Wall-To-Wall Dead

by Jennie Bentley

It took a few rings, but finally Derek answered. “Yeah?” I could barely hear his voice over the din in the background. Loud music and what sounded like yelling.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “You checking up on me, Avery?” But his voice was amused, so I didn’t think he minded.

  “I had a question.”

  “Shoot.” It sounded like he took a drink of something while he waited.

  “Where are you?”

  “That’s the question?”

  Not the one I’d called to ask, but now I wanted to know. “Strip club?”

  “Something like that. Don’t worry, I’m just looking.”

  “I’m not worried,” I said. “I’m sitting in the parking lot outside Guido’s.”

  “Why? Afraid to go in?”

  “Of course not. I just wanted to know if you knew who owns the place.”

  “Guido’s?” He took another swig of whatever-it-was. “Why?”

  “Just tell me if you do. It’s hard to hear with the music going on in the background. I want to get off the phone and let you get back to it.”

  “I don’t know who owns it. Nobody local. Flatlanders, I think.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Derek said.

  “Are you having fun?”

  He chuckled. “Oh, sure. A half dozen bachelors, a bunch of almost naked women, booze, and loud music. What’s not to enjoy?”

  I laughed, too. “Stupid question, I guess.”

  “Not really. I’d just as soon be home with you, with a pizza and a movie and Mischa trying to lie between us.”

  “I miss you, too,” I said, touched. “But I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “You know where to go?”

  “I’ll look up the directions on the Internet before I leave. I’ll see you around eleven.” The ceremony started at two, and it would take me a little time to get ready first.

  “See you then,” Derek said, just as the music in the background changed to something that sounded suspiciously like the intro to “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” The yelling intensified. “What the…” Derek said, sounding suddenly very awake.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Or nothing important. Just thought I saw someone I recognized.”

  “Melissa?”

  “Hardly,” Derek answered, but with a smile in his voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Avery.”

  He hung up. I did the same, and leaned back in the seat, trying to get comfortable. It was just after nine thirty. I had nowhere to be and no one to get home to. I could stay awhile.

  I was still sitting there an hour later, but I was seriously contemplating leaving. College students and other young people of both sexes had come and gone, but there had been no sign of Candy’s boyfriend. And I had to pee. I suppose I could exit the car and use the bathroom in Guido’s—or alternatively, hide under the tree where Candy had parked her car earlier—but Guido’s restrooms are meant for patrons only, and although I doubted anyone would stop me if I pushed my way through the restaurant to use one, I didn’t want the boyfriend to see me. And the second option was just plain undignified. I was thirty-two—too old to squat behind a Dumpster.

  And it was a good thing I didn’t, because just at the time I would have reached the bathroom at the back of the restaurant—or alternatively, just at the time I’d have been squatting, pants down to my ankles—the back door opened again, and Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome came out. If I’d been inside the restaurant, I’d have missed him. If I hadn’t…well, let’s just say that the idea of running through the parking lot zipping up my jeans so I could get to the Beetle and follow him before his car moved out of sight was just mortifying.

  The car was a sleek BMW, late model. Convertible, although the top was up now in September. The color was difficult to ascertain in the dark, but it was either black or navy blue, possibly green. And when it left the parking lot, it took off in the same direction as Candy: toward Barnham College and the condo building. I waited a few seconds and fell in behind.

  I expected to trail him to the condo, and be back where I started, but the Beemer’s taillights kept going past the turnoff for the Augusta Road. The BMW’s more powerful engine easily outstripped the Beetle’s, and by the time we zipped past the incline where I’d turned Derek’s truck nose-first into the ditch last autumn, beside the Stenhams’ now defunct property development, Devon Highlands, the Beemer’s taillights were yards and yards ahead.

  Next we passed the turnoff for Primrose Acres, a 1950s suburban development where Becklea Drive is located. I figured we were headed for Barnham College, but before we got there, the BMW signaled a left turn and zoomed across the road into another recent real estate development. This one was called Wellhaven, and from what I could remember from driving by in the daylight, it had a tall fence around it, with impressive wrought-iron gates that stayed closed unless a car just happened to be passing through.

  I slowed down as the BMW did just that. The heavy gates clanged shut behind it with a dull thump, and the headlights disappeared behind the wall, out of reach.

  —9—

  The Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception on Congress Street in Portland was stunning—almost enough to make me reconsider our decision to get married in the church in Waterfield, with Derek’s friend the Reverend Bartholomew Norton officiating. It was a big red brick structure in the neo-Gothic style, with pointed arches, three steeples, and a huge, round stained glass window. The plaque outside said it was dedicated on September 8, 1869, and the plaque next to that named it a National Catholic Historic Site and a Portland landmark, and said that it was listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

  “See that steeple?” Derek nudged me and pointed.

  I nodded. It was the tallest of the three, so it wasn’t like it was easy to overlook.

  “That’s the tallest structure in Portland. Two hundred and four feet.”

  I glanced at him. “How do you know?”

  “Middle school field trip,” Derek said. “We climbed to the top. You can see the New Hampshire mountains from there.”

  “Can we go up?”

  “If it’s open.” He put a hand on my back and guided me forward, toward the entrance. “And if you can make it in those shoes.”

  I’d driven to Portland this morning and changed my clothes in the hotel room. The shoes were the same pair I’d worn to Kate and Wayne’s wedding in December: black, strappy sandals with four-inch heels that I’d unearthed in Filene’s Basement in Boston last winter.

  The dress was new. For Kate and Wayne’s shindig, I’d worn an icy blue 1950s gown I’d seen in John Nickerson’s shop window and fallen in love with. I’d thought I’d looked pretty good in it, and Derek had certainly been very complimentary (even if Melissa had told me, rather condescendingly, that I looked “cute”). But you’re not supposed to detract from the bride on her wedding day, and my 1950s prom gown did make a bit of a statement. I hadn’t been worried about upstaging Kate—nobody could outshine Kate on her wedding day—but I didn’t know Carla, and I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot. So I’d come up with a new dress: less eye-catching, but hopefully just as flattering.

  It was my own design, and my own fabric. Raw silk, dyed in shades of deep yellow, with hand-painted black vines and flowers. I’d worn it as a sundress this summer, since it had a halter top and open back, but because I didn’t think the excessive exposure of skin would be terribly appropriate for an afternoon wedding—in the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, no less—I’d thrown a black shawl with silver threads around my shoulders. I’d even made an attempt to straighten my hair before pulling it back in what was supposed to be an elegant chignon. I hadn’t been too successful; strands were already escaping to frizz around my face.

  Nonetheless, Derek had told me I looked great, and had reinforced the compliment with a kiss that had curled my toes in the strappy sandals.

  “Wait till you see the stained glass windows,”
he said now, leading me up the shallow stone steps to the church. “And the tile.”

  “That stained glass window?” I pointed up as we passed under it and into the coolness of the old brick cathedral.

  “That’s one of them,” Derek said. “There are almost twenty. From the conception to the coronation of Mary in heaven. Munich glass. Thank you.” The last was directed at a young man in a tux who had handed us a program for the ceremony.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  Derek glanced down. “From the Royal Bavarian Glass Factory in Bavaria. Germany. Munich.”

  I knew where Munich was and said so. “The windows are German?”

  “Designed by Franz Mayer. They’re from 1909, most of them. The Immaculate Conception window—the round one, it’s behind the main altar—is from 1902. Also by Franz Mayer. So is the Rose window behind the pipe organ. The Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception is one of very few cathedrals to have all Franz Mayer stained glass windows.”

  “And you remember all of this from middle school?”

  “Oh no,” Derek said, “I’ve been here since then. Remember I told you I restored the stained glass windows in the church in Waterfield a couple of years ago? The windows here”—he gestured to them—“the whole cathedral, for that matter, was restored in 2000. I tracked down the guy who was in charge of it and got some instruction.”

  “And a bit of a history lesson at the same time?”

  He grinned. “He did like to talk. And I learned a lot.”

  Derek looked pretty good himself today, in a gray suit and tie with a blue shirt that matched his eyes. They were a little bloodshot, but not too bad, considering that he’d told me the bachelor party had kept going until almost four in the morning.

  “Will you be wearing that suit to our wedding?” I wanted to know.

  He glanced down. “I can. I thought you might want me to wear a tux.”

  My mind derailed for a moment, picturing Derek in a tux. He’d look fantastic. “Do you have a tux?”

  “Somewhere. I think. Or we could rent one.”

  I shook my head. “Afternoon wedding. Suit’s fine. And cheaper. Besides, you look great in it. Maybe I’ll just wear that dress I bought for Kate’s wedding so we’ll match. It’s such a pale blue it’s almost white anyway. I can stick a veil on to jazz it up.”

  “You’re not going to wear a white wedding gown?” He sounded almost disappointed.

  “I don’t exactly qualify to wear white,” I reminded him.

  He smiled. “News flash, Avery. These days neither does anyone else.”

  That was true. Melissa had worn white when she married Derek, and they’d already been going at it like rabbits. Kate had worn oyster white, and not only had she and Wayne been keeping company for years, but she had a daughter. I supposed I could find a white wedding gown somewhere if he wanted one.

  But then we were inside the cathedral, and I forgot everything else in my openmouthed awe.

  OK, so I grew up in New York City. I’m not Catholic, but I’ve been inside St. Patrick’s Cathedral once or twice. I’ve seen religious splendor before. Nonetheless, the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception was impressive. There were tall arches along both sides, held up by white pillars, and there were those stained glass windows Derek had talked about, gleaming with afternoon sun streaming through them. There was a white marble baptismal and a huge pipe organ that reminded me of the one in St. Patrick’s. There were bas-reliefs and lots of paintings, and there were those tiled pictures Derek had also mentioned. The Stations of the Cross, in shimmering, translucent tile.

  “Venetian glass mosaic,” Derek whispered in my ear when I halted for a better look at one of them. “Six thousand tiles per picture. A quarter-inch each.”

  “Wow.”

  He nodded. “Let’s sit. You can look at everything later. Including the tower, if it’s open. We have a couple of hours to kill between the ceremony and the reception.”

  I nodded, and slid into a row on the left, on the groom’s side of the church, tucking my skirt nicely and properly around my legs. Derek sat down beside me and took my hand. “So what did you do last night?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? After the meeting with Wayne, I went up to the condo and spent some time looking at it.” I told him some of the thoughts I’d had, and how I thought we’d be able to enhance the look and feel of the place. “I ended up on the balcony. And while I was sitting there, I overheard Candy talking on the phone.”

  “To?”

  “That same guy we saw her with at Guido’s last week. Remember?”

  “I’m not old enough to be forgetful, Avery,” Derek said. “How do you know it was him? Did you recognize his voice?”

  I hesitated, and contemplated lying. Since I was sitting in a church, I thought better of it. “I followed her.”

  He straightened up. “Excuse me?”

  “It sounded suspicious, OK? They were talking about the meeting, the one Wayne called, and Candy said that the police hadn’t asked her any questions about him. The guy she was talking to. I wanted to find out who he was, so when she left to meet him, I followed.”

  Derek didn’t say anything for several seconds. I braced myself, sure he’d chastise me for being careless and getting into trouble while he was gone. Not that I’d actually gotten into trouble, but you know what I mean.

  He opened his mouth. “Was Jamie there?”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “Jamie. Candy’s roommate. Was she at the meeting?”

  I nodded. He didn’t say anything else, and after a moment I added, “Why?”

  “I saw a girl last night who looked like her.”

  A girl? “One of the strippers, you mean?”

  “Yes, Avery,” Derek said patiently. “But if Jamie was in Waterfield, I guess it must have been someone else.”

  I shook my head. “Not necessarily. It’s only forty-five minutes to Portland. When did you see her?”

  “Just after I hung up the phone with you,” Derek said.

  That would have made it 9 P.M. Plenty of time for someone to drive from Waterfield to Portland and take her clothes off. Still…

  “That’s hard to believe. I mean, she looked so sweet when we met her. Didn’t she? No makeup or anything. I have a hard time imagining her taking her clothes off in front of a bunch of drooling deviants. Don’t you?”

  “I’m not a drooling deviant,” Derek said mildly. “And no, I don’t. Because I saw her. Or someone who looked a lot like her. With a lot more makeup and a lot less clothes on.”

  “Maybe she has a sister.”

  “Maybe. Although she’s not exactly from around here, is she?” He looked around. “Pretty place, isn’t it? They decorated it nicely.”

  I squinted at the interior of the church, and then at him. “Are you trying to change the subject?”

  “It doesn’t seem quite right to sit in church and discuss strippers,” Derek said. “I’ve never been all that religious, but I’ve gotta draw the line somewhere, and I think that’s it.”

  He rested his cheek on the top of my head, and we sat in silence while the church filled up with people.

  One of the ladies passing by caught my eye, and I lifted my head from Derek’s shoulder to follow her with my eyes. A woman in her late fifties, with short, blond hair going gray, dressed in a lavender dress with a matching cardigan.

  “What?” Derek said.

  “She looks familiar.”

  The woman ended up on the other side of the aisle, the bride’s side, on the second row.

  “Relative of the bride,” Derek said.

  “I’ve seen her somewhere before.”

  “She’ll be at the reception later,” Derek said. “You can get a better look at her then. Maybe you’ll remember where you’ve seen her.”

  I nodded.

  The processional started shortly thereafter, with traditional music from the pipe organ. Ryan and his best man came out to stand at the altar, while Carla’s maid o
f honor walked up the aisle, taking minuscule steps in her tight column of a dress.

  “Sister,” Derek muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Doreen.”

  Doreen was followed by a little flower girl throwing handfuls of rose petals to the left and right as if she were pitching at a softball game, and then a ring bearer who looked acutely uncomfortable in his Little Lord Fauntleroy suit. The color theme for the wedding seemed to be baby blue with pale pink roses, so the poor kid was decked out in shiny satin with a lacy collar and buckled shoes, with blond curls under a little cap. He was too precious for words, and a picture of him in this outfit would probably be prominently displayed at his own wedding, twenty-five years from now.

  “Do we need a flower girl and a ring bearer for our wedding?” I asked Derek, sotto voce.

  He gave me a sideways glance. “If you want them, we could ask Jill and Peter if we can borrow their kids. Or Alice’s. Although they live two hours away.”

  Alice is Derek’s stepsister, Dr. Ben’s wife’s elder daughter. She and her husband live in Boston.

  “Jill and Peter’s brood would be easier. They’re here in Waterfield.”

  Derek nodded. “Or we could ask Josh and Shannon.” He grinned.

  I shot him an incredulous look, and then had to giggle at the mental image of six-foot-five-inch Josh in the Little Lord Fauntleroy getup. Shannon would look great dressed as Little Boo Peep, but Josh would look absolutely ridiculous. It might be worth asking, just for the laugh.

  And then the wedding march started, and Carla came down the aisle.

  I’d only met her once or twice, and had thought she was an averagely pretty girl with soft, brown hair and a little too much junk in the trunk. The gown—with a nipped-in waist and big bell skirt—took care of that problem, while the bead-encrusted bodice and deep boat neckline made the most of her pale skin and slender neck. Her hair was curled and piled on top of her head, with a few strands pulled out to frame her face, and the whole thing was topped with a tiara and a frothy veil. She looked gorgeous, and when he saw her, Ryan forgot all about the solemnity of the moment and broke into a big, delighted grin. I fumbled for Derek’s hand. He shot me a surprised look and then a grin of his own, before he pulled the handkerchief out of his breast pocket with a flourish and presented it to me.