by Elaine Viets
Phoebe sat on Miguel Angel’s right. “Hi,” she said.
He ignored her.
Across from Helen was the older man Phoebe had been flirting with. He sat next to a full-figured brunette in a daring red dress. The gentleman kissed the brunette’s manicured fingers. Phoebe smiled at him and said hello. He looked right past her. Two snubs in less than a minute.
A white-gloved server brought pasta in a cream sauce for the appetizer.
“Ew, fattening,” Phoebe said, and pushed hers away. Helen and Miguel Angel dug in.
The second course was Caesar salad.
“It’s delicious,” Helen said. “The chef used real anchovies.”
“More fat,” Phoebe said with disgust.
“Shut up,” Miguel Angel said through gritted teeth. “One more word out of you, and you’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me. I’m not working for you today. I am a guest, and I can do what I want.” Phoebe got up without excusing herself and disappeared.
“I’m going to find the men’s room,” Miguel Angel said. He didn’t come back for his lobster and prime rib. Helen finished hers and eyed his plate, but resisted eating her boss’s food.
The dinner plates were removed, and some guests were heading toward the dessert table. Helen heard cries of “Ooh, chocolate” as they approached the fragrant fountain and mounds of cut fruit.
The musicians packed up their instruments. In a corner of the dance floor, a DJ said, “I’m E.J., your electric DJ. Let’s have the new Mr. and Mrs. King Oden cut the cake.”
His voice was dislikable, boomy and sneery at the same time. His Hawaiian shirt was as loud as he was. Helen saw the bride flinch, then look around. King’s seat was empty. Did he wander off for a quick snort? Was he passed out drunk? Groping a wedding guest for his first official act of adultery?
“Where’s King?” E.J. the DJ said. “Come on, man, this is no time to be shy.”
The bride whispered something to her sister. Melody nodded and scurried toward the tennis courts. Cassie got up and hurried off in another direction. Helen wondered if they were looking for the groom, too.
“Oh, Kingy,” the DJ said in a singsong voice. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
No sign of King. Now there were murmurs among the guests. The bride looked frantic. She stood up, her bouquet abandoned by her plate. Honey gathered her skirts and managed an odd, hobbling run.
“I think she’s looking for King,” Helen said, but Miguel Angel still hadn’t returned. Phoebe was missing, too. Where did they go?
“Usually, the groom disappears before the ceremony,” the DJ tried to joke.
No one laughed.
“Okay, while we’re waiting for the groom to return, let’s play a golden oldie,” the DJ said.
He hit a button, and the Turtles began wailing “Happy Together.” The Turtles were old men now. Their young voices sounded eerie as they sang about investing a dime to call the woman they loved. When was the last time a pay phone call cost a dime?
The old song went on, the verses empty and endless, while the bride searched for her groom. Helen could hear her stiletto heels clattering on the terrace’s pink pavers, and her voice calling, “King! Where are you, King?” It sounded as if she was looking for a lost dog.
And where was Miguel Angel? Helen felt uneasy. The bride’s cries grew louder and more frantic as the Turtles sang that they were so happy together.
Helen saw the bride running toward the back of the mansion. Was she checking King’s yacht? Had he escaped by boat?
Then Helen heard a shrill scream.
“King, no! King!” the bride shrieked.
“I think she’s in the backyard,” Helen said to no one.
The other guests sat in stunned silence. Helen ran. She wasn’t hindered by high heels or wedding finery in her salon uniform of black shirt and pants. The wedding photographer followed, video camera hoisted on his shoulder. Mireya, his assistant, was nowhere in sight.
Helen got to the pool deck. The bride was standing by the vast turquoise pool, screaming,“No, no, no!” over and over. The front of her dress was drenched with water, the creamy poufs deflated like melting ice cream. Honey pointed at the pool.
Helen wondered why there was a giant inflatable toy on the bottom of the deep end. The new addition was black with pink rubber flippers.
Then Helen realized that wasn’t a toy.
The groom was facedown on the bottom of the pool, wearing that dreadful tux.
Chapter 5
“Help! Save him,” the bride said. “Get him out of the water. I can’t lift King. He’s too big.”
Jonathan, the sweaty young governor’s assistant, was the first to rip off his suit jacket and tie. He kicked off his wing tips, stripped to his blue boxers, and dove into the pool, still wearing his black executive-length socks. Helen was impressed by his quick reaction, and wondered if his job taught him to react in a crisis.
He was followed by the E.J. the DJ, who tore off his Hawaiian shirt, scattering buttons across the deck. He stripped off his tennis shoes but kept on his khaki shorts. He had about forty pounds of belly fat.
The young assistant had long, lean muscles and looked fit. The flabby DJ seemed to add to the confusion. The two men struggled to raise King’s body out of the water, but only managed to flip him over. Now King looked like he was waving with his fat flipper paws.
Honey screamed in horror.
Someone shouted, “Call nine-one-one.” Helen saw the glint of the sun on a squadron of cell phones and BlackBerries.
Barry, the drunken best man, tore off his jacket and pants, tried to step out of his cummerbund, and fell headfirst into the water with a geyserlike splash. He wore his cummerbund like a deflated inner tube.
A dark-skinned waiter shoved his tray on a table, knocking water glasses to the ground. He pulled off his white gloves and black vest, and joined the rescue attempt. Helen thought he might be helpful. He was muscular and younger than the best man.
There were now four men flailing in the water. The governor’s assistant tried to organize them. “Okay,” Jonathan said to Barry the best man and E.J. the DJ. “You two take King’s shoulders. I’ll take the lower right side and you, sir, take the left side. We’ll try to push him up and onto the deck.”
It didn’t work. King was too heavy. His wet, slippery body fell back into the pool. Honey cried louder, “Please save him.”
After much coughing and sputtering, the young assistant said,“Let’s each take a limb and tow him to the shallow end.”
The four half-dressed men formed a strange cortege as they carried King through the pool water.
The bride wept and wrung her hands. Wedding guests gathered to watch the spectacle, nearly pushing the front-row gawkers into the water. “Back up, people,” someone said, “before we have another pool accident.”
At last, the makeshift rescue team reached the shallow end. They dragged King onto the concrete pool deck. If he survives, Helen thought, he’s going to have major concrete burns.
“Watch his head. Watch his head,” Honey cried.
Water streamed from King’s wedding suit in small rivers and ran down his smooth scalp.
A woman screamed, “There’s a dead rat in the pool.”
More shrieks, until another guest figured out the dark object waving in the drain was King’s toupee.
“Stand back,” someone else cried. “Give him air.”
Even Helen could tell the groom needed more than air. His chest wasn’t moving and his body looked like wax and rubber. Helen wondered why the bride’s gown was soaking wet. Had Honey tried to pull her husband out of the pool before she called for help? Or had she pushed him in?
“I know mouth-to-mouth resuscitation,” Honey said.
“I just bet you do,” snarled King’s ex-wife, Posie. She had a wineglass in her hand and a mean look on her face.
“Daddy!” cried their daughter, Cassie. She ran surprisingly fast for someo
ne in high heels. She pushed her mother aside. Cassie seemed terribly young as she dropped down on the pool deck and tried to hug her father. She looked like a golden water sprite. The small camera dangled like a bracelet on her right arm. She started taking pictures of Honey trying to revive King.
King’s lawyer gently guided Cassie away from her father’s body toward an umbrella table. “You’ll help him more if you stay out of the way,” Harris said. His impeccable Armani was wrinkled and his bow tie was crooked.
“At least let me get him a pillow so he’s comfortable,” Cassie said. “He’s lying on concrete.”
“I think he’s supposed to be on a hard, flat surface,” Harris said. “It’s the best way to save him. Honey knows what she’s doing. She’s a nurse.”
The bride had bunched her shimmering skirts to form a pad so she could kneel on the wet pool deck. Honey loosened King’s brown bow tie, opened his soggy jacket, and pulled the studs out of his pleated shirt. Honey’s long, sheer veil trailed over his face. She tore it off and flung it behind her. It floated on the pool surface like an exotic sea creature.
Honey ran her fingers around the inside of King’s mouth.
“Why is she poking around in his mouth?” the drunken ex-wife, Posie, said. “Is she trying to steal his gold fillings?”
“She’s checking to make sure the airway is clear. I had CPR training,” said a man in a navy blue suit.
Honey tilted King’s head back slightly, then pulled open his jaw.
“She’s trying to break his neck,” Posie said.
“No, she’s doing it the right way,” the self-proclaimed CPR expert said.
Honey ignored her critics and her defenders. She pinched King’s nose closed, put her mouth tightly over his, and gave two quick breaths. Then she stopped and studied her husband.
“What are you doing?” Posie demanded. “Why are you pinching his nose? Why did you stop? Do you want to kill him?”
Honey said nothing. The CPR expert said, “She needs to make a tight seal if she’s going to get him breathing. She stopped to see if his chest was moving. That’s standard procedure.”
“Right,” Posie said. Her sarcasm was like acid. “And if she screws up, she’s a very rich widow.”
“Let’s let Honey work without interruption, please,” King’s lawyer said. “We don’t want to slow her down. She’s a trained professional. If she does something wrong, there are plenty of witnesses.”
“And you can sue,” shouted someone from the crowd.
Honey put her mouth over her husband’s and blew two more breaths. Then she stopped and studied his chest.
“No sign yet that he’s breathing,” Honey said. “I’m going to keep trying until help arrives.”
Cassie started crying. “He’s dead. He’s dead. My daddy’s dead.”
A man who looked like one of King’s creepy sex-industry friends came up behind Cassie. “Come with your uncle Max, sweetie.” His hand moved across her shoulder like a hairy spider. Cassie flinched at his touch, but Uncle Max didn’t notice.
“Honey is a good nurse,” he said. “She’ll help him.” Uncle Max tried to lead the dazed young woman through the crowd.
“You better do the right thing,” Cassie screamed at Honey. “You better save my daddy. I’ve got pictures.”
Cassie’s wail blended with the approaching sirens. Many of the guests by the pool looked relieved at the sound. Helen thought the trouble was just beginning. How long had King been underwater? Even if the paramedics saved his life, would he be brain-dead? And where were Miguel Angel and Phoebe? Mireya, the photographer’s assistant, was also missing. But her employer, Marco Antonio, was dutifully videoing the drama.
Four sturdy paramedics rushed in through the garden gate with a stretcher and a bright orange bag. They expertly lifted King onto the stretcher. One put a mask over his mouth and nose. King didn’t move. The paramedics brought out a portable resuscitator to help him breathe. Then they practically hurled the stretcher through the crowd.
The bride tried to follow. “That’s my husband,” she said. “I have to ride in the ambulance.”
“There’s no room for you in that big dress, ma’am,” the paramedic said.
Honey started to rip off the ruined skirt, but Harris stopped her. “I’ll take her,” he said.
The doors shut and the ambulance roared off, lights flashing and sirens shrieking. Helen wondered if the lawyer was naturally thoughtful or if he realized he’d just acquired a rich new client. “I’ll be right back, Honey,” the lawyer told her. “I have to get my car from the valet. We’ll follow King to the hospital.” The elegant lawyer would have been shocked to realize he really was an ambulance chaser.
The bride threw herself into a garden chair and sobbed. Honey’s pregnancy was clearly visible in her water-soaked dress.
Posie, the ex-wife, walked up to the weeping bride and said,“If he’d stayed with me, he’d still be alive. You killed him for his money, and now you don’t even have to sleep with him.”
“But I did,” Honey said.
“We can all see you slept with him,” the angry ex said.
“Why would I kill my own husband?” Honey asked.
“The same reason I divorced the bastard,” Posie said. Her face—cruel and expensively made-up—was a mask of hate. “King was crude and nasty. This way, you get his money without having to put up with him. You stole millions from my daughter, Cassie.”
“That’s not true,” Honey said. “King created a trust for his daughter.”
“But you and your new brat will get the lion’s share, won’t you?” Posie said. “King didn’t even make you sign a prenup, the way he did me.”
At that point, Helen realized the police were pouring through the garden gate in a blue wave. They’d had time to hear the whole ugly conversation between Posie and Honey.
Helen glanced at her watch. It was four thirty.
Honey had been married an hour and a half. If King was really dead—and really worth ninety million dollars—his bride had earned a million dollars for each minute of her marriage.
Chapter 6
King’s wedding guests scrambled for the exits like scalded roaches. Honey’s dream wedding had turned into a nightmare. It was a well-dressed riot.
A blonde in a nearly sheer dress slipped through the ficus hedge. The sharp twigs tore her expensive clothes and scratched her face. The blonde pushed her way through to freedom and emerged on the other side, badly scratched and nearly naked in her leopard-print thong underwear. Helen watched the blonde rip off her shredded dress, sling it over her shoulder, and lope across the lawn in high heels.
The blonde wasn’t the least bit self-conscious about her nakedness, and Helen wondered if she was a stripper or an actress.
A man in a hideous plaid tux nearly ran over a delicate grandmother in lavender chiffon. The plaid guy bulled his way through the fleeing crowd to the main door.
The bride was gone. The lawyer had led a bedraggled Honey to his Lexus and driven away. More guests tried to follow. Helen saw tuxedoed men in the driveway, waving money and promising huge tips if the valets got their cars now.
A thin old man with a black cane was nearly trampled by a linebacker in a gray suit. The linebacker rudely knocked the old man against a pillar and ran for the back door. The old man was trembling so badly he could hardly stand.
Women screamed. Men cursed and shouted. Peacocks screeched. Glasses and china crashed to the ground, and Helen could hear furniture breaking. Someone overturned the chocolate fountain table, and the Sterno ignited the tablecloth. Little flames started licking the covered chairs, and suddenly the flowers were roasting and the blue silk ribbons went up in an orange blaze. The flames fell upon the wedding feast like hungry guests, devouring tablecloths, napkins and filmy swathes of tulle.
More guests screamed and tried to push their way out. Some looked vaguely famous, and Helen wondered if she’d seen their faces on magazines in the supermarket checkout
line. The mad escape stopped when two police cars blocked the narrow drive, the only way out. Six uniformed officers, holstered weapons plainly visible, informed the valets that they were not to fetch any more cars without police permission.
Helen heard a police officer arguing with the wedding videographer. “I can give you the original tape,” Marco Antonio said. “But it’s a mini DV format. Do you have a player for one? I didn’t think so.”
“But I think I can lock you up for obstruction of justice,” the officer said. “Now, take a deep breath and ask yourself how much trouble you want to be in.”
The videographer waited a beat, then apologized. “I am sorry, officer. I wasn’t thinking. I have to protect my clients. Mr. Oden’s competitors would pay a lot of money for this wedding video, and I had to sign an agreement that I would not sell it.”
“You’re not selling it,” the officer said. “We need it for evidence.”
Now the photographer was all smiles. “Of course you can have the tape. Please let me make sure it’s stored properly, so we don’t lose anything. I can check it in my van.”
The officer followed the photographer outside. Ten minutes later, the officer was back with a small tape. He bagged it. The photographer gave the cop his card and waved good-bye.
Helen was nearly knocked over by a leathery-skinned woman with unnaturally red hair. “Sorry, sweetie,” Ms. Red said as she sprinted past.
Now Helen could smell smoke, and she saw a raging fire had developed in the dining area. So far, it hadn’t reached the house, but she couldn’t stand around watching the guests run away. She had to get out of there.
There were more sirens, and Helen wondered if someone had called the fire department, police reinforcements, or both. She thought many of the frantic escapees were sex-industry workers. Those people wouldn’t welcome any contact with the police, she thought.
Oh, hell, who I am kidding? I don’t want another close encounter with the cops, either. Not so soon after I was accused of murdering my ex-husband, Rob.
There was also the problem with the court in St. Louis. That had sent Helen on a zigzag course through the country before she wound up in South Florida with a new name and a new life.