Love Can Be Murder (boxed set of humorous mysteries)

by Stephanie Bond

  Her mother sighed. "I'm not sure the chignon was a good choice, but it's too late now. You look a little puffy, dear, did you use Preparation H under your eyes like I suggested?"

  She nodded, realizing it was the remnants of the anti-inflammatory cream that were making her blink. She'd probably go blind during the ceremony.

  "I took the liberty of having Dr. Henry prepare a little care package for your trip, dear. You'll find it in your purse."

  Dr. Henry, her gynecologist? "What kind of care package?"

  "Oh, you know, precautionary implements. I know you and Trenton will be having children, but it's considered gauche these days to become pregnant on your honeymoon." She sniffed, then walked away.

  Angora blinked. Her mother had never talked about birth control before, or even sex for that matter. At age nine when she'd asked for specifics, Dee had declared sex a messy business that Angora was better off not knowing about. "Your husband will take care of everything," she'd promised. "Just keep a towel handy."

  Her wedding gift to Trenton was her virginity, and she couldn't wait to part with it. Dee had been holding it over her head since her first period. There had only been one man who had tempted her to thwart her mother's orders, but Carl hadn't wanted her...

  "Places, everyone," the wedding director announced, clapping her hands.

  Thank God. Dee reappeared to give the gown one more pat, then marched out of the dressing room. No words of wisdom, no sentiment, no nothing.

  The bridesmaids filed out next, atwitter about which one of the groomsmen was escorting them, which everyone knew was the greatest perk of being a bridesmaid. She'd met Trenton five years ago when they were both in the Wilcott-Stanton wedding party. Beth Stanton had had only eighteen bridesmaids, poor dear.

  "And now the bride," the director said with a sweeping gesture toward the door where her father stood, his hand extended.

  She glided toward him, then tucked her arm in his.

  "This is it, baby. Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure."

  And when she reached the back of the chapel and saw Trenton standing at the altar, she'd never been more sure of anything in her life. Tall, blond, handsome. Everyone said they looked like Ken and Barbie. The years ahead unfolded in her mind: a spacious home, tow-headed children, a weekend home, successful careers, Little Miss beauty contests, a chalet, anniversaries, grandchildren, a yacht. Just an aisle's walk away.

  The church was brimming, and the guests were on their feet, staring at her expectantly. She knew if she tripped, Dee would sprint down the white aisle runner and strangle her with it, so she stepped carefully. On the last pew, a slash of bright orange caught her eye. When she connected with the person's face, she grinned. Roxann! Her cousin wiggled her fingers in a little wave. Warmth flooded Angora's chest—Roxann would see how well she'd done, the man who'd chosen her, the life she was about to embark on. She was getting a late start, but after today she'd make up for lost time. Maybe they would get a chance to catch up at the reception, before she and Trenton left to catch their overnight flight to Maui.

  She moved on down the aisle, making eye contact with friends of her parents, coworkers from the gallery, and extended family from her father's side. She caught sight of Darma Walker Lowe, now a redhead and dressed in Givenchy black—fabulous frock, but an odd choice for an afternoon wedding. To her great relief, the woman didn't make eye contact. Angora turned her attention to her destination.

  The bridesmaids in pink, and the groomsmen in dark gray fanned out from the altar like the petals of an enormous flower waiting for the center to arrive. Reverberating organ music, white satin curtains draped over the altar, dozens of candles ablaze—it was almost too much to take in. This was her day, the first time in her life when she was in the spotlight instead of playing second fiddle to Dee. If she never did anything else in her life to garner fame, she would always have this lily-scented day.

  And speaking of Dee, she actually looked happy as they passed by her pew. Happy and relieved. As if her job was done, and now she could concentrate her energies elsewhere, such as redecorating Angora's old room.

  At last Angora focused on Trenton, her beloved. Dear, sweet, handsome Trenton, who had picked her among all the still-eligible Baton Rouge belles. He would declare his love for her before this enormous crowd. He would vow to cherish her until death parted them. Her heart swelled at the sight of his shining blue eyes.

  The priest was bent and elderly, with a monotonous voice. Both sets of parents had insisted on a full mass, so the ceremony became an exercise in stooping, kneeling, and standing again. When she had envisioned her wedding, she imagined she would be riveted on each holy word, savoring its meaning before tucking it away in her heart. Instead, her senses were so hyper-stimulated, the words flew by her. Before she knew it, she was saying, "I do." Then the priest was delivering to Trenton his charge as a husband. Her skin tingled in anticipation.

  "I...can't."

  For a full ten seconds, she didn't comprehend Trenton's answer. Behind them, someone guffawed into the stunned silence, and the organist leaned on the keyboard, blasting them with a cacophony of sick notes.

  "Excuse me?" the priest said, cupping a hand behind his big veiny ear.

  Trenton shrugged. "I'm sorry, Angora, I can't go through with this."

  Her jaw loosened, and her mouth moved, but no words came out. She was paralyzed. A murmur surged through the guests like a swarm of bees.

  Dee's best fake laugh rang out. "Everyone, this is just a little misunderstanding. The children are under a great deal of stress." Angora didn't turn around, but she knew her mother was on her feet, directing.

  "Yes," the priest said, recovering. "Perhaps we should take a little break."

  Angora began to shake violently. The single most important day of her life was being shattered because Trenton was stricken with a lousy bout of cold feet? "Why are you doing this to me?" she managed to squeak in his direction.

  "I'm in love with someone else."

  She swallowed hard. Oh, Gawd. "Who?"

  "It doesn't matter—"

  "Who?"

  He sighed. "Darma. When I saw her walk into the church, I knew I couldn't marry you, Angora."

  No one had ever accused her of being smart, but some things were obvious even to her. "Trenton, Darma's already married."

  He shook his head. "Her husband died two weeks ago. Cut himself with a scalpel and gangrene set in."

  Ergo the black dress. Damn, if fate didn't have a fiendish sense of timing. "What are you saying, Trenton?"

  "The wedding is off," he said, his voice loud enough to carry. Silence burst around them. "But feel free to hock the ring."

  Chapter Five

  THANKS TO THE MICROPHONES suspended around the altar, Roxann heard the groom's declaration just as clearly as Angora probably had. Feel free to hock the ring? Someone needed to rearrange the man's wedding tackle.

  Old feelings of protectiveness roused in her chest. Despite Angora's silver-spoon upbringing—or maybe because of it—she seemed to always have an emotional bull's-eye painted between her wide baby-blues. During the drive to Baton Rouge, Roxann had divided her time between looking over her shoulder, and wondering how much her cousin had changed over the past decade. But as soon as Angora glided into the church sporting the crown and a nerve rash, Roxann realized Angora was still the insecure daughter of Dreadful Dee. And Roxann's hopes that Angora was marrying a kind, sensitive man with a good bedside manner now seemed far-fetched at best.

  Everyone stood rooted to the spot, as if waiting to be told how to diplomatically dismantle a wedding party. Run, she urged her cousin silently. Get out before the vultures descend.

  But Angora stood frozen, her pink mouth slightly ajar. Sensing that pandemonium was about to erupt, Roxann stood and sidled to the end of the pew, compromising a slew of expensive shoes along the way. Then she dashed up the aisle and grabbed Angora's hand, a cold limp thing, with a strange orangish cast to the fingers.


  "Angora? It's me, Roxann."

  Her cousin turned toward her, but her eyes were so full of tears, Roxann doubted she saw her.

  "Come on, I'm getting you out of here."

  Angora nodded dumbly.

  "Hey, who are you?" the groom had the nerve to ask.

  "The black sheep of the family," Roxann said, and made a snap decision, no matter how unfair, that pretty Dr. Trenton would bear the brunt of her pent-up male-directed frustration. "How do you do?" Forgoing a round-off kick in deference to her skirt, she balled up her fist and popped him square in the nose. He reeled backward like a windup toy, blood spurting, and fell off the altar. The wedding party scattered and the guests lunged to their feet for a view.

  Roxann shook her stinging hand while she yanked Angora forward. "Let's go."

  "Wait just a minute," screeched a voice she recognized as her aunt's. "What do you think you're doing?"

  Roxann turned and the sight of her father's sister put a crimp on her intestines. "Hey, Dixie, what's shakin'? Besides your chin, I see."

  Dee gaped and the fuchsia monstrosity on her head bobbed. "What are you doing here?"

  "Rescuing Angora."

  "Take your hands off her, you, you, you...dyke."

  Gasps chorused around them. Roxann lifted an eyebrow. "Dyke? Did you say dyke?"

  Dee took a step backward. "Y-yes."

  "You got a gay radar under that sombrero?"

  Her aunt pulled herself up, her face mottled. "Get out!"

  She saluted. "Gladly." She tugged on Angora, who seemed to be in shock, staring straight ahead, her bouquet hanging from her arm by an elastic strap. Roxann sighed, then gathered the absurdly long train, threw it over her shoulder, and herded Angora toward the exit The climate outside the church looked even less promising than inside. Clouds rolled overhead, and thunder boomed, drowning out Dee's screeching behind them.

  Roxann urged Angora to hurry, but they were only halfway across the parking lot when lightning slashed and the sky unleashed sheets of rain. At least the dousing seemed to revive Angora—she needed only a little shove to tumble into Goldie's passenger seat. Getting the train in was another matter.

  When Roxann finally slammed the door, two feet of beaded and sequined fabric hung out, but it couldn't be helped. She ran around to the driver's side and threw herself into the Naugahyde seat, slammed the door twice before it caught, and heaved a sigh of relief. Her hastily tossed-together outfit—black skirt and orange pullover—were glued to her skin. She looked over at Angora slumped down in the seat, then gave in to the inappropriate laughter welling in her throat.

  Angora pivoted her head. "What could possibly be funny?"

  "You look like the casualty of a carnival dunking booth."

  "Thanks a million."

  "Hey, I'm kidding."

  Angora's bottom lip trembled. "This is the worst day of my entire life."

  When dealing with traumatized women, Roxann had learned to forgo "enabling" small talk. "You escaped marrying a bum. I'd say it's the luckiest day of your entire life."

  "I suppose." Angora sniffled. "Thanks for punching him."

  "No problem." No need to mention she'd decked him as much for her own satisfaction as for Angora's defense. "Who's Darma?"

  "A girl he used to date. She dumped him and married someone else."

  "The gangrene guy?"

  She nodded, sniffling again.

  "Why the heck did you invite his old girlfriend to the wedding?"

  "It was Mother's idea."

  "Oh, that's classic."

  Angora laid her head back, and a fat tear rolled down her rain-soaked cheek. Her hair hung in wet globs around her face. Her face was striped with mascara, eye shadow, and blush. The dress was a droopy disaster.

  Roxann looked up. "What's with the crown?"

  Angora reached up to touch it, then cried harder. "My Miss Northwestern Baton Rouge tiara."

  Of course.

  "I'm a mess," Angora blubbered. "What am I going to do?"

  Roxann fished a purse-pack of tissues from the center console and handed them over. "I don't suppose you have any clothes to change into at the church?"

  She shook her head against the seat and blew her nose. "My trousseau is at home."

  "How do I get to your place?"

  "I...still live with Mom and Dad. And I can't go back there."

  "Where do you want to go?"

  Angora was quiet for so long, Roxann repeated the question.

  "I don't know...s-somewhere D-Dee won't f-find me." Her teeth were chattering.

  Roxann turned on the air-conditioning, which, in Goldie, was the same as turning on the heat. "We could go to my dad's. Your mother wouldn't go near there."

  "W-will Uncle W-Walt mind?"

  "He might not even be home."

  "He doesn't know you're in town?"

  Roxann squirmed. "No, but I was going to stop by after the wedding anyway."

  Angora gave a lethargic shrug. "Anything to avoid D-Dee for a few hours. Maybe you can help me figure out what I'm going to d-do now." Angora pulled the stained seat belt over her sodden dress and clicked the buckle home. She sniffed mightily, then sighed. "Let's g-go."

  Roxann surveyed her bedraggled cousin with wonder—Angora still had a talent for sucking Roxann into her melodrama. Just yesterday she'd been dogged by a cop, the victim of a break-in, and the object of a subtle threat. Yet her potentially life-threatening situation had just been upstaged by Angora's jilting.

  "Did I mention it was good seeing you again?" she asked sarcastically.

  For the first time, Angora offered a watery smile, and Roxann knew her cousin was going to be all right. Eventually.

  Chapter Six

  ANGORA HAD CRIED HERSELF to sleep before they reached the part of town where Roxann had grown up. Roxann was glad, partly because Angora needed the rest, and partly because she wanted to experience the old neighborhood privately.

  The rain had slackened to an aggravating drizzle. Only the driver-side windshield wiper worked, slapping a clear path of vision every few seconds. The houses, the streets—everything seemed smaller and bleaker, if possible. River Hills was a postwar development that had fallen out of favor with realtors when a power plant was erected at its boundary in the late 1960s. Property values plunged, and many residents fled inland.

  Walt and Ava Beadleman had stayed put to show their support for her father's employer, RTC Electric, so Roxann had had a close-up view of the rapid degradation of the area. Homes were turned into rentals, then abandoned altogether, and drug dealers took over the ballpark. Government housing brought in kids from broken homes with too much time on their hands. Graffiti spread from one end of River Hills to the other. And she had her own theories about the glowing power plant's effects on the residents' health—physical and otherwise.

  Her mother's discontent with the area had been the beginning of the end of her parents' marriage. Her father detested change, and refused to leave his circle of friends and his favorite fishing hole. The first day Roxann had come home from second grade and her mother wasn't waiting by the front door remained vivid in her memory. She'd sat in the front-porch swing, terrified, until her mother arrived, flushed and apologetic, making Roxann promise not to tell her father.

  The disappearances became more frequent, then her mother gave her a key to let herself in the house after school. A blue car would drop her mother off in time to get supper started before her father came home from work. It was only a matter of time, though, before Walt discovered his wife was keeping company with another man. One day he'd torn the seat out of his work coveralls, and had come home for a change of clothes to find Roxann alone. He was there when the man dropped off her mother. He'd thrown a loose brick from the front steps through the back windshield as the blue car raced away, and he'd made her mother leave.

  The next few months were a painful blur, with the exception of the phone conversations she'd overheard. The ugly, ugly things her fath
er had called her mother still stung. After the custody hearing, she rarely saw her mother. Her father hired a woman in the neighborhood to cook and clean, but Mrs. Holt was a dour person who didn't like to be bothered while she watched television.

  Emotion crowded her chest as she slowed to turn onto the road where her father still lived. Braeburn Way seemed too pretty a name for an overgrown, shabby street. When she pulled into her father's driveway, sadness plucked at her. The pale green bungalow looked tired and tucked into itself, the eaves sagging, the clapboard siding in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. The yard was a tangle of ivy and weeds, strewn with limbs from a wild apple tree that hadn't borne fruit in years.

  The gravel driveway and covered carport were empty, so she assumed her father was out fishing or drinking. Or both. She pulled under the carport so they could enter the house without getting wetter. Lurching over the uneven ground roused Angora, and when Roxann turned off the engine, her cousin opened her eyes.

  "We're here," Roxann announced.

  Angora groaned and moved slowly, lifting her head to squint out the window. "Where?"

  "My dad's, remember?"

  Her cousin winced. "Oh, yeah." Her crown sat at a precarious angle.

  "Come on, Queenie, let's get you into some dry clothes."

  She swung down, then walked around to collect Angora, who practically fell out of the van after she unhooked her seat belt.

  Angora cried out when she saw the part of the train that had been flapping against the van for the past twenty-some miles. "It's ruined."

  "Were you planning to wear it again?" Roxann asked wryly.

  "No, but..." Angora burst into tears again, and fell against Roxann, who hustled her to the side door.

  The key on Roxann's ring still worked, as she'd expected. She led Angora into the musty kitchen, flipping on lights before depositing her into the only chair at the table that wasn't stacked high with newspapers—her father was a voracious reader. A fishy smell permeated the air, and dust motes floated lazily, disturbed by the opening of the door. The old brown linoleum popped and cracked under her feet.