Confessions of a Red Herring

by Dana Dratch

  “Can you do that?” the blonde asked.

  “Of course! At least that way if we get the same thing twenty times we can trade it for a decent amount of cash.”

  “At least the people who go off-list don’t dare come to the reception,” said another brunette whose name tag read “Tricia.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah. Nobody who does that is going to have the nerve to actually show up. But sometimes the ones who can’t come will send really nice gifts to make up for it.”

  “Guilt gifts!” Christy squealed. “I love those!”

  “I’m hitting up every really long-distance relative I have with the first batch of invites,” said Tricia. “Then I’m following up with a phone call telling them how much Sam and I are really looking forward to seeing them.”

  “What if they actually come?” I asked.

  “Win-win. If they come, they pretty much have to buy something nice.”

  “Saving-face gifts!” another bride said.

  “Nice ring,” said Molly. “Two carats?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But I’m beginning to regret it. It’s too big for my hand.”

  “Mine’s three,” she said, presenting her left hand. “And there’s no such thing as too big.”

  “Like penises,” Christy said with a giggle.

  Sophie shot her a dirty look. “Mine’s three and a half. Mike tried to get away with two, but I took it back.”

  My jaw dropped, and I had to force myself to act nonchalant. I was a visitor in a strange land, where none of the normal rules applied.

  “Can you do that?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah,” she said. “Of course, you don’t tell him that.”

  “So how does it work?” I asked.

  “First off, you say ‘yes,’ and tell him you love the ring,” Sophie said. “A week or so later, you drop a few hints that the cut isn’t exactly right for your hand. Do that for a few days, and he’ll be begging you to exchange the stone for the shape you really want. After all, a diamond is forever.”

  “Yeah, and once you get back to the jewelry store, the staff will take care of the rest,” said a blonde named Sandy.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you walk in there with your guy, they’re not going to show you smaller rocks—only bigger,” Sandy said. “You just pick the one you want.”

  Diabolical. I’d interviewed con men with more scruples.

  “So which one is yours?” asked a redhead named Emma.

  I looked over at the gaggle of guys. “The one balancing a stack of plastic cups on his head.”

  “He’s cute!”

  “Yeah. Adorable.”

  “How did you meet?” Sophie asked, scoping out Nick-Jim with a none-too-detached eye.

  “Our parents introduced us,” I said.

  “Nice,” said Sandy. “My parents would never introduce me to someone that hot. I met Phil at work.”

  “Have you set the date?” Sophie asked her.

  “It was supposed to be July, but his stupid wife keeps dragging out the divorce.”

  “Bummer,” I said.

  A petite woman with spiky orange hair and a lemon-colored pantsuit stepped to a spot halfway between the two groups and cleared her throat.

  “Please let me be the first to welcome you to our little event,” she said, smiling widely. “We’re very happy you all made the time to come out and join us this evening. And congratulations on your upcoming nuptials! Tonight is just a first step in your exciting, new lives together. I’m Cherry Arsenian. I’m a stylist and lifestyle consultant, and I’m going to help you each assemble the perfect wedding registry to launch your new lives together. Now, if you can find your partners and take your seats, we’ll get started.”

  Once we’d all paired off, there was one guy left over. His name tag said “Dennis.”

  Cherry gave him the once-over, sniffed, and scanned her electronic tablet.

  “Dennis,” she said, pausing. “Of course, we’re happy to have you here, but this is really a couples experience. Do you think your fiancée will be arriving soon?”

  Dennis shifted uncomfortably in his chair and ran his fingers through thinning brown hair. In a rumpled button-down shirt, dun-colored suit pants, and a gold tie, I pegged him for an accountant, or maybe a mid-level manager.

  “I just called her,” he explained, reddening slightly under Cherry’s scrutiny. “She has to work late. But she wants me to take notes.”

  “That’s fine,” Cherry said, tightly. “But you’ll have to come back with her later to create your gift registry. That’s definitely something a couple needs to do together.”

  She sighed audibly. “All right, let’s take a five-minute break to use the restrooms, and then we’ll get started.”

  I waved to Dennis. “You can sit with us,” I said.

  The guy actually looked grateful. “Thanks.”

  “Kay and Jim,” I said pointing to myself and Nick.

  “Hey,” Nick-Jim waved. “I’m going to hit the restroom.”

  “There’s no back door, and I’ve got the car keys.”

  Nick mimed putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger.

  “I’m sure your fiancée is really sorry she’s missing this,” I said to Dennis.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Between work and wedding planning, I think she’s forgotten I exist. And I can’t seem to do anything right anymore, anyway. A couple of days ago, she loved the ring. But now, it’s the wrong cut.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Like tonight. When she said she couldn’t make it to this thing, I wanted to pick up dinner, take it to her office and spend some time together.”

  “That sounds great,” I said. “I’d love it if someone. . . uh, if Jim brought me dinner.”

  “Well, it just pissed her off. She accused me of not caring about the wedding.”

  “That’s pretty rough.”

  “She’s probably right,” he conceded. “I mean, I’m not having second thoughts or anything. But a big, giant wedding? Ugh. Flower arrangements. Centerpieces. Guest lists. Seating charts. Goody bags? I don’t know what I pictured. I guess I just wanted to wake up one morning already married.”

  He looked glum. And I wondered how many of the grooms in this place felt exactly the same way.

  “But I love her,” he said, shrugging. “And if it’s going to work, she says I need to recommit myself and prove I really love her. Especially after what I did.”

  “What you did?”

  He looked sheepish. “Uh, yeah. I guess I kinda did something stupid.”

  I braced myself for whatever he was going to say next. Strip club addiction? Gambling addiction? Secret credit card? Secret girlfriend with a secret credit card?

  “I applied for an art scholarship in Florence, and I got it.”

  “That’s wonderful!” I swear it was out of my mouth before I realized I’d said it.

  “That’s what I thought, at first. I even found out I could get a sabbatical from work. Unpaid. But Mimi’s right, I was being selfish. Besides, she says art’s too risky for a family man. She says I’m lucky to have a stable job with good prospects. And she’s right. I mean, there’s no arguing with her logic.”

  “I dunno. I thought the point of having a partner was to encourage each other.”

  “She is encouraging me. She’s just encouraging me to keep my current job.”

  He shook his head. “The funny thing is, Mimi is great at her job. She loves it. She lives for it. That’s one of the things I love about her. I just want to feel the same way when I get up every morning.”

  “So maybe you have a little talk,” I said. “Explain that to her.”

  “I did. Or tried to. At first, she thought I was kidding. When she realized I was serious, she got really pissed. Told me I wasn’t thinking about us, I was only thinking about myself. And I guess I was. Being an artist has always been my dream. I guess it’s a pipe dream. When I applied for the
scholarship, I never thought I’d actually get it. But the last time I brought it up? Oh, man, that was definitely the last time I’ll ever mention it. She cried and got all hysterical and said I just didn’t love her enough. And it was over—we were over. I had to beg her to take me back. She only agreed if I promised to recommit, put her first, and prove my love.”

  He looked so pathetic. I’d just met the guy, and my heart was breaking.

  “Why do you have to prove anything?” I asked.

  He looked startled, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

  We sat there in silence for a couple of beats. And when Dennis finally met my eyes, I swore I saw a lightbulb pop on over his head.

  He stood up. His posture was straighter. His voice was stronger. “You’re right. This is bullcrap. Mimi and I need to talk.” And for the first time since I’d met him, the guy actually smiled. “Thanks for listening.”

  “Hey, it was nothing. Good luck.”

  Nick pulled up his chair. “There is a back door, but it’s locked. Where’s he going?”

  “Date with destiny.”

  “Does she have a sister?”

  Chapter 38

  Ninety minutes later, I’d learned more about the history and importance of fine crystal, formal china, and “a place setting that bespeaks quality” than I would ever use in my lifetime. Even if Nick and Gabby turned my home into a teahouse and started serving scones on the front lawn.

  The girls were eating it up. Like me, several had whipped out notebooks. Sophie had brought a laptop. The way they were sitting at attention, taking notes, and asking questions, I half expected there was going to be a final exam.

  If there was, I was screwed. Even though I was actually getting paid for this, my eyes were glazing over.

  The guys were, to a man, silent and slouched in their chairs. I swear I saw Mike nod off once.

  When Cherry started winding up her spiel, I was already picturing myself racing Nick for the car.

  “Now for the really fun part!” Cherry proclaimed.

  What?

  She went around the room and handed each couple—specifically each guy—an electronic pricing gun. “Now we get to pick out the goodies we want. Remember the guidance you’ve received here today. First, foundation. You want to pick the major pieces—things around which you can build a kitchen, a home, a lifestyle—that will coordinate and suit your lives together. Second, quality. Select items that will hold up and last for a long time. And, last but not least, functionality. You want things that will serve all of your needs now, and your potential needs into the future.”

  “I want to get the hell out of here while I still have a future,” Nick hissed.

  “Shush!” I said.

  “Find one of the three computer stations located around the store and line up. My assistants will enter your information to establish your registry. Then they’ll show you how to activate your gun. When you zap an item, it goes on your list. You can even indicate how many you’d like. This is especially important for the elements of your place setting.”

  “I wonder how many times I’d have to shoot myself with this thing to commit suicide,” Nick whispered.

  “Sssh! If you behave, we’ll stop for ice cream on the way home.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “If one of you makes a mistake and zaps something that doesn’t belong on your list”—Cherry paused for effect and the girls giggled—“just push this button and it’s gone.”

  “You think that would work with her?” Nick hissed.

  “OK, couples,” Cherry said with a dramatic hand flourish, “get gifting!”

  “I wanna get gone. I’m gonna wait in the car.”

  “Come on, Jim,” I said through clenched teeth. “This is actually the fun part.”

  “Trust me, there is no fun part.”

  “Look, you take the gun. Zap everything you’ve ever wanted to outfit the kitchen of your dreams. Go crazy.”

  “What about foundation, quality, and functionality?

  “What about Larry, Moe, and Curly? Go nuts. Have fun. Pick out the crap you want, and give me fifteen minutes to soak up some color for the story. Then we’re out of here.”

  “Deal! I wonder if they have the Fryz-It. I’ve always wanted one of those. Have you seen the infomercials? You can dump in a raw turkey and an hour later, it’s deep-fried and delicious.”

  “Have at it, chief.”

  After we created “our” registry, I followed around making notes while Nick outfitted the Vegas bachelor pad of his dreams. Martini glasses. Swizzle sticks. Three different kinds of coasters. He even managed to find a Plexiglas poker-chip caddy with chips. He zapped it five times.

  When we got to the kitchen section, he really went into high gear. I lost track of him when I stopped to chat with Sandy and Phil and Sophie and Mike.

  Nick found us a couple of minutes later. “They didn’t have the Fryz-It, but they had something else that does pretty much the same thing. I zapped three of them.”

  “Man, that is awesome,” Mike said, giving him a high five.

  After the guys walked off together, Sophie pulled me aside. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asked. “You can’t just let him run loose with that thing. What are you going to do with three deep-fat fryers?”

  “No sweat. He can have them in the divorce.”

  After that, I’d had enough. But by the looks of it, I was going to have to pry that gun out of Nick’s hand.

  He zapped an industrial-size coffee urn, complete with trolley. (“One pot a day, and we’d be set,” he said.) A stainless-steel barbecue grill. (“Charcoal’s the only way to go.”) And a Crock-Pot “for Baba.”

  I don’t know who was happier to see him head for the door, me or Cherry.

  “OK, so you had a decent time after all,” I said, as I started the car.

  “Yeah. Did you hear about the drawing? One lucky couple will win one of the items on their list. I don’t know which I want more, the grill, the fryer, or the coffee urn. Can you picture Thanksgiving with a deep-fried turkey?”

  I could. And I didn’t have enough homeowner’s insurance.

  “Man, that Sophie’s a piece of work,” he said. “I feel sorry for Mike.”

  “Yeah, she liked you, though.”

  “I deduced that.”

  “What was your first clue? The sly looks? The hair flipping?”

  “I guess it was when she slipped me her phone number.”

  OK, have to say, I didn’t see that one coming.

  “You’re not gonna . . . ?”

  “Oh hell, no. I love Gabby. Even if I’m not sure she feels the same way. Besides, Mike’s cool. We’re going to the boat show next week.”

  “So it wasn’t a totally wasted evening. Next stop, home.”

  “No way, José. I was promised ice cream.”

  Chapter 39

  Trip’s Corvette was in the driveway when we got home.

  “Who wants ice cream?” Nick called out as he opened the door.

  “We’re in the kitchen,” Trip answered.

  I found him sitting at the table with his sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, and suit jacket hanging over the back of a chair.

  “Baba made me dinner,” he said happily.

  Baba patted him on the back and beamed. “Two helpingsful,” she said proudly.

  Was it any wonder I loved the guy?

  “I just wanted to stop by and catch up on what you learned in the hearing this morning, but Gabby explained that you two were out. So I thought I’d hang around until you got back.”

  “Cool. Grab your coat, and we can talk on the porch. Nick, you’re in charge of dessert.”

  “Got it,” Nick said.

  “Thanks again, Baba,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “That was great.”

  “Bah!” she said, grinning as she gave him another pat-pat-pat on the back.

  “Thanks,” I said, when we got to the porch. “Thanks for watching out
for them. And thanks for not telling them.”

  He grinned. “You’re welcome. Besides, I love Baba. Although I suspect she could more than hold her own against Margaret. Gabby, too, for that matter.”

  I lowered my voice. “Two helpings?”

  “It wasn’t that bad. Plus I missed lunch. And those rolls of Nick’s are first-rate.”

  “I’ll see if he can spare any of the cinnamon buns for you to take home. They melt in your mouth. He’s gonna start selling the stuff to the bed-and-breakfast across the street.”

  “Gabby was telling me. So did you ever find out if the lord of the manor has a better half?”

  “Nah. Turns out he’s running the place with his father, Harkins. And he’s not really ‘Sir Ian.’ That was just his dad’s idea of marketing.”

  “Ah, so you’ve already met the parents,” he said, steepling his fingers. “Ex-cell-ent. What’s next in your evil plan?”

  “Catch a killer, get my life back?”

  “Fair enough. Any more ideas?”

  “Margaret or Walters,” I said.

  “Which one?”

  “Could be either. One was losing her husband and her lifestyle. The other was losing a company that his father founded. And from what I’ve been able to dig up, or the sheer lack of it, Walters lives for that job. I don’t think he has much of a personal life. Or much of a life, period. I just don’t understand why he teamed up with Coleman in the first place.”

  “I think he was blackmailed into it,” Trip said.

  “For real? Do you have proof?”

  “No, just a gut feeling. But I’ve been asking around. Rumor has it, Walters Senior died of AIDS. Remember, this was back in 1987 when they were still calling it ‘the gay plague.’ There was a lot of fear, a lot of hysteria. And damn little compassion. People were terrified of it and terrified of anyone who had it. And it was pretty much a death sentence.”

  “Margaret was his nurse,” I breathed.

  “She had access to all his medical records. Written proof of what he really had.”

  “And if the true cause of death had gotten out, there would have been a huge scandal,” I said. “Clients would have bolted. The firm would have tanked.”