by Judy Alter
I cried. For some inexplicable reason, I couldn’t stop crying. Em and Maggie hugged me, offered me napkins from the dispenser on the table. And I kept crying—for Jo Ellen, who’d made such a mess out of her life because of greed, for her father who’d made a mess out of his life out of love. For all of us caught up in this sordid tale—except maybe Mrs. Buxton and Greg Davis. It was Keisha who brought me out of it.
“Listen up, people,” she said in an authoritative voice. “No one knows about all this but us. Most of the police vehicles will disappear before people get here. This is my wedding day, and by God, neither Jo Ellen North nor anyone else is going to ruin it. You put on your happy faces, smile, laugh, dance. Celebrate with me. Please?”
****
And celebrate we did. I ushered Keisha, Maggie and Em into the small anteroom between Peter’s office (now blocked off by crime scene tape) and the ladies restroom, took a minute to refresh my makeup, and then went out to meet and greet.
The band showed up—a bass guitar, a fiddle player, and a sax player. I had feared a harmonica player and was much relieved. As guests arrived, the young men played a variety of tunes, from patriotic to African American to who knows what—“This Land is Your Land,” “Go Tell It on the Mountain,” “Kumbaya,” “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore,” even “We Shall Overcome.” And they were good. They had me tapping my feet and clapping in rhythm. Who knew Keisha had such talented cousins?
Our extended family began to arrive, along with Keisha’s family—her mom, sister, nieces and nephews. The uncle who was to perform the ceremony greeted me like a long-lost friend.
Behind the counter, Peter, dispensing drinks, appeared his usual happy self and when I whispered a question about his head, he said, “Maybe Keisha should go into physical therapy. After her massage, my head feels just fine.”
“No,” I retorted, “I need her in my office.”
We grinned and high-fived.
José and his parents arrived, followed shortly by a breathless Mike who had run home to change into civilian clothes and looked dashing for his role of escorting the bride.
The ceremony began not too long after four—in view of all that had happened, I considered that a miracle. To the strains of Ode to Joy, carried by the sax player, Em did that slow hesitation walk—oh, how we’d practiced—from the ladies room to the front room to stand on the far side of the minister, followed by Maggie who looked frighteningly grown up, and then the crowd stood as Mike escorted Keisha to the front of the restaurant. People from the second room crowded into the first, looked through the large see-through window, and jammed the doorway.
Keisha was simply stunning, and José’s eyes were wide with admiration and love. Yes, the minister did ramble, but he finally got to the part where he asked, “Who giveth this woman” and Keisha boldly said, “I give myself to this man.” A ripple of laughter, applause, amusement, whatever. And then finally after an endless ceremony, the minister pronounced them man and wife, and José gave his bride a tentative kiss. She would have none of that but threw herself at him for a passionate kiss that lasted—well, if not minutes, several seconds. The band played the traditional recessional from Midsummer Night’s Dream. They must have practiced it repeatedly because they did a good job.
All of us gathered to witness this were stunned into silence and then broke into furious applause.
Without us knowing it, Mona had arrived with supplies for the hot dogs and set up shop in the kitchen. When the joy died down, the band continued its wide selection, and people began to wander up to the counter. Mona had brought a whiteboard with her choices on it—not all that she offered at Bun Appetit, but a good number. People laughed, sang, toasted the bride and groom, danced when they could find space in the small restaurant, and had a wonderful time. It was the happiest wedding I’ve ever been to, and I even put Jo Ellen, Greg Davis, and Mrs. Buxton out of my mind.
I ran out of steam by six o’clock and began to fear that José and Keisha would dance all night, but they soon left in the 1980s Ford pickup that José had restored. Someone had written “Newlyweds” on the back window and done the old-fashioned trick of tying tin cans to the back bumper, so that they rattled away in a storm of bouncing cans, lots of shouts of “Good luck,” and a threat or two of a shivaree. I suspected the young people in the group—mine, Anthony’s, and maybe Claire’s—were responsible for the car decorations.
After they rounded the corner on Eighth Avenue, a subdued group trooped inside. I sank against Mike and let him support me.
“Tired?”
“Beyond that,” I replied.
He gathered the girls who were reluctant to leave, we thanked Peter and Mona for a wonderful event, and we headed home. It was good to be in a quiet house with just my family.
We didn’t talk much after we got home, but I did ask Mike how Jo Ellen had escaped and gotten a gun. He almost but not quite chuckled. “I imagine there’s one guard at the prison in Vernon who’s losing his job. He was found locked in Jo Ellen’s cell without his gun. I have no idea how she did it, but she was clever. We all know that.”
I collapsed back on the bed, but now sleep didn’t come easily. From tomorrow on, I was going to be primarily a mom. I swear I felt the baby kick as I thought that, and then my mind wandered on how far we had come from our first encounter with Jo Ellen North. Then I was a struggling, single mom of two in a house I hated, building a business I feared would collapse any day. Now I had a family—a husband, two daughters growing up too fast to suit me, a new baby on the way, the house of my dreams, and a large extended family. Plus a business that was doing well. Truly I was blessed.
Oh sure, I’d still worry about my beloved Fairmount, preserving its charm, keeping it safe. But I had a feeling Keisha would take on those responsibilities with delight.
I turned over, cuddled close to Mike and slept.
THE END
ABOUT JUDY ALTER
An award-winning novelist, Judy Alter is the author of six books in the Kelly O’Connell Mysteries series: Skeleton in a Dead Space, No Neighborhood for Old Women, Trouble in a Big Box, Danger Comes Home, Deception in Strange Places, and Desperate for Death. She also writes the Blue Plate Café Mysteries—Murder at the Blue Plate Café and Murder at the Tremont House and The Oak Grove Mysteries which debuted in 2014 with The Perfect Coed.
Her work has been recognized with awards from the Western Writers of America, the Texas Institute of Letters, and the National Cowboy Museum and Hall of Fame. She has been honored with the Owen Wister Award for Lifetime Achievement by WWA and inducted into the Texas Literary Hall of Fame.
Judy is retired as director of TCU Press and the mother of four grown children and the grandmother of seven. She and her Bordoodle, Sophie, live in Fort Worth, Texas.
Follow Judy at www.judyalter.com, Judy’s Stew or on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/pages/Judy-Alter-Author/366948676705857
If you enjoyed Judy Alter’s Desperate for Death,
please consider telling others and writing a review.
You might also enjoy these authors
published by Turquoise Morning Press:
Cheryl Norman, author of A Dose of Romance
Linda Y. Atkins, author of Deadline for Murder
J. R. Scott, author of Brain Matters
Turquoise Morning Press
Romantically Yours!
www.turquoisemorningpress.com
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
