by Kathy Reichs
“Like that’ll do us any good.” I thought of Whitney, still nervously prepping upstairs, and my stomach dropped through my shoes. “You guys, Whitney will not be able to handle this. She’s a mess already. When she sees Stephen King’s floral arrangements . . .”
Hi snorted. “That actually might be funny. We could YouTube it.”
He yelped as Ben smacked the back of his head.
“We have to fix this.” I pressed my fists to my forehead, thinking. “Should we call the florists back? I don’t have their number, plus their shop is all the way in Mount Pleasant. And they won’t have a truckload of backup centerpieces just lying around, anyway. Or even the same flowers.”
“A different place?” Ben suggested doubtfully. “Somewhere close? Or maybe we could snag the flowers for the outdoor service, and swap them in here?”
Shelton shook his head. “In front of all those people? Everyone would freak. And then the actual wedding would look like trash.”
“Shoot!” I stomped a foot. “No one can fix this in time. Two hundred white lilies don’t fall from the sky!”
“No,” Hi said seriously. “They grow in the ground.”
I gave him a nasty look, but Shelton’s clap grabbed my attention.
“That’s it!” He smiled wide, then pointed to a door on the opposite side of the room. “There are flowers outside. Hundreds of them!”
Ben frowned. “You’re the one who said we can’t swap the arrangements.”
“No!” Shelton was bouncing on his balls of his feet. “Not the courtyard! I’m talking about the botanical garden on the other side of the building! Flowers grow in the ground, just like Hi said!”
My eyes rounded. “We raid their flower garden! That’s genius!”
Hi shook out his sleeves, then tugged on his cuffs. “Let’s all remember that this was my idea. Sometimes brilliance strikes like lightning, whereas—”
Ben smacked Hi again, but kept his focus on me. “What types of flowers do they have back there?”
I shook my head, nerves returning as I strategized the best course of action. “Whatever they are, we have to make it work.”
Shelton’s enthusiasm abruptly dried up. “I’m guessing the manager won’t love us destroying their award-winning garden. That’s for real, by the way. This place won awards.”
Wince. Shrug. “We’ll pay them back. Kit will. I’m sure.”
“So what’s the plan?” Ben asked.
I took a calming breath. “Ben, go tell Kit what happened. Get his permission to raid the garden—tell him it’s the only way to keep Whitney from imploding. Then meet me back there.”
“And if he doesn’t say yes?”
“Get him to!”
Ben nodded, trotted for the door.
I turned to Shelton. “I need you to round up Tempe and Harry. Tell them what happened, and then bring them to the garden with whomever else they want to include. Someone has to decide what to pick for the new arrangements. I don’t have a clue.”
Shelton clicked his tongue. “Great. Round up some old ladies at a wedding and get them to commit vandalism. No problem at all.” But he hurried to carry out my instructions.
“I assume you want me to go have a snack?” Hi suggested hopefully.
My hands found my hips. “I saved the best for you, Mr. Brilliant. I need you to clean all this up. Every dead flower has to go, every vase needs to be rinsed out and scrubbed. The rocks, too. I’m counting on you.”
Hi groaned. “Maybe we should reconsider this whole thing.” He waved a hand at the morbid lily centerpieces. “These arrangements have a certain . . . serial killer . . . charm.”
I gave him a flat look. “Get moving.”
As Hi trudged to the closest table, bemoaning his fate, I ran a hand across my face. The plan could work, but we had to move fast. I was about to track down the house manager—to calmly inform him that we intended to devastate his flowerbeds—when Hi’s voice echoed across the ballroom. “Tor! Come here a sec!”
I spun, annoyed. “What is it, Hi? I have to go.”
Hi was holding the first centerpiece, an odd look on his face. “Something’s not right.”
Curiosity won out, and I hurried over to him. “What do you mean?”
Hi shoved the wilting arrangement at my face. “Smell this.”
I batted dead lily petals from my eyes, glaring at Hi. But then I noticed it, too. A faint chemical aroma, wafting from the vase water. Shoving my nose closer, I inhaled deeply, irises washing blue as my sensory powers amplified the odor.
My nose wrinkled. The smell was harsh. Bitter. “What is that?”
Hi shrugged. “Water mixed with . . . something. Maybe a fancy preservative?”
I looked around at all the dead flowers. “Then why are they all dead? Super dead.”
I took another whiff, concentrating on the bouquet of aromas emanating from the vase. Once upon a time, I was better at this—I could’ve told you what lake the water came from—but I could still sense that something was off.
“I’m not certain,” I said slowly, “but part of this mixture smells like rubbing alcohol. There’s more, too. Another chemical. Acrid. It burns my nostrils.” I took a step back, shook my head to clear it. “All I can think of is . . . weed killer.”
Hi snorted, pulling dead stems from the liquid. “Basically the last two things you’d use to keep plants alive. Stupendous job, florists! Prepare for a really bad review on Yelp.”
“Seriously.” Yet the hairs on my arms were standing. How could such an obvious mistake occur? What kind of bonehead would place flowers into a solution that would kill them within minutes?
The door opened, driving all other thoughts from my mind. Shelton slipped inside, followed by Aunt Tempe and Harry, Kit’s mom. She’s also technically my grandmother, but we hadn’t spent much time together. Harry’s an odd bird, to say the least.
The two women froze, ogling the flower massacre.
“What in God’s name?” Harry’s dyed-blond curls quivered as she stared in disbelief. “Who designed this look, Tim Burton?”
Tempe shook herself, strode quickly to my side. “Okay. Disaster. Do we have a plan?”
I nodded, standing a bit straighter. Tempe had that effect on me. “Every flower in here is toast, but there’s a botanical garden on the grounds. I sent Ben to alert Kit—it might get expensive when we gut the flowerbeds to replace the centerpieces.”
Tempe closed her eyes a moment. Then, oddly, barked a laugh. “Clinical and effective. Good thinking. If the manager doesn’t have us arrested for destruction of property, that is.”
I cringed. “I was just going to get his permission.”
Tempe shook her head firmly. “We pick first, ask permission afterward. Fortune favors the bold, right?”
• • •
Roses.
Red. White. Pink. Yellow.
Working swiftly and silently, we plucked dozens of delicate buds, then smuggled them into the ballroom undetected. Hi kept lookout by the door as Harry assembled the arrangements. In thirty minutes, the chamber had a brand-new look.
A damn good one, if I do say so myself.
Whitney would notice the changes instantly, of course, but no one else should. Harry had done a masterful job. As Tempe slid the last centerpiece into position, I breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted, with minutes to spare.
“Okay everyone, let’s go!” Tempe was tapping her watch.
“Things are happening!” Hi called from the door. He’d cracked it an inch, was peering out at the guests in the courtyard. “Kit just walk-ran down the aisle. He looks like he’s freaking out. And there’s a green-dress girl circling the audience. She looks mad.”
I winced. “Searching for the maid of honor, no doubt.”
“Go.” Harry made shooing motions with
her hands. “Y’all are in the wedding party. The service starts in five, and they must be frantic. I’m done here. Tempe and I will be on your heels.”
The boys straightened their tuxes, then hurried out to join Kit by the altar. I was halfway through the door when Tempe caught me by the hand.
She gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Nice work, Tory. You saved the day.”
“Just glad it worked out.” But I felt a warm flush of pride. Booyah.
As I stepped from the ballroom, the frantic bridesmaid spotted me and practically ran in my direction. I plastered on a smile. The day was saved. Whitney would understand. But as I was being literally yanked toward the building—and scolded by a complete stranger for good measure—an unsettling thought occurred to me.
All those centerpieces destroyed, because of an incredibly stupid blunder.
But what if it wasn’t a mistake?
What if the flowers had been murdered?
I put one foot in front of the other.
Slowly. Stately.
Wobbly.
I’m not an ace in heels.
Whitney’s train slid down the aisle before me, a tidal wave of white silk whispering along the red carpet. Though maid of honor, I was to follow directly behind her as she entered, a dictate of DuBois family tradition. No doubt a relic of their cherished debutante past, allowing the bride-to-be a final, glorious one-upping of her sister or closest friend.
Don’t be ugly. Whitney means well. Mostly.
Step. Pause. Step. My floor-length dress made each stride a challenge, but I was determined not to pull a Jennifer Lawrence. When she trips in front of everyone, it’s adorable. I’d look like a circus clown.
My hastily assembled crisis team had scrambled back into their respective positions. Problem solved, but I still couldn’t understand how such a ridiculous mistake could occur. Those florists were in for some sharp words. I’d make sure Kit demanded a refund.
Beyond Whitney, I could see Kit grinning like a dope as he stood before the raised wooden altar. The priest, Dr. Allen, was on his left. Whitney’s younger brother Eric, in from Chicago, stood to his right. Whitney had suggested that Eric be Kit’s best man. Kit being Kit, he’d agreed without complaint.
My God, it’s really happening.
At the end of this walk, that ditzy woman would become my stepmother.
Blargh.
I squeezed my lids shut. Snapped them open. Glancing around for a distraction, I spotted my friends’ parents in a row to my right. Tom Blue looked sweaty in his ill-fitting rented tuxedo, but he smiled and nodded as I paced by. We’d gotten to know each other on a personal level in the months that Ben and I had been dating. A well-read man, he was thoughtful and polite, prone to quoting famous literature when making a point. Ben’s ears burned every time it happened, but I was a fan. I love it when life—when people—surprise me.
Unless they’re trying to kill me, of course.
But I was all done with that.
Ben’s mother, Myra, sat next to Tom, in a lovely cinnamon dress that matched her eyes. I’d never sensed any bad blood between the elder Blues—honestly, I wasn’t even sure they were officially divorced. That topic I studiously avoided. Ben would say more when he was ready. It wasn’t my place to pry.
Beyond Myra sat Shelton’s parents, Nelson and Lorelei Devers, holding hands, eyes glued to each other. Shelton said they loved weddings. Watching them now, I guessed they liked to relive their own. Farther down the row, Linus Stolowitski was patting the shoulder of his wife, Ruth, who’d buried her nose in a handkerchief. Linus gave me an apologetic shrug, but I smiled. Ruth’s an emotional lady, no question. Ask Hi anytime he gets on her bad side.
Another pace forward. The next row held less pleasant guests.
Dr. Mike Iglehart sat in the closest chair. He dodged my glance as if burned by it, and well he should. Chance had divulged that Iglehart had been his secret spy at LIRI, but I’d decided to keep the information to myself. Kit liked to think the best of everyone at the institute, and the Iglehart problem was fully neutralized. No need to shatter my father’s illusions.
Still. What a jerk.
The rest of the row was filled with classmates I was less than thrilled to see. Ashley Bodford sat with her parents, looking bored yet beautiful in a jet-black dress that matched her hair, eyes, and heart. Beside her, Courtney Holt sat with perfect posture, her cream-colored dress way too close to white, not that she’d understand why that mattered. The clingy, low-cut garment set off her blond hair, and that’s all she cared about.
I hated that they were invited, but, naturally, their parents were close friends of the DuBois family. So they got to attend my father’s wedding despite having tortured me daily for the better part of two years. My glance hardened to a glare, but they didn’t notice.
Easy, tiger, Hi sounded inside my skull. Don’t forget—police are in da house!
My gaze flicked back to the altar, a high, wide platform of polished oak, cunningly fit together to appear as a single unbroken piece. A carved wooden arch graced its apex, woven with garlands of white flowers. Whitney had had the entire thing flown in from Ireland for the service, and it’d taken several hours to reassemble the night before. Anything for her ladyship.
Hi, Ben, and Shelton stood atop the bulky platform, in a line with the other groomsmen. I was genuinely touched that Kit had chosen my best friends to fill out his wedding party. Having them close by made the whole day easier for me, which was likely his intention.
On the opposite side of the archway were the bridesmaids, their makeup-coated expressions a mixture of happiness, envy, and boredom. Squinting, I could easily picture Ashley and Courtney in their vapid company.
Parasites, I sent back to Hi, still riled by unwelcome faces in the gallery. I wouldn’t mind if a few chairs collapsed. Into a volcano.
Haven’t mastered that trick yet. Shelton smoothed the sleeves of his tuxedo jacket, ducking his head to hide his smile. When I can do more than talk in your dome, I’ll let you know.
I wouldn’t worry about these cops. Ben was scowling at Captain Carmine Corcoran, who was hitching his pants beside the courtyard entrance. That moron couldn’t guard a cheeseburger unless there was a press conference involved.
I lowered my head, stifling a laugh as I kept my sapphire eyes from view. Kit’s idea. He thought an official presence might keep the paparazzi away.
It hadn’t worked. A gaggle of photographers was lurking just beyond the courtyard wall, hoping to get lucky. I’d spotted at least one snapping shots from a nearby roof.
As director of the Loggerhead Island Research Institute, Dr. Christopher Howard was—distressingly to my father—one of the prominent citizens of Charleston. Add in the wealth and prestige of the DuBois family, plus the infamous Chance Claybourne in attendance as a guest, and this wedding was officially an Event in the city. Despite Corcoran’s preening, I was glad for the extra security. His team of off-duty cops had bounced a dozen crashers already.
The people discovered Hiram Stolowitski would be here, Hi trumpeted inside my head. I watched him buff his fingernails on a silk lapel. TMZ coverage was inevitable.
Red sparks in my mind, followed by inarticulate squawking. Ben had struck a third time.
One of these days, Hi griped, I’m charging you with assault.
I’ll alert my attorney. Ben’s eyes found mine, and the skies cleared.
Benjamin Blue, now a serial smiler.
Who’d have thunk it?
We continued down the aisle, passing rows filled with LIRI staff, local dignitaries, and Bolton Prep families. Madison gave me a friendly nod, Jason a grin. His mother sat in the chair beside him, wearing a small frown as she muttered about the pollen count. Whitney nearly missed a step. As president of the Magnolia League, Agnes Taylor’s opinions on style were local gospel. Whitney would’ve crawled through
a sewer pipe to make a good impression.
Mrs. Taylor was a substitute teacher, and, being the nosy type, stayed in-the-know regarding school gossip. It wasn’t clear what she thought of Madison and her son being together, but her face was pinched in a scowl. Jason pretended not to notice, his fingers interlocked with his girlfriend’s. Though Maddy smiled prettily, I noticed her knuckles were white.
Kit’s family manned the front row. Harry sat between Tempe and Kit’s father, Howard Howard—don’t ask about the name—who was followed by Tempe’s daughter Katie, her ex-husband Pete, and some others I didn’t know very well. I ignored the opposite side of the aisle, jam-packed with DuBois family members and their countless friends and social connections. A decent-sized crowd, all told, though I knew Whitney had agonized over whom to invite. And delighted in several snubs.
Last chance to blow this up. Hi kept his face straight, but his voice swirled singsong in my brain. You could still fake a seizure. Or grab the rings and bolt.
Don’t think I haven’t considered it.
We reached the foot of the altar. I looked up, saw my father’s beaming face. His palpable joy burned away my cynicism.
Can’t do it, folks. I’m going down with this ship.
Bah. Shelton made a covert dismissal with one hand. Twelve months, then you’re out of there. Just make, like, a yearlong Advent calendar or something. Count the days.
True. I didn’t like thinking that way—it wasn’t fair to Kit, who’d taken me in when I’d had nowhere else to go—but facts were facts. After one more year at Bolton, I was off to college. Whitney would become a summers-and-holidays-only problem.
I glanced at Ben, who was studying his boxy black shoes. A strange cocktail of emotions was seeping from him, before closing off abruptly. I kept my own fears from flowing back.
I didn’t know yet where I’d go to college, but it almost certainly wouldn’t be in Asheville like Ben. I’d already applied to Wake Forest and Vanderbilt, which weren’t too far, but the other schools on my list were all a plane ride away. And, given that I was a shoo-in for valedictorian—everyone else knew it, so there was no point denying it myself—I’d have good options.
