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

by Jeanne Glidewell

  Not knowing what else to do, I turned to go after Wendy. As I passed through the crowd, I heard Hazel Hallberg whisper to Orpha White, “Reckon them two sickly kids had already taken a bite of this butt-ugly cake?”

  Orpha shrugged at the notion of a tainted wedding cake and, after a brief contemplative pause, both ladies shoved another forkful of it into their mouths. Although I believed Hazel’s cutting remark had been made in jest, I had to wonder if one of the old biddies might not be the next to topple over like a Bradford pear tree in a Midwestern tornado.

  I raced after Wendy, who’d retreated to the inn in distress as the sirens from the ambulance faded into the distance. As I neared the back door of the inn leading into the kitchen, I prayed that Andy’s best friend had already regained full consciousness and was back to his normal joking, light-hearted self. I couldn’t help but mull over the fact that two young and seemingly healthy adults had suffered similar fainting spells within minutes of each other.

  Raven, who’d performed CPR on Bubba, had been the person in the closest proximity to him after he’d stopped breathing. Just moments after discontinuing CPR on him to let the medics take over, she had collapsed to the ground in much the same manner as the man she had worked so hard to revive. Raven now seemed to be in stable condition, even though she was about to be transported by a second ambulance to the same hospital as Bubba for further observation.

  Did Bubba suffer from a heat stroke, as Wendy suggested? Was Raven subsequently overtaken by a combination of the oppressive August weather and the fatigue she likely felt from her resuscitation efforts? Was it merely a terrible coincidence or were the two events somehow related?

  These questions filtered through my mind as I entered the kitchen. Unbeknownst to me, I’d soon be trying to connect the dots of the mystifying incident, despite my promise to Stone to never again involve myself in a police matter. There’d be a distinction this time, however. The police department would never even realize an investigation was due. If not for Sheila and me, they never would have known something was wrong regarding Bubba’s sudden health crisis. Like the medical staff at the local hospital, they’d have chocked it up to a fluke occurrence brought on by the heat of the day and several other contributing factors.

  Bubba deserved justice and, if he ever regained consciousness, he deserved to know what had caused him to pass out, stop breathing, and eventually slip into a coma. Fortunately, Sheila and I were on our toes, and would strive to bring the truth to light. On the flip side, that wouldn’t happen until after we both nearly lost our own lives.

  Twenty

  I found an inconsolable Wendy in the kitchen of the Alexandria Inn, where she’d sought refuge after bolting from her thwarted wedding ceremony. I’d be glad when she and Andy were officially married. If nothing else, maybe my daughter’s erratic behavior would return to normal. For the last few weeks, Wendy had been deliriously happy one moment and deep in despair the next. Her roller-coaster emotions were giving me motion sickness. I’d have understood if her current state of despondency was based solely on concern for Bubba and Raven, but it was of a more self-centered nature.

  “Come on, honey. It’s probably not as bad as it seems right now.” “Probably”, being the operative word, I wanted to add. I stroked her back as she sobbed into her hands. “I’m sure Bubba will pull through, and we’ll all be gathered together in the garden soon to watch you and Andy exchange vows.”

  It became clear that Wendy had sucked in too much air as she tried to respond. “But, (hiccup) Mom, we already exchanged vows. It was the wedding (hiccup) rings we never got to exchange. So Reverend Bob never had the chance to pronounce us man and (hiccup) wife.”

  “You know, it’s quite likely that the pronouncement of a couple as man and wife is not necessary to make your marriage official. Maybe those technicalities aren’t as significant as you think.”

  Wendy’s weeping stopped on a dime. She straightened her shoulders and clenched her fists. By the look on her face, you’d have thought I’d just informed her the blemish on her forehead stood out like a beacon in the night in every single photo taken before the ceremony. For most rational people, that piece of information would be totally irrelevant. To Wendy, however, it would be akin to a large asteroid hitting the earth and killing off two-thirds of the world’s population.

  “Oh my God, Mom. How can you―”

  Before I could clarify my remarks, Wendy collapsed in a new round of hysterical bawling. I’d about had enough of her overly dramatic and childish behavior. If she didn’t calm down soon, I was going to have to slap my daughter on what should have been her wedding day. “Oh, for goodness sakes, Wendy. Snap out of it. You’re acting like a self-absorbed drama queen. Frankly, dear, the only thing you should be concerned about right now is the well-being of Andy’s best friend and Raven, who also had to be transported to the hospital. For all we know, Bubba might have already passed or is on the verge of it. Don’t you think that’s a little more important at the moment than having to delay the official certification of your marriage? Have you been a coroner for so long that you’ve lost complete sensitivity to the plight and welfare of others?”

  Wendy’s tanned complexion paled, which is remarkable considering the tan had been sprayed on at a salon. “I’m actually classified as a medical examiner, but you are so right. What’s wrong with me? I’ve only been thinking about myself. Andy will be devastated if Bubba dies. And Raven, too? I didn’t even realize she’d…oh, my. I’m so sorry. I’ve been acting so self-absorbed. I guess I’m just…”

  “Stressed out?” I supplied when Wendy couldn’t seem to come up with the proper adjective. “It’s normal to be on edge in a situation like this, dear. Let’s put the wedding ceremony on the shelf right now and concentrate on Bubba and Raven. Okay?”

  “Absolutely!” With that Wendy fled the room as if someone had just whacked a hornet’s nest above her with a baseball bat. In what seemed like mere seconds, she returned to the room in blue jeans and a silky blue-and-white striped blouse. “Why are you still sitting there? We need to get to the hospital to see if there’s anything we can do.”

  The fact that my daughter was back to her normal, thoughtful self was the only bright spot in what currently was a very bleak situation. My hands trembled as I rushed upstairs and hurriedly changed into an outfit similar to the one Wendy now wore.

  Wendy waited impatiently at the door as I descended the staircase. “Let’s go!”

  I nearly tripped over my own feet in my haste. We scurried out to the garden area, where most of the guests still lingered. I informed everyone that the ceremony would be rescheduled due to the unexpected circumstances, and they’d receive an email or text when the new date had been established. A few in the crowd looked disappointed on hearing my announcement. Did they truly think we intended for them to wait for Bubba and Raven to return from the hospital, and that the ceremony would continue as though nothing had happened?

  During my announcement, I glanced over at Lariat, who looked as if he’d just seen a stripper in a thong and pasties pop out of the wedding cake. I was unnerved by the delighted expression on his face. Delight was unbefitting the situation.

  Was he, for some unknown reason, pleased that the ceremony had been interrupted? Could he already be adding up the money he was apt to make to plan a second attempt at a wedding? Or, more likely, were the numerous gulps I’d seen him take from a flask he’d been toting around in his coat jacket beginning to kick in? He hadn’t shied away from the spiked punch bowl, either. Lariat was a high-functioning alcoholic. He more than likely had a buzz on, as he was in the habit of calling his drunken stupors.

  Although the peculiar dude was adept at planning and multi-tasking, he’d been an odd duck since day one, I told myself. So whatever’s going on in Lariat’s mind is neither here nor there at the moment. I’ve got more important fish to fry right now.

  Sheila walked over, joined by Rapella, who Stone and I had become close to after gett
ing acquainted with her and her husband, Rip, at a Wyoming campground the previous year. Sheila asked, “Lexie, is there anything we can do while you guys are at the hospital?”

  “Bless you both. Would you mind collecting the refreshments and wedding paraphernalia and putting it all in the kitchen? You can put the leftover cake on the bottom shelf of the extra fridge in the pantry, and simply stack the rest of the stuff on the table and counters for me to deal with later. For the kids’ sake, I’d like to preserve as much of it as possible to keep the cost of a duplicate wedding to a minimum.”

  “Yes, of course. Fortunately, my secret-recipe punch has kept most of the guests from indulging in the champagne. I’ll gather up the full bottles of bubbly first, so no more of them get uncorked,” Sheila said.

  “Good idea. I’ve already downed a couple of glasses of your punch. As I’ve told you a dozen times, it’s simply amazing. I can’t believe you won’t share your recipe, or at least tell me what kinds of fruit juices and liquor you use. Good grief, it’s not like we haven’t been best friends for decades.”

  “Did Duke give away the secret recipe for Bush’s baked beans? No. Not to anyone. Has the Coca-Cola Company shared its secret recipe to any old soda company that came along and requested it? Of course not. Their secret formula has been kept in a safe-deposit vault in an Atlanta bank for nearly a century. And my secret formula is stored right here.” Sheila pointed to her temple as she spoke. Her words sounded a little slurred, and her stance was none too stable. “As you know, Lexie, it’s a lot more potent than one might think. We may have to call for an Uber driver to haul some of your elderly church friends home, considering how rapidly the punch bowl is being depleted. I’ve already refilled it twice, and it’s about to run dry for a third time. Thank goodness Randy and I are bunking here, because I might have drunk a little too much of it myself.”

  Just in case she hadn’t, I assumed, Sheila lifted her cup to her lips and killed off what punch was left. I drained my cup, as well, because I didn’t want to have it in the car as Wendy drove us to the hospital. If I spilled red punch on the upholstery of her new vehicle, there’d be hell to pay.

  “I agree with Lexie,” Rapella said. “It’s simply delicious, Sheila. I can tell tequila, my drink of choice, is included in the recipe.”

  “You’re correct,” Sheila replied. “But that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

  Rapella giggled and lifted her own red cup of punch as if in a toast. It was clear she’d also indulged a tad too much. She tipped her head back and downed the rest of her drink as if it were a shot of her favorite tequila. “No matter what else is in it, it makes for a fabulous combination.”

  “Thanks, Rapella. My spiked punch recipe is my only claim to fame. And Lexie, you and Wendy need to get going. Rapella and I will be happy to clean up here. When you get a chance, text me an update on the groomsman and the floral assistant who both took ill. I’ll be certain to pass it on to the Ripples.” Sheila patted Rapella on the shoulder. The simple tap nearly caused Rapella to lose her balance. That damned punch truly was more potent than one would imagine.

  I assured Sheila I’d keep them both in the loop, and then hopped into the passenger seat of Wendy’s car, which had just pulled up beside me. Sitting in the car with the door open, I thanked Sheila and Rapella again. “The boutonnieres and bouquets should probably go into the fridge too, if you can make room for them.”

  Before either of them could respond, my neck snapped back against the headrest and my door slammed shut of its own accord as Wendy stomped on the accelerator. As we raced down the highway, I said a prayer for Raven’s well-being. She’d worked valiantly to save Bubba before succumbing to a fainting spell of her own. I then said another one for my daughter and me at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, when Wendy barely missed being t-boned by a passenger van full of children on their way to a church camp. A magnetic sign on the front of the van, which read “Camp Saves-a-Lot”, seemed a mere six inches from my face for a split, heart-stopping second. I’m sure I looked as if I had saucers for eyes as I gazed in terror out the window at the large oncoming vehicle. The children in the van were no doubt having a merry little laugh over the near-collision and the hysterical-looking woman in the passenger seat of the car they’d nearly struck.

  After my life ceased flashing before my eyes, I glanced at Wendy, who appeared unfazed. She clearly had no clue my timely prayer had just saved the two of us from a grisly demise.

  I’d soon discover my final prayer during the car ride would go unanswered. Bubba would not be up and dressed, laughing about his fainting spell as he signed discharge papers. Instead, when we arrived at the Wheatfield Memorial Hospital in St. Joseph, Missouri, we learned he was comatose and clinging to life by a thin, tattered thread.

  Twenty-One

  I had a strong premonition of impending doom the second we walked into the ICU waiting room. Andy’s tuxedo jacket was folded over the back of his chair, and he was using the sleeve of his dress shirt to wipe tears from his cheeks. He was a naturally upbeat guy. I’d never seen the handsome young man upset before. The sight of him crying tugged at my heartstrings and made my own eyes fill with tears.

  Stone had his arm draped across the back of Andy’s chair as well, no doubt wrinkling the tuxedo jacket beyond the limited threshold of getting the damage deposit returned. When Stone noticed our presence, he looked up and shook his head. I could tell by his expression he had been unable to adequately console his nephew.

  The relief on Stone’s face was evident when he spotted Wendy walk into the room behind me. She rushed to Andy’s side as Stone stood up and motioned for me to walk with him. “We’re going to go grab some coffee, kids. We’ll be right back.”

  Neither Andy nor Wendy appeared to hear his remark, or even notice that Stone and I were in the same time zone as they were. They were deeply engrossed with each other. I could feel the love they shared as they gazed into each other’s eyes.

  “Has Bubba―” I stopped, unable to finish my question, but Stone knew what I was trying to ask.

  “No. Not yet, anyway,” Stone whispered. “He’s still comatose, and is currently on life support. They are operating on the belief Bubba suffered severe heat stroke, between the brutal heat and humidity today, and the excitement of the moment. Supporting that assumption is the fact they’ve determined he was very dehydrated, possibly due to the elevated sodium level in his system.”

  “Can heat stroke be fatal?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.

  “Yes. It’s rare, but it happens. The EMT’s who delivered Bubba to the hospital had reported his body temperature was 100.5 degrees when they’d arrived on the scene to treat him, which was a lot lower than the nurse practitioner said they’d expect from a comatose heat-stroke victim. In fact, Dr. Schnuck said they would’ve been more convinced he’d suffered heat stroke if his temperature had been in the 104-degree range, or higher.”

  “If that’s the case, shouldn’t they be checking for other issues that might have caused this to happen?”

  “They are. Just not as diligently as I’d like. They’ve run a few tests but nothing else has stood out as an alternative cause for his collapse. The cardiologist on the team evaluated him for a possible heart attack, perhaps caused by an undiagnosed heart valve problem or some other type of cardiac abnormality. But the EKG came back normal, as did other cardiac testing.”

  “Did they check into any pre-existing conditions Bubba might have?”

  “With no immediate family present, they couldn’t get much information. They did question Andy in depth as soon as we arrived. The two of them are as close as brothers, you know. But Andy wasn’t aware of any serious medical conditions his friend might have, other than a mild case of asthma that hadn’t bothered Bubba at all since high school. He also knew his buddy had undergone a complete physical exam recently for his job, and had been declared ‘fit as a fiddle’.”

  “Clearly, not all fiddles are as fit as they appear
,” I said in a sad voice. “I never did understand that cliché, anyway. What does being fit have to do with a fiddle? Does a cello look at a fiddle and say, ‘Look at the neck on that dude! I need to exercise more and trim down so I can look as fit as he does?’”

  Without responding, Stone looked at me as if he were a bartender trying to determine whether or not to serve me another drink. Knowing I had a tendency to babble when I was on edge, he put his arm around my shoulder as we continued to walk down a long hallway. In an attempt to comfort me, he said, “Maybe it’ll turn out to be nothing, honey. Just a fluke, perhaps.”

  I felt anything but comforted by his remark. “Yes, but often these kinds of flukes turn out to be deadly. Did they rule out a blood sugar issue?”

  “The doctor told Andy that Bubba’s blood sugar was ninety-four when tested in the ambulance. A perfectly normal level, he said. I heard Andy tell the physician who quizzed him that Bubba had been diagnosed as a borderline diabetic about two years ago. So he cut out sugar and, like your out-of-shape cello apparently needs to do, Bubba joined a gym. Between the dietary changes and increased exercise, he lost thirty pounds, lowered his BMI level, and dropped his average fasting blood sugar level significantly.” Stone stopped speaking as he reached for his wallet.

  “That’s good,” I replied, watching Stone dig for dollar bills as we stood in front of a canteen-style coffee machine.

  After he returned his wallet to his back pocket, Stone continued. “It seems big Bubba is scared to death of needles, and the very idea of giving himself insulin injections was all the incentive he needed to make some lifestyle changes. Oh, sorry. I suppose ‘scared to death’ wasn’t the best phrase to use.”