by Laura Durham
“We’re fine.” I slowly pulled myself up then put a hand out to Kate. “It’s just been a stressful couple of hours.”
“Don’t I know it?” Richard leaned against the marble counter and flapped his beige suit jacket open and closed, flashing his bright orange shirt as he tried to cool himself down. “I left those Colonial Dames and drove over here like a maniac.”
“Colonial Dames?” Kate asked as I pulled her up.
“It’s a monthly luncheon I cater for some very sweet and very old southern ladies. Mostly chicken salad,” he said. “But as soon as Leatrice called and said you might be in danger, I tore over here.”
I touched Richard’s arm. “Thanks. We’re fine now.”
“Leatrice said that you were coming to talk to the neighbor. Did he do it?”
“No,” Kate said. “The groom and maid of honor were in on it together.”
Richard’s mouth dropped open. “The husband and best friend killed the bride? How twisted.”
“It was twisted all right,” I said. “And planned for years.”
Kate hopped up on the counter. “So the long game must have been for Dave to marry Tricia for the money, kill her, and inherit her part of the company, marrying Madeleine after a suitable period of mourning.”
“You have to admire that level of dedication,” Richard said. “Most millennials don’t stick with anything very long.”
“Hey,” Kate said. “I’ve been through thick and thin with Annabelle for almost six years and you don’t see me going anywhere.”
“You’re special.” I put an arm around Kate and elbowed Richard before he could make a snarky comment.
“You’re alive,” Leatrice said as she rushed into the kitchen with Fern close on her heels. She shook her phone at us. “When you’re alive you answer your phone.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Our phones are over at Frank’s house.”
“Leatrice,” Kate gasped. “You’re blond.”
“I know. Isn’t it glamorous?” She patted her platinum flip, releasing a burst of ammonia scent into the air. “Fern thinks it makes me look like Marilyn Monroe.”
“If Marilyn Monroe had been put through a fruit dehydrator,” Richard muttered.
I shot him a look as his phone rang and he stepped away to answer it.
“Thanks for calling Detective Reese,” I said to Leatrice. “And Richard, I guess.”
“Well, when we couldn’t reach you, Fern and I got worried.” Leatrice looked up at Fern, who nodded.
“We wanted to come ourselves, but her head was covered in hair color and tinfoil,” Fern said. “I had to rinse and dry her. But after that we rushed right over.”
I’d seen Leatrice go out in stranger headgear than tinfoil, but I didn’t say so. “No, calling the police was the right move.” Not that Leatrice bursting in with a head decked out in foil wouldn’t have been a decent distraction.
Fern pulled out a pocket brush and began touching up Leatrice’s hair. “So the groom and the maid of honor were in on it together after all. See? I told you she was a tramp.”
“You call every bridesmaid a tramp,” Kate said.
Fern winked. “I’m playing the odds, sweetie.”
“How did you find out?” I asked.
“We saw the cute detective on our way in,” Fern said. “Double yum.”
“Such a nice boy,” Leatrice said with a meaningful look to me.
I felt my face flush. Why did the mention of the detective have such an effect on me? It wasn’t like we’d been involved and every time I saw him I was replaying a night of passion in my head. We’d never done anything more than flirting. I shook my head and tried to think of something other than the admittedly yummy cop.
“I told you not to let them get into the wine,” Richard hissed into his phone a couple of feet away. A pause. “What do mean you had to step out for a few minutes?” Another pause. “How many times have I forbidden you to bring that flying squirrel to work?”
“Sounds like a dustup with the Dames,” Kate said to me.
Richard sucked in his breath. “Well did you catch him, or is he still running loose in Edith Partain’s kitchen?” He let out his breath. “Then keep him in the pantry for now, and take the wine away from the women. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Richard disconnected and dropped his phone in his jacket pocket, then turned to us. “I have to run. The Colonial Dames drank too much, and apparently some of them are falling out of their chairs, and one of them took off her girdle.”
“In the middle of the lunch?” Kate asked. “Maybe weddings aren’t so bad after all.”
Richard squeezed my hand. “Call me later, darling.”
I nodded and watched him walk out of the house as Reese stepped in, the two men acknowledging each other with a nod. Richard had never lost his initial nervousness around Reese after being a suspect in a murder investigation, and he’d uniformly disapproved of any man I’d ever been interested in. Even though nothing had ever happened between the detective and me, I knew that Richard didn’t like the idea that something could.
“How’s Frank?” Kate asked as Reese joined our group in the kitchen.
“Alive.” Reese ran a hand through his dark hair. “The bullet got him in the shoulder, but he should make it.”
I felt a wave of relief. I couldn’t help feeling guilty for suspecting the man and encouraging Leatrice to stake out his house, so I was grateful that he would be okay.
Reese’s eyes widened for a moment when he spotted Leatrice. “That was quite a makeover.”
“Do you like my new look?” she asked.
He smiled at her. “It’s the most unforgettable transformation I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Kate said.
Leatrice either ignored Kate or didn’t hear her. She elbowed Fern. “Unforgettable. What do you think about that?”
Reese beckoned for me to step outside with him, so I slipped away as Fern started explaining how he’d taken Leatrice’s hair from neon cranberry to blond.
On the front porch I could see police cruisers with flashing blue lights jamming the street and an ambulance with its back doors hanging open. I assumed the paramedics were inside the house working on Frank.
Reese cleared his throat. “I wanted to ask you something important before I need to leave for the station to process the groom.”
“Anything,” I said.
He paused as an officer walked past us into the house. Then he closed the distance between us until we were inches away. He put one hand on my arm as he leaned down until his mouth almost touched my ear. “I’ve meant to ask you this for a while. Are you free for dinner this Saturday?”
I couldn’t help smiling as I realized that Mike Reese had finally asked me out on a real date and, for once, I didn’t have a wedding on a Saturday night. Things were looking up.
* * *
THE END
* * *
deadringer.lauradurham.com
* * *
Read on for a preview of the next Annabelle Archer wedding planner mystery and more books by the author.
Preview of Death On The Aisle
Chapter One
“We’re going to get killed out here.” Kate’s voice barely carried over the furious sounds of the storm.
“Hold on to the rope,” I said, pushing my wet hair off of my face with one hand and holding an umbrella over us with the other. The rain pelted me from the side and made the umbrella useless, but I still held it up.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Kate said as she slid down the metal ramp in front of me, clutching the thin rope railing to keep from falling overboard.
When we reached the dock, we both ran to the catering tent a few feet away and pushed our way through the clear plastic sides.
“Well, it’s about time,” Richard said, his hands planted firmly on his hips. “I rushed everything for you and now it’s been sitting.” Richard’s usually perfect hair was curling
around his temples like it did when it rained and he didn’t use enough styling cement.
“We’re ready,” I said, shaking out my umbrella on the rubber mats covering the floor. “Sorry for the delay.”
Richard wagged a finger at me. “Whose idea was it again to hold a wedding on a yacht, Annabelle? This is a disaster.”
As the owner of Wedding Belles, one of Washington D.C.’s most up and coming wedding planning companies, I’d done a few weddings on boats before. The kind of boats with giant paddle wheels that get rented out for the afternoon. But nothing like the 164-foot luxury yacht, Mystic Maven, that was the setting for my latest wedding.
“It’s a super-yacht,” I corrected him, propping my wet umbrella against the white plastic sidewall of the tent. “And it would have been a perfect idea if it hadn’t rained.”
“This isn’t rain,” My assistant, Kate, wrung out the hem of her skirt. “It’s a monsoon. Speaking of disasters, Richard, what are you wearing?” Bold words from someone who had on one of the tightest black evening suits I’d ever seen. I was surprised that she could bend over without the whole thing ripping in half.
Richard glanced down at the black trash bags he’d taped around his body with silver swaths of duct tape. “If you have a better idea for protecting my Prada suit, I’m all ears.”
Kate’s mouth fell open. “You’re wearing Prada on a night like tonight?”
“You must be out of your mind if you think I’m going to caterer a wedding on the most luxurious yacht that’s ever docked in Washington DC’s harbor and not wear designer.”
Richard Gerard Catering was known for the impeccable style of its owner just as much as for its world-class cuisine, and Richard would never dream of wearing off-the-rack for a six figure wedding.
“Speaking of designer, did you see the dresses on the women in there? And the jewelry?” Kate nudged me with her elbow. “Do you think it’s all real?”
“Of course,” I said. “The stylist from Paris was telling me how many carats the stepmother of the bride is wearing. P.S. It’s a lot.”
Richard’s eyebrows popped up. “All these stylists are really overkill.”
“Oh, you think that pushed it over the edge?” Kate ran her fingers through her short, usually bouncy blond bob that had deflated in the rain. “Not the cake designer we flew in from Scotland or the stepmother’s personal designer from New York who redid the entire ship in the wedding colors?”
Richard made a face at Kate, and then turned to me. “Are the waiters getting the drinks through the crowd?”
“Yes. I just wish we didn’t have to open the bars before the ceremony, but what can you do when this many people are stuck on a boat during a rainstorm?”
“Nothing like cocktails to keep people occupied,” Kate said. “And we still have a lot of time to occupy.”
“Food or booze,” Richard said. “I just hope we have enough food. I know we have enough booze.”
He meant the massive ice bar that we’d craned onboard. The huge slab of ice had been carved to hold half a dozen different bottles of the world’s finest vodkas, which meant that the guests would be able to get very drunk very fast.
A figure draped in a dripping tangerine orange tablecloth burst through the tent sides. “Did someone say booze? Because I don’t think I’ve had enough.”
Kate and I jumped back as the tablecloth splattered to the floor and Fern emerged. His dark hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and he looked remarkably dry considering that the rest of us appeared to have swum to the wedding.
“Where did you get that cloth?” I eyed the mound of orange fabric in a wet, wadded mound on the floor.
Fern shrugged. “It was lying around, and I couldn’t find a slumbrella.”
“Slumbrella?” Kate asked. “How much Champagne have you had again?”
Fern hiccupped. “Just a few.”
Kate eyed him. “Glasses or bottles?”
“Was the tablecloth lying around as in lying over a table to cover it?” I wasn’t as concerned about Fern drinking bubbly with the bridesmaids as I was about him snatching a cloth off a table. I didn’t remember having extra linens just sitting around and had a horrible vision of the bride catching a glimpse of a now-naked catering table with its knobby metal legs and particleboard top.
“Of course not,” Fern said, and then bit the edge of his lip. “At least I don’t think so. But I was in too much of a hurry to notice.”
“If those people sent you down here for food, you tell them they’ll have to wait . . .” Richard began.
“Is it the bride?” I swallowed hard remembering how nervous she’d been as Fern had done her hair earlier in the day. Fern had a talent for loosening brides up, usually by sharing raunchy gossip of questionable origin, but this one had been a challenge even for a seasoned wedding hair stylist like him.
“No, no, no,” Fern waved his hands around his face like he was shooing off a swarm of mosquitoes. “No one slent me. I came to tell Annabelle before anyone else did.”
“Tell me what?” I said, immediately running through the list of possible wedding catastrophes in my head. At least it wasn’t the bride; I mentally ticked her off my list. My mind leapt to the next natural problem. “Is it the stepmother-of-the-bride? The stylist?”
Fern hesitated. “Maybe you should see for yourself.” He snatched my umbrella from where I’d propped it against the tent wall and slipped out between the plastic flaps.
“Great.” I grabbed a yellow napkin from a nearby pile and draped it over my head. I’d learned this trick by watching the wait staff attempt to keep their heads dry while carrying trays onto the boat.
“I’m right behind you,” Kate said, picking up her own napkin.
Richard threw his oven mitt down on the prep table. “Don’t even think about leaving me behind.” He turned to one of his chefs. “Get all the platters for the buffet ready, and I’ll be back to garnish.”
I adjusted my napkin so I could see through the dangling points and pushed my way out of the tent. The rain still beat down wildly and it stung my cheeks as it blew from the side. I groped the few feet to the ramp and pulled myself up by the rope, my feet slipping on the slick metal. I was surprised we hadn’t lost a waiter or two to the dark water below and was grateful when I reached the top. Jumping onto the boat, I ducked in through one of the heavy glass doors, and then held it open for Kate and Richard to follow.
I pulled the sopping wet napkin off of my head and slicked back a dripping strand of hair. I usually wore my auburn hair pulled back in a bun, but the rain had ruined my simple hairstyle and it kept falling into my eyes. I could only imagine that any trace of makeup had run off my face hours ago. I reminded myself that I wasn’t here to look glamorous and meet men. Surprisingly, I had enough of those in my life already.
Fern stood in the hallway that led to the informal dining room on one side and the spacious main salon on the other. We were using the casual dining room to stage the food and, as the door swung open, I could see one of Richard’s cooks touching up a silver tray of hors d’oeuvres that a waiter held in front of him.
“This way.” Fern motioned us in the other direction and we followed him across the salon to the marble entrance foyer and gleaming gold staircase that led to the lower decks.
The client had indeed redecorated the boat in the wedding colors: lemon, turquoise and tangerine. The couches had orange throw pillows and the entire boat had been carpeted the color of frothy, beaten egg yolks. It felt like walking into a sunset. Or an egg.
“Where are we going?” Kate said from behind me. “The party isn’t down there.”
Fern placed a finger over his lips like all the guests weren’t on the two decks above us putting away vast quantities of vodka. “You’ll slee.”
I wasn’t convinced that Fern was sober enough to be leading a posse, but curiosity outweighed the voice of reason in my head.
We formed a silent procession down the twisting staircase to th
e lower deck. I recognized this as the level with all of the guest bedrooms and the indoor gym. This was also where we’d shoved the furniture from the upper decks when we realized that the entire wedding would have to be inside the boat. The original plan had been to have the ceremony, desserts, and dancing on the top deck’s helicopter pad, but when we’d seen the forecast for the biggest rainstorm DC had seen in over 100 years, we’d had to change strategy.
Fern opened a door and I saw deck chairs stacked up to the ceiling.
“Oops,” he said. “Wrong one.”
He opened the door next to it, and I felt the rush of humidity. The glass door to the steam room hung open across from us and had filled the gym with a warm haze. Like everything on the boat, the gym used space efficiently with one elliptical machine, one treadmill, and one universal weight contraption filling the room.
“I couldn’t find the switch to turn it off,” Fern explained with a cough. The steam smelled like eucalyptus, and I couldn’t resist taking a deep breath.
Kate waved a hand in front of her. “Why is the steam room on during the wedding?”
“Is someone in there?” I narrowed my eyes and could just make out a figure slumped against the tile bench. “And are they fully dressed?”
“All right, buddy.” Kate called into the room and clapped her hands. “Party’s over. This floor is off-limits.”
I felt my skin go cold despite the heat billowing from the steam room. “Oh, no,” I said as the body slipped off the bench and rolled onto the floor with a splash and a thud. I could see the water on the floor was tinged pink. “Not again.”
Richard jumped back as droplets of warm water hit our legs. “Is that . . .?”
I splashed over to the limp body and turned him over to feel for a pulse. “Yep.”
Kate gave a small scream when she recognized his face. “Is he . . .?”
