Here Comes the Ride

by Lorena McCourtney

  Still before noon, I drove over to Sea-Tac to pick up the first of the wedding-guest arrivals, five people. None of whom, I gathered, would know Pam without an I Am the Bride sticker plastered on her forehead. These guests were assigned to the inn, but the afternoon arrivals got a room at the house. In between those trips, because housekeeper Shirley was admiring the limo with such a yearning look, I gave her a quick ride to Safeway to pick up some extra supplies for dinner. Later I had to rush back to the inn to take a bridesmaid’s mother into Vigland for a massage.

  “She says her back is killing her after the plane trip.” Michelle rolled her eyes after giving me instructions where to take the woman. “If she’d lose fifty pounds, she might actually fit into a plane seat, and her back wouldn’t hurt so much.”

  When I went to pick up the woman, she grumbled about how inconvenient it was being stuck so far out of town. No comment on the nice accommodations or flowers. After the massage, on the way back to the inn, she suddenly got cozy and tried to pry information out of me about the houseguests, whom she apparently figured ranked above her on some invisible guest scale. I played dumb. No see, no hear, no speak.

  Back at the house, Michelle was in the hallway listening to an irate mother complain about the bridesmaids’ shoes. “Maybe the girls with feet like sausages can wear those things, but my Mackenzie’s feet are much too slender and shapely. She’s in much demand as a foot model, you know.”

  A jolly gathering this was shaping up to be.

  I was so busy all day that I didn’t see my own room until after dark. Housekeeper and cook Shirley—Shirley Berkhoff, I found out now—took me to it. She was sixtyish, short and wiry, inconspicuous as a dust mote.

  The room was small, the only furniture a single bed, a nightstand and lamp, a small swivel rocker, and a skinny chest of drawers. A door opened onto a bathroom that was shared with Shirley’s room. Not luxurious, but the bed bounced comfortably, and I liked the nice scent of lavender.

  I didn’t realize until I set down my suitcase how my giving Shirley the limo ride had so favorably impressed her. Did I need a larger or softer pillow? She’d be happy to get me one. Would I like to watch TV? Come on over to her room anytime. A considerate gesture was apparently rare as food stamps here in the Gibson household.

  Interesting.

  I unpacked, and Shirley dished me up a late dinner in the kitchen, the same veal scaloppini she’d served to Michelle and guests. It was an impressive kitchen, stainless-steel refrigerator/freezer the size of a fortress, granite countertops, a six-burner stove, double ovens, a rack of expensive-looking knives, a cappuccino machine, microwave with enough controls to launch a rocket, a rotisserie, and a few more gadgets I didn’t recognize and undoubtedly couldn’t afford. A door led off to a separate pantry.

  What I hadn’t seen anywhere was a security system. I asked Shirley about that.

  “There’s the electronically controlled gate, of course, and the perimeter fence is electrified. I guess Michelle figures that’s enough security.”

  “Vigland isn’t a high crime area anyway.”

  “Michelle also keeps a handgun in her room. How about a glass of wine? It’s the pinot noir they had with dinner. Although I like tomorrow night’s Riesling better myself.”

  She held up two bottles, and it was then I noted that in that inconspicuous face a pair of button-brown eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief.

  I opted for tea, but Shirley helped herself to a tumbler of Riesling and sat down at the table with me. I still doubted there could be anything to Pam’s suspicions about Michelle, but this seemed an opportune moment for some behind-the-scenes snooping.

  After complimenting the veal, which was indeed excellent, I tested the waters by asking, “Do you like working here?”

  She nodded vigorously. “It's a good job. Pay always right on time. No wild, messy parties, and meals are simple when they’re here alone. Michelle hires special window-and carpet-cleaning people when we need them. A good job,” she repeated enthusiastically.

  An enthusiasm that made me suspicious. Perhaps something along the lines of, the lady doth protest too much?

  “Sounds ideal.”

  She straightened the saltshaker on the table, meticulously lining it up with the pepper. “I doubt any job is totally ideal.”

  “Any advice for a newcomer? Just to be on the safe side?”

  “Michelle can be a bit picky. But that’s no doubt natural in a perfectionist.” A cautious flip of criticism into compliment. Shirley, not knowing where I stood, wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Perfectionists can be hard to work for,” I suggested to lead the way. “She didn't like the color of my limo. And she said my lipstick should be brighter so I wouldn’t look so pale in this black uniform.”

  That comment had come from Michelle just after I delivered the second round of guests, and now it opened an indignant flood-burst from Shirley.

  “Your lipstick is just fine! Not all of us can afford the seventeen different shades she has in her cosmetics drawer. She jumped on me tonight about the size of the croutons in the Caesar salad.” She rolled her eyes. “Can you imagine? Too large, she said! And heaven help me if there’s ever an extra gram of fat in her meals. And, by all means, avoid any hint of illness. She doesn’t care that someone a bit older might need time off to see a doctor once in a while.”

  Resentment simmering like stew about to boil over. I felt guilty taking advantage of it, but the possibility of murder, both past and present, took precedence.

  “I thought I felt a little tension between Michelle and Pam,” I suggested.

  Shirley’s snort was not inconspicuous. “Tense is a hostage situation in a bank. Michelle and Pammi are a nuclear disaster just waiting for someone to push the button. They went at it this morning about what happens with the cat while Pammi is on her honeymoon. Michelle hates cats. That one better have extra lives in reserve. It may need them.”

  “How about Pam?” I noted that Shirley used Michelle’s version of the name, so the girl apparently hadn’t made her preference known to the housekeeper. Or perhaps Shirley figured she’d better conform to the preferences of the person who signed her paycheck. “What’s she like?”

  “She seems nice enough, in a standoffish kind of way. She’s only been here since her college classes let out last spring. She spends most of her time up in her room pounding on that computer. She doesn’t mind some extra grams of fat in her meals. Michelle is always nagging at her to lose weight and do something about her hair.”

  “I heard they’re bringing in hair and makeup people for the wedding.”

  “I hope Pammi lets them work on her. From what I’ve seen, she hasn’t been particularly cooperative with the wedding arrangements so far. Of course who can blame her, the way Michelle gives orders like a five-star general?”

  “I gather some of the more extravagant aspects of the wedding are Michelle’s ideas, not Pam’s.”

  Shirley got up and refilled her wine glass. “Extravagant . . . wow-ee! If I had the money they’re spending on this shindig I could retire and sit under a palm tree on Tahiti. But Pammi doesn’t seem excited about any of it.”

  “I don’t think she knows many of the guests. Including her bridesmaids.”

  “She didn’t even eat with the guests tonight. She asked for a hamburger and fries in her room. Which made Michelle furious, of course. She stormed up there and started yelling that if Pammi didn’t stop eating like a fast-food junkie, she’d be splitting the seams on her wedding gown.”

  “What does Pam do when Michelle yells?”

  “Yells right back. Said she hated the ‘stupid wedding gown’ anyway. And then she yelled at me that the fries were too soggy.” Shirley shook her head. “Oh, they’re a pair all right. But maybe with Pammi it’s just bridal nerves.”

  I nodded, but what I was thinking was that bridal nerves didn’t usually include a fear of being murdered at your own wedding. Did Pam stay away from dinner because s
he was afraid Michelle might make an early attempt? A little rat poison in her pinot noir or a spice of strychnine in her veal?

  “Were you here when Mr. Gibson died?”

  “No, that was several housekeepers ago. I’ve only been here six months. Michelle goes through hired help like Pam goes through fries. Even soggy ones. I’m lucky I’ve lasted as long as I have.”

  “Why was the last one fired?”

  “Michelle didn’t say, but the woman was so mad she called up to warn me. She said Michelle had accused her of stealing a ring, and she might do the same thing to me.”

  I couldn’t do anything to right some wrong that may have been done to the former housekeeper, but if I could locate her she might tell me who’d worked for Michelle before her, and I could then work my way back to the name of the housekeeper at the time of Gerald Gibson’s death. Who knew what interesting tidbits might turn up with a bit of tactful questioning from moi?

  “Do you know the woman’s name, the one who was fired?”

  “Mildred something-ordinary. Smith or Jones or something like that.”

  A disappointment, but then a shortcut occurred to me. A brilliant shortcut, if I did say so myself. I didn’t need Mildred. Efficient and organized Michelle would surely have pay records going back to the time of her husband’s death. All I need do was get into her office when no one was around and dig up the name.

  “Oh, one more thing.” Shirley leaned forward, as if what she had to say was confidential. “There’s a hot tub in the Fitness Room in the basement. I like to slip down there late at night and soak away the aches and pains.”

  “Michelle doesn’t mind if employees use it?”

  The button-brown eyes danced with surprising glee. “She’d probably say it was fine, but I figure it's easier not to give her a chance to say no. Anyway, slip on down there any night you want to try it.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  But not tonight. Tonight I was so tired that after Shirley and I enjoyed slices of melt-in-your-mouth chocolate-swirl cheesecake, I went to bed and never stirred until morning.

  ***

  The next day more guests arrived, including one couple who flew by private plane into the tiny Vigland airport, where I picked them up. Most guests were lodged at the inn, but this couple got a room at the house.

  Because this was Mr. and Mrs. Stan Steffan, the big Hollywood producer-director. They got what I now knew was called the Lilac Room, the largest bedroom on the second floor. I expected a trophy-type wife, but Mrs. Steffan’s face and shape were decidedly matronly and her tinted hair a little too goldy. An explosion of pink flowers sprigged her dress.

  I carried in their luggage, and she opened one bag immediately, kicked off her shoes, grabbed a pair of shapeless slippers, and flopped into a chair with a sigh of relief. Big bunions bulged on both feet.

  “I do believe fashionable shoes were invented by the same person who invented the thumbscrew,” she declared.

  “Along with thong panties and skintight jeans.”

  She looked surprised, then smiled with a hint of conspiracy. “And false eyelashes. I glued my entire eye shut one time. And another time we were at one of those boring A-list parties, and when I leaned over to say something to a young man, an eyelash fell off in his drink.”

  “What happened?”

  “I think he wanted to yell something about what a stupid, clumsy old broad I was. But he couldn’t, of course, not to Stan Steffan’s wife. So he just pretended nothing had happened and drank around the eyelash.”

  Her satisfied giggle was infectious. I liked her. She seemed quite down-to-earth, unlike some of the other Hollywood guests.

  Mr. Steffan was a different story. I took up a second load of luggage, and he came in as I was going out. A beefy guy with mirror sunglasses, an oversized diamond ring, a paunch, a sour expression, and a cell phone at his ear. He looked straight out of central casting: Send us a guy who looks like a big Hollywood producer. The kind who’ll sic the Mafia on you if you give his movie a bad review.

  He brushed by me as if I were a potted plant and slammed the door behind me. “If that woman thinks—” he stormed.

  I was tempted to linger a moment, ear to door, but another guest was passing by so I had to move on.

  Pam pointedly ignored me. She never asked for limousine service. I did manage to tell her, when I ran into her in the hallway, that I’d be happy to cat-sit Phreddie at my house while she was on her honeymoon. She paused momentarily, as if considering the offer, then said, “I think I’ll take him along.”

  A cat on a honeymoon. Well, no more peculiar than some of the other oddities of this wedding, I decided.

  But if Pam didn’t want limo service, everyone else did. Shopping runs, manicure trips, sightseeing jaunts. Another run to the Sea-Tac airport. I was beginning to wonder if there would be any locals at this wedding.

  I became increasingly aware of a tension, even an overall hostility, churning around the entire scene. Not an aura of doom-and-gloom; something more high-powered than that, more like a pressure cooker about to blow. Perhaps with applause from some of the participants if it were someone else who got blown.

  The House People and Inn People didn’t mingle, I noticed. House bridesmaids shopped at a mall in Olympia. Inn bridesmaids had their nails done at Vigland’s best beauty shop. I didn’t overhear as much conversation as I’d like, because people usually kept that partition in the limo slammed tight.

  But not always. Snide remarks flew like rice at a wedding. Sela Malloy must have put on ten pounds, have you seen her? Right, and did you watch Jody Simon’s sit-com pilot? I was simply cringing.

  Plus jabs at Michelle and Pam. Of Pam an inn bridesmaid giggled, “Have you ever seen eyebrows like that? Like caterpillars trying to mate!” Answered by, “Caterpillars on steroids!”

  A MOB (as I’d begun thinking of the mothers of bridesmaids) said you’d think Michelle would at least provide decent maid service there at the house. Which went along with my impression that most of these people thought they were up here slumming.

  MOB #1 added, “I’m wondering if she thinks Stan Steffan is going to give her a part in Any Day Now.” With the response from MOB #2, “At her age? She’d better think again. After that last flop he had, I hear he’s having trouble raising money for the new one, and putting her in it would be a death blow.” And then I heard MOB #2 say to someone else about MOB #1, “Did you go to that awful party she had? The one where the caterer served the pasta that tasted like glue?”

  Oh, lovely people, these. Like members of some reality show, all eager to vote someone else off the planet.

  ***

  On the second evening Shirley waited to eat a late dinner with me.

  “So, how’s it going?” I inquired over the wonderfully tender rack of lamb.

  “With all the catty stuff I’m hearing, maybe I shouldn’t bother with good meals. I could just serve platters of Friskies.”

  “Why did all these people come, I wonder? They certainly don’t seem to have much fondness for Michelle. Or each other.”

  “I think Michelle persuaded the Steffans to come first and then used that to lure everyone else. They’re all Hollywood people, and you know what a herd mentality they have.”

  Being unfamiliar with Hollywood people, I didn’t know, but I laughed and encouraged her. “I imagine you hear a lot of interesting tidbits.”

  “Do I! You can’t help overhearing things sometimes, when you’re dusting around doors. Especially if you dust v-e-r-r-y slowly.” Shirley smiled slyly. “Like today.”

  I was happy to accept her obvious invitation. “What happened today?”

  “Mr. Steffan . . . you know, Steffan Productions? The one everyone kowtows to?”

  I nodded.

  “He and Michelle were holed up in the Africa Room, and I just happened to have some dusting to do in that vicinity—”

  “I do admire your conscientious dedication to dusting.”

  Anoth
er of her trademark sly smiles. “I couldn’t hear much of anything at first. Then it sounded as if someone jumped up and knocked a chair over, and Michelle started yelling something about that being practically blackmail. Said she wasn’t about to pay any million dollars to be in his lousy movie, but if that was the game he wanted to play, she could play it too.”

  “What did that mean?”

  “I don’t know. I was so startled when she yelled that I fell off my stepstool and crashed like an elephant walking a tightrope.” She rubbed her knee.

  “I suppose they heard you fall?”

  “There was more yelling, both of them this time. Then Mr. Steffan yanked the door open, but I don’t think he even saw me when he stomped out. Although you can’t tell where that man is looking, with those sunglasses he wears 24/7. I keep wondering, does he wear them when he’s brushing his teeth?”

  “Or trimming his nose hair?”

  “Anyway, Michelle came to the door then, and she knew I’d been listening, all right. I think she’d have fired me on the spot, but with a houseful of guests, she didn’t dare. But I figure that after the wedding—” She sliced a finger across her throat. “You can just bet she won’t give me a decent recommendation.”

  ***

  That was Wednesday evening, and I was surprised at how much I missed what had become my usual midweek activity of Bible study at church. But I’d brought a New Testament, along with the printed guidelines for our study this month, and I read in bed for a while.

  On Thursday, the day before the wedding, the level of activity revved up. The tent people arrived and erected a giant green-and-white striped tent, with a divider between ceremony and reception areas. I had to limo a seamstress out to the inn to do last-minute alterations on a bridesmaid’s dress. The casino, connected to the inn by a glass walkway, served a fantastic buffet, and apparently Pam wasn’t the only one not watching her diet.