Wed, Read & Dead

by V. M. Burns

  “You’re going to strain your eyes if you keep squinting like that. Why don’t you get up and read the titles,” Nana Jo said.

  I didn’t need a second invitation. I hopped up and hurried over to the nearest bookshelf and took a deep breath. The musty book scent was still there, underneath the wonderful aroma of vanilla from the nearby waffle bar. One of the things I liked about Tippecanoe Place was the fact it was a museum as well as a restaurant. The Studebaker family’s furniture, pictures, and memorabilia were not only on display for viewing but could be touched and handled. There were some items that were delicate and placed behind glass out of reach or cordoned off, but practically everything else was out and available to be handled. And handle them I did. When it came to books, I was definitely a hands-on person. I picked up a leather-bound book from a table and ran my hand over the embossed, gold leaf title. I opened the book and heard the familiar crack of the spine. I leafed through the pages and allowed my mind to drift. I wondered when was the last time a member of the family had read the book.

  “Fascinating book, don’t you think?”

  I was so engrossed I’d forgotten I wasn’t alone. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  A short, thin man with a pencil-thin moustache and hair slicked back in the style popular in the roaring twenties smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “I didn’t hear you come up.” I placed my hand over my heart to slow it down.

  He chuckled. “I’m David Miller.” He extended his hand and we shook.

  “I’m the manager and tour guide. I saw you looking at the books and couldn’t resist.”

  I placed the book in his hand. “I’m sorry. I’d always heard it was okay to touch the . . .”

  He waved away my protest. “It’s perfectly okay.” He flipped the book open and scanned the page and then passed the book back to me. “I merely wanted to share something unique about this particular book.”

  I glanced at the passage. “Is that German?”

  “Pennsylvania German. Clement Studebaker was the president of the Studebaker Corporation, which in 1884 was the largest manufacturer of wagons in the world.” He smiled. “He built the Studebaker Mansion because he needed a house that reflected his position in the world.” He smiled. “What most people don’t know about Clem Studebaker is that he was a Dunkard.”

  “Excuse me?”

  David smiled. “I said Dunkard.” He enunciated. “Clem Studebaker was a member of the Dunkard Brethern, a small group of Schwarzenau Brethern.”

  I smiled. “What is the Schwarzenau Brethren?”

  “The Schwarzenau Brethern were a conservative group that withdrew from the Church of the Brethren around 1926. Dunkard is German and comes from the word tunken, meaning ‘to dip.’ This indicates the method of baptism. The Dunkard Brethern believed in immersion three times during baptism, once for the father, once for the son, and once for the Holy Spirit.”

  “What else did the Dunkards believe?”

  “Well, they were ultraconservative. Women dressed very plainly and wore white caps, similar to Mennonites. Some of their beliefs included greeting with the ‘holy kiss’ and they practiced feet washing. The Dunkard Brethern did not swear oaths, drink, or smoke tobacco and divorce was strictly prohibited.”

  “Interesting. Are there still Dunkards?”

  David nodded. “Oh, yes. They’re still around.”

  “Sam, I’m sure this is very interesting, but are you going to eat?” Nana Jo asked.

  I nodded. “I’ll be right there.” I turned back to David. “This is very interesting and I’d like to learn more. Would it be okay if I came back another time when I didn’t have so many distractions?” I inclined my head toward Nana Jo and Mom.

  He nodded. “Certainly. Here’s my card.” He handed me a small business card with his name and telephone number and the hours he was available for tours.

  “Thank you.” I handed him the book and hurried back to the table. An idea had started to form in my brain while talking to David Miller, and I couldn’t wait to get home so I could jot down some of the information he’d shared about Clem Studebaker and the Dunkards. A little research would be needed on my part, but I was certain a Dunkard might come in handy in 1938 England. Perhaps Tippecanoe Place could provide some ideas for Daphne and James’s upcoming nuptials.

  Brunch was excellent, but I was slightly distracted. My brain was thinking about Dunkards and Schwarzenau Brethern and I wasn’t paying careful attention to the conversation at my own table.

  “Earth to Sam,” Nana Jo said. “That’s the third time you’ve wandered off.”

  “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

  Nana Jo nodded toward Mom.

  “I was thinking this might make a good place for the wedding.” She looked timid. “What do you think?”

  I looked around. “Actually, I think it would be a beautiful place to have a wedding. I know they host weddings here all the time, but . . .”

  “But what?” Mom asked.

  “Well, I just don’t know if you would be able to book something on such short notice.”

  Mom’s face fell.

  “It never hurts to ask.” I tried to sound enthusiastic. “Did you talk to Lydia about it?”

  “I tried, but she said it was too small. Actually, she’s already booked the River Bend Auditorium.”

  Unfortunately, I’d chosen that moment to take a sip of coffee. I nearly choked. “River Bend Auditorium? Are you serious? That place is huge.”

  “I know. She said we’ll need the space for all of Harold’s family connections.”

  “Wait. Did you say she’s booked it?”

  She nodded.

  “Wow. Does Harold know?” Nana Jo asked.

  “I haven’t had a chance to tell him yet.”

  Nana Jo whistled. “I thought he was angry earlier. He’s going to be ready to strangle Lydia Lighthouse or whatever her name is.”

  “What do you mean?” Mom looked surprised.

  “You don’t honestly believe that’s her real name, do you?” She stared at her daughter and shook her head. “Lydia Lighthouse is as phony as that Southern belle accent she uses. Why, the characters in Sam’s books are more real.”

  I wasn’t sure if I should be insulted or flattered, but I decided to go with flattered.

  * * *

  River Bend, Indiana, was thirty miles south of North Harbor, Michigan, and was the closest big city to us. With a population greater than a hundred thousand, River Bend was huge compared to North Harbor. North and South Harbor residents traveled to River Bend for shopping, big-box bookstores, and concerts. For news, Southwestern Michigan residents could choose from Chicago or River Bend. Most North and South Harbor folks chose River Bend. River Bend might have been in a completely different state, but there was a tremendous difference in the news reported for the Windy City’s three million inhabitants and news reported for sleepy North Harbor’s population of ten thousand. Even when it came to weather, River Bend was closer to North and South Harbor. Apparently, it made a big difference when it came to which side of Lake Michigan you were on when forecasting.

  Since we were already in River Bend, we drove by the auditorium. It was only about one mile from Tippecanoe Place toward downtown. I’d been to a ton of events there over the years. One of my friends worked for a CPA firm that always had their company Christmas party there. I’d accompanied her one year and was thoroughly impressed. From the street, the building looked like every other downtown office building, with lots of concrete and beige. However, once inside, you noticed the ceiling and entire back of the building was glass and it butted up to the St. Thomas River. Massive amounts of light flooded the building and illuminated the spectacular view of the St. Thomas rapids. From the top entrance, you walked back toward the thirty-foot floor-to-ceiling wall of windows. The Great Hall was more than sixteen thousand square feet. It was where the Christmas party I’d attended was held, and it was decorated for the holiday
season. It was spectacular.

  Once inside, we stood at the top of the massive floating staircase that led to the lower level and admired the view of the river.

  “Lydia envisioned I’d walk down these stairs.” Mom motioned with her arms.

  “That’s a really big space,” I said. “How many people are you planning to invite?”

  Mom shrugged and fluttered her hands. “Lydia was going to send out a lot more invitations. She thinks we should plan for five hundred.”

  “Five hundred people?” I stared. “Do you even know five hundred people to invite?”

  Mom shrugged again. “With the magazines, newspapers, and the VIPs . . .”

  I wasn’t sure what would be worse, to have a wedding with five hundred guests or to plan for a wedding and not have five hundred guests show up. I would be terrified to be the center of attention in an event where I had to walk down the stairs in front of so many people, but it would be worse to plan for a large turnout and not have people show up.

  “That’s a lot of stairs.” Nana Jo leaned over the glass railing.

  We walked down the stairs to the lower level. The room was beautiful and would make an excellent venue for a large wedding.

  “Ah, Grace, imagine running into you.”

  We turned. Lydia Lighthouse trudged toward us like a steamroller, while her assistant trailed behind with a tablet taking notes. In addition to the mouse, three other people trailed Lydia, like rats following the Pied Piper. One was a young man with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and a five-o’clock shadow that made him look artistic. He wore a white double-breasted chef ’s jacket but omitted the traditional hat. The other was a tall African American with smooth, dark skin, a moustache, and a bald head that reminded me of Lou Gossett Jr. He was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, which made him look quite dapper. The third was a frumpish older woman with frizzy red hair.

  We walked up to the party and Lydia air-kissed my mom and ignored both Nana Jo and me.

  “This is my bride, Grace Hamilton.” She turned to the man with the ponytail. “Grace, meet the caterer, Rudy Blake-more.”

  Rudy shook hands with my mom and nodded to Nana Jo and me.

  “Here is the ice sculptor, Maxwell Dubois.”

  Max Dubois bowed.

  “Ice sculptor?” Nana Jo asked. “Are you kidding?”

  Lydia ignored Nana Jo and moved on to her third follower. “This is the florist, Felicity Abrams of Felicity’s Florals.” She turned to Felicity. “Best florist in the Great Lakes area.” Lydia pulled Mom away from the group slightly. “I’ve just negotiated a tremendous discount on the flowers. She’s only going to charge one hundred thousand dollars to do all of the flowers, including the table arrangements, corsages, bridal bouquets, and boutonnieres.”

  Felicity frowned.

  “One hundred thousand dollars?” Nana Jo nearly screamed. “Are you off your rocker?”

  Lydia huffed. “Look around.” She waved her arm. “This place will need to be decorated from floor to ceiling. Flowers in December for a room this large should be three times what you’re paying.”

  I stared at the space and had to admit, the room was massive. She was right. Flowers could be expensive, and Lydia wouldn’t be looking at inexpensive flowers. Nothing would be in season in Michigan in December, except pine trees. Any flowers used would need to be shipped in from a warmer climate.

  I stared at Felicity, who looked as though she wanted to bite the head off nails. In fact, the only one of the group who looked happy was Lydia, who had the smug expression of a cat who’d just eaten the last cream.

  Nana Jo leaned close. “Why do I get the impression Harold isn’t the only one who’d like to get their hands around Lydia Lighthouse’s neck?”

  “You know Harold and I haven’t completely agreed we want to have the wedding here,” Mom said meekly.

  Lydia Lighthouse was a freight train and she ran forward just as forcefully. “Grace, we talked about this and I thought we agreed you wanted the best for Harold. Someone in his social position will want to make an impression.” She walked and talked rapidly, clicking and clacking her heels on the marble floors as she gestured. “There’s really no other place in the area that can accommodate a wedding of distinction, especially on such short notice. In fact, the only reason we were able to get this place was due to a last-minute cancellation.”

  Mom looked flustered and confused.

  “Besides, it’s really too late. I’ve already booked it and placed a five-thousand-dollar nonrefundable deposit.” She stopped pacing to stare at Mom, who looked as though she would cry. Thankfully, Mom’s cell phone rang.

  “Harold, we were just talking about you.”

  Lydia looked as though she had been sucking on lemons, but when she caught my eye, she immediately plastered a fake smile on her face and became overly interested in a piece of lint on her skirt.

  “Yes, dear, I’m with Lydia now. We’re at the River Bend Auditorium with the caterer, ice sculptor, and florist. I—”

  “No, dear, I said ice sculptor.” A flush slowly rose from her neck. “Well, I’ll do my best.” She ended the call and turned to Lydia. “Harold wants to talk to you. He said he’ll be here in thirty minutes.”

  Lydia looked at her watch. “Certainly, a groom should have a say in the arrangements. After all, it’s his wedding too,” she said brightly.

  Nana Jo and I exchanged looks. If Harold was still as angry as he was this morning, I was sure he’d have a lot to say.

  It took forty-five minutes for Harold to arrive, but wild horses couldn’t have dragged us out of that building. By the time he came down the stairs, the building event planner had brought out a 3-D model of the building and was showing various configurations for breaking the space up to best suit our needs. The current configuration included an area for cocktails, the dining area, and a nightclub section for dancing.

  Rudy, Maxwell, and Felicity were discussing the best placement, design restrictions, and access for loading and unloading. Apparently, ice sculptures were quite heavy and, not surprisingly, needed to be kept in a refrigerated area to prevent melting.

  Harold marched over to the table. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Mom tugged on his sleeve. “Dear, this isn’t the right time.”

  For the first time since I’d known him, Harold ignored my mother’s wishes. “Not the right time? I can’t think of a better time.” He turned back to Lydia. “How dare you insult the woman I love. Grace Hamilton is intelligent, beautiful, sophisticated, and sensitive.”

  “Mr. Robertson, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Lydia smiled.

  “You brought this poor woman to tears with your implications she was somehow not good enough for me or outside of my social class. Well, I’ll have you know she is outside of my social class. She’s far too good of a woman for me.”

  Mom practically swooned.

  Nana Jo looked as though she would gag.

  “This is Grace’s wedding, and she is to have whatever she wants. By golly, if she wants to get married on elephants in the middle of a circus, then that’s where we’ll get married, and anyone who doesn’t like it can take a flying leap right into the St. Thomas River.” He glared. “That includes the mayor, the governor, or the president of the United States.”

  Lydia tried to get a word in but was halted by Harold. “The next person that makes my fiancée shed one more tear will answer to me.” He glared at each person, including Nana Jo and me.

  Mom threw herself into Harold’s arms. “Oh, Harold.”

  He glared at Lydia for a half second and then focused all of his attention on my mother. “I’m sorry you had to hear that, dear. Let’s go home.” He escorted Mom out of the building.

  We stared at the couple as they climbed the stairs and then watched as Harold held the door and assisted Mom into his car, which he’d left at the front door.

  “I pity the fool who gets on the wrong side of him,” Nana
Jo said.

  “I’ve never seen him that angry before,” I said. “He looked ready to strangle someone.”

  Lydia sniffed and flung her white scarf around her neck.

  When the police found her later, that scarf was still around her neck, but they had to cut it off.

  Chapter 5

  Wickfield Lodge, Servants Hall—December 1938

  “How can you even think about a wedding when there’s a madman on the loose?” Millie shivered.

  Millie was a day maid. She was young and a bit silly.

  “What are you on about now?” Mrs. McDuffy asked.

  “The Halifax Slasher.” The maid stared at the housekeeper in wonder. “It’s all over the papers. He’s killing people just like the Ripper.”

  “You ’ush!” Mrs. McDuffy didn’t have time or patience for nonsense. “That’s just a lot of nonsense to sell papers, and, if it weren’t, Halifax is a long way from Wickfield Lodge.” She folded her arms across her chest.

  The chastened housemaid dropped her head and fell silent.

  “Lady Daphne will make such a lovely bride.” Flossie sighed.

  The Marsh family servants assembled in the servants’ hall while Thompkins informed the servants of the arrangements he’d recently discussed with Lady Elizabeth. The solid, uptight, and straitlaced butler took his duty to the family seriously. He would insure Lady Daphne had the wedding of her dreams. If hard work and determination could do it, then the butler was well equipped. He’d make sure the young woman he’d watched grow from a bouncing baby to a beautiful debutante had exactly what she wanted.

  “Of course she will, but three weeks isn’t much time,” Mrs. McDuffy, the housekeeper said with a bit of trepidation. “There’ll be washing and ironing and airing out of all the bedrooms.” The middle-aged housekeeper was stout with freckles and fluffy red hair. She was a bit coarse, with a bad habit of dropping her Hs when she spoke, but she was as committed to the Marsh family, and especially Lady Elizabeth, as the butler. She’d make sure the house was ready and glanced at the three housemaids under her charge, who’d have to work night and day to get everything into shape.