Marriage and Mayhem

by Jeanne Glidewell

  I didn’t know if Wendy was just flattering me or honestly thought my new style made me look younger. Either way, my new style had nothing to do with Yvonne and I thanked my lucky stars again that Ginny Clevenger had chosen the Alexandria Inn to stay at during her recent vacation.

  Upon exiting the hair salon forty minutes later, Wendy and I decided to stop at the same coffee shop I’d been too embarrassed to be seen in the previous week after Yvonne had “pinkened” my hair. Wendy seemed a little out of sorts. I asked her about her mood change once we’d gotten our coffee and found a table.

  “Yvonne was acting really odd today. Barely said ten words to me the entire time, when normally she rarely stops to take a breath. I think the only thing she said was, ‘Working your mother into my schedule last week was a waste of my time and her money’. I didn’t know what she was talking about, so I didn’t respond. Do you have any idea what’s gotten into her?”

  “I have no idea, honey. I wouldn’t worry about it, though. Probably just PMSing or something. Or maybe she just hasn’t had a good roll in the hay for several days!”

  “Mom!” Wendy laughed with a snort. “I can’t believe you said that.”

  I had hoped saying something outrageous would take her mind off her inquiry, and it worked. I chuckled along with Wendy until she forgot she’d even asked me a question. I didn’t particularly want to go into detail about my recent hair appointment with Yvonne, and had to wonder if Wendy would have said the same nice things about my new hairstyle if it was still glow-in-the-dark pink.

  Even though Ginny Clevenger had kindly washed the color out of my hair as soon as I’d returned home, I couldn’t imagine why Yvonne would hold my aversion to pink hair against Wendy. But then, I didn’t know what had transpired between them to cause Wendy to switch over to Yvonne’s co-worker, either, although I’d guess there was more to it than the fact Wendy had just become tired of Yvonne’s outlandish stories. I decided it was better not to dwell on hair. Instead, I said, “Last week when I told Yvonne who all was in your wedding party, she seemed to have an issue with Wyatt. Do you know if the two ever dated?”

  “No, I don’t. Like you, I’ve only known the two of them a couple of years, but I can’t ever imagine them as a couple. Can you?” Wendy asked with a guffaw. “I’d think Wyatt would sooner bite the head off a rattlesnake than go out with Yvonne. He stopped her for speeding in a school zone a while back, and she basically offered up her body to get out of a ticket―a very expensive one, at that. Didn’t work though, and she’s contacted him several times since with offers to meet him for lunch somewhere so they could get to know each other better.”

  “Fat chance of that.” Even as I spoke, I wondered why Wendy never passed on juicy information like that to her mother. Did she not realize that inquiring minds want to know?

  “Exactly. Wyatt is totally devoted to Veronica. Even if he wasn’t, he doesn’t care for brazen women like Yvonne. She’s sniffing up the wrong tree, for sure.”

  As Wendy spoke, I realized she’d used the perfect cliché, even if she hadn’t used it correctly. Detective Johnston was actually built like a tree—a mighty oak, to be more precise—and as handsome a man as you’d likely find in all of Rockdale. Wyatt was six feet, six inches of pure muscle and sex appeal.

  But the sun rose and set on Veronica Prescott as far as Wyatt was concerned. He’d reconnected with his old classmate when her father had been murdered in the Alexandria Inn on its opening night. I’d not only helped nail her father’s killer, but had also helped Veronica find her soul mate in our good friend, Wyatt. I asked Wendy, “Do you think Yvonne’s angry that she can’t charm the pants off the sexy detective?”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised,” Wendy said. “Oh, well. Whatever floats her boat. It doesn’t matter to me. So, how do you think my hair looks? Not too short?”

  “No, not at all. It’s perfect, honey. You look absolutely beautiful. But then, you always look beautiful to me.” We spent the better part of the next hour chatting about Wendy’s upcoming wedding while I drained three cups of coffee and Wendy polished off two. When I began to signal to the waitress for an additional refill, Wendy grabbed my arm and shook her head. That was the sign I’d had enough.

  “Your hands are already fluttering like butterfly wings,” Wendy cautioned. “Hey! I haven’t told you about the three autopsies I performed after the meth lab explosion yet, have I?”

  I pretended to listen to Wendy’s grisly lecture about the dissection of severely burned cadavers and responded with a nod whenever it seemed appropriate, but I couldn’t get Yvonne’s attitude toward Wendy that afternoon out of my mind. Just because Yvonne had been ticketed for speeding by a member of Wendy’s wedding party didn’t seem like a good enough reason to give my daughter the cold shoulder. The fact I’d decided pink hair wasn’t my style and washed it out didn’t seem significant enough to be a sore spot, either. In my opinion, vivid pink hair should be legally banned once an individual reached half-a-century in age, which for me was a ship that had left the harbor just over a year ago.

  Eventually the tale of three charred bodies reached its conclusion and our conversation changed from one topic to another, with Wendy doing most of the talking. I pondered the situation with Yvonne while trying to appear interested in Wendy’s babbling.

  So it seems Wyatt gave Yvonne a speeding ticket. Big deal. Who doesn’t get one of those on occasion? Just last week, Stone had been stopped by the highway patrol on his way to Kansas City and issued a warning. Could there be something else―something more earth-shattering―bothering Yvonne that I’m not privy to? And if so, is there some way I can find out what that “something” is? I don’t know why I even care, but for some reason, I do.

  As I tuned back in to Wendy’s ramblings, I realized she’d reverted back to her original topic and had delved into the middle of a gory, but incredibly thorough description of the recent autopsy of a prominent Rockdale citizen. My stomach fluttered in time to the sudden palsy my hands had developed as she explained the difference between the Virchow technique, where the cadaver’s organs are removed individually, and the Rokitansky technique, where they’re removed as a connected group. Incidentally, Wendy prefers to take them out one by one so she can examine each of them in greater detail. I excused myself to go inside and use the coffee shop’s restroom, but upon returning, Wendy picked right back up where she’d left off. So much for hoping she’d lose her train of thought and decide to talk about something more pleasant.

  Wendy had always been particularly fascinated with the reconstitution of bodies following an examination. As I squirmed in my chair on the outside patio of Java Joe’s, she described in morbid detail how she lines the inside of the abdomen with cotton wool and places any dissected organs in bags to prevent leakage before returning them to the body.

  “How nice, dear,” I said, trying not to upchuck the coffee I’d drunk all over my gruesome offspring. I prayed this was not the kind of subject Wendy considered “pillow talk”, or Andy Van Patten might one day be second-guessing his decision to spend the rest of his life with my daughter.

  Fifteen

  “Of course you’re welcome to join me for a cup of coffee, Wyatt.” I held the back door open for the strapping gentleman to come into the kitchen. “I just unwrapped some raspberry scones.”

  “I know. I smelled them from over on Sycamore Street.” We laughed as we took seats at the table. The detective sat in what we lovingly referred to as “Wyatt’s chair”. He preferred to have his back against the wall. Literally, in this case. It was the cop in him, he’d told us.

  “I’m glad you stopped by this morning. I went to the hair salon with Wendy yesterday and her stylist, Yvonne Custovio, acted very strangely the whole time we were there.”

  Wyatt groaned at the sound of her name. “Has she ever not acted strangely? I am truly beginning to wish when I clocked her exceeding the speed limit again, I’d turned off my radar gun and let her keep right on going.”

/>   “Again?” I asked. “Oh, my goodness. Yvonne could have killed someone.”

  “Exactly! That’s why I couldn’t let her keep right on going.”

  I was just getting ready to ask if he’d known her prior to the speeding-ticket incident, but I didn’t have to. He launched right into an explanation about their previous relationship without being prompted.

  “Yvonne was in the same graduating class as Veronica and me. During our senior year, Yvonne and I went on a few dates before I asked her to be my prom date. She was up for prom queen, and I was on the docket for king. She had visions of us both being crowned prom royalty and running off into the sunset to grow old together.” Wyatt paused for a second, looking at the ring finger on his left hand, which was bare. He seemed to be imagining a wedding ring on that finger, and I had to wonder if he was beginning to visualize a life as Veronica’s husband. They’d been dating even longer than Wendy and Andy, and he seemed totally enamored with her.

  “And?” I prompted, when he remained silent. “Were you crowned prom queen and king?”

  “Not exactly.” After a moment of reflection, he continued. “Well, I was crowned king, but Yvonne lost out. Veronica was crowned queen and, as they say, the rest is history.”

  “Veronica? Oh, goodness. No kidding?” My mouth hung open in surprise. “And neither you nor Veronica has ever thought to mention that to me?”

  “Truthfully, Lexie, I’ve never thought it was all that important, or even worth mentioning. It seems a lifetime ago, and we’ve outgrown those silly little high school traditions.”

  “I’m surprised Wendy didn’t know about it.” I was not to be deterred.

  “Oh, I’m sure Veronica has mentioned the prom royalty stuff, but I doubt she told Wendy I took Yvonne as my date but left the dance with Veronica.”

  “Wyatt!” I shook my finger at him. “That wasn’t very nice.”

  “I know.” Wyatt hung his head in embarrassment. “It’s not something either Veronica or I are proud of. In fact, now that I think about it, I doubt Veronica mentioned anything at all to Wendy about the prom. ”

  That explained why Veronica had not shared the story with Wendy, who in turn would have hopefully shared it with me. But it seemed like a ridiculous reason for Yvonne Custovio to still harbor a grudge against Wyatt.

  “So what happened next?” I asked, as I refilled both coffee cups. Wyatt snatched a second scone before responding. He was a bottomless pit when it came to eating.

  “I started dating Veronica. We only dated a short while, though, before she dumped me for the football quarterback, Johnny Kirkpatrick, who led our team to the state championship that year.”

  “Sounds like one of those ‘karma’ things to me.” I winked at Wyatt to let him know I was teasing. “I do recall you saying the two of you had briefly dated in high school. I’m sorry Veronica dumped you for the football star back then, but in the end things turned out pretty darn well for you two.”

  Wyatt smiled. “Yep. In the long run, I ended up with her and Johnny didn’t. Incidentally, Johnny ended up with Cedric Clemmons, who played trombone in the marching band. Johnny and Cedric have been happily married since Missouri legalized same-sex marriages back in 2015. So things seem to have turned out well for Johnny. too.”

  Wyatt hung around another ten minutes, and we spent the time discussing the upcoming wedding. He glanced at his watch and stood to go. “I still need to get fitted for my tuxedo. I’d better get that done this afternoon.”

  “Yes, you’d better, or Wendy will have your head on a skewer.”

  “You meant a guillotine rack, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, that too.” We laughed and Wyatt carried his cup to the sink and rinsed it out before placing it on the top rack of the dishwasher. He was not only exceedingly good-looking, but also the ultimate gentleman. Veronica would be one lucky lady to land this fellow as her husband. I wondered what was taking so long for Wyatt to pop the question, but decided it was none of my business. Instead, I asked, “Are you familiar with Lariat Jones?”

  “Lariat Jones?” Wyatt looked confused by my question. “Sure. Lariat processed a white-tail buck I shot a couple of years ago. Of course that was before I promised Veronica I’d stop hunting, and also before I arrested Lariat on a drunk and disorderly charge when he tried to burn down that sleazy bar on Elm Street one night. Oh, and when I ticketed Yvonne not long ago, he was in the vehicle with her, drunk as a skunk.”

  “Yikes!” I said. “And here I hired him to plan Wendy and Andy’s wedding, knowing he had a drinking problem. So far he seems to be handling everything pretty well. But, still…”

  “I wouldn’t worry, Lexie. He may have it in for me, but I’m sure he’ll do a satisfactory enough job.”

  There it was again—a “satisfactory enough job”. I swallowed hard. “Please don’t tell Wendy about the drunk and disorderly charge, or that you think Lariat will do a ‘satisfactory enough job’. I’m having to keep him liquored up just so he can function as the wedding planner.”

  “Sure thing.” Wyatt nodded as if he understood my plight perfectly. He then leaned down, kissed my cheek, grabbed one last scone for the road, and was out the back door in a flash.

  I needed another shot of caffeine before I met up with Lariat at the caterer’s house, but a case of acute arrhythmia from the coffee wouldn’t help matters any. Nor would a chastisement from Lariat about my caffeine addiction. Therefore, I decided to forego that fourth cup and follow Wyatt out the back door to get in my car and head downtown. With any luck at all, the visit to the caterer would go as smoothly as the trip to the floral shop the previous day had gone.

  Sixteen

  I planned to meet Lariat at the caterer’s house, and told Wendy there was no reason she had to take time off from work to go with me. She’d already mentioned a bad car wreck on I-29 that had left two new bodies on ice at the county morgue where her lab was located. I knew without a doubt I’d soon hear every sickening detail about the victims’ fatal injuries.

  I had hired Georgia Piney in the past to cater several events, including Wendy’s thirtieth birthday party just over a year ago, and had been very satisfied with both the food and her service. I had no qualms about hiring her to cater the wedding. When I arrived, Lariat’s Harley sat parked in Georgia’s driveway, and I was surprised to find the two sitting at her kitchen table, laughing and drinking wine out of red Solo cups.

  I slid into an empty chair and accepted Georgia’s offer of a cup of wine. After all, I figured, if I couldn’t beat them, I might as well join them. The wine was a red pinot noir. I seldom drank wine, but when I did, I preferred a dry white, like a Riesling or Chardonnay. But, as with coffee, I don’t tend to be very picky and will pretty much drink anything anyone sets in front of me.

  I’d only planned on nursing the one serving of wine, but while chatting amicably with Georgia and Lariat, I consumed more than I should have. Not nearly as much as Lariat did, however. In his case, cup after cup went down like a chubby kid on a seesaw. It took only minutes to agree on a menu and a price, and the three of us spent the next hour working our way through three-and-a-half bottles of wine while discussing everything from whether chili should be made with or without beans, to Georgia’s twin daughters, to the great discount Pete’s Pantry offered on three-ply toilet paper in that week’s grocery advertisement.

  By the time we decided to leave, Lariat wasn’t the only one with a buzz on. I was so tipsy, I was afraid to drive myself home. The last thing I wanted was to end up in the emergency room following a car accident or, worse yet, to occupy a third icy tray in Wendy’s lab. Most importantly, I never wanted to get someone else injured or killed because of my own stupidity. There was nothing more irresponsible than driving while under the influence of a mind-altering substance.

  Stone had gone fishing with our next-door neighbor that morning, so I called Wendy at work. I explained the situation and asked if she’d mind driving over to the Piney’s on her lunch break
and escorting me and the wedding planner back to the inn.

  “Damn!” Wendy exclaimed. “You didn’t tell me there’d be wine at the meeting with the caterer. I might have called in sick if I’d known that. You know I never turn my nose up at free wine.”

  “I know you better than that,” I replied, in a slurry mess no doubt. “You’d never call in sick to work unless it was an extreme emergency. Especially when you’ve got two fresh ones in your lab. Besides, if you had joined us this morning, none of the three of us would be able to drive legally right now.”

  “No, probably not. I have the Uber app on my phone. Don’t you?” Wendy asked. “Not that I want you to call for a ride. I don’t mind coming to get you guys, but it’s handy to have when you’re in a pinch. I’ll be clocking out for lunch in about five minutes, and can grab a sandwich on the way. I’ll grab you and Lariat each one, too. Maybe it’ll absorb some of that alcohol.”

  “Yes, thank you. I do have the Uber app and actually use it on occasion. However, I’d be too embarrassed to get into a stranger’s car in my current condition, with an even drunker young man as my sidekick. Here’s the address to put in your GPS.”

  After I gave Wendy the address to the Pineys’ home, I turned around to tell Lariat that my daughter would be driving us home and he could collect his motorcycle later on. Lariat was fast asleep at the kitchen table. He had his forehead resting on his hands, which were splayed out flat against the glass table. I glanced at Georgia who just shrugged. I shrugged back in return.

  “Nice young man,” Georgia said. “Likes his wine a little too much, though.”

  “You think?”

  Seventeen

  Wendy, Lariat, and I sat on a bench outside the little photography studio on Main Street called Frozen in Time. The name was fitting for the gallery that highlighted the photography skills of the shop’s owner, Annie Frieze. Through her store-front window, I could see most of the framed photos on display were of nature and wildlife, along with an occasional still life. According to Lariat, Ms. Frieze also photographed weddings, reunions, and took senior photos for the Rockdale High School. He informed us Annie wouldn’t be easy to book due to her hectic schedule, but that he’d muster up all the charm he had to win her over. He’d said, “She’s the best photographer in the area, and worth the extra effort before we have to settle for someone else.”