The Bride Wore Dead

by E M Kaplan

  “I guess that’s why all the stars come then,” she said.

  He shrugged and picked at his blackened nail. A tiny flake came off, and she realized it was black nail polish. “Guess so.”

  “Where’s Peter Williams now?”

  “Out at his brother’s place. Stuccoed hacienda-looking thing. Fountains and whatnot. It’s back toward Tucson—kind of tucked up in the mountains. If you drove yourself out here, you probably passed the access road.”

  Josie’s stomach growled, and it was his turn to raise an eyebrow. “Got my own stomach problems,” she said, mildly embarrassed, but not enough to give up her spotlight on Interrogators’ Amateur Hour. She checked his watch as surreptitiously as she could, but he noticed and held his wrist up so she could see the time. “I have an appointment with the nutritionist, but after that, want to get something to eat?” She gathered herself together and stood up.

  “With you?” He grinned. She flashed over with another wave of something akin to embarrassment. He wasn't totally undesirable—he had to know that. He acted like she was asking him out on a date. And for crying out loud, she wasn't exactly a leper herself. Susan liked her hair…on occasion. And Drew said her muscle tone wasn't awful though she was on the skinny side right now and he seemed to like his women more curvy. Patrice was probably curvy. Dammit, what was so amusing about brunch?

  While she dithered internally, Patrick backed down from his teasing. He smiled and said, “Okay. Take your time. I’ll just be here soaking up the shade.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Lillian Horner was waiting in her office. She offered Josie a thin, pale hand with long fingers and neatly trimmed, unpainted nails. She was wearing a peach-colored suit, an off-the-rack one, Josie figured, from the way it hung off her body so loosely. Josie sat across the formal and imposing mahogany desk from her. On second glance, she saw that the surface of the desk was scratched up but covered by a thick sheen of waxy furniture polish. Josie could detect a hint of lemon scent as if someone had just polished the desk. Lillian opened a folder.

  “I have to apologize if I seem a little distracted. We’ve had some very unusual events here in the last couple of days.” Her pale yellow hair was pulled back from her face in a clip. Her eyebrows were plucked into extreme arches and enhanced by brown pencil. No mascara, Josie noticed. Lillian was a natural blonde with yellow eyelashes, like the pale hairs of a brand new artist’s brush. Lack of mascara gave Lillian’s face an unfocused look. Maybe she’d forgotten to put it on. Maybe she’d run out of her favorite brand. Maybe she’d lost it on the floor of her car while trying to apply it on the drive to work.

  “I know something about what happened,” Josie told her.

  Lillian stopped looking through the file. “You know? But you decided to come here anyway? I don’t think I would have done the same, if I were you. Don’t get me wrong. This was a great place to come—it still is. It is a great place…” She looked flustered. Josie got the distinct feeling that Lillian wished she didn’t have to deal with anyone at the moment.

  Lillian cleared her throat. “It’s going to affect our staff for many weeks to come. I know that already. It’s going to be hard to concentrate on new clients. I mean, here I am talking to you about what happened. That’s already extremely unprofessional of me.”

  Unprofessional was the last word that Josie would have used. Stiff. Uptight with a rod jammed up her spine. Or maybe just a semi-successful social climber still trying to gouge the trailer trash dirt out from under her nails. Maybe. Maybe not. But Josie wanted her to continue without feeling too self-conscious, so she changed the subject.

  “It’s inevitable that people will think about it for a long time. Quite a shock. Can you tell me more about what it is that you do for the people who stay here? I was reading the brochure, but I didn’t really understand.”

  Lillian stopped short and straightened herself up to her full linen-suited height—not at all what Josie was hoping she would do. Josie wanted her to open up and tell her about Leann, but she was having trouble steering Lillian in that direction.

  “Sure. Absolutely. This is what we’re here for after all. What I am going to do, is ask you some questions about your diet and general health. It’s totally up to you how you answer them. We aren’t in communication with your doctor here—”

  “Actually, you are,” Josie broke in.

  A fleeting look of irritation crossed Lillian’s face, but she smoothed it over. “Excuse me?”

  “My doctor knows Antonio—.” Josie tried to interrupt Lillian’s spiel and take her off her guard, but seemed to be annoying her more than anything else.

  “Well, generally, we aren’t in communication with a doctor. This is a place of relaxation and recovery. It’s client-motivated. You bring yourself here and specify what you want. We develop a meal plan for you and help you adhere to it during your stay.” Lillian coupled a pen with a survey form and slid it across the desk to Josie. “Just take a few minutes to fill this out and we will get the kitchen staff to prepare some of the finest dishes available in this area of the country. Be sure to check the spicy box in the lower right corner if you enjoy spicy foods.” She pushed a clipboard across the desk to Josie along with a heavy Cross pen.

  Josie skimmed the questionnaire and started to fill it out. “How long have you been at Castle Ranch?” she asked, as mildly as she could.

  Lillian squinted for the briefest instant, then launched into what seemed to be a practiced response. “I came to Castle Ranch approximately four years ago. I have a degree in Family Studies with an emphasis on Nutrition.” She gestured to a framed diploma on the wall behind her. Local university. Diploma had a large blue and red A on it for Arizona.

  “So you’ve known Leann from previous visits?”

  Lillian stared at her, clearly taken aback by the use of the name. “You knew Leann?”

  Josie was suddenly embarrassed. She was a fraud, trying to pass herself off as a spa client. She’d finally succeeded in breaking down Lillian’s barriers, and then had latent guilt about it. She faltered for a minute, but used her connection to Leann to her advantage. Lowering her voice, she said, “Well, I was her bridesmaid…”

  Lillian seemed to take Josie’s hesitation as grief. Her wide, pale eyes filled with tears. “Oh my God, you should have told me before. I had no idea. I am so, so sorry,” she gasped. “This whole thing has just been so horrible. I’ve known her for years, you know. Probably not as long as you,” she corrected herself.

  Josie nodded noncommittally.

  “Actually, the truth is, I’ve wanted to say something to someone about her for a while now. Since before her death.” Josie leaned closer. “It’s just, with everything that has happened I don’t know who to talk to. Do I go to the police? I mean, I just can’t. Maybe it’s not as bad for you because they’re your people and all. I just wish I had said something sooner.”

  Josie blinked. “What do you mean?” The whole your people thing threw her for a loop. The police were her people? Did Lillian think she was a detective? Was Josie’s weak cover blown? Did she even have a cover?

  “The police officers—they’re Mexican here in Puerta. I just find it real intimidating the way they talk to women. And I’m white,” she added unnecessarily.

  Josie was silent for a second. Then, she steeled herself not to take offense. She wasn’t going to be able to get what she wanted if she put this woman back on the defensive. Although a large part of her wanted to scream and pull out Lillian’s pale, pale blonde hair by its roots. So, instead, though she couldn’t stop her teeth from clenching, she said, “Sure.” And then, “What was it that you wanted to tell the police?”

  “Well,” Lillian sniffled. She pulled some tissues from a hidden box in her desk drawer, along with some eye drops to clear the red out. She began blotting her eyes, and Josie realized why she wasn’t wearing any eye makeup—she’d been crying. “I knew her so well. I knew her habits. I mean, her eating habits so well. I was just
crushed by, you know, what happened to her.”

  Josie’s heart sank. Stupidly, she’d been hoping for a little more than Leann’s eating foibles. If that was all this uptight ignoramus was going to tell her, Josie might as well have ripped her a new one for her racist remarks.

  “I mean, she was eating a lot of the folate sources lately. All the leafy greens. Kale. Broccoli. That wasn’t such a big change. I just increased the amounts a little you know. And of course, added more fibers. Everyone can use more of those.”

  Josie nodded, in control of herself again. Deep breaths. Deep mental breaths. She handed Lillian back her completed questionnaire, carefully not checking the “Spicy” box as she’d been alerted earlier. She filled out questions about her job, her habits, her general moodiness, which had been a definite yes.

  “She was drinking a lot of water, just as I recommended. I mean, she was really doing all the right things for her health. It’s so tragic.” She paused to blow her nose. “And she even was giving up chocolate. We talked a long time about that. Because I had given it up during my pre-natal period, too, so I knew what she was going through with the cravings for it. We’re both chocoholics.”

  Josie had been focusing so hard on keeping her anger down that she almost missed it, but the one word had managed to penetrate her fog. “Excuse me, did you say…Do you mean that she was pregnant?”

  Lillian shook her head. “No, not yet. She’s wanted a baby for as long as I’ve known her. They’d been coming here for years. But she’s planning—that is, she was planning to start trying to have a baby.” Her eyes started to well up with tears again. “We talked about it all the time. She’d already bought all the books, like that What to Expect While You’re Expecting book and some others. She already knew all about what it would be like—the labor and delivery, Lamaze, breastfeeding. Like she’d imagined it a million times. She seemed so excited about getting married and having a baby to love. I showed her this picture I have of my daughter.”

  She rolled open a drawer of her desk and pulled out an ornate eight-by-ten wooden frame clearly meant for display, but secreted away in her fortress of a desk. “See how my daughter’s hair is so light it’s almost white? Well, we talked about how if Leann ended up having a little girl, too, she might turn out looking like my daughter.” Lillian studied the picture a minute or so, running a hand over the glass, before putting it back in her desk drawer.

  “Look, if there’s any way I can help you with this, you let me know, all right? I just wish I could help.” She blinked a couple of times, which spurred Josie toward wrapping up the conversation before the crying resumed. Josie wasn’t opposed to crying, it just felt so, so false that she had established this phony rapport with Lillian…even though it had been her intent in the first place.

  “Thanks very much,” Josie said, feeling oddly and abruptly sympathetic toward the woman, though not much the wiser in terms of her own supposed nutrition consultation.

  Lillian read over Josie’s questionnaire. “Oh sure. Just doing my job. I hope you like the food here. I think it’s very good.” She attempted a smile. “But I’m not the food critic now, am I?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Josie went back out to the shaded area by the pool. Patrick eased himself out of the chair. “That didn’t take long at all.”

  “Not too much to say, I guess,” Josie said.

  “So you said you have stomach problems? For real, huh? And here I thought you were just the reporter that Greta the Ice Queen hired to find out who dunnit.”

  She stared at him as they walked to the dining room. “Wow. News travels fast.”

  He smiled a very irritating, yet very beguiling smile and took off his baseball cap as they entered the building. His bleached hair was rumpled. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, which he handed to her. “This fax came in for you this morning. I took it off the machine myself. So sue me if you have to, but I’ve been here for weeks with nothing better to do.”

  She took the paper and recognized Mr. Obregon’s precise handwriting. Her chest constricted with fear as she realized the danger of her position. Anyone could have see the fax and read the message. In fact, anyone had. She shoved the paper deep into her shorts pocket to read later alone, though she wondered why she even bothered. “This is private. Don’t snoop in my business. Don’t do it again,” she said. Her fist involuntarily clenched at her side.

  He held his hands up, his elbows tucked into his bony sides. “I won’t say anything to anyone. If they find out, it won’t be from me. I swear. I can keep secrets.”

  She nodded and turned away from him, annoyed and flushed. “Keep secrets? So can a lot of people, I’m guessing. Now let’s get some fricking food before I pass out.”

  Breakfast turned out to be an assortment of fresh fruit, half of a whole-grain bagel, and a scrambled egg breakfast burrito. The spread for her bagel was milk-free, the server assured her, as were the eggs. This was her breakfast. Along with his fruit, Patrick received a bowl of multigrain hot cereal.

  Come on, Clay. What is this stuff?” He gestured at the big red-haired kid in the server uniform to come closer, then leaned toward him confidentially. The kid, Clay, came closer, and Josie smiled inwardly—he looked like Opie on steroids. He was well over six feet tall, with a thick, muscular neck and ears that stuck out from his head. His dark red hair was buzzed in a crew cut and, judging from the backs of his arms and hands, he seemed to be covered all over in freckles. Even better, he had a big, friendly grin. Her cousin Libby’s long-lost relative?

  “It’s oatmeal and kashi, just like yesterday,” Clay said, good naturedly.

  Patrick held out his bowl and stooped his shoulders. He said in a high-pitched Cockney accent, “Please, sir, may I have some more?” Then, he lowered his voice and dropped the accent. “Seriously, Clay. Come on.” Patrick slid his hand across the table, his eyes traveling back and forth, scanning the room. “Fifty bucks,” he said.

  Clay rolled his eyes. “No can do, Patrick. You know I can’t do that.”

  “Seventy-five then,” Patrick said.

  “Nope,” Clay said. He told Josie, “He tries this just about every day.” Then, to Patrick, “You know I’m going to mention this to Lil. Why do you even bother?”

  “A hundred,” said Patrick. “And an extra four hundred not to tell her.”

  Clay let his empty serving tray rest on his hip. “Five hundred dollars?”

  Patrick got excited. “You’ll do it? Five hundred dollars is yours! In your pocket, man.”

  Clay repeated the offer. “You’ll pay me five hundred dollars. For one box?”

  “Yeah, anything,” Patrick said. “I have the cash right here in my wallet. I just need to have some.”

  Josie watched the exchange warily.

  Clay laughed finally and shook his head. “Nope. Now, Patrick, you know I can’t do that kind of thing.”

  Patrick sighed, defeated. “Ah, man, no reason to play with me.” He put his cash back in his wallet.

  “Box of what?” she asked finally.

  Patrick was silent and pouting. He took up a spoonful of his cereal and shoveled it into his perfectly symmetrical mouth. The server—Clay—said, “Pop-Tarts. And don’t get him any, Ms. Tucker. No matter what he offers you.” He walked away.

  “A thousand,” Patrick shouted at him. Clay waved over his shoulder. “Dammit, man,” Patrick said and pounded his fist on the table. The silverware bounced.

  “Are you serious?” Josie stared at him.

  He shrugged and gave a half-smile. “I know that when they work for Lil, they have to sign a contract that says they have to serve us what she says.”

  Josie started eating again. “So you were just playing with him?”

  He shrugged and offered again what she was coming to recognize as his trademark saying. “So sue me, I’m bored. And Pop-Tarts are the second most addictive substance on the face of the earth after crack cocaine. Enriched flour. High fructose c
orn syrup. I mean, come on. I know they're letting you keep your car here. You could get out of here. Get off the res, man, and get me my 'tarts. What do you want? Money? Jewels?” He raised an eyebrow. “Sexual favors?”

  She smacked him on the arm with the back of her hand—maybe too familiar a gesture, but they were fellow inmates after all. “I’m not falling for that. Desperation of an addict.”

  “Ow,” he rubbed his arm, but gave another half-smile. “You know, you’re kind of prickly, but for some reason, I like you,” he said. She rolled her eyes. He watched her eat a few bites, and then dutifully went back to his cereal.

  Yeah, she’d admit it. She was enjoying Patrick’s company. She liked the easy banter. While he seemed a little soft, a little too pampered for her taste, he was affable and undeniably attractive, like a male model—lots of form, little substance. The attempted bribery scene he’d played with Clay made Josie wonder whether he was a trust fund kid. And as mercenary as Greta Williams had shown Josie to be, it wasn’t the scent of Patrick’s money that made him interesting, though without a doubt, he did have money. Despite his too-trendy hair and personal insecurities that made him name-drop LA an ungodly amount, he had the scent of old money about him. He’d mentioned attending prep school with the Williams brothers. Clearly, he wasn’t a puzzle she’d be solving today.

  To get herself on track, back to the purpose at hand, she looked around the large dining area. Creamy cloth-covered square tables made intimate clusters. A stone fireplace formed a lounge area at one end. Warm and cozy, if she hadn’t known about the recent events. She tried to set the atmosphere in her mind, to picture a new bride here. What would it have been like to come here on her honeymoon? The acoustics were pleasant, soft and muted. At dinnertime, the lights would be dimmed. A single, flickering candle on each linen-draped table, high-backed upholstered chairs adding to the intimacy, two heads leaning toward one another over wine glasses—one person with dark hair like Josie’s, the other with dark, curly hair like Drew’s. Voices would sound like whispers, maybe a low, pleased laugh audible now and then. In the late evening, they’d rise from their table, interlacing hands, and take a stroll toward where the fountain flowed into the pool, a gentle breeze flicking the leaves of the pepper tree into lacy veils. A kiss, soft enough to make a delicious shiver travel down her spine.