With This Puzzle, I Thee Kill

by Parnell Hall

  “Probably. I don’t remember.”

  “How could you not remember?”

  “Courtships are mainly a blur. I can recall the man, and not much else.”

  “Not surprising, if you keep slugging them back like that,” Judy Douglas Knauer said.

  Cora frowned. It occurred to her the woman had put away quite a few herself. As far as Cora was concerned, Judy Douglas Knauer had just lost a sale on a house.

  “So, what’s for dessert?” Lois Greely asked.

  “Oh, my goodness, are we having dessert?” Cora said.

  “Of course we’re having dessert. We’ve had everything else, haven’t we?”

  They certainly had. The girls were treating Cora to dinner, and had spared no expense. In addition to the usual trips to the salad bar, they had all ordered appetizers, and spent a hilarious half hour swapping grilled shrimp, calamari, escargots, and crab cakes. They’d eaten their way through rack of lamb, pork tenderloin, salmon fillet, fettuccine Alfredo, the last consumed by the trim Judy Douglas Knauer, who seemed to pack it away but never put on a pound.

  “Won’t we be late?” Amy Cox protested.

  “Nonsense,” Lois said. “We’re with the bride. How can we be late if we’re with the bride?”

  “I shouldn’t be late,” Cora said.

  “You think they’re not gonna wait for you?” Lois scoffed. “Sweetheart, you’re the bride.”

  “I’m one of them,” Cora pointed out.

  “Yes, and isn’t that odd?” Amy Cox said. “A double wedding with Sherry’s ex.”

  Cora’s smile was somewhat fixed. It was at least the fourth or fifth time the subject had come up. Not that she blamed the women. It certainly was odd.

  “Now, which is it?” Lois asked. “He was a rock star, or he is a rock star?”

  “He was never a rock star,” Cora said. “He had a rock band. They never got anywhere.”

  “But they played?”

  “Sure they played. You got amplifiers and you play loud enough, no one seems to care if it’s just noise.”

  “You say Dennis doesn’t get along with Raymond?” Lois asked.

  “Dennis doesn’t get along with most men. Sees them as rivals.”

  “Big deal,” Lois said. “All men are like that. I remember my Herbie used to get jealous any time another man looked at me. Can you imagine that?”

  Cora Felton couldn’t. In fact, she found the prospect mind-boggling.

  A waitress appeared with dessert menus. Over Cora’s faint protests, coffee, cognac, crème brûlée, and tiramisu were ordered.

  Cora had to remind herself it wasn’t a real wedding rehearsal. The thought did not cheer her. She didn’t want Sherry confronting Dennis if she wasn’t there.

  “So, does Raymond ever get jealous?” Amy Cox inquired, a twinkle in her eye.

  Cora, roused from her musings, realized that dessert had been ordered, and the ladies had picked up the conversation.

  “I never give him cause to.”

  “Men don’t need cause,” Iris Cooper declared. “They’ll invent the most outlandish things.”

  Cora couldn’t help wondering what outlandish thing Iris Cooper’s husband had invented. The question perked her up considerably.

  “Well,” Judy Douglas Knauer said, “frankly, I don’t know a thing about this man you’re marrying. But I must say, I’m glad to see it. I was afraid you might marry that nerdy little puzzle man.”

  The table conversation stopped.

  Iris Cooper, sitting across from Judy Douglas Knauer, sucked in her breath. Her eyes were wide.

  Lois Greely and Amy Cox looked horrified.

  Even before she turned her head, Cora Felton knew what she would see.

  Sure enough, right behind Judy Douglas Knauer, Harvey Beerbaum stood frozen like a deer in the headlights. On his face, an expression of hurt and humiliation was giving way to one of anger and rage. Harvey’s eyes smoldered with a fury Cora had never seen before. He had clearly come to talk to Cora, but now, instead, without a word, he turned on his heel, stalked from the dining room, and slammed out the door.

  “Uh-oh,” Judy Douglas Knauer said.

  Cora got to her feet, wove her way through the dining room, and went down the front stairs.

  A car roared by from the parking lot.

  Harvey Beerbaum, his face a mask of grim determination, swerved out of the driveway and peeled out like a drunken teenager, leaving rubber all over the road.

  Cora shook her head.

  What else could go wrong?

  25

  THE ROCK GROUP, TUNE FREAKS, SWARMED OVER THE church like locusts, running cables, plugging in amps, and even hanging strobe lights.

  “Where the hell’s the damn outlet?” screeched a scrawny young man with a tattoo of a viper on one arm, and a knife dripping blood on the other.

  “I believe that would be behind the pulpit,” the Reverend Kimble suggested gravely, with his most disapproving look.

  The tattooed Tune Freak snuffled into his scruffy beard. “Sorry, Father, but this really is a mess. Who designed this pit?”

  “It’s a church, not a pit. And it is not a concert hall.”

  “I’ll say. We’ll be lucky if your fuses don’t blow.”

  “Yes, that would be lucky,” the Reverend Kimble agreed dryly. “It was not my understanding that the wedding party would be providing music. We have a church organ.”

  The young man made a face. “Yeah, checked it out. Doesn’t work for us. Wrong sound, plus it’s way up in the loft. But don’t sweat it, we got a synthesizer.”

  “That’s nice,” the Reverend Kimble said, with a gentle irony that was totally lost on the young musician. “Tell me. Would you be the best man?” He gallantly repressed a shudder at the prospect.

  “Naw, that’s Razor. The lead guitar. I play bass.”

  “Razor?”

  “Yeah. As in straight razor. As in slit your throat.” At the Reverend’s look the bass player added helpfully, “Not that he’d do anything like that. It’s just a name.”

  The Reverend Kimble cast a glance at the bony man dressed in black who was sprawled out over the first pew. Razor had an arrogant, insolent look. Evidently, the lead guitarist didn’t have to set up, but two other dreadful-looking young men were wrestling with sound equipment. A plump, bearded drummer, in tattered low-rise jeans and a skimpy white T-shirt that revealed more hairy belly than even the most ardent groupie could surely ever wish to see, was constantly repositioning an amplifier, cursing at his work, and beginning again. A tall, shirtless, emaciated keyboard player, who looked alarmingly like a praying mantis, was dangling a cable connector in front of his face and squinting sideways at it as if considering whether to eat it.

  The Reverend looked at his watch. “I’m not sure we have time for all this. . . .”

  “Sure we do. Dennis ain’t here yet.”

  The Reverend frowned. He was not accustomed to having his authority questioned, certainly not in his own church, but the man was correct: The young bridegroom definitely wasn’t present. Neither was the older bridegroom. Or either of the brides. Aside from the slovenly musicians crawling around the pews, the only members of the wedding party present were Chief Harper, on hand in uniform to give Cora Felton away, Aaron Grant, the other best man, and Sherry Carter, the universal maid of honor.

  Sherry, whose maid-of-honor dress was on rush order, was conservatively dressed in a blue cotton pullover and tan slacks. That didn’t stop the boys in the band from hitting on her. The drummer and bass player were new, but the keyboard player and lead guitarist knew her from when she was married to Dennis, and took that as license to act familiar. So far Sherry had endured “babes” and “tootsies” and dodged pats on the behind.

  “Cora’s late,” Sherry said irritably.

  “They’re all late,” Aaron said.

  “I don’t care about the others. I wanna talk to Cora before they get here.”

  “I understand.”
>
  “So what do you mean, they’re all late?”

  “Just trying to help.”

  “That doesn’t help.” Sherry blew out a breath, said, “Sorry, Aaron. I’m a little touchy.”

  “Hadn’t noticed.”

  Chief Harper came walking over. He looked ill at ease. “How do I do this?” he said. “I’ve never given anyone away before.”

  “You just trot her down the aisle, hand her off to the groom, and move out of the way,” Sherry informed him.

  “Where do I go?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  Chief Harper raised his eyebrows.

  “She’s a little touchy,” Aaron said.

  “Hadn’t noticed.”

  “Tell him, for goodness’ sakes,” Sherry snarled. “This is too much of a strain.”

  “Tell me what?” the bewildered chief asked.

  Aaron explained succinctly about Raymond Harstein’s criminal record.

  “You held this back?” Chief Harper asked incredulously.

  “Held what back?” Aaron protested. “The guy’s not wanted for anything now, he’s not a fugitive from justice, there’s no warrant out for his arrest. He’s not on the FBI’s most wanted list.”

  “Yeah, but Cora’s gonna marry him.”

  “And you’re gonna stop that?”

  “Well, I’m damned if I’m gonna give her away to him. Does the Reverend know?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Gonna tell him?”

  “I’m gonna tell her first,” Sherry intervened. “We’re only telling you because I knew you’d make a fuss about it.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Harper scowled. “So, what if you tell your aunt and she still insists on marrying this creep?”

  “I’m sure she will.”

  “But if he’s scum . . . ?”

  “The men she marries invariably are.”

  “Yeah, but did she know it? When she married them, I mean? Isn’t it different to marry a creep when you know he’s a creep?”

  Sherry flushed. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Chief Harper winced at the tone of her voice. Noticed the hard lines at the corners of her eyes.

  Aaron cleared his throat.

  Chief Harper didn’t know what to say next.

  The Wallensteins saved him. They came sweeping in with all the subtlety of a brass band. Brenda’s mother, a plump dynamo in an ostentatious plum-colored evening frock that might have been more appropriate had this been the actual wedding rather than just a rehearsal, came first, all but dragging Brenda’s father, an amiable if dull-looking man in a gray business suit.

  “So where is she?” Wendy Wallenstein declared in a voice that sliced through the din the Tune Freaks were making. “Where’s my Brenda? Does anybody know?”

  The fat drummer, who was smack in Mrs. Wallenstein’s path, took one look and changed course in mid-stride, choosing to lug a heavy amplifier around the other end of the row of pews rather than attempt to pass her. Mrs. Wallenstein favored him with a sniff of disapproval, glanced around, spotted Sherry Carter.

  “Ah, Sherry, there you are! Have you seen my Brenda? She called this afternoon, said she was having her wedding rehearsal tonight. What a shock. I had to cancel a hairdresser’s appointment, and Norman had to leave work. I mean, it’s not like we were prepared, or anything. I had to run out and buy this dress. And if they hadn’t sewed it for me on the spot, I don’t know what I would have done. Norman, of course, doesn’t care, and what kind of an attitude is that?”

  It occurred to Sherry that Norman might have cared if he’d been able to get a word in edgewise. Sherry couldn’t recall a time when Brenda’s father had ever said anything in the presence of Brenda’s mother.

  “So, where are they? Why aren’t they here?” Wendy demanded. “And who are they?” she added, distaste-fully, pointing to a Tune Freak. “That better not be his band. Brenda said he left the band. He better not be thinking of going back. Norman won’t have it, will you, dear?”

  This, like most of Wendy’s asides to her husband, was most likely a rhetorical question, but whether or not she had any intention of letting the poor man answer was never to be known, for at that moment Cora Felton arrived with her wedding dress over her shoulder and her entourage in tow.

  Cora, of course, was sober as a judge, but the bridesmaids were clearly three sheets to the wind, having swilled brandy before, during, and after dessert.

  “Well, hello, Studly!” Lois Greely brayed at the sight of the bare-chested keyboard player. “What is this, Chippendales?”

  “Oh, like you’ve ever been to Chippendales!” Iris Cooper chided. “Hiya, Reverend. Where you want your bridesmaids?”

  Cora Felton took in the scene at a glance, scowled, crossed to her niece. “Sherry, is that the band?”

  “That’s just what I want to know,” Wendy Wallenstein declared.

  Cora sized her up. “Mother of the bride?”

  “That’s right. I understand it’s to be a double wedding.”

  “You got a problem with that?” Cora asked hopefully. “Because I’m not convinced myself.”

  “And yet you’re doing it,” Brenda’s mother snorted, cutting Cora no slack.

  Cora decided to ignore her, said to Sherry, “Raymond’s not here yet?”

  “No.”

  “Good, I gotta change.”

  “Cora, I have to talk to you.”

  “Not now. I gotta get dressed.”

  Cora hurried off, hopping nimbly over the booted feet of a sprawled-out, cable-running Tune Freak as she went. She skipped up the steps around the pulpit, and into the small anteroom where the Reverend Kimble had said she could change.

  Cora hung her bridal gown on a hook, kicked off her shoes, began to undress.

  Sherry Carter came in the door. “Aunt Cora, listen to me—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m listening.”

  Cora hung her ruffly white blouse on a hanger, stepped out of her skirt.

  The tattooed Tune Freak barged in the door, saw Cora, said, “Whoa, baby!” and barged out again.

  “Well, I like that,” Cora said. “You wanna shut that door?”

  “Aunt Cora . . .”

  “Fine, leave it open.”

  Cora took her wedding gown off the hanger, stepped into it, fed her arms through the sleeves, and shrugged it up over her shoulders.

  It was a gorgeous gown of pure white silk, satin, and lace. A tribute to the designer’s skill, the dress was at once virginal and seductive, naughty and discreet. Whatever the case, Cora Felton seemed to melt into it, became at once the most beautiful, blushing bride.

  “Zip me up, my dear.”

  Reluctantly, Sherry stepped behind her aunt, pulled the zipper up her back.

  Cora regarded herself in the mirror, beamed in satisfaction. “Love that seamstress. Impossible woman, great gown. So much better than the other way around.”

  Her face wreathed in smiles, Cora turned back to her niece. “Now then, dear, what is it?”

  Sherry took a breath.

  “Aunt Cora . . . it’s about Raymond.”

  26

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE WE’VE GOTTA GIVE THE OLD PHONY A RIDE,” Dennis groused, as he and Brenda dressed for the rehearsal.

  Dennis was wearing a suit and tie. Brenda was wearing a blouse and skirt and affecting a casual look. She was, however, taking more than twice as long as usual with her makeup.

  “He’s not a phony,” she protested.

  “Of course he is. Just look at him. It really burns me up.”

  “You care who Cora marries?”

  “Well, why should she get taken for a sucker?”

  Brenda laughed, a risky move when darkening one’s lashes. “Do you think he’s after her money? I don’t recall Cora being rich.”

  “She has the fat residuals from her TV ads. Not to mention her alimony.”

  “Which she loses when she marries again.” Brenda gestured with the eyelash brush. “Now, there’
s a conspiracy theory for you. Raymond is a stooge hired by her last husband to marry her and get him off the hook.”

  “Go ahead and laugh. I tell you, there’s something real wrong with that guy.”

  Dennis straightened his tie, checked himself out in the full-length mirror on the closet door. He nodded his approval at his own appearance, then glanced into the bathroom. “Ready yet?”

  “Just about.”

  “You been in there forever.”

  “I want to look good.”

  “You look great. Sensational.”

  “I look like a raccoon. This eye shadow’s way too dark.”

  “Then why are you putting more on?”

  “I’m making it lighter.”

  “You’re putting light shadow over dark shadow?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “No reason. So why do we have to take this geezer? Cora’s at a hen party somewhere?”

  “Some of her friends are taking her out to dinner to celebrate her engagement.” Brenda stopped dabbing at her eyelids long enough to add, “Because it was announced in the paper.”

  “Hey, I told the guy. If he didn’t use it, it’s hardly my fault.” Dennis glanced at his watch. “Come on. We don’t wanna be late.”

  “We won’t be late.”

  “We will if you don’t stop layering your eyelids. Isn’t that good enough?”

  Brenda turned to him, smiled. “What do you think?”

  One eyelid was dark, one light.

  “Terrific. Gorgeous. Come on, let’s go.”

  Brenda shook her head. “Men.” And went back to working on her eyes.

  “All right, fine,” Dennis said. “I’ll go get the geezer, you meet us downstairs.”

  “There’s really no hurry,” Brenda told him.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Dennis stomped out.

  Brenda frowned. Dennis was certainly unduly agitated. As far as she was concerned, this whole wedding rehearsal was a bad idea. The four of them and Sherry? What was that all about? More like group therapy than rehearsal. It was a good thing she’d called her parents. They’d promised they’d make it. She hoped they would. Of course they would. When her mother said they were going to do something, they always did it. Her mother would come through again. But, boy, was she surprised to have the rehearsal tonight. Of course, it wasn’t as big a shock as moving the wedding to Bakerhaven.