Murder on the Bride's Side (9 page)

I spotted Graham and Peter huddled over by one of the tents. Graham gestured animatedly while Peter nodded thoughtfully. Spotting Chloe, Graham called her over. She briskly strode in their direction and then, strangely, faltered. Over the last few months, I’d never seen Chloe do anything that wasn’t deliberate and organized. She seemed more machine than human. After the misstep, Chloe righted herself and made her way to Graham and Peter. She quickly spoke to Graham, and then she laid her hand on Peter’s arm. She kept it there a good eight seconds longer than necessary (by my count, anyway). My stomach tilted. Chloe was an inhuman tyrant, but she was also exceedingly pretty. Sophisticated, chic, and worst of all, thin, Chloe had an air about her that made me feel as if my ancestors had only recently started walking upright. Graham said something and Chloe was forced to remove her talons from Peter’s arm so she could take notes. Graham’s gestures intensified and Chloe
scribbled on her clipboard and spoke rapidly into her walkie-talkie. Peter’s shoulders shifted uneasily and he shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced around. I recognized that stance; he wanted out of the conversation. I wanted him out of it, too, for that matter. Women like Chloe had been ruining my love life as far back as I could remember. Jutting out my chin in an imitation of my boss when she asks me to pick up her dry cleaning, I walked along the terrace, intent on rescuing Peter. As I passed the French doors leading to the study, a low voice inside caught my attention. The syrupy floral scent told me it was Roni. I peeked around the door frame. Her back was to me and she was talking to someone on her cell phone.

“I know, sweetie. I miss you, too,” she purred, “but I have to stay here this weekend.” I froze. My brain shouted at me to keep walking, but somehow my feet didn’t have the same moral integrity. “Yes,” she continued, “I think he’s going to sell. What? No. Don’t come here. It isn’t safe. Just trust me, okay?” She paused. Her voice rose petulantly. “I’m not going to double-cross you, honey! Look, I’ll see you Monday, okay? Just calm down—it’ll be fine. Wait, I think I hear somebody coming. I have to go.” With a soft click, she snapped the phone shut. Just as she turned to move toward the terrace, I ducked through the doors leading into the living room. Hidden behind the heavy curtains, I watched Roni walk out onto the terrace. Pausing, she reached inside her purse and pulled out a cigarette. With shaking hands, she lit it. Taking a deep drag, she moved forward and disappeared down the stairs. Before I could process what I’d heard, I became aware of rapidly retreating footsteps behind me. Turning in that direction, I peered across the living room
but saw no one. The footsteps headed for the long hallway that led to the staircase, but by the time I got there, whoever it was, was gone. Walking back through the living room, I passed by the door to the study. It was slightly ajar.

Someone else had overheard Roni’s conversation. The question was, who?

How was the wedding?
Brief, to the point, and not unduly musical.

—
NOËL COWARD

At five o’clock sharp, we were standing in the vestibule of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. The richly detailed Greek Revival church dated back to 1845 and had been the Matthews family’s place of worship for almost as long. And although that worship was infrequent at best, it nevertheless was the chosen site for the Matthewses’ and other established Richmond families’ marriages, baptisms, and funerals. Especially funerals, according to Harry, who liked to say that St. Paul’s was “where those in Richmond go, when they go.”

In spite of Bridget’s dire premonitions, the wedding ceremony went off with only one minor mishap. Ashley, Bridget’s flower girl, took one look at the long church aisle, chucked her specially ordered rose-filled flower basket, and fled. Her parents spent the remaining part of the ceremony soothing her “shattered nerves” with copious amounts of candy and kisses. Not surprisingly, as soon as she’d consumed one piece of candy, she would burst into tears all over again until another was produced. After twenty minutes or so, it became mildly annoying,
but given the intensity of Bridget’s fears, it was not the Greek tragedy I half expected.

Back at Barton Landing, the cocktail portion of the reception was now under way. From the main terrace the band played a sedate selection of classical compositions while below, waiters in starched white coats circulated with assorted trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne. The staff appeared passionately dedicated to their jobs. As soon as a shrimp puff or a glass of champagne was consumed, it was immediately replaced with another. At the current rate of consumption, I calculated the entire party would be full and/or drunk by the time dinner was served.

I stood on the side terrace with Bridget and Colin and the rest of their families, waiting to have our pictures taken. We were grouped in front of the enormous rose-covered wooden trellis that ran up the side of the house. The vibrant pink roses stood out full and lush, a glowing testament to Elsie’s green thumb.

I shifted uncomfortably. As predicted, the sun’s heat was intense and I stared longingly toward the refreshment tents, where there was the promise of shade and cold drinks. Chloe stood off to Bridget’s left, impatiently tapping a manicured fingernail against her ever-present clipboard. Even though she was wearing a black sheath dress—a color most Southern women avoid on hot, sunny days—she looked cool and professional. I, on the other hand, felt like an overdone strand of spaghetti in my yellow dress. I was pale, sticky, and limp.

Catching my eye, Chloe moved in my direction. “Goodness, but you look hot, Elizabeth,” she said sweetly.

I took that to mean that I looked like crap, but I nodded good-naturedly. “I am. I’m looking forward to getting under one of those tents and getting something cold to drink.”

“Can’t someone get you something? Where’s Peter?” She looked vaguely around before turning back to me. “I guess he’s wandered off. Same old Peter,” she added, giving me a knowing smile.

Same old Peter?
I had assumed that Chloe had only met Peter this morning when he was outside with Graham, hardly enough time to start referencing him as “same old Peter.” Something about her smile coupled with the way she pronounced Peter’s name—slowly, intimately—sent a finger of unease sliding down my back.

“You know Peter?”

From the way her smile increased, I gathered she found the question amusing. The amusement was purely one-sided. For the first time, I noticed that her teeth were a brilliant white, a shade normally limited to toothpaste ads—or piranhas. The feeling of unease was gone. It had been replaced by a swelling panic. Please God, I begged, please don’t let this paragon of cool perfection be an ex-girlfriend of Peter’s. Please, let her be a cousin or, at the very least, an old friend. I amended the last part to an old friend who was a dedicated lesbian.

“You mean he didn’t tell you?” She let out a small giggle, the source of which was not readily apparent to me. I could forgive much, but not that giggle. “He can be so ridiculous sometimes with his old-fashioned ideas of discretion.” She fell silent for a moment as if lost in fond memories. “But, yes,” she said finally, “I do know Peter. We go way back. We were about to take our own
stroll down the aisle ourselves, oh, I guess it was about five years ago. But I was so young. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for marriage and a family. We agreed that it made sense for each of us, me, especially, to experience life a bit—you know, date around.” She considered me with a complacent smirk, which I interpreted as satisfaction that Peter’s latest dating “experience” was a sticky, limp thing in a yellow dress. “Anyway,” she continued, “it’s been so great to catch up with him. I gather you two are old friends?”

Old friends? Catch up with him?
When the hell had Peter been catching up with Chloe? And why the hell did she think Peter and I were just friends?

“Um . . . yes, I guess you could call us that,” I began. “But then actually—”

“Have you met his mother, Jane, yet?”

I longed to say that I had. I longed even more to say that not only had I met her
and
Peter’s father, but that they’d already told me all about Chloe. Then I’d duck my head as if embarrassed, and mumble how “they were very unkind—but I won’t say any of that to
you.
”

But the sad fact remained that I had
not
met Peter’s parents. While Peter and I had known each other as kids, it was because we had both been staying with Aunt Winnie. Our own parents had been elsewhere. Since we had begun dating, I had spoken to Jane on the phone a few times, but both she and Peter’s father, Patrick, had been so busy with their business that a proper meeting had yet to happen. However, I was damned if I was going to mention this to Chloe. I struggled to answer in such a way as to not give this fact away. Apparently, I needn’t have bothered; my face did it for me.

“Oh, so you
haven’t
met her then!” cried Chloe in a voice that sounded suspiciously like crowing to my ears. “She is quite a character. And while I absolutely adore Jane, she is very particular when it comes to Peter. God, I watched her give so much hell to Peter’s girlfriends over the years.”

“But not to you, I expect,” I said, hoping my smile hid my sarcasm.

Chloe glanced down as if overcome with modesty. “Well, no,
we’ve
always gotten along just fine.”

Honestly. If it weren’t for the proximity of the wedding photographer, I really think I might have mashed my bouquet into her smug, perfect face. Inner poise, I sternly reminded myself, inner poise.

Ashley skipped up to us just then, singing loudly and pretending to casually swing her flower-girl basket in an overly cutesy manner. In reality, she was taking turns whacking us in the rear with it.

“What a cutie!” Chloe exclaimed after receiving her whack. Catching Bridget’s eye, she added, “Your cousin is adorable, Bridget!”

Bridget was silent. It was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the matter. The photographer called to her and she turned in his direction.

As soon as Bridget turned away, Ashley whacked Chloe again with the basket. Chloe’s smile dimmed, but she responded only by saying, “She’s certainly full of spirit today!”

“Ashely!” I said firmly. “Stop hitting people with your basket. It’s rude.”

“I’m not hitting people on purpose,” she replied with complete and utter insincerity.

“Ashley,” I began sternly. Hearing her daughter’s name uttered in a tone that indicated imminent reprimand, Karen suddenly materialized.

“What’s going on, pumpkin?” she asked brightly. Ashley used her mother’s presence to full advantage.

Letting her basket drop forlornly by her side to the ground, she pushed out her lower lip. “Mother,” she whined, “I was just swinging my basket—honest! But now everyone’s mad at me.” She glanced accusingly up at me from underneath her lashes. For once, Karen did not automatically jump to her daughter’s aid. She studied Ashley’s face for traces of deception. Sensing that her mother was not going to rise up in her usual lioness defense, Ashley upped the ante. Flopping her slight body onto the ground, she buried her face in her hands and began to cry. “It’s because I’m little,” she moaned. “Everyone thinks I’m a pain! Nobody likes me!”

Karen’s earlier hesitation vanished in a flash. “Oh, my poor baby,” she crooned, bending down to sooth Ashley’s huddled form.

Chloe followed suit. “Don’t cry, honey,” she purred, as she crouched over the girl. “No one is mad at you! Why, how could they be? You are probably the sweetest little flower girl I’ve ever seen—and I go to tons of weddings! I don’t think I’ve ever seen one as pretty as you!”

Ashley shifted her arms slightly and peeked out doubtfully at Chloe. “You really think I’m the prettiest?”

I rolled my eyes, but Chloe carried on. “Of course! No question! Now don’t you worry about anyone being mad at you!”

“But Elizabeth was,” she said, glancing in my direction.

Before I could open my mouth to defend myself, Chloe jumped in, “No, she’s not, honey. It’s just this awful heat.” She lowered her voice to a conspiring whisper. “It makes some people grumpy.”

While I tried to digest that without obvious rancor, Ashley smiled coyly at Chloe. “You don’t seem grumpy. You seem real nice.”

Chloe winked at her. “Well, thank you, Ashley. I think you’re really nice, too. Now why don’t we see if we can’t get you something to drink?”

“I’ll get you something, pumpkin,” Karen said, pulling Ashley to an upright position again. “Thanks very much,” Karen added with a grateful smile to Chloe before moving away. I received only a cool nod.

Chloe stood up in one graceful move and smoothed away nonexistent wrinkles from her dress. Catching sight of my annoyed expression, she smiled sheepishly. “I guess I’m just a sucker for kids,” she said.

“So I gather.”

Chloe glanced carefully around before continuing. Was she making sure her next words were not overheard—or just the opposite? “I can see how you might think she’s a bit spoiled, and I grant you that you may have a point. But who could resist that face? She’s so cute! I know I’d always be indulging my kids—should I ever be lucky enough to have any, of course. Besides,” she added with a glance in Ashley’s direction, “I’ve always
had a soft spot for the kids who have a bit of the devil in them. I much prefer them to the polite, well-mannered ones.”