by Ally Gray
“I don’t see why not. What’s up?” he said with a shrug.
“A really awful, sick hunch,” she answered, her voice starting to shake.
The security chief looked her over for a second, then said he’d get someone right on it. “Why don’t you go have a seat outside with your friend there? You’re looking a little green.”
Stacy took his advice and joined Tori on the porch. Her friend looked up from the curator’s newspaper and sat up straight in alarm.
“Stace? What’s up? What’s the matter?” she cried, grabbing her friend’s hand.
“I think I know why the door won’t open,” she began weakly, but they were interrupted by a man’s scream above their heads. They looked up in time to see a dark shape crash to the ground in front of them, its fall broken by the boxwood hedges.
Chapter 5
“Oh my god!” Tori screamed, launching herself down the stairs to see if the man was all right. She reached out to touch him but remembered to hold back in case he’d broken his neck. “Stace! Call an ambulance!”
“No, no, I’m okay,” the man said in a pained voice. He sat up and brushed the small twigs out of his long, Greek god-like hair. Tori placed a supportive hand on his bicep while Stacy shot her a look. He trembled for a moment, but not because of his fall.
“I just saw… I saw a…” He pointed to the second story window and shuddered. “There’s a lady in there!”
“A lady? In the ghost’s room?” Stacy asked, looking up at the window as though she could see from the ground. He nodded. “Is it… the ghost?” He shook his head.
“No, it’s a lady, and she’s… just hanging there.” He turned away from them and held his hand to his face, looking very much like he might throw up. Tori covered her mouth with her hand, too, when she realized what he meant, but hers was to keep from screaming.
A whirring sound and a bright flashing light interrupted them.
“Hey! What are you doing?” the security guard called out. “Look, there’s some guy over there taking pictures! What a freak!”
Injuries aside, he took off after the figure in the shrubs, but returned a few minutes later empty handed. He brushed the leaves from his shoulders and ran his fingers through his hair, checking for spider webs.
“He got away,” he said breathlessly. “He had a car waiting close to the road.”
“Was it a silver Toyota, an old one?” Stacy asked, trying to recover by focusing on tangible problems that she actually could solve.
“Yeah, why? Has he been here before?”
“Earlier today,” Tori said, nodding. “He’s some kind of reporter. I didn’t get his name, but he’s been here before today.”
“It’s time to call the police,” Stacy said firmly, dreading the words even as she spoke them. “Tori, can you look up the number for my friend at the police department back home while I call the local officers? His name is Rod Sims, and he just knows how to handle these things.”
Stacy watched with a puzzled expression as Tori took her cell phone out of her pocket and pressed one of her contacts before holding the phone to her ear. Dead bodies and ghosts and haunted mansions aside, she knew there had to be a juicy reason why Tori had that phone number stored in her phone. There’d be time for that later.
By the time the police arrived, Stacy had managed to get everyone out of the house. She had the briefest thought about telling the officers to stay off the flowerbeds, but decided that even Mr. Lariviere could make an exception in this case. They waited outside the house for over an hour while the officers worked silently inside.
“We’re gonna get a bad reputation if people don’t stop dying every time we try to put on a wedding,” Jeremiah said behind his hand. Stacy heard him, and pinned him back with a fierce glare. “What? I’m just saying, it’s kind of becoming a thing with us.”
“It is not! This is only the… well… third time,” she admittedly hotly. “And it’s been ages since the last one!”
“You’re forgetting that one wedding with the dead rap star,” Tori said glumly. “That makes four.”
“It does not! No one died that time, the man faked his death to get out of his contract, or something! That’s hardly our fault!” Stacy struggled to keep her composure. Jeremiah had a point. This was not their first rodeo with a dead body gumming up a wedding. And of course it not only had to be the most important wedding on their calendar, but one where the bride would actually welcome a dead person.
“I’m sorry to ask you to do this,” an officer said, coming up to Stacy as the coroner began rolling a gurney out of the house. “But you’re the only one here who’s got any connection to this property. Do you think you can identify the body?”
“What?!” Stacy asked, her hand flying to her throat. It took her only a second to realize that she was not only the logical choice, but that the best way to get this cleared up and quietly covered up was to cooperate. She gulped, then nodded.
She followed the officer to the waiting coroner’s van and steeled herself. When she nodded, he lifted back the sheet that was covering the body.
“Wow,” she said, wincing and breathing through her mouth. “Yes, she came to my office a few days ago. Her name is Lady Persephone, she claims to be a medium who wanted to free the ghost in this house. That’s really all I know about her.”
By then, Detective Rod Sims arrived. He raced over to the van and grabbed Stacy’s arms, pulling her close to his chest to shield her from the sight. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, screaming at the uniformed officer.
“Rod, no. It’s okay. I agreed to look,” she said. Nathan, who’d caught a ride with Rod, made it to her side next. He took her from Rod and walked her away, keeping her close to his side.
They regrouped on the front porch, no one too eager to go inside after what had transpired. The police were still taking photos and looking around the property, but the porch seemed safe enough for the time being. A roll of thunder sent the already on-edge crowd into a feeling of full panic.
“What happens now, Rod?” Stacy asked. “It hardly seems right to have a wedding here, but that’s not my decision. What do we do if the bride still wants to go through with it?”
“That’ll be a question for the local PD to answer, but they may be through with their investigation in just a couple of days. I’d suggest a different venue, if I were you, and you can always bow out gracefully by telling them the police aren’t done with the location yet.”
“Somehow, I don’t think the little brat is going to accept that excuse, but we’ll do our best,” Jeremiah said. He stepped aside before Stacy could swat the back of his head.
* * *
Back at their office, Stacy and Tori ducked into the kitchen next to Mandy’s desk and shut the door, speaking in a frantic whisper.
“So what’s up? Why the secrecy?” Tori asked, following Stacy’s lead and leaning in close.
“Well, you know. There’s already so much superstition among the staff about this wedding. Between you and me, I don’t even think Jeremiah’s protests have all that much to do with Abigail. I’m thinking there’s some heebeejeebees involved instead. Maybe he’s caught the ghost bug from what happened at Blanchard.”
“Yeah. He has been throwing salt and wearing garlic lately. A few minutes ago, I caught him pouring graveyard dirt around the building,” Tori said in an awe-filled, hushed voice.
“Oh stop it! You did not!” Stacy yelled, forgetting they were trying to be quiet.
“No, but that’s about how seriously I’m willing to take all this nonsense. There’s no such thing as ghosts and voodoo and all that crap. What we do have is a serious case of spoiled girl-itis, and she’s gonna do whatever it takes to make her parents sorry about this whole mess. Including make people believe in some old ghost story. Just watch, the police are going to figure out that lady’s death, and it will have nothing to do with any of this.”
“Maybe you’re right…” Stacy began skeptically,
wringing her hands slightly.
“Of course I’m right. This is all a bunch of superstitious nonsense. Now get back to work, boss lady. We’ve got five hundred hand-dipped black candles to prepare and a final fitting for the bridesmaids’ black robes in twenty minutes.” They left the kitchen and headed to Stacy’s office where the rest of the department heads were waiting on the bride and her mother.
“Remember, I don’t want to hear a word about her clothes, or her style, or her eyebrow ring, or her lack of basic human manners, and there’d better not be a word about the death. As far as we’re concerned, she’s our bride, and that’s all that matters,” Stacy said firmly. Her team members nodded reluctantly but plastered smiles on their faces when Mandy’s voice came through the intercom, announcing the bride and her mother had arrived. An entourage of aides sat in the wicker chairs on the porch, obviously glad to have been dismissed from at least one official function for the time being. “Professionals, people… we’re professionals. We can do this.”
Stacy stood up and smoothed her tailored blazer as she came around her desk. Mandy opened the office door and escorted in a bleached blond woman with a frozen expression and a scrawny waif of a girl with badly dyed jet black hair and white powdered skin. While her mother wore the typical power suit and stylish heels that every good state-level First Lady wore out in public, the girl was a walking cliché in a black lace dress and a hoodie, black and white striped stockings, and black Converse high-top sneakers. Her black opera gloves added an air of sophistication mixed with just the right amount of complete and total stupidity.
“Wow. I never knew it was possible to feel physical dislike for another human being, especially before that person ever even opens her mouth,” Tori whispered to Mandy. Stacy couldn’t make out what they said, but knew her friends well enough to know it probably shouldn’t have been said in front of the pair of… well, ladies.
“I’m Anastacia East,” Stacy began. She walked forward and held out her hand in greeting.
“Hello, Miss East, I’m Michelle Davenport,” the blond woman said with a tone that implied Stacy should have known who she was. She held her hand out for the handshake, but positioned it turned sideways, palm down, as though Stacy should kiss the back of her hand. “And this is my daughter, Anna Catherine.”
“Cat,” the bride barked, correcting her mother for what must have been the millionth time judging by the look of pure hatred she wore.
Instead of being put off by the first impressions of both of them, Stacy simply took the woman’s hand and turned it slightly into a more appealing handshake, smiling as she introduced herself and the members of her staff. She directed the Davenports to the sofas by the window and joined them with her notepad.
“Well, how about we start with some background information for the couple’s slideshow?” Stacy asked brightly, ignoring the dazed look from the older woman and the contemptuous scowl the bride wore. “How did you two meet?”
“We were waiting at Edgar Allan Poe’s grave for the Poe Toaster to arrive,” Cat answered in a monotone, bored voice. Stacy waited for her to explain that, but she didn’t say anything else.
“So, you’re at this grave…”
“Not actually at the grave, you can’t get up close to it. We were standing outside the fence.” Her look of contempt clearly said Stacy should have known that a person can’t just walk up to the writer’s grave.
“Okay. So you were waiting outside the fence, and just… what? Started talking?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Stacy waited for her to say something else, but Cat looked down and began picking at a hangnail on her bitten-off nails. A tiny speck of black nail polish chipped off and landed on the carpet.
So much for scheduling a mani-pedi and spa treatment with the bridesmaids on the morning of the wedding, Stacy thought. She turned to Cat’s mother, who’d been distractedly silent throughout the world’s briefest hate-story about two people meeting and falling in love. The woman actually seemed like she might be a little bit drunk, and Stacy fought the urge to check her watch and confirm that it was only nine o’clock in the morning.
“That’s such an endearing story!” she fibbed. “Let’s talk plans. I’ve got all the notes from your initial meetings with our head event stylist.” Stacy flipped through the papers in her leather folder, pretending to read through the notes again while really just stalling for time.
“I don’t know what my daughter may have told you,” Michelle began, startling Stacy at the sound of her voice, “but we are not having a morbid affair. This wedding will fall only a matter of days before the election, and we are not putting on a spectacle for the voters to read about in the papers as they wait in line at the voting booth.”
“Too bad, Daddy already said I could,” Cat said in the same bored voice. “I wouldn’t even be getting married if it wasn’t because of him and his stupid election. So we compromised. I agreed to get married, and he agreed I could have whatever kind of wedding I want. I warned him about what I wanted, but he said he didn’t care.”
“Your wedding will be written about in all the society pages! There are already reporters all over this wedding!” her mother shrieked. “Southern Brides has already requested the exclusive, and they’ve offered us a six page spread in the October issue. I will not have your father’s campaign associated with a dead woman’s funeral!”
Michelle had her say and leaned back against the sofa, worn out from the effort of having an opinion and trying to voice it coherently. Cat rolled her eyes and leaned forward.
“Don’t listen to her. I’m still having my wedding, and I’m doing it my way. Black and red, Gothic theme, the works. And make it happen at the Blanchard House or we go somewhere else.”
Stacy looked from mother to daughter and back again several times, trying to gauge whose opinion mattered more. She ultimately fell back on the unofficial company policy of making the bride’s dreams come true rather than any other members of the family, which was even more important in this particular case since the bride seemed to be the sober one. Deranged maybe, but sober.
“Cat,” she began, trying to start the process off on the right foot by addressing her with the name she preferred to be called, “I’ll have some paperwork ready for you to look over and sign. Given the non-traditional nature of your event, I will need it signed by the stakeholder, as well. I assume that’s your father?” Cat nodded curtly. “Wonderful! We’ll get those drawn up in a jiffy. In the meantime, why don’t you follow Mandy to our dining room to begin discussing the meals and the cake? There are samples for you to try, too.”
Mother and daughter stood to leave, and Stacy kept a keen eye on Mrs. Davenport to see if she would need to catch any antiques that happened to fall in the woman’s way. The vase that secretly held Abigail’s ashes was safe, thank goodness.
“Oh, Cat? May I speak with you a moment? Mandy, you may escort Mrs. Davenport, we’ll be along shortly,” Stacy called out. Ordinarily her spunky assistant would have taken great exception to Stacy ordering her around like that, but there was a difference between everyday manners and professional decorum. Besides, she knew Stacy would make it up to her that night at their favorite club when the group went out for their usual Thursday night drinks.
Mandy closed the door behind Mrs. Davenport and Stacy pointed to the sofa once again. Cat flounced down on the furniture so hard it slid back a few inches with a horrifying grating sound. Stacy smiled, but made a mental note to have the wood floor checked for scratches.
“Cat, I’d like a word with you…” she began, but she stopped when the girl groaned.
“Let me guess. I’m not your typical bride, the kind of girl who floats in here on a cloud of unicorn farts, practically carried by her Chi Omega litter bearers. And I suppose you’re gonna tell me you only took this assignment because my daddy is in politics and because you’d do anything to be able to tell the world you planned his daughter’s wedding? Then comes the threats…’But so
help me, lord, if you do anything to embarrass this firm…’ Spare me, I’ve heard it all before,” Cat scoffed in a nasally voice. The fire seemed to go out of her and she fell back against the cushions, throwing both hands over her eyes and waiting for Stacy’s wrath.
“Actually, you’re correct, you’re not our typical bride. But that’s not what I was going to say. Hear me out, all right?” Stacy sat down near her, trying to sound sympathetic. She still carried herself with as much poise as she could muster while staring down at someone who looked more at home at a circus sideshow than a tasting room, but she smiled just the same.
Cat barely looked in Stacy’s direction, the attitude of contempt oozing out of her very pores. She sarcastically gestured for Stacy to continue.
“I am determined to host the wedding of your dreams,” she began, ignoring the gagging noise Cat made and continuing as though she hadn’t been interrupted. “If that dream wedding involves fake blood and black-hooded torch bearers instead of bridesmaids, that is your choice, not mine. But I do want you to think about this very carefully. If this is simply an act of rebellion, there are far easier and less public ways to do this. You could get a tattoo, for example, or have yourself branded with a white hot poker.”
“You think I should permanently deface my body instead of have black roses at my wedding?” she asked scornfully. “Some grown up you turned out to be.”
“I’m certainly not suggesting you go racing off and get a tattoo, I’m just giving you an example of a decision that you might later come to regret, but one that you could still hide if you chose. If you go through with your Gothic wedding, it will be etched forever in people’s memories. You will forever be the weird girl who had the weird wedding. A very expensive weird wedding, I might add. There are far more enjoyable things you could do with your father’s money than embarrass him with it.”
