My Big Fat Supernatural Honeymoon

by My Big Fat Supernatural Honeymoon(lit)

  “Yes, sir.”

  He glared at the rest of my attire and the coat on his daughter. “All that, too?”

  “Yes, sir.” What the hell?

  He gave a grudging nod. “All right, Dot. You can have him, but Becker and Cooley here go along, too.”

  She emitted another growling sound. So did the goons. No one looked pleased. She glared at Huffman; the goons glared at me. Maybe they’d heard stories, too.

  “As chaperon,” said her father. “For my peace of mind.”

  “Whatever makes everyone happy,” I said.

  She shot me a dark glance. “Okay, but just Cooley.”

  I got the impression that this father—daughter team did a lot of bargaining. Huffman agreed.

  “And I’m in charge. What I say goes,” she added.

  Huffman nodded again. “Fair enough. Got that, Cooley?”

  Cooley grunted. He was about the same age as Huffman, made from the same brand of tough. Becker had half as many years and looked frustrated at not getting picked for the job. He settled for giving me a threatening stare. Eager beavers annoy me.

  “Now what?” asked my client.

  I fished my car keys out. “Let’s go to church.”

  “STEP ON IT, WE HAVE TO HURRY,” DOROTHY said as I pulled my coupe away from the curb. Cooley was a silent presence squashed between us, hard to ignore.

  “Why?”

  “Because the Pullman I reserved to get us to Niagara Falls leaves at midnight. I’ll be on it with my husband or know the reason why.”

  “Could have mentioned that earlier. I can’t guarantee we’ll find him in time.”

  “If you don’t, then I’ll take my mother instead, I’m not wasting a perfectly good reservation. She likes Niagara. She went there with Daddy for her honeymoon. You married?”

  “Not yet.” I had hopes.

  I’d proposed a number of times to my girlfriend, but she always turned me down. My being a vampire had nothing to do with it. With her singing and soon an acting career to look after, a boyfriend was okay, but not a husband. Apparently they take more work.

  After one proposal too many she let me know the subject was closed, and if I opened it again she would get mad. Since she knows how to use a blackjack, most kinds of handguns, and even a crossbow, I decided there was no percentage in pressing things.

  For the time being.

  One of these nights she just might be in the right mood to say yes. When that happened I’d whisk her off to the nearest justice of the peace before she could change her mind.

  “Your father gets his clothes at Del Morio’s?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh. He thinks very highly of Mr. Del Morio. If you buy there, then you’re in.”

  “In what?”

  “Daddy’s good books. Mr. Del Morio doesn’t sell to just anyone.”

  He hadn’t sold to me, either, not knowingly. Not showing up in mirrors makes buying clothes awkward. Since my change I’d gotten into the habit of sneaking into the store after closing, helping myself, and writing up a sales receipt. I’d leave it and cash on the manager’s desk with THANK YOU FROM LAMONT CRANSTON printed in block letters on the envelope.

  I was a blood-drinking creature of the night, not a thief.

  ST MICHAELS CHURCH WAS IMPOSING YET APPROACHABLE, WITH a picturesque steepled clock tower and white stone trim against red-brown brick walls. I drove past the front and got a good look at the big statue of St. Mike himself in its alcove above the main door. Must have been a tough job to get him in place. If I wasn’t so chicken about heights I’d be tempted to float myself up for a closer look at the art.

  The surrounding streets were choked with cars, but Dorothy directed me toward the back where lights showed in some windows on the ground floor; the wedding reception was still going strong. A few must have left early; I found a space.

  As I slipped into it, Huffman and his remaining goon parked at the curb by a door and went inside first. He said he’d give some excuse to everyone.

  “I hope he doesn’t tell them Jerome and I had a fight,” she said. “We never fight. What are you doing?”

  I’d gotten out and was checking all the cars within view. A LaSalle parked a dozen yards away had steam on the windows. “What does Jerome look like?”

  “He’s handsome, like Ralph Bellamy, and wearing a tuxedo.”

  I looked at Cooley.

  “Black hair, twenty-five, medium build, dime-size brown birthmark here.” Cooley touched a finger to his jaw just under his right ear.

  I crossed to the car with the steamed-over windows and yanked open the back door. The couple within screamed in unison, first shock, then outrage. Given my night vision the dim interior was no obstacle. The man did not look like Ralph Bellamy and lacked a birthmark—at least under his right ear. I tipped my hat, told them sorry, and slammed the door shut. The woman snarled, and there were loud clicks as someone belatedly locked things.

  Dorothy emerged from the coupe, pulling my overcoat tight around her.

  “Wasn’t him,” I reported.

  “But Jerome would never—”

  “Just covering the bases, Mrs. Schubert.”

  “I’m not used to hearing that. Call me Dorothy.”

  “What d’ya know, that’s my favorite name tonight.”

  “And you’re—”

  “Jack.” I started toward the church. “Inside.”

  “But they’re all waiting to see me. I couldn’t.”

  “Sure you can. You need to change clothes for the honeymoon.”

  “If there’s going to be one.”

  “We’ve got a few hours.” I offered my arm and took her in.

  Good thing I don’t have a problem about walking into churches or dealing with religious stuff, or I’d have to conduct my investigation in the parking lot. Cooley stalked behind. Like all good mobsters he had a poker face, but I thought the farce with the interrupted neckers had amused him.

  People in fancy clothes were gathered in the hall, and a gaggle of bridesmaids rushed us, flinging questions. I winced at the noise in the small space and felt Dorothy flinch, her hand tightening on my arm.

  “Pick one to help you change. I’ll handle the rest,” I murmured out the side of my mouth.

  When the first wave subsided, she called the maid of honor over for help, and we were soon whisked off to some females-only area in the back. I was left in the hall outside the changing room with Cooley, half a dozen girls in matching blue satin gowns, stray wedding guests, and a lot of curiosity. No one knew who I was, but as I began asking questions they took me for a cop, and I was disinclined to correct them.

  I got a lot of information about the wedding and the confusion following the groom’s vanishing. It added up to what I’d already learned from Dorothy. By then the bride’s mother, a formidable long-boned woman, sailed past, sparing me a single grim look but making no comment. When she went in to see her daughter, Cooley visibly relaxed.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Tough broad—uh—lady,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Wouldn’t want to be in Schubert’s shoes if she gets hold of him. Nobody makes her kids cry.”

  I took the opportunity to get more background from him on the family. The Huffmans had produced four daughters, Dorothy being the eldest. If Big Louie planned to marry the other three off in similar high style he’d be giving his baseball bat a lot of wear to finance things. Maybe he’d arranged for Schubert to vanish, but it would have been cheaper to do that at the engagement stage.

  “What’s Schubert like?”

  “Some college guy. He’s okay. His people ain’t hurtin’.”

  “What’s their game? Jewelry?”

  “Yeah.”

  I’d been kidding, thinking about the rocks Dorothy had worn. “You mean he’s with Schubert Jewelers?” They were the biggest noise in five states for that kind of thing.

  “Yeah, Siggy Schubert’s only kid.”

  Good grief. �
�Has it occurred to anyone that he might have been kidnapped?”

  From what I could read from Cooley’s poker face, it had not.

  “What’d you see tonight?” I asked.

  “Usual stuff.”

  “How about unusual stuff?”

  He shook his head. “I stuck with the boss. Didn’t see nothin’. Dot started to get loud all of a sudden, yelling for Schubert, and next thing y’know she’s running out the front. The boss took off after her, Becker ‘n’ me took off after him, then we followed her cab to your street.”

  “Not to the door?”

  “Fast cabbie. He’d turned and was comin’ back empty, so we knew he’d dropped her off.”

  “How did you—?”

  “Car by the curb, light was on upstairs. Only one on the block.”

  Smart guy. “Anyone got a problem with Jerome?”

  “The old man likes him, so’s the ol—Mrs. Huffman.”

  “How ‘bout the Schuberts? Any problem with them about Dorothy?”

  “Not that I know.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  “Makes no diff to me. Boss’s daughter does what she likes. Always has.”

  “You work tor him long?”

  “What’re you getting’ at?”

  “The boss’s daughter is one sweet pippin.”

  “I ain’t blind, but she’s not worth my kneecaps.”

  “Who thinks she is?”

  He clammed up, lips going thin, gaze directed elsewhere. Not so long ago, before some bad things happened that ripped away the ability, I’d have hypnotized it out of him. That door was now shut forever. Any attempt to open it would probably kill me.

  I could try beating it out of him, but there was a matter of mob etiquette. By having Gordy vouch for me, I was effectively his representative. One of Gordy’s boys getting into a donnybrook with one of Huffman’s boys—not good for business. I had to behave.

  That aside, I now knew there was someone here who thought Dorothy was worth risking possibly lethal trouble. Chances were good they’d be on the Huffmans’ side of the church aisle or Cooley would have given me a name. Better, he and his pal Becker would have quietly taken care of it themselves, and I’d never even have met Dorothy.

  I knocked on the changing room door.

  “Not yet!” Someone within yelled.

  I’d seen undressed females before. The view never fails to fascinate. I opened the door two inches and called through. “Dorothy? You decent?”

  “Let him in, it’s all right,” she said.

  Her mother did the honors, reluctantly, not giving me much space to squeeze through. She’d provided Dorothy’s somewhat hatchety face, but the grim look was all hers. Mama tigers were less protective. “She’s not ready,” she stated.

  Dorothy was on a chair, using a shoehorn to lever her feet into some obviously new mules. She had on a graceful blue traveling dress, just the thing for a new bride to wear on her honeymoon trip. “I am now, Momma. Let him by.”

  “Just a few questions, ma’am,” I said to Mrs. Huffman. My hat was already off or I’d have tipped it to her.

  “You’re the one,” she said. Apparently her husband had had a word with her.

  I didn’t have a reply that would preclude getting my face slapped, so I smiled meekly and nodded.

  The place looked like the backstage dressing rooms at my club, but much larger. A tornado had roared through, leaving behind all manner of clothing, makeup, and other feminine debris. My girlfriend had the same kind of clutter in her bedroom. God knew how they kept track of it all.

  My coat was draped over a table on top of some long flat boxes. Not knowing where I’d end up or for how long, I pulled it back on again. It smelled of Dorothy’s perfume. Nice stuff.

  The maid of honor was busy folding the wedding dress into another long box. She was enough like Dorothy to be a sister. From the near-smirk on her face, she would be the bratty one of the brood. She glanced past me, looking puzzled for a blank second. That’s when I saw a full-length dressing mirror in a corner. I angled out of range before she got a solid gander and realized I was missing from its reflection of that part of the room.

  Finished with the shodding, Dorothy stood, smoothing her skirt down. Her makeup had been repaired. Her eyes were still puffy, but clean of black tear trails. Nose powdered and with a funny little blue hat atop her dark head, she seemed ready for anything. Don’t ask me why, but a woman in a hat always looks able to take on any emergency. “What is it, Jack?”

  Mrs. Huffman’s face twitched. Her daughter being on a first-name basis with the hired help was none too pleasing to the lady.

  I guided Dorothy out of immediate earshot of family, taking care not to trip over a set of matched suitcases. They were monogrammed, one each for the bride and groom: D.H.S. and J.K.S., respectively. I’d have to pass that detail on to my girl. She’d think it was cute.

  “Why did you pick Cooley over Becker for chaperone duty?” I asked.

  “Uh-um—I just did.” Dorothy blinked more than was necessary.

  “For a reason.”

  She hemmed a little more, her voice going so low that I had to lean close to hear. “Becker likes me. But he’d never—I mean if he—well—Daddy would kill him.”

  “Becker likes you. How’d he handle you being engaged and married, then? You must have noticed.”

  Her face reddened under the powder. “Actually, no, I didn’t. I was so caught up planning the wedding and being with Jerome—you think Becker’s done something?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think?” Distracted or not by her nuptials, she knew more than I did about the household, what was normal and what was not.

  “Now that you mention… he was hanging close during the cutting of the cake. And I don’t remember seeing him afterward—but then I was looking for Jerome. We need to get him, make him talk!”

  “Hold your horses. If all Becker’s doing is carrying a torch, there’s nothing to that, he’ll get over it. You make a big fuss and your father—”

  “Would kill him, yes.”

  “You understand that’s a literal thing, right?”

  “I know my father. He’s why I wanted to handle this myself. I was afraid he’d blow his top with Jerome.”

  “He’d do the same with Becker—who could be innocent.”

  “We still have to make him talk.”

  “That can be arranged. Any other unrequited loves?”

  “Umm—don’t think so.”

  Someone thumped hard on the door. Mrs. Huffman opened it a crack, then backed off to allow in another middle-aged woman. She had on diamonds. Not many, but the fires sparking from them looked obscenely expensive. I made a guess that she was the groom’s mother. She’d also been crying, and wasn’t done with it yet.

  “Gerty?” said Mrs. Huffman, abruptly unbending. “What’s wrong?”

  “We found it on the table with the wedding gifts!” Gerty waved a scrap of brown paper in one shaking fist. “Sheila—it’s terrible!”

  Mrs. Huffman read it, her face clouding over. “Louie will kill him for this!”

  “For what?” Dorothy grabbed the paper. “Oh, my God. Momma, you can’t let Daddy know.”

  “Too late, he already does,” wailed Gerty.

  The maid of honor crowded in and had her turn to read and react. She dropped the scrap, scampered from the room, and about two seconds later screams of fury and dismay from the bridesmaids erupted in the hall. Another minute and whatever it was would make the Tribune’s bulldog edition.

  Gerty was sheet white. “Sheila, you’ve got to stop Louie from doing anything. This has to be some kind of mistake. This isn’t like Jerome—I raised him better than that.”

  I picked up the paper and read:

  Dear Dot,

  I can’t be your husband. Annul the wedding. I won’t bother you again.

  Jerome K. Schubert

  There were things about the note that bothered me, but what jumped o
ut the strongest was the scent of human blood on the paper.

  THOUGH I DON’T BREATHE REGULARLY I TEND TO notice bloodsmell. It comes with my condition, no escape. That telltale whiff stopped me cold. Maybe Jerome had cut himself shaving… and maybe I’d take up sunbathing on Michigan Avenue.

  Two edges of the crumpled sheet were uneven, torn from something larger. The writer could have lifted this from any waste-basket between here and the lake. No one puts a good-bye note in pencil on parcel wrap, though. Someone had been in a hurry and probably improvising.

  I turned the sheet over. The back was marred with ordinary grime which served along with the dark paper to obscure the rusty traces of blood. It was not more than an hour old.

  Dorothy looked like she’d taken a gut punch and jerked when I touched her arm. “Over here,” I muttered, tugging.

  There was no booze handy this time, so I made her sit and dropped on one knee before her, taking one of her cold hands. It was a parody of a proposal tableau, but no one was smiling.

  “Dorothy.” I said it sharply. “Come on, snap out of it. The note’s fake.”

  She shook her head and blinked. “What? How do you know?”

  “You’re going to tell me.” I nodded at the monogrammed suitcases. “That’s what you were taking to the train station?”

  “Some of it. The trunks are already aboard.”

  “Right. Well, if Jerome had run off on his own don’t you think he’d stop here on his way out to grab a packed bag?”

  “Maybe—unless he went back to his parents’ house.”

  “Let’s figure he didn’t. Look at the note. Is this his handwriting?”

  “It’s uneven… but yes.”

  I chose to take that as good news and had to hope he was still alive. “Next, what’s he call you?”

  “Darling… sweetheart… Dorry-kins…”

  “Name? Dot or Dorothy?”

  “Dorothy. Only my family calls me—Oh, no. You can’t mean—”

  “Not done yet. How about Becker and Cooley? They call you Dot, right?”

  Her brown eyes started to kindle, and she made that dangerous back of the throat sound. “If they’ve laid a finger on my Jerome—”