Tying The Knot
Erin Scoggins
TYING THE KNOT
A Wedding Crashers Mystery, Book Two
Copyright © 2021 by Erin Scoggins
Published in the United States by Helium Press
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-953826-02-2 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-953826-03-9 (ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020923083
Printed in the United States of America
Cover design by Mariah Sinclair
Editing by Stacy Juba
Proofreading by Beth Hale and Virginia Carey
PO Box 97481
Raleigh, North Carolina 27624
www.erinscoggins.com
For Miller, Gibson, and Serena.
Dream big.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Get Your Free Cookbook
What’s Next?
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Erin Scoggins
1
According to Flat Falls legend, the ladies in my family have always had a flair for being overly dramatic. If the genealogy websites gave out awards for top-notch drama queens, the Wells women would have rocked their sparkling crowns all the way down the genetic line.
When I was a child, my aunt Beverlee would draw me into her lap to recount stories about my great-grandmother, a bootlegger who spent her best days running from the law. She eventually served time for sideswiping a backwoods sheriff with a souped-up Ford filled with her prized moonshine. When she got out of prison, she married him.
“Every woman needs a spectacular story to tell about her life, Glory,” Beverlee would say, and we’d spend hours in the shade under a knotty live oak tree in her back yard dreaming of the ruckus I was going to make in the world.
It turns out I didn’t make much of a ruckus.
But even though I didn’t wind up as a famous news correspondent or an international spy, I did develop a fondness for other people’s drama, mostly in the form of an obsession with trashy TV. From the name-calling to the hair-yanking, if a show provided an evening of theatrical commotion, I was there for the whole dazzling spectacle.
“I can’t believe you’ve never watched Romance Revival,” I said to my neighbor Josie as I motioned toward the television with a brownie-smudged finger. “They plucked a cast of losers from those smutty grocery store tabloids and asked them to duke it out for half a million dollars and the chance to find true love.”
“There’s no such thing as true love.” Josie sniffed.
“Exactly!” I thrust my fist in the air triumphantly. “It’s tacky and ridiculous, and you’re going to love it.”
“I’ve never played dress-up to watch TV before,” Josie replied, tugging at a gauzy feathered hat Beverlee had found buried under a pile of leftover felt in her craft closet. “It’s kind of exciting.”
Beverlee and I had always treated reality television like other people treat the Academy Awards—with respect, fanfare, and a colossal buffet. Sometimes we even dressed up for the occasion, like when we teased our bangs and scavenged vintage evening gowns for the finale of a show about geeky millionaires who returned to their high schools for prom re-dos. We cheered and cried like we were the ones strolling into smelly gyms in Vera Wang gowns with diamond bracelets dripping from our wrists.
“You’re beautiful, dah-ling,” I said, reaching out to tap her plastic glass with mine before tossing a sparkly white scarf over my shoulder. I had picked it out from the clearance bin specifically for the show, its iridescent sequins both gaudy and mesmerizing. And like sports fans with their favorite jerseys, I had been wearing it for every episode since the series began.
Romance Revival provided matchmaking for screw-ups, and since Josie and I both identified with that designation, we were dressed to celebrate and armed with a table of snacks that rivaled a Super Bowl party. We both stood ready to binge on carbs and other people’s mistakes under the guise of planning a wedding for the winning contestants.
But unlike the other bawdy shows that captured our evenings, I was being paid to view Romance Revival.
It was like winning the lottery. I got to eat and watch television. For money.
Josie gestured toward the array of snacks that covered the coffee table. “We have the two most important food groups–salty and sweet.”
Earlier that evening, I had crossed the rickety aluminum porch that stretched between our two apartments above the pawnshop, my arms piled high with bags of chips, microwave pizza, and Hostess cupcakes from the gas station. I made myself a nest on the floor in front of Josie’s big-screen television with my fancy wedding planning notebook and two plates to contain my game-day munchies.
“Just wait until Beverlee gets here,” I replied. “She was experimenting with double stacking trays in her Volkswagen so she didn’t have to make more than one trip. I’m not sure your place will be big enough for all of her baking, but you have better furniture and a TV that doesn’t lose its cable connection every time you flush the toilet.”
Our apartments were the same layout, only reversed, but where mine looked like a poster for rental furnishings, Josie’s was overflowing with hand-stitched tapestries and colorful sculptures. Crystals danced from long strands of transparent fishing line next to the open window, and a half-finished abstract painting rested on an easel in the corner, tubes of acrylic paint discarded at its feet. A wisp of incense trailed into the air from the kitchen counter.
But despite Josie’s hippie tendencies, she had an affection for modern technology. As a former computer security expert, she liked her electronic toys flashy and expensive. That included her high-dollar laptop and the giant television mounted to the wall across from the worn denim sofa.
Her screen was easily twice the size of mine, which made Josie’s apartment the obvious choice for our viewing party. It also helped that her place was farther away from the dumpster that occupied the alley between the pawnshop and the inlet, so the breeze carried the scent of fresh sea air instead of yesterday’s bait.
I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her television, one hand gripping a mini cheesecake and the other gesturing toward the screen. I checked out the parade of women with gravity-defying cleavage and abnormally long legs sashaying across the stage. “I’m thinking something sinful for the one who could pass for the evil stepsister from a Disney movie.”
Josie twisted her strawberry blonde curls into a topknot she secured with a paintbrush before grabbing a tortilla chip. “How are you supposed to pick out a wedding cake for someone you’ve never met?”
I flipped
through the stack of bios I had printed from the show’s website. “Hazel Archer is an underwear model who got arrested for riding a donkey naked through the middle of the Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York City. She was protesting because her local coffee shop took goat milk off their menu. What more do I need to know?”
She snorted. “Good point. What about a fudge cake? I’ve always thought chocolate paired well with scandal.”
“Dark chocolate chipotle it is, then,” I replied, scribbling in the margin of my notebook. “Spicy, yet sexy.”
On screen, Hazel leaned down and plucked a tissue from a box on the glass coffee table, trailing it slowly down her chest. She unleashed a deep, stuttering breath. “It’s so hard.” She aimed a duck-lipped pout toward the camera. “I’m the victim here. I was just standing up for what I believe in.”
“Oh, please,” Josie said with an undisguised look of disgust. “She’s trying to live down flashing her boobs by throwing herself, stilettos-first, into a mud pit filled with other people’s drama.”
“That’s the beauty of the show,” I replied. “It’s a cesspool of lousy decisions, custom-produced to make the rest of us feel better about our pitiful lives.”
Reality television had been a constant source of entertainment for me when my husband had turned out to be a loser trapped in a thief’s well-muscled body. Some days, watching other people’s lives disintegrate was the only thing that got me through.
“Speak for yourself. I only feel better about my life after I eat nachos,” she said with a nod toward my notebook. “When is your meeting with the producer?”
I had received a phone call from Mimi Wakefield, the show’s producer, two weeks earlier. She asked if my wedding planning business could put together a last-minute set for them to use when they filmed the season’s final episodes.
“It will be simple,” she said. “I’m sure you can do it in your sleep.”
And although I didn’t understand why they’d move filming all the way to North Carolina, I wasn’t about to refuse a new customer, especially one with deep pockets and Hollywood connections. Before her call, I was contemplating heading down to the retirement center to convince a few geriatric lovebirds they needed to tie the knot before the grim reaper came knocking.
“Sunday,” I said, and panic jolted through me at having less than two days to plan a pseudo-wedding for an unidentified bride.
As far as job opportunities went, they didn’t get much bigger than this. The publicity alone would make Carolina Weddings a household name in Flat Falls and would give my new company the injection of cash it needed to flourish.
I just had to dodge the jitters and general lack of knowledge and arrange something fabulous.
As an event planner in Raleigh, I had worked with tighter timelines than this, but I had never done it on film.
“What about Blondie?” Josie angled her chin toward an attractive woman seated on the edge of the sofa, tugging at the hem of her almost see-through white linen dress. “What’s her story?”
I glanced at my notes and summoned my best television announcer voice. “Our next contestant is Lily Page, wild-child heir of the Page’s Pickles fortune.”
I had been studying these people for the better part of two weeks, diving into their personal crises like I was preparing for an international trade summit.
The season was halfway over, and they had already eliminated ten contestants during a series of physical and emotional challenges. One woman was sent packing when she refused to let the producer put a live spider in her wedding dress. They tried to convince her it was good luck in some cultures, but she passed out before they could release the tarantula from its glass jar.
Another man bit the dust when he flipped a dune buggy during a combined scavenger hunt and paintball war in the Mojave Desert.
The few contenders that remained were vying for a dream wedding and a cash jackpot that would be awarded on camera in the middle of a romantic set designed by me.
So far, Lily Page was the frontrunner bride-to-be. With long blond hair, rosy cheeks, and perky dimples, she looked like she should be talking up her policy on global warming to a crowd of pageant judges. Instead, she was trying to live down getting caught on camera in a steamy lip-lock with the son of her father’s biggest rival in the middle of the pickle packaging plant.
The clip got five million hits in less than two days, which resulted in a drop in Page’s Pickles stock prices by more than half. Nothing halts pickle sales faster than a dirty video in a food prep area.
My gaze swung toward a tray overflowing with gherkins and Spanish olives, and I wrinkled my nose. “For her, something tart. What about lemon?”
Josie shook her head. “Too predictable.”
I tapped the pencil against my chin. “I’ve got it. Vanilla cake with buttered popcorn frosting to honor all those people sitting at home on their sofas watching her send her father’s company down in flames like it was a day at the theater.”
She gave me a high five. “What about the men? Are they a bunch of lawless losers, too?”
I thumbed through my notes. “Well, we’ve got a former professional surfer who was selling drugs out of his Winnebago and a white-collar criminal who appears to be on very familiar terms with an abacus.”
“Maybe I should go on a reality show,” Josie said with a wistful sigh. “I can’t do much worse than I already have. At least they’re putting their emotional baggage out there from the beginning.”
“It’s a show about finding romance with people who have proved they are idiots or convicts, Josie.” I motioned toward the TV. “Not the best place to find a new husband.”
She hiked up her pastel floral sundress to expose the black plastic band of the GPS monitor strapped to her ankle. “Do I need to remind you there’s nobody on Earth who knows better than I do what a mistake it is to marry a criminal?”
I ducked my head in a quick apology. Even if Josie wanted to fall in love with another felon, she couldn’t. She was stuck in this apartment for the foreseeable future while she paid for the sins of marrying the wrong guy to begin with.
‘Til death do us part quickly turned into “Until death or when you get me arrested for computer fraud and embezzlement.” Apparently, the Feds don’t like it when your financial advisor husband cons you into using your login to divert a hundred thousand dollars into his own account.
“That’s why we’re friends.” I beamed. “We have terrible taste in husbands.”
Josie acknowledged my contrition by stealing a potato chip from my plate.
“The producer said they’re bringing the last few couples to Flat Falls for the final showdown-slash-wedding.” I glanced at my notes. “I need to give them what they want.”
“Xanax and a daytime Emmy?” she suggested.
I crumbled my napkin and chucked it backward over my shoulder, watching with satisfaction as it bounced off her cheek. “An outstanding wedding planner,” I said, focusing my attention back on the screen, where the announcer was ushering out the potential grooms.
When Josie didn’t comment, I twisted around to look at her. She sat unmoving on the sofa, her eyes wide and her fair skin even paler than normal.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Did you eat a bad pickle?”
She didn’t respond.
My chest tightened. “What is it, Josie?”
She slid forward until her knees hit the carpet next to me and raised a finger toward the screen. “He’s out.”
I pointed a cheese puff at the TV. “Who? You recognize that guy?”
Her shoulders sagged as she dropped the rest of the way to the floor. “He’s not just a guy, Glory. He was my guy.”
“The surfer?” I asked. Out of the four men occupying the red leather sofa in the middle of the stage, he was the only one who seemed in Josie’s league. The others were a mishmash of hair plugs and dad jeans.
She shook her head. “Not that one. The one on the right.”
I released
a short laugh. “The guy with the bald spot and the sweater vest? Huh. I would have taken you more for a biceps lover, not a ‘let’s get frisky with your necktie, Mr. President.’ He strikes me as an investment—”
Josie threw her foot out, the ankle monitor making a loud clunk against the leg of the coffee table. “Banker,” she said. “And he is incredibly charming when you get to know him.”
Realization hit me with a sharp punch. “Oh.” I gestured toward the man who was smiling at the camera. “That’s your husband?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Or at least he was until he threw me under the jail on his way to a lighter sentence.”
I leaned back against the edge of the sofa and was about to pepper her with questions when Josie’s apartment door flung open.
Beverlee Wells-Bartholomew, my aunt and the woman who raised me after both my parents died, pushed into the room carrying a gingham-lined picnic basket brimming with foil packages. Dressed in a yellow floral romper with matching platform sandals, she resembled an over-ripe lemon. “Good, I haven’t missed anything.”
Josie rolled her eyes. “Come on in, Beverlee.”
“Scoots is running to the shop for more snacks.” Beverlee kicked off her sandals and wiggled her toes in Josie’s tan carpet.
Scoots Gillespie was not only Beverlee’s best friend, but also one of the nosiest people in our small beachfront town, a title she earned as a former attorney and the owner of the pawnshop that sat beneath our two apartments. People frequently came in to sell their treasured possessions and told her their saddest stories, which she shared with everyone else, claiming there is no right to privacy if you’d reveal your personal business to a stranger.
Tying the Knot (A Wedding Crashers Mystery Book 2) Page 1