by Diana Stone
“Do you need to stop?” she whispers to me.
“No. I’m fine. This is your day.” Carry on England, or something like that, per Winston Churchill.
“Let me know. It’s not worth killing you,” she tries a small, light-hearted joke.
“You’re funny, thanks!”
Charlie takes the stage for a few minutes. He explains it’s probably Heather, their former employee turned into a wacko; the carriage ride, and why the police are on scene at their wedding. And why the helicopter is circling overhead, making it hard to hear.
He’s an amazing man. He is a natural people person. He is likable and good hearted. He showed me a side I haven’t seen before. He isn’t a man to stand up and grab attention. But, when warranted, he confidently fills that role.
The air unit zips away a short while later. It’s heading west, going to check on something else, and leave us in peace.
The ceremony is ready to begin, in an impromptu fashion. Monica whispers something to Charlie. He hurries to get a chair and places it next to where the bride will be standing, for me. He gets another for the best man so it looks even. Charlie nods to me and indicates that I should sit.
Do I look that bad? I feel like hell, I must look like it too. I gratefully take a seat. The music begins. Monica walks down the center aisle. She’s still damp, but she rubbed off her black mascara lines. Someone helped her pull her hair back. Instead of wispy and waved, she has it sleek and elegant. Her dress is drying into a summary crinkled-cotton. She’s making it work!
I, on the other hand, am having a hard time sitting upright. My ears are ringing, and I reek of fish. I’m trying to look invisible, but I’m breathing long draws of oxygen to keep focused.
They’re going with the traditional Here Comes the Bride music. It’s a happy beginning, for a future that holds great promise. As usual, my blue eyes are rimmed with red.
Monica begins walking down the white fabric in her muddy sandals. In spite of this, she looks radiant. She has set aside the drama of a while ago and is in the moment. She steps up to Charlie, he takes her arm, and the service begins.
I feel myself drifting off, but I dig deep and keep a smile on my face, even as my brain fogs. I hear her words coming clearly from her heart. She’s reciting them without a fumble.
He does. She does. They do. The music begins again, and the new husband and wife walk together into their new life.
The best man stands and comes toward me with his arm out. This means I have to pull myself together. I take a few breaths and stagger to my feet. He takes my arm, then looks at me quickly. I must have sagged against him. We wraps his arm around me and whispers, “You only have to make it thirty feet.”
The guests are looking at us as they wait to file out of their row. I feel a couple of friendly pats on my shoulder. I know I’m smiling, but it may be more of a grimace. I hear a lady say, “She looks so pale — poor dear.”
I keep going until I’m directed to a seat. “Do you need a doctor?” Nikki looks concerned.
“Maybe she needs water, it’s pretty hot now.” A bottle is opened and raised to my lips.
I take a gulp. Then another few. It tastes wonderful. I end up finishing the whole thing. My ears stop ringing a few minutes later. My vision is clearing. I wonder if I have low blood sugar. I didn’t eat this morning, I was too busy. Plus I knew I’d be eating a lot at the reception, so I’m saving my calories.
“Is it possible to get something to eat?” I ask.
“Sure, sit tight, I’ll go look,” Nikki dashes off
Oh no, I don’t want to be the center of attention, but Monica and Charlie are bending down in front of me. “We’re getting you something from the caterer.”
Monica pulls up a chair right next to me with another bottle. “Here, drink this. It’s Gatorade,” she puts it in my hand. “I know this isn’t your drink of choice, but see if it helps.”
I take a few gulps. It tastes good, in spite of being so blue.
“How do you feel?”
“Better, thanks.” I actually do feel better. I’m not just saying it. Hopefully that means it’s not a stroke coming on.
4
Behind the Canoe
Nikki hurries back with a brownie. “Eat this. If it doesn’t help, nothing will,” she proclaims.
I take a small bite. Mmm, it’s delicious. I keep taking decent-sized bites until it’s gone. Between this, and the blue water, I’m feeling better by the second. I have enough energy to smile a real one, not a fake attempt.
A police car drives down from the winery. The gathering separates to allow Ken and another deputy to pass through.
They look at Monica and me, “Is this what the carriage driver was wearing?” Ken holds up a black vest covered with dirt. He turns it around to show the monogram on the front is “Ultimate Carriage Rides.”
“That looks like it. Where was it?”
“Stuffed in a canoe leaning against the building.” He looks at it. “She’s gone now. We searched the area. Can you give me a better description?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get a good look at her face.” Freddie said he tracked Heather’s car here. “It may be Heather from the bakery.”
“Why do you think that?”
“A friend put a tracking device on her car. He told me it was parked down by the tasting room.”
Ken scowls. “What friend—you didn’t feel the need to tell me earlier?”
“Well, I…” I can’t think of a good reply.
“She was thrown off a runaway carriage. What do you think?!” Monica jumps in.
His expression says he’s backing off, like a smart man.
“Okay. So what about this Heather-person?”
“She’s with Aquamarine; the bakery who was involved in the raid. She has it in for Monica. This could be her handiwork.”
“Come to think of it, the driver did sound like Heather. I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. I was concerned about remembering my vows,” she looks a bit flustered.
“It’s okay, who would have thought Heather would be here?”
“Isn’t Charlie’s client the owner of the carriage rides?” I see him with the others. “There he is, let’s ask him.”
Monica hurries over and brings him back.
“Yes, my client owns the business. She confirmed our schedule last night. I don’t know who drives the horse, I thought she did.”
“Maybe she hired Heather, or maybe Heather hit her on the head and stole the ride?”
Ken thinks that’s possible. He gets on the radio and requests the additional deputies search the area around the horse trailer.
A few minutes later, I hear it over the police radio loud and clear, “We found a female victim tied up in the shed.”
“Ask her to describe the suspect. Is she the owner of the carriage ride?” Ken requests.
The reply, “Roger, she owns the horse. The suspect is described as a female, white, brown hair, 5’6”, 140, mid-thirties, wearing a white blouse and magician’s top hat.”
“That sounds like her.”
The radio squawks again, “The victim just remembered—the suspect has a slight mustache.”
Monica shrieks, “That’s her—that’s her! She ruined my wedding.”
Charlie pulls her to him and wraps her in an intense kiss. A moment later he says, “She didn’t ruin anything!”
How sweet. And the guests feel the same way. “Hear-hear!”
“Jess, will you come speak with the other victim?” Ken requests.
I look at Monica, “I’ll be back. While I’m there, I’ll bring the cake.” I feel much better; it must have been a lack of food. Sugar is miraculous.
I still have the sheet in my hand. As we’re approaching his unit he sniffs my odor, “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but will you spread that over the seat?”
“Yeah, I know—I reek, but I’ve gotten used to it.”
“You’re still cute,” he chuckles.
“This is a quite a hill, you’re lucky you didn’t get killed,” he muses.
“Hell yeah!” I envision the horse tripping and the carriage flipping. This was a close call.
“If the suspect is Heather, we need to know what car she’s driving. Do you have that info?”
“I originally put a GPS tracker on it. Then a friend did too. He told me she was here.”
“Why is he following her?”
“He’s uh. Well,” I stall. “He’s keeping an eye out for me—I suppose.”
“You’re not telling me the whole story.”
“No, I guess not. He’s a friend who is looking out for me by watching for her.” That sounds fair.
“He’s the guy who told you about the task force,” he states.
“Right.” I leave it at that.
It’s a quiet drive past the squashed tomatoes and the flower fields. He parks next to the horse trailer. The white mare is tied there, looking unscathed. The victim is sitting in the shade. The other deputy is standing in front of her, with his notepad, getting her story. So this is what the real driver looks like. She’s tall and thin and has her dark hair in a neat bun. She looks nothing like Heather.
I don’t see Freddie’s BMW, nor is Heather’s car in sight. Where are they? Did he find her?
“Do you see the suspect’s car?” Ken inquires.
“No. I’ll see if she parked up front.” I slowly head in that direction, thinking he can come along if he wants. He does, because if the car is there he’ll need to impound it, and search for evidence.
“It isn’t here.”
We quietly walk back. He already has my side of the story for his report. He isn’t saying much. I’m sure he’s feeling left out because he knows I’m not telling him the whole story about Freddie. Oh well. He seems to be a day late… Or, more realistically, an hour late. Ken is always an hour late.
We head back to the victim. Thankfully, she isn’t badly hurt. Heather likes to fight. Sue had finished hitching up the horse on the far side of the trailer. Heather came up to her asking about carriage rentals. When she stopped to tell her about the service, Heather punched her in the jaw, knocking her flying backward. While she was on the ground, bleary eyed, her hands were bound. She was wrenched to her feet and marched into the empty room.
She was shoved down, gagged, and tied up.
“She said if I tried to get away she’d come back and kill me,” her voice quivers.
“And that’s the last you saw of her?”
“Yes.”
“Why was your horse hitched up so early? And, how did the cake get run over?” I query.
“I wanted to exercise Spice. I bought her a few months ago, and she has a lot of energy. There are so many trails, I thought it would be perfect to do some training.”
“And the cake?”
“I don’t know anything about a cake. What do you mean?”
“Monica’s cake was driven over by your carriage. It must have been Heather.”
“I didn’t drive over it, I swear.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean you did. I mean the suspect must have seen it delivered. She got it from the fridge and drove the carriage over it after tying you up.”
Ken catches my eye and wiggles his fingers. There may be prints on the refrigerator handle. I don’t remember if she wore gloves or not. They’ll have the print team go over everything.
“I’m sorry about your carriage. I’m afraid it smashed into a tree. I was trying to stop your horse when the suspect punched me and I lost control.” I take a breath, “I’m glad you’re okay, too.” I feel guilty. The poor lady had nothing to do with this. Heather followed us here, and she got caught up in the nastiness.
“Is this your vest?” Ken holds up the black vest.
“Yes, it was in the trailer.”
So that’s how Heather was able to drive Monica and me to the ceremony.
I can see Heather escaping. She had a head start. But Freddie left too. I still have his shirt. I think I left it on the chair.
“I’m going to sit in my truck for a few minutes. I have to bring the cake to the reception.”
“I have all I need,” he looks at me with his eyebrows raised. As he walks me to my truck he asks, “I’ll call you tomorrow?”
“That would be nice.” I try to infuse a little emotion.
By way of a goodbye, his finger touches my cheek, then opens my door. When I’ve settled, he clicks the lock and closes the door for me. I tilt it back and close my eyes. Whew, finally I can relax. I text Charlie. He replies they’re getting started with the appetizers. I set my alarm to deliver the cake on time, especially after all my work.
A granola bar and a bottle of water will help, for now. I take a long swig, a bite of the bar, swallow, and drift off.
5
The New Cake
An hour later my phone chimes. It’s warm in the truck, and the fish smell has been locked in. I’m not going home for a change of clothes. I have an extra t-shirt on the back seat. I’ll use that and make the sheet into a toga/dress. It smells somewhat fishy, but not nearly as bad as the one I’m wearing.
I don’t know how to make a nice looking toga. In the past, I wrapped them around myself like a beach towel. The wonders of the internet answers my quandary. “How to turn a sheet into a toga.”
Oh, this looks nice. I won’t even need the t-shirt underneath. YouTube demonstrates it in 2 minutes: Fold the sheet in half. Pass one corner behind your back and up to your left shoulder. The right one comes up the front, to the same shoulder. Voila, you’re a sexy goddess.
What the hell?
I’m playing this stupid video for the third time. My off-the-shoulder look is nowhere close to what I’m watching. It doesn’t help that I’m sitting in the truck, but I can’t make it do anything except bunch up and look messy.
Now I’m frustrated. I don’t want it tied in a wadded up mess around my neck at the front. I want it elegantly flowing over my left shoulder, like in the video. I’ll even settle for a piece of blue bailing twine instead of a golden string around my waist.
OK, I think I have it. But, hell—the sheet is crumpled and looks stupid. The video music is driving me nuts. Shut up. The demonstration girl is smiling, like it’s easy—but it isn’t. And stop smiling.
So much for looking sexy. I’m a frump. Now I’m agitated, and my head hurts. I’m hungry too.
I head for the tasting room to get the cake. Hopefully it’s safe and didn’t get smashed by a bottle of wine someone may have shoved in to cool.
Yes, they’re looking at me. I’m getting lots of looks. No, it’s not because of my loveliness. Nope, not at all. The room is full of tasters. When one person looks and stops talking, the rest do, one by one.
Talk about making an entrance. I just did. I think my hair still smells fishy, too. I have a few options: I can smile like I know the problem. Or, I can pretend I know nothing about it—like the Emperor’s New Clothes.
I go with option three—I say, “My dress got ruined, and the reception is in five minutes.”
Michelle gets the unharmed cake from their fridge and places it on the counter. It doesn’t look as good as I thought when I finished frosting it. Oh well, we’ll all get smashed on the decadent amount of liqueur.
I carefully lay it on the passenger seat and motor up the dirt road to the pond. The carriage is still there, smashed into the tree, but poor Sue has already loaded up her big horse and left. I don’t blame her. She had a lousy day.
The wedding party is in full swing. The caterer set the round tables in the shade. The chairs from the ceremony are being used for the dinner. Most everyone is sitting, but Monica and Charlie are making the rounds.
The caterer’s table has the hot trays. I’m starving, I can’t wait to try something!
M
onica dashes up with Charlie in tow. She’s eager to see her cake. I mean, she’s eager to see the cake she thinks she ordered. Ugh. I’ll have to explain the carriage wheel incident.
I pull it out, turn around, and here she is…
“Huh, it certainly is rustic,” she observes. “This isn’t exactly what I described,” she looks at me.
“Yeah—the real one got run over by the carriage a few hours ago. I made this myself.” I try to look encouraging.
Charlie jumps in, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it, sweetie?” He squeezes his new bride’s shoulder.
“I’m sure you’ll like the flavor. I used a LOT of liqueur on the pound cakes you had in the fridge.”
“Is this supposed to be a wine barrel on its side?” She inquires.
“Yes, I’m glad you see that. See, it’s resting in the roses—isn’t that nice?” Just go along with it.
“Well,” she emotionally picks herself up, “Let’s see how it tastes.”
I flick a look at Charlie, he gives a thumbs-up. Like he can’t see anything wrong with it. Thank you!
I move the cake to its special table then head over to see what’s left of the meal.
Monica and Charlie do the cake cutting, thankfully without playfully mushing it into each other’s face. I always wonder if someone will do that, though I only saw it happen once, a long time ago. The caterer comes to slice and divide my creation into individual pieces. I make sure I’m the first in line.
Monica steps over to me, “This is pretty good. You used a lot of chocolate liqueur.”
“Yes, I did.” I leave it at that. What more can I say. I pick up the plate and take a bite.
“Huh, it’s good, though it may have a little too much Kahlua,” I muse.
“The cream is good, you managed to make it light.”
“I watched a video, twice, and had to re-chill it. What a nightmare. I was terrified the whole time.”
She shakes her head. “I appreciate your effort—I really do. I can’t believe we pulled this together with all the problems.”
