You May Now Kill the Bride

by R. L. Stine

  Dedication

  Dedicated to my bride who, I hope, isn’t related to the Fears

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One: 1923

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Part Two: This Year

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Part Three

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Part Four

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Part Five

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  About the Author

  Books by R.L. Stine

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  1923

  One

  Ruth-Ann Fear remembered the feel of hands wrapping around her neck from behind. She remembered the startling pressure and how warm the hands were—warm and damp.

  She remembered the leap her heart made, the gasp that escaped her throat. The fingers tightening until she struggled for breath.

  With a hard twist of her body, she spun around—and stared into Peter Goodman’s eyes. She made another sound, this time a cry of recognition.

  He lowered his hands, the fingers sliding gently now, tracing a damp path along her throat. His touch now tender. Still not breathing, Ruth-Ann watched a smile form on his lips.

  “Did I startle you?” His grin grew wider. He knew the answer.

  Why did Peter enjoy scaring her, sneaking up on her, catching her off guard? Was it just another boy thing, having to prove himself superior? Showing Ruth-Ann who was in charge?

  She took both of his hands in hers. “I knew it was you,” she lied. She tugged him close and pressed her mouth against his. An awkward kiss. He was still enjoying his little prank.

  He kissed her again. Ruth-Ann pushed him back with both hands on the lapels of his dark suit jacket. “Do you like my dress?” She stuck out both arms, modeling it for him. It was pale blue, shiny as silk, a wide bow tied at the waist, the skirt falling to her ankles.

  His eyes moved up and down. “It’s the cat’s whiskers, Ruth-Ann. What did your mum and dad say about your haircut?”

  Her eyes flashed. “They loved it.”

  “Go chase yourself!” he exclaimed. “Even you can’t keep a straight face when you say that.”

  She laughed. “Okay. The truth. They hated it. They said, ‘Just because a lot of foolish, misguided young women are cutting their hair into short bobs, why do you have to follow them?’”

  “Good question,” Peter muttered.

  Ruth-Ann raised her pale blue cap and brushed her short, coppery hair with one hand. “Why? You think I look like a boy?”

  Peter’s cheeks turned pink. “Of course not.” He leaned forward and kissed her again.

  “Actually, Mum and Dad didn’t make much of a fuss. That’s because it was me with the bobbed hair. If it was Rebecca, they would have gone blooey. At least they would have canceled this birthday party.”

  Peter raised a finger to her lips. “Stop, Ruth-Ann. You’re always saying how they like Rebecca better than you—”

  She pushed his finger away. “You know it’s the truth. Do you know the first thing Mum said when she saw my new haircut? She said, ‘Don’t worry. It will grow back.’”

  Peter started to laugh but stopped when a car horn honked. They both turned to see a bright red roadster rumble up the gravel drive.

  Two girls in long party dresses hurried across the grass to greet the car. On the terrace, two maids in black-and-white uniforms were setting down trays of drinking glasses.

  Peter turned away from Ruth-Ann and started toward the house. She grabbed his hand. “Peter, where are you going?”

  “Inside,” he replied. “I want to try your father’s—”

  “—Radio set.” She finished the sentence for him. It was maybe the only thing Peter Goodman and Randolph Fear had in common. They both loved to spend hours tuning in distant radio stations on Mr. Fear’s radio receiver.

  “No,” Ruth-Ann insisted. “You have to help me get through Rebecca’s birthday party.” She tugged him toward the lawn. “Come say hello to Mum and Dad.”

  “Right now?” Peter said. He shrugged. “Why? They don’t like me anyway.”

  “Please. They think you’re the bee’s knees.” Ruth-Ann knew she was lying. Her parents didn’t like Peter at all.

  “The boy has no gumption.” That’s what her father had said. “Why doesn’t he ever look me in the eye? Is he hiding something? He talks into his chin. I can’t hear a word he mumbles.”

  But Peter was good enough for Ruth-Ann. If Peter were dating Rebecca, her parents would demand that President Harding call out the army to chase him off. Or they would put Rebecca on the next passenger ship to Europe to break them up.

  Rebecca was the princess. Randolph Fear even called her that. “Princess.”

  Her parents had little to say about Peter dating Ruth-Ann, and she was glad. She needed something or someone to be hers and hers alone, and Peter fit the bill.

  He wasn’t the most exciting guy in Shadyside, or the best-looking. In fact, with his chubby cheeks and round black-framed glasses, his straight brown hair down over his forehead, he looked a lot like an owl.

  Peter wasn’t the funniest, or the sharpest dresser. His family wasn’t rich or important. He didn’t have to be any of those things to make Ruth-Ann happy. And she realized that Peter was one of the few people who did make her feel happy, not in second place, not like Rebecca Fear’s little sister.

  Peter was halfway to the house. “You can’t stay in there the whole time,” Ruth-Ann called to him. “You have to come out and be social. You have to come out when lunch is served. Do you hear me?”

  He turned back and gave her a little wave of one hand. His glasses caught the sunlight and made it look as if his face was lighting up.

  She heard her mother shouting. “Ruth-Ann? Where are you? The Grainers are here. Ruth-Ann?”

  But she stood and watched Peter, watched him until he disappeared behind the terrace door.

  Peter. Peter. Peter . . .

  She had no idea how soon he would betray her.

  Two

  One year later, Ruth-Ann had many lingering memories of Rebecca’s birthday party. She remembered her talk with Peter. Remembered the excitement of kissing him. And after that . . . she remembered the yellow sky.

  She could picture their sloping lawn . . . the blue and white balloons that bobbed and swayed in a warm, gentle breeze . . . the pots of daffodils on every table, Rebecca’s favorite flower. No clouds, but the sky was low and the color of buttermilk, a fantasy sky.

  And everything seemed perfect, Ruth-Ann remembered. She could still hear the soft voices and laughter, and see Rebecca’s girlfriends in their long, colorful silk dresses and feat
hery, flowery hats. The boys in their light suits, their Oxfords shined, their shirt collars open to the sunlight.

  She remembered Jonny Penderman rolling up the gravel driveway in that pale blue touring car, the sides and the wheels blue as a bird’s egg. Kids jumped on the running boards on both sides of the car and hung on while Jonny made the tires spin over the gravel.

  Ruth-Ann’s father appeared and squinted at her through his round eyeglasses. Randolph Fear was a short man, a bit overweight, his dark pinstripe suit strained at the waist, his stiff white collar a little too tight.

  He pointed to the car. “Look at that jalopy. That boy should be ashamed to drive up in a bus like that.”

  Ruth-Ann rolled her eyes. “Funny, Dad.”

  Randolph shook his head. “That car must cost a heap of simoleons. Where does that Penderman boy get the money to own a car like that?”

  Simoleons? Her father prided himself on his knowledge of the current slang. He thought he could impress his two daughters by “being hip to their jive.” But he usually embarrassed them and got things completely wrong.

  “It’s Jonny’s father’s car,” Ruth-Ann said, moving toward the driveway.

  Randolph followed beside her. “Didn’t that boy carry a torch for you for a while?”

  Ruth-Ann frowned. “He’s Rebecca’s friend, Dad.” Everyone here is Rebecca’s friend, she thought, with only a little bitterness. Everyone loves Rebecca.

  She watched her sister flirt with Jonny Penderman. He pulled open the car door for Rebecca, and she slid gracefully behind the wheel, tucking her long skirt under her. A circle of kids had gathered to admire the long blue car.

  “I can get seven passengers in here. Easy,” Jonny was saying as Ruth-Ann drew near. “It rides like a dream. And yesterday, I was out past the north farms—no one in sight for miles—and I got her up to forty miles an hour.”

  Some guys laughed. “That’s hooey.”

  “Tell us another one.”

  “Are you going to enter it in a race?”

  Jonny raised his right hand. “I swear. The car was rattling like crazy. I was bouncing so hard, my head kept bumping the roof. I glanced down at the meter, and it said forty.”

  More hoots and laughter.

  “I believe you, Jonny,” Rebecca said from the driver’s seat. “Can I drive it?”

  “Do you have a driver’s license?”

  “No. Do you need a license to drive a car? Nerts to that!”

  She slid out of the car and rearranged her red hat over her blond hair.

  “I’m going to drive it to New York City,” Jonny announced. “Anyone want to come with me?”

  “I do!” Ruth-Ann cried. She glimpsed her father frowning at her. She knew he’d never allow either of his daughters to go on a trip like that. Too far and too dangerous.

  “Why are you driving to New York?” Rebecca’s tall blond lookalike friend, Lily Wayne, asked.

  “To see the new baseball stadium,” Jonny answered. “Yankee Stadium. They don’t share with the Giants anymore. They opened it last week against the Red Sox.”

  Ruth-Ann knew that Jonny was a big baseball fan. And so were a lot of the other guys, who loudly begged him to take them along.

  She had to laugh. Who said Jonny’s dad would allow Jonny to take this beautiful new touring car that far? Jonny was a great guy, a lot of fun, but he wasn’t the most responsible kid in the world.

  She smiled. Jonny’s dad had let him drive another brand-new roadster when he was fifteen—and he rode over a milkman’s horse!

  Now, one year later, a year after that happy birthday party, Ruth-Ann remembered the pale blue car under the yellow sky. And the deep ruby red of Rebecca’s dress, swirling around her as she moved from guest to guest. Rebecca the smiling host, so warm and winning.

  Only the best for Rebecca. Ruth-Ann knew that dress cost almost twenty dollars. It was silk crepe, after all, with those beautiful pleats down the skirt to her ankles.

  Ruth-Ann remembered everything about Rebecca that day. Rebecca’s red velvet hat with the single feather standing from the back like a sword. The suede Indian moccasins she wore. Her blue eyes darting from guest to guest.

  The way she hurried to greet Nelson Swift. The confident way she took Nelson’s arm and guided him to the drinks table, chattering like a happy little sparrow all the way.

  Ruth-Ann watched them at the party, watched Nelson’s slicked-down black hair parted so perfectly in the middle of his tanned forehead. His pale green eyes, fox eyes. His toothy smile that never seemed real. His single-breasted black suit fitted so perfectly.

  Watching him move in and out of the sunlight, crystal glass sparkling in his raised hand, smile plastered in place. His perfect posture. His perfect everything.

  And Ruth-Ann asked herself: Is Rebecca really going to marry Nelson Swift?

  That was her father’s fantasy. But it couldn’t possibly be Rebecca’s, could it?

  If only the sisters had been closer, they could discuss such things. Rebecca was only four years older than Ruth-Ann. They pretended to be close. But they never spoke of personal things, of the things dear to their hearts, the things that really mattered. Were there such wide gaps in other families, too?

  Questions. So many questions.

  Now it was a year since the party, and Rebecca’s wedding was near. Days away. But Ruth-Ann preferred to linger in the past. To think about the party. The colors. The smiles. The jokes and laughter. Rebecca and her friends. Jonny and his touring car. Nelson and his grip on Rebecca’s arm.

  Peter . . . Oh, Peter. Peter, why?

  Three

  The trouble didn’t start until a few weeks after the party. All had agreed the party had been a big success.

  It seemed to put Rebecca in a rare good mood. Several times, Ruth-Ann caught her humming to herself. And once, she peeked into Rebecca’s room and saw her singing and practicing a wild new dance, some sort of jazz step with her arms shooting above her head and her shoes tapping the floor.

  Rebecca froze when she saw Ruth-Ann peering in at her. Ruth-Ann braced for an angry tirade. Usually, Rebecca didn’t like to be spied on.

  But, to Ruth-Ann’s surprise, Rebecca smiled at her and waved her into the room. “It’s a new step I learned at the Hot Bunny Club with Nelson. Want me to teach you?”

  Ruth-Ann could feel herself blushing. “You know how clumsy I am.”

  But Rebecca insisted. They stumbled through the dance step a few times, laughing and bumping into each other. For once, Rebecca didn’t get frustrated. She kept patiently urging Ruth-Ann, who was as clumsy as she claimed, to try it again.

  We’re actually having fun together, Ruth-Ann thought.

  Ruth-Ann’s shoes tapped the floor. She flung her hands up—and lost her balance, and the two sisters ended up laughing in a tangled heap on the carpet. “Maybe we should try a waltz,” Rebecca said.

  She dragged Ruth-Ann to her feet. “Nelson got two tickets to see the Paul Whiteman band on Saturday at the Palladium,” she said. She winked. “He can be useful.”

  She pulled Ruth-Ann to her dressing table. “Come help me put up my hair.”

  What an odd thing to say, Ruth-Ann thought. He can be useful?

  Rebecca sat down in front of the tall mahogany mirror and opened a quilted box of hairpins. “My hair is so long and heavy, I feel like I’m wearing a blanket on my head.”

  Ruth-Ann shook her head quickly from side to side to make her short hair flare out. “You spend hours putting your hair up, bringing it down, brushing it out. I just give my head a shake, and I’m ready to go.”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes. “I’d love to give your head a shake.”

  They both laughed.

  Their faces were side by side in the mirror. Ruth-Ann gazed at their reflection as if seeing them for the first time. She wasn’t a golden-haired, blue-eyed princess like Rebecca. But she knew she wasn’t bad-looking.

  She had warm, wide brown eyes and a winning smile. Her parents
were always urging her to smile more often, but it didn’t come naturally.

  Her hair was coppery, darker than Rebecca’s. Her nose wasn’t as graceful as her sister’s. And she had a tiny dimple in her chin that she hated.

  I’m not as pretty as she is, Ruth-Ann thought. But I’m more interesting.

  Was that really true?

  Rebecca was twenty-one, and a good life was pretty much set out for her. Randolph Fear had secured her an apprentice job at Mrs. Paul’s, the milliner shop in town. Rebecca was artistic, and she wanted to be a designer of ladies’ hats.

  Mrs. Paul said she showed a wonderful flair for it. She said she would help Rebecca submit her designs to a hatmaker in New York.

  And then there was Nelson.

  True, Dad had picked Nelson out for Rebecca. Nelson worked at Mr. Fear’s investment firm. The stock market was booming in 1923, and Nelson was the company’s biggest money earner.

  Nelson was big and boyish and boastful, loud and sometimes a little vulgar. He liked to laugh a lot. Ruth-Ann knew that Rebecca hated the way he was always slapping people on the back or poking a finger on their chest as he spoke to them.

  He’s like a warm, friendly animal, Ruth-Ann thought when Dad brought him to dinner that night. He’s so eager to please, he’ll lick your face to make you like him. A big, warm puppy dog.

  He was only twenty-one, the same age as Rebecca. But he smoked cigars and wore dark pinstripe suits from New York, and acted like a tycoon.

  Mr. Fear had invited Nelson home to dinner and practically thrust Rebecca and him into each other’s laps! Most of the time, Rebecca seemed happy with Nelson. She liked dancing and going to the new jazz clubs on the other side of town.

  But Ruth-Ann could never tell if Rebecca was serious about him. Standing behind her sister at the mirror, their faces looming so close together in the reflection, Ruth-Ann worked up her courage. Maybe she and Rebecca could have a real sister-to-sister talk.

  “You and Nelson—” she started.

  But Rebecca cut her off. “I think Peter is too old for you,” she said.

  Ruth-Ann blinked. She had to steady herself. It was so unexpected.

  “Peter is my age,” Rebecca said, eyes straight ahead into the mirror. “You’re still in high school.”