by Harper Allen
That was the sort of part of living the fantasy. The sort of not part was the big hunk of broken table leg strapped to my leg by a frilly blue garter—totally Freudian, now that I think of it—plus the fact that as I slowly proceeded toward the three men standing with their backs to us at the front of the church, I felt like turning tail and running like hell.
Or do all brides feel like that?
Whether they do or not, most of them don’t bail on their own weddings and I wasn’t going to, either. Tash and Kat, as nervous as they were, would see this out for the same reason I intended to. Somehow Todd and Lance and Dean had risen after being staked. I wasn’t going to leave an unsuspecting Grammie and Popsie to face them, although right now, facing them wasn’t the operative phrase.
“This is so humiliating I could die,” Tash whispered across Popsie, whose hearing isn’t the sharpest. “They’ve still got their backs to us and everyone’s beginning to look really uncomfortable. I mean, even if they’re vamps, you’d think they could show some manners, right?”
“Sure, sweetie,” Kat said under her breath. “Just like the old-world courtesy they displayed last night when they were trying to sink their teeth into our necks.”
“They’re fudging with our minds, as Grammie would say,” I said tersely. “Or as I would say, fucking with our minds. They’re obviously using some sort of mojo to look normal to everyone here but they’ll show their real faces to us just before they—”
A couple of things happened all at once. Well, not all at once, but really close together. The first thing was that “The Wedding March” suddenly trailed off on a discordant note. The second was that Grammie, about fifteen feet away in the first row of pews, stood up and began to make flapping motions at us with her hands, as if she were shooing chickens. The third was that Lance and Todd and Dean turned around.
I stared at Dean in horror. Flames burned in his eye sockets, his canines were impossibly long, his face was dead-white…and no one in the church was screaming.
I didn’t bother wasting time wondering about that part. I began fumbling under my crinoline for my stake, determined to get to our undead grooms before they had a chance to take a step closer to Grammie, but even as I did I froze. My stake fell from my hand, bounced once on the red carpet, and clattered to the floor beside the nearest pew.
The three men standing at the front of the church and looking at us weren’t Lance and Todd and Dean at all. They didn’t have fiery eyes or vamp teeth or white faces—in fact, they looked absolutely ordinary. Two of them were in the familiar blue uniform of the Maplesburg Police and the third wore jeans, an unbuttoned sports jacket and a gold detective’s badge clipped to his belt. He narrowed his eyes at Tashya and Kat and me, but when he spoke he raised his voice so everyone could hear.
“Sorry, folks, the wedding’s been postponed. The groom and his buddies appear to have gone missing, as everyone here but the bridal party seems to have noticed.” In the hubbub that arose from the guests he lowered his tone, this time directing his words only to us. “I’m treating their disappearances as possible murders, ladies. Not that you’re suspects, but can the three of you fill me in on where you were and what you were doing last night?” His gaze went to my fallen stake and he went on smoothly, “And can you also explain why you’re carrying a concealed weapon at your own wedding, Ms. Crosse?”
Chapter 5
I prefer to forget the few hours that followed. Tash and Kat say they wish they could forget them, too. But though we eventually unloaded our dresses on eBay (note to brrridegrrl out in Idaho: thrilled as I am that you looked so beautiful in my Monique Lhuillier when you and Ryan the feed salesman walked down the aisle, if you send me one more picture of you wearing my dress I’m going to post it to the creepiest bride-sex forum I can find on the Internet), and even though we threw away our bouquets and in Tash’s case, never wore Grammie’s pearls again, it was no use. The whole episode was seared into our memories, although we each had different versions of what we thought we’d seen.
All of us swore we saw three men in tuxedos standing at the altar with their backs to us. Kat said that as soon as the men turned around, she realized they weren’t wearing tuxes, but for a moment she still thought they were Lance and Todd and Dean. Tash insisted the tux illusion disappeared for her even before she saw their faces, and that she never saw burning eye sockets or any of the other special effects I was unlucky enough to experience. Our explanations for our differing mirages didn’t agree, either. Kat leaned toward the theory that our guilty consciences combined with Grammie’s misinformation that our escorts had arrived made us see what we did. Tash was convinced we were still experiencing a residue of the vamp glamyr we’d been subjected to the previous night. And I didn’t know what to think.
Not then, at least.
So I don’t have to dwell on it, here’s the Cliff Notes version of what happened next. As soon as Van Ryder—that was the detective’s name, and have I mentioned yet that he was a total babe? Melty brown eyes with thick lashes, a full bottom lip just made for a girl to nibble on, and under his jeans his butt looked…sorry, where was I? Oh, right—as soon as he posed his question, Kat went into full-blown sex-bomb mode, revealing a glimpse of her thigh as she withdrew her own stake from her garter.
“Something old, Detective,” she purred, fondling the length of wood. “Meg had the borrowed and new and blue, but we completely forgot to equip her with something old, and once we’d dismantled a table, well, it seemed sensible to take two more legs for Tash’s and my upcoming weddings. I know it was terribly naughty of us to expropriate the furniture, but we didn’t want bad luck. Of course, we had no idea then that her groom and our fiancés were missing. I can’t think of anything more unlucky to happen to a bride and her bridesmaids.”
“Tough on Lance and Todd and Dean, too,” Tash said insincerely. She gazed at Van Ryder with wide eyes. “Why are you asking us where we were last night? Do you think we had anything to do with their disappearances?”
At that point Popsie jumped in, as full of angry indignation as only a retired lawyer whose granddaughters had just been asked for alibis could be, with Grammie interjecting supportive comments during his rant when she wasn’t breaking off to thank the departing guests for coming.
I should digress here for a moment to explain why this rather awkward social task fell solely on poor Grammie’s shoulders. As you’ve probably gathered from Grammie’s cheese-steak comment, Dean’s father and mother both came from blue-blooded Philadelphia Main Line stock, and not only didn’t they bother to disguise their disappointment that Dean hadn’t chosen a fiancée from their immediate circle, but they seemed to consider upper New York state an uncouth wilderness totally unsuitable as a setting for their son’s wedding. Except for being from Boston and San Francisco, respectively, the Whitmores and Zellwegers held the same snobbish views. It was unfortunate but understandable that their sons had chosen to start their careers in the Big Apple—after all, if a rising young doctor, lawyer and investment banker could make it there, they could make it anywhere. But to choose their brides from the Empire State…well, that was simply beyond the pale.
Not that any of this had been said in so many words. Our prospective parents-in-law were far too stuffy to make a scene, but their chilly smiles on the only other occasion we’d met them, which happened to be our three-in-one engagement party, had spoken volumes. So I wasn’t surprised to see cold relief flicker over the patrician features of Mr. and Mrs. Hudson as they took in the fact that Dean the Third had apparently come to his senses at the eleventh hour and jilted his eminently unsuitable bride. Kat’s opinion is that, given a choice, all three sets of parents-in-law would have preferred knowing their sons and heirs had chosen vamphood over marriage to us, and I think she’s probably right.
But, of course, they never did know about Lance’s and Todd’s and Dean’s brief stints as vampires, or how those brief stints had been ended by the Crosse triplets. In fact (spoiler alert her
e for those of you who care about such things), it’s my understanding that they totally bought into the jilting theory I presented to Van Ryder, and still expect their sons to sneak back home one of these days.
But I’m getting ahead of my story. As I was saying, Popsie was ranting, Grammie was fluttering, and the church was emptying fast. To add to the confusion, the organist came to apologise for having launched into “The Wedding March” prematurely, Grammie tartly asked Popsie why he’d continued leading us to the altar when she’d done everything but use a bullhorn to convey to him that he’d jumped the gun—this last cleared up the mystery of her shooing motions—and Popsie broke off his diatribe to growl something about not having his glasses and how was he to know that the three men standing at the end of the red carpet were the local law?
When Popsie finally paused to draw breath, Detective Van Ryder turned his melted-chocolate eyes back to me. “I’m trying to get a fix on where people were during the relevant time period. We know your fiancés were attending Hudson’s stag party at a local watering-hole called the Hot Box until shortly before midnight.”
Popsie snorted. “Unless the witnesses who place them there at that exact time had some definite reason to notice the clock I fail to see how you can know when my granddaughters’ fiancés left the place, let alone where they went when they did.”
Van Ryder pulled a notebook out of the inner pocket of his jacket. “They did have a definite reason to remember. The three men all received lap dances from a stripper named—” he flipped a page “—yeah, a stripper named Zena. She recently bought the place, but I guess she likes keeping in practice once in a while. Even for lap dances, these were pretty steamy. The rest of the party were lined up with their tongues hanging out, waiting for their turns, but when Zena finished with Hudson—” He looked at me. “You’re Megan? Hudson’s your fiancé, right?”
I nodded. Van Ryder’s stare hardened into non-melted chocolate for a moment. “Hudson got the last hootchie-cootchie dance, as I say, and then this Zena tells everyone to drink up and leave, she’s closing the place down at midnight. When the rest of the stag party looked around for Hudson and Whitmore and Zellweger, they’d already left. No one’s seen them since.”
“So why assume we did?” I injected a teary note into my voice. “I mean, Detective, why even treat this as possible foul play? It’s obvious what happened. The boys got a taste of the wild side and spending the rest of their lives with the Crosse sisters suddenly didn’t seem all that exciting. They jilted us. They’re probably halfway to Mexico now and soon everyone in Maplesburg’s going to know our fiancés dumped us at the altar!”
My spur-of-the-moment scenario was more true than Van Ryder knew, I thought. Staked or not, Todd and Dean and Lance had been standing by the altar minutes ago. Or had they? No one in the audience had seemed to see them, so had the whole thing been my private little hallucination?
“There’s a major problem with your theory, Ms. Crosse,” Van Ryder said, the regret in his voice as fake as my tears. “After their lap dances with Zena, all three of them came right out and stated they were going to the Crosse mansion. The witnesses who overheard them said your fiancés announced they had one final present to give their future brides.” He kept his eyes on me. “So I’ll ask again, Ms. Crosse. Can anyone vouch for where the three of you were around midnight last night?”
“Da, Detektiv, I can. Granddaughters were at home making overdue aquaintance with their mother’s father. This is allowed in America, nyet?”
I turned to see Darkheart, his brow creased in a ferocious scowl. But his expression was nothing compared to that of the man behind him.
Mikhail Vostoroff, his golden eyes burning with hatred, was staring at me as if he wanted to rip my throat out.
Okay, that ran a little long for the Cliff Notes version, but living through it seemed to take a lot longer—like several lifetimes. It wasn’t until later that night that I was able to sort through my jumbled impressions of what had happened—Darkheart’s intervention, which had left Van Ryder without his trio of prime suspects, Grammie’s and Popsie’s astonishment at the appearance of a man they’d believed dead for decades, Anton’s old-world charm as he won them over in three seconds flat, resulting in Grammie inviting him and Mikhail back to the house—since, as she said, we still had to eat even though our meal now wouldn’t include champagne toasts and wedding cake.
Over dinner Darkheart filled them in on his Mark Twain-ish “the reports of my demise were exaggerated” situation, explaining that after the car accident that had claimed his daughter and their son, resulting in Popsie’s and Grammie’s adoption of us, he’d undertaken a research assignment on vanishing folklore for Moscow University. I found out later that this part was true, at least; he’s a leading expert in the field of arcane beliefs and legends, which makes sense when you think about it. The part that wasn’t true was when he went on to tell my grandparents that during the assignment he’d had an accident in some remote region of the former Soviet republic, had slowly been nursed back to health by the locals, and, when he’d been fit to travel again, had found himself trapped there by one of the many civil wars that kept breaking out in that area.
“Is very isolated region, you understand,” he’d told Popsie and Grammie. “Not surprising whole world thinks Anton Dzarchertzyn dead, da? But kollega Vostoroff—” at this he’d nodded at Mikhail, who looked nothing like any university colleague I’d ever seen “—makes search for me. In end he finds me and I go home. Russia is changed from bad old days, you know. Now is available American newspapers, including New York Times Sunday Style Section, which is big favorite with many. In it I see pictures of my granddaughters saying they are engaged, but newspaper is old, so is no time to waste if I want to see first one take solemn vows of marriage. Is good we come straight to house last night, nyet? Police in America must be stupid as to see granddaughters as suspects!”
By the end of the meal, Popsie was insisting that Anton and Mikhail move from the hotel they’d checked into and take up residence in the Crosse mansion guesthouse, Grammie had confided that she and Popsie had planned a cruise to coincide with my honeymoon, which they would now have to cancel, and Darkheart had pounded his fist on the table and growled that he would not hear of such a thing.
“Is nevynosimyj that fiancés who run away to Mexico make impossible your plans!” he protested.
Popsie sighed. “If Van Ryder had been on the Maplesburg force a little longer he’d realize how ridiculous he’s being. But as he mentioned, his last posting was LA and I suppose he’s trying to show the locals how it’s done in the big city. I don’t trust him not to try to pin these disappearances on the girls if he doesn’t get any other leads, and if that happens, I want to be here to get our lawyers on his ass.” Popsie can be quite salty when he’s aroused.
Grandfather Darkheart folded his arms. “Simple. I stay here. If police make trouble, I contact you on cruise ship, da?”
I fully expected Popsie to say nyet. Instead he flicked a veiled glance at Grammie, who was attempting to make polite small talk with Mikhail. I felt like suggesting she throw a stick if she wanted to get an enthusiastic response from him.
“That’s not a bad idea, Anton,” Popsie answered. He shot another look at Grammie and leaned in closer to Darkheart. His confidential attitude raised immediate red flags in me and I felt no compunction about eavesdropping. “Just between you and me, Dottie’s been told by her doctor to take things easy for a while. At this point there’s no cause for alarm, apparently, but neither one of us is as young as we were, and her heart’s been acting up on her a little. As upset as I am for my granddaughters over today’s fiasco, I’m more worried about the toll it could take on Dottie.”
I went cold inside. Grammie, sick? Maybe in danger of having a heart attack? I darted a quick look at her and saw the paleness under her powder, the effort it seemed to be costing her to keep up her end of the conversation with Mikhail. Fear gripped me as Popsie went
on.
“That’s why I insisted on this cruise. If I can assure her that we’re leaving the girls in your capable hands, Anton, I might be able to persuade her to go. Our boat doesn’t leave New York until tomorrow, so let me give you an answer in the morning.”
“Tell Gospozha Crosse not to worry. I will keep eye on Detective Van Ryder and also try to lift spirits of my granddaughters,” Darkheart declared. “In old country when is sadness, best thing is physical exercise. Perhaps Mikhail teach them some gimnastika moves while we stay here. Get broken hearts pumping again, nyet?”
His roar of laughter brought an answering chuckle from Popsie and won a weak smile from Grammie. It was the smile that decided me. I knew Darkheart hadn’t meant his talk of gymnastics to be taken seriously but all at once I was willing to execute a handspring off a balancing beam if that’s what it took to erase the strain from Grammie’s expression.
Hours later, however, as I cinched the belt of my shortie robe and slipped my feet into a pair of pink scuffs, I decided my attempts to convince Grammie that she could leave as planned without feeling she was letting us down could wait until morning. She’d hovered worriedly over us after dinner while Popsie had shown Anton and Mikhail to the guesthouse, not leaving our sides until we’d finally cast meaningful glances at each other, yawned widely, and declared our intention of going to bed. I didn’t like deceiving Grammie, but I knew Kat and Tashya were as desperate as I was to talk over the events of the day, and so far we hadn’t had a chance to be alone.
