“She could have changed her name, Clare,” Loretta pointed out.
Duh. I hadn’t even thought of that.
I went out of my way to drive past the antique shop. Open for business and packed, as usual.
All through the soup-and-salad special at the Wagon Wheel, I riffled through mental files, searching for anyone who even vaguely resembled Danielle.
Zip.
Loretta picked up the lunch check—I wasn’t supposed to notice, but I think she held her breath until her credit card went through—and we headed for her casita, and the waiting wedding gown.
“I got it for half price,” Loretta said proudly, pulling a cloud of ivory taffeta from the huge dress box waiting on the bed. A faint, nervous blush suffused her perfect complexion. “It’s a twelve, but I thought we could baste it.”
I let her off the hook, but knew she’d deliberately chosen a larger size. She was trying to be diplomatic, and I couldn’t fault her for that. “It’s beautiful,” I said, and I meant it. “Do we have time for the alterations? The wedding is tomorrow.”
“Of course we do. I used to sew, before I got rich. Try it on.”
I did.
Thank God it needed to be taken in.
When we got home, there was a package waiting on the front porch, propped against the screen door. I was wary of explosive devices until I remembered that Eli Robeson had mentioned a wedding gift. Sure enough, the name and return address in the upper-left-hand corner were his.
Inside the house, Loretta and I greeted the dogs, and I opened Robeson’s package. It was elegantly wrapped, the card signed with warm regards.
I tore open the box, raised the lid, and laughed out loud.
“What is it?” Loretta asked. She’d been occupied with the wedding dress, shaking it out and hanging it in the coat closet next to the front door.
I held up a Kevlar vest.
The expression on Loretta’s face told me she didn’t get it.
“Bulletproof,” I explained.
Life has a funny way of hinting at future events.
One of these days, I’m going to start paying attention.
Loretta and I were trying to cook when Emma came in from school that afternoon. With the lobster’s cruel demise a thing of the past, we’d tuned in to the Food Channel again, and we were whipping up something called Easy Beef Surprise.
It was going to be a surprise, all right, and Sonterra was the most likely victim.
Emma took one look at us and burst out laughing. “Whatever that stuff is, I’m not having any,” she announced, craning her neck to peer into our mixing bowls from a safe distance. “It looks radioactive.”
“A little moral support, please,” Loretta said with a twinkle. “I’m poor now, and I have to learn to cook.”
My niece set aside her schoolbooks and turned a wry gaze on me. “What’s your excuse?” she asked.
“Prewedding jitters,” I answered, and I was only half kidding.
Emma opened the refrigerator and peered in. The pickings had been better since Esperanza had signed on, and she copped some rice pudding and a few slices of American cheese. “I figured you’d use the bones in the basement as an excuse to postpone the ceremony,” she said mildly. Eli’s Kevlar vest was still on the table, in its fancy gift box, and my niece paused to admire it. “Sweet,” she said, in a tone some teenagers would reserve for cashmere. “Can I try it on?”
“Be my guest,” I said. The woman on the Food Channel had gone on without us, and now Loretta and I were in culinary no-woman’s-land.
“We could log on to the Web site,” Loretta suggested. “Print out the recipe and fill in the gap.”
“Just add sawdust,” Emma put in.
Resigned, and a little relieved, I set my bowl down on the floor for Waldo and Bernice. Waldo took a sniff and backed off like a bomb-dog scenting nitroglycerin. Bernice took his word for it and wouldn’t go near the stuff, either.
Observing, Emma laughed again and unwrapped a piece of cheese for each of them. “You’d think they’d been trained at CDC headquarters,” she said. “Biohazard division.”
“Very funny,” I replied, but I couldn’t help grinning a little.
Loretta looked disappointed. I think she seriously thought she would starve to death if she didn’t learn to whip up an Easy Beef Surprise.
I patted her back. “Don’t sweat it,” I said. “I’ll go online and get the recipe for you right now.”
My friend sighed again and shook her head. “It’s probably not edible,” she said. “I don’t think we were supposed to put in a whole box of baking soda. That was for soaking the pan afterward.”
Emma snickered into her pudding cup.
“Just for that,” I told my niece, putting a consoling arm around Loretta’s slightly slumped shoulders, “we’re tuning in to the next episode.”
“Oh, great,” Emma said. “Is there any ipecac?”
Loretta giggled, then refocused on the TV, squinting. “That looks like some kind of chicken dish. Do we have chicken?”
Sonterra dragged in just about suppertime and eyed the supermarket pizza boxes waiting on the table with good-natured disdain.
Loretta and I played cards, working around the delivery cartons, while Emma stood at the counter, chopping vegetables for a salad. I knew she’d caught the expression on Sonterra’s face when she said, “Look on the bright side. The Chicken Delight didn’t turn out any better than the Easy Beef Surprise.”
Sonterra looked momentarily mystified and crossed the room to lean down and kiss the top of my head. “Don’t play the jack,” he said.
I threw in my cards and gave him a look of mock-exasperation.
“What’s the deal with Danielle Bickerhelm’s disappearance?” I asked when he went to the fridge and helped himself to a beer—like Emma’s after-school snack, the six-pack was there by the grace of Esperanza.
“We’re looking into alien abduction,” he answered, and tipped the beer can.
Danielle and I wouldn’t be turning out an Easy Beef Surprise together anytime soon, but I was concerned that she was missing.
“You could show a little more concern,” I pointed out.
Sonterra sighed. “I stopped by the hospital to visit Suzie this afternoon,” he said. “She’s coming around, but she hasn’t said a word. When I asked her if Lombard was the one who kidnapped her, she turned her face into the pillow.”
“Sounds like a yes to me,” Emma said, scraping a colorful pile of veggies off the cutting board and into the salad bowl.
“Has it occurred to you that Lombard might have snatched Danielle?” I asked Sonterra.
He widened his eyes at me. “Gosh, no,” he said, plucking a piece of green pepper from the salad bowl and munching. That was when he spotted the vest. “Whose Kevlar?”
“Mine,” I answered. “Eli Robeson sent it as a wedding present.”
Loretta brightened, abandoned the game of solitaire she’d begun after I folded, and rushed out of the room. It must have been the word “wedding.”
“What’s up with her?” Sonterra asked.
“She’s poor now,” Emma said. “And desperate enough to cook.”
“God help us,” Sonterra remarked, still admiring the vest.
Loretta burst in with the wedding dress. “It’s a size twelve,” she announced, “but we’re going to take it in.”
Sonterra’s mouth twitched upward at one corner. “Tomorrow’s the day,” he said, watching me. “Did I tell you Eddie’s coming? He won’t look all that great in the pictures, but he’s up for best-man duty. Riding down with mi familia.”
Okay, so I was a little slack on the logistics. I’d been busy.
I jumped to my feet in a fit of panic. Shanda and Mrs. K were planning to attend as well. “Where are we going to put all these people?”
“Relax,” Loretta said. “They can stay at the ranch.”
I sagged into the chair again.
“Darn,” Sonterra teased,
his eyes laughing. “Now we can’t postpone.”
The phone rang. Sonterra sighed again and grabbed the receiver since he was the closest.
“Sonterra,” he said.
So predictable.
He frowned as he listened. “Sure,” he told the caller. “No, no—it’s no problem. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Who was that?” I asked. So predictable, taunted the voice in my head.
“Father Morales,” Sonterra answered, still frowning.
“Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Sonterra said, heading for the door again. “He said he wants to talk. Probably something to do with the wedding.”
“Then maybe I should go, too.”
“Or not,” Sonterra answered, and went out.
Twenty
A bout an hour later, when Sonterra got back from St. Swithin’s, I was standing on the coffee table with my arms outstretched like a scarecrow, while Loretta pinned and stitched the hem of old size 12. To look at her, you’d have thought she knew what she was doing, but I had tiny holes in my sides to prove she’d been exaggerating her sewing skills.
“It’s bad luck for you to see the bride in her dress before the ceremony,” Loretta put in, only to be ignored.
“So did Father Morales talk you out of getting married?” I asked Sonterra.
He looked thoughtful. “No,” he said, giving me a puzzled once-over, like he’d never run across a woman perched on a coffee table in an inside-out wedding dress before.
“Well, what did he want, then?”
“Could you please stop being a lawyer for five minutes?”
“Sure,” I answered. “If you’ll stop being a cop.”
Loretta looked up at me, rolled her eyes, and stabbed me in the ankle. I’m not sure, but I think she did it on purpose.
Sonterra took in the dress again, in a long, rueful sweep, and shook his head. “Did you leave enough room for the Kevlar?” he asked Loretta.
I put my hands on my hips. “Sonterra.”
He sighed once more, ran a hand through his hair. “It was weird. He seemed so anxious on the phone, but when I got there, he was all smiles and took me on a tour of the place. Showed me the back room, where they used to hold bingo games before the American Legion got blackout and ruined their action.”
“Maybe he’s trying to get you to join the Knights of Columbus or something,” Loretta offered. “Launch a campaign to take back bingo. Do the Knights of Columbus do that sort of thing?”
Sonterra looked at her as if she’d just volunteered to throw together a batch of Chicken Delight and serve it to people on liquid diets.
“Just trying to help,” she said lightly, and stabbed me again.
I flinched. “That is weird,” I agreed, albeit belatedly.
Sonterra was still staring at Loretta. “If you can’t afford your medication,” he said, “I’ll be glad to float you a loan.”
“Sonterra,” I repeated.
“Stand still,” Loretta said, unperturbed.
Sonterra scanned the room. “Where’s Emma?”
“Upstairs, doing her homework,” I answered, watching him the way he’d watched Loretta a few moments before. “Sonterra, what’s the matter with you?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “The whole thing with Father Morales—”
I was concerned, and not just about Father Morales. Sonterra had been up to his armpits in dead bodies ever since we arrived in Dry Creek, and he’d stayed relatively cool. Now he was oddly jumpy.
“Are you finished, Loretta?” I asked.
“I can take a hint,” she said.
“I’ll drive you back to the Wagon Wheel,” Sonterra told her.
I put a hand on Loretta’s shoulder for support and stepped down off the coffee table. “I’ll do it,” I said.
For a moment, it seemed that Sonterra would put up an argument, but in the end, he didn’t. “Is there any of that pizza left?” he asked.
“I hope that isn’t a reference to the size of my wedding dress,” I responded.
Sonterra crossed himself, à la Esperanza, and ducked into the kitchen.
“You don’t have to leave,” I told Loretta. “You can sleep on the couch.”
“Whoop-de-do,” Loretta said.
I went upstairs, exchanged my wedding gown for fresh sweats, came back down again, with the dress over my arm, and drove my best friend to the Wagon Wheel.
“Thanks, Loretta,” I told her, pulling up in front of her casita. It looked lonely and very small, huddled there in the dark.
She gathered the gown from the backseat, game for a long night of stitching. “For what?”
“For buying the dress. For trying to cook. For not hitting Sonterra over the head with the nearest blunt object when he made the crack about medication.”
She grinned. “See you in the morning,” she said, and climbed out of the Hummer. “You’re going to make a wonderful bride, Clare.”
I teared up again. Maybe it was the pregnancy. Maybe it was the stress of my daily life. Maybe it was the narrow escape from Easy Beef Surprise.
I waited until Loretta was safely inside the casita, then zoomed back to the house on Cemetery Lane.
I should have marked that day on the calendar.
Nobody called to report a body.
Nobody shot at me or tried to run me off the road.
Nobody uncovered a cache of skeletons anywhere on the property.
Red-letter, for sure.
Sonterra was in bed when I got upstairs, reading a battered Dean Koontz paperback. He gave me a tilted grin.
“You’d look better without those sweats,” he said.
I pushed the door shut, kicked off my sneakers, and stripped.
All Sonterra did was look at me, but by the time I dived into bed with him, I was hot as a flea-market pistol.
Sonterra rolled on top of me, resting on his forearms. Nibbled at my lower lip. “Last night for illicit sex,” he drawled. “This time tomorrow, we’ll be an old married couple.”
“This time tomorrow,” I said, punctuating the sentence with a little whimper when he slid a hand between my legs, “we’ll be doing exactly what we’re doing right now.”
Sonterra slid down far enough to tongue my right nipple to rigid attention. “We might be doing this—” He kissed his way along my sternum, to my belly. “Or this—” He parted my thighs and slipped under the covers. “Or this.”
I bit back a yelp of passion and gripped the headboard with both hands.
Sonterra teased. He tasted. And when I lost control, he reached up and covered my mouth with one palm while I bucked against his mouth.
I’d no sooner recovered from that orgasm when he was inside me, and driving me steadily toward another one. And another.
Like I said. Red-letter day.
The next day would be redder, for a whole different reason.
Loretta hoofed it over from the B&B around 9:00 A.M., bringing the dress. There were a few last-minute alterations, involving pins and the inevitable puncture wounds. Then Mrs. K arrived, with Shanda and a shy, good-looking young man named Lamont. Alex Sonterra, his wife, Alberta, and Eddie got there soon after that; Sonterra’s brother, sisters, and aunts were still en route.
Eddie was still bruised, but mobile. Sonterra was in his element, with his former partner and his dad and stepmother seated around the kitchen table, drinking coffee and catching up.
“Lamont’s majoring in systems analysis,” Shanda confided to Loretta and me, in the living room, where I was enduring the final fitting. By then, her boyfriend had joined the other group. “I like him a lot.”
Mrs. K seemed to look through us all, rather than at us, but she was in a good mood. “Ghosts everywhere,” she commented cheerfully. “I’ve never seen so many in one place.”
“They probably belong to the bones,” Emma commented as she came down the front stairway. Her faithful canine companions, fresh from the backyard, ran to meet he
r. Judging by my niece’s tone and manner, one would have thought the conversation was entirely normal.
Ever the trouper, Mrs. K shook off the semitrance. “I could use a drink,” she announced. “Anything alcoholic.”
Shanda gave a shudder, and I knew it had nothing to do with Mrs. K’s request for booze at that hour of the morning. “Skeletons in the basement,” she marveled, hugging herself and making her eyes big. “That is such a Clare thing to happen.”
“So how’s the online auction business going?” Emma asked. “And how’s the boyfriend?”
Shanda smiled at her, then glanced at me. “I’m not spending a lot of time on the eBay thing,” she said. “I always get my work for you done first.”
“I know you do,” I told her, grinning. “Tell us more about Lamont.”
“Some people,” Loretta put in, “would be more concerned about the ghosts.”
Shanda was still on the Lamont link. She wet her thumb, struck the air with a long stroke, and made an eloquent hissing sound.
“Hot,” she said.
“Awesome,” Emma said.
“Dozens of them,” Mrs. K remarked lightly. “They’re everywhere. How am I supposed to get a bead on the wedding with all these spirits blocking my view?”
I patted her shoulder. “I’ll get you that drink,” I said. All I had to offer was some of Sonterra’s beer. “It’ll steady your nerves.”
When the day was over, we’d all want to swill the stuff.
Twenty-one
S t. Swithin’s was jammed with Sonterra’s relatives, my brave little band of friends, and a number of curiosity-seekers bold enough to crash the party. Loretta and Emma were bridesmaids—Loretta in a smart blue suit, Emma in a red sundress. There were flowers, thanks to Father Morales’s secretary, but alas, no wedding cake and no photographer.
I simply hadn’t thought that far ahead.
Sonterra’s stepmother, Alberta, made an impromptu dash from the church to the nearest convenience store for a bag full of throwaway cameras, and Shanda called the supermarket on her cell phone to order up a couple of sheet cakes, promising to collect them after the ceremony. I heard her say she’d take anything they had sitting around.
I stood just inside the main entrance, next to Alex Sonterra, who was giving me away, perspiring in my altered size 12, my gaze fixed straight ahead. Father Morales was sweating, too.
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