The Wedding Caper

by Janice Thompson

  At that point, I went out into the living room and began to vacuum. Mental note: Vacuuming can be a stress reliever when agitated. After that, I dusted all of the furniture. Goodness, I didn’t know the coffee table could shine like that, even with the chewed-up leg. And cleaned all of the windows. Don’t want the neighbors to think we’re slobs. And washed and waxed the car. Why not? Looks like good weather, after all.

  As I moved from job to job that afternoon, I sorted through the mess in my mind, concluding the obvious. Warren is a godly man. Period. There is a logical, sensible explanation for the note. Ask him.

  At this point, a sense of peace fell over me. I drew in a deep, relaxed breath, and knew the moment had arrived. I could face Warren and just ask him—point blank—about the mysterious slip of paper. Surely he would offer up a logical explanation.

  I’d just worked up the courage to enter his office for a friendly chat when I heard his voice ring out.

  “Annie!”

  Something about his tone worried me. He sounded almost. . .angry?

  I eased my way down the hallway and into the door of his office. “What’s up?”

  Warren turned away from the computer with a dazed look on his face, one I didn’t recall ever seeing before. “Annie, I went online to pay our credit card bill, and—”

  Oh no, oh no, oh no.

  “What in the world is this?” He pointed to the screen.

  Yep. There it was, clear as day—my $150.00 charge to www.investigativeskills.com.

  “Oh, I, um—”

  I half expected the man to pull a Desi Arnaz and say, “Lucy, you’ve got some ‘splaining to do,” but he didn’t. No, his silence spoke far more than words ever could.

  I pressed my body against the doorjamb, in case I had to make a clean getaway. Warren stayed seated in the swivel chair, a puzzled expression on his face. He drummed his fingertips on its arm, finally speaking, “Annie, is there something you’d like to tell me?”

  The sudden rush of blood to my face made me feel a little faint, but there was no time for drama now. I had to face the inevitable. I’d known this moment would come all along, of course. I must tell my husband the awful truth—about the investigation, about my personal suspicions, everything.

  No time like the present. With a prayer on my lips, I dove in, head-first.

  You know, a funny thing happens when you finally open up after a long period of silence. A certain sense of relief floods your soul, and gives you the courage to say the very things you’ve been terrified to say all along. And at great speed, to boot.

  Warren must have sense my need to get it all out, for he kept quiet. I poured out my heart, gave away every tiny detail. I started with my suspicions of him, using the note I’d found as my first piece of evidence. The look on Warren’s face was, well, heartbreaking. At one point, I had to look away. Couldn’t stand the pain in his eyes. Next, I moved on to Richard Blevins, stating my initial concerns there, as well. Warren just shook his head in silence. I shifted to Nikki Rogers, my voice intensifying as I told him about the latest bit of news I’d garnered at the vet’s office. And, over the lump in my throat, I told him the whole story about Janetta Mullins and her wayward son, including my questions about the cash deposit.

  Warren heard it all in painful silence. I lost count of how many times I saw him shake his head in disbelief. And I think I heard him mutter a couple of things under his breath, though I didn’t ask him to repeat them.

  “So you’re saying—” he finally offered “—that this note you’ve found is evidence linking me to the stolen money?”

  “Well, I—”

  “And you think I stole the money from the bank to pay for the weddings? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m not saying I believe that,” I argued. “I’m just saying the thought has crossed my mind. And you have to see that your phone conversation with the travel agent a couple of weeks back just added fuel to my fire.”

  “Conversation with the travel agent?” His face paled. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  With frustration mounting, I forged ahead. “Sure you do. Couple of weeks back, on a Saturday? The day you told me about the bed and breakfast surprise.”

  “I–I—”

  “See, I overheard part of your telephone conversation from outside the office door and drew my own conclusion,” I threw in, “but I was wrong. I misjudged what I heard and turned it into something else. There was a logical explanation all along.”

  He shook his head once again. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. I never called the travel agent from the house. Never.”

  “What?” He had to be mistaken. I’d heard his words, plain as day. Can’t believe I got away with it. Annie doesn’t suspect a thing. If he wasn’t talking to the travel agent, then who? And about what?

  I suddenly felt a bit faint and excused myself to sit on the loveseat. Alone. Warren continued to stare at me from his spot in front of the computer desk, as if I’d just landed on planet Earth in a space ship and had antennae sticking out of my head.

  “Annie, there are a thousand things I don’t understand about women,” he said, “and I guess I’ll just have to chalk this whole thing up as one of them. How in the world could you let your imagination run away with you like this? And if you suspected someone we knew of stealing the money, why didn’t you come to me, ask for my help?”

  “I–I don’t know.” And I truly didn’t. Fear, maybe?

  At this point, Warren got really specific, asking questions about the Internet courses I’d signed up for. I told him, with a smile, actually, about all I’d learned. I didn’t resort to bragging, but I did feel, at least to some extent, I’d gotten my money’s worth. Er, his money’s worth.

  Warren’s brow wrinkled as I tied the pieces of the puzzle together—all of my odd behaviors over the past few weeks. Joining the gym. Tying the dog to the flagpole. Acting so discombobulated. All of it.

  Finally, I ran dry. Couldn’t think of another thing to say. I wanted to distract him, wanted to ask about the note I’d found in his pocket. Wanted to clarify the issue of the phone conversation. Wanted, no needed, to know where he came up with the $25,000 cash he’d pressed into my palms weeks earlier.

  But somehow I never made it that far. My bewildered husband stared at me in absolute silence for a good sixty seconds, then did something that completely stunned me. He turned back to the computer and, without saying a word, paid the credit card bill.

  Paid it.

  That simple. Never asked another question. Never offered up a response of any kind, even to my would-be accusations against him. Never so much as breathed a word to ease my mind. No, he apparently wanted to let me stew awhile. Wanted me to wallow in the mess I’d made.

  I so desperately needed to turn this thing around, to find out the answers to the questions that continued to plague me, even now. But Warren didn’t appear to be in a talking mood, as was evidence by his unwillingness to carry the conversation one step further.

  And so, with little else to do, I resorted to the unthinkable. Went into the kitchen, opened the freezer and pulled out a brand new, never opened half-gallon of Moo-lenium Crunch ice cream. I didn’t bother to grab a bowl. No point. Just a spoon would do. I dove in head-first, my thoughts rolling almost as fast as the spoon as it ping-ponged from the carton to my lips.

  Mental note: Ice cream eaters are far more susceptible to brain freeze when they consume large quantities at break-neck speed.

  You know, there are some things you just have to learn the hard way. I rubbed at my temples, begging the pain to ease. After a minute or two, it started to let up. I plopped down into a chair at the breakfast table, deep in thought.

  I’m pretty sure I set a new world record that day, consuming nearly half of the carton in one sitting. Afterwards, I reached for my notebook and crossed the room to my favorite easy chair. As I eased my way down, tummy now aching, Sasha leapt up into my lap. I scooted over to make room f
or her. After pulling the cap of the pen off with my teeth, I started writing. Or, rather, I tried to start writing.

  For once, no words would come.

  Nothing.

  I stared at the blank page, unable to think of one sensible thing to say. I had made a mess of things, a complete and utter mess. I’d offended my husband, the very last person on the planet I’d ever wanted to hurt. Would he ever forgive me?

  On the other hand, he had hidden something from me, too. The note. I couldn’t get it out of my mind, no matter how hard I tried. And that phone call. I know what I heard. I’m not going crazy. Am I?

  I snapped the notebook closed and leaned my head against the back of the chair. For whatever reason, I could just hear Sheila’s voice now. In her usual, motherly way, she would lay it out straight for me:

  “Annie,” she would say, “some days you’re the bug. Other days you’re the windshield.”

  Today just hadn’t been a windshield kind of day.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Did you ever stop to think and forget to start again? I guess you could say that’s what happened to me on Saturday evening. I found myself completely distracted by the complexities of the day. So much so that I couldn’t sleep that night. How could I, with all of the guilt and anxiety eating me alive?

  That, and the incredible belly ache from the ice cream.

  A couple of times I rose from the bed, which totally threw poor Sasha off. “No sweetie,” I whispered. “It’s not morning yet.”

  Both times she settled down and dozed off again. On my second trip, I eased my way into the bathroom, where I fished around inside the medicine chest for an antacid tablet, which I promptly popped in my mouth. Afterwards, I paced the bedroom, praying, thinking and clutching my tummy. Mental note: Next time you’re stressed, head to the gym, not the freezer.

  Thankfully, Warren never budged, though I almost willed him to, at times. I was terrified to stir up more trouble, yet I knew that one heartfelt conversation between the two of us could fix everything. If he’d wake up, we could get to the bottom of all of this. Afterwards, we could kiss and make up, then spend the rest of the night wrapped in one another’s arms.

  I gazed over at him several times with a serious longing in my heart as I continued to trudge back and forth, wearing a path in the carpet. The lines of gray in his hair glistened against the glow of the tiny nightlight. Sure, his scalp was a bit more apparent than when we were younger, but he was every bit the handsome devil I’d fallen in love with. Paunchy middle or not. Raucous snore or not.

  I reached to brush a curl from his forehead and he stirred a bit. Yes, I loved this man with every fiber of my being. Loved the way he laughed at my jokes, even when they weren’t funny. Loved the way he danced with me when I felt like dancing. Loved the way he cared for his family, through thick and thin. I pulled back my hand and stared in silence, reality setting in.

  But this wasn’t about my love for him, was it? I couldn’t let my feelings run away with me here. This was about not getting to the truth of the matter before we fell asleep. What about that biblical principle of not letting the sun go down on your anger? He’d quoted that line to me a million times over the years. So, why had he gone to bed upset, without talking to me? Sure, the Word of God said that love would cover a multitude of sins, but I had to wonder if we’d crossed some sort of line here by “dozing before dealing.”

  I finally crawled back under the covers and leaned back against the propped up pillows, attempting to pray. To be honest, I wasn’t sure where to start. My marriage? The upcoming weddings? The investigation? As I pondered these things, the knots in my stomach grew. Finally, in spite of my anxiety, my eyelids gave way to the sleepiness.

  Things didn’t get much better after the sun came up, though it wasn’t for lack of effort on my part. In fact, I don’t recall ever trying harder. I dressed for church, as always. Wore a dress I knew Warren loved. Put on the earrings he’d bought me for Christmas. Sprayed on the perfume he’d given me for my birthday. Fashioned my hair in a style I knew he liked.

  In short, I did everything I could to get him to look my way—and open up for a heart-to-heart chat. Preferably, before we left for church.

  For whatever reason, he refused to budge. He moved from bathroom to bedroom to closet in steady succession, readying himself for the day. All in stony silence.

  Not a word during breakfast.

  Not a word as he sat to read over the Sunday school lesson, which he’d agreed to teach in Richard’s absence.

  Not a word as Devin joined us to leave.

  We climbed into the car for a very quiet, strained drive to church. Even Devin took note of our silence.

  “What’s up with you two?” he asked.

  I hoped Warren would respond, but he kept his eyes focused on the road and his lips glued shut.

  “Oh, it’s just been a stressful weekend,” I offered. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “Is that your final answer?”

  Good grief. My son should really consider a career in law.

  I nodded, but he refused to let it go. Devin, never one to worry till now, crossed his arms and cast a pensive gaze my way. “Right. Whatever.”

  I stared out of the window as Warren made the familiar drive. The leaves had, for the most part, fallen now. We would be heading into winter before you knew it. Somehow, that thought depressed me, especially in light of the fact that my oldest daughter would be married in the late winter. Lord, everything is changing. Everything.

  I shivered as we exited the car at the church. Sometime in the night, the temperature had dropped. Seemed to fit our mood, truth be told. I pulled my jacket tight, but it did little to relieve the shivering. Am I really cold, or have my nerves become an issue?

  Devin ran on ahead of us to meet up with some friends, which left Warren and me alone. At last. I turned to him for one last attempt at breaking the ice before entering the church. “Warren, you have to talk to me. You have to.”

  “What would you like me to say?” His rock jaw was tighter than a snare drum.

  “I don’t know,” I pleaded. “Something. Anything. Tell me I’m crazy. Tell me I haven’t heard from the Lord. Tell me I’ve wasted your money. Tell me you know—” My courage rose. “Tell me you know who took the money, and I’ll let this thing go. I promise.”

  “I can’t tell you that.” He kept walking, never looking my way.

  “You can’t, or you won’t?” I spoke in a hoarse whisper.

  He shook his head. “I can’t tell you that.”

  We paused at the door of the church. Others walked around us to enter, but I refused to go inside until I said one last thing.

  “Warren, I have to show you something.”

  “Later, Annie.”

  “No, now. This is important.” I pulled the folded-up note from my purse and shoved it into his palm.

  As he read it, the color drained from his cheeks. “Where did you get this?”

  “From your pants pocket. I found it yesterday, just before you opened up the credit card bill. I was headed in the office to ask you about it.”

  He took the note and ripped it in half.

  I knew it. There’s more to that note than meets the eye. He’s up to something and he doesn’t want me to know what it is.

  “Warren, I wish you would—”

  At that moment, Candy and Garrett appeared at my side. “Hey, Mom. We’re going out to eat after church today—that new buffet up on the highway. Would you and Dad like to come with us? Garrett’s parents are coming.”

  Great. We’ll have to air our dirty laundry in front of our children and our good friends, all at once.

  “You’ll have to ask your father.” I shrugged. “It’s up to him.” I shot another glance Warren’s way. He discreetly crumpled the paper in his balled-up fist, then pressed it into his pants pocket. I guess this means our conversation is over.

  “Okay.” Candy turned to face her dad. “What do you think, Dad? Th
ey’ve got the best carrot cake in town. I know you love that.”

  “Sounds great.” Warren pulled open the front door of the church and we entered together. I tried to catch his eye, but he refused to look my way. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or worried, but something was wrong, very wrong.

  Once inside the vestibule, Brandi and Scott joined us.

  “Hey, Mom. How are you coming on the flower bouquets?” My daughter’s eyes sparkled as she asked the all-important question.

  “Making progress. Nearly finished with them, in fact.”

  I managed a weak smile. She didn’t seem to notice my discomfort, as was evidenced by her continued chattering.

  We turned our attentions to talking about floral arranging, and Warren slipped away to talk with a friend. The look of sadness in his eyes alarmed me. I’d never seen him hang on to a grudge this long. Or maybe it wasn’t a grudge. Maybe he felt as confused as I did right now. Lord, You’re going to have to help us through this. I don’t know what to do anymore. I really don’t.

  Brandi continued to chatter away and I tried to listen, I really did. But I couldn’t stay focused. I could feel my hands shaking, and knew that tears would soon come, so I dismissed myself to the ladies room. She gave me the oddest look as I turned away, but I couldn’t pause long enough to worry about it. I felt the sting of tears and knew I must make my escape as smoothly as possible.

  Once inside the restroom, I fought the line of familiar women to get to a stall. Most everyone was so busy touching up lipstick, fussing with hair or chatting to notice my misty eyes. Once inside the safety of the tiny stall, I pulled the lid down on the toilet and took a seat, fully dressed. At that point, I allowed the tears to tumble. In silence, naturally.

  I stayed in there so long a couple of the ladies must’ve felt the need to check on me.

  “Annie, you okay in there?” Nita Lemuel called out.

  This was followed by a chuckle and a quip from an elderly woman named Margie. “You didn’t fall in, did you?”

  “I’m fine,” I assured them, trying to make my voice sound normal. “Just need a few minutes to myself.”