Fatally Flaky (14 page)

All right, I promised myself as I toweled off, no more obsessing about Jack’s future.

Sufficient unto the day are the evils thereof, I thought as I buttoned myself into my pajamas.

If only I’d had any idea just how bad those evils were actually going to be, I’d have canceled Billie’s wedding myself.

T
he alarm burbled at six, and it seemed to me to be very far off. A distant rendition of Handel’s Water Music made me imagine I was floating on a raft down Cottonwood Creek. Tom had come in very late, and I’d only vaguely registered his warm presence beside me. Now I wanted him on the raft with me, so I rolled over and curled myself around him. He responded by pulling me in close.

“Could you turn off the music?” he murmured. “I’d enjoy this more.”

So I did. We made slow, affectionate, and very quiet love. I doubted we would wake up the boys, but still, I didn’t want to risk it.

Afterward, I thought,
That was the best thing that will happen today.

“Boyd’s meeting you out at the spa at noon,” Tom whispered warmly in my ear.

“That is so unnecessary. We’ll be fine.”

“It’ll make me feel better to have him there.”

“Tom. Julian will be there. Jack will be there.”

“Miss G., I doubt even a twenty-two would fit underneath what ever natty outfit your gun-loving godfather is wearing. Then again, he could whack someone over the head with a liquor bottle.”

“Go back to sleep.”

I tiptoed into the bathroom, where I took a long, hot shower that felt great. Back in our bedroom, I slid onto the floor and began doing yoga. I’d already told myself my routine should be twice as long as normal so I could build up a reservoir of calm before the day’s stresses began.

Feeling serene, cool, and unable to be ruffled, I crept down to the kitchen, fired up the espresso maker, and pulled four shots, which I used for a high-test Summertime Special. I might feel composed, but I needed to get the old energy going, that was certain.

I’d turned the ringer on our phone off when I’d gone to bed, and it was a good thing, as two messages had come in while we were sleeping. After turning the volume to Low, I pressed the button. The first message was from Charlotte Attenborough. Of course I wasn’t surprised.

“Goldy,” she whispered. “Jack’s fixing me a drink in the next room, but I just wanted to let you know how sorry we are that we had to change the venue at the last minute. It was because of all the rain. Since Billie had wanted guests to be inside and outside at your center, she was afraid everyone wouldn’t fit inside if the rain kept up.”

And the fifty extra people? I wondered. Where did they come from? But that was coming.

“The extra people are all my best advertisers. I decided at the last minute that they should be included, and they all said they wanted to honor Billie and Craig.”

I giggled so suddenly that I choked on my latte. Right! You mean you were hitting them up for big donations to your daughter’s wedding-gift haul! Well, she would need presents from other people, as that four mil you used to pay off Craig must be putting a dent in your finances, eh, Charlotte?

That message had come in at eleven o’clock the previous evening. If my godfather was fixing Charlotte a drink then, the likelihood of her getting enough beauty sleep was slim.

But then the second message was from Charlotte, too.

“Goldy,” she said urgently. “Billie’s having a meltdown. Craig’s been trying to calm her, to no avail. So she’s going out to the spa this morning.”

My heart sank. Billie underfoot in the spa kitchen? That was all I needed.

“I told her she’d feel better if she had something to do, so she’s going to oversee the putting up of the decorations in the spa dining room.”

Better and better, I thought.
Not.

“I’m going to take her dress and veil out there. I don’t want to leave that up to her. I figured, better safe than sorry.”

Man, I was already sorry. I slid a new, chilled glass under the espresso spout and watched four more shots spurt inside. I dumped in more cream and ice cubes, and wondered if Marla had any Valium in the massive pharmacopeia she kept in her house. But would it be better if I took it, if I gave it to Billie, or both?

After printing out the last of my checklists, I started packing the boxes I would be taking out to the spa. A sudden sharp rap at the back door startled me so that I spilled the latte all over the floor. First I choked on it, then I spilled it on the floor.

“Jeez, boss,” said Julian when he came through the back door, “you look like you saw a ghost or something. What’s wrong?”

“This wedding, that’s what’s wrong,” I replied bitterly. I glanced at the clock: 7:30? Julian was supposed to meet me out at Gold Gulch.

“I was worried about you getting everything packed up. My Rover’s full, but I can help you get your gear out to your van.”

“Thanks,” I said, and meant it. Catering was always a hundred times easier with Julian there.

“I took an early call from Charlotte Attenborough this morning,” Julian said, heaving up a box and giving me a mischievous grin. “I mean a very early morning call. Try half past five.”

“Oh, Lord, Julian, I’m sorry. I wish a thousand times over that I’d never agreed to do this wedding.”

“Oh, no, man, it’s great! The stories we’ll have for the next twenty years, are you kidding me? We’ll be saying, ‘Remember when Billie bit the other lady who wanted her dress at the sample sale?’”

I sighed. I hadn’t heard about that, which was probably a good thing. “She bit somebody?”

“Yup.” Julian placed his box in my van. “Marla told me, I can’t believe she didn’t tell you. Apparently, the two of them, Billie and this other girl, wanted the same dress, and Billie placed her chompers on the other gal’s arm and bit down hard. The shop owner called the cops, the bitten lady filed a complaint, and Charlotte had to hire a lawyer to bargain the charge down to misdemeanor assault, with probation. And the other lady got to buy the dress. Plus, Billie had to pay the lady with the bite marks a pretty hefty fee.”

“I can only imagine.”

We traipsed back to the house, where Julian fixed himself a quadruple espresso, which he then doused with four teaspoons of sugar. I tried unsuccessfully not to shudder. Warming up to his tale, he went on about Billie.

“At the O’Neal wedding?” He slugged his coffee, then put the cup in the dishwasher. “When Billie appeared and threatened to mess that up? I think that’s why Craig came with her. He didn’t want her biting again. He even said so, you know, in that low voice of his. ‘I don’t want a repeat of the bridal shop situation,’ he muttered, and Billie loudly exclaimed, ‘I’d bite that bitch again in a heartbeat!’”

“Wonderful.” We picked up the last two boxes and started out to my van. “So what did Charlotte want this morning?”

“I’ll show you.”

We placed the boxes in the van and Julian led me over to his old Range Rover, inherited from former clients. He leaned into the front seat and pulled out a florist’s box. Inside was a large bridal bouquet.

“You didn’t have to make that,” I protested.

“At five this morning? No way. But I did take some of the ingredients over to this florist I know, and she put it together.”

“A florist you know? A new girlfriend?” I speculated.

“I’m not telling you anything about my social life. But take a sniff of the bouquet.”

I did as ordered. The fragrance was pungent, and…culinary. “It smells like something you’d put in a stew.”

“Garlic, bay leaves, and chives,” Julian reported. “Charlotte was insistent and is paying me big bucks to bring it today, to replace the one she already ordered.”

“Why the garlic, et cetera?”

“In medieval times,” Julian said, “at least according to Charlotte, that mixture warded off evil spirits.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“Yeah, well, I thought I’d tell Father Pete, see what he thinks.” He closed the door to the Rover. “All right, let’s bounce.”

I’
D GOTTEN USED
to Julian-speak, and sometimes it even helped me with clients in their early twenties. We were bouncing up to Gold Gulch Spa,
i.e.,
we were driving, and once again, weak sunshine lit the way. The weather was cool, though, in the low fifties. I hoped the guests would bring jackets. I didn’t know if rain was predicted again, and cared even less. All I wanted was for this thing to be over.

My cell phone buzzed when we made the turn that led to the spa.

“Where are you?” Charlotte Attenborough demanded.

“Charlotte, I’m almost at the spa. I’m getting ready to set up. Where are you?”

“At home, at home. Jack’s here with me, and I’m just so worried.” Her voice was mildly hysterical. “Billie’s not answering her cell!”

“Cell reception out here is pretty bad. You want me to go look for her?”

“Yes! Then call me!”

“Okay, but Charlotte—”

I’d either lost the signal or she had disconnected. Somehow, I suspected the latter. There had been no please, no thank you, just do it. As if that was what she was paying me for. One thing I was beginning to learn: where Billie got her bitchiness from.

I told Julian what was going on. He rolled his eyes and said I should go look for Billie; he would unload our boxes.

The spa had been transformed. I had to give it to Aspen Meadow Florist: They’d done wonders with the designs Charlotte had given them. Had Billie helped? I wondered.

Garlands of lights hung on every aspen and pine that surrounded the main building of the spa. Ropes of fresh white flowers and ivy had been draped at six-foot intervals under the eaves of the building, and the main door itself was also bedecked with flowers.

The dining room had undergone an even more spectacular metamorphosis. The theme of Billie and Craig’s wedding was medicine, I guess so Billie would be sure everyone knew she was marrying a doctor. Even though I thought that was as tacky as a bride, even a biting one, could possibly get, Aspen Meadow Florist had once again outdone themselves. The tablecloths had a black underskirt and a white tablecloth on top, onto which rows of buttons had been sewn, à la lab coat, with
Billie and Craig
machine-embroidered in fanciful black script in between. In the center of each table, stethoscopes had somehow been placed upright, and they were surrounded by lilies and ivy.

In the front of the dining room, where the ceremony would take place, bright white-and-black slipcovers festooned the chairs, which had been placed in neat rows. A new dance floor had been placed over the dining room’s old cement one, and there were more swags of white flowers and ivy between the rows of chairs. Aspen Meadow Florist must have worked all night.

But there was no one in the dining room. Specifically, there was no Billie in the dining room.

The clang of pans issuing from the kitchen told me someone was here, though, so I headed in that direction.

Yolanda, her face creased with exhaustion, was working with three other cooks. Julian, who was piling up the boxes, gave me a warning look:
Don’t ask.
But I was puzzled, and upset that she was even here.

“Yolanda!” I exclaimed. “You really didn’t have to be here. Julian and I already have all the food for the wedding reception made, and we have all kinds of helpers coming—”

Yolanda tossed her head. “Yeah? Well, I need to keep my job, okay? And Victor said that Charlotte, the mother of that bitch, the bride, what’s her name—?”

“Billie,” Julian and I supplied in unison.

“Yeah, well, Charlotte told Victor, who’s my
pendejo
boss, that I upset Billie the Bitch, so my punishment is that my cooks and I have to make three more appetizers for this stupid reception—”

“But, Yolanda,” I protested, “we’re already making two appetizers—”

“Now you got five, then,” Yolanda said. “We all got five appetizers, right, girls?” she asked her crew.

“Yeah, we got five,” they replied.

“Yolanda, I’m so sorry—,” I began.

Yolanda put her hand on her hip. “What they gonna do with five appetizers if you’re giving them dinner, too?”

I shook my head, then took a deep breath. “You happen to know where Billie the Bitch is? She was supposed to be decorating the dining room.”

“The dining room’s all decorated,” Yolanda said. “So Billie couldn’t find anything to do, or anyone to bother, and I wouldn’t talk to her, I’m telling you, when she came out here. She seemed all smug and whatnot, being happy that I had to do all this extra work, so she started asking me questions, ‘Where is this and where is that?’ But I said,
‘No hablo ingles, chingada.’
And then I just spoke Spanish to my girls here, didn’t I?”

“Sí,”
they replied.

I swallowed and said, “Please tell me you didn’t really call Billie a
chingada.
” Beside me, Julian was laughing. I sure as hell hoped Billie didn’t speak Spanish.

“Yeah, I did.” Yolanda was defiant. “And she finally left.”

“Her car’s still here,” Julian pointed out.

“I hope she’s up in the gym exercising,” Yolanda said. “And that she’s sweating so hard it hurts.”

“Better stick to Spanish,” Julian advised before he and I took off for the gym.

But the gym was locked and dark, as was the entrance to the indoor pool. The guest rooms were arrayed on three floors of large houses, or dorms, and each floor boasted a large front porch. Cleaning crews were working their way through the guest rooms, as their carts were lined up on different porches, and people in uniforms ducked in and out of the rooms. Since I very much doubted Billie did cleaning of any kind, I figured the dorms were a no-go.

My cell phone beeped: Charlotte Attenborough again. So in some spots out here, I did get a signal. I ignored it anyway.

“We should split up,” Julian said. “There are hiking trails all over this place.”

“Wait,” I said. “Did you see the sign for the Smoothie Cabin?”

“Yup.”

“Try there. It’s easy to find. I’ll go up to the hot pool. Maybe she’s relaxing, or trying to.”

Julian took off down the sidewalk that led back to the spa’s main building, while I began to negotiate the rocky path that led to the geothermal pool. Trees lined the path, and I thought that if you became really relaxed in the ultrahot water, a single misstep on the way back to your dorm could be, if not fatal, at least injurious.