by Kelly Rey
CHAPTER FIVE
At five o'clock on Saturday night, I tore myself away from a Saved by the Bell rerun featuring Mario Lopez's dimples to head for the shower. My cat, Ashley, remained curled up in a tight little ball on the sofa, snoring gently. I envied her. The most pressing things on Ashley's weekend schedule were naps and gynecological self-exams.
I did the best I could with my hair and face, then hauled my bridesmaid's dress out of the box. Turned out its pretty peach-colored face had fooled me. On its hanger, the dress had been chic and sophisticated. On my body, it was Vegas Strip, and not in a touristy way.
At seven, I gracefully stomped to Oxnard's door in my comfortable stiletto heels. A plump fifty-something woman in a maid's uniform answered my ring. Her nametag read Pandora.
"The solarium." Pandora pointed the way before plodding off, head hanging, the very picture of nuptial jubilation.
The solarium was all windows and greenery and soaring arrangements of white roses on either side of a makeshift altar. Rows of padded chairs lined an aisle defined by even more white roses. I stood in the doorway, admiring it.
"It's about time you showed up."
Sybil appeared beside me in a satin robe and high heeled slippers, the kind worn by divas on soap operas. She glanced out at the back nine that was Oxnard's yard. Hundreds of tea candles floated on the in-ground pool, and thousands of tiny white lights sparkled in the trees and bushes. Yards and yards of white lace and silk were draped about with casual artistry to lend an air of class and to hide the trash cans. It would be gorgeous after dark, if the marriage lasted that long.
"Oh, for God's sake." She sliced across the room. "I told Lizette I wanted the shades down." She stabbed at a remote control and cream-colored shades descended until the solarium resembled a luxe jail cell with no view and a thug for a roomie.
She snapped, "Come," and clattered along at a breakneck pace down a hallway, up a set of stairs, and finally into a fabulous master bedroom suite. I wasn't dressed for wind sprints. I stood in the doorway panting like a gazelle on the Serengeti. I really had to add some cardio to my workouts. Right after I added some workout to my workouts.
She threw herself onto the duvet. "Oxie cheated on me."
I leaned over, hands on knees, to catch my breath. "What?"
"He cheated on me," she repeated.
"He did?" I sensed a reprieve. "Are you getting married today?"
"It's not like he can actually do it," she said. "He can hardly see it. But he gives it his best shot."
I had the pinch marks to prove it. "Are you still getting married today?"
"It's the intention," she said. "He was fawning all over that Dusty Rose. What girl could resist him? Powerful men are an aphrodisiac."
So were oysters, but I wasn't going to date one of them, either.
"So are you getting married today?"
She hauled herself upright. "Well, soon I'll be Mrs. Oxnard Thorpe. I'll have more money than Dusty Rose could even dream about. He'll pay for embarrassing me like that. Just you wait."
Turns out I didn't have to wait long.
By the time Sybil had speared herself into her tasteful red sequined wedding dress, everyone had gathered in the solarium with lots of foot tapping and glancing at watches. Lizette Larue, wearing a light green sheath and a cashmere cardigan the color of Colombian emeralds, jingled about with a scowl as if she was sure someone was going to screw up something. I recognized the women from the luncheon playing the parts of friends of the bride.
There were his-and-her wizened faces with Oxnard's predatory eyes, and I figured them to be his brother and sister. Bitsy Dolman was there, slouched beside an elegant man with very white hair and a millionaire's tan. She was clearly half-toodled, but she could still follow the scent of money. Every now and then, she slid the man a sideways glance full of longing. He didn't seem to notice, probably because she wasn't strapped to his wrist on a platinum band.
And in the last seat of the last row, wearing a purple gown straight out of junior high prom night, her blue hair hidden under a hideous feathery saucer of a hat, her arms and legs crossed, her Doc Martens bouncing impatiently, sat Maizy.
At nine o'clock, Oxnard took his place, bland classical music filled the air, and Sybil made her entrance, her red dress standing out against the white decor like a puddle of blood. She barely glanced at her groom, not that he would have noticed. He was busy winking at Dusty Rose behind Sybil's back. I wondered why a moneybags like Oxnard Thorpe would let his bride storm down the aisle to some generic Eternal Romance: Classic Love Songs CD.
The officiant launched into some rambling opening remarks. After about ten minutes—during which I think I heard someone say, "Will you get on with it? God!"—he mumbled a few words that couldn't possibly have been heard beyond the front row before inviting us to applaud the happy couple. And we were foisted off on Pandora, who scurried about with a huge silver tray as if she was on a deadline. When she'd dispensed with the hors d'oeuvres, she disappeared into the house, practically dragging the tray behind her.
Maizy was nowhere in sight. That couldn't be good.
"Well, that's done." Sybil was beside me. I hadn't even heard her coming. Smoke made more noise than she did.
"Congratulations," I said. "Everything went off without a hitch."
"Except for the old windbag." She pointed her chin toward the officiant. He was chatting up the Oxnard look-alikes, who nodded and frowned and shook their heads in unison. It was fascinating to watch, like a parlor trick you couldn't quite grasp.
Sybil moved off to the head table, which was round rather than rectangular, so that she wasn't exactly next to her husband, but rather around the bend from him. If he ever showed up. He and Dusty had their heads together in deep discussion across the room.
"Jamie!" Sybil bellowed. "Don't spill anything on that dress or you won't be able to return it."
That drew some glances, and all of them seemed to be saying "what a cheapskate." I slunk over to her side and grabbed the first champagne I could get my hands on, wishing I had the nerve to throw it on her.
Lizette showed up a few seconds later. "Your husband sent me over for the check."
Sybil bobbed and weaved to keep an eye on him. "What check?"
"Balance due," Lizette said. "It's payable today according to our agreement."
"Oh, that." Sybil did a dismissive little hand flap. "You'll have to get that from him."
Lizette glanced at me. I arranged my expression carefully to read Don't look at me, I'm not responsible for the money, and could you send over Pandora with some food?
"He told me to get it from you," Lizette repeated patiently.
"Don't bother me with that now," Sybil snapped. "I'll put it in the mail."
Becoming the Adult Diaper Queen of New Jersey sure hadn't mellowed her any.
Lizette's lips tightened. "Fine." And she stormed off.
I felt terrible for her, being stiffed after planning this decidedly third-rate affair. And jealous, because she got to leave early.
"You know you have to pay her," I told Sybil.
"What for? I didn't hire her." She didn't even have the grace to be ashamed of her cheapness. "Get a load of the two of them," she groused, shooting daggers in Oxnard's direction.
"They're probably talking business," I said, just as Oxnard did his squeeze-and-claw routine with Dusty's hand. Dusty did not seem pleased. In fact, she'd flushed deep red. I looked at Sybil. Who was looking at Oxnard. Who was looking at Dusty.
Sybil drained her champagne and reached for Oxnard's. "I'm cutting her pay."
Five minutes into the reception, and I could see it wasn't going to end well. A few guests had already slipped away like inmates who'd suddenly discovered an unlocked gate. The rest were swilling martinis and eyeing the clock, impatient to move on to their next social obligation or maybe just out of this one.
Snippets of conversation floated over to me: "…like a hooker in that getup" and "…don't ge
t me started on him" and "…believe she's returning that dress?"
"Congratulations, Mrs. Thorpe." The white-haired object of Bitsy Dolman's affection towered over the table.
Sybil didn't bother to react. "Herman."
He clamped a hand on her shoulder and bent to plant a smacker on top of her head. "You make a beautiful bride. Where's your new husband?"
She shrugged him off and pointed her flute in Oxnard's direction.
He patted her shoulder and let his hand fall. "Well, I'm sure you two will be very happy together."
"Oh, get off it, Herman," she snapped. "I'm his fourth wife. It's hardly true love."
What a romantic.
Herman glanced my way. "Call me if you need me," he said.
"I have a husband now," she said.
We all glanced over at Oxnard and Dusty.
"I'll just be on my way," Herman said. "Good luck with your marriage." He glanced at me again, this time with pity, and marched off.
Looked like as long as I sat near Sybil, I'd never be in a crowd.
"Who was that?" I asked.
"That," she said, "was Herman Kantz, the man who covets my husband's money."
I knew I'd had the right idea by hiding my emergency stash under Ashley's litter box. No one with a nose would ever check under there.
Sybil snatched the champagne glass out of my hand. I hardly noticed. I was watching Herman and Oxnard chatting while Dusty made herself scarce. But within a minute or two, the chat got heated, Herman got red, Oxnard got loud, and Dusty reappeared ostensibly to smooth the waters. Only Oxnard had no intention of being smoothed. Without warning, he threw his drink into Herman's face. Herman blotted his cheeks with a monogrammed hankie while Bitsy Dolman came streaking to his defense with a fistful of canapés that she launched at Oxnard. They pinged off his chest with cheesy little splats.
That was when Dusty pivoted on her five-inch heels, clutching a fistful of bacon-wrapped pigs in a blanket, and opened fire until Bitsy's perfectly shellacked hair was draped with bacon bits and the room smelled vaguely like a luau.
"Oh, no, she doesn't," Sybil snarled, grabbing a basket of breadsticks from the table. She heaved them at Dusty like javelins. One of them went wide, spearing Oxnard in the throat. He went white, clutched his neck with both hands, and stumbled backwards from the room.
Which prompted the Stepford Oxnards to avenge their brother. Except Oxnard's sister had chosen a plate of Caesar salad to make their stand. They plunked a crouton off Sybil's shoulder and sat down again, exhausted.
Pandora chose that moment to return from the kitchen with a full tray of food. She took one look around, and her arms dropped. The tray crashed to the floor, spilling perfectly good filet mignon everywhere.
Pandora turned and walked out.
Herman Kantz had disappeared after his champagne shower.
Bitsy skirted past Dusty and slipped into the house, presumably to hunt for Herman.
Dusty gave Sybil one last glare and followed Bitsy, presumably to hunt for Oxnard.
The Stepford Thorpes, sufficiently recovered from the exertion of tossing lettuce leaves, lowered their brows (in unison) and crept away arm in arm, in no hurry to hunt for anyone.
Sybil stormed after all of them, probably to chase them to their respective cars.
And just like that, the reception was over.
Not for me. I planned to sample that filet mignon that had landed in an arrangement of roses and those roasted potatoes that had rolled beneath a canopy of baby's breath. I left the green beans on the floor. I'd never been much for veggies.
Five minutes later, Maizy sat down beside me wearing jeans and a black long-sleeved T-shirt. "I never knew weddings were this much fun."
"Where have you been?" I asked between bites.
"Here and there," she said. "Mostly there." She pulled out her cell phone and snapped a picture of the room. "I thought these people were going to be a bunch of stiffs. Thanks for inviting me."
"I didn't invite you," I said. "And where did you get that hideous dress?"
"At a yard sale. Three bucks."
"You paid too much," I told her. I took a bite of potato. Perfection. Just to be sure, I shoveled the whole thing into my mouth.
"Why are you in such a bad mood?" Maizy asked. "You just made half a grand the easy way."
It hadn't felt easy to me. I'd rather have stayed home in bed with Mario Lopez's dimples.
"Don't wait for me," I said. "I'm sure you have Honest Aaron's Z outside."
She snorted. "Get real. I have more class than that."
Despite all sartorial evidence to the contrary.
"I rented a stretch limo," she said.
I almost choked on the potato. "Don't tell me you wasted your money on a limo."
"Of course not," she said. "I might have suggested they bill Oxnard. What's another three grand to a moneybags like him?"
I stared at her. "It cost three grand to get here?"
"It cost a hundred bucks to get here," she said. "It costs $2,900 to get to Niagara Falls. That's where my friend Lainey really wanted to go. I hear it's pretty there. You and Uncle Curt should check it out sometime."
A dull pain throbbed behind my eyes. "You told them to bill Oxnard for your friend's trip to Niagara Falls?"
"What, he can't spend $2,900 on his alleged great granddaughter?" She nodded toward the shaded glass wall. "What's out there?"
I pointed to the remote control lying in a puddle of green bean juice. Maizy shook it off and pointed it at the window. The shades obediently slid upwards, revealing the thousands of sparkling lights. "That's pretty," Maizy said.
Oxnard Thorpe was floating face down among the tea candles in the swimming pool.
Maizy and I looked at each other.
"But that's not," she said.
CHAPTER SIX
I stood at the edge of the pool, staring down at Oxnard while trying to take deep breaths despite the almost painful tightness in my chest. He hadn't moved so much as a finger; the only mobile part of him was the wispy hair streaming out from his head like tentacles from a squid.
Maizy rushed up with the long-handled pool skimmer and thrust it at me. "Here. See if he's really dead."
I took an inadvertent step back. "You do it."
"I don't want to poke him," she said. "It's disrespectful."
"Well, I don't want to poke him, either," I said.
"How about this. We'll float him closer to the edge and haul him out."
"Still disrespectful," I said. "Why don't you jump in and bring him closer?"
"I'm not going to jump in there," she said. "There's a dead guy in there. I don't touch dead people."
"Fine." I grabbed the skimmer. "I'll do it." I stretched it out, misjudged the distance, and thwacked Oxnard soundly on the back. No reaction from Oxnard. My reaction was immediate uncontrollable shaking that made my teeth clack together. I tried again and managed to hook him by the leg. We knelt on the concrete apron and pulled him to the edge. "Do you know how—" I began.
Maizy had already whipped out her ever-present latex gloves and pressed two fingers to Oxnard's neck. After a few seconds, she peeled them off and stuffed them in her pocket. "Poor old dude."
I looked away, but the image of Oxnard's shriveled, pasty, floating corpse was seared into my brain. "We need to call the police," I said. "And we need to find Sybil."
"Agreed," Maizy said. "But first give me your keys. We need to move your car."
"Why are you worried about my car right now?" I asked.
"I'm always worried about your car," Maizy said. "But if someone drives by, we don't want to be the last ones here. People will notice. Maybe they already have. It wouldn't be good for us."
Good was a relative thing. I took another peek at Oxnard. Still dead.
I stood up abruptly. "You're right. We should get out of here."
"Now you're talking," Maizy said. "I'll meet you upstairs. Give me your keys."
I frowned. "W
hy would we go upstairs?"
"Because we should find out who killed him," Maizy said. "And that's where the clues are."
There were so many things wrong with that. Starting with: "Why should we find out who killed him?"
"If not us," she said, "Who?"
"The police?" I suggested.
"I'm not saying they can't help," she said. "Don't worry—I'm going to call them. Now are you done hoovering your plate of cholesterol and starch? Because we should probably get moving before he starts stinking up the place."
Oh, gross.
"I was not hoovering," I said indignantly. "I was just hungry. And how do you know what's upstairs, anyway?"
Maizy rolled her eyes. "Where do you think I was all night?"
I was getting that feeling again. The one where I pretended to know what I was doing while Maizy galloped a mile ahead. "Don't tell me you were skulking around this house."
"It was a self-guided tour," she said. "And once you get past the walk-in closet full of boxes of No Flows diapers, it was pretty much like every other multi-million-dollar house."
Eww. Also, TMI.
"Come to think of it," she said, "my aunt Lulu at the assisted living has a closet full of diapers, too. She sells them to other residents at five bucks apiece. Aunt Lulu always did have an entrepreneurial spirit."
"Has it occurred to you that maybe no one killed him?" I asked. "Maybe it was a horrible drunken accident."
"I don't think so," Maizy said. "He was drinking apple juice and Metamucil."
I stared at her. "How do you know that?"
She shrugged. "Because I mixed it for him. How much of that stuff are you supposed to use, anyway? Is a half a cup good?"
I kept staring at her.
"Doesn't matter," she said. "Water and the bridge, right? I'll take care of the car. Then we'll get started."
I waited there, but only because I wasn't feeling too good. Finding dead bodies tended to up my general quease factor. Or maybe it was the farce of a wedding that had done that. I wasn't one of those women who'd dreamed of their wedding day since birth, but I liked to believe true love was a possibility, like six-pack abs and twelve-hour lipstick. Even though Oxnard Thorpe had been a handsy old geezer, he hadn't deserved to die on his wedding day. Alone.
