Marriage Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story (A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery) (6 page)

“I’m happy that Mike will be part of your wedding,” I said. “Although when you two were growing up, I had to referee a lot of sibling squabbles, as I recall.”

Jenny laughed. “Now that we’re grown up, we’ve gotten much closer.” “I think it’s wonderful you’re getting to know your new sister-in-law,”

I said. And I meant it. I really did.

I was trying to get to know her, too. With no success.

“It seems that every time I call and Marlee answers,” I continued, “she immediately puts Mike on the phone. No matter how hard I try to start a conversation with her, she always says, ‘I’m sure you want to talk to Mike.’ And I’m left holding a silent phone while she goes to get him.” Jenny became defensive. “She’s just shy, Mom. Being part of our family takes some getting used to. It’s not like Mark and me. You and Dad have known him since we were kids.”

Careful
, I warned my big mouth.
If Jenny and Marlee are becoming friends, that’s a good thing. Don’t say anything else against her.

“I’m sure you’re right, sweetie. She’s shy. Having her be in your wedding is a wonderful way to make her feel part of the Andrews clan. And a good way for all of us to bond as a family.”

“I don’t know if she wants to bond with any of us except Mike,” Jenny countered. “But we’ll see. I invited them to come with us when we go to Nantucket to find a place for the wedding. I left the date open until we see what the wedding planner has to say.”

“What about Mark’s family?” I asked. “I don’t remember ever meeting them.”

“His mom died when we were in junior high, remember?” Jenny said. “He has one brother, Peter, but Mark hasn’t seen him in years. I asked him if he wanted to contact Peter about our wedding, and he said no. I didn’t pursue it any further.

“His dad is in an active adult community in Arizona. Sort of like Eden’s Grove, where you and Dad almost ended up.”

I shuddered at the memory of Eden’s Grove, a local active adult community that Jim was keen on. Thank God, we didn’t move there. Although the circumstances that prevented us from becoming Eden’s Woods residents were, well, less than ideal.

“Mark says his dad lives to play golf,” Jenny continued. “He’ll probably be at the wedding. I doubt if we’ll see him before then.”

“What about inviting him along when we go to Nantucket to look at places to have the wedding?” I suggested. “It would be good to make him feel part of the planning. Even if he says no.”

“Great idea, Mom. I’ll run it by Mark tonight. And now,” she thrust bridal magazines under my nose, “let’s check out some wedding gown styles.”

I whipped out my bifocals. She didn’t have to ask me twice. I’d been dreaming about this for years!

Chapter 8

My mother always said that life is a series of right-hand turns.

Unfortunately, I always seem to be in the left lane.

I knew right away we were in trouble when Jim and I drove up to the imposing entrance of the Westfair Country Club the day of the wedding show. A long line of cars snaked up the driveway, leading toward a sign that announced, “Valet Car Parking.” This is something Jim never, ever does. No matter what. And he justifies this because of a story he heard from one of his commuter buddies about some poor sap who drove up to a fancy New York restaurant, handed his keys to a man in front of the restaurant he mistook for the valet, and the guy stole his car. (True story.)

But to my surprise, Jim handed over our car keys without much fuss. Just a warning to take good care of it and park it so that we could get out fast when we were ready to leave. Jim’s parting shot was to remind the poor car parker that he’d made a note of the car’s odometer reading. “So don’t try anything funny, like taking it for a joy ride.”

Humph. Maybe we should have parked the car ourselves. At that point, the car parker seemed ready to hand Jim back the keys. And I couldn’t blame him.

A uniformed doorman ushered us inside the country club, where we were greeted by a bevy of young lovelies behind a check-in table, each wearing a pale pink blazer with the logo of Cinderella Weddings embroidered on the breast pocket. The logo was a glass and gold coach being pulled by two white horses, in case you were wondering.

When our names had been checked off the long list of attendees, we were each given a pink name tag with the Cinderella logo on it. Jim gave me an immediate look that told me there was no way he was going to wear it, and stuffed the name tag in his coat pocket.

We were then introduced to another Cinderella Weddings staff person, whose name badge read “Sara.” Before Sara could even get started with her sales pitch about the wonders of Cinderella Weddings, I nipped it in the bud. “Jim and I are here to meet our daughter, Jenny, and her fiancé, Mark Anderson. Do you know if they’re here yet?”

Sara gave me a bright smile and said, “I’ll be happy to check for you.” She scurried off, and I grabbed Jim by the arm. “Let’s go inside on our own and look around. Maybe we can find them.”

I started toward the main dining room and stopped in my tracks. It’s not often that I’ve been confronted by a life-size glass coach decorated with pink ribbons. In fact, never. There was a couple inside the coach. From the way they were cuddled up, I hoped their wedding was soon. If you get my meaning.

Jim’s mouth dropped open, and he elbowed me in the ribs. “Carol, do you see who the guy is in there?”

Jim knows that if I’m not wearing my glasses, I can’t see that well at a distance. I can see objects – like large glass coaches, for example – but details like a person’s features frequently elude me. (I always wear my glasses when I’m driving, though, so don’t worry.)

I peered inside the coach for a closer look. But not too close, I didn’t want to embarrass them.

Good grief. The guy nuzzling the neck of the woman in the coach was Bob Green, the soon-to-be ex-husband of my best friend, Nancy. At least, I thought it was. The Bob Green I remembered had thinning salt and pepper hair and wore tortoise-shell-framed eye glasses, whether they were fashionable or not. And he always – whenever we saw him, anyway –wore a starched shirt and necktie. I suspected he slept in them, too, but I never had the nerve to ask Nancy about that.

This new and improved version of Bob Green sported a black turtleneck sweater, black corduroy blazer, and jeans. Gone was the thinning hair, replaced by a completely bald look that was surprisingly sexy. And there was no sign of the tell-tale tummy bulge that had earned him his nickname “Bob the Blob.”

Of course, with the position the pair was in, this last part was hard for me to confirm.

But it was Bob Green, all right. The creep. And the female he was all over had to be Tiffani the Home Wrecker.

Their display of “affection” disgusted me. I grabbed Jim’s hand to pull him away. “Let’s get out of here. I have nothing to say to him. What a creep. Nancy is well rid of him.”

Jim stood his ground. “We’re not going anywhere now, Carol. Let’s wait until they get out of the coach and say hello.”

I looked at him like he was crazy.

“Trust me, Carol.” And he tapped on the coach window.

Bob disengaged himself from his sweetie and turned toward the window. Honest to God, it was worth the wait, just to see the shock and mortification on his face. I almost felt sorry for him, but not quite. His face turned beet red, and he whispered something in Miss Home Wrecker’s ear.

Jim waved and said, loudly, “Hello there, Bob. Long time, no see. Why don’t you come out here and introduce us to your friend.”

Well, what could Bob do? He opened the coach door, slowly, turned around to be sure his coach mate’s dress was in proper alignment, and pushed her out ahead of him.

She put her arm around his waist, possessively, and said, “Robby, how nice. I’d love to meet your friends.”

Robby? Since when? He always was “Bob” to us.

“Tiffani, these are two old friends of mine, Carol and Jim Andrews,” Bob said, clapping Jim on the back.

“I haven’t seen you two in such a long time. We have a lot to catch up on.”

I pursed my lips. I wanted to smack him. And I cursed myself that I wasn’t wearing my bifocals, so I could check out Tiffani and report back to Nancy later.

I pasted a fake smile on my face and moved in as close as I could to her. Ah ha! Even without glasses, I could tell that Tiffani wasn’t a sweet young thing of twenty-eight. Her streaked blonde hair was definitely dyed (not that I know first-hand about that sort of thing, of course), and I saw tell-tale signs of a few nips and tucks behind her ears and around her jowl line. She was pretty well preserved, though. I had to give her that. If we had met under other circumstances, I’d probably ask her to give me the name of her doctor.

But not today.

“Hello, Tiffani,” I said. “What a surprise to meet you.” (My mother raised me to be polite, under even the most difficult circumstances.) Turning to Nancy’s creep of a husband, I said, “Apparently a lot has been going on in your life since Jim and I saw you last. Nancy has filled us in on the details.”

Awkward silence.

I plunged ahead. “We’re here because Jenny and Mark Anderson are getting married. You remember him, I’m sure. I think he was a year ahead of your daughter Terri in school,” I said, throwing in the family connection for good measure.

“I love weddings,” I went on. When in doubt, babble away, that’s my mantra. “We’re just thrilled about it, aren’t we, Jim?” I asked, tossing the conversational ball to my husband and hoping he wouldn’t fumble it.

“Yes, weddings are a joyous occasion, most of the time,” Jim said, rocking back and forth on his heels. “You know, it seems like yesterday that I was an usher in your wedding to Nancy. Carol and I were just looking at your wedding pictures a few days ago, weren’t we, Carol?”

Huh?

“So, Tiffani, I guess you and Bob are here to get ideas for your upcoming nuptials?” Jim asked. “Of course, he has to be divorced first.” Turning to me, he grabbed my hand and issued a parting salvo. “We were at your first wedding, Bob. I don’t think we’ll be attending your second.

“Come on, Carol. Let’s go find the kids.”

Chapter 9

The first fifty years of a marriage are the hardest. It’s best to get them over with as quickly as possible.