Say Yes to the Death

by Susan McBride

  “ ‘Bye, Mother—­” I started to say, but she wasn’t finished.

  “Andrea, please!” she begged. “Olivia’s office is just around the corner. I insist you drop by when you’re through with her.” She had her chin up and her jaw firmly set like she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “I’ll grab some bear claws at Starbucks and we can confab over coffee.”

  I didn’t drink coffee. But that was beside the point.

  “Why do we need to confab all of a sudden?” I asked as I planted my feet on the asphalt and stood up. “What’s so important? Are you dying?” I asked facetiously, but suddenly I felt a bit worried. She had been acting pretty weird.

  The window whirred as she opened it. I shut the door and ducked down to hear her answer.

  “Am I dyin’?” she echoed, then cracked that Cheshire cat grin again. “I don’t have that scheduled any time soon, pumpkin, not before I get you married with a house full of babies.”

  “Good,” I said, “because that might be a while.”

  “No, no, it’s not about me. It’s about you. Since you’re so dead-­set against hiring a wedding planner, we’ll need to get started toot suite on planning your wedding ourselves. Won’t that be fun, sweet pea? Just you and me and my checkbook?” she asked, then added in a singsong voice, “Dum dum da dum, dum dum da dum!”

  My mouth fell open.

  “Hasta la vista, pumpkin!” Cissy wiggled her fingers in a wave as she rolled the window up.

  Then she backed up the car and drove off.

  Chapter 8

  I was lucky Mother didn’t roll the Lexus over my foot because I couldn’t move. I’d gone catatonic at the idea of Cissy taking charge of my wedding. Because that was exactly what would happen. She would do what she wanted come hell or high water, taking over like that bossy Tabatha on Bravo who bulldozed bad beauty shops. I’d end up in a frothy frou-­frou dress that made me look like a giant marshmallow for starters. She’d invite five hundred of her closest friends and have a staid and formal reception and sit-­down dinner at the Dallas Country Club. It would be her dream wedding, not mine.

  Suddenly, I felt the Chilean bass lurch in my stomach.

  “Hey, Kendricks! What’re you doing standing in the parking lot when there’s a hockey game going on?”

  At the sound of Malone’s voice, I glanced up.

  He must have spotted my arrival out the window as he stood on my tiny porch, wearing his St. Louis Blues T-­shirt and waving his arm.

  “If you hurry, you can catch the tail end. We’re heading into triple overtime!” he said and waved again, clearly wanting me to move it. When I stepped onto the sidewalk and headed toward the porch steps, he cocked his head and let out a whistle. “What the heck are you wearing? That’s not the dress you left in. So was it a theme wedding? Are you supposed to be some kind of mutant flower like the one that only blooms once a year and stinks?”

  “You’re getting warm,” I said as I preceded him through the doorway and into the tiny condo that had been my sanctuary since I’d moved back to Dallas after college. “What happened was worse than being a stinky flower in a theme wedding. I ended up being a bridesmaid.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  He smothered a laugh. “I want to hear the whole gory story,” he remarked, and his hand attempted to squeeze my shoulder but grabbed a fistful of the humongous chiffon butterfly instead. He knit his brows and tried to fluff the fabric that he’d crushed.

  “Gory sums it up pretty nicely,” I replied with a sigh. I felt lucky to be marrying a guy who was such a good listener, especially since I did a lot of talking. Brian reminded me of my dad in that respect. My father was never too busy for me, never too wrapped up in work or my mother to pause and lend me an ear, and I had loved him all the more for it.

  When I got inside, I dropped my bag and the borrowed shoes to the floor. Then I turned and reached for Malone. I needed a hug, and how. Only all I caught was air. Malone wasn’t right behind me anymore. He’d skedaddled over to the sofa and plunked himself down in front of the TV.

  Ah, so much for being a good listener, I thought, although I noticed he was paying very close attention to the hockey announcers.

  I walked over and stood in front of him, my hands on my hips. “I thought you wanted to hear the whole gory story,” I griped.

  He leaned to the right so he could see around me. “Third overtime has started, babe,” he said without shifting his gaze from the screen. “Can it wait until the game is over?”

  I wanted to shout, No, it can’t! Only describing my afternoon as my mother’s date at Penny Ryan’s wacko wedding wasn’t urgent, and I knew how much Brian wanted to watch this game. If I’d been bleeding, I’m sure he would have diverted his attention from the TV at least long enough to assess whether or not he needed to call 911.

  “Hooking? Are you freaking kidding me?” Malone complained and threw his hands in the air as I went into the bedroom to change.

  When I emerged a few minutes later wearing my yoga pants and a Dallas Stars T-­shirt, the game was over and Brian was frowning.

  As I settled beside him, he glanced at my shirt with his bespectacled eyes and said, “I think I liked you better in that butt-­ugly purple dress.”

  “The Blues lost?” I asked.

  He grunted in response.

  I wriggled over and wrapped my arms around him as tightly as I could. He looked like he needed a hug even more than I did.

  “Hey, it’s four out of seven, right? They’ll beat the Stars next time,” I remarked.

  “If you can’t win on home turf—­” Brian shook his head and nudged at his specs.

  “I know how to make you feel better,” I said, and he raised his eyebrows as if expecting something salacious. Instead, I started in on my zany tale of Penny’s wedding, from having my cell phone confiscated by Lester Dickens’s hired goons, to seeing Olivia La Belle rip Millie apart about the $10,000 cake that was late, to prying the pregnant, hoop-­skirted bride from the toilet, and walking down the aisle in the role of bridesmaid number nine.

  When I finished, Brian let out a soft, “Whoa.” He took off his glasses, rubbed the lenses on his shirt then propped them back on his nose. His blue eyes blinked from behind them. He said nothing, although I heard him slowly exhale.

  My pulse thumped. Was he having second thoughts about tying the knot with me? He was such a good guy, funny and sweet, as down-­to-­earth as his Midwestern roots, and one of the best young defense attorneys in Dallas. I was a wannabe artist who worked as a Web designer (and tried not to touch my trust fund except in emergencies). My mom was a well-­meaning lunatic. Maybe Malone was considering what would happen if he mixed my DNA with his. Our children had a fifty-­fifty chance of being whack-­a-­doodles.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I said, because he kept looking at me so strangely. “That I’m like a living, breathing episode of I Love Lucy, especially when Mother’s involved.” My mouth went dry when he didn’t respond. “You’re wondering if you should be marrying someone who’s a magnet for lunatics. You’re probably afraid our wedding is going to turn into the deb ball I never had, which it very well may if my mother has anything to do with it.”

  An amused smile slipped over his lips, and he shook his head, reaching out to touch my hair (which I hoped wasn’t quite the rat’s nest Olivia had implied).

  “No,” he replied quietly. “I’m thinking how lucky I am to be with someone who cares so much about other people. You did your mom a favor today. You stood up for Millie. You got the bride out of a jam. Hell, several jams. You’ve got a big heart, Kendricks. It’s what I love about you most.”

  I was so relieved I nearly burst.

  “And I thought it was my killer bod,” I cracked, because I wasn’t good at mush.

  He screwed up his face. “Okay,
yeah, it’s your killer bod first then your big heart. My bad.”

  I opened my mouth to make another joke but bit down on my lip. Instead of zingers, I wanted to spout vapid Hallmark card thoughts about love. I can’t believe I’d ever doubted that there was someone out there just for me. It wasn’t that I’d felt like half a person without Brian; but falling for him had made me feel more than whole. Malone had experienced firsthand the insanity that was my life, and instead of running away from me as fast as he could, he wanted to stay with me for better or worse. If he wasn’t The One, then there was no such thing on earth.

  “It’s me who got lucky,” I whispered back—­the least I could say—­and leaned forward to press my lips against his.

  I couldn’t tell you what came on the TV after the hockey game. I didn’t even realize it was dark until we surfaced for air a few hours later. We were both hungry enough to order pizza from Besas (the Meat Lovers Special for him and green pepper and onions for me). By the time I’d eaten enough to fill my belly to the brim, Malone had popped another of his old Star Trek movies into the DVR. This one had to do with saving whales in San Francisco Bay. I snuggled into my fiancé’s shoulder and tried hard to watch, but somewhere in the middle I drifted off.

  Malone must have put me to bed after the movie ended. When I forced my eyelids open, the yellow haze of early morning filtered in through the shutters. I rolled away from the noisy lump that was my fiancé snoring. Picking up the alarm clock on the night table, I saw the hands pointed at 7:45.

  Time to make the doughnuts, I thought and rolled off the mattress. I figured I might as well run down to Olivia’s office and drop off the dress and shoes before Malone even woke up. Then I wouldn’t have to ruin my entire Sunday.

  So I tiptoed around the room, pulling on clothes. I did a quick toothbrushing and an even quicker splash of water on my face. Just in case Malone awoke from his stupor, I left a note in the kitchen saying, Gone to Olivia’s to return Hideous Dress. Back soon. Don’t make pancakes without me! Love U, Andy. I didn’t bother to drag a brush through my bird’s nest before stepping outside and closing the door.

  It was kind of nice being up early on a Sunday. Usually Malone and I slept away half the morning and then made pancakes—­blueberry or chocolate chip, whatever we felt like. Sometimes we stayed in our pajamas until noon.

  When I stepped outside, I heard birds chirping. The sky looked like a canvas of brilliant blue that some invisible hand had swept with hazy white brushstrokes. I wanted to run back inside to my easel so I could paint it. But that would have to wait. The tiniest breeze ruffled the trees and shrubs, and I drew in a big whiff of honeysuckle. Once I got in my Jeep and headed out, I found traffic was almost nonexistent, something rarer than a natural blonde in Big D.

  I’d looked up Olivia’s business address and knew right where to go. I’d grown up in Highland Park and my mother’s favorite shops were located in Highland Park Village, so it was familiar enough turf.

  When I turned off Preston Road and rolled into the shopping center, the parking lot was pretty much empty. I pulled into a space near the Stella McCartney boutique, which was on the same side as Harry Winston, Dior, and Balenciaga. It was hardly surprising that Olivia liked to keep such pricey company. I was sure the snob in Olivia appreciated, too, that the buildings were on the historical register, so Highland Park Village was a landmark as well as chi-­chi.

  I locked the Jeep and headed toward the building that housed the Wedding Belle’s office suite. As I approached the glass doors, another vehicle caught my eye, and not just because there were so few cars in the lot at 8:15 A.M. on Sunday.

  It was a white Acura SUV with a discreet but readable sign across the rear window: MILLIE’S CAKES, it said in hot pink, LET THEM EAT CAKE! There was a phone number and Web URL as well.

  The sight made me uneasy.

  Why would Millicent Draper show up at Olivia’s office so bright and early the day after Penny Ryan’s wedding?

  Had she gotten wind of Olivia’s trash-­talking and driven over first thing to have it out with her? Or had Olivia summoned her here?

  Whatever the answer, it didn’t bode well for Millie. She was such a nice woman. Olivia would shred her up like taco cheese.

  I swallowed hard and kept walking, thinking the grandmotherly baker would surely need backup defending herself against my prep school enemy yet again.

  The bad feeling in the pit of my stomach only deepened as I entered the doors to Olivia’s building and climbed the stairs to her second floor office. I’d barely gotten halfway up the steps when I heard a gut-­wrenching cry. Without a doubt, I knew it came from within Olivia’s suite.

  That danged bully! She was probably tearing into sweet Millie again.

  I ran up the remaining stairs, turned the knob, and pushed my way inside to Olivia’s reception area.

  “Millie?” I said and glanced right and left, looking for the cotton-­haired baker and hoping she was okay. But I saw no one and nothing seemed out of place in the anteroom with its trendy black-­and-­white patterned wallpaper, upholstered chairs, and shabby chic painted tables topped with stacks of bridal magazines.

  Then I heard the mournful wail repeated.

  “No, no, no,” a voice sobbed in a tone that broke my heart.

  I dropped the borrowed dress and shoes, hurrying as fast as I could through the waiting area. Without further preamble, I burst into Olivia’s office.

  “Millie, are you o—­” I started to say, and then my tongue lodged in my throat. “Dear God,” I breathed, taking in the frightening tableau before me.

  Millie kneeled on the rug not six feet away, looking anything but okay. She turned her wide eyes upon me, her time-­worn face stricken.

  “Oh, Andy! This is bad,” she choked out and shook her head, “very bad.”

  Very bad?

  That had to be the understatement of the year.

  For Millie held a silver cake knife in her hand, its blade slick with blood. And lying on the rug before her was Olivia La Belle, her body still and her eyes rolled to the heavens, her throat slick with blood as well.

  Chapter 9

  The scene was too surreal to believe.

  In fact, it was so surreal that I couldn’t help but suspect it wasn’t real at all. Was this some kind of prank? Was it another despicable attempt to drive up Olivia’s TV show ratings? Could Olivia be that desperate for attention?

  I looked around for Pete the Cameraman with his rose and thorn tattoos, but I didn’t see him or anyone else. It was just me, the knife-­wielding Millie, and the lifeless Olivia.

  “Is there a hidden camera? Is this some kind of publicity stunt?” I said out loud, because I wouldn’t put anything past Olivia La Belle. If there hadn’t been so much red goo all over her—­was it ketchup?—­I would have nudged the prostrate Olivia with the toe of my shoe and told her to get up.

  “It’s not a stunt,” Millie whimpered, “she’s dead. I did everything I could but it was too late . . .”

  Her voice trailed off, and I noticed the wadded up fabric near Olivia’s head that looked like a big ol’ bandage drenched in red. Was it a table linen sample? Had Millie used it to try to stop the blood from flowing?

  “Olivia’s really and truly dead?” I said, and my voice sounded hollow. “She’s not playing possum?”

  Millie shook her head.

  I gulped.

  A chill raced up my spine, lifting the hairs on my neck. The red goo wasn’t ketchup, and Olivia wasn’t going for broke to drive up her TV ratings. She’d gone boots up for real, and they were expensive boots, too. They looked like the Jimmy Choo snakeskin ankle boots that Mother had tried to foist on me at Christmas and I’d made her return.

  “I watched her die,” Millie said in an eerie half whisper. “I was here when she took her last breath.”

  Whoa.

 
“What?” I would have run like a bat out of hell but my legs felt like rubber. “Oh, God, this is crazy,” I said, and I grabbed hold of the nearest chair to keep my knees from giving out from beneath me. “This is not real,” I told myself. “This can’t be real.”

  “I wish it wasn’t”—­Millie’s voice shook—­“but it is. And I have no idea what to do. I should have called 911 instead of trying to save her. But it’s too late now.”

  “What the hell happened?” I asked, staring at her, horrified. “What do you mean you watched her die?”

  I wasn’t sure how I got out the questions. My mouth had gone bone dry. I had no clue what to do. How did one deal with something like this? Had Millie truly walked in on Olivia in the throes of death with a cake knife sticking out of her throat, or had she stabbed the wedding planner in a fit of rage over the $10,000 cake brouhaha? I suddenly remembered that Millie’s departing words yesterday had something to do with Olivia getting what was coming to her.

  “You didn’t—­” I started to ask, but couldn’t finish.

  But Millie seemed to know where I was headed.

  “No,” she cried, bursting into tears. “I didn’t do anything, Andy.”

  Though my eyes might have wanted to convince me that Millie was guilty as sin, my gut had a hard time buying it. Fingers shaking, I pulled my phone from the pocket of my cargo pants.

  “You can tell me the truth, Millie. Did you and Olivia fight because of Penny’s cake? Did she attack you? Was it self-­defense?” I asked as I attempted to call 911, but my trembling fingers hit the wrong buttons.

  “No, no, it was nothing like that.” Millie shook her head as she slowly got up off her knees. “Yes, I came by this morning to have it out with her. She texted me to say the Ryans wouldn’t pay the bill for the cake, and I knew she was pulling one over on me the same way she did Jasper. I’d had it up to here with her antics.” She raised the cake knife to her chin. “But we didn’t fight—­it wasn’t what you’re thinking,” she insisted, lowering her arm to her side. “The door was unlocked when I arrived, and she was on the floor. The knife was sticking out of her neck, and she was gasping and twitching and”—­Millie gulped—­“gurgling. I pulled it out but I think that made things worse!” She glanced down at the blood on her shirt and hands. “I grabbed something off her desk to stop the blood but it was too late.”