“That depends on who you’re talking to.” Skye cringed at the thought of informing Riley and Anita that they would need another floral designer. “When will you know if that thing is the weapon?”
“Probably later today or tomorrow at the latest.” Wally slid into the driver’s seat. “It’s not as if the county crime lab has any other murders ahead of ours.” He put the squad in reverse. “I’ll call your cell when I have some news. Meanwhile, mum’s the word.”
“Yeah. Right,” Skye muttered. “That’s one of the few flowers that isn’t being delivered here in the next twenty-four hours.”
Riley’s wedding and reception were being held at the Thistle Creek Country Club located halfway between Scumble River and Laurel. When Frannie turned into the long drive, she pointed to a man pounding the ground with a five iron and said, “Will you look at that?”
“Well, long ago when men cursed and beat the earth with sticks, it was called witchcraft.” Skye snickered. “Nowadays we call it golf.”
“You are so not funny.” Frannie shook her head.
Skye shrugged. Trying to make a teenager laugh was like trying to amuse a cat—you never got the result you were hoping for.
As they continued down the winding road, Skye was astonished by the number of golfers present. How come there were so many people able to take off from work on a Tuesday in the middle of June? Then again, the lush, green, gently rolling hills spoke of privilege, not laboring at a nine-to-five job.
Frannie broke into Skye’s thoughts. “What are you smirking at, Ms. D.?”
“Just trying to picture my father or cousins dressed in lime green plaid pants and pink polo shirts, hitting a little ball from hole to hole.”
“Not going to happen. Unless they can shoot it, gut it, and have it for dinner, no way will your relatives waste their time on it.” Frannie parked in front of the clubhouse, a cream-colored brick building with huge floor-to-ceiling windows. “Who do you need to talk to here?”
“The events manager.” Skye got out of the car. “You can go hang around the pool if you want. I’ll find you when I’m ready to go back.”
“Okay.” Frannie headed toward the back of the structure. “Take your time. I’ve got a book in my purse.”
Skye waved and went inside. To the right were the golf shop and offices, and to the left was the ballroom where the ceremony would be held.
A woman dressed in a blue linen suit approached her immediately. “Ms. Denison?”
“Yes. Please call me Skye.”
The woman held out her hand, and Skye noticed that her put-together image was ruined by nails bitten down to the quick. “Good afternoon, I’m Allison Waggoner, the events coordinator for Thistle Creek.”
“Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice.”
“No problem. The Erickson-Jordan wedding is my top priority. Normally we don’t allow bridal parties to start setting up until the day before the wedding. But Mr. Jordan agreed to pay us for an entire week.” Allison motioned down the hall. “Would you like to see what’s been done so far?”
“That would be great.”
“I was sorry to hear about Ms. Canfield’s death,” Allison said after she and Skye entered the ballroom.
Although no formal announcement about Belle’s murder had been made, by Monday morning the news had leaked out through the Scumble River grapevine. They were just lucky that no one had connected the wedding planner to the famous Mickey Canfield.
“It was a shock.” Skye scanned the woman’s face, trying to read her expression. Was she truly sorry that Belle was dead, or was she relieved not to have to deal with the difficult wedding planner anymore?
“Do they have any leads?”
Skye shrugged. “Not that they’re sharing with me.” Was Allison’s question idle curiosity, or was she asking because she was the killer?
“But you consult with the police, don’t you? And, of course, you’re dating the chief, so I’m sure if anyone knows what’s going on, you do.”
“Are you from around here?” Skye asked, ignoring Allison’s comment.
“I’m from Laurel, but my mom lives in one of the new senior apartments in Scumble River.”
“Oh.” That explained why Allison knew so much. She could tap into the small-town gossip network. “Does she like it there?”
“Loves it.” Changing the subject, Allison swept her arm around the room. “What do you think?”
Although they still had a long way to go, the chairs had been set up, as had a partially constructed colonnade of ten-foot-tall Corinthian columns against a fairy castle backdrop. “So far, so good.” Skye consulted her binder. “Are those Chaivari chairs?”
“Yes. Just as Ms. Canfield specified.”
“Great.” To Skye they looked like a version of the ladder-backs in her own dining room—except these were smaller and painted gold. But Belle’s notes indicated that Riley had specifically requested all the chairs used in her wedding be Chaivari. Considering the ones for the reception would be covered in fabric and no one would see them, Skye was baffled as to why having this particular kind was so important.
“It was hard to locate so many since the tent-and-rental company you’ve hired is our usual source, and they’re using their supply for the five hundred needed for the dinner. But as I said, this event is my top priority.”
“I appreciate your efforts on our behalf.” Skye was an advocate of positive reinforcement. Also, considering she had already received one threatening phone call, she wasn’t taking any chances of being next on the murderer’s hit list. “When will the rest of the room be completed?”
“The structure will be done this afternoon. The carpenter is at lunch right now, but he’ll be back any minute to finish the crown top.”
“Terrific.” Skye checked her binder again. “And the fabric people are scheduled for tomorrow?” Nine hundred yards of white silk and chiffon would be swathing the reception tent from ceiling to floor. The colonnade would be framed with pink voile, and Iris would fill the top with clusters of roses, hydrangea, and golden branches. “I understand our caterer is using your facilities and waitstaff; is that correct?”
“Yes. That’s all taken care of.” Allison consulted a notebook she pulled from her blazer pocket. “Although the catering company is from Chicago and has a mobile kitchen, so they only need ours as a staging area.”
“Can you show me where the bride and her party will get ready?”
“This way.” Allison led Skye toward the other end of the building. “We’ve equipped two of the empty meeting rooms—one for the bride and the other for her attendants—with mirrored vanity tables, chairs, comfy sofas, and a small fridge.”
After Skye inspected the two dressing rooms, she and Allison went outside, where several workmen were laying Plexiglas over the pool to create a dance floor, and a gigantic tent was being constructed next to the patio. The plan was for the ceremony to take place in the ballroom; then everyone would move to the patio for the cocktail party, then on to the tent for dinner, and back to the pool and patio area for dancing.
Skye spotted Brian Cowden directing the men and called, “Hello.”
He waved but didn’t join her.
“Wow.” Skye glanced around. “This is truly amazing.”
“It’s the biggest, most elaborate event we’ve ever hosted.” Allison nibbled on a fingernail. “This is our chance to really get the club on its feet financially.”
“Oh?” Skye questioned. “I hadn’t realized Thistle Creek wasn’t doing well.”
“It’s doing fine, but an enterprise like a country club is a huge investment and takes a while to show a profit.”
“And this wedding could push the club into the black?”
“Exactly.” Allison’s eyes held a mixture of hope and fear. “But it’s a lot of responsibility, especially since there are so many details.”
“That must be hard on you.” Skye studied the event coordinator. “It sounds as if
the owner is really depending on you.”
“Yes, he does count on me.” Allison’s cheeks turned red. “And I’d hate to let him down. He’s such a special man, and he’s put every penny he has into this place.” She picked at a flake of dry skin near her thumbnail. “That’s why the contract Ms. Canfield had us sign is so worrisome.”
“Because of the penalties it imposes if anything is late or not to specifications?” Skye guessed.
“Precisely.” Allison gazed into Skye’s eyes. “Ms. Canfield was holding a sword over our heads, since it all came down to whether she signed off at the end. And no matter what I did, she was never happy.”
“I’m certain that’s not the case.” Skye’s tone was encouraging. “Belle was probably just nervous herself. I’m sure she wasn’t really that bad deep down inside.”
“Maybe.” Allison shrugged. “But you’re young, and it sounds as if you still think there’s good in everybody. Trust me—if you believe that, you just haven’t met everybody.”
CHAPTER 13
Razzle-dazzle
Once Allison went off to admonish a workman whose pace was lagging, Skye took out her phone and dialed Wally. She’d used her cell more often this past month working on the wedding than she had since she’d gotten it, and she was finally beginning to understand why the device was so popular.
It rang and rang, and she was figuring out what message to leave on voice mail when Wally answered, “Hi, sugar. Sorry it took me so long. I was on the landline with County.”
“Did they figure out if that thing Frannie found was the weapon used to knock Belle out?” Skye couldn’t decide which answer she wanted to hear. If Wally arrested Iris, Skye would be up a floral river without a designer.
“No. They’re still running tests. They probably won’t know until tomorrow.”
“How about fingerprints?”
“There were a slew of them on the box, so it’ll take a while to match them all, but they weren’t able to get any usable prints off the possible weapon because of the raised pattern on the metal.”
“Shoot.”
“At least they know what it is.”
“Is it a Victorian bouquet holder?” Skye had been turning the question over and over in her mind and thought she had come up with the answer.
“Very good.” Wally’s smile was evident in his voice. “One of the crime tech’s parents owns an antique shop and she recognized it. She says she’s pretty sure it’s authentic, not a reproduction.”
“Now that we know what it is, do you want me to casually ask Iris about it?” Skye dug out the floral designer’s list of inventory. “It’s not mentioned on the sheets she gave me, so it would be natural for me to bring it up.”
“It would probably be better not to give her any advance warning that we found it.” Wally’s tone was thoughtful. “Let’s wait and see if the dent matches the vic’s wound.”
“Sure,” Skye agreed. “Then I’ll keep working on wedding stuff, and you can call me if you need anything.”
“Will do,” Wally approved. “I’ve got Martinez watching Ms. Yee, and, up to now, she’s been acting normal and hasn’t left the motor court.”
“Well, that’s a good sign.” Skye was still hoping Iris was innocent. “Anyway, the reason I called is about the owner of the country club.”
“Kent?”
“Do you know him?”
“Slightly. He seems like a good guy. What about him?”
“I don’t think I’ve met him, but the club’s event planner gave me an earful about how much they need the money from this event.” Skye filled him in on the details.
When she finished, he asked, “But wouldn’t that mean that both Kent and the event planner would want the wedding to go on as planned? Which would mean keeping Belle alive.”
“True. Unless Belle threatened to use one of the contract stipulations to stiff them.” Skye explained, “They’re getting paid in three installments. They got twenty-five percent when the venue was booked, another twenty-five at the beginning of May, and they won’t get the remaining fifty percent until Saturday night.”
“Great. More suspects.” Wally sounded discouraged. “Just what we need.”
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault,” he assured her. “At least I cleared that mother of the bride who went after Belle with the cake knife. She’s divorced and honeymooning in Acapulco with her new husband.”
“Was she ever a viable suspect?”
“No, but it’s good to cross her off the list.”
“At this point any step forward is a good one. Even a baby step.”
After saying good-bye to Wally, Skye opened her binder, trying to decide what she should do or whom she should see next. As she skimmed the list, her heart sank. She’d been blocking the upcoming activity from her mind.
Riley had insisted that the entire bridal party have a dance lesson before the wedding, and it was today at two thirty. Skye shuddered. She had no sense of rhythm whatsoever, and she looked like a squirrel in a clothes dryer when she danced. She knew this for a fact from her two previous experiences in taking dance lessons.
Her first had been in second grade, when her mother had made her take ballet. The other students had been dancing since they could walk, and those sweet little girls were not happy when a newcomer was added to their troupe. They taunted Skye mercilessly, saying she looked like a hippopotamus, and that her tutu was really a “fourfour.”
Those baby ballerinas had terrorized Skye until she finally locked herself in the bathroom. She came out only after her mother promised she wouldn’t have to attend any more sessions.
Although Skye had lost weight in sixth grade, she never forgot that experience, and when she took her second set of dancing lessons five years ago during her engagement to Luc St. Amant, the scion of a wealthy Louisiana family, she still associated dancing with those cruel seven-year-olds.
Mrs. St. Amant had not been pleased with her son’s choice of fiancée and had tried to scare Skye off in various ways, one of which was to enroll her in a debutante dance class. Luc had begged Skye to humor his mother, and she had given in, agreeing to attend.
The fact that Skye was several years older than the other young women, and a damn Yankee who had snagged one of New Orleans’s most eligible bachelors, did not make for a pleasant learning environment. Skye lasted through the twelve-week course but vowed never to put herself in that position again.
And that was before she had had an epiphany and had given up her diet, realizing that rice cakes made better packing material than snack food, sugar-free Jell-O was gummy water, not dessert, and chocolate was God’s way of saying he wanted women to be happy.
Now that she was no longer willing to suffer the deprivation of the eight-hundred-calorie-a-day diet she’d stuck to for more than fifteen years, and had gained weight, Skye wanted to take another dance lesson about as much as she wanted to stick a straight pin in her eye.
Nevertheless, she had no choice. Unlike the other members of the bridal party, who had free will, Skye was on the payroll, and Nick and Riley were shelling out big bucks for her to do what they wanted.
On the bright side, it would give her a chance to chat with the male half of the wedding entourage. The men had only been formally questioned about Belle’s death. Who knew what they might reveal in the heat of a tango? Especially if Skye could manage not to step on their toes.
It was already one thirty. She had only an hour to get back to Scumble River, check with Justin and see if he had found the electronic file, show Frannie what to do next, and go home to change into a skirt and high heels, the mandatory dress code for the afternoon activity.
As Frannie drove them to the motor court, Skye gave her a rundown of what she wanted her to do the rest of the afternoon, then called Justin’s cell.
“Yeah.” Justin’s voice crackled. “I found the order, but you won’t like what it said.” He cleared his throat. “The engraver was right. Ms. Canfield made the
mistake, not them.”
“Shoot!” Skye felt a headache starting up. That meant they’d have to pay the engraver for the second order, as well as the rush fee. Good thing Riley and Nick thought money was no object. “Thanks anyway. Are you still in Laurel?”
“No. I’m about ten miles from Scumble River,” Justin reported.
“Great. Meet us at the motor court. We should be there in fifteen or twenty minutes.”
When Skye flipped her phone closed, Frannie asked, “Bad news?”
Skye nodded, searching her purse for an aspirin. She dry swallowed the pill and said, “I’m going to close my eyes and try to get rid of my headache.”
“Sure, Ms. D.” Frannie’s glance was sympathetic. “You rest. Everything will be fine.”
When they were all back at the Up A Lazy River, Skye got the teens started on the place cards. The calligrapher had finished inscribing the guests’ names and had delivered the cards that morning. Now they needed to be assembled and sorted for the reception. Skye instructed Frannie and Justin to call her if they ran into any problems, then hopped into the Bel Air and sped home.
While she changed into a dress and heels, Skye thought about what she had learned about Belle so far. On the one hand, the wedding planner was a greedy witch who made the life of those who worked for her miserable. On the other hand, she seemed intent on producing a perfect event. What was wrong with this picture?
Bent over, one foot halfway inserted into her pump, Skye paused. Why would a rich, society fashionista care so much? It wasn’t as if she needed the money or the job. Was it because she wanted to be famous? Or was Wally right about Belle wanting to prove something to her parents?
Maybe she just enjoyed the power. Even though she had to take orders from the brides, ultimately their weddings were in her hands. Or was the rush of spending hundreds of thousands of dollars nearly every day the attraction? Skye shrugged and finished putting on her shoes, but somewhere in the back of her mind she knew that if she could unravel Belle’s motivations, she would be a lot closer to solving her murder.
Murder of a Wedding Belle Page 13
