Murder of the Bride

by C. S. Challinor

  “As if !” she said with a hearty laugh. “Soon as my head hits the pillow, I’ll be out like a light.”

  How romantic, Rex thought.

  “Oh, Uncle Bobby,” he heard her exclaim as they distanced themselves. “Will it ever end? I hope he’s early. My back is that sore, and this little blighter kicks for England. Just wait and see—he’s going to be the next Beckham or else my name’s not Polly Thorpe.” She laughed in wonder. “Fancy that! I’m not Polly Newcombe no more.”

  “Any more,” her mother corrected in passing. “Honestly, Polly.”

  Helen strolled over to Rex, glass in hand. “Enjoying yourself ?” she asked.

  “Enormously. I’ve unearthed a family mystery.”

  “You would. And what mystery might that be?”

  “The missing Mr. Newcombe.”

  “That’s no mystery. Everybody knows about Tom Newcombe.”

  “Aye, but not what happened.”

  “Well, I can guess,” Helen said meaningfully, flicking her eyes in the direction of Victoria Newcombe, who was circulating among the guests playing the gracious hostess, clearly in her element. “And you have decided to get to the bottom of it?”

  “I doubt I could succeed where the police have failed.”

  “Don’t be so transparently modest, Rex. You’ve done it before.”

  “This happened a long time ago. Still, it makes for an intriguing social event. I shall now take extra interest in the Newcombe family, knowing this big question mark hangs over their heads.”

  “There’s only Victoria, Polly, and the merry widow from Wales who actually constitute family,” Helen reminded him. “And now Timmy—and, by extension, his brash brother and coddling mother.”

  Aunt Gwen, alluded to by Helen as the “merry widow,” stood on the other side of the reception room in the company of the bald home economics teacher and a distinguished-looking gentleman, whom Rex had noticed on the groom’s side of the aisle in church. Champagne glass in one hand and waving an hors-d’oeuvres on a cocktail stick in the other, the plump little Welsh lady looked to be having the time of her life as she alternately roared and hooted with laughter at what her companions were saying. Rex wondered if she bore any resemblance to her mysterious brother.

  “I’m sure many a man has dreamt of simply disappearing and starting a new life,” he said with a faraway gleam in his eye, prompting Helen to ask how much beer he’d had to drink. “One and a half pints. Take someone like Tom Newcombe,” he pursued. “Born into a life of ease—or so I imagine, judging by this place that’s been in his family for generations. He gets married, has a child. Maybe it was all too predictable. Perhaps he had a midlife crisis and decided he needed a change.”

  “You mean got a new identity and started over?”

  Rex hitched his shoulders. “Why not? He could have had funds stashed away that no one knew about.”

  “Maybe Bobby Carter helped his client disappear so he could have access to the beautiful wife. Or perhaps he was murdered and his body hidden away where no one could find it.”

  Rex glanced at Helen in amusement. “You’re intrigued as well, admit it.”

  “It certainly is food for thought,” she conceded.

  “It certainly is.”

  Bad Omen

  “Talking of food, are you hungry?” Helen asked.

  “Aye, now that you mention it. That’s a pretty grand spread.”

  They joined the other guests at the buffet table, and Rex helped himself to giant prawns served on chipped ice and to an aromatic paella kept warm on a heating tray. Slices of roast beef, which melted off the carver’s knife, followed onto his plate, along with flaky sausage rolls and a token amount of salad. Helen partook more liberally of the salad and of a slice of asparagus quiche.

  “Wish we could box some of this up and take it for our picnic tomorrow,” she said, moving away from the table and leading them to a sofa by a bay window overlooking the back garden.

  “Why don’t you just eat it now?”

  “I couldn’t. My waistband is already digging into my ribs.”

  “Undo the button on your skirt,” Rex suggested practically. “No one will see under your jacket.”

  Helen regarded him with tenderness. “I can see that once we’re married, I could end up getting lazy about my figure.”

  “Just don’t end up the size of Polly. Och,” he added, suddenly realizing what he had just said. “I don’t mean that. That would be grand. Well, you know what I mean.”

  “I think I may have left it a bit late for that,” Helen observed wistfully. “Still, I have my kids at the school.”

  The thought seemed to perk her up, even though he could not see the appeal of having to deal with a bunch of overwrought, oversexed, and excessively violent adolescents five days a week. And then he remembered he had to deal with overwrought, oversexed, and excessively violent individuals on a regular basis in court.

  He rose with his empty plate. “Can I get you anything else while I go for a refill?”

  “Just another napkin, thanks.”

  The drink and food had surpassed his expectations, and he was glad he had come. Discussing the people at the party with Helen on the drive home would be the icing on the cake, and then perhaps a light supper in front of the telly, followed by an early night in preparation for their hiking expedition the next morning. As he approached the buffet, Meredith and Reggie were heaping their plates in the company of another young couple, who had stood on the groom’s side of the aisle in church.

  “Did your dad make the cake, Elaine?” Meredith asked the girl, a gauche, wall-eyed waif in a floral print dress.

  “No, Mrs. Newcombe got caterers in to do everything. In fact, one of the caterers used to work for my dad. I don’t think she recognizes me. I was a mousy-haired thing back then and wore glasses with an eye patch for astigmatism.”

  Elaine had morphed into a dyed blonde with dark roots and nothing to obstruct her globular green eyes. “Her speciality was wedding cakes,” she went on as Rex surveyed the food. “But they were too fancy for our shop.”

  “Funny she should fetch up here,” Meredith said. “What are you doing now?”

  “I’m helping my brother with his sandwich business. He takes his van round businesses in Derby and sells gourmet wraps to people at their desks.”

  “What about you then, Jeremy?” Reggie asked Elaine’s boyfriend, a mild-mannered lad.

  “I’m a bookkeeper for a firm in Derby. I studied accounting with Timmy. That’s how we met.”

  Rex could see how Jeremy and Timmy had gravitated toward each other in business school. Two shy peas in a pod.

  “Yeah? I work in finance too, in London,” said Reggie.

  “Nice.”

  Rex finished helping himself from the serving dishes. It was already slim pickings, as though a flock of locusts had descended upon the banquet table. Funerals were supposed to make people hungry, he reflected; perhaps the same was true of weddings. He returned to Helen, bringing her a fresh napkin.

  “That bespectacled lad knows Timmy from college, and Meredith seems to be acquainted with the blonde in the flowery frock. They all seem like nice young people. Except for Dudley.”

  “Dudley always did stand out from the crowd.”

  He did so now, sounding forth to Victoria Newcombe. Rex heard the words “hot tub” and something about adding value to the home. Mrs. Newcombe answered, “We’ll see” and hastily disappeared among the other guests.

  When Rex had finished eating, he asked the waitress for directions to the Gents. In the great hall, he almost ran into two men moving a sofa, one the waistcoated bartender. The other wore a sleeveless black T-shirt with “DJ Smoothie” emblazoned in fluorescent green letters across the front. Bobby Carter, swaying drunkenly on the improvised dance floor, sang along to the seventies smash “If You Leave Me Now” by Chicago, while patterns of neon-colored light rippled around the lofty brick walls.

  “Save a dance for
me later,” he called out to Polly as she swept through the reception room doorway in her long gown.

  She blew him a kiss. “I will, Uncle Bobby.”

  “And me,” Dudley said, flashing a swashbuckling smile from where he stood with the younger contingent just inside the door. Polly glared back at him and, hitching her hem up above her bare feet, flounced past Rex in the direction of the second wing, his own destination.

  He continued down a corridor. Uneven white walls, designed to give this side of the house a rustic look, led to the bathroom, where he was grateful to relieve himself of a few pints of Guinness. On his way back, he saw Jasmina coming down the carpeted stairs, a wrapped box in her arms.

  “Can I help you with that?” he offered.

  Her almond eyes widened at the sight of him. “That’s okay. It’s actually quite light. I put it upstairs for safekeeping, then decided I should really put it with the other gifts, in case Polly and Timmy start opening their presents.”

  “Helen chose our gift. I hope they like it. I’m afraid it’s not that original.”

  “Neither is mine.” The dusky beauty let out a jangle of giggles.

  “Having fun?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Oh, yes. And you?”

  “More than I thought I would. You know how it is when you’re invited to a formal do where you don’t know anybody.”

  “I don’t know anybody either, except Clive. I hope Helen doesn’t mind that I’m seeing him.”

  “Och, it was awhile ago when they were going out,” he said, accompanying the young woman back to the party. And I don’t think Clive was that great of a loss, he added privately; although Clive must have something to attract two lovely women like Helen and Jasmina.

  He watched the apparition in the silver dress sashay through the crowd. She deposited the gift box on a nearby table. Clive beamed when he saw her and looped an arm around her slender waist.

  Dudley had his eye on her too. “Not bad, is she?” he said to Rex, waving his champagne glass toward Jasmina. “Looks a bit like Pocahontas in the Disney cartoon. Right tasty. Well, they all look like models before you wed them. Then one or two kids later, they let themselves go.”

  Rex did not appreciate this man-to-man banter, but Dudley was the groom’s twin and best man, and a measure of politeness was required, hard as it was to summon forth.

  “I mean, look at Polly,” the young man pursued. “She’ll never get the weight off once she has the baby. That sort of weight just sticks.”

  “Wonder what we’d look like if we had to bear children,” Rex pointed out.

  “Wouldn’t be so soft in the head as to get in that predicament, would we? Left to us, men wouldn’t bother with that part, unless we were on the brink of extinction. My two boys are home with the flu. Last week it was earache. There’s always something going on with them. Luckily there’s a good doctors’ practice in Aston.”

  “Timmy was a sickly child too, from what I understand.”

  “He did it for our mum’s attention, me being the favourite. Psychosomatic, that’s what they call it.” Dudley tapped his temple. “All in the mind.”

  “So you live in Aston?” Rex asked, directing the conversation onto more neutral ground.

  “My dad was a doctor at the surgery there. Dr. Thorpe,” Dudley said with smug pride. “But he got cancer. A bit daft, if you think about it, a doctor unable to cure himself.”

  “I take it you didn’t follow in your father’s footsteps?” What a travesty that would be, Rex thought. Dudley Thorpe was about as caring and compassionate as a Komodo dragon.

  “Me? Hardly. Timmy went on to college, but I couldn’t take the classroom environment. I sell Jacuzzis. Good money in it and I get to travel all over the Midlands. You in the market for a hot tub?”

  “Don’t think so.” He had never considered one for his retreat in the Highlands. Then again, a candlelit soak with Helen after a long hike in the hills might be nice …

  “If you change your mind, here’s my card.” The stationery designated Dudley C. Thorpe as Sales Associate for Blissful Baths in Derby.

  “Aye, thanks.”

  At that moment, amid a chorus of oohs and ahs, a caterer wheeled in the wedding cake, a three-tiered, heart-shaped confection topped with bride and groom miniatures. Loops of pink icing edged each white heart and, in elegant cursive across the smallest heart at the top, congratulated the happy pair by name.

  “How adorable,” gasped a middle-aged female guest in a sage green poplin suit, who distinctly resembled the maid of honor. “And how lethally calorific!”

  “Positively yummy,” Meredith said.

  “The caterers outdid themselves,” Victoria Newcombe crowed.

  “It looks almost too good to eat.” The groom’s mother drilled greedy eyes into the cake, although, judging by her tiny frame, Rex deduced Mabel Thorpe ate like a bird.

  He watched as she and Victoria snapped photos of the pink and white edifice. The professional photographer and videographer had not surfaced since the church ceremony, he noted; possibly to spare expense. In the picture-taking process, the cart got jostled.

  “Oops, the bride has toppled flat on her face,” Reggie chortled.

  “Hope that’s not a bad omen,” someone uttered, loud enough for Rex to hear.

  He had the feeling it just might be.

  “Cake, Vicar?”

  The caterer rushed over and restored the plastic figure to an upright position, smoothing out the gouge in the white icing with a small spatula. “There, good as new,” she announced. “Time to cut, I think.”

  “What’s inside?” Aunt Gwen asked wistfully.

  “Light sponge,” Victoria Newcombe replied. “You must have some, Gwendolyn.”

  “I’ve sworn off sweets.”

  “But it’s good luck for the newlyweds,” Mabel Thorpe insisted.

  Aunt Gwen held up small plump hands in the face of the cajoling and blandishments, and said she was determined to regain her girlish figure before she turned fifty. Rex suspected she had passed a half century by a few years.

  Mrs. Newcombe summoned the young couple to cut the cake. Cameras clicked and beeped as, Timmy’s hand on the bride’s, they sliced into it. They wore matching gold bands, Timmy’s long fingers culminating in anemic-looking nails. The newlyweds then exchanged forkfuls of cake among joyful applause while the bartender topped up the champagne.

  “Cake, Vicar?”

  “Thank you, Victoria.”

  Rex turned toward the maid of honor standing at his elbow. Her long neck and ungainly posture gave her the look of a stork. Moreover, the pink of the dress did not suit her sallow complexion, which was marred on chin and cheek by angry red bumps unsuccessfully concealed beneath beige makeup. He pitied the poor girl.

  “You’re Amber, are you not?” he asked convivially. “Helen told me you and Polly were at school together.”

  The girl’s viper green eyes narrowed, clearly not welcoming the news that she had been the subject of discussion by a staff member of her old school. “What else did Miss d’Arcy tell you?” she asked tartly.

  “Nothing, actually.”

  “Miss d’Arcy didn’t tell you I left school at sixteen because I fell in the family way?” Amber demanded, seemingly put out that nothing more had been said on her account, after all.

  “No.” What a coy expression coming from one of Amber’s generation, Rex marveled. Perhaps it had been her parents’ euphemism, making what must have been something of a family drama sound like a passive event, as though their daughter had unaccountably found herself with a baby.

  “Are your parents here?” he inquired.

  “That’s my dad other there.” The distinguished man Rex had noticed in conversation with Aunt Gwen before the buffet. “He’s Timmy’s boss. My mum’s the one in the green suit, talking to Victoria.” The tall bleached blonde in poplin with a fake tan and the same sour look as her daughter.

  Rex nodded. “Your child—girl or boy?”r />
  “Girl. Marie-Nicole. My younger sisters, the bridesmaids, are babysitting her this afternoon. Victoria only wanted grownups at the reception. I had to pay them double since neither one of them would mind Marie-Nicole without the other; the conniving little extortionists.”

  Rex chuckled, remembering the giggly girls holding the train in church. “Too much of an age gap for your daughter to be a playmate to Polly’s baby, I suppose.” He looked in the bride’s direction where she sat, a glazed expression on her face, listening to her mother-in-law, the diminutive Mabel Thorpe.

  Amber agreed. “And anyway, she’s having a boy. No mistaking that from the ultrasound.” Her pinched nose gave a sniff of superiority.

  “Is she happy about that?” Rex caught on. “She won’t be able to dress him in pink.”

  Amber laughed for the first time—a tinny, unpleasant sound. “I just know she wanted a girl,” she imparted with evident satisfaction. “You can’t dress boys up and put makeup on them, can you?”

  “I should hope not,” Rex said.

  “And Timmy is such a wimp. I can’t imagine him running around playing ball with his son. He’s asthmatic, you know.”

  “Och, it might be the making of him.”

  Amber looked unconvinced. “He’s such a change from Polly’s last boyfriend. She used to go with a bloke from Aston who worked at a garage. Always had a flash car to drive. Big muscles, loads of tattoos—you know the type—” Rex got the picture. “Victoria was beside herself, told Polly she wouldn’t have her daughter going out with a grease monkey—only she called him an ape—and that no good would come of it.” Amber’s thin lips twitched. “What she probably meant was that she didn’t want Polly ending up like me, in the family way.”

  “What did come of the relationship?”

  “Her uncle Bobby paid him off.”

  “To stop seeing her?”

  “And to disappear. But she kept on seeing him in secret for a while.”