“The best man, of course.” Skye ran her fingers through her curls. “I swear he has a death wish. First the half-naked waitresses, then the stripper. If Riley doesn’t kill Zach, his wife will.”
��
Skye breathed a sigh of relief when she pulled into the club’s parking lot at ten and saw the tent-and-rental company’s truck backed up to the rear of the building. She had been afraid that Wally’s questioning of Brian Cowden would cause the crew leader to be a no-show. Next to Cowden’s truck was the floral designer’s leased van and the linen consultant’s Corvette. All the key players had arrived.
Skye assigned Justin to help Iris and her team, who would be assembling the dragonwood branch trees and placing them around the patio, as well as positioning the floral hedges along the aisle in the ballroom.
Frannie was given the floor plan for the dinner and told to make sure the tables and chairs were set up accordingly, then the favors and place cards put in their designated spots.
Both teens would assist the linen consultant with the tablecloths, overlays, napkins and napkin treatments, and chair covers, sashes, and clips.
Once Skye had assured herself that everything was going according to schedule, she headed back to Scumble River. The afternoon’s bridesmaid activity was one that Riley had insisted Skye couldn’t miss. They were all going to the Scumble River spa to be made beautiful for the wedding. Skye wasn’t sure what all that entailed, but she knew she probably wouldn’t like it.
The groom and his men had opted out of the spa experience and were going golfing. Skye knew nothing about the game, but she dearly wished she could join the guys. After the horrible events at the spa eighteen months ago, during which a woman was murdered, she had vowed never to return. When would she learn—never say never?
The bridal party was scheduled for noon, and Skye was the first to arrive, so she got out her cell phone and started punching buttons. According to Belle’s binder, all vendors needed a check-in call the day before the wedding.
Skye had completed three-quarters of her phone calls by the time Riley and her bridesmaids appeared—this was one event to which Anita, Dora, and Nick’s stepmother had not been invited.
The bride and her attendants were immediately shown into a large treatment room containing four stations—two chairs with foot basins positioned side by side, and two chairs with small glass tables in front of them. One entire wall was covered with shelving that contained nail polish of every imaginable color, from chalk white to coal black.
The group paused just inside the door, waiting for instructions.
One of the three aestheticians stepped forward and said, “Hi, I’m Didi, and I’ll be doing the manicures.” She pointed to two women who looked enough like her to be her sisters. “This is Mimi, who will be doing the pedicures. And this is Fifi, who will handle waxing. Who wants to do what first?”
Riley turned to Skye. “Why don’t you go for the waxing?”
Crapola! “No.” Skye’s tone brooked no arguments. “Our dresses are floor-length, and no one is seeing anything that might need waxing on me. I’ll pass.”
Riley opened her mouth to protest, but Hallie stepped forward. “I’ll go first.”
“Terrific.” Skye smiled gratefully at the girl. “Let’s get started.”
Hallie walked away with Fifi, and Paige and Tabitha sat at the manicure table, leaving the pedicure stations for Skye and Riley.
Once they climbed carefully into the slightly elevated seat and eased their feet into the hot, soapy water, Riley swished her blond ponytail and said with an exaggerated huff, “We have a problem.”
“Only one?” Skye grinned, refusing to let her cousin ruin what was supposed to be a relaxing experience.
“If you can smile when things go wrong”—Riley tilted her head—“you must have someone in mind to blame.”
Skye ignored her cousin. “Ah, this feels heavenly.” She flexed her toes.
Mimi pulled up a low stool directly in front of Skye, dipped her hand into a jar, and worked coconut sea salt cleanser into her feet.
“Pay attention,” Riley whined. “My mother and aunts are trying to ruin my wedding.”
“I doubt it.” Skye tuned out the bride and said to the aesthetician, “That smells delicious. It makes me want a piña colada.”
“Skye!” Riley stamped her foot, causing a small tidal wave in her basin. “You’re not listening to me.”
“Uh-huh.” Skye closed her eyes as Mimi removed a pair of terry-cloth booties from a steam cabinet and slipped them on Skye’s feet.
“They want to make sweets for my wedding. I told them we’re having it catered, and any additions would throw the menu off balance.” Riley leaned over and poked Skye’s biceps with her finger. “But they say it’s tradition.”
Beneath her lashes, Skye saw Mimi wheel her stool over to Riley and take the bride’s feet from the bath. She quickly dried them and put them on a rolled towel, then got up to empty the container of water.
“Is it really that important?” Skye soothed. “Chill.” She hoped a foot massage would relax her cousin.
“If you can stay calm about this, you don’t have all the facts,” Riley wailed.
“Come on. They’re really good cooks.”
“I don’t care.” Riley stuck out her lip. “Their stuff won’t look professional.”
“And you want me to tell them not to bake?” Skye wasn’t prepared to insult the female half of her father’s family over a cupcake. “I don’t think so.”
Riley narrowed her eyes. Silent and brooding, she pushed her bottom lip in and out. Clearly she had not finished with the discussion.
Taking advantage of the lull in conversation, Mimi pointed to the wall of nail polish and asked, “Have either of you decided on a color, or did you want a French manicure?”
“Ballet Pink,” Riley answered before Skye could make a choice.
Mimi looked at Skye, who said, “Whatever she wants. She’s the bride, and I know everyone will be checking to see if our toes match.”
Skye watched as Mimi expertly painted Riley’s toenails, then jumped slightly when her cousin suddenly said, “Well, if you won’t tell the aunts and cousins not to bake, then you’ll just have to make sure whatever they bring doesn’t get put out or served.”
“No way.” Skye shook her head. “I can’t do that. You’ll be gone on Sunday. I, on the other hand, live here, and have to face these women after you leave.”
“Then I’ll take care of it myself.” Riley’s expression was unreadable. “No way is anyone screwing up my dream wedding.”
“Do what you have to do.” Skye was relieved to let the subject drop and hoped Riley would forget her plan in all the wedding-day excitement.
After the manicures and pedicures were finished, and everyone but Skye was waxed, the women moved on to the tanning station, located in a screened-off area by the pool. The group was given paper bras and panties and terry robes and told they could relax on lounge chairs while they waited their turns.
While Riley and Tabitha were being sprayed, Hallie excused herself to make a call, leaving Skye alone with Paige. She felt a little awkward after having caught the matron of honor with her tongue down the waiter’s throat, so she searched her mind for a safe topic. “Did you enjoy the races yesterday?”
“They were okay.” Paige shrugged. “Not as cool as Del Mar, of course.”
“Of course,” Skye agreed, having no idea what made one racetrack better than another.
Before she could think of more small talk, Paige said, “About last night—”
“No need to explain.” Skye cut her off. “I’m trying to make a decision about my own love life, and what you said made me think.”
“Great.” Paige smiled weakly. “I’m always willing to make the mistakes if someone else is willing to learn from them.”
Skye nodded; then, to keep the conversation going, she said, “I’ll bet you’ll be glad to get home on Sunday.”
>
“I guess.” Paige didn’t sound too sure. “This whole week has seemed like a dream.”
“More like a nightmare to me,” Skye joked. “I sure had no idea how hard being a wedding coordinator could be.” Turning serious, she said, “I wonder why Belle did it. I mean, if my father was a multimillionaire, I sure as heck wouldn’t be working for persnickety brides.”
“You would if he cut off your trust fund and canceled your credit cards,” Paige replied.
Skye was shocked. “Why did her dad do that?” How hard it must have been for a pampered socialite suddenly to have to earn a living....
“Well.” Paige’s expression held a spark of malice. “Although it was quickly squashed by the Canfield Corporation and never became public knowledge, Daddy Canfield got a tad upset when his baby’s sex video hit the Internet.”
A sex video—yikes! “I can see how that might make a parent angry.” Skye didn’t even want to picture what her own father’s reaction would be in those circumstances.
“Especially if your family’s resort chain is promoting an image of wholesomeness and respectability,” Paige added with an air of disdainful amusement. “Think how Walt Disney would have reacted if Snow White and Prince Charming made a porno film.”
“Yep.” Skye nodded. “That would be a problem. But even I know that once something’s on the Internet you can’t get it off every site. Since the damage was done, why would the Canfields care about keeping secret the fact that they’d taken away Belle’s trust fund because of the video?”
“Because the Canfields maintained that it wasn’t Belle on the video. The official statement was that one of their business competitors made the video using an actress who looked like Belle in order to embarrass the Canfield Corporation. And since you couldn’t see the man’s face, there was no way to find him and verify whether the woman was Belle or not.”
“Ah.” Now Skye understood. “So if word got around that they had cut off her trust fund, it would strengthen the case that it really had been Belle on the video and not some double.”
“Right. The only reason I heard about the whole thing was because it happened while Belle was planning my wedding.” Paige inspected her fingernails. “Up until then, her bridal-consulting business had been more of a hobby and a way to get publicity. But the night of my bachelorette party she got wasted and told me about her dad cutting her off. She kept sobbing that she couldn’t live without her trust fund.”
Skye pursed her lips. This cleared up why the family’s attorney had shown up so quickly. He was there to put a positive spin on any information released about Belle, and make sure her death didn’t cause a scandal.
Skye settled back in her chair and considered Paige’s revelation. Remembering the phone conversation she had overheard the day before the murder, Skye realized that GiGi was a common nickname for a grandmother. Belle’s plea for another chance might have been in reference to her father, not a boyfriend.
And the wedding planner’s lack of funds explained why she’d been blackmailing the vendors. Also, if she was desperate for cash, that could explain the counterfeit money. But did it help to reveal who might have killed her?
Before Skye could decide, a scream ripped through the air and Riley burst from the tanning stall, her skin a bright shade of orange.
CHAPTER 22
All That Glitters
It had taken a while to calm down Riley. Skye had tried to assure her that the spray tan didn’t really look that bad. In truth, it was all Skye could do not to call her cousin Sunkist. Finally, the aesthetician slathered Riley with some “magic” lotion, then resprayed her. Only after the bride resembled a nutmeg rather than a tangerine did she allow Skye and the others to leave the spa.
In spite of Riley’s tanning emergency, it was only three in the afternoon, and Skye had already called Wally to fill him in on what Paige had told her about Belle and confirmed that everything was set up at the country club for the rehearsal. She rechecked her schedule. Yep, everything that could be done today had been done. At last, she had a few hours to herself. Time to go home, make a cup of tea, and think about the murder.
Sitting in her sunroom with Bingo on her lap, Skye mulled over the past six days. There was nothing like a purring cat and a sip of Earl Grey to get her mind working. She was convinced that somewhere she’d missed a clue to Belle’s death. But what?
They had found out that Brian Cowden was the mystery man at the Brown Bag, but he had an alibi. Hallie had heard Belle arguing with someone, but she hadn’t been able to identify whom. They’d found the weapon that had been used to bludgeon Belle into unconsciousness, but it hadn’t provided any evidence as to who had wielded it.
What had Skye failed to notice? Someone had said something that had stuck in the back of her mind, but she hadn’t followed up. She mentally went through the last few days. It hadn’t been Monday, when she and Wally interviewed the vendors, or Tuesday, when she’d been at the dance lessons. The flowers had arrived on Wednesday morning; then there had been the pink box crisis ...
Shoot! Now she remembered. When she ran into the Dooziers at Wal-Mart, Earl had bragged about having favors for Elvis’s reception. Rose perfume. Just like the perfume Skye had banished to the trash can. And Frannie had mentioned hearing an animal rummaging around in the motor court’s garbage. Could the Dooziers be outfitting their wedding with Belle’s castoffs?
Earl had also said something about people yelling at the bridal consultant. Had he seen or heard something as he was Dumpster diving that might lead the police to the murder? There was only one way to find out.
It was three forty-five and the Doozier wedding started at four. Grabbing a gift from her emergency supply, Skye wrapped it hastily in white tissue paper, then ran out to her car. She sure hoped the couple needed a toaster.
She hadn’t had time to change out of her khaki slacks and white T-shirt, but in view of who was hosting the affair, she would most likely still be the best-dressed person there. And that included the bride, the groom, and the entire wedding party.
As Skye drove north on Kinsman, she saw cardboard arrows with the word WEDDING pointing the way to the Dooziers’. It was odd seeing placards leading to their house, since their usual practice was to take down the street signs so people couldn’t find them. Which, considering what they reportedly did to outsiders, was probably for the best.
The Dooziers’ property was almost as difficult to describe as its owners. Dried-up weeds lined the cracked sidewalk, and dead grass poked between the rusty carcasses of junked cars and old appliances that littered the yard. A strange collection of garden gnomes, which hadn’t been there the last time Skye had visited, was arranged among the overgrown scrubs in family groupings. While she wondered where they had come from, she doubted she’d want to hear the answer.
The house itself was an indeterminate color, somewhere between watery oatmeal and putrid oyster. It might have been white at one time, but now the siding looked like the corrugated sections of a rain-soaked cardboard box. Long years of neglect made the structure seem ready to collapse with the first strong wind or heavy snow.
The dirt driveway was full of pickups, motorcycles, and even a couple of riding lawn mowers when Skye pulled in. It appeared that she was among the last to arrive for the festivities.
She had barely gotten out of the Bel Air when Earl rushed out of the house, letting the front door slam shut in his haste. He was wearing new jeans that were so stiff he had trouble bending his legs, a camouflage T-shirt, and a NASCAR ball cap. Although it was a pleasant seventy-two degrees, his face was shiny with sweat.
Earl loped toward her, smiling widely. “I knowed you would come. Glenda said you wouldn’t, that you was too snooty. But I knowed you’d wouldn’t never miss Elvis gettin’ hitched.”
“Of course not.” Skye allowed herself to be hugged, briefly, then handed Earl her gift. “Sorry I’m late.” She removed herself from the little man’s embrace and said, “I wouldn’t miss this w
edding for the world.”
Out of sight, a dog was barking, but the canine’s recent visit to the front lawn was evident from the pungent odor lingering in the air. Skye felt her nose twitch and hastily reached in her pocket for a Kleenex.
As she raised the tissue toward her face, Earl said, “No need to cry, Miz Skye. It’s time the boy settled down.” Elvis was all of eighteen, but the Red Raggers married young, and Skye wondered whether his twin sister was now considered an old maid. For that matter, what did the Dooziers think of her, still single at thirty-five?
“Has the ceremony started yet?” She needed to ask Earl about Belle but knew it was best not to question a Doozier directly. You had to mosey into the discussion, then sidestep the subject into the conversation, pretending you weren’t all that interested.
“Nope.” Earl pointed to a Harley skidding into the driveway. “That-there’s the preacher now.”
Skye tried not to stare as the tall, gaunt man, dressed from head to toe in black leather and sporting a ZZ Top beard, dismounted and walked toward them. His nearly waist-length gray hair floated around him like a cloak, and the hand that held the Bible was missing two fingers.
Earl introduced the minister to Skye, then took them both around back. Mismatched picnic tables were arranged facing a beer-bottle arch erected over a child’s swimming pool that had been filled with concrete to form a dais. Sitting on the tables’ benches and scattered lawn chairs were the cream of Red Ragger society.
Skye could barely keep her mouth from hanging open. There were more piercings and cleavage, and fewer teeth, than she’d ever seen gathered in one place before. Multiple earrings were stuck in every visible orifice, and probably those that weren’t visible, too. Low-cut tank tops strained to cover the breasts of the female guests, and some of the more well-endowed male guests, as well.
As Earl pushed Skye into an empty seat, a cartoonlike voice screeched, “Earl Doozier, get your ass in this house right now. Your brother’s locked hisself in the can and won’t come out.”
Murder of a Wedding Belle Page 22
