My melancholy increased at the edge of town, where it was impossible not to pass Ironweed U’s campus. The town was named for the university, after all, and the two had risen up together in the early twentieth century. Graduation had come and gone, and most of the students had left for the summer. It looked as though they had never been here. We passed the dorms, where the neat green landscaping and absence of activity made me think of Art even more strongly.
On a Saturday morning in June, Art would have been in his office in the biological sciences building, writing grant proposals, or over at the library, irritating the staff with outlandish interlibrary loan requests. On this Saturday morning, he also would have been getting ready for the wedding. He would not have changed his routine at all, but he would have been thinking about us, calling us and jollying us through the stress. Because that was how Art acted when things got difficult.
Where had he been going yesterday? As crazy as the orangutan’s arrival had been, it wasn’t like Art to forget one of our most important protocols and head off alone into the bush when dealing with animals we knew we couldn’t house. I sank against my window as we passed through the university’s main entrance, wishing Art was alive so I could ask him. What were you doing, Art? Where were you going that was so important? What weren’t you telling us? And, Who did you piss off? Rachel reached back over the seat and took my hand. She didn’t say anything, but she squeezed my fingers. I squeezed back. It was good to have family.
We reached the town of Ironweed’s shopping district, several blocks of stores ranging from herbal remedies to a franchise pharmacy sandwiched into an old-fashioned building. There were a lot of cars parked this morning, in spite of a conspicuous absence of nine-o’clock shoppers walking the streets. Commencement was last week, so I wondered if maybe the locals were starting to resurface for the summer. I thought Marguerite would have trouble squeezing her big van into the free lot that served as a partition down the middle of Main Street, especially if she wanted a slot close to Hannah’s. There looked to be a dozen or more empty slots at the other end of the lot, but she drove over an orange cone blocking a newly painted space and jumped out. “Come on,” she ordered us.
“Marguerite!” I said, following her out of the car. “You drove over a cone.” Her front tire was on the “wet paint” sign. The pressure of having Nana unspeaking beside her in the front seat must have affected her thinking.
“Had to,” she said. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
Nana got down and slammed her door, nodding as if the strategy made perfect sense. Nobody was behaving like they ought to today. Brenda stompling all over her mother, Marguerite parking over an orange cone, and my sensible grandmother nodding approval.
“But it says wet paint, right there,” I protested. “You’ll . . .” But Margie had buzzed across the street already.
The rest of us hurried after her across Main and down to Hannah’s. Today, the window that had been so eye-catching yesterday was empty. A sign proclaimed: Closed for renovation.
“What?” I was so shocked that I verbalized the sentiment. “I was in here yesterday! Hannah can’t be remodeling now. She’s coming to the wedding.”
I threw my gaze to Rachel, who met my eyes with a grim smile on her face. “Figures,” she said.
“But I don’t understand!” I wailed.
“I’m going in to ask,” said my conservative sister. Urgency must have made her bold; she yanked on the door as if she expected it to fly open because she had demanded entrance.
It did.
The shop door popped right open, and I was torn between relief and horror. If it opened, Hannah had to be inside. But if she was closed for renovations, she must have spent all of last night packing up her goods, and the little white jacket we wanted was unlikely to be anywhere that Hannah could lay hands on it.
“Come on,” Marguerite said, and she headed in, Nana following like they invited themselves into closed stores every day.
Brenda went next, and then Rachel, holding Poppy’s hand, and I finally followed.
They rounded on me as soon as I crossed the threshold, all four of them. Nana and Marguerite grabbed one arm and Brenda and Rachel the other. “What?” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Surprise!”
I couldn’t process what was happening. My sister, grandmother, and nieces caught me as I stumbled back. Where Hannah’s racks had stood not a full day before, there were now tables, chairs, and people. My family, the people I trusted, had deceived me. All of them.
“Surprise what?” I yelled back. But of course I knew. My mind flashed to Hannah yesterday, as she slid that drawing under the register. To Brenda’s foot and Marguerite’s guilty giggle when Nana lit into us at Mama’s kitchen door.
It looked like I was getting a bridal shower after all. I regained my balance soon enough, but it was longer than that before I got hold of my slightly hysterical bursts of laughter.
“You’re so hard to do something nice for.” That was Hannah, snickering at my discomfort.
“This morning?” I looked for my nieces and sister in the crowd as Hannah, Jan, and Mina came forward to lead me to a seat at one of the round tables erected where her racks should have been.
“Total setup,” said Brenda, who, it turned out, had never let go of my left elbow. “Everybody but you, Uncle Lance, and Bryce was scripted. We had to scramble after we found out you would be with us at Grandmama’s. And Bryce can’t keep a secret for anything, so we knew he’d tell you if we let him in on it.”
“You threw us for a loop coming to Mama and Daddy’s house,” Marguerite admitted. “But then Rachel figured out how to work you in and . . . it was so hard not to laugh!”
“But . . . but?” My eyes found Rachel’s, and I pantomimed to my own shoulder.
“Oh, I know about the tattoo,” Marguerite said. She rolled her eyes. “And don’t you worry. Rachel has a jacket to go with that dress already. We left it in the dress bag and didn’t show you.”
“But she was so upset!” I said.
“That wasn’t too hard,” Rachel told me. “I don’t even like to think about April, still. That prom was a nightmare from start to finish. Lisa and I felt like we had to go because of the whole stink, but half the school didn’t want us, and . . .” She suddenly snapped her jaw shut.
“Hang on,” I said. “You . . . I thought Nancy . . .”
“I made Nancy up for Mom’s sake,” Rachel said softly. Her face was already reddening, and I could see that this morning’s dismay had at least been honest. She went on, “I never thought . . . once she put it together that there was no such person and I was really the other girl she was keeping out of prom . . . can we talk about this later?” Her words had fallen into a lull in the babble of conversation that had greeted our arrival, and I wondered if I had accidentally outed her to the whole room putting the scheme together for myself.
But the conversations around us all picked up again as if nothing had happened over at our table, and I hugged my niece as tightly as I could. “If you don’t want to wear a jacket with that dress,” I told her, “you don’t even think twice about it.” It was all I could think of to say.
Then I turned to my oldest friend and asked her, “Hannah, how did you do this?”
“At first it was easy,” she told me. “Your mom was in shopping, complaining because you wouldn’t let her have a shower. This was a whole year ago, right after you and Lance got formally engaged. Anyway, she and I sort of put our heads together. We figured you would never expect it on the morning of your wedding.”
“Plus that was the only time any of us could be sure you wouldn’t suddenly go off to work!” Mama added, materializing at the edge of my vision.
Hannah continued, “We started decorating yesterday afternoon, and you barged right in on Mina, Jan, and I while we were planning.” She was laughing as she spoke, not a hint of frustration in her voice, though I now knew she must have been hiding one of Mama’s imposs
ible charts under the register when I burst in.
“You even fixed the parking spot!” I told her.
She and Marguerite exchanged an amused glance. “We completely plotted it against you,” Hannah said. “Now are you going to enjoy yourself or not?”
“Yes,” I said. “Absolutely.” I spoke into another lull, and this time I was sure the whole room heard me, because they cheered and toasted.
“I’m glad,” Hannah said more softly. “I was afraid we might be doing the wrong thing after . . . that awful . . .”
“No,” I said. “Art would have been heartsick if he had anything to do with stopping this wedding or anything about it.” For the first time since Lance and I had started saying that to each other yesterday, it felt true. Art, the everlasting romantic, wanted to see us wed.
The party was wonderful. I could not help but enjoy myself when I realized exactly how much work and love had gone into the effort. Besides Hannah, Jan, and Mina, Mama had captured two of my old college roommates, half a dozen local friends, and at least twice that number of family members. I talked with cousins and aunts I hadn’t spoken to in years. I got to see people in Lance’s family who had always regarded me as a sort of curiosity, the never-ending girlfriend, before now.
Although I had to field several questions about my parents’ house, these relatives had the grace not to say they thought it was cursed because it used to be a funeral home. None of them seemed to know what Sophia had done, and I hoped they wouldn’t find out. A couple of them asked where she was, and Mama said, “Dinner didn’t agree with her last night. She’s indisposed this morning.” They seemed pleased to know me in my new role as fiancée, and I forced myself not to think about their former judgmental attitudes when they were all being so pleasant today. I had been with Alex before Lance, and I doubted that Sophia had told them why Alex and I broke up. Or perhaps she had done so and cast me as a liar. Given that potential, maybe a little of their skepticism was warranted. All of them had to travel in for the affair, after all. I’d never even met most of them when I was dating the younger Lakeland.
As the shower wound down and they began making their way out the door in twos and threes, the last of my wedding jitters finally went away. Lance and I had decided to get married in a formal ceremony to please other people. These people. And up until now, everything I had done had been with them in mind. I had feared that formalizing our status in such a public way might actually drive a wedge between Lance and me, bring an end to something wonderful and comfortable. But seeing how the people we had been trying to please also wanted to please us eased my fears.
I still didn’t think it fair that some of these guests would only find our relationship legitimate upon the advent of marriage. But as the party wound down a couple of hours later, I forced myself to think instead of the people who had always supported us, Hannah, Mama, Nana, and even Marguerite. “And every one of you lied to me!”
“You’re not getting past that are you?” Brenda said with a smile. She was peeling up a white plastic tablecloth to be thrown away. I had been forced back to my seat every time I tried to help in the cleanup effort. So instead, I sat in a bewildering mountain of gifts, beaming at them all, marveling at their ability to connive. I picked up a flower-shaped dish that purported to be a romantic floating candle display.
Complete kit. Just add water and fire, the box assured me.
“It’s what you get for not having a registry,” Hannah pointed out as I put down the candle and picked up a silver First Christmas ornament. Really? Our first one was a while ago.
“But I do have a registry,” I said. “We asked in the invitation for people to donate to the center instead of giving us gifts.”
“Maybe they will for the wedding,” Mama suggested.
“Or maybe,” Marguerite said, “they feel like that’s pretty impersonal and they want to give you something you can keep.”
“I already have most of these things,” I protested. And I didn’t need quite a few others, but I didn’t tell Marguerite that.
“Oh can it already,” my sister said. “OK, so you are one of those unmaterialistic people who can go through life with few possessions and lots of love. Let people give you gifts, Noel. And if you turn around and donate them to a shelter, keep it to yourself.”
“Oh blast, I’m sorry, Margie,” I said, watching her attack the floor with a broom. “I didn’t mean it to sound ungrateful. The whole thing took me completely by surprise. I was sitting there thinking about how much work went into this, and how much you all kept under your hats, and how hard it must have been, and how much I appreciate it.”
“Congratulations,” she snapped, murdering several cake crumbs and a dust bunny. “That was exactly the message you conveyed.”
“I’m sorry, Marguerite. Really . . . really . . . sorry.” My voice slowed down on that last apology, because my mind was suddenly elsewhere. I realized that I knew the answer to one of my own questions about Art. “Oh, God, I have to call Lance,” I said.
I tried to stand up, but my knees were as jellified as they had been when I realized my whole family was lying about Rachel and her jacket. Only the shock in that case had changed quickly to pleasure. I wasn’t feeling any pleasure right now as I fumbled through my pockets for my phone.
“Aunt Noel, what’s wrong?” Rachel said.
“I have to call Lance,” I repeated. “Oh, God. Art didn’t . . .”
“Slow down,” Marguerite said. “Nobody can understand what you’re saying.”
“I’m trying to say Art was expecting those orangutans, Margie!” I shouted. “And he was up to something dreadful in the name of what he thought was good.”
CHAPTER 18
* * *
When Lance answered, I said without preamble, “Do you remember, when we finally got Art into Darnell’s car yesterday, how he kept saying we’d come too soon?”
“Um, I’m setting a bait pad with Trudy,” he said. “What’s this about?”
“Art was expecting that orangutan. Do you remember when he said . . .”
“Oh,” Lance said, understanding in his voice. “He didn’t mean we had come too soon, did he?”
“No. It was the orangutan. I’m sure he was expecting that animal, only not right then. Meet me at home.” He barely gave his assent before I hung up.
Marguerite took me out to my own house reluctantly. “Shouldn’t you pass your tip along to the police?” she asked.
“The people who think the orangutan is a man killer?” Last night, Lance and I went to sleep talking about how the police’s misguided belief that an orangutan had killed Art was clearly dominating their investigation entirely too much. Although Christian and Detective Carmichael had lobbied for the animal all night, I still had only limited faith that the officers wouldn’t shoot Art’s orangutans. “Even if I particularly trusted them here, which I don’t, I don’t want to send them off on some other goose chase. They took his computer; they have his phone; I’m sure they’ll figure it out themselves.”
“And you’re so sure you’re right.”
“No, I’m not. And that’s another reason for me to keep my mouth shut. As soon as I’m sure, I’ll get in touch with them. But I know Art, Margie. Everything he did yesterday was all wrong. He was being secretive, lying to people, lying to them, Margie. Lying to us. He was always the worst liar I ever knew. He couldn’t even conceal it for ten minutes when a grant got approved or rejected. Something this big? He must have been going nuts with the suspense. If Lance and I hadn’t been all caught up in the wedding, we would have realized sooner how off he was acting.”
Marguerite asked, “Didn’t you say you’d hardly seen him in the last few weeks?”
“Because of Sally and Gary’s graduating. Oh, I see. Maybe he was staying away on purpose.”
“It’s a thought,” she said.
“He may have known something about the animals to make him think he could walk up to the one. Although that’s still colo
ssally stupid.”
Marguerite seemed to be more of the cops’ mind. She let me bounce ideas off of her all the way to my house, but she kept making me promise to take anything I figured out from my home office back to the police. Then, as she pulled into my driveway, she scolded, “Now we could hold the rehearsal without you last night. Lance’s college friends and the minister were very gracious about that, by the way. But you will not be married by proxy. The wedding is at six. You must be at Mama’s by five to shower, get your hair done, and get your dress on. Sooner is better.”
“All right,” I told her. “Thank you.” Then I hugged her quickly and got out of the van, before she could change her mind and speed away without dropping me off.
I’d hardly let myself in the front door before the crunch of Lance’s tires announced that he had arrived to join me. “Hey, you eat yet?” he greeted me.
I was still reasonably full from the shower, but I joined him while he put together a sandwich out of the refrigerator. I asked, “Did my parents ever tell you what they were up to?”
“You mean the shower? Yeah, when I went out to talk to your dad about the roses on my way out, he clued me in. So I guess we’ve got a bunch more stuff coming this way.”
“Yeah. Margie’s van is loaded up with it. They’ll bring it over tomorrow. She’s all on wedding setup today.”
“Anything useful?”
I said, “I don’t know. Some of it is nice. Mama and Daddy got us more of our plates and those stoneware mugs. And Marguerite framed us a fantastic print of chimps in the wild. But a lot of it . . . I don’t know what we’ll do with a Tiffany lamp or an expensive vase.”
The Marriage at the Rue Morgue (A Rue and Lakeland Mystery) Page 15
