“How sweet of you,” Sheila said. “Randy, I’ll get the box of punch ingredients out of the car while you―”
“No, honey,” he replied. “I’ll get the box after I put the luggage in our room. You stay here and visit with Lexie. I’m sure she can use some help getting ready for this evening.”
Sheila gave Randy a quick peck on the lips and hung her purse around his neck. He groaned in response. Her purse was nearly as big and heavy as one of the suitcases. Randy listed to the left as he walked away, due to the weight of Sheila’s oversized purse, and muttered, “I thought I told you to leave the kitchen sink behind.”
Rapella breezed into the room, exuding a boatload of energy and enthusiasm. “Howdy folks! Long time no see, Lexie. Rip’s outside chatting with Stone, who’s showing him where to park the Chartreuse Caboose. We’re thrilled you’ve added a few RV sites to the grounds.”
I gave Rapella a hug and introduced her to Sheila, who was having a fit of the giggles at the name the Ripples had given their travel trailer. I told Rapella what we’d been discussing before she walked in. She look confused, as if trying to figure out how Sheila and I could produce offspring. “So, you’re saying that if you two could somehow reproduce, your child would be a seventy-year-old woman?”
“I’m beginning to think Rapella’s more like Randy than either of us.” Sheila and I laughed heartily at Sheila’s remark. Rapella just looked at us as if we were a couple of cackling old hens that needed to be crated and shipped to Tyson for processing.
A few seconds later, Clyde “Rip” Ripple walked into the room and stood beside his wife. “Sorry to inform you, ladies, but there is no one in the world like Rapella. She is most definitely one-of-a-kind.”
“You are absolutely correct about that,” I responded before giving him a welcoming embrace. “It’s great to see you again, Rip.”
“You too, Leslie.”
I didn’t bother to correct him, as I thought his trouble remembering names gave him an endearing quality. Rapella, however, felt differently. She put her hands on her hips and scolded her husband. “Clyde Jackson Ripple! We just went over this as we were pulling into the driveway. Her name is Lexie. Lex-E. Say it! Lex-E. Come on, Rip. Say it!”
“Okay, okay. Lex-E. That’s what I meant to say.” Rip flashed me an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Lexie. I promise I won’t forget your name again.”
“You’re damned right you won’t,” Rapella huffed. “If we have to go over it a hundred times tonight, Rip, you are going to get it right the next time.”
Stone entered the kitchen, carrying the box of punch supplies from the trunk of Sheila and Randy’s car. He looked rather shocked at how many bottles of booze were in the box. “I take it this comes inside?”
After Sheila assured him it did, Stone set the heavy box down on the kitchen table. “What is Rip going to get right next time?”
“Lisa’s name,” Rip replied. “My bride is upset because I got it wrong the first time.”
A chorus of exaggerated groans filled the kitchen.
The sun blazed in the summer sky the following morning. The big day was upon us and I felt content knowing the rehearsal the night before and the dinner that followed had went off without a snag. Wendy could not have been more delighted, which made me extremely happy. For the very first time, I felt confident I’d made a wise decision when I’d hired Lariat Jones to help plan the wedding.
Having heard the weather forecast, I became concerned about the high heat index expected for that afternoon. The groomsmen would be dressed in black tuxedos, the worst possible color for a day in the upper nineties. I felt bad knowing they’d be uncomfortable, but Wendy had insisted. It had been her decision to make, not mine, so I never debated the choice as aggressively as I probably should have.
I checked the schedule for the day. Lily and Raven would deliver the floral arrangements, bouquets, and boutonnieres at eleven o’clock, followed by Chena’s cake delivery at noon. By then, Stone, Randy, and Rip would have the tables and chairs set up. Sheila and Rapella had volunteered to help Lariat with the decorations. Detective Johnston, one of the groomsmen, had offered to pitch in wherever assistance was needed. I had agreed, as long as he was dressed in his tux when the photographer arrived.
Annie planned to arrive around one o’clock to take photos of the wedding party prior to the ceremony, which was scheduled for two o’clock. Knowing Annie would leave directly after the ceremony to prepare for her gallery exhibit the following day, Wyatt agreed to capture an assortment of candid photographs with his new Nikon after the actual wedding ceremony.
Georgia would arrive between one-fifteen and one-thirty with all of the food for the reception. She’d insisted on setting up the refreshment table at the last possible moment so the shrimp rollups, and other perishable food items wouldn’t spoil in the oppressive heat.
All of my ducks were in perfect alignment, lined up and performing in precision like South Korean soldiers marching in a military parade. I tried to contain the smug, self-satisfied smile that plastered itself across my face at random moments throughout the morning. I didn’t want to come across as being full of myself or already soused from sampling Sheila’s punch.
With all the planning, toil, and trouble I’d invested in the wedding, I wasn’t expecting that anything could possibly go wrong and prevent this day from being the most memorable and wonderful day of my daughter’s life. But then again, I could list a zillion and three things that had occurred in the course of my fifty-one years that I hadn’t anticipated. The day would turn out to be memorable, at least. One out of two ain’t bad.
Nineteen
Wedding Day - August 25, 2018
“Nine-one-one. Do you have an emergency?”
“Yes, ma’am.” My voice quivered uncontrollably. “We need an ambulance. Right away!”
“What is your name and the nature of your emergency?”
“My name is Lexie Starr. In the middle of my daughter’s wedding, one of the groomsmen collapsed to the ground.”
“Is he breathing, ma’am?”
I glanced over to watch Raven Kostaki perform chest compressions on Bubba Slippknott. “Someone’s doing CPR, but he doesn’t seem to be responding.”
“What is your address? I’ll dispatch assistance immediately. Continue administering CPR until help arrives. Does he have a pulse?” The operator’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact. Doesn’t she realize this was a life-or-death situation?
“I’m not sure.” I recited the address and implored her to ask the ambulance driver to hurry. “We need them here A.S.A.P.”
“Help is on the way, ma’am.”
I swear I could actually hear the woman’s eyes roll over the phone. But I realized she couldn’t allow herself to become overly distressed every time she took an emergency call, or she’d soon develop severe hypertension.
Moments earlier, Reverend Bob Zimmerman, minister of the local Methodist Church, had asked if anyone had any objections to the union of Andy Van Patten, my husband’s nephew, and Wendy, my thirty-one-year-old daughter.
“Erg, I, uh―” The six-foot-eight best man tried to speak, then took a step back and keeled over like a tree toppled by a chainsaw.
“Well, that was a rather dramatic objection,” Reverend Bob, as the cleric preferred to be called, said with a chuckle.
At first everyone laughed, thinking Bubba had either fainted from the exhilaration of the moment, or was acting out a rather tasteless prank for everyone’s amusement. However, it soon became apparent it was no joke, nor had Bubba merely passed out.
I studied the scene in front of me. Some wedding guests ran around like squirrels looking for nuts to bury. Others looked as if they’d been dipped in a vat of nitrogen and were frozen in time. The groom wore an expression of disbelief. He’d clearly anticipated he’d be kissing his new bride right about now instead of looking down at his best man’s lifeless body.
Wyatt Johnston, our good friend and one of Rockdale�
��s finest detectives for sixteen years, stepped around Gunnar Wilde to tend to Bubba, who lay motionless on the ground. Kneeling down, he checked his fellow groomsman for a pulse and respirations. He looked up at me and shook his head.
Like several other people, I’d been video-taping the ceremony when Bubba collapsed. As I took in the scene, my camera continued to record. Stone hushed the crowd, which collectively sounded like the buzzing of a high-voltage transformer.
“Is there a doctor in the house?” Stone shouted.
Rattled by the unexpected turn of events, I found myself mentally correcting his use of the “in the house” phrase. We were actually outdoors, gathered around the gazebo he’d built for our own nuptials the previous year. I shook my head to clear the cobwebs and quickly regained my focus. As the proud mother of the county’s chief medical examiner, I replied, “Wendy. She has a medical degree.”
Every eye in the crowd turned to gawk at me. I guess they couldn’t wrap their heads around the idea of the medical examiner―dressed in full bridal regalia, a long veil and an even longer train―kneeling down on the ground to give the kiss of life to the best man.
“It may be heat stroke,” Wendy informed the crowd, as she tossed her bouquet to the side, ripped off her veil, and rushed toward the unconscious man.
That’s my girl! I wanted to shout.
From the back row, someone called out, “I’m trained in CPR!” It was the floral assistant, Raven Kostaki, who’d been seated next to the Ripples.
Oh, thank God, I said under my breath. A grass stain on Wendy’s beautiful silk gown would’ve been a crying shame.
Despite the sweltering heat of the late-summer day, Raven valiantly attempted to breathe life back into Bubba. Beads of sweat had formed across her brow, and she labored without pausing to swipe it from her forehead. Andy watched in horror as he knelt beside the man who’d been his best friend since seventh grade.
Detective Johnston dropped to his knees just then to assist Raven by taking over with the chest compressions. Raven continued with the mouth-to-mouth portion of the resuscitation efforts. Wendy was standing nearby in order to step in if either Wyatt or Raven needed to be relieved.
I clicked my camera off and studied the crowd. To the right of me stood Lariat. He looked as if nothing amiss had occurred to disrupt the ceremony, which I found odd. Chena Steward, the cake decorator, watched in horror as the floral assistant and the detective continued their administrations on Bubba. I was surprised she’d hung around for the ceremony after she’d delivered the wedding cake.
There seemed to be multiple wedding crashers present. Yvonne and Deb Custovio weren’t on the guest list, but Wendy could have given an oral invitation at her last hair appointment when Yvonne highlighted her hair. Although as dissimilar as a goldfish and a bucket of coal, the sisters were kind of a package deal. Neither was encumbered with a spouse, and the two were often seen together at both public and private events.
Raven wasn’t on the guest list, either, but as a representative of Lily’s-in-Bloom Floral Shop, she’d helped distribute the flower arrangements and hand out the bouquets and boutonnieres to the wedding party. It’d been ninety-five degrees when the ceremony started and had only become hotter from that point on. In such heat, the floral bouquets the wedding party were adorned with would need to be stored in the refrigerator quickly after the completion of the ceremony, or they’d wilt faster than lettuce with bacon grease poured on top of it. Lariat had warned us not to have fresh flower arrangements at the outdoor reception for just that reason. But whether it was to help me store the floral bouquets afterward, or not, I was thankful Raven had stayed. The young lady hadn’t hesitated to jump in to try and save the best man’s life.
Lily Franks had stopped by for a few minutes prior to the ceremony, but had understandably hastened to get back to her shop to wait on customers. It’s probably just as well, as she and Yvonne were dressed all in black as if they were attending a funeral rather than a wedding. They had on identical black blazers, which Lily removed as soon as she spotted Yvonne’s matching attire. Before Lily scurried off, I had assured her that the flowers she’d provided were just as fresh and colorful as we’d hoped they’d be.
Sirens could soon be heard approaching from the west. Stone hurried out to meet the first responders and motioned for them to drive around back to the garden area. No more than thirty seconds later, an emergency medical technician ripped open Bubba’s shirt and placed a defibrillation pad on each side of his chest. I briefly wondered what the penalty would be when the ruined shirt was returned to the tuxedo rental shop. Looking back, this was a clear indication I was in a state of shock and not utilizing enough of the brain cells I had at my disposal.
Ker-thump! Bubba’s torso jumped off the ground in reaction to the electrical jolt, but it was to no avail. Ker-thump! Ker-thump!
It seemed to take a dozen attempts to restore Bubba’s pulse, though it was probably more like four or five. I’d been too flustered to keep track. When the technician finally gave a thumbs-up, the overwhelming relief in the crowd was palpable.
An oxygen mask was strapped to Bubba’s face, and he was lifted onto a gurney. He’d yet to open his eyes, but was now at least taking shallow breaths. The EMT’s loaded the gurney into the back of the waiting ambulance. Once inside, a technician hastily reached for the defibrillator machine. Has Bubba coded again? I fretted.
Reverend Bob climbed into the ambulance, telling the driver he’d like to accompany Mr. Slippknott to the hospital. He wanted to be on hand to provide spiritual guidance to the family who’d surely gather in masses around the patient’s bedside. The doors closed and, with sirens blaring, the ambulance sped off before anyone could inform the Reverend that Bubba had traveled from South Carolina to participate in the wedding and had no family in Rockdale. I prayed the cleric’s presence wouldn’t be needed to administer last rites rather than the spiritual guidance he’d hoped to provide.
I turned to Stone, who was standing beside me wearing an expression of helplessness. “Bubba passed out before Wendy and Andy were pronounced man and wife. How are we going to finish the ceremony?”
I don’t know if he was trying to lighten the mood, or was in a similar state of mind as I, but Stone bellowed out, “Is there another preacher in the house?”
A communal gasp arose from the onlookers as Andy kissed his fiancé goodbye and raced to his pickup truck, determined to follow the ambulance. I’m certain he thought someone should be on hand to answer questions and be an advocate for Bubba once he arrived at the trauma center. I was in complete accordance and relieved he’d chosen to tail the ambulance to the hospital in St. Joseph.
The stunned bride-to-be looked on in obvious distress. Wendy hollered out to her husband-to-be, even though he was probably seven or eight blocks from the inn at that point. “You can’t just leave me here! How are we going to get married now?”
In normal situations, Stone was always kind and thoughtful. But this was not a normal situation. And as Bubba’s godfather, Stone’s emotions were no doubt in turmoil. I’m sure he didn’t mean to be hurtful or insensitive when he shouted, “Is there another groom in the house?”
With no disrespect intended, all but a few wedding guests, who were still in a state of disbelief, thought Stone’s question was hysterical. Even I laughed out loud without thinking, for which I blame Sheila’s punch. I stopped abruptly when I noticed Wendy had dissolved into tears. Stone apologized profusely as I tried my best to calm my daughter. My comforting words did nothing to soothe her. I didn’t tell her, or Stone, I’d overheard an EMT tell the ambulance driver the chances of Bubba surviving whatever had felled him like a giant sequoia did not look promising.
We were standing behind a table of strategically placed wedding items: bowls of butter mints and salted mixed nuts, bottles of Dom Perignon and monogrammed wine glasses, and a horrid-looking but ridiculously expensive three-tiered cake. The iced monstrosity looked as if its expiration date had passe
d several days prior to its delivery.
I wasn’t thinking straight when I tried another tactic to take Wendy’s mind off the tragic event that had just wreaked havoc on her wedding day. “Honey, I see no reason why you and Andy can’t still spend next week celebrating your relationship at the resort in Cozumel. After all, it’s already paid for.”
“Celebrating our relationship?” Wendy cried out hysterically. “I want to be celebrating our marriage.”
Before I could stop her, Wendy picked up a crystal wine glass full of Sheila’s spiked punch and slammed it down on the table. I breathed a sigh of relief when the goblet withstood the impact. The few drops of punch that had fallen on the cake could only improve it, as far as I was concerned, but scattered shards of glass would have rendered the pathetic cake useless before the guests had been given an opportunity to partake of it.
Wendy’s brash reaction appeared to startle the wedding guests. They stood in silence, staring at Wendy and me, clearly waiting to be told what was expected of them now that the groom, best man, and officiating cleric had vacated the premises.
In a sniveling voice, Wendy asked, “What should we do now, Mom?”
When no better option came to mind, I spread my arms out and drew the guests’ attention to the lop-sided concoction on the table. I smiled and exclaimed, “Let them eat cake!”
A number of things then occurred simultaneously: Stone raced to his truck to follow Andy to the hospital, a blubbering Wendy sprinted to the back door of the bed and breakfast Stone and I owned and operated, an estimated eighty-five guests scurried to the table to feast on Sheila’s spiked punch, champagne, and wedding cake, and Raven Kostaki fell to the ground for no apparent reason.
As Detective Johnston rushed to Raven’s side, I thought back to the day I’d promised Wendy that her wedding day would be one she’d never forget. At the time, I had no way of knowing how prophetically accurate that vow would turn out to be. Instead of a cherished memory filled with love and happiness, her special day grew worse with each passing moment. It had transformed from a marriage celebration to absolute mayhem in the blink of an eye.
Marriage and Mayhem (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 7) Page 12
