Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes

by Christine Arness

  Her first thought was one of relief that Damien and his henchmen had not paid a visit to her studio. Trying to ignore the anxiety gnawing at her concentration, Keely loaded both medium format cameras and tucked rolls of 220 VPS film, filters, lenses, and a camel’s hair brush into her bag.

  After running through a mental checklist, she placed her cameras, tripod, and equipment bag near the door. Max wandered restlessly around the room.

  “I’ve got to change for the wedding, Max.”

  “Take your time. We’re on schedule.”

  The polite, disinterested tone of a stranger. Keely smiled wretchedly and let herself into the house, leaving Max standing in front of the portrait wall. This is what you wanted, she reminded herself forlornly as she climbed the stairs. No ties, no obligations. After this weekend, Max will be free to walk away.

  The first thing she saw when she entered her bedroom was her mother’s painting. The picture had been painted as therapy during a rehab session years earlier. The remaining petals of the rose seemed to tremble in an invisible breeze. Keely imagined plucking them one by one. He loves me. He loves me not.

  Not! she told herself fiercely. Not after last night! Standing on her toes, Keely reached up and removed the painting. With an irrational feeling of relief, she leaned it on the floor, turning its face to the wall.

  Despite Max’s disclaimer about schedules, Keely changed into her black dress in record time. Fastening her left earring, she hurried downstairs and into the kitchen, her intention to get a glass of apple juice from the refrigerator.

  She stopped and stared at the blinking red light on the answering machine. Weighed the other earring on her cupped palm, the hand Max had kissed. A romantic gesture most women would have wept over. “You don’t deserve to be happy,” she muttered fiercely and rewound the tape.

  The third message was from Jess. “I just read the newspaper—have you gone crazy? I’m begging you, don’t give my name to the police—I don’t want anything to happen to my girls!”

  Fear, with a tinge of hysteria. Keely felt swamped with contrition for having caused the other woman such distress. “It’ll soon be over, Jess,” she murmured aloud, as an unfamiliar voice from a competing newspaper berated her for having granted an interview to the Lake Hope Ripples.

  Two messages later, Mimi: “Keely, you don’t know what you’re doing! You’re going to end up ruining us all if you persist in this madness. Flo is dead, haven’t you caused enough trouble?”

  My friends, Keely thought wearily, listening to a series of sharp clicks. Damien, up to his old tricks of intimidation, evidently hadn’t figured out that Keely hadn’t stayed home, meekly waiting to be terrorized.

  She flinched involuntarily when her tormentor’s voice boomed from the speaker. “You’ve been getting my messages, haven’t you? Final warning. Talk to the police on Monday, and you’ll be exchanging horror stories with Flo. Face to face.”

  The earring slipped through Keely’s nerveless fingers and fell to the floor. Numbly, she bent to retrieve the glittering bauble, but Max’s hand closed over it first.

  “That was Damien.” His voice and breath sounds were equally harsh.

  Keely nodded, still in a crouched, defensive posture. Engrossed in listening to the tape, she hadn’t heard Max’s arrival.

  He grabbed her arm and assisted her to her feet. Although his grip was gentle, Keely could sense the latent strength held in reluctant abeyance. “This isn’t the first time he’s called you this week, is it, Keely?”

  Reaching out her hand for the earring, she made no answer. With an inarticulate roar, Max flung it across the room. His gaze scorched her face and she involuntarily retreated a step. “I’m sick of your childish attempts at secrecy, Keely. Do you think I’d have spent my time ordering vegetables and arranging table plans if I knew that cutthroat was still harassing you?”

  The anger in his voice flicked Keely on the raw. Instead of confessing that he was the person she’d been trying to protect, she snapped, “I’m a survivor, Max. I’ve survived because I don’t rely on other people. If you want to define childish, throwing things is pretty high on the list.”

  Moving with deliberation, she retrieved the earring from the floor, keeping her back to Max to conceal from him that her hands were shaking.

  “Throwing things is childish? I seem to recall you busting up a TV with a baseball bat!”

  “I didn’t—that was an accident—”

  She heard the thud of Max’s fist on the kitchen table. “I’ve had it. I’m fed up with this lone wolf, don’t-need-nobody-but-myself attitude of yours. Open your eyes, woman! I’m here. I’m here for you!”

  “So easy to say.” Keely spun around, skirt flaring. The words flowed from a deep wellspring of pain. “I’ve fallen too many times in the past because I leaned on a promise not worth the breath used to make it!”

  “The key word here is the past, Keely. The past.” Max visibly fought for control. “I studied your portraits again. They’re good—have the potential to be great—but in each one you held back. An artist always imposes their will onto a portrait. The viewer sees the subject as they do. But you’re too busy snipping off dangling emotional threads—”

  “Because I can’t afford to get tangled up. I’ve kept my life together, whole—in one piece! I consider that an achievement.” Keely gave up trying to fasten the earring post and dropped it onto the countertop beside the answering machine. “Why can’t you understand?”

  Max shook his head, his expression one of baffled frustration. “You’re defining your life in terms of your business. That’s why this whole mess has been so devastating for you, Keely. You’ve suffered as your business bled out.”

  “Of course, I’ve suffered! My business is important—”

  “But it’s not your life!” Max gestured wildly. “You’re smothering your soul. People, relationships, that’s what’s vital to survival! I’ve watched you interact with Ida. I’ve seen your compassion for Rose, Mimi, and Jessie. That part of you isn’t dead yet, no matter how much you deny it even exists!”

  Keely was defeated. How could she describe the hollowness inside that never went away? She’d tried desperately to fill that emptiness, reaching out first to her mother, then to Eric. She yearned to experience the exquisite intimacy of two souls intertwined for eternity.

  Secure in the richness of a functional family heritage, Max knew the sustaining empowerment of love and she did not. An invisible barrier loomed between them that this man, with all his passion and empathy, could never scale.

  She tried to dismiss him gently. “I’m not asking you to be here for me, Max. I’m releasing you. You’re free to turn the reins of Feast of Italy over to Anna Marie and leave town tonight.”

  Max’s outthrust jaw might have been chipped from marble. “I vowed I’d see you safely through this weekend, Keely, and I intend to keep that promise. You won’t be able to add me to the trophy list of those who’ve failed you. I’ll be in the car.”

  The door slammed behind him. Trophy list! Shaken, Keely leaned against the counter for support, the palms of her hands pressed against her burning face. She didn’t know whether to be grateful or to weep.

  She closed her eyes, but couldn’t shut out the vision of Max’s contemptuous expression. She heard the echo of anger mingled with hurt that she’d deliberately refrained from turning to him for help.

  Keely finally managed to fix the other earring in place. She shook her head, the dangling jewelry brushing her neck. Any chance for a relationship was gone, smashed by her own hands. Drained, she started toward the door, halting when the phone rang in sharp rebuke. Now who had she failed? Ida? Jess? Moira?

  She picked up the receiver simply to punish herself.

  A familiar voice. “Still want the tape?”

  Jackson! Keely anticipating this call, had emptied her savings account, taking the money in cash. “How much do you want?”

  “I’ll make it easy on you—unforeseen cir
cumstances are forcing me to blow town. Five thousand. Cash.”

  Keely felt a tingle of relief. The light signalling the end of a long, dark tunnel glimmered in the distance. “When do we make the exchange?”

  “Tonight.”

  “But I’m booked for a wedding!”

  “So am I. Who do you think will be driving the bridal couple? I’ll find you.”

  Jackson severed the connection. Keely hurried to the back porch and retrieved an envelope taped inside a newspaper stored in the stack set aside for recycling. Counting out five thousand dollars, she tucked the fat envelope into the bottom of her camera bag and hurried out to the car where a grim-faced Max waited.

  “Isn’t the Maypole marvelous!” Courtney Fairmont, now Mrs. Andrew Ransom, flung her arms wide as she gazed up at the ribbons of russet, hunter green, sky blue, and deep gold which spanned the room to form a silken canopy.

  Although May Day had been nearly two weeks ago, Courtney scorned the calendar, utilizing the traditional pole as the center point for decorating the medieval banquet hall.

  Keely snapped another photo of the princess bride. A portrait neckline framed Courtney’s white shoulders and delicate star diamond necklace, a gift from the groom. A high pointed tiara studded with brilliants nestled atop the reddish blond hair that cascaded down her back in rolling waves.

  Gathering up her cathedral length train, Courtney flashed an ad perfect smile. “I’ve just had the most marvelous idea.”

  Keely advanced the film and gestured to the right. “How about moving over so I can get a shot of you by the head table?”

  “You mean the high table.” The bride obediently posed to admire tall white candles, silver love lanterns, and winding ribbons which matched the Maypole’s silken bands. “Keely, some of the college kids who were supposed to play living medieval statues didn’t show. I’d appreciate if you’d choose a costume, get into the spirit of things.”

  “I’d like to get one of you and Andrew holding the ends of a Maypole ribbon.”

  “Keely, you didn’t answer my question.” Courtney signalled to her husband to move into the picture. Giggling, she wrapped a hunter green silk band around both of them. “How’s this?”

  “Say ‘honeymoon’!” Keely took two exposures, one of the couple grinning at the camera and the other as they kissed, looking deep into each other’s eyes.

  Hugo Fairmont strode up. “How’s my little girl doing?” In defiance of the discreet “no smoking” signs posted around the Pavilion, he was puffing on a slender black cigar.

  “Marvelous, Daddy,” Courtney bubbled. She handed the end of the silk ribbon to one of the decorator’s staff to be re-anchored to the wall and shaped her mouth into an adorable pout. “But Keely’s not cooperating.”

  “Is that so?” Hugo swung around to stare at Keely, his heavy jaw jutting.

  “Yes, Daddy. She says she won’t wear a costume, but I want her to! She’ll have more fun.”

  “I’m here to take pictures, not dress up!” Keely protested, stepping back as Hugo blew an insulting cloud of smoke in her direction.

  “You’ve taken at least four rolls and you’ve got your assistant videotaping everything. We can spare you for a few minutes. Go on, Keely, put on a costume!”

  Patting his daughter’s satin-clad arm which was wound around his thick waist, Hugo gave Keely a stiff nod. “Humor my girl, Ms. O’Brien.”

  Whatever Courtney wants, Courtney gets. Keely bit back an indignant retort. She had no desire to spend the evening dressed as a scullery maid or whatever quaint costume might await her, but she needed Hugo’s signature on a check.

  She still hadn’t received a final payment from the Postwaites and, if things went as planned, tonight would cost her five thousand dollars. A small price to pay for getting evidence against Damien, she reminded herself.

  Keely paused to photograph Courtney’s grandparents as they applauded a “statue” which came to life to juggle oranges and apples. Lugging her camera bag which seemed to weigh more with each passing minute, Keely headed off to the dressing rooms.

  She felt anticipation mixed with frustration. Jackson was indeed chauffeuring the bridal couple, but so far the only thing they’d managed to exchange had been a significant look as he handed Courtney into the limousine at the church. As soon as the meal was underway, Keely planned to slip out to the parking lot in search of the chauffeur.

  Even in a wheelchair, Anna Marie dominated the kitchen. A frown creasing her olive toned forehead, she demanded, “How much ricotta cheese is in that sauce, Max?”

  “The right amount.” The queen is back, Max thought resignedly. How was he supposed to keep his promise to protect Keely with his aunt intent on conducting a catechism of every dish?

  Anna Marie extended her hand in an imperious gesture. “Give me a taste, Steve.”

  Jumping to instant obedience, Steve hurried over. Anna Marie accepted the wooden spoon as if it were a royal scepter and rolled the sauce on her tongue, her face creased in contemplation.

  Max wiped his brow as he awaited the ruling. The kitchen temperature rose as the warming ovens were opened and the capons removed. Five workers had formed an assembly line to arrange the main course on warmed plates.

  “Too much mustard, not enough lime juice, but not bad,” was the grudging verdict.

  “Thank you,” Max said dryly. “Is there anything else you’d like to shred before we serve? Lettuce, broccoli, me?”

  Anna Marie’s hair, as defiantly black as her beaded jet gown, was razor cut in a page boy style. She glanced around, hair swinging against her cheeks, looking for something else to criticize. “Why French service? I would have thought that Russian would have been more appropriate. Max! Pay attention!”

  Max started guiltily. His mind had strayed out into the banquet hall with Keely. His aunt glared at him, puffing up like a bantam rooster faced with a rival.

  “Keep your mind on business, mister.”

  Max was heartily sick of being ordered around, but he knew Anna Marie’s haughty demeanor covered a severe case of “first night” jitters. They both knew that despite the sudden influx of bookings, Feast of Italy wasn’t out of the woods yet.

  He gave her a soothing smile. “To be perfectly authentic, we should serve roast peacock or baste a fatted calf on a spit. For a genuine medieval feast, guests would be paired off and made to share wooden trenchers, but somehow I don’t think that idea would fly in this crowd.”

  “Don’t try to be funny, Maxie. If I want stand-up comedy, I’ll go to a club or ask your uncle why he forgot our anniversary for the third year in a row.” Anna Marie wheeled herself over to sample a stuffed date.

  Karla sliced bread, the knife blade flashing up and down. She gave Max an encouraging smile. “Pete told me the guests are gobbling the swithin cream like it’s their first food in days. The chardwardon’s disappearing fast, too.”

  “Squash blossoms.” Anna Marie sniffed from her perch. “If those people knew they were eating squash blossoms…”

  Max started toward the swinging doors, but his aunt stopped him with an outraged cry. “Where do you think you’re going? You can’t waltz out there looking like that!”

  Max glanced down at his elegant white shirt and sharply creased black pants. “Why not?”

  Anna Marie indicated a waiter who’d just returned with an empty tray. He was clad in a slashed tunic provided by the same costumer who had outfitted the “living” statues scattered throughout the banquet hall. “He’s dressed to go out and mingle. You’re not.”

  “Low burner it, Anna Marie. I’ll be right back.”

  “Max, Hugo Fairmont is paying us a fortune to maintain the illusion of a medieval feast for his daughter. If you’re going into the banquet hall, you have to look the part.”

  “If you think I’m going to put on a pair of tights—”

  She pursed her lips and gave him a shrewd head-to-toe survey. “Stop squawking. You’ve got better legs than most women.”<
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  Karla chortled, almost slicing off a chunk of her thumb; the other kitchen workers grinned. Max directed a fierce scowl around the room and everyone bent to their tasks, gleeful smiles still in place. Anna Marie’s mouth set in an implacable line. Any moment now she was going to order Max to go and sit in his room until he could be a good boy.

  “I would think you wouldn’t mind doing this for Feast of Italy, Max, after all the trouble of the past few weeks.” Anna Marie smoothed the skirt of her gown. “But I suppose I should just be grateful that I’ve still got a business, tottering as it is…”

  “All right.” Max flung up his hands in exasperation. When any of his female relatives adopted that martyred tone, he knew he was licked. “I’ll put on a costume. Maybe they’ve still got a jester’s cap and bells. I’ve sacrificed everything else for Feast of Italy—what’s a little pride?”

  Max made a dramatic exit to scattered applause, but changed his mind about the absurdity of wearing costumes when he met Keely emerging from the women’s changing room. Clad in the garb of a serving wench, she struggled to adjust the neckline of a busty blue gown, a task made difficult by twin burdens of camera and equipment bag.

  “Need some help?” Max deftly relieved her of the bag.

  “Thanks.” Flashing him a nervous smile, Keely also allowed him to take the camera.

  Max surveyed with appreciation the low cut gown and wreath of blue silk flowers banding Keely’s hair. “I didn’t expect to see you getting into the medieval spirit.”

  “I wore boots and a hat for Tricia Westhaven’s reception,” she pointed out crisply. “Besides, I’ve just been told that whatever Courtney wants, Courtney gets. What are you doing here?”

  He lied. “Looking for you.”

  Surprise flickered in her eyes. “I thought you’d washed your hands of me.”

  Max couldn’t believe how much the mere sight of her affected him. Grinning like an idiot, he shook his head. “Never.”

  “You’re a glutton for punishment,” Keely retorted, clearly uncomfortable. “Are you going to put on a costume? Do you see yourself as a juggler? A minstrel?”