TWENTY-SEVEN
Susan, of course, had many more questions that she wanted to ask, and she would have if her mother hadn’t appeared, demanding her attention.
“Susan! What in heaven’s name are you doing here this morning? Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Is it Chrissy? What’s happened? Has the wedding been called off?” She looked anxiously from her daughter to Stephen, a worried expression on her face.
“No, Mother. Stephen and I were just chatting.” It wasn’t much of an excuse but, then, it had been many years since she’d been a teenager accustomed to concealing bits and pieces of her life from her parents.
“You’re just chatting? So early in the morning? On the day of Chrissy’s wedding? What could you be thinking of, Susan?”
“Well, I—”
“Half the people staying in this inn are planning on going over to your house for breakfast. Shouldn’t you be home setting things up?”
“I—”
“Or doing something with your hair? You know, a trim this week would have been a good idea.”
“Mother, I went to a new hairdresser just yesterday—”
“You tried a new hairdresser the day before your daughter’s wedding? Didn’t that disaster on the night of your senior prom teach you anything?”
“Mother, I—” Susan tried to head off what she knew was coming.
“I’ll never forget it! Why, the way you cried and carried on, you would have thought that man had shaved your head.”
“Mother, I asked for a trim. I just wanted him to snip off the split ends.”
“And he simply evened out the back.”
“He scalped me! And anyway, Mother, you’re talking about high school—” Susan began, becoming aware of the fact that both young men were trying hard not to grin. “Besides, I like my hair this way,” she insisted, changing the subject.
“Well, if it’s what you want. It is your head, after all, isn’t it?”
It had been years since Susan and her mother had fought over hairstyles. For that reason, she suspected, it made her feel young—and just a little rebellious. “It is, as you say, my head,” she agreed.
“God, how dreary. I hope my mother and I won’t be repeating the same conversation forty years from now.” Wendy, wearing crumpled linen slacks and an equally mussed shirt, appeared at their table.
“Maybe you should sit down,” Stephen suggested, standing up to offer his chair to the young woman. Susan’s mother aleady had seated herself in the last spot available. “You look like you had too much champagne last night.”
“Too much champagne and too many margaritas. Too bad you talked me into being part of the wedding party, isn’t it?”
Susan opened her mouth and then stopped, allowing Stephen to answer the question in his own way. Wendy, in fact, was acting the way she had expected David to be acting. It was obvious she was as unhappy as she was hungover.
“You’re one of my oldest friends; I wouldn’t have wanted to get married without you present,” Stephen said, reaching across the table and putting his hand over Wendy’s.
“I knew I shouldn’t have come here,” Wendy said. “I should have followed my instincts. Nothing good ever comes from these people getting together again. Nothing.”
“Family relationships can be very difficult.”
Susan and her mother spoke the same phrase at the same time.
“You can say that again,” Wendy agreed.
“But can you do it simultaneously?” Stephen asked, grinning.
“Probably not twice in one morning,” Susan said agreeably; she had noticed that David seemed to have dropped out of their conversation. He was looking at Wendy, an expression she didn’t understand on his face.
“You three were raised together, weren’t you?” Susan’s mother took the conversation in exactly the direction Susan had been wishing it would go.
“Just for the years we were in the commune together,” Stephen explained.
“And you’ve stayed friends all these years?”
“Well, pretty much. We were taught together in the commune, and then David and I were educated in the same parochial junior and senior high school.”
“It was for boys only,” Wendy explained. David had brought her a cup of coffee and a plate of doughnuts and she appeared to be relaxing. “I was sent to an alternative school for those years. While they were wearing jackets, rep ties, and chinos, I was in the middle of the last bastion of tie-dyed clothing outside of Grateful Dead concerts in the country.”
“But we stayed friends,” David pointed out.
“Probably the oddness of our early years formed a bond not many have an opportunity to appreciate,” Stephen suggested, choosing a vanilla frosted doughnut from the plate and taking a taste.
Susan was interested in his choice—it was her daughter’s favorite, too. “Of course, not many children ever live in a commune—”
“Most children are luckier than we were,” Wendy stated flatly.
“You know, I’m not sure I’d agree with that,” Stephen said.
“David would.” Wendy seemed sure of her statement.
Everyone looked at David to see if this was true.
“At least that’s what he’s always told me,” Wendy insisted.
“There are days when I think that,” David admitted. “You have to agree, it was weird. I mean, most kids are taught to sing ‘The Farmer in the Dell’ and ‘Bingo,’ not ‘We Shall Overcome’ and ‘Give Peace a Chance.’ ”
“True, but most kids don’t live in a place where there are so many adults around who sincerely care about them and the way they’re brought up,” Stephen pointed out.
“Most kids don’t have a whole shitload of adults looking over their shoulders and spying on them every minute of the day, is what you mean,” Wendy surprised Susan by stating bluntly.
“Certainly too much attention can be almost as damaging as too little,” Susan’s mother said—surprising her even more. This was the honest opinion of a woman whose hovering abilities astounded all who were related to her? What would come out of her mouth next?
“I know I’ve tried to keep from interfering in Susan’s life even when I knew my opinion was correct or my advice would lead her in a better direction.”
What the … Susan opened her mouth to speak.
“Besides, I knew my daughter had the good sense not to listen to me anyway.”
Susan snapped her mouth shut and reached for another doughnut.
“Of course, I’ve always believed junk food is a very poor way to get the day started.” Her mother reached out and snagged the last doughnut on the plate. “On the other hand, sometimes I don’t listen any better than my daughter does.” She grinned and took a huge bite.
Everyone chuckled. The tension was broken, but Susan had no idea how—or if—she could return the conversation to the commune and then on to David’s mother.
“Well, I guess I’d better go upstairs and … and do something,” Wendy said, standing up.
“Yeah, I think it’s time I got going, too,” David said. “We’ve got to find that man … what’s his name? Charles? … and get the ring out of hock this morning, don’t we?” he reminded Stephen.
“Don’t worry. I already spoke to him. Everything’s taken care of. I should give Chrissy a call.”
“On your wedding day?” Susan was astounded. “Isn’t that bad luck?”
“I think it’s only bad luck if you actually see the bride before the wedding,” David suggested.
“My, you young people today certainly are conservative. Susan’s father and I had breakfast together the day we got married. Of course, we’d spent the night together, so—”
“Mother! You’d what?” Susan’s shriek could have awakened the dead.
“I knew that would wake her up. Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but it’s almost eight o’clock and I’ve got things to do.”
“Mother, you didn’t … it’s … it couldn’t be that
late,” Susan sputtered, glancing down at her watch. She was wrong. It was later than that. She got up and headed for the door. “I’ve got to get going,” she informed anyone who was interested, and left without waiting to hear more.
She ran toward her car, wondering if Kathleen was at her house and if she had found everything necessary to set up for company. Then she stopped running and wondered just what the Archangel was looking for in the back of her Jeep Cherokee. Maybe she’d slow down just a bit and give her a chance to find it.… But the woman seemed to be looking in each and every car in the lot, and Susan suddenly wondered if perhaps this was the Archangel’s way of searching for the missing murder victim. She was just trying to think of something to say when the Archangel, apparently spying what she wanted, reached into the large bag she had slung over her shoulder (larger even than the one Susan carried), pulled out a long, thin piece of metal, and, sticking it in the edge of a window of the Honda station wagon she was looking into, proceeded to unlock the car, pull something out the door, and slam it shut—all in a matter of seconds.
Susan was astounded. Without thinking, she ran toward the woman.
“Why it’s Susan Henshaw, isn’t it? You seem to have this wedding well organized. Most mothers of the bride would be pulling out their hair over some detail or another at this point,” the Archangel said pleasantly, as though she hadn’t been caught breaking into a car in the Inn’s parking lot.
“I … I … You took something out of that car,” Susan sputtered.
“Yes, my makeup bag. I’d left it there last night.” She looked carefully at Susan. “You seem upset. Is there something wrong? It is my makeup bag that I got out.” She reached in her purse and removed a multicolored silk sack. “See? This is it.”
“Oh, I guess I was just surprised.” Susan took a deep breath. “You didn’t use a key!”
“I guess I left it up on the dresser in my hotel room.” The woman looked at Susan. “This is my rental car, you know. You didn’t think I was breaking into someone else’s car, did you? Gods in the heavens, you did! It’s been years and years since anyone thought I was doing something illegal. Although back then, I probably was. Thoreau called it civil disobedience, you know.”
Thoreau called breaking into a locked car civil disobedience? Well, it had been many years since she’d read Thoreau, but she was fairly certain—
“Weren’t you on your way somewhere?” The Archangel interrupted Susan’s train of thought.
“Yes. I … In fact, yes I was,” Susan said. “I …”
“You were going to get into your car.”
“Yes, I’m needed at home,” Susan insisted, as though anyone was going to dispute the fact.
“Then you’d better be on your way. May the goddesses bless you on this most auspicious of days.” Instead of making the sign of the cross in the air, the Archangel waved both hands, delineating an elegant hourglass figure.
Susan just smiled weakly and headed over to the car. She was damned if she was going to worship someone with a better figure than her own.
TWENTY-EIGHT
What every woman needs most in life is a good friend. If that good friend can find her way around your kitchen, she’s a gift from heaven, Susan decided, looking at the lavish buffet spread out on the cherry sideboard in her dining room.
“Does everything look okay?” Kathleen’s voice came from behind her.
“It’s wonderful! How can I thank you?” Susan spun around and hugged her friend, squashing the pile in Kathleen’s arms between them.
“Just promise you’ll help out when Alice gets married,” Kathleen said, placing the large damask napkins next to the sterling silver laid out on the table.
“Tell her to wait until she’s thirty. I may be rested enough to tackle a project like this one again in about twenty-five years.” She looked around the room. “Kathleen, this is fabulous. Are you the same woman who claimed to be completely undomestic when she came to town over a decade ago?”
“Let’s just say that hanging around you, one learns how to put on a good party.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I sure hope everything goes well today.”
“I’m sure it will. You’re such a planner.”
“But I didn’t plan on a dead body, or bull mastiff puppies, or a missing wedding dress.”
“Oh, Susan, the dress isn’t missing anymore and it’s beautiful—really the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.”
Before Susan could get excited over this bit of good news, they were interrupted.
“What dead body? Mother, you haven’t gone and gotten involved in another murder! Not on my wedding day!”
The bride had arrived.
And she looked dreadful. Chrissy’s fabulous long blond hair was wound around more than a dozen gigantic chartreuse plastic curlers. Her face was smeared with something that looked like a mashed avocado. Her hands were encased in large cotton sleep gloves printed with dozens of idiotically happy naked cherubs. Her feet were stuck into slippers embroidered with feline faces. And she wore a large, faded black T-shirt with the words ski yellowstone emblazoned across the chest. Instead of a bouquet, she carried a box of Kleenex (at least this was printed appropriately with a selection of delicate spring flowers, Susan noted).
“Oh, no, is your hay fever acting up?” Susan asked, noticing her daughter’s red nose for the first time.
“Don’t change the subject. Why were you talking about a dead body?”
“Oh, you know us. We just always talk about murder,” Susan said, attempting to be gay.
It didn’t work. “On my wedding day? You talk about murder on my wedding day? Mother, I cannot believe—”
“God, Chrissy, you were yelling so loud, you didn’t even hear the phone.” Chad appeared in the doorway. “Your fiancé is on the line. Good thing you have those tissues. You’ll need them to mop up the tears. He’s probably come to his senses and wants to call off the wedding.”
Chrissy, apparently deciding that didn’t call for a comment, swept from the room with as much dignity as her ridiculous costume allowed.
“There goes the bride,” Chad commented, pilfering a succulent slice of smoked salmon from a platter.
“Since when do you eat smoked salmon?” Susan asked, astounded. In her experience, Chad and seafood simply didn’t go together.
“I’ve been eating it for a while,” he replied self-consciously. “You don’t seem to realize I’m growing up. I like it. It’s salty—sort of like potato chips.”
So much for sophistication. “Is your father up yet?” Susan asked.
“I don’t know. Someone was showering earlier, but it might have been Chrissy. Has anyone given the puppies their breakfast?”
“I don’t think so. Are they in the kitchen?”
“No way. They’re in Clue’s pen out back—at least, I hope they’re there. Dad said he’d put them out as soon as it was light. I’m sure as sh—as hell not going to spend any more time running all over town after them.”
“I certainly hope not. I know your grandmother is anxious to spend some time with you this morning,” his mother said, smiling.
Chad narrowed his eyes at his mother. “Then I guess I deserve first choice of the Danish on the platter in the kitchen.”
“But—”
“Go ahead and enjoy yourself,” Kathleen interrupted. “He can eat all he wants. There are two full platters waiting on the pool table in the basement,” she explained, as Chad bounded from the room.
“Excellent planning. You’re thinking like the mother of a teenage boy. Now tell me about the wedding gown.”
“Not until you tell me about the body.”
“I think,” Susan said, sighing, “that I need another cup of coffee.”
“We both do. Why don’t I bring two mugs up to your bedroom and you can dress while we try to get our allotted amount of caffeine.”
Susan grinned and looked down at the clothing she’d thrown on earlier. “That ba
d, huh?”
“Didn’t we spend an afternoon in the city about a month ago buying an outfit for you to wear this morning?”
Susan slapped herself across the forehead. “Of course, the red flower-print linen skirt and the white shirt. Where is my head? I know it’s right at the top of the list I made for today.”
“You included what you were going to wear on your list for Chrissy’s wedding day?”
“I was afraid I’d be too busy to think—what I didn’t know was that I’d be too busy to check the list,” Susan admitted, hurrying from the room.
Jed was coming downstairs as she went up. She smiled. He patted her on the shoulder as they passed. So much for romance, for those tender moments she had expected when they would lie in bed as the sun rose over Hancock and exchange memories of their own wedding day … of Chrissy’s birth …
“Mother. What could you possibly have to say to Stephen?” Chrissy asked.
“Stephen?” Susan repeated the name as though she’d never heard it before.
“Stephen Canfield. You remember him. We’re getting married today. He didn’t call to talk to me. He wants to talk to you!”
“He … I … we have a surprise for you,” Susan improvised.
“Oh … I … I guess that’s very nice of you, Mother. Very nice,” Chrissy repeated, as she turned and wandered back toward her room.
Susan resisted reminding her daughter that there were going to be people arriving any moment now and hurried to pick up the extension in the hallway. “Hi, Stephen,” she said.
“We have a problem,” he announced abruptly. “I think my mother has guessed that David’s mother was murdered. And I’m afraid she’s going to tell David.”
“And what do you think will happen then?”
“I don’t know for sure. David’s not real upset about his mother’s death—well, you saw that. She had pretty much moved out of his life and they hadn’t spoken in years, but I don’t think David will keep quiet about a murder until after the ceremony.”
Weddings Are Murder Page 21