Wedding Day Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “I’d love for you to wear it. Nothing would make me happier.”

  “Well . . .”

  Lucy hurried downstairs, almost bumping into Bill in the kitchen.

  “Where is everybody?” she asked.

  “Outside, waiting for the J.P. I was just getting some drinks.”

  Lucy peered into the refrigerator.

  “You’ll have to go to the store. We need soda, and you can pick up a sheet cake. Try to get one that isn’t too colorful,” she said, pushing him out the door.

  “Champagne glasses, champagne glasses,” she muttered to herself, opening the door to the pantry.

  Lucy was setting the glasses on a tray when the kitchen door opened and Zoe came in.

  “What are you doing, Mom?”

  “We’re going to have a wedding. Sidra and Geoff are getting married in our gazebo.”

  Zoe’s eyes widened and she started jumping up and down in excitement. When Sara thunked down the kitchen stairs from her room where she’d changed into dry clothes, Zoe grabbed her hands and started dancing with her around the kitchen.

  “Enough, girls. I need your help,” said Lucy. “Go out to the garden, will you, and pick every flower you can find.”

  The girls were shocked.

  “Every flower?”

  “Absolutely. And then you can make them into bouquets, okay? One for each of you and one for Sidra.”

  “What about me?” It was Elizabeth, home from her date with Lance.

  “You can help, too. You can all be bridesmaids.”

  Giggling, the girls headed for the garden.

  Lucy was filling a pitcher with ice when Toby came home.

  “Toby!” she exclaimed. “Don’t you have a boom box up in your room?”

  “Sure, Mom. But the batteries are dead.”

  “Just bring it down, okay? We need it for the wedding.”

  “Wedding?”

  “Just get it,” she said, hearing the familiar crunch of tires on gravel. “I think that’s the justice of the peace.”

  It was Bill.

  “Thank heaven it’s you,” she said. “Where’s that big extension cord? The one we use for the Christmas lights?”

  “Gee,” said Bill, setting the grocery bags on the table. “For a minute there I thought you loved me for myself alone.”

  Lucy peeked into the bag. “This was the best you could do? ‘Happy Birthday, Zelda’?”

  A hush fell as they gathered in the gazebo and Lucy pressed the button on the boom box. The stately phrases of Pachelbel’s “Canon” filled the air, and they all turned toward the house.

  First came Zoe, in her best summer dress. She was carrying a basket of dandelion heads which she scattered on the pathway. Kudo followed, the ring tied to his collar with a white handkerchief, scarfing up the kibble Zoe had cleverly mixed with the flowers to guarantee his cooperation.

  Next came Sara, also in her summer best, blushing brightly as she tottered along in her first pair of heels. She was clutching a bouquet of zinnias and cosmos, tied together with cascades of curling ribbon.

  Then Elizabeth appeared, quite a sight in hot-pink Capri pants and a pair of cool European-style wraparound sunglasses. Inwardly, Lucy moaned.

  At last, Sidra stepped forward, a vision of loveliness as she floated down the path in the white wedding dress. Lucy heard Geoff’s sharp intake of breath when he saw his bride, and she reached for Bill’s hand, feeling his warmth as he gave her a gentle squeeze. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  Sidra took her place beside Geoff.

  The justice of the peace opened her book.

  “Dearly beloved . . .”

  “Who is Zelda and what is she . . . that nobody remembered to pick up her birthday cake?”

  Geoff was beaming, standing with his arm around his bride and offering her a bite of cake topped with orange-and-blue frosting.

  “I’m not wasting any tears on Zelda,” said Sidra, taking a bite. “I’m far too happy.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Lucy, passing around the champagne glasses filled with ginger ale. “We’ll have a mock champagne toast. To happiness.”

  “To love,” said Bill.

  “To true love,” said Sidra.

  “For years and years of happiness together,” said Sue.

  “What the hell is that thing?” said Sid, squinting at the sky.

  They all looked.

  “Could be a UFO,” suggested Toby, a hopeful note in his voice.

  “It’s a balloon. Probably a weather balloon,” said Geoff.

  “No,” said Sue. “It’s a hot-air balloon.”

  “A silver hot-air balloon,” said Lucy, hardly able to believe her own eyes.

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you for not inviting me,” said Norah, sipping some ginger ale. “I got suspicious when I saw the vacation schedule, so I called the town clerk and found out you’d gotten a marriage license. Then I had the research department call all the churches and justices of the peace.” She shrugged. “I mean, what is a staff for, if you don’t use them? Of course, getting the balloon was another thing entirely. That took some doing. They had to call all over the Northeast.”

  “I’m so glad you made it,” said Sidra, giving Norah a hug. “Even if you had to come by balloon!”

  “Oh, the balloon’s for you and Geoff,” said Norah. “My gift to you; it’s going to take you to the airport where you’ll depart on a European tour! Have a great time, kids.”

  “But we haven’t packed . . .” protested Sidra.

  “I have a thesis presentation . . .” began Geoff.

  Norah waved her cake fork as if it were a magic wand.

  “Trust Norah. Everything’s been taken care of. Now, off you go!”

  Geoff grinned broadly, then scooped up Sidra and carried her to the balloon, carefully placing her in the basket. Then he hopped in beside her.

  “Cast off,” he told the engineer, and the balloon slowly began to rise.

  The girls ran toward it, jumping up and down. “Toss the bouquet!” they yelled. Kudo joined them, barking.

  Sidra smiled and dropped it; Zoe snatched it from the air as it fell.

  Geoff and Sidra waved as the balloon rose, and they all waved back, watching as it sailed off toward the distant mountains.

  “That was the most beautiful wedding I’ve ever seen,” said Lucy, tears streaming down her face.

  “It was absolutely perfect,” Sue blubbered, embracing her in a big hug.

  Special Bonus!

  Please turn the page and

  take a trip down memory lane

  with Lucy Stone as she relives

  her wedding day!

  “Mom, there’s nothing to do.”

  Lucy was standing in the kitchen, looking out the rain-streaked window. The leaves were already beginning to change, and the rain had made them glisten and shine like an Impressionist painting. It had been raining all day and everything was soaked through. The lawn was a soggy sponge, there were big puddles in the driveway. It was far too wet for Zoe to play outside. Inside, the house was unnaturally quiet. Toby and Elizabeth had left for college the week before, Sara was having supper at a friend’s house and Bill was working late.

  “I’m bored.”

  Zoe had wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist and was leaning against her. Lucy stroked her soft, curly hair. Considering how busy she had been all summer, it was hardly surprising that Zoe was feeling rather lost. Lucy felt the same way. She missed the older kids, she missed the constant slam of the screen door as they came and went, she even missed never knowing quite how many there would be for supper. Zoe had loved staying up later than usual, tagging along for evening swims at Blueberry Pond and trips to Mr. Frosty for ice cream. But the highlight of her summer had been Geoff and Sidra’s wedding, when she’d been a flower girl.

  “I know,” said Lucy. “Let’s get out the wedding pictures.”

  Zoe went straight to the coffee table in the family room, where
the packet of photos from Geoff and Sidra’s wedding was lying among the magazines and clickers. But Lucy had something else in mind and was on her hands and knees in front of the bookcase. Finding what she wanted, she brought a big white photograph album over to the couch.

  “Who’s that lady?” asked Zoe, snuggling beside her and pointing to the photograph of a bride and groom that was on the front cover.

  “That’s me! Me and Daddy.”

  Zoe was not convinced. “Doesn’t look like you.”

  “Well, it is,” said Lucy, studying the photo of the picture-perfect bride with her long hair pulled back and piled on her head underneath the tailored bow that held her veil. She remembered posing for that picture: how her shoes had pinched her toes; how silly she’d felt in the stiff padded bra her mother had insisted she wear; how the dry-cleaning fumes from Bill’s tux had made her feel nauseous under the photographer’s bright lights.

  Zoe pointed at the picture of the groom with her stubby little finger. “Is that Daddy?”

  Lucy laughed. Bill did look rather unnatural with his pale, freshly-shaven chin and a glassy stare. He’d balked at a haircut, she remembered, and had tied his long hair back into a ponytail which had caused quite a stir among the older relatives.

  “That’s Daddy. He was very nervous.”

  Lucy opened the album and stared at the first picture, a formal portrait of the entire wedding party.

  “Who are all those people?” asked Zoe.

  “Daddy and I are in the middle. Then there’s Jack, the best man, and Daddy’s friends Doug and Steve. The lady in pink is my maid of honor, Debbie. She was my college roommate. The others are Corinne and Kathy.”

  “Are you still friends? They never visit.”

  It was true, thought Lucy. They had all been great friends in college, and had gotten together regularly for a few years afterward. But then marriages and jobs had taken them all in different directions.

  “They all live far away and have families of their own. Jack came a few years ago—I guess it was before you were born. We get Christmas cards from them.”

  “Did you have a shower like Sidra?”

  “Well, I had a shower, but it wasn’t like Sidra’s. Corinne organized it, in my dorm at college.” Lucy smiled remembering how they had smuggled in a bottle of wine, which was against the rules, and how they’d stifled their laughter so the house mother, Mrs. Hopkinson, wouldn’t discover them. No, it had been nothing like Sidra’s shower, thought Lucy, remembering the gifts. “I still have some of the presents—the grapefruit knife, a vegetable peeler, and my Corningware casserole. And that pitcher,” she added, pointing to a piece of handmade pottery she had filled with sunflowers.

  “You always put sunflowers in that,” said Zoe.

  “I like the way they look,” replied Lucy.

  Lucy flipped the page and came on a photo of herself, posed in front of a mirror. Her mother was beaming at her, reaching up to adjust her veil. The picture had been posed and gave no hint of the tension between them that day.

  “That’s my mother. Your grandma. You probably don’t remember her. You were just a baby when she died.”

  “She looks like you.”

  “You think so?” asked Lucy, shocked.

  Zoe nodded. Lucy looked more closely at the photo of the trim woman with a shining cap of short hair and saw her own reflection. Of course, appearances could be deceiving, Lucy told herself. She was nothing like her mother, who had organized her wedding with a precision and authority a general could only envy.

  She’d been an unstoppable force, remembered Lucy, who had envisioned her wedding as a simple statement of vows exchanged on a mountainside or a beach. Afterward . . . Well, she and Bill hadn’t really thought about afterward. She’d guessed their friends would bring things to eat and a portable stereo and they’d have a party.

  “Lucy, dear, that just won’t do,” her mother had said, upon hearing her plans. “Leave everything to me.”

  And Lucy had, being much more interested in spending time with Bill and her friends at college. She’d had courses to take, papers to write and parties every weekend. Periodically her mother would call to confer about the wedding plans and Lucy had listened, half-distracted, agreeing with everything. She hadn’t realized what she’d gotten herself into until she was summoned home to shop for a wedding dress.

  “Something simple,” Lucy had suggested. “Those Mexican dresses are pretty that everyone is wearing. With flowers in my hair? I don’t think I’ll need shoes—I’ll go barefoot.”

  “How original, dear,” her mother had replied, starting the car and whisking her into the city, where they’d visited every bridal boutique between 59th and 72nd Streets.

  Lucy soon discovered that none of the boutiques went in for Mexican cotton, so she settled on the simplest dress she could find. Shopping for shoes and a veil had taken another entire day and Lucy had escaped gratefully back to school where she soaked her sore feet and discussed the situation with her friends.

  “She wants me to wear a wig thing,” Lucy had complained. “A fall, she calls it. And she says I absolutely have to wear a bra.”

  The girls clucked in sympathy. They’d all burned their bras as an act of protest the first week of the semester.

  “And pantyhose.”

  The girls were horrified.

  Lucy had decided to wait awhile before showing them the picture of the bridesmaids’ dresses.

  “Look at the cake!” exclaimed Zoe, bringing Lucy back to the here and now. While Lucy had been lost in her reverie, Zoe had been leafing through the album.

  She stared down at the picture of herself and Bill holding the knife, preparing to cut into the six tiers of white frosting topped with marzipan roses. At least there were no statues of a bride and groom, thought Lucy, admitting that her mother did have good taste. Everything had been lovely, everyone had said so.

  Flipping back a few pages, Lucy found her favorite picture: one of herself and her father dancing. Pop had died of a heart attack some time ago, when the older kids were quite young. Lucy still felt guilty about the way she’d behaved when she saw him for the last time in the hospital, only half of her attention focused on him, the other half still back in Maine with Bill and the kids. She hadn’t understood how serious his condition was; she hadn’t believed he wouldn’t always be there for her like he was at her wedding.

  She looked at the photo and smiled, remembering how she’d faltered in the back of the church.

  “Chin up,” he’d whispered. “It’ll kill your mother if you don’t go through with it, but you can get an annulment tomorrow.”

  She’d laughed, he’d squeezed her arm and then she saw Bill, waiting for her at the end of the long, white carpet. She’d floated down the aisle.

  “Where was your honeymoon?” asked Zoe, when they got to the photo of the car decorated with streamers and a “Just Married” sign.

  “I bet you can’t guess,” said Lucy, pulling Zoe close for a snuggle. “It was someplace really special.”

  “Disney World?”

  “No. We didn’t have much money—we were just getting out of school. We borrowed a cottage from one of Daddy’s friends. It was just a simple place, with an outhouse.”

  “It doesn’t sound very good to me.” Zoe wrinkled her nose. “Honeymoons are supposed to be romantic.”

  “Oh, it was romantic. We took baths in the lake, we walked on the shore, there was a huge stone fireplace and we stayed up all night talking and making plans for the future. It was perfect.”

  She kissed Zoe on her nose.

  “That’s when Daddy decided he wanted to be a carpenter and restore old houses. We decided we’d live in the country in a big old farmhouse and have four children and a dog. And a vegetable garden.” Lucy paused. “So where do you think our honeymoon was?”

  Zoe shrugged.

  “Right here. In Tinker’s Cove.”

  Zoe pushed the album aside and stood up. Facing her mother
she put her hands on her hips.

  “Mom,” she said, in a disapproving tone. “You should have gone to Disney World!”

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek

  of BIRTHDAY PARTY MURDER.

  Finally, a sunny day, thought Lucy Stone, wife of restoration carpenter Bill Stone, mother of four and part-time reporter. Thick, gray clouds had covered the little Maine town of Tinker’s Cove for most of March. According to the weatherman, it was global warming that brought one cold, gray, sunless day after another. There hadn’t been much warm about it, but it had certainly depressed everyone she knew, thought Lucy. But today the sun was shining and good spirits would be restored.

  Lucy reached for her bright pink turtleneck and pulled it over her head, shook out her shining cap of hair and studied her reflection in the mirror that hung over her dresser. Were those gray hairs, she wondered, leaning closer for a better look. She ran her hand through her short, dark hair and gently grasped a handful so the sun that was streaming through the window could fall on it.

  When did that happen, she asked herself. When did her hair start turning gray? And why hadn’t she noticed? She considered yanking out the gray hairs, but there were too many of them. She would have to get some hair color. Or should she leave it be, and let her hair lighten naturally? She remembered her mother, who had always insisted her hair was as dark as ever, long after it had faded. No, she decided, she wasn’t ready for the salt-and-pepper look.

  As she turned her head from side to side, imagining the effect of the hair color, the shaft of sunlight fell on her face. Was that a little mustache she was sprouting on her upper lip? She leaned anxiously into the mirror. No, she wasn’t sprouting a mustache; it was a series of fine lines. Little wrinkles, she realized, dismayed. And there were more, around her eyes. She’d simply have to be more careful to remember to apply moisturizer, she told herself, reaching for her favorite gray slacks.

  She pulled them over her legs and automatically reached for the button, but something was wrong. Had she somehow twisted the waistband? She looked down and saw a little pooch of flesh protruding between the two sides of the zipper. She sucked in her breath and zipped up the pants, then fastened the button. She carefully let out her breath and the button held. Just to be on the safe side, she pulled a long black sweater on over the pink turtleneck. The effect was slimming, but she knew it was only a temporary solution. Summer was coming, which meant shorts and sleeveless shirts and, she gasped in horror at the thought, a swimsuit.