Wedding Bell Blues (31 page)

“Do over, we gotta do it all again.” Somebody rushed in, cut through the crowd. Miles Fortune, this time minus Lesley Lynn on his arm. I had forgotten about him. Or a wedding photographer. Had Juanita even hired one? Was I supposed to? Okay, so Miles Fortune to the rescue for the third time.

I turned the uncut side of the cake around. Juanita and Ossie posed, fed each other cake, toasted with champagne glasses and smiled practiced smiles while Miles clicked and pressed the flash. Then he said, “Now back in the living room. Wedding party, please.” He waved his hand like a director.

I picked up empty cups and plates all over the place and carried them to the kitchen, where Ida Plum loaded the dishwasher.

Sandwich platters were empty, the bottom of the punch bowl had only dregs left and the kitchen was stacked with empty Prosecco bottles for recycling. I was tired. One wedding under my belt. Despite the downpour, it had gone off pretty good. Who could help that the preacher was late and wet? Elvis had hung back on his mother's skirts until she had to push him to run up with the rings. It was a sweet, sweet wedding.

Randy started playing some dance music on the keyboard and I watched couples pair off: Birdie Snowden with Pastor Pittman, Malinda with Bruce Bechner. Elvis trailed them, still with his hand wound tight in Malinda's skirt. They made an odd figure on the dance floor.

Mayor Moss had cut out early after telling me it was a beautiful wedding and I had done a super job. She was dressed in turquoise linen with matching hat, shoes and purse. She looked like a drop of rain had never touched her. Crisp, fresh and totally smart, in word and dress.

“Rubber,” she said when she saw me looking at her little turquoise slippers with flopping white flowers on the toes.

“Oh,” I said. “Rubber. Good.”

People on the porch and in the dining room danced and laughed and danced some more. Not the wild, “Hey, man” shaking, loose, fast-and-furious kind of dancing, but slow and dreamy. I was thankful for the covered porch even as the rain had slowed, slacked almost to a heavy mist. I knew more downpour was hanging up there waiting to descend.

Juanita went upstairs to change into her “going away” outfit and I couldn't wait to see it. When she stood at the top of the stairs, I gasped. She had on a pale pink, very elegantly tailored linen pantsuit. Her hair was tamed into a smooth and skillfully done, sophisticated chignon at the back of her neck. She wore pearl earrings and a long, looped strand of pearls down to her waist. Gift from the groom, I wondered, or had Juanita bought them for herself? Either way the whole effect was quite tasteful.

“Ready?” she called and held her bridal bouquet high above her head. A few of the crowd gathered at the bottom of the stairs and waited. “Ready?” she called again.

“Ready,” someone called back.

“One,” Juanita said. And waited. Then she said, “two, three” very fast and hurled the pink missile.

It landed in Malinda's arms and everybody laughed. Malinda looked embarrassed, flushed. Her face reddened. Elvis reached for the bouquet and she gave it to him.

“Thatta boy,” somebody said. “Give Mama a head start.”

Then the crowd chanted, “Garter, garter, throw the garter.” All the guys gathered at the base of the stairs.

Juanita lifted her leg. Someone said, “Woohoo.” She slid down her garter, then lifted it high, twirled it around and finally let it fly.

The garter landed in Ossie's hands. He actually blushed and everyone applauded.

The bride and groom, and PooPoo, left in the rain, dashing to the curb and into the limo that had brought Juanita to the Dixie Dew earlier. It was too wet to light sparklers, not that I had bought any, and nobody had confetti, for which I was eternally grateful not to have to try to pick that stuff up afterwards. Nobody threw rice anymore. Somebody had said if it was picked up and eaten by birds, it killed them, so I saved some songbirds' ugly deaths. Everyone followed the bridal couple's exit in a flurry of raincoats, umbrellas, goodbyes and good nights.

As I started to close the French doors to the dining room, something or someone moved behind me, grabbed my arm. “What? Who?”

 

Chapter Fifty-one

Crazy Reba had been standing behind the door. She was crying. “Best man,” she said. “He was a better man.”

“Who?”

“My God,” she said. “I killed God's best man.” Reba wore her own makeshift wedding dress and held the bridesmaid's bouquet. Tina Marie must have given it to her. And where had she found her bridal dress? I had left it with her flip-flops and cell phone in the backseat of Lady Bug. And she must have seen it, knew it was hers. Of course. Somehow I had not seen Reba in the wedding crowd. She must have been at the back of the room, blended in. She handed me the cell phone, which had died long ago.

“Reba,” I said. “Honey, it wasn't your fault. You didn't kill that man, whoever he was. Don't you worry anymore. Ossie has gone away and he's not going to put you in jail again. We don't even have a jail anymore.”

She hugged me. I could feel she didn't have a thing on under that length of lace. Not even a pair of Verna's long-legged bloomers.

I cut a big piece of the wedding cake and put it in a box for her. She clapped her hands as I gave it to her. “June bride,” she said. “I'm a June bride.” I noticed she had her big glass gob of a ring on. Good for her. At least she had a keepsake from all this misadventure.

“It's raining. Too wet for you to sleep outside. Why don't you go over to Verna's and that bed you like upstairs. Verna won't care.” I helped Reba into a raincoat someone had left. With a piece of cake in hand, she meandered down the walk. I saw her turn toward the house next door and felt better knowing she was in the dry. I had started to tell her to put the piece of cake under her pillow and she'd dream of the man she was to marry, but I didn't want to confuse her. She was confused enough already.

I picked up, cleaned up, and Scott helped put the leaves back in the dining room table and move it back in place. Ida Plum did the breakfast setup and I figured Mr. Fortune might forgo his daily run and sleep in. I hoped so. Ida Plum was spending the night in one of the empty bedrooms upstairs. Three were empty since Ossie had sent Bruce over earlier in the day to take off the crime scene tape. I didn't know what it meant, but hoped it was good news. Debbie's funeral was being televised and I hadn't decided if I'd watch over at Verna's, maybe sit on that bed upstairs and eat some cake with Reba. So much better than trying to fight the crowd for parking places at the church. Tomorrow I'd decide. And tonight it didn't seem so far away.

“Did anybody say where Ossie and Juanita are going on their honeymoon?” I asked Scott as we pushed the last chair in place.

“Somebody said South of the Border,” Scott said.

I laughed then he opened his arms and folded them around me for the nicest kind of celebration, as if to say, we've done a good job and a half. I felt his chin on the top of my head, his breath warm on my ear. “Mm,” he said. “I love your ears. So little and pink. Like seashells.” He ran his finger around the rim of my ear.

Did he have any idea what a turn-on that was? Was he being a tease?

“Come on,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

“What?” I asked. He took my hand and I followed him through the kitchen, the back porch and down the back stairs to the yard. The soggy yard was slick with wet grass.

“What?” I asked again, not a minute sure he knew what he was doing. “It's still raining.”

He clicked a tiny light on his cell phone and led me to the gazebo, the gazebo so newly finished I smelled treated wood, paint and varnish. “Shhh,” he said and reached down, rustled something in the dark. “Wait.”

“It's pitch-dark,” I said. “It's raining.” Rain began to beat harder on the metal roof. I was going to get soaked going back to the house to go to bed. Probably to sleep alone.

“Sleeping bags,” he said, and I felt something soft unroll at my feet. “Come.” He pulled me so close his bow tie caught on my ear. He flicked off the tie, and I heard him toss it to the floor. He took off his jacket and shirt, unzipped and slid off his pants. “Now,” he said. “Your turn. I'll wait. We've got all night.”

Afterwards, I lay my head on the softest pillow I'd ever felt. Scott had even provided pillows for us. Amazing, wonderful man. Rain beat a steady, soothing rhythm on the metal roof and I thought yes, yes, this is what I came home for. Why had I waited so long?

Scott leaned so close to my ear I felt his warm breath. “I could love you the rest of my life,” he said.

And I said, “Yes. Me, too.”

Scott fumbled around in the sleeping bag, said, “I have something for you.” Then he handed me Reba's ring. That godawful chunk of glass. He shone the cell phone on it, slipped it on my left-hand ring finger.

“Where did you get this?”

“From Reba,” he said. “Traded her a giant Heath bar for it.”

I laughed and kissed him soundly and then we slept.

 

Chapter Fifty-two

In the end, Bruce Bechner tied all the loose ends together. He said Ossie knew when they collected the stuff from that room in Motel 3, where Reba had been with her “God,” that something was not fitting together right. The clothes and shoes were too big for the body, the one Reba thought she killed.

Allison from Motel 3 saw the description of the mystery man in
The Mess
. She went into the police station, told them he was their handyman, a drifter they'd hired to do some of the demolition work at the motel. He had been there when Reba and her “God” checked in.

“So Reba killed the man that she thought was God's best man.”

“We don't think she knew,” Bruce said. “It was botulism. The green beans. We had them analyzed.”

“Green beans?” I asked.

“Reba's picnic from Kentucky Fried. Those green beans were in a Tupperware bowl.”

I
knew
KFC didn't send their beans out in Tupperware.

“But where did she get the beans?” As soon as I asked the question, I knew the answer. She could have gotten them from half a dozen or a hundred basements or fruit cellars anywhere in Littleboro. Verna's? Mama Alice's?

Bruce read the answer on my face, said, “And Debbie Booth? Same thing. Botulism. Could have come from any jar, anywhere at the fairgrounds.”

“But what about Mrs. Butch Rigsbee? The one making threats on my life and his? She dropped a hot corn stick on Debbie at the luncheon and was making green bean smoothies at the fairgrounds during the Green Bean Festival. And she shot up the green tin man, all the balloons. Kidnapped Lesley Lynn, shot down my hall light fixture. What about her?”

“Disturbing the peace. Destruction of property. She's out on bail. Got a warning that she was never to roll her little red wagon down the streets of Littleboro again.”

“What about the dirty business?” What was that all about? Allison was just in the middle? Butch a sort of runner?

“Ossie has been on this one for a while. That's why he was sent here,” Bruce said.

“Sent here? You mean he didn't come to Littleboro because he wanted to?” Maybe that explained some of his attitude.

“It's ongoing. Allison and Butch are little players in something bigger than Littleboro.” He put his finger over his lips. “And you have to promise me that you don't know a thing.”

“Is Mr. Moss involved?”

“I've said too much already.” Bruce put both hands in his uniform pockets.

“Can you at least tell me what all else was in God's truck?”

“You want to see?” Bruce reached in his desk for a set of keys.

I followed him to the locked storeroom behind Wanda Purncell's desk. Bruce unlocked, flung open the door and I saw stacks of boxes.

“What?”

Bruce opened one box and I saw smaller boxes, all neatly labeled. “Prescription drugs. Rigsbee was hauling them from Canada to Florida. Black market.”

“Oh,” I said. “But they're legal, aren't they?”

“Not as in you can get all you want when you want them if you know where to get them. There'll be black market as long as there is a market,” Bruce said, and shut and locked the door.

“What happened to all the money? The cash Butch Rigsbee was carrying?”

“Swaringen had it in his backpack. Ossie's got it locked up. I guess Swaringen planned to hightail it out of town after he ditched, or killed, Reba. We'll never know now, will we?”

I looked at Bruce under a new light. He'd been in Ossie's shadow so long I hadn't really ever seen him.

We bumped fists.

Back at the Dixie Dew Ida Plum swept the front porch. Next door at Verna's, Scott's truck was loaded with stuff for the recycling. “Looks like they're moving Hell and there goes the first load,” Ida Plum said.

“Miles Fortune still here?” I asked, hoping against hope he had paid his bill, packed his bags and taken his itchy heels and his dimple cross-country. Or even flown across the pond to another filming. I just wasn't sure about him. Much, much too good-looking. Dimples had always been my downfall.

“Paid in full,” Ida Plum said. “And I've already cleaned his room.” She handed me the broom and I finished sweeping the walk.

“I know something you don't know.” She stood with her arms folded across her chest, grinned wide.

“You know lots I don't know.” I turned around. What I didn't know was behind her grin. “So spill.”

“Our Mr. Fortune didn't go far.”

I waited.

“He's bunking with Miz Mayor, Calista Moss. Lesley Lynn may be an added attraction, too.” Ida Plum grinned. “He seemed real taken with her when they left. Wonder if he'll film the turtle, Nadine? Make a nice nature documentary, wouldn't it? Told me he was shooting the Moss house as the ‘after' for his documentary. Going to show how all the run-down, shabby South can really be cleaned up, painted up, fixed up and look like a hundred million dollars. Which is probably what it all will cost.”