Here Comes the Ride

by Lorena McCourtney

  Right after lunch UPS brought a package for Pam. It was small but heavy. Books, I thought, as I hefted it. I took it up to her room on the attic floor. I knocked, but she didn’t answer, so I opened the door to set the parcel inside. I suppose I could have left it in the hallway, but, hey, it was my duty to see it safely inside, wasn’t it?

  I realized when I cracked the door open that this part of the house had escaped Michelle’s relentless modernizing. The ceiling sloped steeply to old knotty pine walls that Pam had decorated with posters of book covers. A zoo of stuffed animals occupied the bed. I didn’t realize one of them was live until Phreddie gave a drowsy, “Mrrr?” The one window looked out on the backyard, and an array of computer equipment lined the opposite wall, a Mickey Mouse clock above the monitor. In spite of the high-tech equipment, the room felt old-fashioned and cozy.

  I stroked Phreddie’s head. He purred and turned on his back to encourage tummy rubbing. A sweet kitty. I looked around as I rubbed.

  I hesitated for a moment, but curiosity triumphed over conscience, and I sneaked over for a peek. It was Pam’s book manuscript, the title The Sting of Death. I flipped through the pages, skimming a line or two here and there. The victim had been killed by bee stings.

  Except that this victim was female. A female stepmother.

  A noise startled me. I hastily straightened the papers and rushed to the hallway, sure I was going to meet an angry Pam at the door. No, just Phreddie, making an inspection tour. Apparently he didn’t usually get out of the room, and I’d left the door open a crack. I didn’t want him to run downstairs and arouse Michelle’s ire, so I scooped him up and plopped him back on the bed.

  I wanted to go back and read more. I’d like to say an attack of conscience deterred me, but it was really the thought that only luck had kept me from getting caught so far, and I’d better not push it.

  I was safely downstairs before a thought occurred to me about what wasn’t in the room. No wedding gown, no veil, no shoes, no fancy lingerie, no bridal frippery, nothing at all to suggest this was the abode of an excited bride. Not even a photo of the husband-to-be.

  It wouldn’t totally surprise me, I realized, that even if Pam didn’t call off the wedding she might simply skip out on it. Where was she now, in fact? If she didn’t show up for the ceremony, she’d accomplish the proverbial killing of two birds . . . maybe even three . . . with one stone.

  She’d avoid the risk of being murdered at the ceremony.

  She’d satisfactorily humiliate and embarrass Michelle in front of her Hollywood guests.

  And she wouldn’t have to go through with a marriage that I was beginning to think was concocted of little more than desperation and a hopeful mantra.

  I stopped in the kitchen to grab a glass of iced tea and asked Shirley about the wedding gown.

  “Oh, it’s here. It’s in Michelle’s bedroom. All $24,000 worth. After the ceremony it will be put on a mannequin and stored in some kind of hermetically sealed bubble that’s supposed to preserve it for at least five generations. Can you imagine the poor girl in generation five with that monstrosity taking up space in her living room?”

  “It’s a little . . . creepy. Kind of like preserving a mummy.”

  “Really. By the time fifth-generation girl gets it, she’ll probably be wondering if that is her dead great-great grandmother in there. The bridal bouquet is going to be freeze-dried for preservation too.”

  In spite of the creepiness of preserving the gown like a dead body, I also found it unexpectedly reassuring. If Michelle was thinking beyond the wedding, surely she wasn’t planning Pam’s demise during it. Unless this was more of what Pam called the “big, fat smokescreen.”

  “When is the groom arriving?" I asked. "Isn’t there a three-day waiting period between getting the license and having the ceremony?”

  “He flew up a couple weeks ago, and they did everything then. Though he was in such a hurry he didn’t even stay overnight. If I were Pam, I’d be wondering how much time he’s going to have to devote to a marriage. He hasn't seemed to have much time for the engagement.”

  One doesn’t usually hope the groom doesn’t show up for the wedding, but I found myself starting to wish for exactly that. I figured it would solve any number of problems.

  Michelle doused that hope. When everyone gathered outside the tent for the wedding rehearsal late that afternoon, she announced that Sterling had been delayed because of a complication in his research work . . . his globally important research work, as she phrased it. But he and his parents would arrive tomorrow, in plenty of time for the real ceremony.

  I was surprised that Michelle took his tardiness so calmly, because she did not take it well when she discovered there were two more no-shows for the rehearsal.

  No minister.

  No bride.

  I was standing around watching because I’d just brought a full limo-load of people in from the inn. Michelle dispatched me to Pam’s room to get her. When I returned to report that I couldn’t find her, Michelle smiled and murmured something about bridal nerves, but I could see she was furious enough to chew holes in the tent.

  Shirley then came out to say the service supplying the minister had just called. He’d been involved in a fender-bender en route and was in the emergency room. Michelle’s dark scowl suggested that if he wasn’t already in the emergency room, she’d have put him there. But again she gritted a smile and said, “I hope he isn’t seriously injured.”

  I thought the absence of all the major players effectively squashed the rehearsal, but not Michelle. She grabbed a man from the inn contingent to play groom, another to play minister, and, to my astonishment, drafted me as bride. Then she lined everyone up outside the tent.

  “Hey, this isn’t right,” one of the bridesmaids protested. “The bridesmaids and groomsmen are supposed to go in before the bride, not follow her.”

  Good thing there wasn’t a gangplank handy, because Michelle’s look would surely have sent the girl marching off into the deep blue sea. She didn’t bother to justify her system, simply stated, “This is the way we’re doing it at this wedding.”

  She then announced that since one of the groomsmen was going to be “unavailable,” one of the bridesmaids would have to be eliminated in order to maintain balance in the wedding procession.

  At this point, even though none of the girls had shown any enthusiasm for this event, apparently no one wanted to sacrifice herself for Michelle’s Great Plan. There was uneasy shuffling in the ranks, then the MOBs got into the argument. And there’s nothing more dangerous than a MOB who thinks her daughter is being slighted or insulted.

  I’m not sure how it started. Maybe one MOB gave another a little shove? Maybe one MOB accidentally bumped into someone else? Maybe a bridesmaid whirled on shapely feet. But suddenly everyone was yelling and shoving. Pulled hair. Ripped blouse. A MOB went down. Her husband . . . who up until then had been my bridegroom . . . jammed a stiff arm into the belly of the man who had bumped her. Belly-rammed man retaliated with a fist to the chin. Bridesmaids shrieked. A groomsman yelled, rather inappropriately I thought, “Yee-haw!”

  Mrs. Steffan had been just standing on the sidelines watching, matronly in her flowered dress and sensible shoes, umbrella in hand to protect her leathery skin from the afternoon sun. But suddenly she dived into the chaos, gleefully jabbing anyone within reach of her umbrella. Poke, and a MOB grabbed her injured derrière. Jab, and an astonished Michelle whirled. Prod, and she hit a buff groomsman in what was apparently her favorite anatomical target.

  And then me. I’d been standing there unmoving, a flabbergasted non-participant, so I thought the undignified jab in the rump was totally uncalled for.

  “Hey!” I yelled. I grabbed for the umbrella, but just then the automatic sprinklers turned on, great sprays of water instantly soaking everyone. I was standing right over one and got a faceful. People yelped and dashed to the concrete driveway to escape the downpour.

  Bridesmaids squeale
d. Hair squished and flattened. Wet clothes clung where they shouldn’t. Mrs. Steffan got wet too, but she opened her umbrella and just stood there with a pleased, I’ve-always-wanted-to-do-that expression.

  What could anyone say? This was the wife of Stan Steffan, powerful head of Steffan Productions, poking unwary bridal participants. I suspected every Hollywood bridesmaid here, and maybe some of their mothers too, had movie ambitions. No one moved.

  I figured that if I were in Michelle’s position, I’d burst into tears on the spot. But Michelle was made of sterner stuff.

  She broke the wet tableau and rushed over to Mrs. Steffan. “Are you all right?” she asked as if the woman were an injured party rather than an eager umbrella-jabber. Water streamed down Michelle’s face and flattened her blond hair.

  “A lovely wedding,” Mrs. Steffan announced, and proceeded leisurely toward the house while the sprinklers sprinkled on.

  Michelle dumped water out of a shoe, swiped wet hair out of her eyes, and decreed that a rehearsal wasn’t necessary. “You all know how it’s done,” she muttered. “Just follow the bride and me.”

  That wasn’t exactly how it was done, ordinarily, but I figured it would work.

  Then she squish-stalked off to find and probably behead the yard maintenance man who had charge of the sprinklers.

  I went to my room and changed to a dry uniform. I figured there might soon be a demand for my services. But I kept thinking about this departure from the usual wedding processional. Pam had said Michelle would find a way to commit murder at the ceremony. Was this the first step in her plan?

  Chapter Seven

  Wedding Day!

  Shirley and I caught up on current events over a quick breakfast. We’d missed doing this the night before because she was already in bed by the time I got everyone hauled back to the inn.

  She reported that the rehearsal dinner had gone off okay, although I think by then we both figured any event that didn’t end in a riot was “okay.” Having a rehearsal dinner was a bit strange, she said, since there had been no actual rehearsal, and the main players were still missing, but those present seemed to enjoy the Steak Diane and chocolate mousse.

  After dinner, Shirley said, Mr. Steffan had gotten a poker game going. Which I already knew, since that was why I was so late getting people back to the inn. From the disgruntled remarks I heard, I gathered Mr. Steffan was the big winner. Apparently the sunglasses didn’t keep him from seeing his cards.

  It was a beautiful, cloudless day, with a tang of sea coming off the saltwaters of the inlet. And a tang of hysteria coming off Michelle. Out at the tent, she sounded as if she had a bullhorn in hand, even though she didn’t.

  Chair people, don’t put the chairs so close together! This isn’t a lap-sitting event!

  Carpet people, we don’t need speed bumps! This is a processional, not a parking lot! Smooth it out!

  At least the sprinklers weren’t making so much as a dribble this morning. I suspected they wouldn’t dare, or Michelle would rip them out with her bare hands.

  I wasn’t present most of the time, of course. What I heard came between hairdo runs to the beauty shop, a golf-course trip for Mr. Steffan and buddies, and an emergency run to a drugstore for foot-fungus powder.

  Foot-fungus powder?

  Don’t ask, Michelle said with a roll of eyes. Just be sure it’s a big can.

  About one o’clock, the flower people arrived to decorate the limo. Sterling and his parents still hadn’t showed, but Michelle rushed over to tell me they’d be arriving at Sea-Tac at two fifteen, so I’d have to hurry. I couldn’t take the limo, because it was being decorated, so she tossed me the keys to her BMW.

  I hadn’t seen Pam all morning, so I didn’t know if she’d overslept or decided to take Phreddie and head for the wilds of Siberia. I was pulling for Siberia.

  I got my first look at Sterling at the airport. Tall, skinny, heavy glasses, short hair, prominent ears and Adam’s apple, strangely rumpled shirt. An experiment in cloning an Armani that had gone awry? As Pam had said, your basic nerd.

  In spite of my doubts about Sterling, and his and Pam’s relationship in general, she apparently was going to marry him, and I’d determined to like him. Nerdy is good! Dedication to work is admirable. Rumpled is endearingly non-pretentious. The kind of guy who’ll age into an absentminded-professor type, good to his wife and kids, forever faithful.

  Sterling had, after all, made the sweetly sentimental gesture of giving Pam his grandmother’s ring. Big point in his favor.

  After a few minutes, however, I came to the unhappy conclusion that liking Sterling Forsythe was right up there with trying to like a toothache. His folks seemed okay, uncomfortable in what they obviously considered an over-their-heads situation, but nice. Good in-law types.

  Medium-height Joe Forsythe wore an outdated sports jacket and slacks. His brown hair was thinning, but what was left had an expectedly boyish curl. Petite Phyllis’s dishwater-blond hair was short, neat, and limp. She kept fingering the neckline of a new-looking blue dress as if it made her neck itch. Both seemed anxious to please, and treated me as if I were some all-knowing, all-powerful guru.

  Mt. Rainier, in snowy dress even in summer, dazzled Joe and Phyllis; Sterling didn’t even glance at it. Joe expressed an interest in seeing the state capital building in Olympia, and I told him we could take a brief detour and see it up close.

  Sterling was on his cell phone, as he had been ever since we left Sea-Tac, but he took time to snap, “C’mon, Dad, we can’t waste time on stuff like that.”

  “I guess we’d better not, then,” Joe said apologetically.

  “Thanks anyway,” Phyllis added. She had a whispery voice that made everything sound tentative and uncertain.

  “Does this place where we’re staying have wi-fi?” Sterling demanded.

  I had a vague idea that wi-fi had to do with computers and the Internet, but I didn’t know what, much less whether the Tschimikan Inn had it. Since Sterling appeared to have that cell phone permanently implanted in his ear, my first inclination was to snap, “Why don’t you call up Bill Gates and find out?” But I restrained myself and simply said, “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

  “Figures,” Sterling muttered, although I couldn’t tell if his disgust was with my ignorance or with the probability of primitive, non wi-fi accommodations.

  He stayed on his phone for the remainder of the trip. Without a divider in the BMW, and without any attempt on his part to keep his voice down, I could hear most of what he said. Enough to tell the conversation was about something back at the lab, but it was mostly technical talk beyond my comprehension. Not beyond my comprehension was his arrogant, impatient tone and general rudeness both on the phone and to his folks. By now I suspected that giving Grandma’s ring to Pam had been their nice idea, not his.

  One sentence was the final death blow to my determination to like him. “I may be able to cut this boat trip short and get back a couple days early,” he announced into the phone.

  The guy wanted to downsize his own honeymoon.

  Oh, Pam. Even if you aren’t afraid of being murdered at the wedding ceremony now, run, run, run!

  I took them directly to the inn. I usually carried passengers’ luggage in, but Mr. Forsythe insisted on carrying theirs himself. Sterling carried his cell phone. Pam and Sterling weren’t supposed to see each other until the ceremony that evening. A romantic nicety I thought was wasted on Sterling. I had the impression he’d just as soon skip the ceremony and call in his vows by cell phone.

  The limo was parked in front of the house, fully decorated, by the time I got back. I stared in amazement: the decorators hadn’t managed to conceal the black completely, but they’d made a good try at it. White and peach colored roses were ingeniously attached everywhere, across the top, fenders, trunk, and hood, around the rearview mirrors, even on the hubcaps. Greenery trailed down the sides, and the windows sported glitter-flecked stars. White, peach, and gold streamers drifted
from the back bumper. It was a teensy bit overdone in my estimation . . . like a grand lady loaded down with too many gold chains and pendants . . . but definitely impressive. It practically screamed Can you imagine how much it cost to do this?

  At this point, with the limo unmovable without risk of damaging the decorations, I hadn’t much to do. I wandered around watching Michelle supervise every detail . . . and wondering about murder.

  I’d been too busy to think much about it today, but now, as I strolled among banks of flowers sufficient to house stray wildlife and homeless persons, I found myself uneasily expanding on my earlier concerns about how Michelle had changed the processional.

  If, as Pam claimed, the murder had to occur before the minister said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” how was Michelle planning to pull it off?

  I could see no way. She couldn’t use the tried and true techniques of gunshot or stabbing, not in front of the crowd. A bomb set to detonate as they walked up the aisle might work, but it would surely catch Michelle in the blast too. Besides, where would it be set? Under the carpet?

  I felt foolish, but I walked the length of the carpet anyway, looking for unnatural bumps, even getting down on my knees and feeling in a couple of places. Which produced a stray screwdriver and a carton of snuff, both possessing certain intrinsic dangers, but neither of which appeared potentially explosive.

  An accomplice, perhaps? But what could that person do? Shoot a poison dart from a slit cut in the tent? Make a sly jab with a hypodermic needle as the procession passed by?

  Of course there was still the possibility Michelle might pull off a murder before the start of the ceremony, somewhere behind the scenes. The bomb-in-the-limo thing.

  Feeling even more foolish, but too uneasy to ignore that feeling, I checked the underside of the limo as thoroughly as I could. Nothing. Although I had to admit I probably wouldn’t recognize a bomb unless it had a red-lettered THIS IS A BOMB, DO NOT REMOVE sign attached.