Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes

by Christine Arness

  “Give up the videotape. It’s that simple. Don’t forget that businesses die.” A vile chuckle. “Just like people.”

  “Who is this?” Keely shouted, her fingers twisting the phone cord. “How dare you threaten me—”

  She was yelling at a dial tone.

  Chapter 14

  Keely tossed the portable phone aside; it bounced on the seat cushion. “Cross Wedding Planners off our Christmas card list.”

  Ida gave Jemima Puddle-Duck’s key a twist. Over the whimsical tinkle of the music, she said, “Tracee won’t talk either?”

  “According to her secretary, she’s with a client, but I won’t hold my breath waiting for a return call. It’s a lonely feeling, like being sixteen and at a party where everyone’s avoiding you. Today I’ve gotten more hang-ups than a heavy breather using speed dial.”

  Ida giggled. Outfitted in a scarlet pantsuit decorated with a colorful beadwork parrot, she touched the tiny red and gold parrots dangling from her ears. “I thought you and Mr. Summers were going to track down that chauffeur.”

  As she spoke, Ida checked proofs against a worksheet. The sight depressed Keely. Catch-up work, busy work. New appointments had dwindled to a trickle and cancellations continued.

  Keely had given Ida an edited version of yesterday’s unsuccessful trip to the Postwaite mansion. “Our free time didn’t coincide. When I finish with the Deckers this afternoon, Max will be tied up in preparations for a private dinner. Neither of us can afford to antagonize the clientele we have left.”

  Ida clapped her hands together. “Excuse the change of subject, honey, but this is a fabulous shot! Wanda’s veil looks like a cloud.” Ida was on a first name basis with all brides.

  Keely studied the proof held up for her inspection. “Yes, it’s a lovely effect. I used the new light vignetter.”

  “Vignetters, diffusers, filters—I’ll stick to a camera that takes instant pictures, thanks.” Ida slid the proofs into an envelope-style folder. “This Jackson sounds like a slippery character. I’ll bet he skipped because he’s going to hold that videotape for ransom.”

  “Unfortunately for Rose, you may be right.” Keely shuddered at the prospect of the chauffeur armed with the videotape. “But Detective Gifford and I aren’t at the point where we freely exchange information. Neither are my friends. The list of people still talking to me would fit on the back of a business card.”

  Ida clucked her tongue. “You poor dear.”

  “They’re scared, Ida. When they look at me, they see a gal being dragged out to sea by the undertow. They’re afraid that if they get too close, I might pull them under with me.”

  “Spineless jellyfish!” Ida’s cheeks flushed the crimson hue of the peonies she’d cut in Keely’s yard this morning. Per Ida, the blooms symbolized determination and courage.

  “I can’t blame them. They have families to feed and bills to pay.” Keely sighed. “But it hurts to look around and discover you’re standing alone in front of the firing squad.”

  She stiffened in a dramatic pose, arms at her sides. “I’m blindfolded, I hear the guns being cocked. The debonair commander of the firing squad approaches. He says with a gruff, sexy French accent, ‘You’ve ’ad your last meal and final cigarette. Any other requests, mademoiselle?’” Ida chuckled at Keely’s theatrics. “You’re muddling my head. Ocean undertows, firing squads—”

  “Don’t forget those rats leaving the sinking ship.” Keely studied the bruise-dark shadows under her eyes in the full-length mirror hanging by the studio entrance. Not even an application of one-coat-covers-all paint could conceal these bags, she reflected. “Speaking of rats, if Margo calls and wants her job back, the answer is ‘no.’”

  Keely stifled a yawn. Her eyelids felt raw and scratchy and her jaw ached from grinding her teeth. She’d fallen into a troubled sleep at dawn, with muffled words echoing in her ears: “Businesses die. Just like people.”

  The voice had been eerily matter-of-fact. The reference to the tape had convinced Keely that both Flo’s efforts to retrieve it and the robberies were somehow intertwined, their dark roots nourished by something more diabolic than simple greed.

  Her dream following the call still haunted her. In it, Keely discovered all the petals had fallen off the rose in her mother’s painting and scattered across the sheets of her bed. She stroked one, expecting to find velvety softness and touched the stickiness of blood. Shocked, she woke to find herself upright, gasping for breath.

  “Are you going to hire a replacement for Margo?” Ida shuffled a stack of proofs.

  Keely evaded the bird-like, beady gaze. “There’s no hurry. I’ll keep interviewing until I find someone we both like.”

  Ida nodded. Keely knew, however, she hadn’t been fooled by Keely’s assumed nonchalance. There was little sense in hiring anyone with Key Shot in mortal jeopardy.

  Keely had decided to show Max the notes. Enough of flying solo—especially after finding another note taped inside the morning paper she’d retrieved before Ida’s arrival. No longer relying on cliché threats, this message was frighteningly blunt: “Friday. Noon.”

  So far today’s only bright spot was that Flo’s next column wasn’t due to appear until tomorrow. Keely toyed with the idea of calling Gifford, but decided in favor of maintaining the lowest possible profile. The notes were secure in plastic bags and if the tape didn’t turn up by Friday morning, she’d hand everything over to the detective.

  Unfortunately, Flo had been careful not to leave evidence tying her to the anonymous messages. I can accuse all I want, but it’s still her word against mine, Keely thought grimly.

  “Keely?” The parrots swung in disjointed rhythm as Ida leaned across the desk. “I’m worried. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to meet Tracee and Elaine and Jean Decker at Mimi’s Salon. Should be interesting. Jean, who dresses with the style sense of a cabbage, is picking out her wedding gown.”

  Keely pirouetted before the mirror to check the fit of her linen-weave slacks and tuxedo-style blouse. The upcoming session had her stomach in knots. How would the Deckers react? Embarrassed smiles or tense silences impossible to fill? With her equipment cases unaccounted for, Keely also had the handicap of relying on a back-up video which was bulkier and out-dated.

  Poor me! Keely gave herself a mental shake. No whining or self-pity. “Ida, I’ve still got loyal clients and I’m going to fight to keep them.”

  “Honey, you’ve got the grit and gumption to do anything you set your mind to!” Ida’s encouraging smile faded. “But getting folks to ignore that trash in the paper won’t be easy.”

  Keely plucked a peony from the vase and tucked the stem through her belt. “If Flo keeps trying to destroy Key Shot, she’ll find she’s got a fight on her hands.”

  “Windsurfing on a turquoise sea. The glory of Athenry Gardens. Dunn’s River Falls. Green Grotto. I envy you, Jean!” Mimi adjusted harlequin-style glasses encrusted with seed pearls. “Where are you staying? Port Antonio? Negril? Ocho Rios?”

  “Montego Bay.” Jean, dressed in upscale sloppy designer jeans and a loose pink shirt, tagged along in Mimi’s wake, a plump baby swan behind its stately parent.

  “Excellent choice! Don’t forget to ride the Appleton Express—the view from those vintage diesel cars is breathtaking.” Mimi never failed to applaud the proposed destination and always recommended something special, from a native dish of rum-soaked bananas to a craft shop which sold needlework handbags. Keely suspected that if a bride-to-be announced her upcoming trip to the moon, Mimi would suggest a visit to a certain crater.

  Wading beside Keely through pearl white carpet deep enough to lose an egg was Jean’s mother, a stylishly dressed woman with frosted hair and a discontented expression.

  “I hope Mimi can work a miracle.” Elaine Decker adopted a confidential murmur. “Jean’s been mooning over the most inappropriate gowns in the bridal magazines—”

  Tracee Dale had not shown up, phoning the excu
se that a professional emergency had arisen. Keely suspected that either the wedding planner was avoiding her or else she’d decided to duck out on what promised to be a difficult session with the strong minded Ms. Decker.

  Pausing just inside the viewing room, Jean fingered her engagement ring, an enormous pear-shaped diamond set in yellow gold. “It’s going to be ‘Romance in Jamaica,’ Mimi. Do you have a dress to fit my theme?”

  In reply, Mimi waved an imperious hand and mother and daughter took seats on fanback chairs upholstered in creamy velvet.

  Keely studied her client with a critical eye, hoping the hairdresser Jean chose for the wedding would tame the young woman’s curly brown hair without crushing its spirited bounce. Removing the video camera from its case, she inserted the tape marked “Decker-1” and checked the power supply.

  Mimi surveyed the room, alert for a fold of silk drapery out of place or a wilted flower in the gorgeous arrangements set in alcoves. Apparently satisfied with her inspection, she rang a crystal bell. “Prepare to be dazzled!”

  A model emerged from blush pink draperies, glided down a short runway and onto a heart-shaped dais. A rosy tinted baby spot flicked on, bathing the dress in an iridescent shimmer.

  “The sweetheart neckline and fitted bodice of this first gown fairly breathes romance. At each shoulder, a pure white rose anchors an illusion watteau train which drops in a graceful fall. The fabric is silk-face satin, the gauntlets imported Belgium lace. I recommend this Juliette cap for a headpiece.”

  Mimi sounded as if she were narrating a PBS documentary. The dais slowly rotated 360 degrees, the model never losing her pensive princess expression.

  Mrs. Decker smiled in relieved approval, but Jean twisted the hem of her shirt, picking at the fabric with unpolished nails. “It’s too traditional!”

  Mimi didn’t miss a beat. The bell rang again, its high, pure note banishing the first model and summoning another.

  “This portrait neckline will draw attention to your lovely shoulders, Jean. The empire waistline adds the illusion of height, the long pointed sleeves are figure flattering—”

  “I was thinking of a dress more along these lines.” Jean quit ragging her shirt tail to dig a folded piece of glossy paper from the hip pocket of her jeans.

  Except for tightening her lips, Mimi’s expression didn’t change as she studied the proffered page. “I can see why you admire this style, Jean, but we must ask ourselves whether the gown fits your theme. Jamaica is a place of beaches, bare feet, and suntans—not New York-style sophistication.”

  “Maybe I should wear a sarong instead.” Jean giggled.

  Her mother groaned under her breath.

  “Let’s look at this next gown,” Mimi interposed smoothly. The first model reappeared, this time draped in ivory silk featuring leg-of-mutton sleeves and crystal rose beadwork. Lulled into a soporific state by Mimi’s voice and the plush surroundings, Keely felt smothered, as though the four of them had been sealed inside the jewelled interior of a Faberge egg.

  However, Flo’s poison pen intruded even into this pastel palace. Mimi had been depressingly formal in her greeting. Keely was acutely conscious of the tension emanating from Elaine Decker, of the flash of doubt in her client’s eyes.

  One more incident would turn suspicion into conviction; even the most loyal clients would forfeit their deposits rather than risk association with someone capable of such betrayal. Key Shot wouldn’t survive a third robbery or any more of Flo’s innuendo-filled columns.

  “Businesses die.” The blunt phrase echoed in Keely’s head, punctuating the civilized debate being conducted. Jean, too short and round for the hip-hugging sheath shown in the advertisement, refused to allow Mimi to steer her to a more becoming style. Elaine Decker, smoothing her linen lap, looked as if she were in dire need of an emergency root canal.

  But who would want to destroy Key Shot? Pondering, Keely resigned herself that most of this footage would be unusable. Each model carried exquisite silk flowers—a single spray of trumpet lilies, masses of pink roses, an armful of brilliant yellow jonquils. One posed with a fan dripping with pearls and lavender ribbons while Mimi elicited details about the reception.

  “—bank potted ferns around rented hibiscus trees.” In her enthusiasm, Jean fairly bounced in her chair. “I’ll carry a bouquet of hot pink bougainvillea. We’ll serve spicy jerk chicken and rum punch and dance to the beat of a reggae band—even if I have to import one! The band, I mean. Not the chicken.”

  Forgetting her distrust, Mrs. Decker sent Keely an anguished look.

  Jean shook her head vigorously. “Mimi, we’re just not on the same wave length. I’m picturing shocking pink lilies and you’re showing me baby’s breath!”

  Keely zoomed in on her client’s eager smile. “I want a gown that simmers with the heat of the tropics. Think of me as a colorful parrot—not a cooing dove!”

  For Keely, the enthusiastic spurt of words conjured up a vision of Jean bopping down the aisle with a sequinned macaw stitched across one satin shoulder. Ida’s parrot earrings would add the perfect touch.

  Mimi, with a shrug of despair, exchanged resigned glances with Elaine and rang the bell in sharp summons.

  As the next model emerged, Jean gave a cry of delight and sprang to her feet. “I love it! Oh, Mimi, it’s gorgeous!”

  The gown featured a jewel neckline, bare shoulders, and lace gauntlets. Pearl-encrusted satin covered the bodice and outlined the model’s non-existent hips before dropping to a froth of cascading ruffles at the knee. More ruffles rose to mid-thigh in the back and foamed outward into a chapel train.

  “I’ll be a mermaid rising from the sea and I’ll tuck a hibiscus blossom behind my ear! Mimi, you’re a genius!”

  The salon owner rose, regally poised and slim in her mauve silk pleated skirt and double breasted jacket. “We should take a closer look before we make up our minds.”

  Head high and shoulders back, she floated toward the dias. While the women examined the dress from all angles, Keely continued to operate the camera on automatic pilot, her mind toying with fanciful possibilities for Jean’s formal portrait. Dramatic lighting, of course, and flowing composition. Props—perhaps a fisherman’s net backdrop, studded with golden starfish and giant pearls…

  Who says you’ll still be in business? an inner voice jeered. Businesses die. Just like people.

  Keely gritted her teeth and moved closer, in time to record the compromise reached. Mimi agreed to sell Jean the gown provided she lost at least an inch off her hips before the first fitting.

  Closing the camera case, Keely looked up to find Mimi watching her, the older woman’s eyes inscrutable behind her ornate glasses. “Do you have a moment, Mimi? I need to talk to you.”

  Mimi hesitated. A woman wearing a dusty rose smock over a cream skirt arrived to usher Jean and Mrs. Decker from the room.

  “Mimi, it’s important.”

  “Very well. Five minutes. My office.” She raised her voice. “I’ll join you ladies shortly for tea.” In an undertone to her assistant, she added, “Remove all iced cakes from the tea tray. Miss Jean’s diet starts today.”

  Moments later Mimi, with a sigh of relief, sank down in the chair behind her battered walnut desk and kicked off her shoes. Removing her glasses, she rubbed her eyes and cursed high heels in both English and fluent French. Away from the flattering pink tinted bulbs, she looked every one of her sixty years.

  Clients never saw this room. As usual, the closet-sized space was claustrophobically cluttered with swatches of silk, chiffon, faille, taffeta, and peau de soie in varying shades of pearl, platinum, ivory, eggshell, off-white, snow white, and cream. A headless dress form leaned drunkenly in the corner. Sketches of gown designs covered the walls from floor to ceiling; heaped up catalogs covered the only chair. Keely cleared them away and sat down while Mimi lit up a cigarette.

  “Theme weddings, pah! These circuses will be the death of me if the cancer sticks don’t get me first.” She sm
oked fiercely, blowing out belligerent puffs. An air purifier hummed behind her in a vain effort to keep pace. “My next appointment’s moving to Seattle after the wedding. I suppose I’ll end up designing her a gown featuring a salmon outlined in brilliants!”

  Tapping ash into a silver bowl filled with pearl headed pins, Mimi groused, “I’m a dinosaur. Girls don’t honor tradition. They scorn gloves, proper etiquette. Formal, semi-formal—it’s all the same to them.”

  She snorted. “Jean wants to look like a mermaid. Her mother calls me, begs me to ‘hint’ her precious lamb into something more suitable. But my hands are tied! You saw her, it was impossible to coax that silly girl into an appropriate dress—”

  Definitely stalling. This from a woman who wouldn’t hesitate to tell someone that her new rouge made her look like a fever victim. “Mimi, I’m not here to debate Jean’s taste. If she wants to wear a fish tail, that’s her prerogative. I’d rather discuss the robberies.”

  Mimi looked at her shrewdly and stubbed out the cigarette. “You’re in the hot seat, aren’t you?”

  “I’m innocent, Mimi. A victim of circumstance.”

  “Anyone who says otherwise deserves to be seen in public in those dreadful Spandex shorts.” Mimi wound the narrow band of a tape measure plucked from the cluttered desktop around her wrist. “A shame I can’t help you.”

  Keely recognized a stone wall when she ran into it. “Can’t or won’t?”

  Mimi’s gaze slid away. “I was horrified when I heard what happened to Tricia and Dorothea.”

  Keely leaned over to pick up a silk poppy lying near her shoe. She blew dust from its crinkled, white petals and tried for a casual note. “You supplied the wedding gowns, Mimi, and you’ve always got an ear to the ground. What’s the gossip?”

  Frowning, Mimi unwound the tape measure. “Fear’s in the air. We thought our boat was too big to be rocked—and we suddenly realized the name of our ship’s the Titanic.”