Murder on the Bride's Side (6 page)

“Christ,” said Bridget. “I need a drink. Anyone else?”

Harry rolled his eyes at Bridget before turning to Colin. “She’s like a delicate flower, my cousin is.”

“Oh, shut up,” Bridget said, kicking him. “I expect you want one, too.”

“Ow!” said Harry, shifting his long legs out of Bridget’s reach. “Take those ridiculous shoes off before you hurt someone. And yes, now that you mention it, I do need a drink. You’ve no idea the intense craving for alcohol my lovely stepmother can inspire.”

Colin stood up. “I’ll play bartender if you can refrain from swearing for ten minutes,” he said to Bridget. “Remember, my mother is a retired schoolteacher from Illinois.”

“Your mother is not here,” Bridget retorted.

“Think of it as practice for tomorrow,” said Colin.

“Your mother loves me!”

Colin paused behind her chair. “That she does,” he said, placing a kiss on top of her head, then ambling toward the drink cart.

Bridget smiled up at him before turning back to Harry. “What did Roni do this time?”

Harry closed his eyes and rested his head against the cushioned patio chair. “She’s trying her damnedest to convince Dad to sell the Garden. Apparently, he’s received an offer.”

Bridget’s eyes opened wide. “Sell the Garden? Can he do that?”

“In a word, yes,” Harry said, taking a beer from Colin. He took a long swig. “And it looks like he just might, too.”

“Jesus!” whispered Bridget.

“Bridget!” admonished Colin, as he handed her a glass of white wine. “You’re not even trying!”

Bridget took the glass from Colin without looking at him. Her eyes still trained on Harry, she took a quick sip. “Sorry, but this is huge! Does Elsie know?”

“Oh, yes. For a moment, I thought she was going to lunge across the table at Roni. Of course, if she had, I sure as hell wouldn’t have stopped her.”

“What happened next?”

“Nothing. Dad shut down the conversation and we were reduced to shooting evil looks at Roni’s beautiful empty head.”

“I still don’t understand what he sees in her,” Bridget continued, playing with the delicate stem of the wineglass.

“Well, he’d been alone for so long,” said Harry slowly. “I think he saw what he wanted to see.” Harry was silent. Harry’s mother, Ann, had died when he was just a boy. That would have been painful for anyone, but for Harry it was made all the worse because of his own illness. At age six, Harry had been diagnosed with leukemia. His mother, a devout Catholic, had prayed and prayed that he would get better. And he did. Two years later, when Ann was diagnosed with breast cancer, Harry had prayed just as his mother had. But in spite of his fervent prayers, she died. Harry was left feeling that he hadn’t prayed hard enough to save her.

Harry took another long pull from his beer and stood up. “Right. Well, I’m off to bed.” He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “See you tomorrow, sweetie. Peter,” he said, extending his hand, “I guess I’ll see you later, since we’re bunking together. It was nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” Peter replied.

“Good night, Colin. Good luck tomorrow,” Harry said, shaking his hand as well. Turning to Bridget, he pulled her into a tight hug. “All the best tomorrow, Bridgie. And you swear all you want,” he said, releasing her and turning for the house. “After all, I’ve got a hundred bucks riding on it.”

Bridget flopped back into her chair and looked at me. “He doesn’t look good,” she said. “He seems tired.”

“Well, dinner was a tense affair,” I said. “After Roni’s little announcement, conversation came to a standstill.”

“God, she is so vile,” grumbled Bridget. “I really don’t get
what Uncle Avery sees in her. I mean, other than the fact that she has . . .” Bridget cupped her hands in front of her chest to indicate Roni’s most notable characteristic.

Peter’s dark brows pulled together in confusion. “Roni has arthritis?”

Colin burst out laughing as Bridget threw a cushion at Peter.

“You didn’t think that I was going to walk into that one, did you?” He laughed as the green cushion sailed over his head. “Besides, I have eyes only for Elizabeth,” he continued with mock adoration.

I picked up another cushion and threatened him with it. “You’re full of malarkey is what you are,” I said. “Hell, I’m a dedicated heterosexual and even I have a hard time not staring at them.”

“Please don’t ever tell me that again,” Peter said, wincing.

Bridget interrupted. “Well, big boobs or no, she’s a b . . . witch,” she quickly amended, directing a syrupy smile at Colin. He raised his beer bottle in tacit acknowledgment. She continued. “If she succeeds in convincing Uncle Avery to sell the Garden, it will tear this family apart. My great-grandfather started that business!”

“I know, honey,” said Colin. “But what can we do? It’s really not our decision.”

“Maybe we could poison her food,” Bridget mused.

“Who are you planning on poisoning?” inquired a deep voice behind us.

Turning, we saw Graham, his black brows pulled together quizzically. Blythe stood beside him. She peered at Bridget over her half-moon glasses, her expression bland. Some mothers
might be alarmed to hear their daughters casually contemplating a murder. Those mothers did not have Bridget for a daughter. Blythe had learned years ago not to let Bridget’s flair for the dramatics affect her blood pressure.

“I was talking about Roni,” said Bridget. “Is it really true that she’s pressuring Uncle Avery to sell the Garden?”

Graham sighed and nodded his head. “It’s true,” he said quietly, with a backward look at the house. “Although everyone in there is trying their best not to talk about it, it’s clearly on everyone’s mind.”

“She is such a bitch sometimes!” exclaimed Bridget.

“I give up,” moaned Colin, throwing up his hands in mock frustration.

“Oh, please,” she scoffed, “you know I’m right.”

“Bridget.” Blythe sighed with a shake of her head. “Do you have to be so contrary? It’s very unattractive.”

A sudden gleam lit Bridget’s eyes. “Excuse me,” she said formally, with a quick look in my direction, “but I did not know I contradicted anyone by calling Roni a bitch.”

“Hey! Nice one!” I said appreciatively.

“Right?” She grinned at me in response. “I think I’m starting to get the hang of it!” Brushing her bangs off her forehead, she added, “But in all seriousness, can’t we do anything about her?”

“Not tonight, dear,” Blythe said firmly, pushing her glasses up a notch. “We’ve got more important things to worry about, such as tomorrow. And speaking of tomorrow, please be patient with Ashley. I know she’s trying, but she
is
family.”

Ashley is Bridget’s five-year-old cousin. Born to Blythe’s sister,
Karen, and her husband, Lewis, later in their lives, she was hailed by them as a miracle. It was a sentiment that was becoming less and less shared, however, as Karen and Lewis pandered to Ashley’s every whim, with the result that she was well on her way to becoming an obnoxiously spoiled little girl. In the name of family harmony, Blythe had pleaded, cajoled, and finally bullied Bridget into asking the little girl to serve as flower girl.

Bridget rolled her eyes now at the mention of the girl’s name. “Mother! Please. Ashley is beyond trying. She demanded—demanded!—that her basket only contain pink roses because ‘all other flowers make her sneeze.’ ”

“On every formal visit a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse,” I said to no one in particular.

Bridget’s head swiveled in my direction. “Movie?”

“Book.”

“Good to know.” Turning back to Blythe, Bridget folded her arms across her chest. “Simply put, Mother, Ashley is nothing short of a monster.”

“She’s not a monster. For heaven’s sake, she’s only five.”

“Leona Helmsley was five once, too.”

“Bridget! This is exactly what I’m talking about. Please, just try and be patient with her. After all, it’s not exactly her fault. If anything, she’s Karen and Lewis’s creation.”

“Well, obviously, but they’re a little off themselves. I know she’s your sister, Mom, but really, did you see what she sent for a wedding gift? A gold-plated
toothpick case
! What is that all about?”

Blythe shook her head in understanding while halfheartedly muttering something about it being an antique. Bridget
continued, “In any case, I don’t particularly care if Ashley’s problem is nature or nurture. I just don’t want her pitching a fit in the middle of everything tomorrow. What that child needs is a firm spanking. And if she tries any of her usual stunts tomorrow, I may just take the job upon myself.”

“That would make for a nice addition to the wedding album,” said Colin with a grin. “The glowing bride smacking around the little flower girl.”

“You don’t believe in spanking?” asked Bridget.

“Not until after the wedding,” Colin replied primly.

“Kinky,” Peter opined.

“Okay, enough, you two!” said Blythe. “Bridget, just be nice tomorrow. And as it is almost tomorrow, I think the two of you should say good night. Call me old-fashioned, but it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding on their wedding day.”

Colin stood up with a smile. “Point taken, Mrs. Matthews.”

Forgetting the extreme height of her heels, Bridget hopped quickly to her feet. The sudden movement wreaked havoc with her balance and she teetered dangerously to one side before Colin grabbed her arm.

Once steady, Bridget grinned sheepishly at Colin. “Come on. I’ll walk you out,” she said.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Graham offered.

The laughter following this remark died in our throats upon entering the house. Normally, I love the living room at Barton Landing. With its bright yellow walls, blue-and-white-floral-patterned chairs, and charming watercolors by French artists whose names I can never pronounce, the room is cheerful and
inviting. But tonight the palpable tension in the room, combined with utter silence, rendered its appeal more on par with a dentist’s surgery chair.

Roni was curled up in one of the overstuffed armchairs. Her bare feet tucked up underneath her, she serenely sipped a glass of red wine. If she was aware of her in-laws’ animosity, she was doing an excellent job of hiding her emotions. The same could not be said for the rest of the room’s inhabitants. From her high-backed cane chair, Elsie glowered at her daughter-in-law without the slightest attempt at pretense. Anna lay flopped at her feet, her intelligent eyes watchful. Claire absently picked at her stunted fingernails, an overbright smile pasted on her face. She sat nestled in close to David, but I doubt he even registered her presence. He was, to put it bluntly, drunk. His bleary eyes shifted unseeingly around the room and his large frame was slumped so far back into the blue brocade cushions of the couch that he seemed to have been partially swallowed by them. Megan sat away from the group in a small leather armchair next to a large potted fern. She appeared to be reading a book, but she turned no pages. Between the sprawling branches of the fern and the generous folds of her green corduroy dress, she faded from view like the Cheshire Cat, except there was no smile on Megan’s round face. I wondered if she came by her ability to disappear naturally or if it was a practiced trait. Next to Roni, Avery sat in his wheelchair, seemingly preoccupied with a mark on the chair’s wheel. At our entrance, he looked up with an expression more normally associated with drowning men seeing life preservers.

“Ah,” he said, forcing his long face into a smile. “There you all are! Come and join us for a drink.”

“I’d love to, sir,” said Colin, “but I’d better be getting back to the hotel.”

“I’m going to walk him out. Be back in a minute,” Bridget said, as the two practically ran from the room.

Avery’s face fell at their departure, but, spying Peter and me, he rallied. “Elizabeth! I insist you join us, although it’s strange to be offering you a drink. It seems only yesterday that you, Bridget, and Harry were youngsters bent on bedeviling Elsie.” Avery turned to his mother with an inviting smile. “Remember the year that you hosted the local marksman tournament, and Harry threw a rubber chicken out his window and it landed at the feet of the club’s president?” Elsie nodded her head slightly but did not answer. Avery pressed on, a note of desperation in his voice. “And what about the time the three of them snuck out of the house by crawling out onto the roof? Didn’t one of them fall and sprain an ankle?”

Again Elsie’s frozen expression gave no sign that she was going to answer, so I jumped in. “That was me,” I said. “I had a fun time explaining that one to my mom. But since Harry’s not here to defend himself, I have no qualms about blaming the entire incident on him.” The whole thing
had
been Harry’s fault, too. He convinced Bridget and me not only to sneak out, but to go out by way of the roof. Harry could climb like a cat, but my skills were far less nimble. I skidded off the roof, managed to grab hold of the gutter, and hung for a moment suspended in space before falling into an ungainly heap in the laurel bushes below. In a flash, Harry jumped down to my side—unhurt, of course. He carried me inside and was so overcome with guilt at my injury that he waited on me hand and foot for the rest of my
visit and carried me wherever we went. It was quite a heady experience for an impressionable twelve-year-old girl and effectively cemented my crush on him.

Avery smiled. “I’ve no doubt of that. My son has a talent for finding trouble. But still, you three always had fun together.”

Bridget returned to the room in time to hear these last words. “Who had fun?” she asked.

“You, Elizabeth, and Harry,” Avery answered, “when you were kids.”

“I had a terrible childhood,” Roni suddenly announced, pausing for effect. We all dutifully turned her way. Bridget caught my eye and quickly placed her right pinkie on the corner of her mouth in a dead-on imitation of Mike Meyers’s Dr. Evil. I knew exactly what she was thinking—Dr. Evil’s hysterical recital of his personal history during the therapy session: “My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low-grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen-year-old French prostitute named Chloe, with webbed feet.” It took all of my self-control not to burst out laughing. Idly tracing the rim of her wineglass with her finger, Roni continued, “My father left when I was only six and my mother had to work two jobs to support us. We had no money and had to wear secondhand clothes. When I grew up, I swore I’d never let that happen to me. But, of course, it did anyway. Megan’s father walked out on me just like my dad did.”