Wanted Wed or Alive: Thyme's Wedding

by Melissa F. Miller

  “That’s okay. If you don’t mind driving, I can read these more carefully on the way.” I wave the envelope filled with Naomi’s instructions for the new Snow Queen.

  “Works for me.” He settles himself in the driver’s seat and turns the key in the ignition. Then he startles me with a loud laugh.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah . . . imagining your sisters’ reactions when they come out of the kitchen and find out that we left.”

  I bite down on my lower lip. “I’m picturing it, too, but for some reason, there’s nothing funny about my version.”

  “Oh, it’s a dark humor,” he informs me. “You’re going to be in so much trouble.”

  “Don’t you mean we’re going to be in so much trouble?”

  “Nope, I mean you, baby sister Thyme.”

  He has a point—growing up with Rosemary and Sage was sort of like having three mothers. And not much has changed since childhood.

  I shake it off. “They’ll understand.”

  “If we’re right, they’ll understand,” he reminds me.

  “We’re right.”

  “I guess we’re about to find out.” And with that, he shifts the catering van into ‘Drive,’ and we set off into the gathering darkness, headed for the Las Vegas Strip.

  As if on cue, my phone blares to life, a flurry of text messages and phone calls. I tune out the dings, chirps, and ringtones.

  Victor merges onto the highway that leads out of Snow City and spares a look for me. “You’re gonna ignore your sisters, huh?”

  “For now.” Once we’re closer to Vegas—when it’s too late for them to try to stop us—I’ll reach out to them and explain.

  “Hmm.”

  I narrow my eyes at him and try to determine the meaning behind that hmm. After a moment, I abandon the effort and turn my focus to the files. He concentrates on the road.

  After several minutes of silence, he asks “You really think she’s still alive?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I don’t know. If that wasn’t her body in the car, whose was it?”

  “Maybe this friend who recognized her down in Phoenix.”

  “So, she killed her and dumped the car? That’s what you’re positing, isn’t it? There’s a pretty big leap from identity theft to murder, babe.”

  I know. And it’s a problem for my hunch. Leave it to Victor to poke at the weak spot.

  “I know,” I sigh.

  “Unless …”

  I recognize that timbre in his voice. He gets it when he’s chasing down a lead. “Unless what?”

  “Unless Naomi’s note is mostly true—her past caught up with her and she realized she couldn’t, or maybe just didn’t want to, stay in Snow City any longer, but she and this mystery person were on good terms. They left together and the wreck was an accident. But her friend was killed and Naomi survived.”

  “And she realized this was her chance to still move on? Just let everyone think the body was hers and get a fresh start somewhere?”

  “That’s the theory.”

  “Hmm.”

  He shifts his attention away from the road for a moment. “Hmm what?”

  “It’s pretty cold.”

  “She was the Snow Queen.”

  I chuckle at that. “And she’d have to be darn sure that nobody would question that the body was hers. Which means, this mystery person must’ve been a white woman about the same age and size as Naomi.”

  “A relative, maybe?”

  A memory sparks in my brain, and I flip furiously through the pages in my lap, but I can’t find the confirmation I’m looking for. “Man, I have this vague recollection that Naomi was a twin. Not identical, fraternal. At least, I think.”

  “That’s a pretty specific vague memory,” he points out.

  “I know. Definitely someone at the yoga studio had a twin, I remember the topic coming up … but, it may not have been her.”

  “If only you had a supercomputer in your pocket.”

  “Yeah, if only,” I agree distractedly. “Wait a minute …”

  He shakes his head while I pull out my phone and fire up a search browser with Naomi’s name and New York City as my search parameters. The third hit is gold.

  “Victor, listen to this! This is from an article published two-and-a-half weeks ago. ‘Jerome and Bettina Van Claus of Little Haven, Connecticut are issuing an appeal to the public to help them find their adult daughter, Adrianna Van Claus, age twenty-eight, who’s been missing since last week. According to the Van Claus family’s spokesperson, Adrianna disappeared while on a hiking trip through the Southwest. Her disappearance carries echoes of an earlier tragedy. Four years ago, in June, the Van Clauses’ other daughter, Adrianna’s fraternal twin, Naomi, vanished. Naomi was living and working in New York City at the time. Her disappearance remains unsolved. Anyone with information about’ … yada yada. Ugh, those poor parents.”

  “I can’t believe it. So, Naomi is still alive?”

  “Maybe. Probably.”

  “And you think you know where to find her?”

  “I have an idea.”

  He nods toward the phone in my hand. “Call your sisters.”

  “I will. In a bit.”

  “Thyme, please do it now. If you don’t, we both know they’re going to go off on a wild-goose chase looking for us. And I, for one, am still holding out hope for a wedding tomorrow. It would be nice if your sisters and their husbands are still speaking to us and attend. Don’t you think?”

  I sigh deeply and roll my eyes like I’m a teenager on a sitcom, but he’s right, and I know it. “Fine,” I huff as I jab at my phone.

  “Who’re you calling, Sage?” he guesses.

  “No, Rosemary.”

  “Really? That surprises me.”

  While I wait for the call to go through, I decide to give him a mini-education on his future sisters-in-law. “Calling Sage is the coward’s way. I know it, and they both know it. If I call Rosemary, I’m owning my decisions. They’ll be less likely to push back at me if I face down the dragon woman voluntarily.”

  “She’s not a dragon woman. Come on, be fair.”

  “Okay, that’s true. But she’s pretty bossy.”

  “A time-honored characteristic of first-born children the world over,” he tells me.

  I’m about to respond when Rosemary picks up the call. I raise one finger to let Victor know.

  “Thyme? Where are you?”

  “Hi, Rosie. Listen, I’m sorry that Victor and I borrowed the van without asking you first, but—”

  “You know this isn’t about the van. Why did you run out?”

  “We’re following up a lead.”

  “A lead?”

  “More like a hunch.”

  “Well, you left before Sage could tell you what she did. Hang on.”

  “No, wait—”

  But she’s already calling Sage to the phone.

  “Hey, Thyme. Nice disappearing act.”

  “Sorry. Rosemary said you have news?”

  “I reached out to Special Agent Morgan.”

  “Morgan? The guy from the IRS?”

  At the sound of Colin Morgan’s name, Victor cocks his head and gives me an inquisitive look. I shrug. At this point, he knows as much as I do.

  “Right. Him.”

  “Why? Oh, is this about Mom and Dad? Sage, I get it. I know family ties are important to you, but this really isn’t the time. We need to—”

  “It’s not about Mom and Dad. The government has multiple open investigations into several of the MLM companies that these people in Snow City are hiding from.”

  I weigh this information. “I guess that’s not completely unexpected.”

  “Right. There’s a lot of deceptive business practices and some sketchy pyramid scheme stuff, snd some insurance scam that Morgan tried to explain, but I didn’t really follow it. Oh, and tax evasion.”

  “There’s always tax evasion.”

  That earns me a b
elly laugh from the former forensic accountant. “That’s the truth. Anyway, Morgan’s coordinating a response and a plan for Snow City. He called me back a few minutes ago. Everyone in town is going to get a real fresh start, without the stolen identities this time, in exchange for testifying against their companies or otherwise cooperating with the investigation.”

  “That’s fantastic!”

  “Right? And it means Dora doesn’t have to take over as the new Snow Queen, which is good because she was right about the Snow Queen being at the top of a pyramid. The spreadsheets Naomi left behind are … instructive, to say the least. She was skimming so much money.”

  “How? I thought they only used snowflake bucks or whatever.”

  “Sure, amongst themselves. But she was their conduit to the outside world, which uses, you know, real money.”

  “Huh.”

  “What?”

  I shake my head. “I’ll tell you when I see you.”

  “Which will be when? Where are you, anyway?”

  “We have to go back to Vegas to take care of something. Do you think you can borrow Dora’s Lexus and meet us at the rental house in a few hours?”

  “Um … probably. But, Thyme, what are you up to?”

  “Maybe nothing. I’ll know in a couple hours. Hey, can you fill Rosemary in on the plan? Kaythanksbye,” I breathe in a rush and disconnect the call.

  “Very brave facing down the dragon woman,” Victor observes sarcastically.

  “I wasn’t afraid to tell her myself. I just didn’t want to get dragged into a big, long conversation,” I tell him.

  “Mm-hmm. Anyway, why didn’t you tell either of them about Adrianna?”

  “I want to make sure I’m right first.”

  “And how are you planning to do that?”

  “You’ll see.”

  It’s possible this was an error in judgment. I wobble and claw at Victor’s arm to stay on my feet. Or at least a miscalculation.

  He laughs, his eyes crinkling with amusement at my plight. “You sure about this?”

  “Yes,” I manage between clenched teeth. I’m not upset or anything, simply concentrating on staying upright.

  He gently peels my fingers away from their death grip on his sleeve and puts my hand on the low wall. Then, like a big, fancy showoff, he spins around, executing a perfect figure eight and ending with a spray of ice.

  “You’re the boss. Let’s get warmed up. Open skate ends in about five minutes.”

  “And then there’s a pick-up hockey game? You’re sure?”

  “That’s what the manager said while you were off renting the ice skates.”

  “Okay.” I take a deep breath and tentatively let go of the wall. “Let’s do this.”

  I glide forward and instantly lose my balance. My arms windmill wildly as my feet come out from under me. I land on my tailbone with a thud.

  “Youch, that had to hurt,” Victor says sympathetically as he reaches under my armpits and pulls me to my feet.

  “Ack!”

  I bobble, threatening to go right back down, and he steadies me.

  “Here, stand in a snowplow. Like a novice skier, you know.” He demonstrates putting his feet in the ‘pizza slice’ position taught on bunny hills everywhere.

  I copy the move. I wouldn’t say I’m steady, but at least I’m not teetering anymore.

  “Great. Thanks.”

  A young girl in a glittery skating dress zooms past us and executes a flawless double axle.

  Yay, another showoff.

  “When did you say the last time you strapped on a pair of ice skates was?” Victor asks, concern wrinkling his forehead.

  “I don’t know, 1998, maybe?”

  He does the math. “You haven’t skated since you were six years old?”

  “Give or take.”

  He rubs his forehead. “This is a terrible plan.”

  “It’ll be fine. It’s like riding a bike, right? I’ll get the hang of it after a few spins around the rink. Anyway, this place is … distracting. That’s not helping.”

  The only ice rink in Las Vegas that hosts pick-up hockey games is Louie Lou’s Ice Palace. And the Ice Palace is everything you imagine a skating center right off the Strip would be. There are partially dressed cocktail waitresses gliding around the ice with heavy drink trays in one hand. A live band plays in front of the refreshment stand—their loud country rock competing with the pop blaring over the loudspeaker system. A bank of televisions plays, adding to the cacophony, each set displaying a different sports match. And then there’s the magician working in the arcade.

  The whole scene gives me an instant headache, and I’m steadfast in my belief that the chaos is contributing to my skating performance. Judging by Victor’s wry smile, he’s unconvinced.

  “Okay,” he says with clear reluctance. “Just … hold my hand.”

  I take his hand as instructed and then clutch his wrist with my free hand. And then, he inelegantly hauls me around the outer edge of the rink, more or less dragging me as I cling to his arm and shuffle my feet ineffectively.

  We make it all the way around without falling. I’m sweating and my heart is palpitating. But we did it. He deposits me on a wooden bench just outside the rink’s surface. My thighs burn and my ankles ache.

  But I grin up at him. “See, it’s all muscle memory.”

  He leans in close and smiles at me. “You’re such a lovable goofball.”

  I grab his head and pull his lips down to my mouth. After a long, hard kiss, I release him.

  He laughs. “Thank goodness you’re a better kisser than a skater.”

  “Hey!” I feign taking offense, but he’s right. This isn’t going to work.

  “Do you want something to drink?”

  “I’d love some water. And then I think I’d better put my street shoes on. I guess if she does show up for the hockey game we can confront her on solid ground—you know, after it’s over.”

  “Excellent plan. I’ll be back in a flash.” He hurdles the wall and skates across the ice in the direction of the snack bar. As he speeds away, he turns and skates backward for a bit, waving at me.

  So my future husband can skate. Good to know.

  As I’m bending over and fumbling with my laces, a staticky voice cuts into the music. “Open skates is over. Please clear the ice. Clear the ice for the adult hockey league. And remember, rail drinks are half-price until midnight.”

  Rowdy laughter sounds over my shoulder, and I turn to see a group of men and women, clad in jerseys and gripping hockey sticks, clomping away from the dressing rooms, headed for the ice. I watch as they approach, focusing on the women, my eyes racing over their features. I stop on a familiar face. Upturned nose, dark eyebrows, bright blue eyes.

  It’s been several years, but the woman wearing jersey no. 8 could easily be Naomi. Maybe.

  She turns her head to the side to say something to her friend, then she flashes a smile. She’s missing three teeth.

  I jump to my feet, forgetting that I’m wearing ice skates, one of which is unlaced.

  “Hey, Naomi!”

  She doesn’t turn. But why should she? She abandoned that name years ago.

  “Adrianna?” I shout. My voice is loud, desperate.

  I can see her shoulders stiffen and she says something to the woman next to her. Her friend turns and studies my face then shakes her head.

  I lunge. “Thyme? Hey, Thyme!”

  She whips her head around as I pitch forward into the plexiglas wall that surrounds the rink. I lock eyes with her and ignore the hoots and laughter of her hockey friends.

  Come on, Victor. Hurry back.

  She blanches and breaks away from the crowd. She drops her stick, lowers her head, and pumps her arms like a speed skater.

  Don’t let her get away. Don’t let her get away. The words drum out a rhythm in my head, propelling me forward.

  I stumble onto the ice and, for lack of a better word, hurtle myself forward, arms and legs akim
bo and completely out of control.

  “Hey, lady!” a giant of man shouts as I smash into him.

  “Sorry!” I ping-pong off him, hit the wall, and then ricochet back toward him.

  In his anger, he does me an enormous favor. He stretches out his large, meaty hands and gives me a solid push.

  The momentum propels me directly toward Naomi, who turns to look over her shoulder, just in time to see me barreling down on her. I plow into her back, and we crash to the ice. She lands on her back, and I climb up on top of her, fueled entirely by adrenaline.

  “Thyme?” she asks, staring into my face.

  “That’s right. It’s me. The real Thyme.”

  She bucks her hips, and I slide off her, landing on my side. I can’t let her get away. I reach out and catch a fistful of hockey jersey, yanking her back. With my other hand, I grab a hank of her hair and hold on tight.

  “Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

  The chant goes up, loud and excited.

  Naomi wriggles and kicks out her feet, catching me in the knee with a blade.

  “Ooof.” That hurts. A lot.

  After that, things happen fast. The chanting turns into a roar. I headbutt Naomi, dazing her. I struggle to my knees and spot Victor skating toward us with a look of horrified disbelief etched across his face.

  Distracted by the approach of my knight in rental skates, I’m caught off-guard when Naomi pops me right in the eye with a solid punch.

  The sting is instant, and my eyes fill with water. I punch out blindly and connect with her jaw.

  She lunges at me. At the same moment, someone in the crowd launches their beer at us. Cold light beer rains down over our heads and shoulders.

  Victor reaches us and crouches beside me. Before he can say a word, he’s muscled aside by someone in a blue uniform.

  I feel cold metal around my wrists and then hear the snap. “Ma’am, you’re under arrest.”

  My only concern is whether Naomi’s being arrested, too. To my relief, I see a set of handcuffs around her wrists. Victor’s talking to the police, gesturing and pointing. I sag and let the police officer haul me across the ice.

  Mission accomplished. Kinda, sorta?