“I think that outfit would go over very well at the lumberman’s ball,” said Tim. “Provided they held it in the woods.”
Margaret sighed. “Herb was quite taken with the three-piece pinstripe. But since it burned, he won’t wear anything but his own clothes. I’m afraid these are the best he has. But at least they’re clean and pressed.” She gave the shirt a doubtful look. “I think this might have been white at one time, but it’s the best I could do. I was able to get the grass stains out of the neckerchief. It has a rather nice pattern. Quite dressy. I’ll see if he’ll let me fix it up as an ascot.”
Tim tittered. “Now he’ll look as if he was on his way to the lumberman’s ball and ran into minor British royalty.”
“I think you did a good job to turn a pig’s ear into a purse,” said Gregoire.
“He could have attended the wedding in a burlap sack — Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson would have thought nothing of it — but it’s important for him to look the best he can.” She took another look at the ensemble. “I’m going to see if Rudley has found that oxblood belt.”
Miss Miller was at the desk, chatting with Rudley, when Margaret arrived in the lobby.
“Everything is going according to plan,” Miss Miller announced. “I’ve kept the parents away from the local newspapers.” She glanced around. “I’ve managed to escape Bonnie. She has some extravagant ideas for my hair.”
“I think I’ve got Mrs. Lawrence under control,” Rudley said. “I’ve commissioned her to write a poem to be read at the end of the reception and I’ve sent a complimentary bottle of champagne to her cabin. That should give her a good headache and, perhaps, keep her out of commission for a few hours.”
“I hate to think how she’ll react when she sees the wedding outfits.”
“I think they’re charming,” said Miss Miller.
“I’m afraid I couldn’t persuade Herb to wear a period costume,” said Margaret. “I did the best I could with his things. I was thinking that oxblood belt of yours, Rudley, would be a good match with his outfit.”
“I imagine a piece of binder twine would suffice.”
“Be nice, Rudley.”
Miss Miller’s gaze fell on the neckerchief. “That neckerchief doesn’t look very Herb.”
“He probably got it from a bin at the church basement.”
Miss Miller continued to stare at the neckerchief.
“Is anything wrong, dear?” Margaret asked.
Miss Miller shook her head, “No, I just thought it looked familiar.”
“Perhaps you saw one like it in the shops.”
Miss Miller started to say something, then smiled and turned toward the stairs. “I’d better drop in on Mother. She’s dying to see the dress.”
“Yes, dear.”
“She’s beside herself.”
“I’ll send up a bottle of white.”
“That might help.”
“Margaret, we’re going to have everyone half-potted before the ceremony starts,” Rudley said.
“Sometimes that’s for the best.” Margaret consulted her list. “I think we’ve done it, Rudley. I’ve telephoned the Reverend Pendergast to confirm Lloyd will be picking him up. The wedding clothes are ready. The cake is a work of art. You’ve taken care of Mrs. Lawrence.” She patted him on the arm. “That was chivalrous of you.”
He smiled a lopsided smile. “I’m a veritable knight in shining armour.”
She dropped the list to the desk with satisfaction. “Rudley, we’ve done it.”
“Don’t we always?”
“It will be perfect.” She gave him a hug. “Unforgettable.”
Chapter 18
Rudley moved closer to Margaret, said in a hoarse whisper, “Margaret, that man’s voice is like nails on a blackboard. I thought men of the cloth were supposed to be soothing.”
She shushed him. “Be nice, Rudley.”
Reverend Pendergast plodded along. Miss Miller’s attention wandered. She turned her head, let her gaze drift over the crowd.
Tim stood to one side with Tiffany, Gregoire, and Lloyd, then Officer Petrie, Officer Vance, Detective Creighton, Officer Owens, the Phipps-Walkers, the Sawchucks, Detective Brisbois, and Mary.
“Do you, Edward Simpson…”
Simpson turned to Elizabeth. “I do.” He paused, then repeated in a stage whisper to get her attention, “I do.”
She smiled, distracted.
“And do you, Elizabeth Miller…”
Miss Miller continued to scan the gathering. Her gaze fell on Herb. She tilted her head, frowned.
“The reverend is asking if you want to marry me,” Edward whispered.
She turned to him, smiled. “Of course, I do, Edward.” She returned her attention to the guests.
Reverend Pendergast sighed when he heard I do. “Thank God, that’s over,” he said.
Simpson’s forehead crimped. “I now pronounce you,” he mouthed.
Reverend Pendergast chuckled. “Oh, it’s not over. Of course. Pardon me. I now pronounce you man and wife.”
Mr. Bole hit the keys. Cheers erupted from the audience.
“Isn’t this wonderful, Rudley?”
“Wonderful, Margaret. The damned man has forgotten about signing the marriage certificate.” Rudley waved to get the minister’s attention, made a gesture to signify writing.
The reverend gave him an apologetic wave, took a folder from the table behind him.
“Now that would have been a fine state of affairs,” said Rudley. “If they hadn’t signed the registry.”
Margaret squeezed his arm. “You’ve saved the day. They would have been off in the woods without a licence.”
“I doubt if that would have put a damper on their activities, Margaret.”
“Be nice, Rudley.”
“I don’t know about you, Margaret, but I think the modern mores do take the mystery out of the ceremony.”
“Nonsense. Couples have been cohabiting without benefit of clergy since Adam and Eve.”
“We didn’t.” He paused, smiled a jaunty smile. “Although I could have been persuaded.”
“We were delighted when Edward and Elizabeth told us they were to marry.” Mrs. Simpson cast a loving eye toward the buffet.
“Spirited girl,” Mr. Simpson said. “Does our son the world of good. We were so worried Edward might marry someone like himself and have a perfectly boring life.”
Mrs. Miller helped herself to a glass of punch. “Elizabeth needs someone like Edward,” she told Detective Brisbois. “She’s impulsive. She needs a steadying influence.”
“She’s a dynamo,” said Mr. Simpson. He glanced to where Elizabeth Miller stood, talking to Herb. “But she has a tender heart.” He leaned toward Detective Brisbois, whispered, “Much like Mrs. Simpson.”
Brisbois smiled. “I guess you could say your son has followed in your footsteps.”
Mr. Simpson winked. “Pamela was always getting into one jam or another when we were courting. I went along with her because I really did admire her stuff, and” — he smiled — “it was a bit of a lark. Especially that incident where she thought her new neighbour was a spy for the Soviet Union.”
“I think I’ve heard that sort of thing before,” Brisbois murmured.
“I think the outfits Mrs. Rudley chose from Riverboat are charming,” Tiffany said. She stood on tiptoe to see over the crowd. The reception was in full swing, guests sitting here and there on lawn chairs, wandering from group to group, balancing plates of salmon and asparagus quiche, glasses of wine and iced tea. “When will the bride be throwing the bouquet?”
“I don’t know,” said Tim. “But I think I’ll be making myself scarce for that, thank you.” He plucked an olive from a condiment tray. “That thing has pieces of driftwood and shells in it, and some kind of bramble.”
Gregoire cast a look of satisfaction toward the buffet. “She made it herself, which makes it unique and special.” He checked his watch. “In a few minutes I should be bringing
down the desserts.”
Tiffany clapped her hands. “And the cake.”
“The cake,” said Gregoire, “will not be coming out until I have the undivided attention of the blessed couple.”
Tiffany scanned the crowd. “Mr. Simpson is just over there with the Benson sisters, but I don’t see Miss Miller.” She smiled. “Oh, there she is, talking to Herb.” She lowered her voice. “Aunt Pearl’s taken quite a shine to him.”
“When he is fixed up, he is actually quite an attractive man,” said Gregoire. “Almost distinguished.”
Tiffany nodded. “Perhaps if he were to establish a permanent residence, he could collect his pension and have a reasonable life. I know the Rudleys would fix him a room in the coach house.”
“I don’t think he wants that,” said Gregoire. “He is footloose and fancy-free. The world is his oyster.”
“I’ll bet that oyster gets chilly around January,” said Tim. He glanced around. “I don’t think the romance of the wedding rubbed off on the Lawrences. She’s standing by herself, looking down in the mouth. He’s glad-handing with the rest of the guests.”
“I am so looking forward to the bride throwing the bouquet,” Tiffany said. She edged away, ignoring Officer Owens, who was waving at her hopefully.
“Tiffany is determined to catch the bouquet,” Tim said. “I don’t know why. It’s not as if things are going smoothly with any of her beaux.”
Gregoire aimed an index finger at him. “You do not understand the mystique surrounding the catching of the bouquet. It singles you out to all of the eligible bachelors.”
“I didn’t know you were such an expert on bouquets.”
“I have caught one or two, although it was by accident.” Gregoire straightened his tie. “I’m going up for the desserts.”
Elizabeth Miller thought she had lost sight of her quarry. She had watched during the ceremony as Bonnie crept closer to Herb, hovering like a moth before a flame. She had headed in her direction but was detained by groups of well-wishers. She had to stop and acknowledge them and thank them for attending, a sentiment she felt sincerely but found inconvenient at that moment. By the time she reached Herb, she had lost sight of Bonnie. She chatted with Herb for a few minutes, then began to work her way through the crowd again. Finally, she reached clear ground. She hoisted up her skirts, climbed up onto a bench, and caught sight of Bonnie working her way toward the edge of the crowd, a frozen smile on her face, a hurried word here and there. She reached the edge of the crowd, took a quick look back, then scurried away.
Elizabeth looked around. Where was Detective Brisbois? She scanned the crowd but couldn’t spot Creighton, who should have towered over everyone. Edward was halfway across the lawn in conversation with Mr. Bole. She hesitated, then made a decision. She hopped off the bench and headed toward the cabins, nodding and smiling to the Sawchucks, who assumed she was headed for a bathroom and made no attempt to detain her. She skipped past the inn and down past the Elm Pavilion.
Bonnie entered her cabin. Elizabeth crouched behind a spruce and waited.
Within minutes, Bonnie Lawrence reappeared, something balled up in her fist. She cast a frightened look around, then headed toward a garbage can at the back of the Elm Pavilion. She lifted the lid, dithered, then turned away and headed back toward her cottage. She stopped at the doorway, vacillated, then headed west along the lake and into the woods. Elizabeth Miller stepped out from behind the tree and followed, darting in and out among the trees. Bonnie stopped at a bluff fifteen feet above the water.
Elizabeth stepped forward. “Bonnie.”
Bonnie Lawrence turned, her face frozen in horror. Then she smiled. “Why, Elizabeth, you startled me.”
“What are you doing?”
Bonnie fisted her hands at her sides. “I wanted to get away for a few minutes. Weddings are so intense.”
Elizabeth took a step forward. “What do you have in your hand?”
Bonnie laughed. “Oh, just something I picked up.” She shrugged helplessly.“This is so embarrassing. It’s a secret. A little tradition of mine. When I attend a wedding on the water, I like to throw something out onto the waves. It’s good luck.” She turned toward the lake.
Before Elizabeth could react, Bonnie tossed the object toward the lake. “There,” she said, smiling, “done.”
Elizabeth ran to the bank and looked down. The object Bonnie had thrown had missed. It lay a foot from the water’s edge, riding back and forth on the ebb and flow.
The next thing Elizabeth Miller knew, she was tumbling down the embankment.
“Miss Miller.” Gregoire broke through the foliage, stopped, his jaw dropping as he saw Bonnie push Miss Miller. “My God.”
Bonnie hurtled past him toward the cabins.
Gregoire ran to the edge of the bluff. “Miss Miller.”
She lay there, face down in the water.
“Miss Miller.” He scrambled down the bank, reached Miss Miller, and pulled her out of the water. “Are you all right?”
Chapter 19
Elizabeth Miller lay on the settee on the veranda while the paramedics flashed lights in her eyes and questioned her about the date and her whereabouts. Simpson hovered at the railing.
The paramedic inspected the wound. “Superficial,” she said. She took out a large Band-Aid.
“Lucky that drop wasn’t any further,” said Brisbios.
“Lucky Gregoire was so eager for you to see the cake,” said Tim.
Brisbois pushed his hat back. “Gregoire saved the day. If he hadn’t pulled you out right away, you would have drowned.” He stood up. “Are you guys going to take her in?”
“To be on the safe side,” said the paramedic over Miss Miller’s protests.
Brisbois held up a hand. “Do what she says, Miss Miller.”
“But I want to know what happens.”
He grinned. “I’ll talk to you afterwards. Right now, I’ve got some work to do.”
Bonnie Lawrence looked very small, sitting in the chair across the table, her arms wrapped around her chest. She had been fingerprinted and photographed, not looking her best, hair dishevelled, eyes wide and unblinking.
“Bonnie,” said Brisbois, “we’re going to be taping this interview. You understand?”
She nodded.
“You need to answer in words.”
“Yes,” she said.
Brisbois read the particulars into the record, noting the presence of Bonnie’s lawyer, a tired-looking man from a prestigious firm. The lawyer had rushed down from Ottawa the minute he received the call.
Brisbois had Bonnie state her name and address, then sat back to review his notes. Creighton sat beside him, his legs crossed.
Brisbois put his notes aside and leaned forward. “Mrs. Lawrence, you understand why you’re here?”
She smiled like an eager student about to give a correct answer. “Because I killed Evelyn Hopper, and you think I tried to kill Miss Miller.”
Brisbois nodded. “A witness, Mr. Gregoire Rochon, saw you push Elizabeth Miller off the bluff. She fell fifteen feet into the water. She was knocked unconscious. If Mr. Rochon hadn’t come along, she would have drowned.”
“I suppose so.” Bonnie sighed, then brightened. “But I had to.”
“You had to?”
“Yes. She recognized my scarf. The hobo must have found it. He was wearing it.” She shuddered. “I know I’ll never be able to wear it again, not after he’s had it around his neck.”
Brisbois stared at her.
The lawyer touched her arm. “Bonnie.”
She pushed his hand away. “It matches Tee’s tie. I knew she’d noticed that. I had to get rid of it.” She wrung her hands. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Let me repeat for the record,” — Brisbois glanced at his notes — “you’ve previously confessed to killing Evelyn Hopper and have signed a document to that effect.”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“And in that confession you sai
d you pushed Elizabeth Miller because you were worried about the scarf. You knew you had lost it in the woods the night you assaulted Evelyn Hopper. You’ve admitted you assaulted Elizabeth Miller because you believed she recognized the scarf and deduced you had killed Mrs. Hopper.” He shrugged. “You were correct. That’s exactly what Elizabeth Miller deduced.”
“Yes.” Bonnie shook her head slightly. “I know. I could see her even during the ceremony. She was looking around. She wasn’t behaving like any other bride I’ve ever seen. I had to get away. I knew she was looking at me and at the hobo. I knew she knew the scarf was a match for Tee’s tie and she knew what had happened. I had to get rid of the tie.” She glanced at her lawyer. He was busy taking notes. “Miss Miller is one of those women who couldn’t imagine coordinating her accessories with her husband’s. She never said that directly, but she said other things. I knew what she was thinking. Everybody else always said how nice we looked together.”
Brisbois smiled. “You did.”
“And if she’d just minded her own business…” Bonnie stopped, flushed, apparently aware of the anger in her voice.
Brisbois waited her out. When she spoke again her voice had recaptured its sweet, pleading tone.
“She followed me. What was I supposed to do ?” Bonnie looked to Brisbois for validation, got a blank stare. Creighton answered her by looking away.
Brisbois looked down at his notes. “Now, reading from your previous statement, on the night Evelyn Hopper was killed, you went to her home. You wanted to talk to her because you thought she and your husband were having an affair.”
The expression in her eyes sharpened. “I know they were. I followed them in the city. Tee and I used to have lunch together every day. Then he started making excuses. It was her. He was seeing her.”
“Did you confront him about the affair?”
She studied her hands. “No,” she said finally. “I thought he would get tired of her. I thought if I didn’t let on I knew, we could just go on as if nothing had happened. But when he said he wanted to come here for his fishing trip — he takes one every year — I knew he was coming to see her.”
A Most Unpleasant Wedding Page 17