Murder of a Wedding Belle

by Denise Swanson

  “Owning an expensive car doesn’t impress me.” Skye attempted to distract her mother. “It doesn’t take any special talent to make a car payment each month.”

  “He collects art, too,” May gushed, ignoring Skye’s comment. “It’s a shame he couldn’t come with her so the family could meet him, but he’s paying for everything. They’ve even hired a wedding planner from Beverly Hills who’s going to be in Scumble River for the entire month before the wedding.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Skye understood her mother’s awe. May had never had a lot of money, so being able to spend it on frivolous nonessentials seemed like a fairy tale to her. “But I’m sorry. The answer’s still no.”

  “I wish you’d reconsider, Skye,” an elderly voice quavered from the bed.

  Skye whirled around. She had been so intent on her conversation with May, she hadn’t realized that someone else was in the room.

  Cora Denison, Skye’s grandmother, swung her legs over the side of the mattress and struggled to stand. At eighty-five, she had buried a husband, two stillborn babies, and a teenage grandson. Up until Halloween, she’d made a batch of her famous Parker House rolls nearly every Sunday, but she hadn’t been feeling well for the past few weeks.

  Skye rushed to Cora’s side and helped her to her feet, then handed her the cane that had been leaning against the wall. Skye’s heart sank. Having lost both her grandfathers and Grandma Leofanti, she wasn’t ready for her last remaining grandparent to die, but it was clear that Cora was failing.

  Once she was steady, Cora said, “I’d really like you to be in Riley’s wedding.”

  Skye opened her mouth to explain why she couldn’t, but a movement near the door drew her attention. Her father, Jed, was standing on the threshold, his faded brown eyes pleading with Skye to agree to her grandmother’s request.

  What could she do? Skye knew a lot of people thought she needed to grow a spine where her family was concerned, but there was no way she could disappoint her grandmother or her father, both of whom rarely asked her for anything.

  She forced a smile to her lips. “If you want me to, Grandma, I’d be happy to be Riley’s maid of honor.”

  As she gave Cora a hug, Skye mentally shrugged. How bad could it be? All she’d have to do was buy a few gifts, throw a bridal shower, and attend the rehearsal dinner, the ceremony, and the reception. The wedding planner would do the rest.

  Suddenly a shiver ran down Skye’s spine. She wasn’t sure whether it was brought on by the thought of an eighth ghastly bridesmaid’s dress hanging in her closet or the idea of a swarm of strangers descending on Scumble River. Considering her experiences, she had a theory that mixing a horde of out-of-towners with a crowd of Scumble Riverites nearly always produced a lethal concoction. She sure hoped this wedding didn’t turn out to be the event that proved her hypothesis correct.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Belle of the Ball

  May

  Skye frowned as she peered through the peephole of her front door. What was a fashionista clutching a Chanel umbrella doing on her porch? What possible reason could a woman who looked like this have for showing up at an isolated old house along a barely paved farm road in Illinois on a rainy Saturday afternoon?

  Her visitor wore Couture Couture tuxedo-style pants, a silk blouse with a ruffled bib, and a blond mink shrug. Skye had seen the exact same outfit in Elle and knew it cost more than a year’s tuition at the local community college. The woman’s blue-black hair was held back at the temples with Swarovski crystal–bow barrettes that emphasized a dramatic widow’s peak. Her bright red lips pursed as she rang the bell a second time.

  Bingo, Skye’s black cat, was sitting by her feet, and she whispered to him, “What do you think she wants?”

  He twitched his tail and meowed sharply, perhaps trying to remind Skye of stranger danger—a lesson most children had learned by age six, but one Skye often ignored.

  “I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical reason why a woman dressed for lunch at Spago has shown up at my house.” Another ding-dong made Skye reach for the knob. “She probably has car trouble and needs to use the telephone.”

  Bingo’s ears flattened, and he seemed to shake his head.

  “A lot of cell phones don’t work around here,” Skye informed him. “I can’t just let her stand out there in the rain.” Keeping the chain on, she opened the door a few inches—she was ready to help someone in need, but she wasn’t totally naive. “Yes?”

  “I’m Belle Canfield.”

  Skye was taken aback by the woman’s high-pitched voice. She’d been expecting a throaty purr. “Nice to meet you.”

  Belle looked Skye up and down, a faint sneer on her perfectly made-up face. “Are you Skye Denison?”

  “Yes,” Skye admitted, wishing she had on something other than ratty sweatpants and a faded orange Illini T-shirt. “Can I help you?”

  “Well, duh. How about we start with you letting me come inside?”

  “And why should I do that?” If her visitor was going to be snarky, so was Skye.

  “Because we have an appointment.” Belle’s tone conveyed that she was stating the obvious. “You don’t think I drove down this rutted path you people call a street for the fun of it, do you?”

  “We have an appointment?” Skye tucked an escaped chestnut curl back into her ponytail. Surely she’d have remembered agreeing to meet with this woman. “For what?”

  “To go over details for Riley’s wedding.” Belle handed Skye a candy-apple red business card. Printed under her name were the words Bridal Consultant. “You’re my local liaison.”

  “No, I’m the maid of honor.”

  “Yes, but you’re also acting as my assistant.” When Skye shook her head, Belle enunciated slowly, as if she thought Skye might be a little dim, “You know, my helper.”

  “You’ve been misinformed.” A sharp wind dashed a sheet of rain into Skye’s face. “But I guess you’d better come inside so we can straighten this out.” She unchained the door and swung it open.

  “Finally,” Belle muttered loud enough for Skye to hear. The wedding planner closed her umbrella, leaned it against the side of the house, then stepped over the threshold, her Alexander McQueen ankle boots clicking on the hardwood floor. Belle’s gaze swept the foyer from the freshly painted mocha walls to the curving staircase. A slight smile on her lips, she said, “This is so sick. That spot would really rock it for a picture.”

  Sick? Was that the new word for hot? “Not really.” Skye pointed to her left. “Let’s sit in here while we figure this out.” She needed to get the woman seated before she insisted on a tour of the house. Only the foyer, parlor, and dining room were fully remodeled. Skye had run out of money before completing all the needed renovations, and she didn’t want to see Belle’s look of contempt when she saw the rest of the place.

  After they were settled, Belle asked, “Seriously, you’re telling me that no one talked to you about assisting me?”

  “Yes. I’m fairly sure I would have remembered that conversation.”

  Bingo, who had followed them in, began sniffing the woman’s legs. Belle moved her feet. “I’m allergic to cats.”

  “Would you like a Benadryl?” Skye fought the impulse to put Bingo in another room. She didn’t see any indication of red eyes or a runny nose, but if the bridal consultant was truly allergic, maybe she wouldn’t stick around long.

  “Let’s just get this over with.” Belle took a legal pad from her briefcase. “Next time we can meet somewhere else.”

  “I told you”—Skye barely held on to her temper—“there won’t be a next time.” Clearly the woman was used to ignoring whatever she didn’t want to hear.

  Belle’s squeaky voice was petulant. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Riley’s wedding planner.” Skye raised an eyebrow. “Unless you just gave me a fake business card.”

  “Not just a wedding planner.” Belle tossed her head. “The wedding planner to the stars.”


  “Sorry, never heard of you.” Skye watched the occasional episode of Access Hollywood and read the tabloids while waiting in line at the grocery store, but the name Belle Canfield didn’t sound familiar. “Whose weddings did you do?”

  “I don’t have to prove myself to you.” A tiny crease appeared between Belle’s eyes. “I’ve worked on plenty of celebrity weddings.” Under her breath she muttered, “This is so not fair. I’m way prettier than Paris Hilton, and my family’s way richer, but no matter how much I bust my ass, that ditzy nut job still gets all the media attention.”

  “Well.” Skye struggled to keep her expression neutral. Belle had seemed so confident until now, but her insecurity was starting to show. “I’ve still never heard of you.” Why would anyone want to be like Paris Hilton, someone who was famous only for being famous?

  “My father is Mickey Canfield.” When Skye remained unimpressed, Belle added, “Of the Canfield Corporation.”

  “Okaaay.” Skye drew out the word.

  Belle snapped, “Surely, even here in the sticks, you’ve heard of Canfield Hotels and Resorts.” She shot Skye a scornful look and said, “Now can we get to work?”

  “I really don’t care who your daddy is.” Skye narrowed her emerald green eyes. How shallow was this woman to think having a famous father would get her what she wanted? “I’m not the person Riley arranged to assist you, so we won’t be getting to work.” With her ebony hair, porcelain skin, and heart-shaped face, Belle may have looked like Snow White, but Skye wasn’t giving in to a spoiled princess who couldn’t take no for an answer.

  “Yes, you are,” Belle insisted. “Riley promised me her cousin, Skye Denison, would help me with the local parts of her wedding.”

  “Riley said she talked to me about this?” Skye felt as if she were in some alternate universe. “And I agreed?”

  “Her exact words were . . .” Belle held up a device the size of a thumb, and Skye heard Riley’s voice say, “Mom talked to Grandma . . .”

  Wow. Skye stared, fascinated by the tiny machine. Heaven knows what kind of trouble I’d get into with that gadget. I can barely figure out my cell phone. Although she admired technology, she also feared it.

  Focusing, Skye listened to her cousin say, “And Grandma talked to Great-Aunt Cora, and Great-Aunt Cora said Skye will help you with things in Scumble River.”

  “Damn!” Skye was getting better at saying no to her mom, but how could she refuse her sick grandmother? “Look, I’m a school psychologist and classes don’t get out for another two weeks, so I can’t do much until then,” she explained, hoping Belle would demand that Riley find someone who was available immediately.

  “I’m guessing you aren’t married”—Belle flicked a derisive glance at Skye’s curvy frame and disheveled appearance—“or you’d understand the importance of this event.”

  “No. I’m single.” Skye refused to be intimidated by the gorgeous wedding planner. No way could her incredible amethyst eyes be real. The color had to come from contact lenses. “How about you?”

  “Why would I get married? Unlike ordinary women, I can have the whole box of chocolates. Men find me irresistible, so why should I tie myself down to a buttercream when I can hook up with a different flavor every night? I only sleep alone when I want to.”

  Skye decided that if it was pointed out to her, Belle would just ignore the contradiction of a wedding planner who scorned romantic commitments, so instead she repeated her earlier objection. “Nevertheless, I have a contract with the school district, so I’m not free for the next fourteen days.”

  “I told Riley and Nick that I would only agree to put on an event of this size, two thousand miles away from my usual vendors, if I had a local person to assist me.” Belle pulled a cell phone from her purse. She pressed a single button, waited a couple of seconds, then said, “Riley, it’s Belle. No one told your cousin about helping me, and she says she’s too busy. If she won’t help, we’ll have to cancel everything here, postpone the wedding, and move it all back to California.”

  Skye cringed. Grandma Cora would be so disappointed. She’d explained to Skye how important it was that Riley get married in Scumble River, since neither she nor her sister Dora was strong enough to travel to the West Coast. Tapping the wedding planner on the arm, Skye asked, “How about Anita? I bet she’d be thrilled to be involved.”

  “No!” Belle held the tiny phone to her chest. “I do not have any contact with mothers of the bride. Not after The Incident.”

  “I won’t ask what happened.” Skye had had her own episode with a crazy mother not too long ago, and the school lawyer was still hashing it out with that woman’s attorney.

  Belle put the phone back up to her ear and listened, then handed the device to Skye. “Your cousin wants to talk to you.”

  Reluctantly, Skye took the phone. “Hi, Riley. It’s Skye.”

  “Skye, I’m so sorry no one asked you, but I thought Grandma took care of it. Please, please, don’t say no.”

  “The problem is I’m tied up during business hours while school is still in session,” Skye clarified.

  “Belle has me over a barrel. It’s only a month before the wedding, so it’s too late to rearrange everything. And Grandma would be so upset if the wedding wasn’t in Scumble River.” Riley’s voice took on a cajoling tone. “I know. Give Belle a couple of hours a day until school ends. Then when you’re free, you can act as Belle’s assistant full-time. We’ll pay you the same salary you’d get on your regular job.”

  “Well, I do usually work as a lifeguard at the recreation club during the summer, but it’s been such a cool spring, the board decided not to open the beach until the weather gets warmer.”

  “See, this will be perfect.” Riley giggled. “Nick’s got scads of money, and as long as I do a few little icky things he likes—thank God I’m double-jointed—he’s willing to spend it on me. Besides, Mom said you’re still trying to fix up that money pit you got stuck with.”

  “That’s true.” Skye had inherited the old house from Alma Griggs nearly two years ago. “The upstairs has barely been touched.”

  “So you’ll help Belle?”

  Could she handle working for a self-important socialite? It couldn’t be any worse than dealing with some of the teen queens at the high school. Wait a minute. That’s what she’d thought when she agreed to be Riley’s maid of honor last November, and now look what had happened.

  “Pretty please with sugar on top?” Riley pleaded.

  Skye gave in. “Okay. I’ll help her.” She’d probably only have to make a few phone calls, address some envelopes, and keep Anita out of the way. Surely Belle wouldn’t assign her any task that could ruin the wedding.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Countdown Begins

  June

  Skye cringed as the shrill blare of a whistle pierced the silence. It was late Saturday morning, a week before Riley’s wedding, and that strident trill could mean only one thing. Belle was about to pounce on her with another list of jobs that had to be completed yesterday.

  When it came to getting what she wanted, the wedding planner was willing to go as far as she had to, and if she had to throw someone under a bus, she made sure it was a double-decker Greyhound.

  Belle was relentless, terrorizing everyone in her path. It was a good thing that Skye had worked in public education for five years. After her daily dealings with bureaucratic principals and egomaniacal superintendents, a dictatorial bridal consultant didn’t faze her. She just kept her mouth shut, her head down, and avoided eye contact.

  When Skye heard a second whistle blast, she reluctantly stopped what she had been doing and inspected her work space—a cabin at the Up A Lazy River Motor Court. If everything wasn’t just the way Belle wanted it, there would be hell to pay.

  Since her arrival three weeks ago, Belle had been living in one of the cottages and using the two adjoining ones as storage. But as of today, the remaining nine rooms were reserved for the bridal party and vendors.r />
  Skye was presently in number five, the cabin housing the reception materials. One of her many duties as Belle’s assistant was to accept, verify, and inventory the daily deliveries of supplies. When she’d heard the first whistle, she’d been inspecting five hundred crystal champagne flutes engraved with the bride and groom’s initials that had arrived a few hours before via FedEx.

  Each couple would receive two glasses, a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Rosé, and a box of Godiva chocolates, all arranged in a pearl white wicker basket swathed in pink tulle and tied with gold ribbons. Single guests would receive a smaller version with only one flute. The welcome baskets were meant to convey the wedding’s colors and theme: Pink Fantasy Fairy Tale.

  The whistle screeched again, this time much closer, and Skye got up from the floor, dusted off the seat of her jeans, and braced herself.

  A few seconds later, the door slammed open and Belle entered the room. Skye estimated that her outfit—a bright fuchsia Juicy Couture cashmere hoodie and sweatpants—cost more than six hundred dollars, and that was without adding the Louboutin moiré espadrilles. Unless bridal consultants made a lot more money than Skye thought they did, Daddy Canfield must be paying for her wardrobe.

  “Why, GiGi, why?” Belle’s attention was focused on the cell phone she held clamped to her ear. “I’ve said I was sorry. You’ve got to make him give me another chance.”

  Who is she talking about? Skye studied the wedding planner, surprised to see that Belle had a weak spot, but there was definitely a hint of desperation in her tone and a suggestion of vulnerability on her face.

  Embarrassed at overhearing an obviously personal conversation, Skye turned toward the dresser and adjusted her headband as she tried to tune out Belle’s voice.

  “I bet you don’t have your hair colored around here.” Belle grabbed one of Skye’s curls, making her jump. “This shade of chestnut is hard to get right.”