by Joan Boswell
“Oh, how thoughtful!” Father Donald grabbed one of the tickets. “A buffet! My favourite!” There go the profits, I thought. The latest trend in weddings seems to be to sell tickets to the reception, the takings of same either offsetting the wedding costs or going to the bridal couple. “Dottie’s off to the A.C.W. meeting tonight, so I was going to have to fend for myself, although she always makes up a salad plate, but I think that a person needs something more substantial after a long day, not that a wedding is such a long day, although, on the other hand, it probably is for you . . .”
I threw the heavy white and gold chasuble over his head, once again cutting off the flow. The sounds of taped synthesizer “Pachelbel’s Canon” floated in from the church.
“Uh-oh, that’s my cue,” Billy smirked. “Sounds pretty good, eh? Cheaper than an organist, that’s for sure.”
And so the wedding began, in all its inexorable awfulness. From the canned music to the purple and gold, gum-chewing bridesmaids, to the soloist wearing skin-tight black Capri pants and crooning to a karaoke version of “Wind Beneath My Wings”, and the ever-so-tasteful unicorn tattoo clearly visible on the bride’s ample bosom, the wedding was all one might expect from the union of the only daughter of the proprietor of Billy’s Bargain and Auction Barn (“Bid High, Bid Low, It’s All Got to Go”), to Trevor Carstairs, owner of Carstairs Fine Antiques and Collectibles (“Rare coins our specialty”), and only son of retired shipping magnate, Richard Carstairs.
Nowhere was this more apparent than in the two front pews. On the bride’s side, Billy sat with a selection of female relatives, each sporting a large, purple silk orchid corsage. On the groom’s side, Elaine and Richard Carstairs sat alone. Elaine, grim-faced, wore a cream Chanel suit without the requisite orchid. Richard was in a wheelchair and looked pale, but then I’d heard his recent heart surgery hadn’t been all that successful. They neither spoke to, nor looked at, any of the Koffs. Come to that, they didn’t speak to each other, either. I’d heard rumours of trouble between them, partly due to Richard’s iron control over the purse strings and partly to Elaine’s obsessive devotion to Trevor. In fact, at one of our Wine Club meetings, Edith Bricks had confided to me that Richard said he would cut his son off without a penny if Trevor married Krystal Koff. I wondered how Elaine would handle this blow to her precious boy’s future.
Krystal and Trevor’s affair had been the talk of the village for months, particularly Trevor’s inexplicable infatuation with Krystal Koff, a miniature (if one can use that word to describe a 180 pound young woman) of her mother, Rita. For a man who’d inherited his father’s love of fine things, Krystal seemed an unlikely acquisition for Trevor. The affair, much encouraged by the Koffs, culminated in an announcement of impending parenthood and today’s gala event. The rumours of Trevor’s disinheritance had obviously not reached the Koffs, and who was Krystal to flout the convention of shot-gun weddings in our parish? Trevor seemed too besotted to care about either.
In just under thirty minutes, Father Donald, despite several enormous gaffes and slip-ups, had delivered enough of the marriage ceremony to make the union legal. The wedding party headed off for a quick spin around town, horns blaring, sans Carstairs, then to the Lions Club Centennial Park and Playground for photographs, with the Carstairs. Father Donald and I made a quick stop at the Rectory so he could slip into something more appropriate for a wedding reception at the Lodge.
Only the fact that the reception was at the Lodge impelled me to accept the ticket for the wedding dinner. I was neither a member, nor had I ever been invited to this secretive old building on the edge of town. This was a golden opportunity to inspect a small piece of local history. Last I’d heard, Billy was the current Grand Poo-Bah or whatever the head honcho is called, and so, no doubt, got the Lodge cheap for the reception.
By the time I’d got Father Donald decently attired and to the Lodge, everyone else was more or less assembled. I was horrified to be greeted by Billy, bow tie hanging, cummerbund undone, not in a receiving line as one might expect, but seated at a card table, where he was enthusiastically selling tickets for the drinks. Another money-maker.
Next to the table was a large bird cage on a stand, lavishly decorated with purple doves and orchids.
“Oh,” said Father Donald, “what an interesting gift for the happy couple. I’m giving them a set of church mugs, well, not me, but Dottie and me, well, actually just Dottie. She does all that sort of thing, gifts and such, although I often suggest ideas to her, not that she listens to them, well, she listens, but doesn’t usually take up my ideas, although I thought the one about giving a lifetime subscription to St. Grimbald’s Gleanings was pretty good, that is if you like to read, or read things like The Gleanings, and I must say, Dottie is an amazing writer . . .”
“It’s a money cage,” Billy interrupted.
“A what?” Father Donald gaped at the cage.
“A money cage. You put in a twenty and I write your name on one of these slips of paper, and at the end of the evening, we have a little draw, and you could be the lucky winner of a new toaster oven.” He winked at me. “Got two of them as wedding presents, they did, so I says to myself, let’s just do a deal here.”
Sure enough, the bottom of the cage was covered with twenties. I figured there was nearly a thousand dollars in there already. I briefly toyed with the idea for St. Grimbald’s organ fund.
“Oh, I’d love to. I know Dottie could use a new toaster oven. Oh, shoot! The Bishop. Doesn’t like raffles. Not that I’d tell him, but if he were to find out from someone here perhaps, although I doubt anyone here talks to the Bishop much, not that they aren’t the Bishop’s kind of people, or that the Bishop wouldn’t talk to them . . .”
“That’s all right, Rev’rint. It’s just my way of getting a little extra folding green for the happy couple. Now, what’s your poison?” Billy brandished the roll of drink tickets.
In a moment of rashness, I asked for a glass of white wine, not expecting French, mind you, but willing to settle for California.
“White wine? Sorry, pal. We’re offering beer, made it myself, or Swish and mix. Three bucks a ticket or four for ten dollars.”
I purchased tickets for ginger ale. At a dollar a can, it looked like glasses were extra. I noticed the Carstairs had done the same, although Elaine had somehow managed to acquire a straw.
Father Donald bounced off to inspect the buffet, and I wandered around the large barn-like room, decorated in an eclectic mix of moose antlers, lodge banners, and purple and gold rosettes, bells and streamers. I was drawn to a strange glow from the west wall.
It turned out to be the wedding cake, illuminated by a number of small plastic spotlights clipped to a gilded trellis. The cake was huge, made up of many layers, not only on top of each other, but also scattered around the table and joined by golden ladders. The symbolism of the ladders escaped me. The largest cake tier perched over a fountain spewing forth pale mauve liquid. I wondered if the ladders were for rescue attempts should the plastic bride and groom on top fall in. On impulse, I pulled a coin from my pocket and threw it into the fountain. I smiled. Billy had missed this money maker. It would be interesting to see how many others followed suit.
Throughout the dinner, I kept an eye on the fountain, and sure enough, nearly everyone who inspected the cake threw in a coin or two. Even Father Donald lifted his face from his plate long enough to borrow a loonie from me. I noticed the Carstairs ate sparingly. Perhaps the smoke-laden atmosphere had spoiled their appetites, or perhaps they didn’t care for the cabbage rolls, macaroni salad and meatloaf entrees.
In the lull between the speeches and the beginning of the dance, I decided to wander around and take a look at the rest of the Lodge. I left Father Donald enthusiastically helping the DJ set up his equipment.
I opened one door and found myself in a huge kitchen full of secondary female Koffs, scraping plates and making up “doggy bags” of leftovers to take home. I edged around them and saw Elaine Carstairs heading out
what looked like a back door. No doubt, like me, she was hoping to get a breath of smoke-free air. I waited a moment to give her privacy, then followed.
I pushed the door ajar and found myself in the utility room. I stepped back abruptly when I heard voices from the shadows behind the furnace. Far be it for me to interrupt some amorous couple, although I personally would have chosen an atmosphere more conducive to romance.
“No, no. It’s the big one on the left! Look, I’ll tie a bow on it.” It was Billy Koff’s voice. Not wanting to know or hear any more of Billy’s amorous advances, I closed the door quietly, and wondered if the woman with Billy could possibly be the fair Elaine.
Later, back in the hall, the festivities continued in their time-honoured rituals. Bride danced with Groom. Bride danced with Father. Groom danced with Mother. Bride’s father and groom’s mother danced. This one was worth watching. I noticed Elaine was having trouble keeping Billy at arm’s length. Plainly, his little episode in the utility room hadn’t depleted his energies.
It was well after nine-thirty when I began to look for Father Donald. With any luck, no one had told him about the eleven o’clock buffet. I found him at the Cake/Fountain, looking hopeful. I was pleased to note that the fountain bottom was covered in coins.
“It’s not real cake,” I told him. “It’s all made of styrofoam. They scrape off the icing and use it again.”
“Not real . . .” His face fell. “Oh, shoot! I was just thinking that it must be time to cut the cake. I always like a piece of wedding cake, and Dottie will be so disappointed if I don’t take her a piece home to put under her pillow . . .” I found it hard to imagine Dorothy Peasgood dreaming of an unknown lover. “. . . not that she wants to get married, although I suppose if the right one were to come along, on the other hand, you’d think he would have come along by now, if he was going to, I mean . . .”
“Perhaps we can stop at the Donut Shop on the way home,” I told him. “They close at ten, so we should leave right away.” Secretly, I congratulated myself on my cleverness. I’d have him out of here in no time. As we walked away, the Carstairs took our place at the fountain, Elaine wheeling Richard’s chair. She checked her watch against the large clock on the wall, and I thought she must be as anxious as I was to make an escape.
“I’m sure I saw a 1908 gold sovereign in there, Richard,” I heard her say, as he angled his head for a good look into the bowl.
It hadn’t occurred to me that someone might toss a rare coin into this particular fountain, that a Koff of any ilk would have such a thing, but then, they probably thought it useless junk and cheaper than the real thing. I hung back a moment, thinking of a pleasant chat with the Carstairs, but then decided it was more urgent to get Father Donald away.
“Let’s make our farewells and be on our way,” I said to Father Donald. I looked around for Mrs. Koff, whose large purple presence had been all too obvious throughout the evening, but she wasn’t in the room. It would have to be a Billy adieu.
Ticket sales were still brisk, and I noticed that the Money Cage was nearly half full of twenties. Obviously the fundraiser/wedding was a great success.
Father Donald was just in the middle of thanking Billy profusely for the delicious buffet when the lights went out. Several people shouted rude comments, better not remembered. There was a lot of raucous laughter and a few girlish shrieks. Obviously, this was someone’s idea of a party game. It occurred to me that the party was moving into a new phase, and Father Donald and I were leaving just in time.
The card table went over, hitting Father Donald, who cannoned backwards, knocking me to the floor. In a moment, we were joined by a third body with an unidentifiable metal object that smacked me sharply in the ribs.
“Oh, my soul! Oh, my stars! Oh, shoot!” Father Donald flailed helplessly.
“Get off me!” I shouted.
A stream of blue language erupted from the third party with us. I recognized Billy’s fruity tones.
Thankfully, the lights went back on, and there we were, Father Donald, me, the fallen card table, and Billy, clutching the Money Cage to his chest. It took us a moment to reorient ourselves, and as we started to disentangle, Rita Koff loomed over us, a purple mound of righteous indignation.
“Billy Koff, what are you still doing here? Rolling around on the floor with the preacher? Are you drunk? And you say I’m the dumb one,” she started.
“Now, Ruby, dear . . .”
“Don’t you ‘Ruby dear’ me. All that planning and treating me like a fool, putting ribbons on the switches, and when it comes right down to it, you can’t even make it out the door.” At this point, she realized that Father Donald and I were listening with open-mouthed attention. Her bosom heaved with anger, and she declared imperiously. “Well, what are you two gaping at? Billy, clear up this mess. This is supposed to be a wedding, not a free-for-all.” She grabbed the Money Cage and put it back on its stand. “So much for your bright ideas,” she snorted and walked away.
Chagrined, Billy smiled weakly. “I was only trying to protect the money,” he said. “Can’t trust anyone these days . . .”
“Oh, shoot! You don’t have to tell us. You read about it in the papers all the time, well not all the time, but nearly every day, although there have times when there’s been good news in the paper, not many, of course, but on the other hand . . . er, could you give me hand, Charles?” Father Donald was rolling helplessly from side to side.
I gave up trying to brush the dust off my good Brooks Brothers suit and heaved Father Donald to his feet.
“I’m sure you were just protecting your daughter’s investment,” I said icily to Billy Koff. It was obvious to me that the plot had been to steal the Money Cage. I realized that it had been Rita with Billy in the utility room, no doubt getting last minute instructions on how and when to pull the main switch. Considering that Andy Bickerton, the local RCMP officer, was the best man at the wedding, the whole scheme was pretty nervy of Billy.
Father Donald leaned towards me conspiratorially and whispered loudly. “Don’t be too judgmental, Charles. Billy’s a lapsed Catholic, you know, although I’m not sure how Catholic, or lapsed, come to that, but they do this sort of thing all the time.”
Father Donald had lost me. What had Billy’s Catholicism to do with larceny? Father Donald was usually quite open-minded about the other denominations.
“Poor old Father Clement used to do it all the time,” Father Donald continued. “At the bingo, which is probably why we don’t have them in our parish, bingo that is, not Catholics, although I know some parishes do, although not overtly, of course, not like the Catholics . . .”
I began to wonder if Father Donald had received a blow to the head in the lights-out scuffle. “What are you talking about?” I said rather sharply.
“Well, when Father Clement was priest at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows, if a non-Catholic was about to win the jackpot, Father would simply throw the main switch. When the lights went back on, the numbers had changed on the board. Not that I condone such a thing, but I certainly understand his wanting to keep the money in the family, so to speak, and Billy was only doing the same thing, well, not exactly the same thing, it not being a bingo but a wedding, but the principle’s the same thing, although principle might be an unfortunate word under the circumstances . . .”
I realized there was nothing more wrong than usual with Father Donald’s mental processes. And in a strange way, it did make sense.
I looked over to see how the Carstairs had survived the blackout. They were still by the Cake/Fountain, Elaine staring blankly across the hall, and Richard behind her, slumped in his wheelchair.
“Good news, Charles!” Father Donald was at my elbow. “Billy tells me that there’s another buffet at eleven o’clock—sandwiches and squares. I always enjoy a little something before bed, although it’s not supposed to be good for me, at least that’s what Dottie tells me, what with her watching my weight and all, but on the other hand, if I bring her a lit
tle something, and maybe something for me, too . . .” Father Donald smiled in happy anticipation, and my heart sank. We were stuck here for at least another hour.
I decided to join the Carstairs and enjoy some intelligent conversation until the buffet was served. Father Donald, chatting about the possibility of Nanaimo bars at the buffet, trailed along behind me.
“Did you find that coin you were talking about?” I asked Mrs. Carstairs.
Elaine looked startled. “Coin? What coin?”
I felt myself redden. I’d been guilty of eavesdropping and given myself away. “Do forgive me. I overheard your telling Mr. Carstairs about a rare coin in the fountain. But perhaps I was mistaken.”
“Actually, I thought I saw a 1908 Canadian gold sovereign, but we never had a chance to look for it because the lights went out.” Elaine Carstairs smiled thinly at me.
Father Donald beamed. “Oh, rare coins. Shoot! You’d never believe what we find in the collection plates at St. Grimbald’s. American money, always good, although it’s a bother to take to the bank, and it changes so often, well, not the money, it doesn’t change, unless of course, you take it to the bank. Canadian Tire money, too. Not that it’s not useful, in fact, Dottie bought a new electric knife for the church kitchen, although I’m not sure it was meant for that, being in the collection and all, but on the other hand, once it’s on the plate, then it’s up to us to use it, and you can’t bank Canadian Tire money, at least I don’t think you can.”
Mrs. Carstairs looked dazed. She’d obviously had few conversations with Father Donald.
Father Donald peered around her to Richard Carstairs. “I understand from Trevor that you’re somewhat of a coin guru, Mr. Carstairs. We’ve got this funny little coin came in several Sundays ago, got a hole in the middle, not damaged, but a real hole. Covered in funny writing. Even Dottie can’t figure out where it’s from. I wish I had it to show you, but perhaps if I describe it fully, although I’m a little fuzzy on the actual words on it, but on the other hand, the shape should give something away, and if it were worth something, well, St. Grimbald’s is always on the lookout for some extra cash, well, not cash, offerings, er . . . donations.”
