Weird Wedding at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 3

by Wycherley, Jeannie

  Melchior had been in my room while I’d slept.

  You had to question how you could ever trust a man like that.

  I knew for certain, I didn’t.

  Once I’d attended to business around the inn I had to head down into Whittlecombe to Primrose Cottage. A house clearance firm were arriving to take away all the large items of furniture left in Derek’s home, along with the boxes of pots and pans and kitchen utensils I had cleared from the kitchen. I’d already arranged for a few local charities to take his clothes, as well as tins of food and store cupboard items they could pass on to someone in need, so very little remained in the house now.

  I waited outside, out of the way of the removal men, and Millicent Ballicott came out of her cottage to stand with me.

  “You look pale.” Jasper and Derek’s little Yorkshire Terrier, Sunny, sniffed around my ankles.

  “I feel totally washed out. I’ve had four hours sleep and it’s likely I won’t get more than that in the next twenty-four hours either.”

  “What’s going on? Problems at the inn?”

  “You could say that. Or perhaps it’s not a problem. Perhaps this is how my life will proceed from now on. With me lurching from one catastrophe with a guest to another.”

  Millicent’s brow creased in concern. “What’s up? Won’t you be ready to open?”

  “That’s just it, Millicent,” I said. “I’m already open. I accepted an invite to host a wedding at the inn. The ceremony takes place on the 31st but half of the guests have turned up early.”

  “Oh I see. Well I suppose it’s good practice for you, for when you’re open proper.”

  I laughed, but not with much humour. “I can’t wait.” I sounded fed up, and I hated to be the one to put a downer on life.

  She cocked her head and regarded me more closely. I could see some amusement in her smile, but she looked puzzled too.

  “This isn’t like you, Alf.”

  The removal chaps chose that moment to exit the house, carrying a heavy armchair, the twin of the faded one I’d seen down the allotments in Derek’s shed. Sunny lifted her head and scented the air and then turned her head as the men carried the chair past her, before crying and whining and pulling at her lead to go after them.

  “Oh no!” I exclaimed. “How sad! She knows this is her master’s chair.”

  Millicent bent down and picked the tiny dog up, while Jasper looked on petulantly, as if to say, ‘why is she getting all the attention?’

  “Animals grieve too,” Millicent said and snuggled the dog close.

  “Did you know his wife Sarah?” I asked. Millicent had lived in Whittlecombe her whole life and had known my father and my grandparents.

  “Yes. She was a lovely woman. Quiet. Mostly kept herself to herself. Well, they both did really. But she was a member of the WI and loved it there. Made some excellent gooseberry compotes as I recall.”

  The WI, or Women’s Institute, was a quaint and—seemingly to my mind at least—old-fashioned group for women that had existed since the First World War. Its traditions were upheld here in the village with great fondness, and Millicent was a proud and fully-paid up member. She constantly invited me to join, but I was worried that even at the grand old age of thirty I’d be the youngest woman in attendance by about three decades.

  No thanks.

  “It’s all very sad,” I said. “What will happen to Sunny? Will you keep her?”

  “I haven’t really given it much thought. I’m not sure Jasper approves really. Poor Sunny is very needy and likes to get on my lap. Jasper is not getting as many snuggles as he usually does.” Millicent held her out to me, and Sunny wagged her tail. “She likes you. Wouldn’t you like a pet?”

  “I think I have enough to deal with at the moment, Millicent!”

  She tittered, but her smile faded as the door at the end cottage opened and a woman in her mid-to-late thirties came out, and stood on the pavement, her hands on her hips, her mouth drawn up in an unpleasant sneer, watching the removal men do their work.

  “Good afternoon, Grace,” Millicent called, and I waved and smiled too, remembering this was Grace Gretchen. Bob’s daughter. She lived here with him, and her two young sons.

  Grace, never one to live up to her name, scowled at us.

  “You can’t get rid of his stuff fast enough, can you?” Her whole face was hard with a hostility I was largely unaccustomed to in Whittlecombe. Most of the villagers here were gracious and pleasant.

  Millicent glanced at me, perhaps wondering whether I wanted her to interject, but I fixed a smile to my face myself and replied.

  “I’ve been in touch with the next of kin, Ms Gretchen, and I’m following her instructions.”

  Grace shook her head, curling her lip in a sneer. “We know all about you big city folk here. You think you’re one of us but you’re not. You come down here with your fancy ways, selling off the land and now putting good folk out of their homes so you can flog the cottages off too. You’re everything that’s wrong with this country. You need to go back to where you came from.”

  I rocked back on my heels, hurt by how unfair her accusations were. That was the exact opposite of what I was trying to do. I tried to protest but she cut me off.

  “And we know all about your dark ways and supernatural doings. You have us right where you want us, don’t you?” She spun around, heading for her front door, but before she re-entered her cottage she spat one final stream of vitriol at me. “You can come after me if you want. With everything you’ve got. I’m not afraid of your sort, I can assure you of that!”

  * * *

  Rhona was on her own in the General Stores, although fortunately not busy, when I stepped into her shop, relieved to be away from the curtain-twitching neuroticism of Grace Gretchen at Dandelion Cottage.

  “Hi Alf,” Rhona greeted me, wiping her hands on her apron. “Have you gone down with it too?”

  “Down with it? With what?”

  “Some sort of virus. There seems to be a lot of it about. Stan’s upstairs in bed. He looks like death. And I’ve sold out of cold and flu remedies. I’ve been inundated. I thought maybe you had what he has?”

  I was sorry to hear Stan was poorly. “No, it’s just a lack of sleep in my case,” I said. “You know how it is. So much to do before the inn opens.”

  “Just a few days left. You must be excited?”

  The bell over the shop door jangled behind me. A woman I barely knew came into the shop and marched up to the counter, pushing ahead of me. She pretty much looked how I felt.

  “Hello, Claudia,” Rhona said politely, looking back at me to see if I minded. I shook my head and winked at her.

  “Afternoon, Rhona. Do you have flu remedy? I’m coming down with something and I just can’t afford to take time off work to stay in bed.”

  “I don’t have anything left, Claudia. I’m so sorry. Stan has taken to his sick bed too, so I can’t even send him to the wholesalers.”

  I grabbed a couple of lemons from Rhona’s greengrocer’s shelving section. “You could try ordinary painkiller with a hot lemon drink,” I suggested, trying to be helpful. Claudia turned to look at me suspiciously. “I use that all the time. Crush the tablets. I add honey. Stir it up.”

  “Is that right?” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Is that some sort of witchy concoction?”

  Taken aback, I shook my head. “You could throw in a shot of whisky too,” I added quietly. “For a bit of a kick. It helps you sleep.”

  Claudia glared at me as though I had suggested grilling her firstborn after bleeding it dry, then sacrificing it to the King of Darkness. She twisted about and marched out of the shop without so much as a by-your-leave.

  “Oof,” I said when she had gone. Stunned to be finding myself the cause of so much angst in the village, I couldn’t help feeling extraordinarily hurt.

  “What was that about?” Rhona asked, staring in confusion at Claudia’s retreating back.

  “I have no idea. I have n
ever spoken to that woman before in my life.”

  “That was a genuinely useful idea, Alf,” Rhona tried to console me. I had a feeling I was looking a little woebegone. “If anyone else comes in needing stuff for a cold, I’ll try and sell them lemons.”

  “Go for it,” I said, trying not to sound too grouchy. “Sometimes lemons are all that life gives you.”

  I trudged wearily past Dandelion Cottage, imagining the curtains twitching and Gretchen’s hostile eyes staring out at me, as I returned to the inn. Primrose Cottage stood nestled between its neighbours, looking increasingly sad and empty, the boarded-up window in the front bedroom a stark reminder to me of a danger that wouldn’t go away, and one that seemed to lack explanation.

  I found myself looking at the floor as I walked up Whittle Lane, my forehead wrinkled, my mood bleak. It seemed stupid to feel so cross and low, but I couldn’t shake off the feeling of injustice from a few of my encounters in the village this afternoon. My arrival into Whittlecombe had been bumpy, to say the least, but overall I’d found the villagers more accepting of late—so what was all the aggro about?

  By the time I arrived at the inn I had given myself a good talking to. Think about it: you can’t change the way other people view you, you can only change your thought patterns in relation to that. It shouldn’t matter to me what Claudia and Grace thought of me. They were entitled to their own opinion.

  They were rude though, I told myself. I didn’t intend to stoop to their level.

  I decided my over-tiredness was a contributing factor to my hyper-sensitivity. If everything was under control at the inn, perhaps I would take a nap for a few hours before it grew dark.

  But thinking about my nocturnal guests made me feel even more gloomy, and I probably had a face like thunder when I walked through the door. Charity spotted my expression the second she clapped eyes on me as I joined her in the main bar. She was busily drying wine glasses and stacking them safely in place, ready for the evening. “Wooo,” she exclaimed. “You need to get out more. It works wonders for lifting your whole demeanour!”

  “No need for the sarcasm,” I countered. “You wouldn’t believe the afternoon I’ve had. What is wrong with people today? Is Florence around? I’m desperately in need of sustenance. Of the baked and sweet variety, preferably.”

  Charity shook her head. “Sorry, Alf. No time. We’ve had another guest arrive and more deliveries.”

  “Another guest?” I asked confused. “Are we expecting any more?”

  “How about the bride?”

  “The bride? Well, yes, of course. How could I forget?” I gestured at the window, slightly bewildered. “But it’s daytime. Have they delivered her already?”

  Charity’s nod, over my shoulder, was virtually imperceptible.

  I stopped talking, moving or even thinking. I simply froze. What did that nod mean?

  I turned slowly, and there, sitting alone in one of the wing-backed armchairs by the fire, hugging herself and looking for all the world like a little lost waif, was a young woman. She had one battered suitcase and a modest brown leather handbag, and I couldn’t help but think these were all the belongings she had in the entire world.

  She was a sweet rose of a woman, early twenties, long undyed chestnut colour hair without a hint of curl, pale skin that glowed with good health, striking features—warm brown eyes, full lips, a roman nose—and when I walked towards her and she stood to greet me, I could see that she was tall, maybe five foot ten or eleven, but so slender, she could have been a model.

  “Hello,” I said holding my hand out. “Welcome to Whittle Inn. I’m Alf Daemonne.”

  “Hi, Alf,” she replied, her voice as sweet as her countenance, and her English excellent but her accent pronounced. “Ekaterina Lukova. I’m pleased to finally arrive here and to meet you. You can call me Kat if you like.”

  I looked her up and down, and then glanced back at Charity who shrugged. We were both thinking the same thing. She didn’t look like a vampire. She seemed far too alive and vital for that. The blush on her cheeks was entirely natural.

  “You’re earlier than we thought you would be. The …ah … rest of the wedding guests appear by night.” I have no idea why I felt the need to pussy-foot around her. She was the bride. She had to know what she was doing.

  When she didn’t respond, I continued, curious to know more about her. “Where are you from?”

  “I’m from a little town in Russia called Chernoistochinsk. This place, Whittlecombe? It reminds me a little of it, I think. Countryside. Fields. Trees. I think I am homesick already.”

  Florence appeared with a tray of tea and cake, and a jug of water. She set it on the occasional table next to Ekaterina’s chair. I pulled up a nearby stool.

  “Have you come here by yourself?”

  Ekaterina hesitated. “Yes. My mama, she is… busy… and you know, the air fare? It is expensive.”

  Expensive? I bit my tongue. Surely Sabien could have coughed up the cash to get Ekaterina’s mother over here. He was loaded.

  “Where do you live when you’re in England?” I asked,

  Kat tipped her head and smiled. “This is my first time in UK, Alf. I’ve only ever seen your country in films and on the TV.”

  I must have looked shocked because the young Russian woman tipped her head back and laughed. I watched, smiling. My goodness, she was astoundingly beautiful.

  A thought crept into my head, and I couldn’t help myself, I had to ask, “But you have met Melchior before, right?”

  Kat stopped laughing and looked serious. “Yes, yes. We have met several times.”

  But not dated? Not walked in the rain or skinny-dipped in a river? Not spent saucy weekends in a cabin in the countryside? I wanted to probe further, find out more about how they had come to be a couple, and fallen in love. But I couldn’t. I wasn’t aware of the etiquette with vampires and the customs surrounding their betrothals.

  “Are you looking forward to the big day?” I asked instead, and Kat smiled, a genuine grin of delight. “Oh yes. Melchior is so handsome. I know we will have the time of our lives. It will be a beautiful wedding. He promised that.”

  I poured tea and offered her a cup, then indicated the cake. One of Florence’s wonderful chocolate sponges, but Kat shook her head. “Oh no, thank you,” she replied. “I daren’t put an ounce on. I’ve been dieting so hard. Melchior was very specific about the weight I should be and the measurements I must make.”

  I almost choked on the forkful of cake I was chewing on. “He told you what you should weigh? That seems incredibly controlling.”

  Kat shrugged, her eyes giving nothing away. “No. I don’t think so. He is supplying the dress and everything that goes with it. If it doesn’t fit it will be a disaster.” She laughed again, but this time, to my ears, it echoed with a hollow ring.

  “We’ve had to do a great deal by long distance, so trusting each other, it is so important.”

  “Mm,” I said, recalling finding Melchior at home with the two dark-haired beauties in his pseudo-Greek full-on-bad-taste bedroom. “Yes, you’re right there. Trust is important.”

  “I would never want to let Melchior down. I will be the perfect wife,” Kat continued, her eyes wide and artless, but it sounded like a script to my suspicious mind.

  From behind the bar Charity was gesturing at me fiercely. I tried to ignore her, but she kept on. When I fully looked her way she tilted her head and tapped her neck. I threw her a warning look and re-focused on Kat.

  “Where do you intend to live when you’re married?” Laurent Towers in Hampstead, Melchior’s current habitat wouldn’t suit this sweet young woman at all.

  “I’ll leave that all in Melchior’s capable hands,” she opined, her voice as smooth as caramel.

  I abandoned my cake, feeling like I might be overdosing on sugar somewhere along the line. “Why don’t I show you to your room? It’s on the floor above Melchior’s. I thought I’d keep the bride and groom separate.” I’d done th
at for tradition, now I wondered whether I might actually be saving her life. “Is this all the luggage you have?”

  “Yes,” Kat said, as I bent to pick up her case. There was no weight to it, it might have been empty. As someone who needed a huge case for a quick weekend away, this appeared strange. “Melchior promised he would buy me all I need, when I need it.” Her voice was soft and sincere, and I felt afraid for her. Melchior was playing games with this naïve young woman’s life. Here she was so far from home without a friend or her mother to accompany her. It seemed totally wrong to me.

  I couldn’t help it, in the end I simply blurted out the question both Charity and I were dying to ask, “You know what he is, don’t you?”

  “Yes of course,” she said, turning to give me the full benefit of her glittering green eyes, soft and dreamlike. “I know what Melchior is.”

  * * *

  Unlike her betrothed, Kat seemed entirely content with the room I had given her. This one had been painted the palest of blues, with linen as white as snow. Then Charity had come along and added some splashes of a gorgeous sea-green with a throw, rug and a couple of scatter cushions. The paintings on the wall in this room, were seaside scenes of nearby Durscombe. One showing the red cliffs, the other, fishermen and their wives congregating outside The Blue Bell Inn waiting for news after a ship wreck.

  I left Kat in her room to relax and made my way downstairs to finish off my tea. My cake lay where I had discarded it and I caught Florence giving me a hurt glance, probably thinking I hadn’t enjoyed her cake, which couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  Charity waylaid me when I carried the tray back into the kitchen where Monsieur Emietter was cutting up what looked like a whole cow on the main work surface and Florence was prepping vegetables. “Well?” she demanded.

  “Well what?” I asked innocently.

  “You know what,” Charity hissed. “She—Ekaterinaburg or whatever her name is—doesn’t look anything like a vampire.”