Maid of Murder aihm-1

by Amanda Flower

  Chapter Four

  I leaned across the table and asked Bree, “Who’s Topaz?”

  Bree looked unhappy to have her conversation with Bobby interrupted. She studied me with appraising eyes. “Topaz is the dress designer for Olivia’s wedding. She’s bringing the bridesmaids’ dresses for us to try on.” I had the feeling she wanted to add silly at the end of that sentence.

  My stomach tightened in dread. I knew the dress would have come up eventually. I was a bridesmaid after all. But not now, not here, not with an audience.

  Bobby pried his baby blues from Bree to grin at me. The jerk.

  Fifteen minutes later, the Blocken doorbell rang. Olivia and Mrs. Blocken rose as one. Topaz had arrived. She came too quickly for me to come down with the flu or the E. coli virus, which I planned to contract in the next ten minutes. I slumped in the patio chair, defeated. Bree said Topaz would need help bringing in the dresses and hurried after them. Bree’s absence freed Bobby to torture me.

  “That was really good planning on Olivia’s part, wasn’t it, India? I mean, what better time to have the dresses fitted than when all the bridesmaids are together at her mother’s house?”

  I gave Bobby my best withering glare. O.M. watched our exchange with mild interest. Or, was she watching Bobby with mild interest? I’d have to remember to keep him away from her.

  Moments later Olivia, her mother, and Bree returned to the patio with a tall and graceful black woman, presumably Topaz, the dress designer who made house calls on national holidays. Her hair was cropped close to her head, revealing its perfect form and reminding me of an Egyptian bust of Nefertiti. Olivia and her entourage made a quick circuit around the patio with breathy introductions. “This is India Hayes, Topaz. She’s a childhood friend of mine. She’s bridesmaid number three.”

  I smiled politely at Topaz, flabbergasted that Olivia had the audacity to number her bridesmaids, and that I was number three out of three.

  Topaz gave a pleasant but noncommittal smile.

  “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble to come out here on a holiday,” I said.

  “No trouble at all,” she replied, but her eyes flickered. I was willing to bet that she was collecting time-and-a-half.

  Mrs. Blocken broke in. “We should begin the fitting. Who would you like to see first? India?”

  Why am I not surprised? I thought. Without a word or a glance in Bobby’s direction, I followed Topaz and Olivia into the house.

  Inside, Topaz handed me a garment bag.

  Olivia said, “You can change in my old bedroom.” She was practically jumping up and down in prenuptial ecstasy.

  I trudged upstairs. Although I hadn’t been in the Blocken house for several years, the layout was as familiar to me as my childhood home. Olivia’s room was on the second floor, the second doorway on the left, and looked the same as it had when we had graduated high school. I was relieved to discover that at least one memory of Kilbourne Street had not changed.

  I walked across the lush carpet and threw the dress bag on Olivia’s old double bed in disgust. I stalled for time by snooping. Olivia’s personality had defected when she’d fled to college by way of Dixie. Left behind was the image of Olivia Mrs. Blocken had tried to create throughout Olivia’s childhood. The room was painted lavender and the furniture was a matched set of white provincial, consisting of two dressers, a writing desk, and headboard. On the dresser, Olivia had abandoned her silver-plated brush and mirror, as well as various childish knickknacks. A white shelf nailed high on the wall above the desk held a complete set of ceramic girls in frilly Victorian-inspired gowns with numbers in front of them, one dainty lady for every birthday through eighteen. At sixteen, Olivia confessed that she hated those figurines, and she didn’t know what in the world she was going to do with them. I smiled at the memory.

  I sat on the bed beside the garment bag. I had to ask myself why I was even sitting in Olivia’s childhood room with that garment bag. I was absolutely positive that a woman could be a bridesmaid too many times. Olivia’s wedding would be my sixth tour down the aisle in a hideous monster of a dress. Somehow I can never say “no” to a betrothed’s teary-eyed request, be it my sister, a friend from art school, or a third cousin twice removed.

  I had to admit even to myself that wasn’t explanation enough for me to be in this particular wedding. Olivia had broken my brother’s heart. It was seven years ago now, and although Mark had been in other relationships since, they’d never match his memory of Olivia. His depression that had followed Olivia’s graduation party had put a wedge between her and me that the geographic distance between us could not mend. When she had called to ask me to be in her wedding, I was shocked and maybe even a little flattered. Okay, a lot flattered.

  “Please, India,” she’d said, “I’ve always wanted you to be in my wedding. I can’t imagine getting married without you there.”

  I tried to say something, but she didn’t give me a chance. “Don’t you remember how we said we would plan each other’s weddings? How you promised to wear gloves at my wedding, and I promised to wear a black dress at yours even though I thought it was morbid?”

  “I—”

  “What about the time I agreed to that save-the-mourning-doves rally with your family just so I could keep that creepy Brad Coldecker away from you.”

  I’d forgotten Brad Coldecker. He’d been a college student and a member of one of the environmental groups that my parents ran. I didn’t remember which group it had been. There’d been so many. Brad Coldecker was convinced that by flirting with me, he would get closer with my parents. Apparently, the fact that I was thirteen at the time made little difference.

  “You don’t have to do a thing. All you need to do is show up and be there. I need you there.”

  Then, I’d heard myself say “yes,” and, before I knew it, I’d been giving her my dress measurements and my address for the invitation.

  It wasn’t until later that my chest tightened and the reality of what I’d just agreed to sunk in. That’s when I forgot Brad Coldecker again and remembered Mark.

  I told myself that it would be fine, and that I was there in Olivia’s old bedroom for the finality of it, because I wanted to witness the end of my brother’s obsession. Surely, even Mark would have to let her go when she was married. Or maybe I was just there because I couldn’t say no to Olivia when it was her turn to ask, especially after saying yes to the third cousin twice removed. As this was the sixth wedding I would endure, it has been established that I wasn’t particularly good at saying no.

  I reluctantly thought of Mark. Last time, he’d comforted himself with the black-and-white world of mathematics and dedicated the same obsessive energy he had in pursuing Olivia to solving story problems I had no way of deciphering. I hoped that he would be able to do that again. I also knew when my parents found out, there would be heck to pay because they couldn’t forget that Olivia was the catalyst that had caused Mark to fall apart.

  I shook the melancholy thoughts from my head. If I didn’t want Olivia to bop upstairs and offer to help me dress, I’d better get moving.

  I gave a long and heartfelt sigh. “I can burn it after the wedding.”

  That cheered me a tad. I had had a nice bonfire after the third cousin twice removed’s wedding and could look forward to another one.

  I unzipped the garment bag in a dramatic flourish and suffered paralyzing blindness. I wasn’t blinded by a chemical discharge or random laser or anything that friendly, but by the dress itself—a bright squint-worthy gold. Rumplestiltskin gold. I yanked the dress from the bag in hopes that the brilliant gold was a layer of psychedelic tissue paper. No such luck. I pushed the empty garment bag onto the floor and spread the dress out on the bed for a better look at my fate. The design of the dress was relatively simple. It had a floor-length full skirt with a sleeveless off-the-shoulder top. I could not overcome the color. The shimmering gold fabric attracted light like a bike reflector. I hoped that the wedding invitations reco
mmended guests bring sunglasses and SPF forty-five. I doubted they’d ever need them more. By that time, I had been in Olivia’s room a full fifteen minutes without a peep. I knew that at any second, she’d be tapping on the door asking if I needed any help, or, worse, her mother would.

  I stripped and tugged on the dress. It zipped up, but it was remarkably tight, highlighting every imperfection my figure had to offer. I stood in front of the mirror in Olivia’s childhood bedroom and felt the sudden and uncontrollable urge to burst into tears. The dress was hideous in every conceivable way: cut, color, and style. I giggled, somewhat manically, I’m afraid. I doubled over, and something popped in the back of the gown. Apparently, my stock bridesmaid dress measurements had changed since the third cousin twice removed’s ceremony.

  A friendly tap-tap rapped at the door. “India, do you need any help?” Topaz asked.

  I calmed down enough to say, “I think the dress is broken.”

  “Let me in, honey, I’ll fix it.”

  I cracked open the door, hiding behind it for cover, and allowed Topaz to slip in the room. I slammed it shut before anyone else could eel in.

  “Shoot, girl, you almost took off my foot.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s all right—” Topaz stopped when she saw me in the dress. I’m sure I was not what she’d envisioned when she’d created the gown. “Girl.”

  That was about all I could get out of her for the next twenty minutes as she circled around me, pulling, pinning, and ripping seams.

  Every few minutes, Olivia called, “Is everything okay in there? Is there anything I can do? Can I come in?”

  Each time, in unison, Topaz and I yelled, “No.”

  “Well, honey, the dress will fit, but I don’t know—there’s nothing I can do about the color,” Topaz finally said.

  I shrugged in defeat.

  “You’re definitely a winter, honey. Winters should never wear gold.”

  She left me to change back into my capris and tank top. When Topaz and I walked downstairs, the whole party greeted us with a collective groan.

  “Where’s the dress?” Olivia asked.

  “There was something wrong with the zipper. Bree, would you like to try your dress on next?” she asked before Olivia or Mrs. Blocken could make further comment.

  I mouthed thank you to her.

  Ten short minutes later, Bree floated down the stairs in an exact replica, be it a smaller one, of the bridesmaid dress of my nightmares. On Bree the gown was stunning. Her tanned skin and the shimmering fabric fit together perfectly. Appreciative murmurs swept the room. Bobby’s expression was comically enraptured.

  Mrs. Blocken glided over to Bree’s side and circled her several times. “Perfect, perfect.” Olivia joined her. “I told you this color would be perfect, Olivia. The ladies will be like golden stars adorning you,” Mrs. Blocken said.

  From my seat on the floral printed sofa, I gagged. O.M. straddled the threshold of the open French doors that led into the backyard. Her face encompassed all the horror I felt. It gave me small comfort.

  “Olga,” her mother called. “Try on your gown.”

  O.M. backed outside onto the patio.

  Mrs. Blocken looked up in disgust. “Olga, now.”

  O.M. shook her head.

  Mrs. Blocken marched over to her daughter. “Young lady, you will do as you’re told.”

  The doorbell rang, playing Für Elise. Happy for an excuse to exit the room, I offered to answer it. To my dismay, I opened the door to my brother’s eager face. His blond hair was sticking up in all directions, his beard was unruly and in desperate need of combing, and his T-shirt hung crookedly on his thin shoulders—sure signs that he’d been up at ungodly hours with mathematical equations, theorems, and other things I hoped never to understand. Mark looked just as startled to see me as I was to see him.

  “India?” He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose. “What are you doing here?”

  “Mark, this isn’t a good time. I’ll talk to you later.” I started to close the door.

  He began nodding, then, “Hey, I didn’t come here to see you. I have to speak to Olivia. It’s urgent.”

  “Not now. I’ll tell her you’d like to talk her. Now, please leave.”

  The conversation from the living room moved closer.

  “India, who’s at the door?” Olivia called.

  Hearing her voice, he barreled past me, ramming the brass doorknob into my hip. I swore under my breath.

  “Olivia, I have to talk to you.”

  She froze. Her sunny party expression vanished.

  “Olivia, dear, you shouldn’t abandon your guests,” Mrs. Blocken’s voice preceded her into the entry. “We weren’t—” She stopped suddenly seeing Mark, whose gaze never left her daughter’s face. “What’s he doing here?” Mrs. Blocken’s demand was laced with disgust. “Is this your idea of a joke, India?”

  “I—”

  The remaining party members materialized behind Mrs. Blocken.

  “Olivia.” Mark said her name like a prayer. “I have to speak with you. Please.”

  “Get him out of here this instant, India,” Mrs. Blocken ordered. “I’m holding you responsible for this. I didn’t want your family to have anything to do with the wedding, but Olivia insisted that you take part. I see now that my earlier judgment was correct.”

  My face burned. I grabbed my brother’s arm more roughly than necessary and shoved him toward the door.

  Bobby mumbled a hasty good-bye to Bree. As I was pushing my brother out the door, he grabbed the frame. “Mark,” I hissed.

  He clung tight. “I really need to talk to you. I’ll be in my office at Martin all day tomorrow. Meet me, please!” He called over his shoulder.

  I pried Mark’s right hand from the jam, and Bobby worked on his left. When Mark let go, I pushed him outside, Bobby on my heels. The door slammed behind us, and we heard the bolt slide home.

  On the front lawn, Mark shook out of my grasp. “Let go.”

  Hoping the Blockens wouldn’t overhear, I demanded, “What are you doing here?”

  “I had to speak to her. She’s making a mistake,” he said, obviously unconcerned with eavesdropping.

  His face was the color of the inside of a watermelon, and his thin chest heaved up and down so rapidly I thought he would hyperventilate.

  A neighbor across the street glanced up from her faded azaleas. Bobby stood beside my car, suggesting we leave before the Blockens called the cops.

  I ignored him. “She’s getting married in a week. Leave it alone.”

  Mark rushed to his car and threw open the door. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. It’s obvious where your loyalties lie.”

  “Wait,” I called, running after him. He peeled away from the curb and down the normally quiet Kilbourne. I watched him drive away and silently prayed that he wouldn’t die in a horrific accident.

  Bobby walked up behind me. “Thanks for inviting me. This was fun.”

  Chapter Five

  A gauze bandage was more likely to fix the ozone layer than a Martin student was to enter the Ryan Memorial Library on Saturday of the Fourth of July weekend. Regardless of this basic logic, I held my post behind the reference desk bright and early the next morning. I disliked the location of the reference desk. “Island” would be a more apt description of the area, which was a glorified high counter floating in the middle of the main floor. In it, I felt exposed and cut off from the safety of walls and back exits. After reading library management journals, the previous library director relocated the reference area directly in front of the library’s main entrance, hoping that after a patron ran into it, he’d ask a question. Although the undergrads had more bruises than before, the arrangement was not exactly working as planned—and wouldn’t, as long as Internet search engines dominated the average student’s research methods.

  By ten o’clock, our only patron was an elderly journalism professor who sat in the back of the
main floor cursing at the microfiche machine. Occasionally, a loud bang drifted from the professor’s general direction, but the library staff turned a deaf ear. The professor had a reputation for biting off heads. I was flipping through a new botany text to distract myself. Mark’s emotional drop-in visit to the Blockens’ yesterday reminded me of Olivia’s ill-fated high school graduation party. His two appearances were so similar that the thought of one always reminded me of the other, and I wished that I could forget them both.

  The party had been half graduation party, half bon voyage. She had received a summer internship in Virginia, so she was heading south in mid-June as opposed to August. I’d snuck out of my house to go to the party. I didn’t want my brother to know where I was going. He was having a hard time accepting Olivia’s decision to move to Virginia. He had been constantly calling her and dropping in on the Blockens all spring hoping that he could change her mind with sheer persistence. The family became increasingly annoyed with Mark’s pursuit. Mrs. Blocken thought I was egging him as some kind of practical joke. “This isn’t funny, India,” she told me on numerous occasions.

  The party was the highlight of the graduation season and held in the Blocken backyard. All of Mrs. Blocken’s friends were there, including the mayor and his wife and the president of Martin College and her husband.

  Just when the party was at its height, Mark stumbled through the Blockens’ opened gate. Olivia sat on her boyfriend-of-the-moment’s lap, a baseball player from a rival high school. I stood with some classmates, only half listening to their chatter about summer jobs. Because I wasn’t paying attention to the group, I was the first one to notice my brother. I started to make my way to him, but there were too many partygoers between us for me to reach him before he called out.

  “Olivia!”

  Olivia, who was whispering something to her jock boyfriend, either didn’t hear him or pretended not to, but Mrs. Blocken certainly did. She had her gaze trained on Mark with a glare that could have melted iron. She started toward him. Mark saw her coming and backed up into the buffet table. Somehow he managed to kick out one of the legs from under it and the table fell. Cucumber sandwiches, olives, and cake toppled to the ground. The well-groomed guests gawked at Mark, who had potato salad in his hair and punch down the front of his shirt. He struggled to get up and hurried toward Olivia. His tumble had gained her full attention. She’d left her jock and stood a few feet from him.