Murder on the Bride's Side (7 page)

From the folds of the couch, David mumbled something. I couldn’t hear him, but Claire blushed and shushed him.

Roni stared at him a moment before shrugging her shoulders
and continuing. “I never even had a proper vacation until I was twenty-three.”

“How positively Dickensian,” Elsie muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Roni asked, her eyes narrow with suspicion. No doubt Roni fancied Elsie to be satirical, perhaps, I amended, without knowing what it was to
be
satirical.

“Bridget, would you be a dear,” said Elsie, changing the subject, “and play something for us?” She nodded toward the piano. “Nobody plays unless you’re here.”

Bridget smiled. “Sure, Elsie. I’d be happy to.” Bridget was a very accomplished pianist, having studied the instrument for more than ten years. In college, she even made some extra money working in nightclubs. She settled herself on the padded bench and commenced with a jazzy rendition of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” Elsie sat back with a smile.

As soon as Bridget began playing, Roni announced to no one in particular how much she enjoyed listening to the piano. “Of course, I never had the opportunity to learn. My mother could not afford such luxuries. It was the bare minimum in my house.”

Purely for my own amusement, I mentally added, “But if I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient.”

Leaning over, Avery patted Roni’s hand. “Those days are gone, sweetie.”

“Gone. Just like the business,” David muttered. “Just like my job.” This time Claire did not attempt to shush her husband. She stared at her lap, her face flushed.

“Now, look,” snapped Avery angrily, slapping the arm of his wheelchair. “I did not say I was selling. I only said I was considering an offer.”

“A very
generous
offer,” Roni interjected.

The muscles in Avery’s long face pinched. He briefly closed his eyes before continuing. “The point is, no decision has been made. And I don’t want this to ruin the weekend. We can all talk later. In the meantime, can we please just drop it?”

“I agree,” said Roni. Turning to Bridget, who had just finished the piece, she said, “Bridget, why don’t you play something, you know, ‘weddingy.’ ”

Bridget stared at her half a beat but made no answer. Bridget never had much toleration for those she found insufferable—even if she was related to them. Without another word, she launched into “Lydia the Tattooed Lady,” complete with lyrics. She’d just gotten to, “On her back is the Battle of Waterloo. Beside it, the Wreck of the Hesperus, too,” when Avery’s nurse, Millicent “Millie” McDaniel, strode briskly into the room. An imposing woman in her mid- to late fifties, she wore her straw-colored hair scraped off her face in a severe bun, and her heavily starched white uniform practically cracked as she walked. A slash of red across her thin lips was her only concession to feminine vanity. Her overall shape was that of an inverted triangle, with impossibly tiny ankles and calves supporting an enormous torso. She looked as if she’d put on a girdle and, starting at her ankles, pulled every ounce of fat upward toward her neck.

“Excuse me, Mr. Matthews,” she said in a low masculine voice, “it’s time for your medication.” Although maintaining
her professional demeanor, Millie was clearly displeased that her patient was still up at this late hour. Her lips were pressed so tightly together that they were reduced to the barest sliver of red.

“Thank you, Millie. I’ll be right there.” Avery turned back to the rest of us. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d better call it a night.”

Roni jumped to her feet and positioned herself behind Avery’s chair. “Here, honey, let me get this. Good night, everyone,” she called over her shoulder as she pushed the chair around. “Lead the way, Millie.”

As Roni sashayed past Millie, the nurse’s professional mask slipped briefly. A quick twist of Millie’s mouth made it clear she held the same low opinion of Roni as the rest of us.

With their exit, some of the tension subsided. Elsie sniffed loudly. “Oh, what I would love to say to that little trollop. The way she eyes everything in this house like she’s appraising it, wondering how much she can sell it for after I’m dead. But for Avery’s sake I am biting my tongue. So much so that I’m going to need stitches.”

“Yes, Mother,” said Graham dryly. “You’ve been a model of restraint. Remind me to play poker with you sometime.” Beside him, Blythe smothered a smile.

“Oh, shut up,” Elsie retorted calmly. “Rather than fight with each other, we need to work out a way to convince Avery not to sell the Garden.”

Blythe glanced uneasily at her mother-in-law. “I understand how important the Garden is to the family, Elsie,” she began tentatively, “but really, isn’t this Avery’s decision? After all, he’s
been running the place and he is the majority stockholder. He’s a workaholic and he’s had a stroke, for goodness’ sake.”

“It’s not just the fact that he’s thinking of selling the business that my father built that upsets me,” said Elsie, “although I admit that this is part of it. Mainly, it’s the fact that
she’s
pushing him to do it. When it comes to
her
, he shows absolutely no common sense. That’s what makes me so furious. He can’t think straight with her around. I know my son. Avery loves that business. It’s a part of him and he will be lost without it.” She paused and traced the blue-and-cream swirls of the carpet with her the gold tip of her cane. “If I believed for one minute that he’d be happier or healthier living a life of ease and not running the Garden, then I’d sell the place in a New York minute. But he won’t be either. Within two months he’ll be bored out of his mind. And, if I’m not mistaken, within a year he’ll not only be without a business, but he’ll be without his money and his wife, too.”

David’s face bunched in an angry scowl. “You can coun’ on me, Elsie,” he said, turning bleary eyes in her direction. “Lil’ bitch.” His brief effort at speech proved too taxing for what was left of his mind. The cushions grabbed him back into themselves.

Elsie stared at her son-in-law with undisguised scorn. “Claire, please put your husband to bed.”

At her mother’s words, Claire scrambled to her feet, her hair falling over her face. A crimson blush peeked through the auburn veil. “David,” she pleaded in a low voice, “let’s go. Come on, it’s time for bed.”

“Leave me alone,” he mumbled. Claire reached out and
grabbed her husband’s hand and pulled. “Leave me alone, you cow!” he barked. Elsie’s face darkened and she gripped her cane until her knuckles showed white. Anna, sensing her mistress’s emotion, leaped to her feet and growled at David, the black hairs on her back standing up in an angry salute.

Graham stood up and roughly yanked David to his feet. “How dare you speak to Claire like that!” he hissed, his black brows bristling. “Get out of my sight before I lose my temper!”

“Who the hell are you to talk to me like that?” David retorted, his face dark with anger. “She’s my wife and I’ll talk to her any damn way I please. You think you can stop me?” David pushed himself off the couch and onto unsteady feet. I held my breath. David was clearly well past his fifth glass of scotch of the night; anything was possible when he was this drunk. However, once he was upright, his body gave way and he fell into Graham.

“Graham, please,” Claire pleaded. “It’s okay. He doesn’t mean it. You know how he gets when he’s . . .” She started to say drunk but finished with “tired.” “Please,” she whispered, “don’t make a scene.”

“I didn’t,” Graham shot back, as he attempted to prop David up. “He did!”

Blythe was now on her feet as well. “Graham, honey, calm down. Let’s just get him to bed.”

“Fine with me,” Graham muttered, as he spun David around and roughly shoved him toward the stairs. Blythe put her arm around Claire’s slumped shoulders and led her away as well. Elsie watched them go with a shake of her head. “It’s a real toss-up which one of them I detest more. You know, sometimes
I think the animal kingdom has it right. They have no problem thinning the herd when necessary—and both Roni and David certainly present valid arguments for us adopting the practice.”

Turning back to Peter, Bridget, and me, she said, “I’m going to bed, my loves. And I suggest that you all do the same. Peter, I’ve put you upstairs with Harry in the green room. Bridget will show you. Now remember, the electrician hasn’t finished rewiring the bedroom wall switches, so you’ll have to use the lamps instead. Try not to trip over yourself in the dark, Bridget,” she said, surveying Bridget’s shoes with a critical eye. Waving her cane at us, she left, followed closely by Anna.

Bridget frowned at Elsie’s retreating form. “Are you okay?” I asked.

Giving herself a shake, she looked at me, her lips pulled up into a sad smile. “I’m fine. It’s just that after scenes like that, I realize how lucky I am. My parents might drive me crazy nagging me about my hair and clothes, but I know they love me. I can’t imagine what a nightmare it would be to have either Roni or David as a parent.”

From behind us a chair scraped across the floor. Horrified, I turned around. Megan! I had completely forgotten she was in the room. She stood up and walked out from behind the plant.

Bridget’s face flushed bright red as she stuttered her apologies. “Megan, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were still here. I didn’t mean—”

Megan interrupted her. “Yes, you did mean it. But don’t worry about it. Being Roni’s daughter
is
a nightmare.”

Bridget stared at Megan and then nodded her head sympathetically. “It must be. I’m really sorry.”

Megan ducked her head, trying to hide her tears, and slowly made her way toward the staircase. “Me, too” was all she said.

Avoid running at all times.

—
LEROY “SATCHEL” PAIGE

“Wake up!” this command was accompanied by a kick, a forceful kick.

“Unless it is a respectable hour, say anytime
after
nine o’clock, then get away from me,” I muttered, rolling away and ducking my head farther under the pillow.

Bridget was undeterred. She was also an absurdly early riser. “Let’s go for a run,” she persisted.

I cautiously opened one eye and peered at the clock on my nightstand. “Bridget! It’s not even six thirty!” I pulled the down comforter up over my head.

She poked me in the back. “Come on. I can’t sleep. I’m a nervous wreck about today. I need to go for a run.”

“Then by all means do so,” I said, curling into my pillow. As friends go, I consider myself loyal and true, but I do have my limitations. Running through chilly early morning mist is one of them. Actually, doing anything through early morning mist qualifies.

“We could run along the path by the trees,” she coaxed. “You
know how pretty it is this time of year, with the all leaves starting to turn.”

“It is not everyone who has your passion for dead leaves,” I quipped.

She did not rebuke me for the line. Instead, she urgently whispered, “Elizabeth! Please?”

I eased the comforter down an inch and peeked over its snowy top to look at her. She was dressed in a purple tracksuit emblazoned with tiny orange roadrunners. I winced.

“Where on earth did you get that outfit?”

She looked down. “On eBay,” she said proudly. “It was a steal!”

“I would hope so. Now, what’s the matter?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep last night. I kept having nightmares.”

“About what? Not about you and Colin?”

“No. Not exactly. I just have a feeling that something bad is going to happen today. Something really bad.” She twisted her engagement ring around her finger, a habit of hers when agitated.

In addition to being an early riser, Bridget is convinced that she has a sixth sense about danger. A trait, I might add, that fails her utterly when it comes to her driving. It was on the tip of my tongue to point this out when it finally penetrated my sleepy brain that Bridget would never force (read: kick) me awake before eight
A.M
. unless it was really important.

“All right,” I said with a sigh, flinging back the heavy comforter and swinging my feet out onto the cool wood floor. “You win. Let’s go for a run. But don’t be surprised if the ‘really bad
thing’ you’re foreseeing is me having to be carted away by ambulance.”

Thirty minutes later, we were off and running. Music from my headphones blared, but not loudly enough to drown out my pounding heart as I pushed my leg muscles to carry me forward. I need this, though, I thought as my lungs burned as I strained to match Bridget’s stride. As I mentioned, I’d been mastering my stress in the same manner a baker masters a pie crust: with a lot of sugar and butter. From the corner of my eye, I saw that she was trying to talk to me. “What?” I huffed, pulling the headphones away from my ears.

“I said, how far do you want to go?”

“I’m ready to stop whenever you are.”

She laughed. “Stop? We’re not even out of the driveway yet!”

I turned in disbelief. Sure enough, there was the house, a scant one hundred yards behind us. I sighed and clicked off my music. “Bridget,” I said, coming to a stop and resting my hands on my knees. “
Please
don’t make me do this. I’m still half asleep. I haven’t even had coffee.”