“Tracee’s such a supercilious creature,” Rose had complained to Keely at their first conference. “She looks down her nose at my every suggestion!”
Keely privately thought the weddings Ms. Dale arranged for outrageous prices lacked true creative flair, but she offered only an encouraging smile and polite murmur.
Rose had admired the portraits hanging on the walls of Keely’s studio. “You’ve excellent taste,” she had said. “Since you’ll be accompanying me to the consultations, Keely, perhaps you could just give me a nudge if I put a foot wrong.”
During the months of extensive preparations, Keely had learned her primary role was to supply reassurance. Rose gradually gained confidence, but still required approval of each decision.
Trailed by Jackson, Keely entered a salon draped in white tulle. Pink crystal vases filled with waxy gardenias and starflowers dotted the room. Accepting the flash camera from her attendant, she focused on the gifts arranged on a walnut inlay table. The exquisitely patterned paper and ribbons were works of art; Keely wondered if this bride of privilege would feel compunction in destroying such masterpieces.
Dorothea Graham, née Postwaite, seemed devoted to her mother. Keely had garnered the impression Dorothea would have preferred less elaborate arrangements if a grand wedding hadn’t been so important to her mother.
Suppressing an envious twinge at the closeness of their relationship, Keely changed the F-stop for a tight shot of a silver foil package with a spray of silk lilies of the valley tucked under its ribbon.
Before returning, she inserted a fresh roll of film, thankful the medium format camera took smaller negatives than the one she used for studio portraits. Since the average wedding required a minimum of a hundred fifty exposures, thirty shots to a roll instead of twenty meant fewer enforced breaks in her shooting rhythm.
Jackson tucked the exposed film roll Keely handed him into the equipment case. “We make a great team. How about hiring me as a permanent assistant? If you teach me to use those cameras of yours, I could do some fascinating nude studies of your hot little bod, baby. We could use a wedding cake as a prop, one with plenty of gooy icing—”
Keely rejected his insinuating advance with a curt shake of her head, but Jackson continued to close in. “After the pictures, we could both get naked. I’ll bet the ride you give is unforgettable—”
Twisting free, she raised the camera, triggering the flash which exploded its dazzling light in his face. Blinking furiously, Jackson recoiled with an oath.
“Any remarks more personal than ‘Yes, ma’am,’ will be unacceptable,” Keely snapped. “Is that clear?”
The implication she would report Jackson’s behavior to his employers hung in the air. A muscle in the man’s jaw twitched and he stooped to pick up the equipment case.
“Yes, ma’am.” He spat out the words, his features contorted with fury and humiliation.
For the next hour, Jackson hovered behind her like Banquo’s ghost at the feast. He limited his responses to her requests to “Yes, ma’am,” but the insolent tone turned the words into a taunt. His gaze stripped away her chic black dress, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.
Fearing he might seek revenge for her rejection, Keely took the precaution of entrusting her equipment cases to the butler’s care before going in to dinner.
Seated at a table near the double doors, she discovered that Doug, his tie still askew, would be her waiter. The plump woman in taffeta on Keely’s right introduced herself as Winona, a second cousin on the Postwaite side from Oklahoma.
Winona, who cheerfully announced that she was “on the shady side of forty and the sunny side of fifty” sported pink lipstick and turquoise eye shadow. In between bites, she kept up an equally colorful commentary on the decorations, music, and guests. “Mmmmm. That caterer’s even tastier lookin’ than his food.” Watching Max direct his staff, Winona purred. “I’d like to sample his dumplings.”
Keely, forking up a bite of smoked filet of beef, choked as Max glanced in her direction and smiled. Winona, who resembled an overstuffed pink mushroom in her taffeta dress, intercepted Max’s salutation, waggling her fingers in a coy wave. He hastily turned, leaving Keely smothering her laughter in her napkin.
“My, he’s a shy one.” Winona looked pensive. “I’ve been winkin’ at that boy all evening. I single-handedly ate enough cheese to constipate an elephant, but he just kept smilin’ polite-like and sending for more. My daddy—rest his soul—always said, ‘You’re an unplucked rose, baby girl, but some day a man who don’t mind a few thorns is going to snatch you up.’”
Struggling for control, Keely made noises of agreement.
Winona buttered a cracked wheat herb roll with a lavish hand. “That caterer can whip me into a froth just by lookin’ at me. I’d tell him, “Beat me, baby. Faster, faster!”
Max was close enough to overhear the last remark. The occupants of nearby tables stared at Winona, who winked at Keely. The plump woman clearly relished being the center of attention.
Leaning closer, she gave Keely a pink lipsticked grin. “I love sayin’ outrageous things! If I behave, nobody pays me no never mind. My daddy—may he enjoy his everlastin’ rest—told me, ‘Speak your mind. You and your stomach will stay on good terms.’”
“I’m sure you’ll never have an ulcer,” Keely managed to say, wondering if Max was flattered or appalled to be the object of such unabashed lust.
Since social convention dictated humble photographers be banished to the Siberia of duty guests and distant relatives, Keely usually endured these dinners. Tonight, however, entertained by Winona’s lurid comments and Max’s nervous peeks in their direction, she didn’t regret her exile.
Her duties were nearly over. She’d photographed the couple sipping champagne as husband and wife and the ceremonial cutting of the cake draped in swags of iced honeysuckle and roses. Perhaps later, she could meet Max for that cup of coffee. At the first opportunity, Keely meant to try Winona’s daddy’s advice about healthy living and speak her mind—
“Excuse my rubberneckin’, but this room’s got more rhinestones than a country music award show.” Winona twisted in her chair to study the other diners.
Keely couldn’t resist the temptation to do a little rubbernecking herself. Under the muted glow of the chandeliers, diamonds glittered, brilliant fireflies hovering near pampered throats, hands, and wrists. “Rhinestones? Winona, you’re going to get us banished to eat with the servants!”
“Pooh! I’m family. I can say whatever I like.” Winona peered avidly at her hostess. “Bet that necklace Rose’s wearing cost Clarence a pretty penny. Those sparklers are real diamonds, bought for their anniversary. Ain’t it an eye-popper?”
Keely agreed and looked at Rose with concern. Although she continued to smile, Rose appeared weary as she played the part of the gracious hostess. At the head table, Dorothea kissed her new husband with a tenderness evocative of intimacy.
Inexplicable tears blurred Keely’s vision. Strange, she reflected, wiping her eyes with a corner of her napkin, weddings don’t usually affect me this way—
“Okay, hon? Feelin’ sentimental or got a tummy ache?”
“Just tired.” Keely felt the urge to confide the story of the catastrophic ending of last week’s reception to Winona who, no doubt, could put things in perspective with a pithy comment.
But Winona had gone back to ogling the other diners. “Who’s the tough lookin’ hen with the bleached hair and rings big enough to choke a horse?”
Keely followed the direction of Winona’s gaze. Emeralds flashed as Flo Netherton, publisher of the Lake Hope daily paper and author of the popular “Flo Knows” society column, smoothed back a sleek tendril of ash blond hair. A haughty smile curved the woman’s lips.
“She owns the local paper, Lake Hope Ripples. Except Flo makes waves—not ripples.”
“I’d steer clear of that gal, if I were you. Her smile looks hard enough to scratch a diamond.” Scandalized, Winona c
lucked her tongue. “And, Lord have mercy, she’s showin’ enough bosom in that green dress to shock a stripper!”
Flo’s figure was up to the challenge of her décolletage neckline. Hostesses courted the columnist like royalty although Flo’s needle-sharp prose often left fang marks in her subjects. Local legend held that a few brave souls had withheld invitations and suddenly found that, socially, they’d ceased to exist. Through bribery and intimidation, Flo had created a network of spies to supply scandal and gossip for her columns.
Winona gazed at the chandeliers draped with freesia, roses, variegated ivy, and baby’s breath. “Calmin’ and peaceful,” she said reverently. “Like an airy angel garden.”
Surprised at this poetic turn by her earthy companion, Keely told Winona with sincerity she regretted that their acquaintance had to end with the meal.
The string quartet played a soft accompaniment to the genteel clink of china and silver. With Winona concentrating on cleaning her plate, Keely amused herself by speculating what marzipan symbol Max had prepared. Had Anna Marie bullied him into making a formal presentation?
Her reverie was interrupted by the muted rumble of serving trolleys. The cake arrived, with the first cart pushed by Max himself.
“That boy’s got a body so fine he should be poppin’ outta cakes, not serving ’em.” Winona eyed Max with a covetous gaze. “Wonder if he does birthday parties? Mine’s coming up faster than a hog to the trough.”
Laughing, Keely reached under her chair for the video camera. “It’s been fun, Winona, but I’ve got to get back to work.” If Max meant to welsh by slipping the marzipan gift to the bride along with the first slice of cake, she determined to get his performance on film.
The waiters circled the tables with the precision of a well drilled team, removing plates in anticipation of the cake’s distribution. The string quartet rippled into “Nights in White Satin” and an expectant buzz arose. Dorothea’s father smiled broadly, champagne glass in hand. Keely eased closer to record the toast.
The host’s mouth opened—and the martial strains of John Philip Sousa’s most famous march blared forth. Mouth agape, Clarence Postwaite stared stupidly at something behind Keely. She spun around to find her distorted reflection in the mirrored surface of a brass tuba.
Chapter 5
Dumbfounded, Keely retreated as a marching band in scarlet regalia and gold braid invaded the dining room.
Chaos spread like a plague, devastating the tranquil scene. Tables lurched and chairs fell over as people milled helplessly, their protests drowned out by the thunderous music of “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”
The band dissolved orderly ranks, marching between the tables and driving bewildered guests before them like cattle. Keely caught a glimpse of Dorothea clutching her new husband’s arm, her face blank with shock.
Rose emitted a piercing scream which overrode even the cornets’ brassy wail. Clarence shouted something unintelligible as his wife collapsed into her chair.
Keely stood riveted, a witness to anarchy. A wild-eyed Winona rushed toward her cousin, only to crash into a serving cart. Cake-filled plates clattered to the parquet floor.
The band switched to “Seventy-Six Trombones.” One of the marble cherubs supporting garlands woven of hydrangeas, calla lilies, and French tulips crashed face down to the floor. A guest and a weedy percussionist wrestled over possession of a pair of cymbals.
Beside the overturned serving trolley, Winona struggled to her knees, hampered by the taffeta skirt and the slippery floor. Wallowing in mocha buttercream, she began heaving handfuls of cake at the intruders, showering friend and foe alike with white chocolate icing.
Keely’s peripheral vision caught movement near the double doors. She turned in time to glimpse the back of an emerald green dress as its wearer disappeared. Flo, taking advantage of the chaos, was taking an unescorted tour of the mansion! Hoping to protect Rose’s home from prying eyes, Keely followed.
The band’s blare had degenerated into squawking horns and tootling reeds. The tide was turning, but the outcome was still in doubt as bandsmen fought to retain their instruments. Ducking a wildly swinging clarinet, Keely dodged a pair of French horns and gained the safety of the doorway.
Outside the dining room, she found a small knot of twittering servants. Flo had vanished.
“Sounds like the party’s really hopping,” a grinning Jackson contributed.
Keely spoke to the butler. “Isn’t there a way to stop this insanity before it turns into a riot?”
Ives attempted to straighten his livery. “I opened the door and they marched in,” the butler said dazedly. “An entire army! I tried to stop them, but there were too many—”
“Why don’t you call the police?”
“The police?” The portly man looked as though she’d suggested introducing cockroaches into the house. “I don’t believe Mr. Postwaite would want the authorities summoned—”
Keely gave up and turned to Jackson. “Did you see a woman in a green dress come out of the dining room?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The tone was respectful, but his sneer betrayed the deliberate parody of her earlier directive.
With difficulty, Keely kept her temper. “This is no time to play games! Where did she go?”
His smile broadened. “Thattaway.”
“Thanks.” Keely started in the direction he indicated.
“That’s it? A lousy thank you?”
Keely ignored him, hoping Ives would quit gobbling like a startled turkey. The reception was already ruined, but someone might end up injured in the ludicrous scuffling match.
Alert for a flash of emerald silk, Keely’s rapid footsteps were muffled by a crimson runner. Closed doors on both sides of the passageway and an occasional oil painting, mirror, or table marked her progress. Realizing she might not be able to locate Flo without a room to room search, Keely slowed. Perhaps Jackson had sent her on a wild goose chase.
Reaching the decision to turn back, she came upon a corridor branching off to the right and saw Flo deep in conversation with a man. Turning to look at Keely, she made a dismissive motion. Her dark haired companion pivoted and strode away.
Flo blocked the passage. “Why are you following me?”
Keely had recognized the black pants and white shirt of Flo’s companion. Apparently she’d stumbled on a prearranged rendezvous. “That was Max Summers!”
“One of the catering staff. I don’t know his name.”
Feast of Italy’s other employees wore the reverse—black tunics and white trousers. The man had to be Max, but Keely didn’t argue. “Why did you leave the dining room?”
“That fat cow of a cousin started throwing cake and I didn’t want my gown ruined. While looking for a powder room, I met that man and he asked me what happened.”
The oddity of Keely questioning her movements belatedly struck the newspaper publisher. “What business is it of yours what I do or where I go? Who are you, anyway?”
Flo knew very well who Keely was, but the woman’s ice-edged tone was meant to remind Keely she had no right to demand answers. They’d attended many of the same functions, but Keely might have been a lamp for all the attention the columnist had previously paid to her.
When Keely didn’t respond, Flo said, “You’re the photographer who’s a suspect in the Westhaven robbery.”
Keely’s hackles rose at the flat statement. She remembered Winona’s warning to “steer clear”. “I’m not a suspect.”
“I happen to know that your prints were the only ones on that candlestick.” Emerald teardrop earrings glittered as Flo tilted her head. “Why were you following me?”
“I’m looking for a phone.” Keely stared into Flo’s eyes, daring the woman to contradict her. “The servants seemed reluctant to take the initiative and call for help.”
Flo’s disdainful expression indicated what she thought of Keely’s honesty. “Perhaps we could look for a telephone together. But first, I’d like that videotape
in your camera.”
“What?” Keely realized she still held the lightweight unit at waist level, in the usual position for unobtrusive taping.
Flo’s voice hardened. “The tape, if you please.”
“Why?” Shocked by the woman’s audacity, Keely couldn’t remember if she’d turned the camera off when Clarence’s toast was interrupted. Operating the unit was second nature, the action of switching it off as automatic as locking a car door.
“I have my reasons.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Why should I?”
“You don’t want to antagonize the press.” In the discreet light shed by bronze wall sconces, Flo’s eyes blazed, banked fires prodded into life; her face remained smooth, eerily expressionless. The smile hard enough to “scratch diamonds” was still firmly in place and Keely moved the camera behind her. Backing away, she fumbled with the eject mechanism. With a muffled click, the tape popped into her hand.
“The bride’s a selfish society princess and her mother would sell her soul for a bottle of cheap booze.”
The hatred in Flo’s voice jolted Keely. The next stage seemed inevitable: the two of them scuffling for possession of the tape like school girls fighting over a boy. And what if Max returned? Together he and Flo could easily wrest the tape from Keely, leaving her with nothing but her word against theirs.
Keely retreated until her heel struck something with a hollow thud. Her exploring fingers swiftly identified the lip of a huge jardinière and a glance over her shoulder revealed that the vase behind her was filled with forsythia branches in golden bloom. “What’s that?” Keely jerked her chin at the wall behind Flo, who turned. During that moment of distraction, Keely shoved the videotape into the shrubbery.
Straightening, she brought the camera out from behind her back as Flo spat out a curse and lunged. Keely hung on to the camera, buffeted by the waves of anger emanating from the woman.
Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes Page 4