Marriage and Mayhem (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 7)

by Jeanne Glidewell

Wendy completed one more full rotation. She then turned around, with her hands on her hips. “You know, the notion of hiring a wedding planner is not such a bad idea. It would take a load off my shoulders, for sure. Are you certain you want to take on that expense though?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Don’t forget it might take away some of your enjoyment in helping me with the wedding.”

  Are you kidding me? I almost asked, but caught myself just in time. “It will be worth the sacrifice, I’m sure.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I sure do love you.”

  “I love you more, sweetheart.” I picked up the stack of wedding gowns still waiting to be tried on and rehung them on the rack. “What do you say we make like eggs and scramble?”

  Wendy’s loud groan at my cheesy remark was her only response. So I added, “There’s a quaint little coffee shop on the corner called The Dunkin’ Hole, and I could use a cup of espresso. Sound good to you?”

  “You bet! Let’s make like Siamese twins and split.”

  I chuckled at her corny joke, which is more than she’d done for mine. “Good. You go pay for your lovely dress while I hang up these other gowns so we can make like an exorcist and get the hell out of here.”

  Wendy giggled this time. “Gotta admit. I liked that one. Say, were you serious when you said a few more pounds wouldn’t hurt me?”

  “Of course, honey. You no longer look gaunt in the face, but you’re still a bit on the scrawny side. Why do you ask?”

  “When we walked by that coffee shop earlier, they had scrumptious-looking cinnamon rolls advertised on a sign in their window. I could sorely use a little comfort food right now.”

  “You and me both,” I said cheerfully.

  After Wendy purchased the wedding gown, she turned to me and said, “Ready to make like that check I just wrote and bounce?”

  Laughing, the two of us practically skipped out of the bridal shop. We walked down the sidewalk arm-in-arm to the front door of a small, family-owned coffee and pastries cafe. I needed a shot of caffeine even more than I’d thought. I enjoyed a cup of their advertised flavor of the day―a robust Guatemalan espresso.

  Since I didn’t want my energy level to ebb during our hour-long drive home to the Alexandria Inn in Rockdale, I indulged in two refills. Wendy, who was subdued and introspective, nursed a cup of hot lemongrass tea. I was sure she had a lot on her mind, so I didn’t badger her with questions or annoy her with mindless chatter. Instead, I mused about where I’d find an experienced wedding planner willing to take on the job at such a late date.

  Four

  The Alexandria Inn in the small town of Rockdale, Missouri, was a historic antebellum mansion Stone and I had restored ourselves a couple of years prior. I had sold my home in Shawnee, Kansas and moved in with him for both convenience and a desire to spend as much time with him as I could. We opened the inn as a bed and breakfast soon after the renovations were complete. The business had flourished since the day of its conception.

  Although a murder occurred in the inn on its opening night, and then again a few months later―both of which crimes I helped solve―the lodging establishment’s occupancy rate continued to increase. I’d hazard to guess the inn’s tragic history had actually enhanced its fascination among guests. It was the same type of intrigue that drew throngs of adrenalin-junkies to cemeteries that had a reputation of being haunted.

  The Alexandria Inn had become a popular venue for weddings, receptions, parties, reunions, and bar mitzvahs. A local winery had even held a wine-tasting event there the previous month. With the lovely gazebo, flower gardens, plenty of shaded picnic tables, a large, accessible chef’s kitchen, and lodging accommodations available right on the premises, our property became a hot spot for local celebrations of all types. Stone had recently added four full-hookup RV sites on the property to allow even more guests to stay on the premises. He’d had the inspiration after becoming acquainted with full-time RV’ers, Rip and Rapella Ripple, from south Texas.

  Stone and I were content to reside in our owner’s suite at the inn. Living there had been very convenient and had come in handy many times. It allowed us to be even more accommodating in our desire to be excellent hosts, especially when it came to special events.

  But the next wedding to be held at the inn was personal. My only child was going to marry the man of her dreams. Andy, a well-built, dark-haired, blue-eyed man was not only eye-candy, with a heart as soft as a melted Milky Way bar, but also a wonderful young fellow I’d be proud to call my son-in-law. I wanted their wedding to be everything Wendy had ever dreamed it would be. I vowed to do whatever it took to make her dreams come true, starting with the hiring of a wedding planner to take the pressure off of me. Oops, sorry. I meant her.

  Wendy and I agreed that the one thing we couldn’t delay was sending out the invitations. After Wendy had purchased the gown at the Hitching Post and we’d stopped at The Dunkin’ Hole, we’d checked out the available wedding invitations and guest books at another shop in Shawnee. By the time we finished selecting a matching set, it was time for me to drive her home and return to the inn to prepare supper for our guests. The Masseys would be heading home the following morning, but the Clevengers had extended their reservations for another three days.

  When I arrived back at the inn, I sorted through the mail, responded to a couple of reservation requests via email, and put fresh water in a vase full of carnations and snapdragons in the parlor. I then prepared the chicken enchiladas and sopa de fideo for our guests and, as usual, made enough extra food to suffice for our own supper, as well.

  After putting the main dish into the oven to cook for forty-five minutes, I went upstairs to take a bath and change into a fresh outfit. While soaking in the jetted tub, I contemplated who might know of a good—and reasonable—wedding planner I could hire, even though the wedding date was barely a month away.

  Wendy had been extremely busy at the morgue the last few months and, until early July, business at the inn had been incredibly hectic as well. Planning the wedding had somehow ended up on the back burner, where it had been left to simmer until suddenly we realized there was no more time to waste. We had little more than four weeks to get all our ducks in a row. At the time, those pesky little quackers were running amok all over the place.

  With the wedding looming so close on the horizon, finding any planner willing to take on the challenge would not be easy, much less finding one worth his or her salt. On one hand, I was relieved that Wendy had approved of my idea. On the other, I wondered if it might turn out be a decision I’d live to regret.

  Lest I be judged too harshly, let me explain that a great deal of my reluctance to be in charge of planning my daughter’s wedding is that I feel totally inept in the wedding-planning department. Like clothing fashions, wedding protocol and trends frequently change. Several weeks earlier, Wendy had reminded me we needed to get the “save the date” magnets mailed out. I had failed to send out reminder magnets for both of my weddings, and, yet the ceremonies took place as planned. But now? Without a “save the date” card or magnet, or some other reminder, you simply cannot expect people to show up for the most important day of your life. According to Wendy, she couldn’t forego such a modern, but terribly critical, practice.

  The fact I’d initially had no idea what she was talking about scared me. I didn’t want to forget some detail of great significance to my daughter only because I was unaware of its necessity. Don’t even get me started on how out-of-date I felt when Wendy asked me if I had any clever ideas for their wedding hashtag. Where does one go to buy a wedding hashtag? I’d almost asked. Instead, I looked at her as if she’d asked me if I had any clever ideas on how to prove that the universe is based on the string theory.

  “Hashtag?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Good Lord, Mom. You are so last century.” I just looked at her in silence. There was no denying I hadn’t kept up with technology the way many folks my age had. Wendy shook her head as she continued. “You k
now that pound symbol you use before a tweet to identify the topic? Well, family and friends can use our wedding hashtag on Instagram and Twitter to do things like get wedding updates, view the invitation, and view all the photos from our big day. Guests can use the hashtag on their posts to include their photos in the mix.”

  “Oh.” Her explanation did nothing to eliminate my confusion about the necessity for a wedding hashtag, but I didn’t want to appear any more like a dinosaur in my daughter’s eyes than I already did. “Sorry. I don’t tweet.”

  “That pretty much went without saying.”

  “Did Andy have any ideas for the wedding hashtag?” I asked. Admittedly, I was going on a fishing expedition, and it netted the results I’d expected.

  “He doesn’t have a clue about hashtags either. As you know, Andy still uses a flip phone. So, like you, he doesn’t understand how crucial it is to have the perfect wedding hashtag.”

  How did I pull off two weddings with nary a hashtag? Thinking about Wendy’s angry words during that trying day of wedding gown shopping, I asked myself, Wonder how she’d feel about #brideglobzillawedshandsomerancher? I decided Wendy wouldn’t find the humor in my teasing, so I kept my trap shut.

  I was also reminded I was behind the times when Wendy said earlier in the summer, “I have Maeve’s ‘reveal party’ to attend tomorrow.” When she’d explained it was a get-together to reveal the gender of Maeve’s baby, I thought she meant the party was to take place in the obstetrician’s office as he or she performed the ultrasound that would determine if the little bugger had anything protruding from between his or her legs. Our own reveal party didn’t happen until moments after Wendy entered the world, and we discovered she wouldn’t be named Wendell, after all. And that, in a nutshell, explains why I felt so woefully inadequate to plan a wedding in this day and age.

  While bathing, I thought about Deborah and Yvonne Custovio. The two ladies appeared to be polar opposites in both looks and personalities. Being in their mid-to-late thirties, never married, and shameless gossipmongers were the only similarities the two sisters seemed to share. People around town often referred to them as the “spinster sisters”. I hated the term and didn’t think either sister deserved that sort of derogatory characterization.

  Deborah, the elder of the two, was tall, had long hair so blond it was almost white and looked older than her actual age. Deb―as most people called her― had been hired to fill Bertha Duckworthy’s position as head librarian at the local library. I’d been temporarily filling the position in the interim. Deb was the shy, mild-mannered sister with a Type B personality, while her younger sister, Yvonne, was a live-wire. An outgoing socialite, this flamboyant, love-them-and-leave-them sort of gal was most definitely a Type A individual. Yvonne stood no more than five feet tall and wore her dark brown hair in a short style that must have taken a pound of liquid cement to get the spikes on top to stand straight up like proud Marines in formation. In contrast to her sister, Yvonne looked like she shouldn’t be able to buy a beer without being carded.

  While Deborah was rumored to be asexual, Yvonne was anything but. Yvonne was a cosmetologist at the salon I patronized, and she had worked there for over a decade. I’d been hearing about her sexual escapades for a couple of years, but felt certain most of the stories were exaggerated, or even downright lies fabricated to entertain her clients while she styled their hair. It was as if Yvonne believed she had a naughty reputation to maintain. Regardless of whether the stories were true or not, listening to them made having your hair wrapped in foil or tugged through tiny holes in a plastic cap to be highlighted a more interesting experience.

  As I absentmindedly shaved my legs in the bathtub, it suddenly occurred to me that if there was a good wedding planner in the vicinity, Yvonne Custovio would likely know about them. After all, if you’re anything like me, you open up like nobody’s business while your hairstylist is rolling your hair or wrapping tin foil around clumps of it to dab with her paint brush. I become an open book the second I plant my behind in a hair salon’s swiveling chair. I’m not typically a gossiper, but it’s nearly impossible not to dive right into the middle of an active rumor mill when you’re surrounded by gossipy, often exceedingly judgmental, women in a hair salon. It can be quite eye-opening at times. How else would I have discovered that Howie Clamm, who’d routinely pitched a copy of the Rockdale Gazette into our bushes every morning until the newspaper went totally digital last year, had begun the transition process of becoming Holly Clamm? I hoped Holly had a better arm than Howie had, even though instead of pitching newspapers into bushes, Holly was now pitching story ideas in the Rockdale Gazette’s editorial department.

  Despite the fact I’d just had my hair trimmed early in the week, I made a mental note to return to the beauty salon the following day. Yvonne would be the person most likely to know the answers to my local wedding planner questions. There was nothing intrinsically wrong with nonchalantly chatting up one’s hairstylist while she trimmed your hair.

  I had a busy schedule planned for the following day but figured the hair appointment wouldn’t take long. After all, my hair couldn’t have grown more than a millimeter since Monday. And hopefully, Yvonne, who’d been off that day to have a suspicious mole looked at by a local dermatologist, wouldn’t discover I’d just had it cut by their part-time stylist, Kerri.

  I relaxed as I leaned back against the back of the bathtub, closing my eyes while I soaked. I had lit several candles and added a heaping fistful of lavender bath salts to enhance the calming effects of my bath. I felt a sense of serenity as I languished in the soothing warm water.

  Suddenly, as if the scented water had turned ice cold between one breath and the next, I opened my eyes and struggled to catch my breath. It was as though a voice spoke to me from beyond. I swore I heard an ethereal presence whisper the words, “You need to help Wendy pick out the perfect wedding cake from among the sixty-seven choices.”

  The nightmarish sensation of hearing a voice from beyond jerked me awake instantly. I was relieved to discover I’d been so relaxed I’d drifted off to sleep—which is not always a good idea when you’re lying in a tub of water. I took several deep, calming breaths and reminded myself I’d found a way out of the madness.

  With a hired professional to plan the wedding, my overwhelming worry about forgetting critical details would be eliminated. I’m a bit ashamed to admit this, but I’d truly almost rather slice my wrists with a cake knife than help pick out the cake it was purchased to slice.

  Earlier I’d told myself I’d just have to do my best to avoid the reception cutlery until the kids’ wedding day was behind us because I might be tempted to utilize one of the plastic, silver-colored knives to saw away at my radial artery in order to put myself out of my misery. Now my only concern was that my decision to hire a professional would be a sound one.

  Something told me hiring a wedding planner might turn out to be a bigger basket of toil, time, and trouble than helping Wendy plan the event myself. I’d learned the hard way it was important to pay careful attention to a fleeting notion like that, yet once again I chose to ignore it. Unfortunately, I’d soon discover I really hadn’t spared myself as much of the toil, time, and trouble as I’d been aiming to. Instead, I’d only taken on the responsibility of babysitting the individual I was paying to relieve me of those three things.

  Five

  “Thank you, Yvonne, for working me into your schedule. I’m in desperate need of a trim and didn’t want to put it off any longer.”

  “Are you sure you want your hair even shorter?” Yvonne wore a dubious expression. “It’s already pretty short. If I trim much more of it off, you’ll look like you just enlisted in the Marine Corps. And if you don’t like it that short, it’ll be months before it grows back out. In fact, Kerri expressed some concern about its length after you had her cut it on Monday.”

  Oh crap! I thought. For one thing, I hadn’t anticipated that Kerri would tell Yvonne about my Monday appointment. Second
ly, and even more distressing, I’d forgotten about what I’d look like if I had my hair trimmed even shorter. Wendy and Andy’s wedding was a month away. Wendy would kill me if I went home looking like a fresh recruit on the first day of boot camp.

  After I’d gotten home from the salon on Monday, I’d convinced myself the style looked attractive on me as I’d studied myself in the mirror. But it wasn’t a reassuring sign that Kerri and Yvonne had later discussed it between themselves. I’d likely deluded myself into thinking the new cut looked good when it actually looked anything but.

  I swallowed hard and thought even harder before adopting a “silly me” expression. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I say I wanted a trim? I must have had a brain fart. I meant I’d like to have it highlighted. Kerri’s a wonderful stylist, but you know exactly how I like it, so I felt more comfortable waiting to have you do it.”

  “Oh, all right. Let’s go wash it first then.” Yvonne’s voice had an impatient tone to it, and I soon discovered why she appeared troubled. “When I worked you in this morning, I’d thought this would be a ten-minute appointment, but now it’s obviously going to take a lot longer than I’d planned. My next appointment is not going to be happy about having to wait. And if she somehow discovered I slept with her boyfriend last night, she’ll already be a tad on the bitchy side when she gets here.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that comment, so I didn’t. I remained silent as Yvonne hastily draped a towel around my neck and covered the bulk of my clothing with a plastic cape. I followed her as she nearly sprinted to the wash basin. It occurred to me that getting a highlight would actually give me more time to talk with her, but in her current mood, she wasn’t likely to want to waste any precious time chatting about a wedding planner.

  I’d have to draw as much information out of her as I could without upsetting her further. Upsetting someone who’s about to color your hair is almost as risky as pissing off a surgeon who was about to perform exploratory surgery on your sedated body. I’d have to go about my pursuit for information judiciously. It would have been a good plan had I not screwed up the execution of it.