Marriage and Mayhem (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 7)

by Jeanne Glidewell

  “No, that’s not it,” Sheila said. “Wendy updated us on his condition earlier.”

  “Then why are―”

  “I brought Sheila in to be looked at,” Randy cut in. I then noticed his worried expression, and that Sheila’s face matched her light green eye shadow. “She’s been released and we were just on our way out.”

  “Been released? Oh, no. What’s wrong?” I asked Randy, as if Sheila was physically incapable of speaking for herself.

  “She started feeling a little woozy and acting confused. I walked into your kitchen and found her placing a box full of the small bouquets and boutonnieres into the oven, and then had to help her to a chair before she lost her balance. With Bubba and Raven suddenly getting seriously ill like they did, I didn’t want to take any chances on Sheila getting sick, too.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t. This situation is getting curiouser and curiouser. How are you feeling now, Sheila?” I grasped her hands in mine. She looked worn out and wobbly. “Did the doctors determine you’d had too much exposure to the heat and humidity, as they believe Bubba and Raven did?”

  “The nurse told me that was their best guess.” As Sheila spoke, Randy leaned in to steady her.

  “Best guess?” Stone asked. He was frustrated already without hearing the emergency room personnel were making wild-ass guesses at the cause of their patients’ illnesses. “That’s what they’re paid the big bucks for? I could have come up with that conclusion without spending a single second in medical school.”

  I didn’t want to give Stone a chance to get even more worked up. I was certain his blood pressure was already elevated to a dangerous level. So I asked, “Did they run any tests in the event it wasn’t caused by the heat?”

  “The lab drew blood, of course. They have a tendency to do that even if you only come in to the emergency room with a small gash that needs to be stitched up. It’s clear they can really stick it to the insurance companies for blood work. According to the nurse, my vitals were normal, other than my blood pressure, which was off the charts. I’m sure just being here elevated my blood pressure. It typically goes up thirty points the second someone in a white coat walks into the room.”

  “Mine does that, too,” Randy added.

  “As does mine,” I said. “I think it’s called white-coat syndrome.”

  “Mine has been off the charts since we walked into this sorry excuse for a hospital,” Stone grumbled.

  “Sheila’s also hypoglycemic, you know,” Randy went on after giving Stone a sympathetic smile. “I found some orange juice in your fridge and had her drink a glass of it just in case her blood sugar was low. Her glucose level tested perfect in the emergency room.”

  I nodded at Randy. “That’s good. I’ll bet low blood sugar is exactly what caused her dizziness and confusion. I remember the day she passed out in the high school parking lot after it dropped too low. She had to have her jaw wired shut after hitting her mouth on the hood of her car.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you do remember that incidence,” Sheila said in mock annoyance. “And I recall you saying you were finally going to get a much-needed vacation from my non-stop jabbering.”

  We all laughed. Then I asked, “Did you happen to notice if any of the food on the refreshment table tasted suspicious?”

  “Randy and I stopped for brunch on our way to Rockdale, so I didn’t eat anything at the wedding except for a piece of the cake.”

  “I didn’t have a bite of anything,” Randy added.

  “But I was drinking plenty of punch―” Sheila stopped abruptly as she noticed the look on her husband’s face. In a more subdued voice, she finished her statement. “To stay hydrated in the sizzling heat, of course.”

  “What?” He asked. At Sheila’s comment, Randy cocked his head and stared at her as if he’d just learned his wife had been downing cups full of paint thinner all morning. I read his expression perfectly. Like Randy, I also wondered if Sheila had “over-sampled” her own concoction. Its reputation for being potent was well-earned.

  “You don’t happen to have a peanut allergy you’ve never told me about, do you?” I asked my friend, sparing her a grilling by her husband. I knew her well enough to know she’d rather answer my question than the one currently forming in Randy’s head.

  “No, of course not. When I have an eyelash out of place, I call and discuss it with you for ten minutes. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, there goes the peanut-allergy theory,” I murmured. After explaining what Sam’s friend had told Andy on the phone, I then told the Davidsons about the baffling situation with Bubba’s sister.

  “Wow! That is worrisome. It sounds as if Sam vanished into thin air,” Sheila said. “Do you think there’s any chance her disappearance is connected to Bubba’s health crisis?”

  “Exactly my point. On one hand, it seems like a far-fetched notion. But on the other, nothing about this situation is normal. As if we didn’t have enough to worry about, huh?”

  “That’s for sure,” Sheila agreed. Randy nodded, as well.

  I sensed Stone was about to chastise me for inferring something reprehensible might have happened, so I spoke quickly. “Well, I’m relieved you are feeling better. I hope you’re not just putting on a brave face, as you often do when you don’t want anyone to worry over you.”

  “Truly, I’m fine now,” Sheila assured me. “In fact, I tried to talk Randy out of bringing me here, but you know what a worrywart he is.”

  “Love will do that to a person,” Randy said defensively. “However, had I known how much punch you―”

  “And rightfully so, Sheila,” I said, interrupting her husband as I knew Sheila would do for me if I were in her shoes. “Did the ER docs give you any discharge instructions?”

  “To stop drinking―” Randy began, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Stone began to chuckle along with Randy.

  Sheila cut them both off this time and replied, “They advised me to go home and rest for the remainder of the evening, which means we’ll be staying another night or two, if that’s all right with you. Fortunately, I over-packed more than I normally do. I even threw in a couple of extra days’ worth of clothes for Randy.”

  “Of course, it’s fine with me. You can always use our laundry facilities if needed. I’d be delighted to have you two stay until we can have a ‘do-over’ of the wedding ceremony. Now that we live farther apart, I don’t get to spend nearly enough time with my dearest friend.”

  “Well, we’ll see,” Randy answered. “She may feel back to her normal, lively self in the morning after her hang―”

  “But―” Sheila and I butted into Randy’s response simultaneously. The look Sheila gave him seemed to have a positive effect. Positive in my opinion, at least, since I would love to have more time to visit with her, and I knew she felt the same.

  “Well, we don’t really have anything pressing at home, and it might not be such a bad idea to kick back here for a few days. We could both use some rest and relaxation.” Randy looked lovingly at his wife. It was clear his remarks about the punch had only been in jest. Then, he turned to me. “While we’re here, I can help around the inn so Stone will be free to check on Bubba’s progress here at the hospital.”

  “That would be awesome, Randy. I’d appreciate it very much.”

  “As would I, buddy,” Stone added. “Come on. We’ll walk with you guys to the parking lot. We’re heading home now ourselves.”

  I waved to a couple of emergency room nurses who knew me by name on our way out of the hospital. Regrettably, I’d visited the ER far too many times in the last couple of years. That was one of the reasons I’d promised Stone I’d give up sticking my nose into murder cases, even though my investigations had always been of a personal nature.

  An emergency room physician entered the hospital as we were exiting and greeted me. “Hey there, Lexie. Long time, no see.”

  “And we’d like to keep it that way, Dr. Johnson.” Stone beat me to the punch at responding to the phys
ician.

  My sleuthing habits often had a tendency to make the killer intent on bringing me down permanently in order to eliminate the chance that I’d stumble across an incriminating clue. The fact I’d immediately cease to be a pain in their ass if their attempt to silence me was successful was an added bonus for them. Incidents such as those had scared me, naturally, but they’d absolutely terrified Stone.

  As those thoughts flitted through my mind on the drive home, I wondered again if something more devious than heat exhaustion was behind the sudden illnesses of now three attendees of the wedding the previous afternoon. There was also the mysterious disappearance of Bubba’s sister in Arco, Idaho, which was equally disturbing.

  Randy’s remarks were not totally off base. It was true Sheila drank more of the spiked punch than she should have, but I’d think the emergency room technicians would have said so had they thought that was what was the cause of her symptoms. Instead, they’d “guessed” she’d fallen victim to too much heat exposure. So, what were the chances of all three of them falling victim to excessive heat exposure at the same approximate time period? Coincidental? I doubted it.

  Yes, it had been a hot, muggy day, which was not uncommon during the “dog days of summer” in the Midwest. It’d been just as oppressive outside for the previous two weeks, other than the one day it was overcast and rainy.

  Though varied in the degree of severity, all three of the victims’ symptoms seemed to be consistent with each other, which leaned toward the presumed diagnosis of heat exhaustion or heatstroke. In my opinion though, it could point toward something entirely different. All three individuals could have been exposed to some unknown hazard, which in turn brought on their sudden illness. It sounded ludicrous, but not as ludicrous as three individuals falling ill―and in such a narrow window of time because of heat exposure―on a typical summer day in Missouri.

  I’ve always said a person should leave no stone unturned when trying to determine a logical explanation for whatever tragic event had taken place. Or, whatever crime had been committed. I knew I wouldn’t rest until the reason behind these illnesses had been resolved.

  I thought back to the first meeting I’d had with Lariat. I’d suspected he’d slipped something into my drink, but it turned out to be a case of mild food poisoning. Could something the caterer delivered an hour earlier have gone bad so quickly, or had the food been tainted even before its arrival? I’d always had very good experiences with Georgia Piney’s Catering Services in the past, but did recall being underwhelmed with some of her online reviews. I had convinced myself that only customers of the company who’d had a bad experience would take the time to post a review. That seems to be a common scourge to what could generally be a helpful tool when researching something on the Internet. The disgruntled had a tendency to protest loudly, while the contented rejoiced silently. If unhappy people are described as disgruntled, why are pleased folks not described as “gruntled”? The fact I found myself wondering about such a thing was a clue I needed to chill out and clear my mind. But doing so was easier said than done.

  Thinking back, the fruit and vegetable tray seemed suspect. I hadn’t been satisfied with the cherry tomatoes or the strawberries. The cheese tray could have been fresher, too. It probably wasn’t a great idea to have the shrimp rollups sitting out in the heat, but that was my fault, not Georgia’s. I had put them out on the pre-ceremony snack table instead of storing them in the refrigerator and saving them exclusively for the reception.

  Could Bubba have developed an allergy to shellfish? I should have turned on the radio right then to distract myself, because the more questions I asked, the more distraught I became. But I didn’t. Instead, I continued to fret over the possibilities.

  I had seen Bubba mingling around the refreshment table eating shrimp rollups with Andy and a couple of other young men. And let’s face it, the six-foot-eight-inch fellow was like a bull moose that consumed food almost constantly to keep his body fueled. However, I knew for a fact Sheila didn’t ingest any of the shrimp rollups. Oh, good Lord! Maybe I should have posted a sign listing ingredients by each food item on the refreshment table.

  By the time I pulled into the Alexandria Inn’s driveway, I was a royal mess. I had convinced myself it was my fault three people had fallen ill at the wedding. I also felt guilty about agreeing with Wendy that the men in the wedding party should wear black tuxes. She’d been adamant about it, saying, “I know it’s not the best color to wear in the sun, but damn, men sure look hot in black tuxes!”

  They had certainly looked hot, all right. Unfortunately, in more ways than one. I should have tried harder to talk her into having the groomsmen wear white, or at least a color lighter than black. My tendency to wear guilt like a cloak was beginning to weigh heavy on me.

  Oh, God! If Bubba dies, could I be held responsible for his death? The murder weapon of choice being a black tuxedo. Or a blasted peanut. Or shellfish. I started wondering what kind of punishment was handed down to a defendant convicted of manslaughter for wielding a lethal shrimp rollup against her victim. I didn’t know the answer to that question, but I did know I was in dire need of a caffeine boost. Unlike most folks, coffee had a calming effect on me. Or, at least it did until I was midway through my fifth cup in one setting. At that point, I became wired like a car bomb, ready to explode at the flick of a switch.

  After arriving at the inn, Stone headed for the den to catch the evening news, and I headed straight for the coffee pot. I needed something to calm me down so I could think logically, rather than scare myself silly while in the midst of a panic attack.

  And then it hit me like a meteorite falling at great speed from the sky. Was it even remotely possible we could be looking at an attempted murder, or murders? Was Samantha in great peril or, God forbid, already deceased? Should an armed guard be stationed outside Bubba’s hospital room? Worse yet, if Bubba didn’t survive his medical crisis, could we be looking at another full-fledged murder on the grounds of the Alexandria Inn? Was the inn cursed? Were customers risking their lives by merely visiting our lodging facility? Even three cups of coffee could not stop the frightening thoughts and questions from swirling through my mind. It wasn’t long before I was midway through my fourth cup and could actually hear an ominous ticking sound inside my head.

  To dilute all the caffeine I’d drank, I poured myself a large glass of leftover punch. The punch was so refreshing, I refilled my cup before forcing myself to get busy putting the wedding stuff away. As I did, I noticed the box of bouquets and boutonnieres. Randy must have removed the box from the oven, where he’d caught Sheila storing it away, and left it on the counter. I straightened the floral accessories in the box. Bubba’s boutonniere had been crumpled, and half of the palm of Christ flower petals ripped off by the EMTs who’d arrived on the scene to revive him.

  With a sense of melancholy, I held his tattered boutonniere to my nose to inhale the slightly stale fragrance of the flowers. Each boutonniere had the beautiful red blossoms that had a more bitter aroma than one would expect. I’m no flower expert, but I knew some blossoms were beautiful to look at, yet had fragrances that were less than appealing.

  Trying to keep the waterworks at bay, I quickly placed the boutonniere back into the box with the others. I closed the lid and placed it in the extra fridge in the pantry. There’d been just enough room on the shelf below the half-eaten wedding cake. The cake, which wasn’t very attractive to begin with, now looked like it’d been attacked by a couple of hungry crows―and I’m not referring to Hazel Hallberg and Orpha White, the ladies from my church, but to the actual birds.

  My stomach growled. I hadn’t had anything but a breakfast bar all day. Unable to resist, I pushed aside my earlier suspicions about the cake being tainted and pinched off a chunk, and ate it. Considering how unsightly it was, it was quite moist and tasty. I pinched off another chunk and washed it down with the last of the fruit punch in my glass. The alcohol in the drink burned my esophagus all the way down to
my navel. The fact I thought I saw steam emanating from my belly button was a sign I’d consumed too much of Sheila’s high-octane punch, but it didn’t register at the time.

  I sat the empty glass in the sink and hastily threw the nuts and shrimp rollups into the trash can, bowls and all, as if I was covertly trying to get rid of incriminating evidence. In actuality, I knew I’d never be able to use those bowls again without feeling an odd sense of remorse. Nor would I ever be able to rest until I convinced myself the tragic situation was not, in some form or fashion, no one’s fault but my own.

  Twenty-Four

  As I soaked in the master suite’s whirlpool bath later that evening, I began to feel light-headed. For a full minute, I struggled to catch my breath. Afraid I’d pass out in the tub and drown, I banged on the wall with as much strength as I could muster. Within seconds, I heard Stone racing up the stairs, calling my name frantically.

  “Lexie? Lexie? Where are you?”

  “In the tub.” I tried to yell, but nothing came out but a hoarse whisper. Fortunately, Stone yanked open the bathroom door and knelt next to the tub. The worried expression on his face faded in and out of my vision. I felt like someone who’d smoked too much weed at a Rolling Stones concert. Not that I’d ever done such a thing, mind you.

  “What’s wrong, baby? Are you okay?”

  He pulled the plug in the tub to let the water drain, then pulled out his phone. I heard him talking but couldn’t make out the words. When I recognized the words “nine-one-one”, I came out of my fog enough to tell him I didn’t need medical attention. The last thing I wanted was to make another trip to the emergency room in the back of an ambulance.

  “Don’t call nine-one-one, honey. I am starting to feel normal again already.” I was still weak, but breathing better and able to form full sentences. “I started feeling disoriented and my head began spinning. Then I had difficulty catching my breath. I truly thought I was going to pass out.”

  “Don’t you go pulling a Whitney Houston on me,” Stone said. He instantly regretted his remark. “Sorry. That wasn’t funny. In fact, it wasn’t humorous at all. What just happened to you was eerily similar to the symptoms exhibited by Bubba and Raven.”