“Yeah. Good idea. I’ll probably have the sandwich I picked up for Wendy as my supper.”
Lariat polished off both halves of his sandwich and washed them down with yet another bottle of beer. He was feeling no pain by the time I departed. Apparently, his taste buds had been rendered useless by alcohol. Otherwise, I don’t know how he’d be able to choke down an entire sandwich of such questionable freshness if his was as god-awful as mine had been.
I was a bit concerned about his alcohol consumption, although quite satisfied with the amount of work we’d accomplished and the sheer number of details we’d worked out in a little over three hours.
Before leaving, we agreed to meet up again at the Alexandria Inn on Friday morning. I made a mental note to have something on hand to serve him for lunch on Friday. Something much fresher, of course.
Although I didn’t know it at the time, the meeting on Friday would be an eye-opening experience that would leave me once again doubting my decision to hire Lariat Jones.
I felt nauseated and light-headed that evening. At first I feared I was coming down with something. I didn’t have the luxury of spare time to nurse a cold or the flu. I was relieved when I began to feel better by bedtime. Even though I realized it was probably the rancid sandwich that had upset my stomach, the thought crossed my mind that maybe Lariat Jones actually had slipped something into my tea when I wasn’t looking. After all, it wasn’t until he was refilling our cups for the second time that I observed him adding something to his. Did that punk slip me a Mickey? And, if so, why?
Having led a very sheltered life, I didn’t know exactly what a “Mickey” was. However, from watching my share of movies and television shows, I knew slipping one to someone was a horrible thing to do. I also knew if Lariat Jones had sneaked something into my drink, the two of us were going to have words, and none of them were apt to be very pleasant. A few might even be of the four-letter variety!
Then I would be forced to fire him, despite the fact I would be left without a professional to help plan a wedding scheduled to occur in just three-and-a-half weeks.
As I slipped into bed that evening, I prayed. Oh, Lord, please let the queasy feeling I had earlier be nothing more than something I ate―like half of the rancid sandwich―that didn’t set well with me. I would have settled for lactose intolerance at the moment since I did treat myself to a small vanilla ice cream cone on the way home from Lariat’s office. I knew I didn’t need the extra calories, but I desperately needed something to drown out the nasty taste the egg salad sandwich had left in my mouth.
Eight
When Friday morning dawned, I was feeling nervous and out of sorts. I snapped at Stone several times for no good reason, and felt compelled to apologize for taking my edginess out on him. Lariat Jones was due at the inn at ten, and I debated on how to approach the subject of whether or not he had added anything to my sassafras tea when we’d met on Wednesday. Stone had volunteered to deal with “the boy” himself, but I thought it was my responsibility.
At two minutes ’til ten, I heard Lariat’s motorcycle pull up our long circular driveway. The fellow was prompt. I had to give him that much. I let him in through the door leading into the kitchen. He hung a black leather jacket on the inside knob of the door. The jacket had to be ungodly hot to wear in late July, but at least it would prevent the core of his body from road rash in the event of an accident.
“No helmet?” I asked.
“Nah. Don’t need one.”
“Oh, lucky you. Your skull must be lined with titanium. As you probably realize, they call people like you ‘organ donors’ and the world does need a lot of those. So I guess all’s well that ends well.”
Lariat looked at me as if I’d just asked him to go fling himself in front of a speeding bus. I felt obliged to clarify my remark. “Not that I’d want anything to happen to you. I’m just saying you should wear a helmet if you value your life. Not to mention, it is the law in Missouri. I’d at least like to keep you alive for the next month.”
Clearly, my lame attempt at humor didn’t make Lariat feel any better, which was evident by his next response. “Most of my route here is in Kansas, where there’s no helmet law. I feel confident in rolling the dice on the few miles I travel in Missouri.”
“Well, yes, but,” I began. Before I could explain that although he might only be rolling the dice on a ticket for a few miles, he was rolling the dice on losing his life the entire trip, he interrupted.
“I’ll try my best not to get splattered across I-29 until after August twenty-fifth. Okay?”
“Um, yes. You know I was just kidding, don’t you?” As Lariat stared at me without responding, my hands turned clammy. I decided to forget about the helmet and get right to a conversation about the sassafras tea. The best way to do that was to dive right into it. “Before we get started, there’s something we need to discuss.”
“Sure,” said Lariat. “But before I forget to ask, did you feel okay Wednesday evening?”
“As a matter of fact, no, I felt a bit…” I paused, knowing my tone sounded accusatory, but I couldn’t let go of the idea he’d drugged me.
“Nauseated?” He finished my sentence when I hesitated. After I nodded, he said, “I figured as much. I was sicker than a dog that night. I’m not certain, but I think we might have gotten food poisoning from the egg salad sandwiches. I’ve heard eggs can go bad and make you ill. Now that I know you got sick, too, I’m going to bring it to the deli’s attention. I’m so sorry I poisoned you. It wasn’t intentional.”
“You didn’t poison me, Lariat. Apparently, a bad egg did. Literally. There’s no way you could’ve known the sandwiches had already gone south when you purchased them.” I didn’t tell him the sour taste had been the reason I didn’t eat the other half of my sandwich. In fact, I discarded it the moment I walked into the inn that afternoon.
Now my relief was two-fold. On one hand, I was happy I wouldn’t have to fire my wedding planner; on the other, I was glad I didn’t consume the entire toxic sandwich. It sounded as if Lariat had suffered a lot more from food poisoning than I had. I wasn’t surprised, given the fact that he’d eaten a whole sandwich at lunchtime and mentioned he would eat the sandwich he’d purchased for Wendy for supper that evening.
“Well, again, I’m sorry it happened. So what did you want to discuss before we got busy?”
“Oh, that. Well. I. Just. Wanted.” I spoke as if each word was a full sentence as I stalled to come up with a response. I certainly couldn’t say, “I wanted to ask if you slipped me a Mickey.” Finally, it hit me. I had a perfectly good response. “I wanted to let you know that once again Wendy’s tied up this morning.”
“Oh, so your daughter’s into that kind of stuff.” Lariat’s reply was spoken in the form of a statement rather than a question. His expression remained deadpan as his sexual innuendo flew right over my head. My blank face must have made that apparent, as Lariat went on to explain. “You said she got ‘tied up’ and I thought…”
“Oh. Ha! Ha!” I said sarcastically. “I get it now. Not funny. Actually, she’s busy at the county morgue because another victim of the meth-lab explosion a couple of days ago has died.”
Though most of the time Lariat behaved like a perfect gentleman, his occasional inappropriate comments made me uncomfortable. I managed to set aside that disturbing feeling as we delved into our work. At lunchtime, I served pastrami on rye sandwiches. I drank a cup of coffee and offered Lariat one of Stone’s Boulevard Pale Ale beers, which was brewed not far from Rockdale in Kansas City, Missouri. He enjoyed the first one so much, he helped himself to the last two beers in the fridge, as well. I wasn’t concerned, as I didn’t think three beers would incapacitate the slightly larger than average-sized man.
Later, I discovered he’d brought his own flasks of liquid refreshment to the meeting. Three of them, to be exact. He sipped on one after another until all three were empty.
Surprisingly, we accomplished a lot. We discussed eve
rything from the color of the plastic cake plates to whether or not we wanted to rent a porta potty to put near the garden area where the wedding would take place. Even though delighted with the progress we were making, the thought crossed my mind that I was forking over good money to free me from even having to think about decisions of this sort. Yet here I was, deciding whether or not to place a crap shack within spitting distance of the refreshments.
“I think Wendy and Andy would prefer to have their guests use the restroom just inside the rear door of the inn. It’s not that far of a walk. Besides, there’s just something icky about having a tacky toilet next to the cake table,” I said. Lariat agreed.
I looked over the growing list of questions I needed to ask the bride and groom. There were decisions I didn’t feel were mine to make: whether to toast their union with champagne or sparkling water, whether the couple wanted to recite their own vows or not, and if they wanted to feed the guests a meal or wedding cake and punch at the reception.
They’d also need to choose who they wanted to stand at the guest book and gift table to make sure a fistful of congratulatory cards containing cash and checks didn’t go missing―naturally under the guise of making sure all of the attendees remembered to sign the guest book.
The blank pages in my notebook were filling up fast. I had a list of questions I needed to ask Wendy, and another list of tasks to complete per Lariat’s recommendations. I also had a third list of items that needed to be ordered or purchased. One more list and I was going to need to make a list of my lists so I could keep them all straight. Although I’d hoped all the meandering ducks would become the wedding planner’s responsibility when I hired him, I didn’t want them all running amok again just when they seemed to be under control. Just keeping Lariat on the right path was challenging enough.
I was happy we’d been making great progress that day, and was about to compliment Lariat on his proficiency. As I opened my mouth to speak, he suddenly slid off the seat of his chair and crumpled to the floor. He was clearly too inebriated to continue working. I let out an exasperated sigh before getting up to help Lariat back into his chair.
I didn’t have the patience to deal with Mr. Jones if he was going to get drunk every time we collaborated. There’d be no more of this nonsense if I had anything to do with it. “From now on, I expect you to refrain from drinking on the job. We have a limited budget and a restricted time schedule. We don’t have the luxury of wasting precious time because you are too blitzed to think straight. So, no more alcohol while working on this wedding.”
“What?” Lariat looked as if he’d just woken up in the middle of a colonoscopy. “Awe you sewious, lady? I is not blizzed. I mean blitzed. I has just got me a little buzz on, that’s all.”
“Then I’d hate to see you totally trashed.” Lariat stared at me with glazed eyes as I reprimanded him. “None-the-less, no drinking on the job or working while intoxicated. Understood? I’m concerned about you driving your motorcycle home.”
“I’ll be fine. Besides, I don’t dwink and dwive,” Lariat said as he removed the keys from his pocket and headed for the door.
“What do you mean you don’t drink and drive? Are you planning to walk your motorcycle home?”
“Don’t be widiculous. Like I told ya, I don’t dwink and dwive. I only dwink at stop signs. Never while dwiving.”
“What? Lariat, that’s absurd! Give me your keys right now!”
Lariat stared at me silently, as if the proverbial cat was holding his tongue hostage with a pair of needle-nose pliers. I shook my head, and continued. “Drinking only when you’re stopped at a stop sign does not make you a safe driver or any less inebriated. It only takes one miscalculation to cause a tragic accident. I won’t have that on my conscience, and I don’t think you want the death of an innocent bystander on your conscience, either.”
Before he could object, I snatched the key ring out of his hand and shoved them in the front pocket of my jeans.
“Hey, whatcha doing?”
“Keeping you alive. I’ll arrange for an Uber driver to take you home. You can collect your bike tomorrow.”
He grumbled and squabbled with me and finally came to the conclusion I wasn’t going to budge. “All’s wight, fine.”
“I’ll pick you up in the morning on our way to meet the cake decorator. We’ll retrieve your bike afterward.”
Before he could object to my decision, he leaned his head back and passed out colder than a turkey thawing out in the kitchen sink. Five minutes later, it took three of us―Stone, the Uber driver, and me―to physically load Lariat into the backseat of the driver’s Nissan Xterra. We basically had to stuff him in the car the way one would stuff dressing into the aforementioned turkey. By the time we returned to the kitchen, Stone was madder than a rabid raccoon.
“That drunken bum’s the best professional planner you could find to organize the kids’ wedding?”
“Yes. He was. Unfortunately, drunken bum or not, Lariat’s the only one I could find. By the time we thought about hiring one, it was too late to get any of the other local wedding planners. The rest of them were already booked.” My last remark was only an assumption on my part, but Stone had no way of knowing I hadn’t placed a call to every wedding planner in northwestern Missouri.
“It’s no surprise this clown was still available. He wasn’t booked like the rest of them for good reason.”
Stone shook his head and walked out of the kitchen. I’d known it wasn’t a good idea to ask for Stone’s assistance in getting Lariat into the Xterra, but he was the only other person in the inn at the time. I also knew Stone was right about Lariat, who was probably more trouble than he was worth. Still, I felt a little ticked off that I’d been chastised for hiring him. I looked out the window just in time to see the Uber driver wave at me and start his engine.
What in the world have I gotten myself into? I wondered as I watched the Xterra pull away with my wedding planner sprawled across the back seat. If nothing else, I told myself, at least Lariat’s not as apt to become an organ donor today as he would’ve been had I not confiscated the keys to his Harley.
Nine
“Oh, no. Seriously?” I asked. I was disappointed the next morning to learn I’d be on my own again that day. I was beginning to think Wendy disliked the idea of planning a wedding even more than I did.
“Yes. It’s one of those migraines I get occasionally.”
Wendy had awakened with a blinding headache. She had been prone to migraines since her teenage years. More often than not, they were triggered by stressful periods in her life. She apologized, and I assured her I didn’t mind working alone with the wedding planner.
“All that matters is that you rest and let that migraine subside as quickly as possible. I know how agonizing they can be. I can handle this by myself as long as you trust me to make decisions regarding the wedding cake and flowers. Those are the two things Lariat and I planned to tackle today.”
“Of course I trust your judgment. And Mom? Thanks so much for all your help.”
“My pleasure, sweetheart. Now go rest.” I didn’t want to alarm her by telling her I’d likely be cutting Lariat Jones loose that morning, opting to take on full responsibility of the wedding planning myself. After all, Wendy was already suffering from an overabundance of nervous tension and it seemed as if I’d had to be present for every tedious decision anyway, despite the good money I was paying for a wedding planner. Oh, well. At least I had peace of mind knowing no critical element would be overlooked. I guess you could say I wanted Wendy and Andy to get hitched without a hitch.
As I had a penchant for getting lost in shopping mall parking lots, I followed the driving instructions from the portable GPS device Wendy had given me the previous Christmas to use in Ladybug. She’d said I was the only person she knew who routinely circled a roundabout a minimum of three times before figuring out which exit to take. As I drove, I practiced the speech I planned to give Lariat Jones when I reached his home.
I had every intention of explaining to him that after careful deliberation, I’d decided to settle up for the hours he’d worked to date, including a reasonable “severance bonus”, and then we would go our separate ways. I’d be kind, but resolute.
Not certain if the address Mr. Jones had given me would lead to a homeless shelter, an apartment above a biker bar, or even a vacant lot, I knew instinctively it would not be a modest home in a well-established neighborhood, or a two-bedroom unit in a newly-developed condo complex.
His office had been in a run-down part of town; small and scarcely furnished, but clean as a new pin and adequate-enough in size to serve its purpose. I couldn’t know for sure, but had a gut feeling the man depended on the income from this job to make ends meet, or at least support his beer habit.
Did Lariat have a family to support, young mouths to feed? Without knowing if he had any children, I worried about them and the role model they had to look up to. Did these children I envisioned depend on my contract with Lariat for their next meal? Lord, I hoped not.
I took a slow, deep breath and I realized I had let my imagination run wild when it should have been locked up tightly in an invisible, but secure, cage somewhere. I concentrated on following the GPS’s directions to block out further unwanted thoughts.
Marriage and Mayhem (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 7) Page 6