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

by Jeanne Glidewell

  “Oh, goodness. Yes! It’s more than okay with me.” I thanked her again. After she’d finishing un-pinking my hair, I looked in the mirror and nearly wept. The kind lady had not only stripped the pink color from my hair, but also added very attractive blond highlights and snipped off just enough stray strands to make the style look reserved, yet stylish. Although it may not be saying a heck of a lot, I thought my hair looked better than it ever had.

  I could have kissed Ginny Clevenger. In fact, I did kiss her. I gave her an appreciative peck on the cheek as I thanked her profusely for saving me the embarrassment of a pink hairstyle. Sometimes plain old dumb luck is better than good planning, I realized, as I headed to the kitchen to begin supper preparations.

  It should come as no surprise that I put an extra chocolate mint on Ginny’s pillow that night.

  Six

  When Lariat Jones arrived at the inn, I suddenly understood Yvonne’s remark that he was more of a hog-rider than a bull-rider. The wedding planner rolled in on a Harley Davidson. Despite Missouri’s helmet law, he had nothing but a do-rag to protect his skull in the event of an accident. And speaking of skulls, there was a large skull and crossbones on his black t-shirt. The shirt was paired with jeans that looked as if they hadn’t been washed since Bernie Madoff made off with a lot of people’s life savings, and they had more holes in them than O.J. Simpson’s alibi. And, to be clear, they were not the fashionable type of holes that doubled the price of a pair of jeans, but rather the type caused by overuse.

  “Can I help you?” I asked when he first came to the door. I thought he might have stopped for directions, or to make a reservation for family who planned to visit. I also considered the possibility he might have dropped by to try to scam me into paying him to asphalt our driveway. The expression on my face as I’d stared as his do-rag prompted Lariat to snatch it off his head and shove it in his rear pocket. I instantly wished he’d left it in place because his hair was even more disturbing.

  “I’m Lariat Jones. You asked me to stop by.”

  “Oh.” Suddenly unable to speak, I felt as if I’d been winded by blunt force trauma to the bread basket. Finally, after giving myself a chance to recover, I asked, “Do you mean the Lariat Jones who works as a wedding planner?”

  “No, the Lariat Jones who delivers big-ass checks for Ed McMahon. Of course, I’m the wedding planner. How many people named Lariat Jones did you ask to stop by this morning?”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I just didn’t expect…” Embarrassed, I stopped talking, not wanting to cause myself further humiliation. I stepped back as Lariat strode in, looked around the room, and whistled.

  “Sweet.” He said as he gave me a wink. “Nice digs.”

  “Thanks. Come on in.” My response was a little sarcastic as he was already as “in” as he was going to get. I had expected a guy who looked more like an accountant, an English teacher, or even a gay stripper. What I hadn’t expected was a man who looked to be in his early thirties with pumpkin-colored hair that stood straight up like a field of corn stalks. He sported seven piercings on his face alone, and more tattoos than you could count on an abacus, especially if, like me, you have no idea how to use one. The teardrop inked below his right eye clashed with his smile, making him appear to be having mixed emotions.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Lexie Starr,” I finally said. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Jones.”

  “Yeah, man. You too.”

  Yeah, man? Is it too early in this job interview to let him down easy? I decided it probably was since I’d done nothing but introduce myself so far.

  “As you’re probably aware, I’m looking for someone to help with my daughter Wendy’s wedding. I’d like―”

  “Wendy Starr?” The look on his face indicated he was already having second thoughts about the two of us working together, which irritated me. I was having second thoughts too, but wanted it to be my decision, not his.

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “She’s marrying Andy Van Patten, isn’t she? And there’s a cop named Wyatt in the wedding party, right?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem?” I asked.

  “Well, no, not really. Besides, I need the job. There’s more month than money this summer, it seems.”

  I was befuddled. I didn’t know what to think about Lariat’s remark about Wyatt. I did wonder if Yvonne’s issue with the detective had anything to do with Lariat’s, but I wasn’t going to inquire. As I pointed Lariat toward the door, I said, “Perhaps it’d be best if you leave.”

  “Whatcha talking about, Ms. Starr? I said I’d do the job, even with so little time to get all the details worked out.”

  “Well, I…”

  “Who else ya gonna get, if not me?”

  His last question hit me like a second punch to the gut. The man was right. If I sent him away, I’d likely be turning down the only wedding planner available on such short notice. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jones. But I get the distinct impression you have a problem with a member of the wedding party. I don’t know why, and I don’t particularly care, but it makes me reluctant to hire you in case you have a bone to pick with the detective.”

  “Trust me, ma’am. I have no bones. Well, no bones to pick with the cop, anyway. I barely know Wyatt and just met him recently. Admittedly, it was not under great circumstances, so I’d just like to have as little interaction with him as possible.”

  “Is there a warrant out for your arrest, or something of that nature?” I asked. I definitely didn’t want to get involved with a wanted felon.

  “No, nothing like that. I have no legal issues. My rap sheet has nothing more than a drunk and disorderly charge from a little misunderstanding about a fire at a downtown bar awhile back. Let’s just say the detective and I experienced a difference of opinion a few nights back, and I don’t want to throw a match on a pool of gasoline, if you know what I mean. Trust me, it will not interfere with planning your daughter’s wedding.”

  His explanation and assurance it wouldn’t affect his work did nothing to ease my mind. But like he’d said, who was I going to get if not him? “All right. I doubt you’ll have any interaction with Wyatt. He’s just a groomsman, after all. But to be perfectly honest, I’m still a bit torn. I have to say, sir, you’re not exactly what I expected. You look more like, um, a rock star than a wedding planner.”

  Okay, I’ll admit that wasn’t exactly honest. I could tell by Lariat’s expression he was keenly aware I was not being straight-up with him. I’m certain he was wondering about my intentions, as was I.

  “A rock star? Really?” Lariat’s tone was more sarcastic than inquisitive.

  I didn’t trust my own voice, so I merely nodded in response.

  I know the old adage about honesty being the best policy, and deceitfulness was never a good idea. But telling a guy straight to his face that he looked more like a brain-dead drug addict who’d just climbed out from under a bridge than he did someone in his chosen vocation isn’t exactly a stellar idea, either.

  “Okay. Enough pleasantries,” Lariat said. “Let’s get down to business.”

  Exactly what is your idea of a pleasantry? I wanted to ask. But time really was of the essence, so I plunged right in with the interview.

  “Can you give me an idea of the cost and what is included in your package?” I asked.

  He gave me another wink and replied, “Basically, the same as any other guy’s package, except for a piercing on my―”

  “Whoa! I can do without the inappropriate humor.” I couldn’t believe what he’d been about to say. No wonder Yvonne seemed apprehensive about recommending this fellow, even though the sexual innuendos she often spouted weren’t much better. “Let’s keep this strictly professional, Mr. Jones.”

  “All right. I’m sorry. I thought a little levity would lighten the mood, with you feeling so discomfited, and all.”

  “Um, well…” I didn’t think “discomfited” was the best description for how I felt. Flabbergasted was better. Horrified was e
ven more accurate. However, the fact that words like “discomfited” and “levity” dripped off this anomaly’s tongue like honey encouraged me. I’d been surprised he could use either word correctly in a sentence, and was relieved he wasn’t operating on a pitifully low supply of brain cells, as I’d first feared.

  I reminded myself that you couldn’t judge a book by its cover any more than you could judge a wedding planner by the silver hoop dangling from his nose. It reminded me of the nose rings Andy used on his cattle ranch to keep calves from trying to suckle. I looked away from Lariat’s nose piercing and forced myself to take a couple of deep breaths in order to relax.

  “Are you okay, lady? You seemed kind of uptight when I arrived this morning, and even more discombobulated now.”

  “Discombobulated? Well, I suppose I did feel somewhat unsettled earlier, but that’s beside the point.” If he thought I was uptight when I first laid eyes on him, I wondered what he’d think now that I was as uneasy as a flamingo with a shellfish allergy. “So, tell me about your rates and what is included in the price. I also want to hear about your qualifications as a wedding planner.”

  Lariat went on to explain his vast experience and reasonable rates. Before I could request to see references, he handed me a list of names and phone numbers of previous clients. Glancing at the sheet, I recognized a couple of the people on the list. I couldn’t help but be impressed. One had even held their nuptials in our gazebo a few months prior. As far as I could recall, it had been a pleasant and well-organized affair. Even so, I’d have opted to interview other people for the job if not for the fact there was probably not another wedding planner between Rockdale and the Pacific Ocean who’d take on the challenge of planning a wedding scheduled to take place in just under a month.

  Reluctantly, I said, “Okay. I’m satisfied with your rates, experience, and references. You’ve got the job. I hope you won’t let me down.”

  “Yeah. Me neither.”

  “Me neither” did not exactly lessen my anxiety, but I chose to ignore the feeling in my gut. My gut, which had never misled me before, was telling me I should show the man to the door with a sincere, “Thanks, but no thanks!”

  Once again my mouth did not get the memo. Instead, that mouth, which had gotten me into more tight spots than I can count, asked, “So, Mr. Jones, when can we get started?”

  Seven

  Wendy and I were to meet with Lariat Jones at his office in Atchison the Wednesday after I signed the contract, which allowed him to handle much of the detail work in the planning of Wendy and Andy’s wedding ceremony.

  Wendy called at the last minute to inform me a local meth lab had tragically exploded and filled her autopsy lab with three new customers. The enthusiasm in her voice was unsettling. I couldn’t tell if she was excited about having three new bodies to carve up like Butterball turkeys, or just happy she wouldn’t have to attend the meeting with Lariat Jones. Though neither option filled me with joy, I hoped it was the latter.

  On that sweltering morning in mid-July, I drove Ladybug, my yellow and black Volkswagen Bug, to Lariat’s office after cleaning up the kitchen following breakfast. The only guests remaining at the inn were the Clevengers. Our next reservations were not due to arrive for several days, so I wasn’t under any pressure to return home soon.

  Shortly after my arrival at 103 Massachusetts Street, Lariat invited me into his tiny, rather dingy, office at the end of a tiny, even dingier, row of small mom-and-pop businesses in an older commercial area of Atchison, Kansas. The underwhelming level of dinginess surrounding Lariat’s shop made me question, yet again, my wisdom in hiring him.

  I rapped on the door, and Lariat invited me into his tiny office. After being somewhat appalled by the appearance of the shop’s exterior, I was surprised the interior exuded an almost sterile aura. The cleanliness of Lariat’s workspace was impressive. I extended my hand to the shop’s proprietor. Instead of clasping it in a handshake, as expected, he pulled me into a quick embrace and kissed the side of my cheek as if I was a favorite aunt he hadn’t seen in several years. I could smell booze on his breath, which immediately unnerved me. He offered me a cup of sassafras tea.

  “I hope you like it hot, like I do.”

  I shrugged and took a cautious sip, wondering if the tea had been laced with rum or another form of alcohol. I was delighted to find it hadn’t been spiked, and was surprised by how much the warmth of the tea enhanced its surprisingly delicious flavor. “Um, I do. I’ve only had cold sassafras tea in the past, although now I believe I prefer it hot. Thank you for enlightening me, Mr. Jones.”

  “Call me Lariat, please. Mr. Jones makes me sound like I should be a sixty-year-old CPA instead of a thirty-five-year-old free-lancer.”

  We chuckled at his remark, and it was then I noticed the man was actually quite handsome if you looked past the bright orange, spiked hair, multiple facial piercings, and disturbing tats, which I’ll admit was a lot to look past. His smile was contagious, and he had an introspective air about him I found attractive. In other words, the guy who had turned me off at first glance was beginning to grow on me, kind of like moss grows on the north side of a tree.

  “Just out of curiosity, Lariat, does your job description as a free-lancer include other services besides planning weddings?” His self-description of “free-lancer” had made me wonder if wedding planning was merely one of his skill sets.

  “You could say that.” His cryptic response piqued my interest, but Lariat didn’t elaborate. Instead, he steered away from the topic. “At the moment, your daughter’s wedding is the only thing on my schedule, and we need to get cracking. We need to shake and bake while the oven’s still hot if we’re going to pull this wedding off without a hitch.”

  “I like the sound of that. Let’s get cracking!”

  Without thinking, I took a big gulp of the tea, which I had forgotten was piping hot, having taken barely a tiny sip of it previously. I spat most of the scalding liquid onto the Saltillo-tiled floor. Then I nearly gagged on what little I’d swallowed, which had chosen to take the road less traveled and ended up going down the wrong pipe. While I choked and hacked for a good three minutes, Lariat wiped the tea off the floor with a sweatshirt he’d had draped over the back of his chair. Then, as if he thought I had an Italian meatball lodged in my throat, he pounded me on the back five or six times until I motioned for him to stop. When I hadn’t coughed for a full three seconds, he asked, “You okay?”

  I nodded and responded with three or four more violent coughs, which only served to prove to the man I was anything but okay. Lariat stood by with a helpless expression and breathed a sigh of relief when at last I had expelled all the tea from my windpipe.

  “Sorry, Lexie,” he said. “I should have warned you to be careful. Are you alright now?”

  I nodded, with tears streaming down my face, because I couldn’t get any words out. Finally, I was able to clear my throat enough to speak. Embarrassed, I offered an apology for the mess. “I should have tested the tea before gulping it down as if I was on the verge of dying from dehydration.”

  Lariat waved off my apology as he opened a notebook. We spent the next two-and-a-half hours discussing a slew of specifics: number of invited guests, refreshments for the reception, and potential venues for a rehearsal dinner. He took detailed notes of numerous other critical aspects he’d need to know before he began planning Wendy and Andy’s wedding.

  The longer we engaged in conversation, the less I fixated on the wedding planner’s unique appearance and apparent drinking problem, and the more I appreciated the man’s meticulous attention to detail. He took copious notes and listened carefully to everything I said. He suggested ingenious ideas and made well-thought-out recommendations. I felt my anxiety ebb as we deliberated over necessary aspects of the ceremony and the party that would ensue at the completion of the vow exchange.

  As Lariat refilled our tea cups for the second time, I noticed him pour something into his own cup while merely adding
a pack of sweetener to mine. As far as I could detect, he liked to add a small amount of something like gin or rum to tone down the tea’s natural flavor of root beer. After a little consideration, I decided he was free to add anything he wanted to his drink, be it honey, whiskey—or even turpentine, for that matter—as long as he didn’t slip anything into mine without my knowledge.

  For the next twenty minutes, Lariat made several phone calls while I scribbled a few notes in a little notebook I always carried with me. During a particularly frustrating exchange he had with a cake decorator named Chena Steward, Lariat walked over to a loudly humming, apartment-sized refrigerator that looked older than me, opened its squeaky door, and withdrew a bottle of Miller Lite. After a long swill that nearly rendered the bottle a dead soldier, he appeared calmer and better able to deal with Ms. Steward.

  Despite the fact he now worked for me, I didn’t feel as if I could insist he didn’t drink on the job. After all, it wasn’t as if he was employed as an air traffic controller or a neurosurgeon. In fact, I’d later realize it seemed as if the more intoxicated the man became, the better he functioned.

  After he ended the call, Lariat removed another bottle of Miller Lite from the fridge. “Want a beer?”

  “No thanks. Water would be nice if you have any.”

  Lariat reached back in the fridge and withdrew a bottle of water along with a brown paper bag. From the bag, he removed two wrapped sandwiches and several napkins, which he placed on the table in front of me. “Hope you like egg salad sandwiches.”

  “I love them, Lariat. But you didn’t have to supply a lunch for me.”

  “No big deal. There’s a deli a couple of doors down and I figured we’d get hungry after working for a while.”

  “Well, thank you very much. That was so thoughtful of you.” I wasn’t just spouting platitudes, either. I was touched by the guy’s thoughtful actions, as they were totally unexpected. The sandwich looked delicious. Besides, I’d had nothing for breakfast other than my customary overdose of coffee. Unfortunately, the egg salad mixture was bitter and smelled as if it was on the wrong side of its expiration date. I wondered if he’d picked the sandwiches up at the deli that morning or two weeks earlier, but thought it would be rude to complain. I forced down one half of the sandwich and then wrapped up the other. “I’m going to save the rest for later this afternoon, or maybe have it for a light supper.”