She wanted to explain herself, but felt it was probably best just to keep her mouth shut at this point.
Celeste had no compunction about not staying quiet. “You need to go out and find this Nancy Malone and arrest her right away, Chief, before she has a chance to come at my baby girl again!”
“I’ll locate her as quickly as I can, but we cannot be certain she was the one who—”
Celeste cut him off. “Of course it’s her! She’ll obviously do anything to ruin my daughter’s happiness, including choking the life out of her on her own front lawn! You have to find her today! What if she shows up at the church and crashes the wedding?!”
Sergio nodded patiently. “I’ll do my best to track her down.”
“The wedding is only a few hours away! We can’t afford any more surprises!” Celeste screamed.
Liddy nodded in agreement, her hair curlers bobbing up and down, a look of grim determination frozen on her face.
Celeste stepped over and took her daughter’s arm. “Maybe we should think about—”
Liddy shook her head. “We are not postponing the wedding, Mother, and that’s final!”
Liddy Crawford was going to get married today.
Even if it killed her.
Chapter 35
As Hayley struggled to slip on the gaudy, over-the-top Little Bo Peep matron of honor dress that Liddy had ultimately chosen for her to wear for the wedding, she checked the clock in her bathroom. It was already one thirty.
She had spent the morning after their visit to the police station running errands for the bride, which, to be fair, was the official job of the matron of honor. But that left precious little time to get herself ready in time for the ceremony. Instead of trying to put on her makeup and style her wild, unruly hair in the midst of all the chaos at Liddy’s house, she slipped away to come home and get ready in peace.
Liddy and her mother Celeste were already horribly tense from the news that a jealous ex-girlfriend’s of Sonny was on the loose and possibly homicidal. That was enough to spoil any woman’s wedding day, but Liddy tried her best to remain calm and vigilant, despite her mother repeatedly reminding her to stay alert in case Crazy Nancy struck again.
Hayley finished spraying her hair and, with no time left to paint her nails, resorted at the last minute to some pink press-ons she found in the drawer. Checking herself out in the mirror, she concluded she was at least presentable if not a vision of pure loveliness. At least she wouldn’t steal focus from the bride, which was the most important thing.
As Hayley dashed down the stairs, hiking up her dress so she wouldn’t trip and fall and wind up sprawled out unconscious in the foyer, a knock at the front door startled her.
Leroy, who was snoozing on the couch, snapped to attention and let loose with a few yelps as he leapt to the floor and scampered toward the door, playing guard dog to full effect. “Playing” was the operative word, because at the sign of any real threat there was no doubt in Hayley’s mind he would retreat upstairs to hide under her bed.
Hayley flung open the door, and Leroy’s barking abruptly stopped, replaced by excited panting at the sight of Sergio, who had changed out of his police uniform and was now wearing a nice gray suit and yellow tie.
“Oh, good, I’m glad you’re here,” Hayley said. “You can give me a ride to the church. I’m not sure I can fit behind the wheel of my own car in this dress! I’ll probably need the whole backseat!”
“You better sit down for this one,” Sergio said ominously.
“Oh no . . .” Hayley groaned. “What now?”
“I found Nancy Malone.”
“Is she here in Bar Harbor?”
Sergio shook his head. “No, she’s in Boston.”
“Boston? Are you sure? She could be lying.”
Sergio reached into his back pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He opened the YouTube app, pressed play on a video, and handed the phone to Hayley.
Hayley stared at the video, which had just been posted the previous evening. It was definitely Nancy Malone—the same Nancy Malone from the Facebook photo of herself with Sonny in Key West. Pretty, bubbly, and around thirty years old. She was bopping up and down to some rock music with about five girlfriends.
“That’s her last night at a Pearl Jam concert in Fenway Park,” Sergio said.
Hayley wasn’t ready to give up. “Maybe the video is somehow doctored. You know people can do that.”
Sergio pressed his finger down and scrolled through the video about seven minutes in, when Pearl Jam’s lead singer, Eddie Vedder, reached down into the mosh pit and lifted Nancy up onto the stage, where she dirty danced with the rock star for the next three minutes, bumping and grinding and gyrating and squealing with delight.
“I’d say she’s got about ten thousand witnesses who saw her there,” Sergio said.
Hayley handed the phone back to Sergio. “Okay, so she’s definitely in the clear.”
“When I got her on the phone, she claimed she had never even heard of a Liddy Crawford, and honestly, she sounded pretty darn convincing.”
“So I assume she has no contact with Sonny anymore,” Hayley concluded.
“No, she didn’t say that. She talks to him quite regularly.”
“How could his ex-girlfriend not know he’s engaged to Liddy, especially if they’re still friendly and talking all the time?”
“Because she’s not his ex-girlfriend,” Sergio said solemnly.
“They’re still together? So that bastard lied! He’s still involved with her!”
Sergio nodded. “Except she’s not his current girlfriend either.”
“Then what is she?”
Sergio took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going to quote her directly now. Are you ready?”
Hayley scrunched up her face, confused, her stomach flip-flopping. “Why wouldn’t I be? Why? What is it? What did she say?”
“She said, and I quote, ‘I have never heard of this Liddy Crawford, and I can assure you my husband, Sonny, hasn’t either,’ end quote.”
It was like a gut punch.
&n
bsp; Hayley reeled back, grabbing the banister at the bottom of the staircase to steady herself. “Husband?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Are you sure she was talking about the same Sonny Lipton?”
“You saw the Facebook photo. What are the odds of one person knowing two lawyers named Sonny Lipton?”
“Did you tell her that Sonny is marrying Liddy?”
“I did. She didn’t believe me.”
“But how could she be married to a man who lives five hours away in Bar Harbor? They couldn’t possibly spend much time together.”
“Because, according to her, Sonny travels a lot for his job, and she holds down their house in Revere when he has to drive up to Maine to work on cases. The same false story he gave Liddy about having to drive down to Boston to do legal work for his old firm. According to Nancy, she’s actually quite happy with the arrangement and the freedom it gives her, as long as they love each other and he’s a decent provider.”
Hayley’s head was spinning as she struggled to process this startling, incomprehensible revelation.
“I don’t believe it. Sonny’s already married?”
“Looks that way.”
“I’ll kill him,” Hayley whispered.
“You won’t get the chance once Liddy finds out. She’ll do the job for you.”
Liddy.
What about poor Liddy?
This was going to destroy her.
“I’m on my way to the church now. Should I break the news?” Sergio asked.
“No! Let me do it! It will be better coming from me.”
“Okay, but just promise me you’ll do it before she says ‘I do,’” Sergio said.
“Of course.”
Suddenly Sergio’s phone buzzed. He exited the YouTube app and read a text. “It’s Donnie. There’s been an accident on the Trenton Bridge. Looks like I’m going to miss the wedding anyway.”
“Go, I’ll handle this. Thank you, Sergio.”
Sergio shot out the door to his car.
Hayley sat down on the bottom step of her staircase and grabbed the top of her head with both hands. She had a pounding headache. The thought of crushing her best friend on her wedding day was almost too much to bear.
And it was about to get a whole lot worse.
Island Food & Cocktails
BY HAYLEY POWELL
Ever since my brother, Randy, started serving food at his local bar, Drinks Like a Fish, he has enlisted me to be his go-to guinea pig whenever he wants to add a new item to his menu. Sure enough, I had heard rumblings that he was kitchen-testing a brand-new appetizer all week, so I was not surprised when I received the call at work to swing by the bar after quitting time for an impromptu taste test.
I had planned to do some grocery shopping, and my house was in desperate need of a thorough cleaning, so I tried to beg off at first, but Randy was insistent. And when he threw in an added incentive of a refreshing pomegranate Cosmo on the house, I instantly caved. I adored his pomegranate Cosmos!
And boy, was I a happy camper when I showed up, because not only was the Cosmo sitting on top of the bar waiting for me at my usual stool, but the aromatic smell of bacon wafted in from the kitchen. I was already hooked. As most readers of my column already know, I love any recipe that has bacon as an ingredient!
Well, it turned out Randy had been playing around with a recipe tailor-made for my taste buds—a bacon, Asiago cheese, and caramelized onion dip. Needless to say, it was absolutely to die for! I would definitely be serving this dip up at the Fourth of July post-parade party that I was planning to hold in my backyard this year.
While I was wolfing down Randy’s delicious dip in between sips of my Cosmo, a group of five twentysomething, giggling, and, dare I add, tipsy women, all obviously part of a bridal party, came stumbling into the bar. They were all dressed in figure-hugging tank tops that were bedazzled with sparkly fake jewels, each one designating their position in the wedding party—bride, maid of honor, bridesmaid, you get the gaudy picture.
My first thought was, “Thank goodness Liddy didn’t make us wear tank tops like that at her bachelorette party the other night! There was no way I could pull off something like that even back when I was in my twenties!”
One of the attractive blondes—there were three, I think, along with one brunette and a flaming redhead—anyway, one of the blondes wore the obligatory cheap-looking tiara. I guessed she was the bride, though I didn’t really have to, since the word “Bride” was clearly emblazoned in pink sparkles all over her figure-hugging white tank top. She sat at one end of the table, next to pretty blonde number two, who was wearing a light pink tank top that loudly labeled her “Maid of Honor.” The other three drunken girls—the remaining blonde, the brunette, and our wild, curly-haired redhead—sat opposite them on the other end of the table, all sporting dark pink tank tops that told us in bright glittery letters that they were the “Bridesmaids.”
It looked like a Barbie explosion, and it took every ounce of my self-control for me not to ask them if a Barbie Pink Beach Cruiser was parked outside, or if the groom’s name happened to be Ken. But I had only downed one Cosmo so far, so I managed to refrain myself.
As the girls downed more booze and got progressively louder, I started getting a headache and was almost ready to call it a night. But then Randy served up a second bowl of his delectable dip, so I kept my butt firmly planted on that bar stool, at least until we finished it off with some crackers.
The Bridal Barbies were on their fourth round of margaritas, ordering them so fast Randy’s right-hand bartender, Michelle, could barely keep up with them. As Randy and I polished off the dip and gossiped about the latest town scandals, suddenly an earsplitting shriek nearly busted my eardrum. Unsurprisingly, it came from the table of rowdy girls.
The maid of honor jumped to her feet so fast she knocked over the chair she was sitting in and it tipped over onto the floor. Aghast, she started screaming at the top of her lungs at the bride, but her voice was so loud and shrill we couldn’t make out what she was saying. Randy managed to identify a few key words and told me he thought she said something like, “No, I did not,” as though she was denying some kind of accusation. The bride angrily shot up out of her chair then too and got right up in the maid of honor’s face and wailed, with tears streaming down her cheeks, “Yes, you did!”
The third blonde, the brunette, and yes, our standout redhead, all sat frozen in their seats, watching the train wreck as if in slow motion, not sure what to do.
Now the bride and maid of honor were trying to shout over each other, and the rest of the bar patrons, made up of a few fishermen and a college-age couple who looked like they were on a first date, stared slack-jawed at the commotion, riveted to what was going to happen next.
In the background, playing on the jukebox, was Taylor Swift crooning “Love Story”—not quite appropriate for the current situation.
Shaking her hands and sobbing, the bride bawled, “How could you do this to me? I trusted you! I don’t even know how I can ever forgive you for a betrayal like this!”
Our maid of honor, who by now knew she had royally screwed up, lowered her voice, trying to explain, “I am so, so sorry. Please don’t hate me! I swear, if I could take it all back I would . . .”
Then, in the blink of an eye, the bride threw herself across the table, grabbing her maid of honor by the hair, and they tumbled to the floor, margarita glasses shattering all around them. From then on, it looked like one of those 1980s Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling matches, with hair pulling, fist punching, and nail scratching. The three bridesmaids then all piled on, trying to pull the bride and maid of honor apart, but to no avail.
Next to me, Randy sighed and pushed his chair back, mumbling under his breath, “Here we go again.” This wasn’t his first time at the rodeo with high-strung bridal parties. As he moved to break up the brawl, he turned his head back toward me and shouted, “I’ve seen this so many times before. The maid of honor
drinks too much and starts feeling guilty and confesses to once sleeping with the groom!”
Apparently, over the yelling and screaming, the bride overheard Randy and suddenly released her maid of honor from a headlock. “What did you say?”
The bridal party all fell silent.
Randy shrugged. “Believe me, this happens in my bar all the time.”
You could hear a pin drop as Taylor Swift finished her song and the rest of the patrons watched in quiet anticipation.
The bride gasped. “Pippa most certainly did not sleep with my fiancé! She would never, ever do that to me!”
Pippa, the maid of honor, nodded vigorously. “Of course not! I would never!”
Randy stared at them, confused and exasperated. “Then what? What else could possibly upset you so much that you would attack your own maid of honor and smash up my bar? Which you will pay for, by the way!”
The bride sniffed, gathering the courage to admit what horrible transgression her former best friend was guilty of, as if just saying it out loud would stir up the trauma all over again. She pointed a finger at the maid of honor. “She . . . She . . . Oh God, I can’t even . . .”
“Just say it!” Randy demanded.
“She said I looked fat in my wedding dress!”
And then a fresh flood of tears poured down her face as she collapsed in her chair, the bridesmaids swarming around her, offering comfort.
The entire bar erupted in raucous laughter. There might have been slightly more empathy for the devastated bride if she didn’t look like she wore a size two.
The bride was visibly irritated at the lack of sympathy she felt she clearly deserved, and so she quickly ordered Randy to ring up the bill for the drinks and damage and then stormed out of the bar, followed by her gaggle of sycophants, who offered soothing words, and a maid of honor whining about how sorry she was and begging the bride for her forgiveness.
I will tell you one thing—I sure would have loved to have been a fly on the wall at that wedding.
After I helped Randy sweep up the broken glass and upright a few chairs, Taylor Swift went back to singing another song, the patrons finished their drinks, and Randy and I eagerly began work on a third bowl of his delicious dip.
