Marriage is Murder

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Doherty eyed the tea whilst coming to the conclusion that the note was a hoax, yet its presence taunted him.

  Someone had gone out of their way to send it. He could do the DNA thing on the envelope, but something told him it would be inconclusive. Unless they’d been living on an uncharted desert island for years, everyone knew that DNA could be traced. And anyway it would come to nothing if it had never been stored on the database. He considered it being just a crank with a grudge.

  But what if it wasn’t? The sender could be watching, waiting for a chance to get close and carry out his or her threat.

  He hadn’t been aware of somebody following him and Honey hadn’t mentioned stalkers popping in and out of shop doorways behind her.

  Now what? He sat there with his fingers intertwined thinking it through. The thing was he couldn’t bring himself to show her the note. For a start she wouldn’t take kindly to being referred to as a middle-aged trollop. Then there was the scare factor; he didn’t want her to feel scared. He wanted her to be fun like she usually was. And sexy of course. Always sexy.

  Live to fight another day, he decided, until something happens to make you do otherwise.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Trevor Templeton’s the name. I’m here for my granddaughter’s wedding.’

  His voice was as dark as his skin. His hair was woolly, cut close to the skull and greying in places. The soft grey of his morning suit was teamed with a yellow waistcoat and a burgundy cravat. A tiny pin in the shape of a ‘T’ the first letter of his name, winked diamonds from amongst the silky folds of the cravat. A grey top hat was tucked beneath his arm.

  Honey tried to think of where she’d seen him before.

  Or had she HEARD him somewhere before? His voice was as memorable as his appearance. He spoke in a hushed baritone. As though his mouth is close to my ear, she thought.

  Steady girl. You’re spoken for, remember?

  Her thoughts translated into words without giving her chance to think about what she was saying.

  ‘You’re very...’

  ‘Tall? Dark? Handsome?’

  His smile was incredibly titillating and although Honey had a marriage proposal under her belt, she firmly believed in the old adage that even if you were on a diet, you could still study the menu. Trevor Templeton was a dish to dream about when one was starving.

  Honey put on her professional persona as easily as she did her clothes. This morning she was wearing a dark blue dress, dark tights and a pair of Italian court shoes. They were black suede, had three inch heels, a small platform and a silk bow over the toe.

  It wasn’t her habit to wear such glamorous shoes during the working day. Three-inch heels were best confined to those seductive little moments before discarding them and everything else. For these shoes she had made an exception and was glad that she had. It turned out they were as comfortable as slippers.

  Hidden behind the reception desk, she stretched one calf then the other. Her legs were fit to go on display.

  She smiled sweetly at Trevor Templeton.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t help thinking that I’ve seen you somewhere before. Are you famous?’

  He shrugged. ‘I try not to be.’

  She knew he was teasing her and almost blushed, but checked herself, pretending to be engrossed as she checked the reservation on the computer screen.

  ‘A single room.' Is that right?’

  He nodded. ‘There’s no Mrs Templeton – well – not any longer.’ His smile was sad. ‘She’s passed on.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Honey.

  ‘Don’t be. She’s passed on to a younger man with a speedboat and a large engine. The boat has the large engine. I’m not sure about the man!’

  Honey chuckled, coloured up a bit and booked him in.

  The Templeton/Fox wedding was a 200-guest affair. The young couple had declared they only wanted a small reception. Two hundred in Honey’s estimation wasn’t that small and luckily the number was just about on the limit for the Green River Hotel.

  The bride, Soraya Templeton was almost famous in that she’d appeared on a reality TV show and been spotted as a super model of the future. She already was a model; a B list celebrity seen mostly modelling put up and push out bras for the underwear industry. Now she was aiming for the dizzy heights of international stardom. The same assets that did it for the brassiere market would probably take her all the way.

  Her skin, although not quite as dark as her grandfather’s, was the shade of creamy coffee, her hair long and style glossy tousled. Her legs looked as though they went all the way up to her shoulders, so long that when she sat down her body seemed to fold up bit by delectably gorgeous bit.

  She’d had work; Honey was sure of it. Lindsey confirmed.

  ‘Bullet boobs.' Nipples like door knobs.’

  Honey raised her eyelids high enough to scrutinise the bride’s twin assets. It would need a suspension bridge to hold a pair of big boobs that high. As if that wasn’t enough, the bride’s dress emphasised the enhanced appendages. She’d gone for empire line, notably popular in the Regency period. Jane Austen would have loved it. The neckline plunged and the skirt started just below the breasts, slinky over the hips and ankle length.

  The bridesmaids’ dresses echoed the same style although in a pale shade of green.

  The bride wore a veil and carried a bouquet of white flowers interspersed with trailing strands of variegated ivy. The bridesmaids wore bonnets and carried bouquets of purple and yellow. No ivy.

  Vintage cars had been laid on for the bride, her parents – although estranged - and the bridesmaids and modern cars for the main guests. The cost of the whole lot would have kept a starving nation in rice for at least a week.

  The bridegroom, who wore silk britches and a tail coat, plus a dark pink cravat, was Adrian Fox, a TV comedian of dubious reputation and, in Honey’s opinion, very little talent.

  ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,’ she’d said to Lindsey her daughter who, for some obscure reason, thought he was funny.

  Honey’s mother preceded the guests’ arrival back from the abbey. Gloria Cross came breezing in looking a picture in turquoise chiffon, two triangular portions of it streaming out behind her. She’d gone to the abbey to watch the wedding ceremony and had got caught up with the guests. Judging by her outfit alone, she certainly looked compatible with the plethora of designer labels and dental implants.

  Honey whispered to Lindsey. ‘Your grandmother looks like an angel fish – or is it just me?’

  ‘Grandma looks like an angel fish,’ Lindsey whispered back.

  ‘I’ve decided it takes two to tango,’ her mother declared, raising her voice in order to be heard above the clamour of wedding guests’ laughter, taut conversations and ribald remarks.

  Honey didn’t have time to listen to her mother’s gossip or catch up on her latest money making scheme so she failed to catch all that was being said. If she had, she might have been prepared for what happened later.

  Honey shouted an apology unsure whether it was heard or not.

  ‘Sorry, mother.' I can’t stop. The reception’s under way and I need to make sure the kitchen is coping.’

  As it turned out, she needn’t have worried. If there was one thing Gloria Cross adored, it was a wedding at Bath Abbey followed by a reception at a decent hotel. Today it the Green River Hotel was peopled by guests with money who knew how to put on a good show.

  Gloria was enjoying herself and fitted in famously. Guest after guest greeted her like a long lost relative without needing to know her name. The greeting was generic and accepted worldwide.

  Honey heard it all and rolled her eyes.

  ‘Darling! How are you?’

  Her mother was in her element, though did briefly bend Mary Jane’s ear to confide that her daughter was going to be sorry that she hadn’t spared the time to listen to what she had to say. ‘You wait. I’m not too old to spring shocking surprises!’r />
  Another guest with a cheerful face and on her third glass of wine breathed spring onion over her.

  ‘Are you great aunt Periwinkle? Yes, of course, you must be. Cynthia told me to look out for you. Come this way dear.’

  Honey’s mother, smiled sweetly and didn’t confirm one way or the other.

  Honey checked and counted all the extras the lucky couple had ordered.

  Crystal wine glasses, white table linen, and white napkins – none of the two ply paper stuff that disintegrates half way through the meal. There were also silver streamers and table decorations, and vast floral displays hanging from silver chains and posies in the middle of the table.

  Click, click, click, went the keys on the calculator. It was bulky and hidden behind the reception counter, the numbers big and bold, just like the final tally for the Templeton/Fox wedding. ‘There,’ she said, almost licking her lips as she surveyed the deliciously exorbitant total.

  It was important to make sure everything went smoothly, and to that end, she flitted between the dining room and kitchen.

  It wasn’t until the speeches were being made, coffee served and miniscule pieces of wedding cake handed out, that she had time to relax. The guests were replete with food and drink and dulled into semi-consciousness by monotonous speeches and jokes that fell dead in the water. The break between the afternoon reception and the evening disco was the chance for staff and management to take a break.

  ‘Popping over the back,’ she said to the headwaiter.

  Her feet were killing her. Nothing to do with the shoes, she told herself. They were Italian. Everyone knows that if you want a good hairdo or pair of shoes, go Italian.

  Secluded in her private living accommodation, she kicked off her shoes, took off her tights, made a cup of tea and plunged her feet into a vibrating footbath. She had until eight o’clock and she was sure as hell going to indulge herself. Soaking feet was first priority.

  Lindsey also took advantage of the break, pouring a cup of tea and swigging it down before flopping onto her bed plugged into her iPod.

  Whilst Honey shut her eyes and chilled out with three marzipan petit fours she’d lifted from a tray in the kitchen, Lindsey grooved to something medieval being played on a lute. Both were at peace with the world. Hassle, in the form of the wedding disco and drinking session, restarted at eight that evening.

  Feeling ready for action – wedding discos rarely finished before midnight, Honey and Lindsey came back to the sound of music; the wedding party proper had begun. A buffet replaced the set tables, displayed around a silver punch bowl. The guests were happy. The bride and groom were happy. Best of all, the bride’s father, the chap who was footing the bill, was happiest of all. Not one single person – with the exception of the kids, who hadn’t been relegated to an early night with grandparents, wore stupid smiles and giggled inanely. Seemed OK.

  The first inkling that something was wrong with the wedding party was the music.

  A combo named the Corsham Cupcakes had been hired, quite a formal, professional outfit that had been used by other wedding parties before.

  They were usually tuneful. However, the tune they were presently playing was missing more chords than it hit.

  On top of that, the song, We’re Having a Gang Bang’ had never, until now, formed part of their repertoire. It just wasn’t normal wedding party music, but then she did recall there were a number of rugby players amongst the guests. They often had their own agenda.

  Honey stopped picking at the piece of wedding cake secreted out of sight behind the reception desk and voiced her thoughts to Lindsey.

  ‘Does that sound a bit out of tune to you?’

  Lindsey looked up from the computer screen, hands poised above the keyboard. Her surprised expression mirrored that of her mother.

  ‘Never mind out of tune, it sounds out of character for the Cupcakes. Just a question, but what did you put in that punch?’

  Honey shrugged. ‘Just the usual suspects.' Whatever ancient liqueurs’ that never sold mixed with fruit juice and a bottle of cheap sherry.’

  ‘Heavy stuff by the sound of it.' Anyone in that crowd taking Viagra?’

  Honey frowned. She’d never had a wedding that had got out of hand, and she didn’t want one now.

  ‘There has to be a good reason.’

  Lindsey turned back to the computer, changing screens once her mother was out of the way to something that might be a kind of career change, a step into the past perhaps? The page was headed, ‘So you want to become a nun?’

  On opening the door to the dining room that today was doing service as a function room, Honey’s jaw dropped. Patrick Swayzee in Dirty Dancing had nothing on this lot.

  The bride was down to garter belt, stockings and underwear, but still wore a pair of four-inch heels.

  The groom was without his trousers and the lucky couple were dancing what looked like the tango though more erotically than she’d ever seen it done before.

  Legs and writhing bodies were just visible from beneath some of the tables.

  The Corsham Cupcakes seemed to have resorted to their earlier years at the close of the punk era, shouting the words of the song with gusto though falling off more notes than they were hitting. On reflection that was fine because it suited the music. But the music didn’t suit the event.

  Trevor Templeton, the bride’s grandfather, who Honey had considered quite a dish, was chasing a giggling woman and they were heading in Honey’s direction. Honey gulped. She’d know that goldfish style dress anywhere.

  Honey grabbed her mother as she attempted to sprint and giggle past.

  ‘Mother! What are you doing?’

  There was a glazed look in her mother’s eyes. Her cheeks were flushed and her smile a silly slit.

  ‘I was dancing, but this big dark fellow wanted me to go outside with him.’

  Her mother leaned closer. ‘I said he had to catch me first. I was giving him a run for his money. Is he married?

  Honey closed her eyes in the hope that the nightmare wedding would vanish. When she opened them again nothing had changed. The nightmare was still going strong.

  Trevor Templeton’s expression was as way out as her mothers. The guests, the combo, even the waiting staff, looked to be off their heads.

  ‘You’re coming with me,’ Honey growled grabbing her mother’s arm.

  Her mother was in no state to protest and Trevor Templeton was now propositioning a tall blonde with big hands who Honey knew for sure was a cross dresser.

  ‘Let me take you outside and give you a big surprise,’ he was slurring.

  ‘The surprise is all yours,’ Honey muttered before steering her mother through the double doors and out into reception.

  After propping her mother with Lindsey, Honey headed for the kitchen. Never before had throwing obsolete liqueurs into a punch bowl and adding fruit juice produced results like this. Somebody had added something, but who?

  She stormed in pushing the door open so hard it smashed against the wall.

  ‘Right! Who did it?’

  The kitchen staff exchanged puzzled looks. Smudger Smith, her head chef frowned and asked her what the bloody hell did she mean, barging into his kitchen and demanding who had done it.

  ‘You know what! Out there!’ She pointed in the general direction of the mayhem erupting from the wedding party. ‘Whoever added whatever they did to that punch is for the high jump. Now. Who did it?’

  Head Chef Smudger Smith frowned. ‘Wedding parties sometimes get a bit out of hand.’

  ‘This is more than that. There’s an orgy going on out there. People are taking their clothes off.’

  ‘Really!’

  It was the wrong thing to say. There was a flurry of action. The kitchen staff clustered around the door, opening it ever so slightly. In came the sound of mayhem, giggles, singing and that terrible din from the Cupcakes.

  ‘Stop right there.’

  It was useless.

  ‘Wow! Look
at the tits on that!’

  Honey ordered them back to their workstations.

  ‘Haven’t any of you ever seen a pair of tits before?’ she demanded, riled at the way discipline could so easily fall apart at the mere mention of something sexual.

  There were grins and mutterings about joining in before Smudger suggested they draw straws – cheese straws – to see who was going in to retrieve the bowl of punch.

  Kurt, the kitchen porter drew the short straw, which in this case meant he’d won.

  ‘Without sneaking a taste,’ Smudger said to him.

  Kurt promised he would not indulge.

  Honey stayed where she was, fists on hips and one toe tapping impatiently. When that foot got tired, she changed sides and tapped the other.

  Howls of protest preceded Kurt’s reappearance and the setting down of the punch bowl on a stainless steel surface in the kitchen.

  The kitchen porter was breathless. ‘They were none too pleased about me taking it. I thought they were going to lynch me.’

  ‘More likely debag you,’ suggested Smudger.

  Honey, Smudger, and rest of the kitchen staff huddled around the table gazing down into what was left at the bottom of the bowl.

  ‘It looks OK,’ said Honey. She dipped in her finger and sucked. ‘Tastes OK.’

  Smudger pursed his lips. ‘To you it might. To me it might. I’m thinking cannabis here. We need somebody who’d recognise the taste in a moment.’

  ‘I’m your man.’ The offer came from the washing up area.

  Rodney Eastwood’s nickname was Clint; that was where his resemblance to the Hollywood star ended. He was broad shouldered, thick necked and his head was tattooed with spiders and webs. Clint was their regular washer upper, cash only casual. He also knew an illegal substance when he tasted one. Rumour had it he’d tasted quite a few in his time. He hadn’t gone for a look at the guests because he was avoiding Anna, one of their waitresses. Honey wasn’t sure whether their relationship was off or on.