Dying To Marry

by Janelle Taylor

  “We’ll have the report in a few hours—” Jake began.

  “The cardiothoracic unit at Troutville General is in the Dylan Dunhill II wing, did you know that?”

  Jake shook his head. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Young man,” she said, reaching into her desk drawer and removing what looked like a checkbook. “It’s very important to me that one particular detail of my husband’s death not be reported to the media—or to anyone. I’ll pay you—what? Ten thousand good enough to keep that mouth of yours shut about the woman Dylan was with at the time of his death? I don’t need to have this conversation with the managers at the Troutville Plaza Hotel. We’ve had an ... understanding for years.”

  Jake’s stomach turned. “Mrs. Dunhill, I am very sorry for your loss. I’ve never been married, but I did lose my mother to a heart attack, and I understand the pain and grief firsthand.”

  She lifted her chin for a moment, regarding him out of the corner of her eye.

  He cleared his throat. “I will require the autopsy report before I file my own report, and if the autopsy indicates that no foul play was involved, you can be assured that I won’t breathe a word of the circumstances to the press or to anyone. I don’t require payment for being a decent human being.”

  She’d looked at him very closely, suspicion narrowing her blue eyes. “How can I be assured of your discretion if I don’t have a canceled check to hold over your job?”

  “You’ll just have to accept my word,” Jake had said. “It’s the only guarantee you need.”

  “What’s your name?” she asked. “Your family name.”

  “Boone.”

  “Boone,” she repeated flatly. “I’m not familiar with the Boones of Troutville.”

  Boones of Troutville. Jake almost laughed at how absurd it sounded. Though his family had been in Troutville for three generations, his father and grandfather in the police department.

  “I wouldn’t think you would be,” he said. “I’m from Down Hill.”

  “That, I guessed,” she responded. “You’re a cop. It’s a noble job, but a blue-collar one.”

  Jake hadn’t bothered wasting his breath or an ounce of his time or energy enlightening Mrs. Dunhill on societal perceptions of the police.

  “I have your word about my husband’s death?” she repeated.

  “You do.”

  She looked him directly in the eye. “My son won’t find out about this?”

  “I doubt I’ll ever have occasion to speak to your son, Mrs. Dunhill,” Jake said, his gaze lifting to the many framed photographs of a boy and a girl in various ages and stages lining the credenza behind her desk. “But in the event that I do, you can trust that I will not tell him. Your husband died of a heart attack in the Troutville Plaza Hotel. End of story.”

  She nodded and returned the checkbook to her drawer. “My husband checked into the five-star hotel rather than drive the ten minutes home since it was so late and he didn’t want to wake me,” she said. “My Dylan was such a thoughtful man.”

  She seemed to be internalizing the story, committing it to memory as a memory as she made it up.

  “He died all alone, poor man,” she continued. “Such a tragedy. Clutching a photo of me that he always carried in his wallet.”

  “Again, Mrs. Dunhill,” he said. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” He wanted nothing more than to get away from her, get away from this cold, heartless mansion.

  A few hours later, the autopsy had revealed that Dylan Dunhill II died of a heart attack due to a heart condition.

  And as Jake had sat at his desk at the precinct, he could see Victoria Dunhill smiling. Had her husband been murdered by the call girl, Jake was ninety-nine percent sure Mrs. Dunhill would have it obliterated from all records—and her memory.

  Exactly one week later, the matriarch phoned and asked that he pay her a visit at her home. She thanked him for his discretion and said he had earned her trust, something no one except her son had ever managed. For that, she was indebted to him, and should he need anything, he was only to call. During that visit, Dylan Dunhill III, who Jake knew of from high school, had been conducting a tutoring session in the house library with a teenager he was working with at the Boys’ Center, and Jake had been truly surprised. He’d never talked to Dylan Dunhill in all the years they’d gone to the same school, and here he was, tutoring a Down Hill teenager in fractions, using basketball as a guide. The teenager was getting it and seemed to be enjoying the lesson.

  Dylan had invited him to the center to volunteer, and that was that. The two had become friends. Dylan, Jake was surprised to discover, didn’t discern between Up Hill and Down Hill. He wasn’t a snob. In fact, he was one of the kindest people Jake had ever met. And with Victoria constantly inviting Jake to family functions as a “wonderful officer of the law, representing the best of Troutville’s public service citizens,” Jake and Dylan had run into each other often and discovered they had a lot in common—the law, for one.

  “I know what you did for my mother,” Dylan had said one afternoon on their way to the center’s basketball courts.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jake said.

  “For my twenty-first birthday, my father brought me to Chez Jacqueline’s, a very high-priced brothel in a nearby town,” Dylan said. “He said I was officially a man now, since I had just inherited a sick sum of family money, so it was time I joined him in the Dunhill male tradition of enjoying all Chez Jacqueline’s had to offer. I was outraged, of course, and told him I preferred to sleep with women I loved. Sleep with the woman I loved, not that I loved anyone or had slept with very many women then. He said he didn’t know where I got my ethics from, since I certainly didn’t get them from him or my mother.”

  “Jesus!” Jake said.

  “Don’t be so shocked,” Dylan responded. “I never was. And I don’t judge them. They can live the way they want, I’ll live the way I want.”

  Jake nodded. He had no idea what to say. His own parents’ marriage was wonderful. In their mid-sixties now, they loved each other and had retired to a lively apartment complex in Florida.

  “My father told me he’d been three-timing my mother from the moment they met,” Dylan continued, shooting for the basket—and missing. “He’d fallen for her at first sight at a cocktail party—her and two other women. So he circled the room, pretending he had to mingle, and romanced them all. He married my mother because of pressure from his own parents—she had the best pedigree—and he continued to see the others and hundreds more during their marriage.”

  “Hundreds?” Jake repeated.

  Dylan nodded and shot for the basket.

  “Does your sister know any of this?” Jake asked. He wondered if it contributed to Pru’s prickliness, the bitter part of her personality.

  Dylan shook his head. “My mother likes to pretend that they had the perfect marriage. She’s worked very hard to make sure Pru and I believe that. I know better because my father told me himself, but it’s not the kind of thing he’d tell Pru. She was daddy’s little girl.”

  The sounds of laughter and glasses clinking shook Jake from his reverie.

  “Jake, dear, you were a million miles away,” Victoria Dunhill scolded. “Did you even notice my first guests arrive? Have you met the delightful Chipwells?”

  He hadn’t, but the delightful Mrs. Chipwell, who’d made it clear she couldn’t believe Dylan had passed up her beautiful daughter in favor of “that ... that Down Hill girl,” was on his list of suspects.

  Jake stood, shook the couple’s hands, and engaged the delightful Mrs. Chipwell in a subtle investigative conversation.

  “This limo could almost make me forget my troubles,” Lizzie said, crossing and uncrossing her legs in the luxurious limousine that Dylan had insisted on renting to transport Lizzie, Gayle and Holly to the party. Her smile faded. “Almost. I wish Flea were here.”

  “I stopped by her shop before I headed to your place, Lizzie,” Gayle s
aid, tossing her heavy red hair behind her shoulder. “She’s still wincing a little from the pain. And yet there she was, cutting and patterning your dress, working with those tiny scissors, straining her eyes.”

  “I spent some time with her yesterday,” Holly said. “She said that working on the dress will make her feel like she’s at the party.”

  “What would I do without Flea?” Lizzie said, tearing up and glancing out the window. “What would I do without any of you?”

  “Hey, come on now,” Gayle said, patting Lizzie’s knee. “Don’t forget that gorgeous, kind fiancé of yours!”

  Lizzie let out a deep breath. “Gayle, I’m so sorry about what happened at your workplace. I don’t know if it was the person who’s after me going after my friends or if it was Pru or what, but I’m so sorry.”

  Gayle smiled weakly. “Don’t you worry, Lizzie. My boss was never going to go for me anyway, whether or not he thinks I’m some good-time girl. Besides, it’s nothing he didn’t hear every day in the halls in high school.”

  A few days ago, Gayle’s boss had received a typed letter from an anonymous source in Troutville, insisting that she be fired, that Good Time Gayle had no business being the receptionist at such a professional establishment as his law office. The letter went on to say that Gayle partied every night of the week till all hours, drinking and carrying on with who knew who, and who knew what confidential secrets she was spilling? Her boss would be well advised, the letter continued, to fire her.

  Gayle’s boss hadn’t fired her, but he had, with some embarrassment, shown her the letter so that she’d be aware, given what was going on with Lizzie.

  Gayle’s beautiful green eyes teared up. “Sticks and stones, right?”

  “It was Pru!” Flea said through clenched teeth. “For telling her off at the reunion. Probably why she waited a week—so you wouldn’t necessarily connect it to that.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Gayle said. “But it’s not like I can confront her without proof.”

  “If it was her, Gayle,” Lizzie said, squeezing Gayle’s hand, “I’m just sorry you’ll have to see her tonight. Feel free to ignore her. I don’t want you thinking you need to be polite just because of me. She’s certainly not polite to me and I’m marrying into her family.”

  “Are you okay, honey?” Holly asked Lizzie. “Remember, tonight is about you and Dylan celebrating how you feel. It’s not about the psycho. It’s not about Pru. It’s not about anything but you and Dylan.”

  Lizzie nodded and offered a smile, but as the limo turned onto Dunhill Place, she bit her lip and then burst into tears. “I’m a nervous wreck,” Lizzie said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “I’m trying to put on a good front, but I’m scared to death. For myself, for you two, and Flea, for Dylan. And then there’s Mrs. Dunhill. Pru is nothing compared to her.”

  Holly held Lizzie’s hand for support. “Honey, I thought you said Dylan’s mother was being civil.”

  “Meaning she’s not insulting me to my face,” Lizzie explained, her face crumpling.

  “She’ll come around,” Gayle put in. “Trust me, after tonight, when they see firsthand how in love you and Dylan are, his mom will welcome you into the family.”

  “I hope so,” Lizzie said, brightening just a little. She glanced out the window. “Especially because we’re here.”

  The three women stared out the window at the stately white mansion up a manicured slope of lawn. Holly had been here once before. Not inside, though. When she was eleven, her aunt Flora, who worked in the house as a maid, had forgotten her brown-bag lunch on the counter at home, and Holly had been sent with it on her bicycle. When she’d arrived, she was careful to leave the bike in the street so that its handlebars or wheels wouldn’t touch the lovely grass, and she’d started up the walkway to the majestic front door, wondering where the special entrance was that her aunt had told her about. Once at the front door, she’d peered around the side of the house for the workers’ entrance, but saw only a garden and rosebushes. And so, brown bag in hand, she tiptoed to knock the heavy brass knocker. The housekeeper, her aunt’s boss, had answered the door, and had smiled at Holly and taken the bag, but Pru Dunhill, who Holly had never seen before (she attended a special boarding school then) had been coming down the stairs.

  “Is this a beggar girl?” Pru had asked the housekeeper. “Why is she dressed that way?”

  As the housekeeper explained that Holly was the maid Flora’s little niece, come to bring her forgotten lunch, Holly glanced down at herself and saw for the first time the difference between the way she was dressed and how Pru was dressed. She had never noticed such a thing before. Pru, in a pristine white dress, her hair held back with a pink headband, looked like a princess. And Holly, in her cousin Lizzie’s hand-me-downs (Lizzie was so much taller than Holly that she outgrew her clothes faster than Holly) felt shabby, despite how clean and well mended her shirt and pants were. She didn’t “look” like Pru did, with her shining blond hair and polished Mary Janes.

  “Well, if she’s related to a maid, she can’t use the front door,” Pru said matter-of-factly. “She has to use the servants’ entrance.”

  The housekeeper had reddened, smiled at Holly and shooed her away, and the heavy door closed in her face. That had been Holly’s first experience with Pru Dunhill, with Dunhill Mansion. With feeling “less than.” Here she was, twenty-eight years old, a self-assured teacher with her own home, and yet being in Troutville, being in front of this house again, was able to call up that old feeling so vividly. Now, she would be walking through the front door, a guest at a family party. It didn’t seem like a victory, though. In fact, she was feeling a little sick. She’d like to slap Pru Dunhill and wasn’t sure if she could stop herself if Pru provoked her.

  Watch it, Holly, she cautioned herself. These people were going to be Lizzie’s in-laws, and for her, she would respond to the Dunhills as though they were any family she was meeting for the first time.

  “Ready?” Lizzie asked as the driver came around to open the door for them.

  As we’ll ever be, Holly thought, exiting the limo.

  “How do I look?” Lizzie asked as they headed up the walkway. “Is my hair too wild?”

  Holly looked Lizzie up and down in an exaggerated way. “From toe to head, my dear cousin, you look absolutely beautiful. And your hair is amazing.”

  “You look incredible, Lizzie,” Gayle said. “Even Mrs. Dunhill won’t have a thing to say about the ‘appropriateness’ of your dress.” She giggled. “You look—almost—like a Dunhill’s wife!”

  Holly and Lizzie laughed. “Well, except for the cleavage,” Lizzie said, shimmying her shoulders. “And the bright color. And the flowery print.” She laughed. “This is the most conservative dress I own!”

  “I know this one isn’t,” Holly said, glancing down at herself, at the pretty black dress with its flouncy hem Flea had insisted on giving her yesterday. She felt so light, so feminine—and so not herself again. She loved the dress, loved the shoes Lizzie had loaned her, but she’d love it a lot more on someone else. She hated calling attention to herself, to her body. To anything that might make people notice her. In high school, she’d worn big dark shirts and corduroys to hide her body, to help her fade into the hallways. But the comments had kept on, regardless.

  The heavy door was opened by a butler. “Your name,” he said to Holly.

  “Holly Morrow.”

  “You may enter,” the butler said.

  Oh, may I, thought Holly.

  Gayle went through the same process.

  “And you are?” he said to Lizzie.

  Lizzie smiled. “Hello, Walker. It’s me, Lizzie Morrow. We met once—”

  The butler scanned the list. “I’m sorry, but you are not on the guest list.” He turned to Holly and Gayle. “If you two are coming in, please do so now.”

  The three women stared at the butler. “She’s the bride-to-be!” Holly said incredulously.

  “Half of
the guest of honor!” Gayle said.

  The butler’s expression didn’t change. “I’m sorry, but her name is not on the list. I’m under strict orders not to allow any person in whose name is not on the list.”

  “Oh, brother,” Lizzie said. “Talk about humiliating. I can’t even get into my own engagement party!”

  Gayle handed Lizzie her cell phone. “Here, Liz, use my phone to call Dylan.”

  Lizzie punched in the numbers. “Hi, sweetie,” she said into the phone. “I can’t get into my own party! I’m not on the list!” She listened for a few moments. “Okay. We’ll be here.” She clicked off and let out a deep breath. “He says of course I’m not on the list—I’m not a guest!”

  Holly supposed she could understand the mix-up. Supposed she could.

  In a moment, Dylan appeared behind the butler. “Walker, don’t you remember my fiancée, Lizzie? Of course she’s not on the list. The party is for her—for us.”

  The butler paled. “Oh. I’m terribly sorry, sir. Sorry, ma’am. I’m under strict orders not to let anyone in who isn’t on the guest list.”

  Lizzie smiled. “Believe me, I of all people understand the need for tight security. And I appreciate it, too.”

  Holly wasn’t sure if the butler deserved Lizzie’s generosity, but she admired her cousin’s ability to turn the other cheek.

  Dylan enfolded Lizzie in a hug. “You look smashing, sweetheart. You’re going to knock them all dead.”

  “I wouldn’t use that word if I were you,” Gayle joked.

  Dylan smiled. “Come on in. Just about everyone’s here. I can’t wait for them all to meet my Lizzie.” He kissed her hand.

  Dylan led them inside a packed ballroom. There were at least a hundred people in the elegant room, but the first person Holly saw was Jake. He was in his beautiful dark suit, and his dark hair shone under the lights of a chandelier. He was so handsome, so intensely handsome, that she had trouble looking away.

  He caught her staring. He upped his champagne glass at her and moments later, he was at her side with a glass for her.