Word of mouth and referrals were responsible for a large percent of her clientele and Lake Hope was a town with a sharply defined upper echelon where money, new or old, was the ticket of admission to the rarified air at the top. In the lace and tulle world of society weddings, whispers that so-and-so hadn’t performed up to satisfaction were enough to torpedo even an established concern.
Key Shot Studio. A bold name for a woman plagued by insecurities to hide behind. Through hustle, ingenuity, and sheer grit, Keely had clawed her way to the top of the “A” list of portrait and wedding photographers in Lake Hope and neighboring communities. A stack of discreet ivory toned brochures in her reception area proclaimed Key Shot specialized in “preserving a record of your fantasy wedding, from the selection of the perfect gown, flowers, and cake to the final romantic limousine ride.”
Keely accompanied brides-to-be to consultations with wedding planners, florists, and caterers. Up to thirty hours of videotape and still shots were then edited into a documentary style presentation, complete with music and special effects, the only touches not done “in-house.” Keely handled the camera work, with Margo responsible for rough editing, detail work, and photo retouching. Margo also assumed the role of videographer at receptions.
Until yesterday, Keely had felt secure in her reputation for promising the spectacular and always delivering. Her prices, which included a traditional wedding album, were steep, but an unbelievable number of clients wrote out the checks without flinching. Weddings possessed a singular mystique, that “once in a lifetime” aura which hypnotised otherwise sensible women into unlimited spending.
Shredding a piece of toast into ragged pieces, Keely dropped them into her empty cup. Whenever she learned of a former client’s divorce, she wondered whether either spouse retained custody of the tape showing the exchange of vows of commitment, that first kiss as husband and wife…
Placing her cup in the sink, Keely gazed through a window which needed washing at a lawn that needed mowing. The bridal wreath hedge enclosing the back yard was beginning to flower, displaying delicate white blossoms.
Could her business survive if she was reduced to taking portraits of chubby cheeked babies and smiling anniversary couples? How would she pay the mounting bills from the clinic?
The sun shone as if it had never seen a dark cloud. Fat robins stalked hapless worms in the spring grass and Keely felt an empathetic pang for those poor, dumb creatures crawling beneath the surface. Innocent, unaware, content with a lowly lot in life. Then, wham! Suddenly, you’re somebody’s lunch.
Bleak winter was a fading memory. A few more weeks and June, the traditional bride’s month, would arrive on a magic carpet woven of baby’s breath, illusion lace, and pearls. June, when Keely worked twelve to fifteen hour days and savored every minute of her hectic schedule.
Again she visualized a figure of a woman surrounded by the rubble of a once magnificent edifice. Yesterday’s disaster would probably receive full media coverage, with Keely’s name prominent as first on the scene.
She shook her head vigorously, denying the mental headlines. She was the proprietor of Key Shot Studio. Enough of huddling in her robe and drinking tea like a friendless old woman!
She needed a shower and a pedicure. Needed to gloat over her appointment book with its lines filled solid for the next three months. Today called for some serious post-wedding pampering.
You’ll survive, Keely assured herself. You’ve lived through worse things than a little bad publicity and losing Margo. Perhaps after the mud dries up and blows away, you might even meet Max Summers for a cup of decent coffee and finish that conversation—
The phone clamored for attention. Half-expecting a reporter’s insistent questions, Keely answered cautiously.
She immediately identified the familiar background sounds: loud talking, shrill laughter, and—overriding the babble—a woman’s convulsive sobs.
“Please, Mom, don’t cry,” Keely whispered. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
“MAX! THIS IS A DISASTER!”
When upset, Anna Marie Cinonni spoke in capital letters. Holding the receiver away from his ear, Max rolled over and punched the speaker button on the bedside phone.
Shaking his head to clear away the cobwebs, he replied sweetly, “And good morning to you, my favorite aunt.”
“GOOD MORNING—MY MARBLE CAKE! HAVE YOU SEEN TODAY’S PAPER? YOU’RE MENTIONED AS BEING QUESTIONED IN CONNECTION WITH THE ASSAULT ON THAT POOR WOMAN. FEAST OF ITALY DOESN’T NEED THAT TYPE OF PUBLICITY!”
Max locked his hands behind his head and gazed up at the ceiling, which was rather ordinary as ceilings go. He considered painting a mural on its pristine whiteness. Perhaps a panorama of gorgeous women holding perfect soufflés. Other men could make pilgrimages to view his art work—he could call it the “Pristine Chapel.” Grinning, Max abruptly realized the rumbles from Anna Marie’s last verbal thunderclap had subsided.
“MAX, ARE YOU THERE?”
He started violently, nearly slipping off the black silk sheets that were the only tangible mementos remaining from his marriage. If Uncle Tony were a drinking man, he’d have murdered his wife years ago and no all-male jury could ever convict him. Imagine the inhumanity of forcing a guy with a hangover to endure the torture of Anna Marie in full voice.
“Yes, I’m here. And no, I haven’t seen the paper.”
“THAT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE STILL IN BED, NO DOUBT. HOW CAN A MAN MUTATE FROM WORKAHOLIC TO BUM IN LESS THAN SIX MONTHS?”
Good question. Max scratched his chest thoughtfully. Just have the workaholic’s trusted partner steal his wife and business and see if the poor sap ever bestirred himself again. The only reason Max agreed to manage Feast of Italy was his mother’s threat to permanently take to her bed if he didn’t help out her dear sister in her hour of need.
Despite the family perception that Max was as discerning as a pan of lasagna, he’d immediately recognized emotional blackmail. His mother was quite capable of tripping Anna Marie, deliberately disabling her sister to ensure Max’s recovery. So her son paid, but grudgingly. As soon as his aunt was capable of turning on an oven, he’d turn in his apron.
Heavy breathing over the speaker warned Max that his relative awaited an answer.
“No one will pay attention to the half truths, innuendos, and misinformation disseminated by the Lake Hope newspaper. The forest fire of gossip will die down within a few days from a lack of oxygen—er, interest.” Max knew he was puffing hot air, but maybe in her invalid state she’d buy it—
“IN LAKE HOPE? NOT A CHOCOLATE COVERED CHANCE. REMOVE THE FOUNDATION OF GOSSIP AND THIS TOWN CRUMBLES LIKE STALE POUND CAKE.”
Max thanked the gods of surgery that they’d immobilized his fractious relative with a pin in her ankle. If she’d been ambulatory, no doubt he’d have been jarred into wakefulness this morning by a loaf of crusty Italian bread vigorously belaboring his ears.
“We went all through this last night, Anna Marie. I told you everything—”
“NEVER MENTIONING THIS IRISH WOMAN WITH WHOM YOU SHARED A CELL. I HAVE TO READ ABOUT IT IN THE NEWSPAPER. KEELY? WHAT KIND OF NAME IS KEELY?”
“Keely’s a lovely name for a lovely woman.” Deciding to sacrifice his morning coffee for a trip to obtain a newspaper, Max rolled out of bed and groped for a pair of pants. “You must know her. I’m told that she photographs all the important weddings.”
Silence. Anna Marie, a lioness still alert for a threat to her cub, didn’t take the flattery bait.
Max cleared his throat. “To set the record straight, we shared coffee—not a cell. The guardias never got that far. And pull down your skirt—your ethnic prejudice is showing.”
An indignant gasp, amplified by the speaker. “OF COURSE I KNOW THE GIRL—SHE’S CHARMING IF YOU LIKE A RED-HEAD WITH CAMERAS HUNG ROUND HER NECK. IF I HEAR THAT YOU’RE FLIRTING WHILE MY BUSINESS FLATTENS LIKE A BUMPED SOUFFLE, I’LL ENSURE YOU NEVER BROWN ANOTHER BLINI. MAX, EVEN A COOK OF YOUR LIMITED AB
ILITY KNOWS THAT IRISH AND ITALIAN MIX LIKE OIL AND WATER. TRY IT SOME TIME!”
Crash. Max flinched. Oil and water. At least bad mouthing Keely had distracted his hot tempered aunt from cross-examining him again on the presentation of the bride’s gift.
As he buttoned up his shirt, Max pictured Keely as he’d seen her last night—weary, but still able to laugh with him. Cinnamon brown hair. Eyes the rich color of crème caramel. White chocolate mousse skin with a sprinkling of nutmeg across her nose.
Max couldn’t help smiling at the imagery. Lisa used to complain that he looked at a serving of Oeufs à la Neige with more appreciation than he did his own wife’s legs.
He sighed. He could still hear that incredulous lilt in Keely’s voice: “A kangaroo? Max!”
Come to think of it, all the women he’d mentally sketched on the ceiling this morning possessed Keely’s generous mouth and shapely legs.
Max, self-avowed cynic and temporary caterer, found Keely O’Brien charming. An old-fashioned word for a modern woman. He rubbed his bristly chin, remembering the bitter note when she spoke of family. A mystery to be probed and solved, a tempting challenge for a man searching for an anchor in life.
Wait, he was forgetting that he was through with women. Since the divorce, his mother accused him of dispensing charm like penny candy. “You don’t give anything worthwhile, Max. Smiles are a dime a dozen unless you put yourself into them.” Too bad—he wasn’t giving away anything. The conflict marked by Lisa’s treachery and his own blockhead stubbornness left barely healed wounds, a painful lesson only a fool would refuse to heed.
As Max left the apartment in search of a newspaper, the challenge of mixing oil and water stayed on his mind.
Chapter 4
“Say cheese!”
“Cheese!” The flash bathed Max and the marbled foyer of the Postwaite mansion in bright light.
Keely lowered her camera as the caterer positioned a bowl of pate between a wheel of Brie and a round of red coated Edam. “Never was that hackneyed phrase more appropriate.”
“My grandma had us shout ‘Pizza Pie!’ before blinding us with the flash,” Max remarked. “I grew up in a family of photo fiends.”
Was it Keely’s imagination or was he watching to see her reaction to the word “family”? She chuckled and Max’s answering smile approved both her reaction and her appearance. The black lace bodice of Keely’s dress was accented with fringe at the waist and sleeves while skirt and bodice dropped to a handkerchief hem. Both the gown and low heeled pumps fit Keely’s criteria for working clothes: elegance and comfort.
Max whistled. “Isn’t it considered poor etiquette for the photographer to outshine the bride?”
“Have you seen Dorothea? Next to her, I look like Cinderella before her fairy godmother’s arrival.”
Keely’s conscience reminded her, “Not in front of the servants!” and she risked a look over her shoulder at her black and gray liveried shadow. Jackson stared back. A faint smile quirked his lips. Her escort’s air of amusement over a private joke made Keely uncomfortable.
“New assistant?” Max studied the man behind Keely.
“This is Jackson. Jackson, Max Summers.” The men exchanged curt nods. “Jackson is the chauffeur, but Mrs. Postwaite assigned him to me. My assistant quit and my back-up videographer couldn’t stay for the reception. Speaking of video, may I have that camera, please?”
Jackson made a production of handing over the unit, his fingers brushing Keely’s hip. Annoyed by the man’s repeated efforts at physical contact, she moved out of range. After ten minutes, Keely had pegged him as a creep who’d grope a fence post if it had breasts. Although heartily sick of his visual strip searches, her only other option was to grow another arm.
Max, unaware of the edgy by-play, beckoned to a youth dressed in the white pants and sharp looking black tunic of Feast of Italy’s staff. “I need Stilton and Brie de Meaux to fill in this corner.”
Looking through the viewer, Keely panned the table. “More? You’ve already got enough cheese to feed an army of mice.”
Under the camera’s unblinking eye, Max’s assistant deftly added two more dishes to the display.
“Thanks, Steve. A cultured horde this size can go through thirty pounds of Camembert and then devour a full course dinner,” Max retorted. “Hold it—is there a mike on that thing?”
“Relax. Your disrespectful wisecracks won’t be recorded for posterity. Ask your aunt sometime—Anna Marie’s starred in more video productions than Madonna.”
Keely increased the viewing field. “We’ll dub in a few words of reverent narration: ‘Caterers arrange fine cheeses and pate for the guests’ delight,’ etc. Keep smiling and tell me how you calculate the amount of food to prepare.”
“Rule one: blue-haired ladies under five feet tall eat double their weight in hors d’oeuvres.” Max turned to a man carrying a tureen heaped with Roquefort grapes. “Doug, for the last time, straighten your tie!”
As Max centered the dish containing the cheese covered fruit, Keely caught the resentful glare tossed in his direction by Doug, who retreated with one hand on his white bow tie. Apparently she wasn’t the only one afflicted with personnel problems.
“Good to see you again, Keely. Perhaps later we can find time to talk.” Max departed at a trot, followed by Steve.
Keely returned to work with renewed energy. The knowledge that she would soon be face to face with Max Summers had interfered with her concentration during the pre-wedding portraits. Now she could focus on the task at hand.
The week had sped by at a hectic pace, but Keely had spared a few moments to think about Max. She’d been intrigued, both by the man and by the remembrance of their immediate rapport.
On Wednesday, the police released a statement that Sara Westhaven was unable to supply a description of her assailant. The weight of the world dropped from Keely’s shoulders. The press release, in repudiating the elderly woman’s confused accusations, cleared her and Max of involvement in the brutal assault.
Keely had sent pale pink camellias to the hospital, but her gift hadn’t been acknowledged by the family. She hated to see a professional relationship end this way. The savage attack on a woman who could have been easily overpowered angered Keely, and left her troubled.
Several times, she considered calling Max at Feast of Italy, only to decide against it. She’d been unaccountably nervous about seeing him again, apprehensive that the affinity she’d felt was an illusion. But tonight they’d slipped easily into comfortable banter and only Keely’s professionalism prevented her from trailing Max into his kitchen domain.
She had her hands full from Margo’s defection. Handling both the photos and the videography for tonight’s reception kept her busier than a cat guarding multiple mouse holes, but the odious Jackson was a quick study.
“Jackson—” (Using only his surname made Keely feel like an imperious dowager but according to Ives, the Postwaite butler, lowly chauffeurs didn’t have first names.) “Tripod, please.”
Setting up in the dining room doorway, she peered through the viewfinder at tables sleekly coated in French damask and glittering with Baccarat crystal, sterling silver flatware, and Minton china. Polished woodwork gleamed like molten honey under the diffused light of massive chandeliers. Floor to ceiling arched windows overlooked the sloping lawn and terraced pool which sparkled like a sapphire in the moonlight.
Dorothea had chosen the Moody Blues song, “Nights in White Satin” as her theme. Surveying the result of months of planning, Keely felt a rush of pride for the hostess.
No one could fault the perfumed candles floating in crystal bowls or white satin sculpture centerpieces. Snowy trumpet narcissus adorned the bride’s table and lacy wrought iron pedestals ringing the room supported cascades of Amazon lilies.
“Imagine wasting that cash on flowers when there’s better white stuff to sniff.”
Keely clicked the shutter without responding. If Jackson’s sly reference to dr
ugs was intended to elevate himself in her eyes—dream on, Bozo.
Jackson appeared trim in his tailored gray uniform. He had regular features and well brushed blond hair. His “me he-man, you plaything” attitude, however, would irritate even the most unliberated woman. There must be a severe shortage of chauffeurs for the Postwaites to keep this unsavory specimen on staff.
When they returned to the spacious foyer, the guests converged on the buffet. Using a technique perfected by hours of practice, Keely cradled the video unit in her right hand, waist level, with the lens pointing slightly upward, and circulated. Whatever she saw would be recorded on videotape.
The camera caught the bride accepting a congratulatory kiss from a papery-skinned great aunt and the groom giving his four year old niece a bear hug. The actual ceremony had been private, family only, performed in the octagonal pavilion beside the pool and lit by the setting sun two hours before the reception.
Rose Postwaite had proudly displayed gifts that had arrived from all over the country. Shaking off a shivery feeling of déjà vu, Keely had photographed the gorgeous packages flanked by calligraphic cards bearing the giver’s name.
Rose’s husband, a recently retired oil company executive, shook hands with everyone within reach. Keely paused to capture ruddy-faced Clarence, whose silvery hair matched his wife’s gown, as he directed a newcomer to the bar.
Hovering behind Keely, Jackson muttered, “Old man thinks he’s big stuff. Gets off on ordering people around.”
Keely ignored Jackson, calculating how soon she could ditch him. His derisive tone reflected contempt for his employers, his respectful demeanor in their presence a disgusting sham.
Rose summoned Keely with the discreet lift of a finger. “Keely, wouldn’t a picture of the packages that were brought in this evening be a wonderful addition to Dorothea’s album?”
Keely gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m on my way.”
She knew under the polished, mother-of-pearl exterior lurked a shy woman whose insecurities surfaced under pressure. Rose, overwhelmed by the idea of orchestrating the wedding, panicked at the prospect of society’s approved planner, Tracee Dale.
Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes Page 3