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Authors: Janelle Taylor

BOOK: Dying To Marry
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The sounds of laughter and glasses clinking shook Jake from his reverie.
“Jake, dear, you were a million miles away,” Victoria Dunhill scolded. “Did you even notice my first guests arrive? Have you met the delightful Chipwells?”
He hadn't, but the delightful Mrs. Chipwell, who'd made it clear she couldn't believe Dylan had passed up her beautiful daughter in favor of “that ... that Down Hill girl,” was on his list of suspects.
Jake stood, shook the couple's hands, and engaged the delightful Mrs. Chipwell in a subtle investigative conversation.
 
“This limo could almost make me forget my troubles,” Lizzie said, crossing and uncrossing her legs in the luxurious limousine that Dylan had insisted on renting to transport Lizzie, Gayle and Holly to the party. Her smile faded. “Almost. I wish Flea were here.”
“I stopped by her shop before I headed to your place, Lizzie,” Gayle said, tossing her heavy red hair behind her shoulder. “She's still wincing a little from the pain. And yet there she was, cutting and patterning your dress, working with those tiny scissors, straining her eyes.”
“I spent some time with her yesterday,” Holly said. “She said that working on the dress will make her feel like she's at the party.”
“What would I do without Flea?” Lizzie said, tearing up and glancing out the window. “What would I do without any of you?”
“Hey, come on now,” Gayle said, patting Lizzie's knee. “Don't forget that gorgeous, kind fiancé of yours!”
Lizzie let out a deep breath. “Gayle, I'm so sorry about what happened at your workplace. I don't know if it was the person who's after me going after my friends or if it was Pru or what, but I'm so sorry.”
Gayle smiled weakly. “Don't you worry, Lizzie. My boss was never going to go for me anyway, whether or not he thinks I'm some good-time girl. Besides, it's nothing he didn't hear every day in the halls in high school.”
A few days ago, Gayle's boss had received a typed letter from an anonymous source in Troutville, insisting that she be fired, that Good Time Gayle had no business being the receptionist at such a professional establishment as his law office. The letter went on to say that Gayle partied every night of the week till all hours, drinking and carrying on with who knew who, and who knew what confidential secrets she was spilling? Her boss would be well advised, the letter continued, to fire her.
Gayle's boss hadn't fired her, but he had, with some embarrassment, shown her the letter so that she'd be aware, given what was going on with Lizzie.
Gayle's beautiful green eyes teared up. “Sticks and stones, right?”
“It was Pru!” Flea said through clenched teeth. “For telling her off at the reunion. Probably why she waited a week—so you wouldn't necessarily connect it to that.”
“I'm sure you're right,” Gayle said. “But it's not like I can confront her without proof.”
“If it was her, Gayle,” Lizzie said, squeezing Gayle's hand, “I'm just sorry you'll have to see her tonight. Feel free to ignore her. I don't want you thinking you need to be polite just because of me. She's certainly not polite to me and I'm marrying into her family.”
“Are you okay, honey?” Holly asked Lizzie. “Remember, tonight is about you and Dylan celebrating how you feel. It's not about the psycho. It's not about Pru. It's not about anything but you and Dylan.”
Lizzie nodded and offered a smile, but as the limo turned onto Dunhill Place, she bit her lip and then burst into tears. “I'm a nervous wreck,” Lizzie said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “I'm trying to put on a good front, but I'm scared to death. For myself, for you two, and Flea, for Dylan. And then there's Mrs. Dunhill. Pru is nothing compared to her.”
Holly held Lizzie's hand for support. “Honey, I thought you said Dylan's mother was being civil.”
“Meaning she's not insulting me to my face,” Lizzie explained, her face crumpling.
“She'll come around,” Gayle put in. “Trust me, after tonight, when they see firsthand how in love you and Dylan are, his mom will welcome you into the family.”
“I hope so,” Lizzie said, brightening just a little. She glanced out the window. “Especially because we're here.”
The three women stared out the window at the stately white mansion up a manicured slope of lawn. Holly had been here once before. Not inside, though. When she was eleven, her aunt Flora, who worked in the house as a maid, had forgotten her brown-bag lunch on the counter at home, and Holly had been sent with it on her bicycle. When she'd arrived, she was careful to leave the bike in the street so that its handlebars or wheels wouldn't touch the lovely grass, and she'd started up the walkway to the majestic front door, wondering where the special entrance was that her aunt had told her about. Once at the front door, she'd peered around the side of the house for the workers' entrance, but saw only a garden and rosebushes. And so, brown bag in hand, she tiptoed to knock the heavy brass knocker. The housekeeper, her aunt's boss, had answered the door, and had smiled at Holly and taken the bag, but Pru Dunhill, who Holly had never seen before (she attended a special boarding school then) had been coming down the stairs.
“Is this a beggar girl?” Pru had asked the housekeeper. “Why is she dressed that way?”
As the housekeeper explained that Holly was the maid Flora's little niece, come to bring her forgotten lunch, Holly glanced down at herself and saw for the first time the difference between the way she was dressed and how Pru was dressed. She had never noticed such a thing before. Pru, in a pristine white dress, her hair held back with a pink headband, looked like a princess. And Holly, in her cousin Lizzie's hand-me-downs (Lizzie was so much taller than Holly that she outgrew her clothes faster than Holly) felt shabby, despite how clean and well mended her shirt and pants were. She didn't “look” like Pru did, with her shining blond hair and polished Mary Janes.
“Well, if she's related to a maid, she can't use the front door,” Pru said matter-of-factly. “She has to use the servants' entrance.”
The housekeeper had reddened, smiled at Holly and shooed her away, and the heavy door closed in her face. That had been Holly's first experience with Pru Dunhill, with Dunhill Mansion. With feeling “less than.” Here she was, twenty-eight years old, a self-assured teacher with her own home, and yet being in Troutville, being in front of this house again, was able to call up that old feeling so vividly. Now, she would be walking through the front door, a guest at a family party. It didn't seem like a victory, though. In fact, she was feeling a little sick. She'd like to slap Pru Dunhill and wasn't sure if she could stop herself if Pru provoked her.
Watch it
,
Holly
, she cautioned herself. These people were going to be Lizzie's in-laws, and for her, she would respond to the Dunhills as though they were any family she was meeting for the first time.
“Ready?” Lizzie asked as the driver came around to open the door for them.
As we'll ever be,
Holly thought, exiting the limo.
“How do I look?” Lizzie asked as they headed up the walkway. “Is my hair too wild?”
Holly looked Lizzie up and down in an exaggerated way. “From toe to head, my dear cousin, you look absolutely beautiful. And your hair is amazing.”
“You look incredible, Lizzie,” Gayle said. “Even Mrs. Dunhill won't have a thing to say about the ‘appropriateness' of your dress.” She giggled. “You look—almost—like a Dunhill's wife!”
Holly and Lizzie laughed. “Well, except for the cleavage,” Lizzie said, shimmying her shoulders. “And the bright color. And the flowery print.” She laughed. “This is the most conservative dress I own!”
“I know this one isn't,” Holly said, glancing down at herself, at the pretty black dress with its flouncy hem Flea had insisted on giving her yesterday. She felt so light, so feminine—and so not herself again. She loved the dress, loved the shoes Lizzie had loaned her, but she'd love it a lot more on someone else. She hated calling attention to herself, to her body. To anything that might make people notice her. In high school, she'd worn big dark shirts and corduroys to hide her body, to help her fade into the hallways. But the comments had kept on, regardless.
The heavy door was opened by a butler. “Your name,” he said to Holly.
“Holly Morrow.”
“You may enter,” the butler said.
Oh, may I
, thought Holly.
Gayle went through the same process.
“And you are?” he said to Lizzie.
Lizzie smiled. “Hello, Walker. It's me, Lizzie Morrow. We met once—”
The butler scanned the list. “I'm sorry, but you are not on the guest list.” He turned to Holly and Gayle. “If you two are coming in, please do so now.”
The three women stared at the butler. “She's the bride-to-be!” Holly said incredulously.
“Half of the guest of honor!” Gayle said.
The butler's expression didn't change. “I'm sorry, but her name is not on the list. I'm under strict orders not to allow any person in whose name is not on the list.”
“Oh, brother,” Lizzie said. “Talk about humiliating. I can't even get into my own engagement party!”
Gayle handed Lizzie her cell phone. “Here, Liz, use my phone to call Dylan.”
Lizzie punched in the numbers. “Hi, sweetie,” she said into the phone. “I can't get into my own party! I'm not on the list!” She listened for a few moments. “Okay. We'll be here.” She clicked off and let out a deep breath. “He says of course I'm not on the list—I'm not a guest!”
Holly supposed she could understand the mix-up.
Supposed
she could.
In a moment, Dylan appeared behind the butler. “Walker, don't you remember my fiancée, Lizzie? Of course she's not on the list. The party is
for
her—for us.”
The butler paled. “Oh. I'm terribly sorry, sir. Sorry, ma'am. I'm under strict orders not to let anyone in who isn't on the guest list.”
Lizzie smiled. “Believe me, I of all people understand the need for tight security. And I appreciate it, too.”
Holly wasn't sure if the butler deserved Lizzie's generosity, but she admired her cousin's ability to turn the other cheek.
Dylan enfolded Lizzie in a hug. “You look smashing, sweetheart. You're going to knock them all dead.”
“I wouldn't use that word if I were you,” Gayle joked.
Dylan smiled. “Come on in. Just about everyone's here. I can't wait for them all to meet my Lizzie.” He kissed her hand.
Dylan led them inside a packed ballroom. There were at least a hundred people in the elegant room, but the first person Holly saw was Jake. He was in his beautiful dark suit, and his dark hair shone under the lights of a chandelier. He was so handsome, so intensely handsome, that she had trouble looking away.
He caught her staring. He upped his champagne glass at her and moments later, he was at her side with a glass for her.
“Thank you,” she said, taking it from him. She was glad to have something to do with her hands.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered. “I hope you don't mind my saying that.”
She felt herself blush.
Just say thank you
, she ordered herself. But her mouth felt as though it were stuffed with cotton. She smiled shyly instead, and he smiled back.
“Can you bring me up to date on where you are suspect-wise?” Holly asked, mostly to have something to say. He hadn't made a point of talking to her when he'd come by Lizzie's to discuss the case. He seemed to be trying to avoid her.
Holly cleared her throat. “If you don't mind, I'd like to know who your top suspect is, so that I can pay close attention to him or her tonight. Or perhaps we could begin with the top two—we could each take one—surreptitiously follow them around, listen to their conversations.”
“I thought we'd begin with a glass of champagne,” Jake said, clinking his glass with hers.
Holly felt her cheeks pinken. She was so aware of him standing next to her, his masculinity. She could smell just a hint of his soap, a hint of his aftershave.
He was in love with you in high school ...
Was it true? Had this gorgeous man really loved her?
“You promised me my first dance, Jake Boone,” came a seductive, feminine voice.
Holly and Jake turned to find Pru Dunhill in a skintight, low-cut, short black dress. Somehow, she managed to look elegantly sexy, instead of inappropriate. With her long blond hair and blue eyes, Pru's angelic beauty was offset by the severity of the black, and she made a dazzling picture.

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