Marriage and Mayhem

by Jeanne Glidewell

  The doctor assured us the flowers alone would not have caused Bubba to slip into a coma, and I passed this on to Lily. It was the sulfur that had most likely turned the tide, and not in his patient’s favor. Regardless, Lily said she wouldn’t feel right charging for the flowers. She credited all of the cost of the floral arrangements back to Wendy and Andy. Lariat supplied enough silk flower arrangements for the second ceremony, including bouquets and boutonnieres, that the need for fresh flowers was eliminated.

  Best yet, Chena, who could not have been any more appreciative of the fact that neither Bubba or the local police department pressed charges for her ill-advised practical joke, supplied a beautiful three-tiered cake at her own expense. She’d included all sorts of frills and extras we hadn’t ordered on the first go ’round and, fortunately, the plastic bride and groom topper was nowhere to be seen.

  My wedding present―hiring a wedding planner for them―seemed pitiful in comparison to the gold watches Stone gifted Wendy and Andy with, so I also purchased a honeymoon package from the resort where they had reservations. The package consisted of two bottles of champagne, a dozen chocolate-covered strawberries, a fresh fruit basket, a couple’s massage at the hotel’s spa, and dinner for two at the top notch on-site steakhouse. The package and pertinent vouchers would be in their suite when they arrived at the resort, and I hoped they’d be pleasantly surprised by my gesture. After a week of non-stop worry and stress, both of them could sorely use a few days of rest and relaxation and a bit of pampering by the hotel staff.

  The afternoon of October first was overcast. The temperature was at least fifteen degrees cooler than it had been the previous week, which was appreciated by everyone in attendance. For once, Lariat Jones appeared to be stone-sober. I thanked him for all he’d done, and told him I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend him to others who were in search of a wedding planner—or a doily tatter, for that matter.

  In response, Lariat said, “I still can’t believe Yvonne recommended me. She was driving me home from a party a while back because I was too trashed to drive my bike. She must’ve been in a real hurry to get rid of me, because she got stopped by Detective Johnston. He clocked her doing fifty-eight in a thirty-mile-an-hour construction zone, and from what I’ve heard, she lost her driver’s license over it. That’s why her sister drove her here today. The detective told me he’d better never catch me behind the wheel of a moving vehicle in the condition I was in that night. He said he’d be keeping an eye out for me.”

  “Yeah, and you better believe him, too, or you’ll find yourself in the same boat Yvonne’s in,” I told Lariat. “I don’t want to hear you being lauded on the evening news for being an organ donor either, no matter how honorable a thing that is to do. Frankly, no one on the waiting list deserves a pickled liver anyway.”

  “Hey now! And here I thought I’d grown on you!” Lariat exclaimed. But he knew by my warm smile that I was kidding.

  “Surprisingly enough, you have. Tell you what, Lariat. I’ll promise to start drinking only decaf coffee after noon if you’ll promise to never drive drunk again. And that means no drinking at stop signs either.”

  “All right, Lexie. It’s a deal. I guess I really have been pushing my luck long enough. I had a close call the other day, in fact, which kind of made me see the light.”

  “Then that close call might have truly been a life-saver.” I kissed Lariat on the cheek before he walked toward the refreshment table. I sensed his soberness would be short-lived as he came to a halt in front of Sheila’s punch bowl.

  As though sensing he’d just been the topic of discussion, Wyatt approached me then. “Hey, Lexie. Let’s hope today’s ceremony goes off without a hiccup. I’m not sure any of us could take a repeat of last week’s attempt at getting Wendy and Andy officially married.”

  “Amen to that,” I replied.

  “And speaking of getting hitched, Lexie, I’m thinking about proposing to Veronica.”

  “All right! It’s about time, Wyatt,” I replied with a playful punch to his shoulder. “I’m so happy for the two of you.”

  “But first I want to make sure you’re okay with helping us plan the wedding.” Wyatt gazed at me with such sincerity, I thought he was serious. I’m sure my face flushed as red as the silk rose bud in Wyatt’s boutonniere before he finally laughed. “I’m just kidding you, Lexie. But I think I will speak to Lariat about it this afternoon.”

  “Then you better do so now before he gets too deep into Sheila’s high-powered punch.” After congratulating Wyatt on his decision to propose to his long-time girlfriend, I walked away to mingle with the crowd before the exchanging of vows commenced. I headed in the opposite direction, knowing if I didn’t give a proper welcome to Hazel and Orpha, I’d be the main topic of discussion amongst the church grapevine at tomorrow’s service.

  After I chatted briefly with the church ladies, I walked over to greet Dr. Schnuck and several other physicians who’d been on Bubba’s medical team at the hospital. They had attended the second ceremony to support their former patient and, I suspect, to keep a watchful eye on his still tenuous condition.

  “Hi, Lexie.” The doctor who had treated me in the emergency room after Sheila and I had been locked in the floral cooler had apparently crashed the wedding, too. “Glad to see you’re in the pink. How’s your friend doing?”

  “Sheila’s fine, as well. Thank you for coming.”

  “I’d heard from one of the ER nurses that Sheila had also been seen in the emergency room the same day as Bubba was admitted. Is she trying to beat your attendance record?” Dr. Jifi asked. “That would be no easy task, you know.”

  After laughing politely, I replied, “Oh, Lord, I hope not. I feel bad enough she got ill from something at the wedding.”

  “Yeah, right.” The doctor said dryly before laughing boisterously. “She can blame her own spiked punch for her ‘illness’. I was told by her attending nurse that your friend’s blood alcohol level was well above the legal limit. Good thing she had her husband as a designated driver to haul her to the hospital.”

  “Are you saying Sheila’s dizziness and confusion were caused by her being―?”

  “Plastered?” He cut in with a chuckle. “Yep. But the nurses didn’t want to embarrass her in front of her husband, so they told her she’d probably been affected by too much heat exposure.”

  “That doesn’t sound very professional for a hospital, but I understand why you did it.” Even I had to laugh at his remarks. Sheila’s punch had not become infamous by being insipid. It could literally drop a grizzly in its tracks if the animal imbibed just a bit too much.

  In fact, I now had to wonder if that’s not what had made me feel as if I might pass out in the tub that same evening. Not only had I devoured a couple of cups of punch at the ceremony earlier in the day, I had downed two large glasses of it while putting the wedding items away before bathing that night. And to think I’d been pointing my finger at Georgia’s shrimp rollups and Chena’s wedding cake, when in actuality it had likely been a conglomeration of several fruit juices and four or five different types of liquor; a formula that even I, as the punch’s creator’s best friend, will never, ever be privy to. It was a recipe for fun, frolicking, and, yes, disaster. It was also one Sheila would take to the grave with her. I just hoped that wouldn’t happen for many, many years.

  It’d been a worrisome week, for sure. But Bubba had come through the ordeal unscathed, for the most part, and everything had fallen into place as far as the wedding do-over was concerned. We were all extremely grateful on both counts.

  As Wendy’s favorite country-and-western star, Bryan White’s, classic hit, “God Gave Me You”, reverberated from the stereo speakers, the crowd of wedding guests watched in reverence as the bridesmaids were escorted up the aisle by the groomsmen.

  It was customary for the audience to rise collectively to their feet when the bride was led down the aisle by her father or another designated honoree. In this case, that honoree was
Stone, my husband and Wendy’s stepfather.

  However, despite the longstanding tradition, the crowd let out a group gasp and leapt to their feet as the maid of honor, Mattie Hill, headed up the aisle arm-in-arm with Bubba Slippknott.

  Exactly one week prior, the odds of Bubba surviving his sudden health crisis had appeared dismal. His appearance today felt as if it could be due to nothing less than divine intervention. I sent up a heartfelt prayer of appreciation to God for stepping in when all hope had seemed lost.

  The crowd went wild at the sight of the beaming best man, and the pandemonium continued until Stone turned his stepdaughter over to his nephew to be united in holy matrimony.

  Never before had I seen a crowd clapping, cheering, and whistling loudly during a wedding procession. It was almost as if a world-renowned rock star had crashed the ceremony, making an unannounced visit to surprise the guests.

  I’d also never seen a bigger smile on my daughter’s face, and I’m certain anyone looking my way would have said the same about me. I later discovered that Annie had actually captured my expression in a candid photograph. It was an expression of a relieved mother who was thrilled beyond belief.

  “And, now,” Reverend Bob began, “finally, I might add, I pronounce you man and wife. Andy, you may kiss your bride.”

  Those were the most welcome words I’d heard in a long, long time.

  The End

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  Page Ahead for an Excerpt From:

  A RIP ROARING GOOD TIME

  A Rip Roaring Good Time

  A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 1

  “We ain’t getting any younger, you know. Aren’t you about ready to hit the road?” I asked Clyde “Rip” Ripple, my husband of nearly fifty years.

  “Don’t get your bloomers in a bunch, my dear. All I need to do is get the jacks cranked up and the antenna cranked down and we’ll be ready to roll. We have plenty of time to get to the Alexandria Inn in time for the party.”

  “Well, get to cranking, buster. I’m anxious to get the Chartreuse Caboose on the road.” I had nicknamed our RV this after we’d hand-painted it that color one weekend in a fit of boredom. We’d highlighted it with a few scattered yellow sunflowers for a little added flare. If nothing else, it was easy to locate in a crowded campground.

  We’d already eaten breakfast and as usual, I heard a chorus of snap, crackle and pops before I’d even poured the milk on our cereal. It was just part of being a senior citizen, as was the prune juice we drank to wash down the whole-wheat toast that completed our morning meal. Bacon, eggs and pancakes loaded down with butter and maple syrup had gone by the wayside when our cholesterol levels achieved “walking time bomb” status. They were just a fantasy now, as were a lot of other things we’d always enjoyed in our younger days. Even our sex drives were more often in “park” than not. Still, for both being sixty-eight years old, we felt we had a lot more active lifestyle than most folks did at our age. We made sure there was never any room on our schedule for bingo and potluck dinners, staples of many senior citizens’ social lives.

  Rip and I, Rapella Ripple, are full-time RVers, crisscrossing the country in our thirty-foot travel trailer. We both retired at sixty-two years old, the earliest we could draw our social security benefits. Rip spent his entire career in law enforcement, first as a beat cop, then as a detective, and finally as Captain in our south Texas hometown of Rockport.

  I, on the other hand, have had a vast array of full- and part-time, positions involving dozens of different occupations. It’s not that I’m a high-maintenance, incompetent, or difficult employee, it’s just that I bore easily. I’ve quickly tired of doing everything from pitching magazine subscriptions, where I made random phone calls and was rudely hung up on ninety-nine out of every hundred calls before I could even spit out a full sentence, to working as a clerk at a stained glass art gallery, where the “You break it, you buy it” policy applied more often to me than the customers.

  My favorite occupation was short-lived—a taste-testing job at a local ice cream factory, which I was forced to quit when I developed both lactose intolerance and a double chin. But lest you think I’m flaky or unreliable, of all of the many jobs I’ve had, I’ve only actually been fired once. And that was due to an unpleasant customer I was serving at a local restaurant who took it personally when I referred to her rowdy young son as an obnoxious spoiled brat who should be put in time-out until he graduated from college. Let’s face it, some people are entirely too sensitive.

  We found retirement to be less than it was cracked up to be after a full year of sitting on the couch staring at a TV, speaking to each other only briefly during commercials. Fortunately, we could watch the same shows every other month and not remember whether or not we’d ever seen them before. The most excitement we were apt to have in an entire week was visiting a nearby park to feed the pigeons, at least until one of us felt the need to go home and take a nap.

  When it finally dawned on us that our rear ends were beginning to take root in the plaid fabric cushions of our couch, we decided enough was enough. After all, we were retired, not dead.

  Within a month, we had sold our home, given away most of our belongings, purchased a travel trailer, and hit the road. We made no plans, followed no schedule, just let each day take us wherever it might take us, which on a couple of occasions was less than fifteen miles down the road.

  Sometimes we moved daily from one RV Park to another, from one state to another, when we got a wild hair up our you-know-whats. At other times we would rest a spell and recharge our batteries—and I mean ours, not that of our trailer, or the truck we used to pull it with—and we’d stay in one park for several months at a time.

  We would often work as what is commonly referred to as “workampers” to keep busy and receive free site rent in exchange for helping in the RV Park office, cleaning shower houses, doing lawn work or whatever needed to be done. As you’ll no doubt come to realize, “free” is my favorite word. Occasionally we’re even paid a small chunk of change on top of our free rent, which comes in handy with the outlandish price of gas these days.

  But right now we actually had a schedule to keep. In the Cozy Camping RV Park in Cheyenne, Wyoming, just a couple of weeks prior, we’d met Lexie Starr, her husband, Stone Van Patten, and her daughter, Wendy. Lexie and Stone had been celebrating their one-year anniversary during Cheyenne Frontier Days. When another camper was found murdered, Lexie and Wendy had become involved in the case, and I’d ended up involved as well, to the extent we gals nearly bit the big one in the process of discovering the identity of the killer.

  Two days after our new friends headed home to the Alexandria Inn, a bed and breakfast establishment they own in Rockdale, Missouri, I’d received a phone call from Lexie. The call resulted in Rip and I preparing to head east in order to attend a thirtieth birthday surprise party for Wendy at their inn.

  There was an RV repairman in Rockdale who we’d arranged to have do some repairs on our trailer while we were there. Lexie had insisted we stay at the inn as their guests while our trailer was in the shop. Along with the word “free,” I was also quite fond of its cousin, “guest.” My favorite thing about being sixty-eight was the senior citizen discount that came with it.

  Less than an hour later, we had Wyoming in our rear view mirror as we crossed over the Nebraska border. I had a feeli
ng this trip would turn out to be one we wouldn’t soon forget. Call it a premonition, or just a fit of fancy, but it was a feeling I couldn’t shake. I was anxiously looking forward to finding out if there was anything to it, because boredom was nipping at our heels once again and I was more than ready for a little excitement.

  A RIP ROARING GOOD TIME

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  Also by Jeanne Glidewell

  A Lexie Starr Mystery Series

  Leave No Stone Unturned

  The Extinguished Guest

  Haunted

  With This Ring

  Just Ducky

  Cozy Camping

  Marriage and Mayhem

  The Spirit of the Season

  Lexie Starr Cozy Mysteries Boxed Set

  A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery Series

  A Rip Roaring Good Time

  Rip Tide

  Ripped To Shreds

  Rip Your Heart Out

  Ripped Apart

  The Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery Boxed Set

  Soul Survivor

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my wonderful editors, Alice Duncan, of Roswell, New Mexico; and Judy Beatty, of Madison, Alabama. Without them, I’d look like the writer who, as a kid, paid her big sister to complete all of her English and grammar assignments throughout her years of public education.