by Lee Mims
“Sounds like a cleverly well-thought defense considering its coming from a mentally disturbed person,” Bud said.
“Oh, you can be sure his parents got him on him meds soon as he got back home early this morning and told them what he’d done. By the time we got to him, he was manageable and entirely lucid.”
We were silent for moment. Then I said, “That answers most of my questions, except for one.”
“Which is?” Chris said.
“Who chloroformed me and why?”
He smiled and pointed knowingly at me. “I thought of that question right before I left the office so I went back down to the holding cells. Junior was having his dinner and I asked him if he’d done it and he freely admitted he had. When I asked him why, he said he was afraid you’d mess up their whole plan of turning the farm into a premier hunting community. He said Butcher was angry at him for doing it but Luther came along to feed the hogs and told them he’d take care of everything.”
“Did they, by any chance, say how he moved those wild hogs so fast?”
“I ask him that too. I knew with your inquiring mind you’d want to know. Interestingly, Junior said they didn’t move them. There wasn’t time. They just let the wild boar and the mixed ones go free. Then he and Butcher left and Luther simply waited until you woke up and told you he’d found you passed out. If you think about it, it was a pretty good plan. No one got hurt and you couldn’t prove it wasn’t true.”
“No, I couldn’t,” I said. “But it still makes me angry—mostly at myself—that I let the little creep sneak up on me like that … ” Just then, I heard a car door slam. “Henri and Will are here!”
“We’re late!” Henri called as she and Will trouped in the kitchen door. “But we have an excuse. We went by the bakery at Whole Foods and picked up some dessert.”
“Great,” I said, taking a box from her with one hand and giving Will a hug with the other. I watched as she moved into Chris’s waiting embrace like a cat curling up in a favorite chair. Right off, I noticed two things: she was wearing an engagement ring, and there was a difference in her demeanor. Besides being happy and radiant, there was a peace about her. Gone was the subtle tension that I’d seen in her since she’d moved out on her own.
“Did we miss anything?” Will asked.
“Not as much as I have, apparently,” I said, indicating Henri’s engagement ring, sparkling like a headlight on high beam.
“Oh, you mean this?” Henri said, nonchalantly holding out her left hand and inspecting its third finger.
Over dinner I heard what everyone else in my family—including my dad who lives in Mozambique, for heaven’s sake—had known all day. Henri and Chris were getting married in a civil ceremony a few days before Bud’s and my wedding. They weren’t going on a honeymoon because Henri had promised to housesit and take care of Tulip for me while Bud and I were away, and because she wanted to help Chris look for a house in Raleigh. He was leaving the force in Sanford and, according to him, “pursuing other opportunities in Raleigh.”
“Like what?” Bud asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Not at all,” Chris said. “I’ve had several offers from the law enforcement community here as well as a few private security firms.”
That prompted more excited questions from everyone but me. Oh, I joined in occasionally, but I was still trying to get over the initial shock. This was not what her dad and I’d had in mind for her since she was a little girl. I didn’t want to put a damper on things, but I had so many questions. Plus a plan was starting to form in my mind. Finally I said, “You know, Henri, your dad and I always thought you’d want a big wedding. You have many friends and an extended family that will be crushed when they find they weren’t able to share in such a special occasion.”
“God no,” Henri laughed. “I never want to go through planning an event of that magnitude again. Yours was enough for a lifetime!”
“What about you, Chris,” Bud asked. “What are your folks going to say about a civil service?”
Chris took a sip of wine and set his glass down. “Actually, my folks died in a plane crash when I was thirteen. Since they both traveled often in their jobs, I lived at a military academy in Virginia. Neither of them had family, so when they died, I had no family.”
He paused as though considering whether to reveal more of himself, then added, “Fortunately, they had life insurance. That, along with a modest settlement from the airlines, was enough to take care of me. I was able to stay at the academy and continue living with the same faculty member who’d always taken care of me during the summers. In fact, he adopted me, took care of my finances and set up trusts for me. But he has passed on now too.”
“So, you see,” Henri said, patting Chris’s shoulder affectionately, “a small wedding works best for us.”
“I do have some buds from the military that I’d like to be there,” Chris added, “but it’s good we don’t have a big wedding to plan. We’ll have our hands full finding the right house. We might even build one. I still have some money from a couple of trusts and all my salary I put away during my tours in Afghanistan and Iraq.”
The conversation and questions took off again and the plan that had been forming in my mind crystallized. I tapped my glass and without prior conference with Bud—that’s the good thing about soul mates, each knows what the other is thinking—I said, “I’d like to offer a proposal to the family.”
Conversation stopped and everyone looked at me.
“Henri … and Chris, how would you two like to trade places with Bud and me at our wedding?”
The expressions on the faces of my family at that moment will forever be seared in my memory. Platinum wedding—five hundred thousand dollars. Giving it all away—priceless!
“What?” Henri croaked. “Mom! What about you and Dad?”
“We’ll take your place at the civil ceremony. That way, your parents will be a married couple at your wedding.”
“I love that idea!” my wonderful husband-to-be shouted.
“Makes sense to me,” my dad said.
“It’s perfect!” Will laughed and turned to his sister. “Don’t you see, Henri? Mom gets to be herself—no drama momma. You get the wedding you’ve always wanted and don’t say you haven’t, because all the ideas that will make this one so spectacular came from you. And Dad, Granddad, and I get the one thing we’ve been wanting—the family back together.”
“But, this is crazy,” Henri sputtered. “The invitations went out months ago with your names on them. People are coming to see you two get married … ”
“All the people that are coming to the wedding are coming because they love us, Henri,” I said, with an inclusive wave of my hand around the table. “Our family is the reason they’re coming. They won’t care if it’s your wedding or ours. And remember, our invitation requested no gifts so there’s nothing to return.”
“Well,” she said, contemplatively. “I guess we could have a cute card made up. Sort of like a save-the-date card only we’ll call it a change-of-cast card and send it out to everyone … including Chris’s friends. It’ll serve as an invitation for them and of course Chris will call them, too, right?” She looked at her fiancée.
“I’m happy to go along with whatever makes you happy,” Chris said.
A smile started to break across her lovely face and she said, “I … I think it could work … ” Suddenly, her smile was replaced with a look of horror and she wailed, “Oh, no!
I don’t have a dress! I’ll have to wear off-the-rack!”
“As it happens,” I said, “I know just the woman who can fix us right up.”
tWENTY-SEVEN
Two weeks and three days later on November 9th, I bent to straighten the chapel-length train of Henri’s lace and beaded wedding gown. We were standing before a three-sided, full-length mirror Bud had added in the
guest suite at Seahaven, his family’s beach home overlooking the ocean at Wightsville Beach. Henri and I admired her reflection in the lace and beaded sheath gown.
We had gone back to the couture boutique in DC, and Fanny, the sales associate who had helped me with my dress, had stepped in to save the day for us. She had seen to it that a beautiful ivory Romona Keveza floor sample from last year’s collection was altered to a perfect fit for Henri, cleaned and delivered to us just days before the wedding.
“What do you think?” I asked her reflection in the mirror.
“I couldn’t be happier,” Henri said, turning to hold both my hands. “I just love it … ”
“Knock, knock, girls!” Anthony, our hairdresser for the last twenty years, called from the door. “Are you ready for me to set the veil?”
“Ready and raring to go!” Henri said.
It was a happy time and I gratefully lifted the chapel-length piece of illusion, studded here and there with crystals, from its hanger and handed it to him. As I gave her a peck on the cheek, Henri caught my arm and said softly, “Thanks, Mom. Thanks for everything.” Unable to speak, I just chucked her chin, gave her a wobbly smile, and left to find Bud in our master suite.
Resplendent in his black tailcoat, white shirt, vest, and tie, he looked up from struggling with one of his kid gloves. “Time to get dressed, Mrs. Cooper. Need any help?”
“Nope,” I said, taking his wrist in my hands and poking the mother-of-pearl button into its tight hole. “I’m all set. My makeup and hair are done so all I have to do is throw on my dress. Anthony’s assistant is here to help if I need him.”
“If I haven’t told you today,” Bud said, “I want you to know how much I love you and how happy I am.”
“You have, but if you still feel the need to convince me further, you’ll have thirty days in Bora Bora to do it,” I said. “Now go be with Henri. She wants to see you one more time while she’s still your little girl.”
He left and I took a minute to gaze out the window at the festivities below. Guests were filing into a large white 40' x 80' frame tent on the beach. It was floored to accommodate ladies’ heels and oriented on its long axis to face the sea. The wedding couple and the officiant would stand on a dais on the east end, flanked by banks of peonies and, yes, even some garden roses. Miles of gauzy white fabric, draping the ceiling and hanging in loose curtains at the tent sides, wafted gently in the mellow evening breeze. A classical quartet began playing some of Henri’s favorite pieces.
Once the service was over, guests would move by way of a boardwalk, festooned in flowers and festively lit with Tiki torches, to a round cocktail tent. It was also richly draped in sheer white fabric and featured soft accent lighting, plush silk lounging furniture, and elegantly covered cocktail tables. The couple’s favorite songs would be played while hors d’oeuvres and drinks were passed until it was time for dinner and dancing in the main reception tent, another short boardwalk stroll away.
Taking in the massive 60' x 180' clear tent, twinkling with literally thousands of tiny lights across the ceiling, I marveled at Henri’s creativity and ability to pull together all the fine details that had made this whole wedding weekend so magical, like a fantasy, really. Then, hearing the classical piece that was my cue to get dressed, I moved to the closet.
I tossed my dressing robe aside, lifted my glorious gown from its hanger and stepped into it. Anthony’s assistant came by just in time to help me fasten and zip. Moments later, I gave myself one last inspection in the mirror and got a thumbs-up from the assistant. I left my room to go take my place with the wedding party just as Henri, assisted by her Maid of Honor, was exiting her suite. Upon seeing me, her jaw dropped.
“Mom,” she whispered. “Holy cow! I love your gown. It’s … it’s so you!”
“You aren’t upset I’m not wearing a suit?” I asked, turning so she could get the full effect of shimmering, pale gold, sequin-studded, chiffon creation, which featured a neckpiece of gold cording that reached from my chin to my breastbone, the strands increasing in length until they hung in loose loops to my waist. The dress itself was fitted, sleeveless, and backless, and flared at the hem, which was slightly longer in the back.
“Heavens no! Not after seeing you in that. Umm, can I borrow it when Chris and I get time to take a short honeymoon?”
“I’m counting on it,” I laughed. “Now let’s go get you married.”
Next morning Bud and I were winging our way to San Francisco, the first leg of our trip to Bora Bora. We were seated side by side in his King Air. “By the way,” he said, turning to me, “was that dress going to be your wedding gown?”
Reclined and about to fall asleep, I opened my scratchy eyes, a difficult job considering the champagne hangover I had, and looked at him. “Yep,” I said.
“Well, it was perfect for you. I couldn’t take my eyes off you all night.”
“I’m glad you liked it.”
“I especially liked the way it slipped so easily over your head about three this morning,” he yawned. I gave him a weak smile, but even that made my head pound, so I scrambled through my tote and came up with a BC powder. Mercifully, Bud offered to get me a Coke.
“Here you go,” he said when he returned. “I meant to ask you during last week’s mad scramble, getting ready for our trip and taking care of last-minute wedding details, how everything went for you at work.”
“What do you mean?”
“Were you satisfied with your replacement as wellsite geologist?”
“Oh, absolutely. The Lauderbachs are in good hands and frankly, I’m glad to be out of the country when the ramifications of what Junior did start falling in place. You know, Homeland Security and the good folks at ATF might not be too quick to let him cop a plea in return for being placed in a mental institution; although, in the end, I think that’s what will happen. Regardless, his full confession and willingness to talk with a whole slew of government psychologists will ensure that his days as a commingler in the general population will be over forever.
“Butcher probably won’t get anything more than probation on an involuntary manslaughter charge, but at least his smarmy tactics will be out in the open,” Bud said. Then he quipped, “Some people just give business a bad name.”
Feeling a tad better, I dug around in my tote again and pulled out a bag of southern blister peanuts, took a few, and handed the bag to Bud. “Thanks,” he said before asking, “What about the paleontological team? Were you happy with the final selection?”
“Absolutely. Just think, in about two weeks, six of the finest paleontologists that academia has to offer as well as their assistants and staff will descend upon the site and start the long, painstaking and meticulous process of removing Cecil from his bonds. It’ll take years, but then he’ll be free for all the world to see.”
“That’s great,” Bud smiled and cracked open a Coke for himself. He took a sip, then picked up my hand, gave my palm a kiss, and said, “I know how important that fossil is to you.”
“Only because it gave some meaning and permanence to the life of a young man who won’t get any more chances at claiming fame. Whenever I think of him, I’ll forever be reminded that life is short and everyday should be lived to the fullest.” I finished my drink, leaned back, and gratefully closed my eyes again.
Beside me I felt Bud’s seat drop back even with mine. I heard him blow out a contented sigh. “What about when we get back home?” he asked. “What are your plans as far as your work goes? Got any new prospects on the horizon I might be interested in?”
Too contented to even open an eye, I said, “Maybe.”
The End
Acknowledgments
I couldn’t have written Saving Cecil without lots of help. First let me thank everyone at Llewellyn Worldwide/Midnight Ink, especially my editors, Terri Bischoff and Nicole Nugent. Besides being very patient regarding de
lays due to my two children getting married in the same year, both are excellent at what they do. Kimberley Cameron, my agent, deserves a big hand for sticking with me.
Russ Patterson, founder and past president of Patterson Exploration Services in Sanford, NC, was an endless font of information and imaginative ideas. No one knows more about the history and lore of Lee County gas exploration than he. On all questions of a geologic nature, my good friend Lee J. Otte Ph.D., C.P.G., Senior Geologist at Otte Enterprises, was quick with answers. My husband deserves a nod for tirelessly answering questions about cars, trucks, and things that go vroom! As always, Mardy Benson, retired captain, Johnston County Sheriff’s Department, was generous with his time and advice on criminal matters.
Without Bob Murray’s maps to pique our imagination, the Cleo Cooper Mystery Series wouldn’t be half as much fun. And, lastly, Tammy McLeod was invaluable as an early reader and should definitely quit her day job to become a line editor.
Thanks again to all of you!
Finally, any mistakes in the book are mine entirely.
About the Author
Lee Mims holds bachelor’s and master’s degrees in Geology from the University of North Carolina–Chapel Hill, and she once worked as a field geologist. Lee is a member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime. Saving Cecil is her third novel. Currently a popular wildlife artist, Lee lives in Clayton, North Carolina. Visit her online at LeeMims.com.
