by Elaine Viets
She could hear Margery talking as she approached the door. “I’m sorry that bird was making such a racket,” she said. “Melanie called and asked us to take it away.”
Really, Margery was the most incredible liar, Helen thought as she opened the door. Her landlady was standing in front of the broken window to hide as much damage as possible, and talking to a woman with gray permed hair and thick glasses. Helen hoped she couldn’t see the shattered glass.
“There you are, dear,” Margery said. “That bird’s racket has been disturbing the whole complex, Brenda says. My niece will take care of the bird while I’m at the wedding.
By the way, Brenda, can you direct me to the Tree of Life Baptist church from here? I’m a little flustered.”
Margery forgot she was wearing purple shorts, hardly proper attire for a church wedding. Brenda didn’t seem to notice. You got used to bizarre costumes in South Florida.
The woman gave Margery directions to the church, three blocks away. As they climbed back in the car, Helen said, “Take Pete home. I’m going to that wedding to make sure Melanie doesn’t get away. Call Detective Gil Gilbert and let him know what’s going on. I don’t know if a bird-napping is enough to get his interest, but tell him about the lock picking and the smothering scene in her book. Oh, and don’t forget the Cinderella shoes.”
“I’ll call him as soon as I get home,” Margery said.
“Then I’m calling a locksmith.”
At the church, Helen was glad she was wearing her bookstore clothes. She could pass as a wedding guest, if she picked the feathers out of her hair and took off her Page Turners name tag.
She looked around the church and saw no sign of Melanie. But she did see a choice spot in the back row on the groom’s side, between a huge man and a woman with a hat the size of a truck tire. Helen figured she could hide between the two and observe the other guests. The man must have come straight from work. He was wearing a security-guard uniform and looked like a minivan in a tie.
Helen squeezed in between the hat and the minivan and looked for Melanie. She didn’t see her. Helen was getting nervous. Did she have the right wedding? Did Melanie decide to bolt? No, she wouldn’t leave her cat.
When the processional music started, she finally saw Melanie. She was a bridesmaid. Her dress would have sent Scarlett O’Hara into a jealous fit. It was powder-blue chiffon, with a hoop skirt that stretched from pew to shining pew. Ruffles cascaded down her front and dripped off the sleeves. Her flowing blond hair was topped with an enormous picture hat. Dyed-to-match ankle-strap heels peeped out from under the swaying skirt. Her bouquet was big as a shrub. Melanie looked sublimely happy. For her, this was romance with a capital R. She did not notice Helen as she floated down the aisle in her blue chiffon dream.
Four more blond bridesmaids followed, skirts swaying like lamp shades in a hurricane.
The brunette bride came out in a simple white satin princess gown, her skirt about half the size of her bridesmaids’ dresses. Clever woman, Helen thought. She looked impossibly skinny and sophisticated in that sea of chiffon.
The groom and his men were up there somewhere, overwhelmed by yards of fabric.
Baptist weddings were conducted at breakneck speed compared to the Catholic ceremonies Helen knew. Within fifteen minutes, the minister was introducing the new Mr. and Mrs. Farley Ostrander to the congregation. Helen clapped dutifully along with everyone else.
The bride and groom left arm in arm. Then Melanie wobbled back down the aisle on the arm of a groomsman.
Helen edged closer to the hulking security guard, hoping to go unnoticed.
But Melanie saw Helen as she came down the aisle. Her face mirrored her panic. Melanie tossed her bouquet into the nearest pew and tried to cut through the pews on the bride’s side. Her huge skirt wouldn’t fit. She picked it up and held out it at an angle, exposing sheer-to-the-waist panty hose and unromantic white underwear. The church was speechless with shock as Melanie ran through the door at the end of the aisle.
Helen followed, stomping on the feet of a woman in a coral silk suit. Someone screamed. The other bridesmaids and groomsmen halted in the aisle.
“Stop that woman. She’s ruining my wedding,” shouted the bride, and the wedding party took off after Helen. A welter of skirts tried to squeeze after her. Helen heard the snap of a hoop and an “Ouch!” The other bridesmaids followed Melanie’s lead and tilted their skirts either forward or backward, displaying garments rarely seen in church.
Helen went through the door and then locked it. She could hear Melanie clattering down the steps. She followed and locked the door at the bottom of the steps, too. Now she was in a church reception area. At least, Helen thought that’s what it was. This wedding was very different from the lavish Catholic affairs she was used to.
The Baptist wedding reception had cake and punch and a pretty flower centerpiece. The punch was pale pink with something fizzy. An ice ring of strawberries floated in the massive cut-glass bowl. It was a classy little reception.
There were real china cups for the coffee. The caterers were setting out some nifty canapés on a silver tray. Helen’s stomach growled as she passed the mini-quesadillas. The sesame chicken skewers looked good, too.
Helen could hear the wedding party. It had broken through the first door and was pounding on the second. The hulking groomsmen would have it open soon. Helen looked for another way out, but didn’t see one. She did see Melanie. Her hoop skirt was back in its proper place.
Melanie was swaying with rage, and moving swiftly for someone in ankle-strap heels. She threw her picture hat on the floor, grabbed the ornamental cake knife, and went after Helen.
Slash. Slash. Ribbons and lilies of the valley ripped through the air, and left a long cut in Helen’s shirt. Helen had no idea those cake knives were so sharp.
Melanie was doubly dangerous. The ruffles didn’t hinder her furious thrusts and parries. Together with the wide hoop skirt, they served as protection. She would be hard to stop.
“You’ve ruined my life,” Melanie sobbed. “All I ever wanted was to write, and you’ve humiliated me.”
“It wasn’t me. It was Page Turner,” Helen said.
“Don’t say that vile name!” Melanie said. She lunged at Helen with the cake knife, and Helen dodged a nearly lethal swipe at her heart. She heard a ripping sound. There was another deep cut in her shirt.
Helen looked for a weapon to defend herself from the wild knife thrusts. She saw only coffee spoons, china cups and saucers. Helen picked up a coffee cup and hurled it at Melanie. It shattered.
“Hey!” yelled a caterer, but the woman backed away when she saw Melanie’s slashing knife.
“Call nine-one-one,” Helen shouted, and threw another cup. That one bounced harmlessly off the lurching skirt.
Chiffon was better than Kevlar. Helen reached for more ammunition from the coffee bar. The coffee urn wasn’t out yet, or she would have unleashed gallons of hot coffee. Instead, she grabbed a fistful of delicate china saucers. Two went wide of their mark. One bounced off Melanie’s arm. A cup hit a wad of ruffles and slid harmlessly away. Helen was desperate. Melanie and her knife were moving in for the kill.
Helen ducked behind the wedding cake for protection, but Melanie kept coming with the knife. She was a terrifying sight. Her blond hair looked like it had been electrified.
Her ruffles whipped back and forth. Her skirt swung crazily. She was the bridesmaid from hell.
“I’ll kill you,” she screamed. “I’ll kill you like I killed him.”
Helen knew the three-tiered cake would be no protection against Melanie’s jabbing, stabbing knife. That knife was designed to cut cake into little pieces.
Helen had only one choice.
She picked up the wedding cake and heaved it at Melanie. The mad bridesmaid went down in a welter of white icing and chocolate layer cake. The top layer was cheesecake, which was really slick. Melanie’s skirt belled out modestly around her, covering a lot of spla
ttered cake.
Melanie tried to get up, but her foot tangled in the hoop.
She slipped in the butter-cream frosting, twisting her ankle, and slid back down in the squashed cake.
“My ankle,” Melanie cried.
“My cake,” the bride cried, bursting into the room. “You ruined my cake.”
She picked up the huge bowl of sticky pink punch and hurled it at Helen.
Chapter 29
“Halt!” said Detective Gil Gilbert. “Drop it! Right now.”
The bride had already emptied the cut-glass punch bowl on Helen. Now she was preparing to smash her head with the heavy bowl. Helen was too punch-drunk to move.
“You’ll kill her if you hit her with that,” Detective Gilbert warned.
“I want to kill her,” the bride said, raising the bowl over her head. “She ruined my wedding.”
“You’ll lose your deposit on the bowl,” he said.
At that, a portly tuxedoed man stepped forward and took the bowl from the bride. “This has cost us enough already.”
Helen assumed he was the father of the bride.
Melanie sat quietly on the floor, the ruined wedding cake mostly hidden by her huge skirt. The knife had been confiscated by Detective Tom Levinson, who showed up with Gilbert for some reason Helen never figured out. He was reading Melanie her rights and was preparing to take her in quietly for questioning. But Melanie, who lived in her own romance novel, refused to go without a scene.
“I’ll tell you everything, but I want the world to know what I suffered,” she said. “Otherwise, I’ll call a lawyer now and never say another word.”
Helen thought the print-on-demand author looked remarkably pretty. Her gown had only a smear or two of cake icing on it. Her blond hair tumbled down her back. Her bosom was a seething blue sea of ruffles.
No amount of persuasion would convince Melanie to change her mind. She was determined to have her audience.
“My own guilty conscience made me ruin Beth and Farley’s wedding,” Melanie said, when everyone stopped talking and she was once more the center of attention. Helen noticed the wedding photographer was taping her statement. She wondered if the police would confiscate the video.
“The burden has been too great to bear. When I saw her”—she pointed dramatically to Helen—“sitting next to a man in uniform, I thought the police had come to arrest me.”
“It was just Uncle Chuck,” the bride said. “He’s a security guard at Wal-Mart.”
Melanie grabbed the attention back from the bride. “My life was ruined by an evil man. He seduced me with empty promises. He defiled my love. He even videotaped it. A kindhearted saleswoman tried to show me the error of my ways, but I wouldn’t listen. Instead, I ran to Page in his office and sought succor. Page Turner was intoxicated. He said vile things. Things I can hardly bear to repeat.”
But she managed. It was juicy stuff. Even Helen, shivering from a bath of cold, sticky punch, was spellbound.
“Page laughed at me. He said, ‘Yeah, I screwed you, but not as bad as your publisher. Your book might as well be printed on toilet paper, for all it’s worth.’
“He did indeed have a secret recording of our lovemaking. The scoundrel invited me to watch it. ‘Then maybe you’ll stick to what you know how to do—and it isn’t writing.’ ”
A charming blush stained Melanie’s cheeks and she tossed her golden hair. Every man in the place stared at her, and Helen was sure they weren’t thinking literary thoughts. That was quite an endorsement from the late stud, Page.
“His mocking laughter followed me out of the room. My soul was seared with words no woman should ever hear.
But I held my head high. Then I heard that little man say, ‘There goes another fool.’ My shame was complete. Everyone knew. I was ruined.”
Brad’s four little words brought down the mighty Page Turner, Helen thought. If he’d kept his mouth shut, Melanie might have gone back to her job, and Page would still be alive. But then, if she and Gayle hadn’t tried to open Melanie’s eyes, maybe none of this would have happened.
Helen shivered, cold to the heart at the thought of her own role.
After her humiliation in the bookstore, Melanie’s thoughts turned to murder.
“I vowed revenge on the tyrannical Turner. He insulted me and my precious book. I sat in the parking lot for hours, brooding on my ravishment. I must have revenge. The kind saleswoman told me Page had befouled another woman, a Peggy Freeton. I couldn’t believe he could be so cruel twice. She said, ‘If you don’t believe me, ask Helen. She lives in her apartment complex.’
“That night, when she got off work”—Melanie pointed at Helen again—“I followed her home. I saw the distinctive yellow mouse car of the Truly Nolen termite people. I knew what that meant. A termite tenting. It was a simple matter to get Peggy’s apartment number from the mailboxes and steal her termite information notice.
“Then I began my plan. I would avenge all womanhood.
It was the best plot I’ve ever done,” Melanie said proudly.
She knew about tenting. Her own building, like most older buildings in South Florida, had been tented. She’d had the lectures about the dangers of Vikane and the necessity of SCBA gear.
“I researched SCBA systems on the Net, and found a used one at greatly reduced prices. I had it over-nighted.”
Melanie knew Page liked kinky sex, although she didn’t say it that way. “I had his cell phone number and I called him that Friday to arrange a rendezvous. I told him to bring the video. I promised to add another interesting episode.
“When I picked him up at the bookstore, Page was already sodden with drink. I brought more of his favorite tipple.” Melanie modestly forbore to mention it was Bawls and vodka. “Soon he was staggering drunk. He had his arms around me, but it was not an embrace of love. The Coronado apartments were deserted. Everyone had moved out. I put on my latex gloves. I’m afraid they gave Page Turner some very wrong ideas about my plans for the night.
It was a matter of minutes for me to pick the lock, even with Page’s filthy paws all over me. I’m quite accomplished with the picks.
“Page staggered into the apartment and fell on the bed. I tied him up with scarves. Handcuffs would have left marks.
I’m afraid he was anticipating something quite different. He fell asleep before I finished. He was snoring. It was as if an angel guided me to the pillows on the bed.”
Helen thought that line sounded familiar. She also thought an angel had nothing to do with it.
“I put the pillow over his face and pressed down. His snores stopped. Soon, so did his struggles. I felt I’d struck a blow for women everywhere.
“I rolled the body off the bed and into the closet with the sliding doors. It was only two feet away. I hid him behind some long bridesmaid dresses. No one could see him.
“I remembered to take Page’s briefcase. Inside were two videos, both labeled. One was mine. The other was Peggy’s. I dropped the briefcase and the videos in a nearby canal. The first part of my plan was complete.”
The wedding party and the caterers looked like wax figures. No one said a word while Melanie told her bizarre tale. The bride and groom were holding each other, as if protecting themselves from the bridesmaid from hell.
“Once the Coronado was tented, I came back late Saturday night and donned my SCBA gear. Then I took the clamps off one corner of the tent and slipped in. It was hot, dark, and spooky inside. I picked the locks again on Peggy’s apartment and went inside.
“I slid the body back on the bed. That was the hard part, but I wanted everyone to know he was a philanderer. I heaved the head and shoulders up, using his belt as a sling.
Then I dragged the legs onto the bed.”
“No way. A little thing like you moved a big guy like that?” a groomsman said.
“Never underestimate the power of a woman scorned,” Melanie said.
Or her upper-body strength when she’s worked out at the gym, Hele
n thought.
“I wasn’t completely successful. I wanted Page found on his back, but when I tried to turn him over, he kept wrinkling the spread and it didn’t look nice. Also, he smelled yucky. So I left him facedown.
“Then I went to the kitchen for a butcher knife. I wrapped it in a towel to preserve the prints, held it below the handle part, and stabbed him in the back. That felt so good, I wanted to keep doing it, but I was afraid I’d mess up her prints.”
Melanie vacuumed the drag marks off the rug. “Then I deposited the SCBA gear in a canal, along with the scarves.
I knew the butcher knife might implicate Peggy, but I was sure she would never be convicted. Good always wins out.”
Helen snorted. The wedding party glared at her.
“After that, I began to heal. I realized Page Turner was wrong. I was a good writer. I had created the perfect locked-room mystery. My big mistake was to kidnap that parrot. I thought it would make her”—Melanie pointed at Helen for the third time—“stop investigating. Instead, everything unraveled. Perhaps I had a subconscious desire to get caught. I’m not a bad person.”
She looked winsome in blue chiffon and white icing.
Helen almost believed her, until Melanie tried to justify killing Mr. Davies. “He was so old and lonely, I was doing him a favor. It was a blessing, really. What was he—eighty-three? Who would miss him?”
I do, Helen thought. The store was not the same without his gentle presence.
When Melanie finished her tale, she waited as if for applause. Instead, there was only the snap of handcuffs.
Melanie looked surprised. Maybe she expected to talk her way to freedom. Two uniforms took her away. “I’ll be auctioning the movie rights,” she said as they led her out.
Detectives Gilbert and Levinson took statements from the wedding party.
Someone slipped out to Publix and came back with a white sheet cake that said Happy Wedding on it in white icing. Helen thought she could see the word “Birthday” faintly in the frosting. The caterers swept up the broken china. The church janitor cleaned up the squashed cake and spilled punch. Another bowl of punch appeared, without the strawberry ice ring.