Weddings Can Be Murder

This is dedicated to my husband whose endless support
and
encouragement have been the springboard to my
achieving my
dreams of publication. Steve, I love you the
whole world.
(Did I mention you enough this time?)

DANGER

“We’ve been trapped in a freezing room by a killer. I’m wearing a fuc—friggin’ pink scarf.” Carl took a step closer. “I’m about to crawl in bed with a gorgeous redhead but there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to get lucky.” He paused and his right eyebrow arched. His eyes twinkled. “Is there?”

“No,” Katie insisted, but dang it if she didn’t feel the thrill of knowing he wanted her. “We’re just sharing body heat.”

The truth started perking deep down. She would love to share more, but admitting that to herself was dangerous; admitting that to him could prove fatal. Not
deadly
fatal, but fatal to her relationship with her fiancé. A relationship that already had issues. Her stomach wiggled in a bad way.

Carl stepped closer, his eyes carrying a leftover smile. “You know, for it to really work, we should take off our clothes.”

The idea sent fantasies upon fantasies doing sexy little dances through her mind. “I think we can skip that part.”

Yesterday, Carl Hades had been shot at by a man wearing a black thong and a pink silk nightie. Even in his line of work, that was hard for a devout heterosexual male to digest.

Carl dropped his Glock and gun oil on the kitchen table beside his bag of worms. He needed a down day. No headaches, no pressures, no—

A sharp jingle rang from his phone.

No friggin’ calls.

So, who the hell was ringing on a Sunday morning? He dropped into a kitchen chair. Ignoring his Verizon special telephone, he stared at a stack of last week’s mail and popped a worm into his mouth. A gummy worm. The sour flavor brought his taste buds to full alert. His six-year-old nephew had gotten him hooked. He doubted the candy was on the surgeon general’s list for healthy living, but then, neither was getting shot at, and he hadn’t broken that habit, either.

A second ring? Let the voice mail catch it. Carl bet it was his dad, anyway. Who else would be calling now?

Stretching his legs, Carl bumped Precious, a silver poodle too damn prissy for any man to own. Not that
Carl owned the dog. His ex-girlfriend did, but she’d neglected to take the animal when she’d left a year ago. Just as he’d neglected to take the fuzzy mutt to the shelter as he’d threatened to do.

A third ring.

He dropped a worm to his unwanted foot warmer. Leaning over, Carl counted three green worms and one sissy dog. Precious looked up—beady eyes, black nose, and gray fur.

“You don’t like the green ones either, huh?”

Fourth ring.

He eyed the stack of mail. His gaze hit a Victoria’s Secret catalog. “Nice.”

Even more than worms, Carl liked what was inside the blue bra and matching panties. How Vicki had got him on her mailing list, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t complaining. The near-naked cover girl had potential. But on second thought—nah, he didn’t do redheads, not even in his fantasies. Too difficult. Too much like Amy.

He flipped the page to a brunette.
Oh yeah
.

Fifth ring.

Carl eyed the ringing phone again as Precious rested a snout on his foot. What if his dad really needed something? He reached for the phone—without shifting his foot—and checked the number displayed on the small screen. It was for a neighboring Houston area code—his brother’s new area code. His brother he could deal with.

Answering the phone, he grunted, “I already helped you lug moving boxes Friday night.” He waited for Ben to sweeten the deal with an offer of his wife’s apple pie. His mouth watered at the thought. When there came no reply, he added, “Okay, but only after my morning constitutional.”

“Mr. Hades?” a feminine voice queried. “Carl Hades?”

Carl paused. “Sorry. I thought you were someone else.” Of course he had. He wouldn’t be telling a woman he was about to go take a—

“Obviously,” she snapped. “My name’s Tabitha Jones. You might have heard of me via my business. Tabitha’s Weddings.”

“Weddings?” Maybe his morning constitutional was a better topic. He rolled his shoulder. His left rotator cuff pinched—the pain due to a bullet he had taken last year. Yeah, he really did need to stop getting shot at.

He picked up his bills with his left hand. The gas bill landed in the gotta-pay stack.

“I’m a wedding planner,” came the voice on the other end of the line.

“That’s nice.”

“The best in Texas.” Ms. Jones sounded annoyed that Carl hadn’t admitted that he’d heard of her. “I got your number from Mr. Logan. You helped him with a situation.”

The “situation” had been a six-foot-plus forty-year-old who had a hard-on for Mr. Logan’s thirteen-year-old daughter. Catching that damn pedophile had felt good, too.

“I did.” Carl squared his shoulders and brushed his heel against the dog resting at his feet, waited for the woman to continue.

“I’ve got a situation and hoped you might help me.”

Carl dropped his handful of mail. “What kind of situation?”

“I’d rather discuss this in person,” she said. “How about four? No. Four thirty.”

“Today?”

“There’s a problem with today?”

Her tone was haughty. He never dealt with haughty too well. “It’s Sunday.”
And I’ve got a date with a model
. His gaze shifted to the catalog.

“I’ll pay you time and a half,” she snipped.

“Maybe you should fill me in on what this is all about.”

“I’d feel more comfortable talking in person. Please?”

Was that fear in her voice? “If things are that bad, maybe you should call the police.” There was a line between what
he did now and what he’d done when he’d carried a badge. She needed to know that.

“I did call them, but I don’t think they took it seriously.”

“Took what seriously?” When she didn’t answer, he clarified, “Look, Ms. Jones, I prefer not to waste my time or yours. Give me some details, and I’ll tell you if I can help you.”
And no more cases that involve armed men wearing
thongs
.

Her pause hung heavy. “I think someone is killing my brides. And I think I know who it is. Or at least it’s got to be one of four people.”

Well, hell. He’d spoken too soon. If he had to choose between getting shot at by a cross-dresser or hanging around a bunch of bridezillas, bring on the cross-dresser.

“Please. I really,
really
need your help.”

“It’s normal.” On her knees, Katie Ray stared at the porcelain throne and fought the nausea that threatened to erupt every time she thought about the wedding.

“Normal?” Leslie Grayson, her best friend, back in town for the first time in a year, stalked into the bathroom. “Oh, gawd, you’re pregnant.”

“No.” Katie shoved her mane of hair from her face and watched Les grab a washcloth from the cabinet and dampen it. “I’ve got a nervous stomach, remember? I barfed before every big final exam. Before every big job interview.”
Before the big funeral
. She shoved that thought away. “Well, this wedding is big.” And it was happening so fast. Two weeks and counting.

Les handed her the wet cloth. “Are you sure you’re not pregnant? Accidents happen.”

“Between Joe’s engineering job, my job at the gallery, and planning the wedding, we’ve hardly had the opportunity to have an accident.”

Les’s frown told Katie she’d just given her friend more Joe’s-not-right-for-you ammunition. “And what does that tell you?” her friend said, rolling her green eyes.

“It tells me we’ve been busy.” Katie twisted the diamond on her finger. Actually, Les had a knack for knowing how
men rated in the world of Katie Ray. She’d pegged Rick Baker as a dweeb in junior high, Jason Tanner as a pervert in college, and a slew of others.
Don’t go out with him. You’ll
be sorry
, Les would say, and dang it, if she hadn’t been right most of the time. But how could Katie listen to Les now, when…

She blinked. “You’ve never even
met
Joe.”

“But I’ve heard you talk about him three times a week for almost a year. And I know what I hear.”

“What do you hear?” Katie asked, unsure she wanted to know.

“I hear a friend who’s still trying to deal with losing her entire family and so worried about turning twenty-nine that she’ll marry the first Tom, Dick, or Joe who comes along.”

The engagement ring received another twist, up and over the knuckle, as a new wave of nausea threatened. Katie edged closer to the toilet and tried to control her stomach. “You would love Joe if you met him.” The two not having met was a failing Katie planned to remedy to night.

Not that she was telling Les. Why give her friend time to prepare a list of are-you-good-enough-for-my-best-friend questions? As an ex–investigative reporter, Les excelled at putting people in the hot seat. Better to surprise both Joe and Les. And they would love each other. How could they not? Les was smart, gorgeous, and now one of Boston’s most popular restaurant reviewers. Joe was a sweet, handsome man, who was…was going to be Katie’s husband.

Husband
. Nausea hit hard, and Katie promptly threw up.

“Gross.” Les swung around. “You know, I haven’t missed seeing you do this.”

“Sorry.” Katie released her hold on the throne and ran the wet washcloth over her mouth. Feeling better, she stood up and flushed. “It’s just wedding jitters.”

Les turned around. “The idea of getting married
shouldn’t make you puke. You should be happy and…glowing.” Les’s brow puckered. “Not green and wearing a dribble of something unidentifiable on your chin.”

“Sorry.” Katie ran the cloth over her face. And that’s when she noticed it. “Fudge!” She dropped to her knees and started doing the pat-and-crawl shuffle across the tile floor.

“Fudge what?” Les asked. “And you know, you really should just say ‘fuck.’ Everyone knows you mean ‘fuck.’”

Katie swept her hands and gaze on both sides of the porcelain bowl. Once. Twice.

“My ring.” Katie held up her naked left hand and stared at the still-swirling water in the john. “I think…” A sob left her throat. “I think I just flushed it.”

She promptly puked again.

Several hours later, Katie studied the maps she’d printed off the computer to help her find Tabitha’s new place.

“I wish you’d postpone things until tomorrow,” Les said. “Today’s my grandma’s birthday. Everyone’s coming over for cake and ice cream. Mom will kill me if I don’t make it.”

Katie glanced up. “You’re not missing anything with me. I’ll get the cake samples and we’ll taste them later. All Tabitha wants today is a check. I’m meeting her at four, swinging by the jewelry store to pick up my new ring, and meeting you at five at Dave’s Place. Tight, but doable.”

“You’re not telling Joe about the ring, are you?” Les asked.

Katie sighed. How did you tell your fiancé that you’d flushed his eight-thousand-dollar engagement ring down the toilet? “Why? I’m replacing it.” All three plumbers she’d called had assured her that as soon as she’d hit the flusher, her ring had taken the fast track to the city’s sewers.

Frowning, Katie checked her purse to make sure she had the checkbook to her new account. This would be the
first time she’d used the money left to her by her parents’ insurance policies. Oddly, it hit her that she was using money gained through the loss of her family for the sole purpose of starting her own family—with Joe.
Happily
ever after, here I come
. So, why wasn’t she tossing emotional confetti around instead of tossing her breakfast?

She met Les’s suspicious gaze. “Joe doesn’t have to know.”

“Already keeping secrets from him, huh? I don’t suppose you’d listen if I said flushing your ring down the toilet was your subconscious trying to tell you something.”

“No, I won’t listen.” But the thought kept running circles in Katie’s head. Hence, the decision
not
to tell Joe about the little incident.

They stepped outside; the November wind sent goose bumps chasing hairs across Katie’s skin. She considered going in and grabbing another sweater. But hey, the Rays were tough.

Les yanked her jacket over her breasts. “Dang. It’s colder here than in Boston.” She paused. “When will I meet this man who can’t find time to make love to his bride-to-be?”

Katie turned to lock the door—and to hide her white lie. “Soon.” And she hoped that after meeting Joe to night, Les would drop the call-off-the-wedding rally. “Remember, five at Dave’s Place. Oh, and here’s a key to my house in case the party ends early.”

“Key. Dave’s Place.” Pocketing the key, Les took two steps toward her car, then swung around. A cold breeze scattered her blonde, wispy hair across her face. “I know I sound like a broken record, but I think you’re rushing into this.”

Katie pulled her blue cardigan closer. “We’ve dated a year, and Joe’s great.” She said it as much for herself as she did for Les’s benefit. “You know how I know he’s great?” she went on. “Because the first time I met him, I
thought, ‘Wow, Les would totally love this man.’ Can’t you be happy for me, just a little bit?”

Les swept back her hair. “Maybe I haven’t been here to watch love happen. But I haven’t heard love happening in your phone calls either.” She sighed. “Tell me you love this guy, really love him, and I’ll totally get off your back.”

Katie looked at her best friend since kindergarten, and while the words lay on the tip of her tongue, they were held back by another wave of nausea. “I love him,” she finally spat out, and didn’t want to think about why those words had felt forced.

“Could you say that with more conviction and without turning green?” Les frowned and leaned close. “I don’t see ‘happy’ in your eyes, Katie. I don’t even see ‘I’ve had great sex’ in your eyes.”

“I’m happy.” Katie, not wanting Les to look any closer, dug into her purse for her Tums. “Be at Dave’s at five.”

“Right.” Les huffed. Les’s huff always meant something. Sure enough, Katie’s friend was studying her. “You still aren’t painting, are you? You were happy when you were painting.”

Katie cut Les a don’t-go-there look. “I manage a gal lery. I get my art fix there.”

“You loved painting,” Les said. “You were happy when—”

“I sucked at painting.” Katie shivered.

“So said your parents.”

“And the critics,” Katie reminded her, thrilled when her ringing cell phone put an end to the subject. When her parents were alive, Katie didn’t mind bitching about them. Everyone bitched about their parents, didn’t they? But somewhere in life’s rule book it stated you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Katie, like all the Rays before her, followed the rules. Plus, everything bad she’d ever said now haunted her. Losing loved ones did that.

She grabbed her phone from her purse. The call registered
as out of the area. “Hello?” Steam floated from her breath and warmed the tip of her nose. “Hello?”

Nothing.

“Hello?” She heard a faint sound—of music?—“The Wedding March.” “Tabitha?” The line went dead.

“Your wedding planner?” Les pulled her suede jacket sleeves over her hands and did the I’m-cold shimmy.

“They didn’t answer.” Katie snapped her phone closed. In spite of the cold, she and Les stood in the middle of her front yard, studying each other the way friends do after not seeing each other for a long time. “I’m so glad you’re here,” Katie admitted, and gave her friend a hug.

“Liar.” Les hugged her back. “I’ve been a pain in your ass.”

“True.” Katie chuckled. “But puking alone isn’t fun.” And she had been alone—and lonely—for too long. Going from being a part of a family of four to being a party of one had taken its toll. Then, six months after the accident, Les got a job in Boston. The combination had resulted in a hard year and a half.

But what about Joe? Shouldn’t he have taken the edge off the
loneliness?
The question ran laps around Katie’s mind. She answered it by telling herself that nothing took the place of a best friend.

“Speaking of asses,” Katie said, “do these jeans make my butt look big?” She turned and gave her friend the back view.

“Your size-six ass never looks big,” Les said. “If you weren’t my friend, I’d hate you.”

Katie swung around. “And I’d trade this freckled package for yours any day of the week. Men love blondes.”

“As long as a sexy redhead isn’t around.” Les eyed Katie’s hair. “Plus, I’ve gained ten pounds. Occupational hazard.”

“And it all went to your boobs.” Katie pointed to the evidence. They both chuckled as Katie glanced at her
watch. Obviously, six hours wasn’t enough time to play catch-up with a friend you hadn’t seen in a year. “I have to go or I’ll be late to the cake maker.”

“Go.” Les started to her car. “But bring some chocolate samples.”

Recalling Les’s chocolate-is-the-substitute-for-sex theory, Katie yelled out, “Wait! What happened Thursday night on the date with Mr. Sexy Voice?”

“Oh, gawd, I haven’t told you.” They met halfway and huddled for warmth. “When the waiter brought our check after dinner, Mr. Sexy Voice looked me right in the eyes and said, ‘I hope you’re going to be worth the price of your steak.’”

“Get out of here.
No
.” Katie giggled.

“Honestly. And when I gave him the evil eye, he had the nerve to ask if I was jealous that he had a penis and I didn’t.”

Katie rubbed her hands together for warmth and anticipation. Les always had great comebacks. “And what did you tell him?”

“That with what I have under my skirt, I can get all the penises I want. Then I paid for my dinner and left. Frankly, those Yankee men just don’t do it for me.”

Katie laughed, but she knew it wasn’t any Yankee persona or penis envy keeping her friend celibate. Les had loved Katie’s brother as much as she had. Katie would bet Les’s engagement ring still hung from its chain and lay hidden under her tan turtleneck. Sometimes life was so unfair. But Katie refused to crater. Cratering just wasn’t in the Ray bloodline. Rays were strong and successful. That was why Katie’s dreams of being an artist had been so un-Ray-like. If a Ray couldn’t do it perfectly, they simply didn’t do it.

Les hugged her again. “I’ll see you to night. After dinner, we’ll paint our toenails. At least I’ll get you painting something.”

As Katie crawled into her Honda, her phone rang again.
“Hello?” Another musical snippet of “The Wedding March.”

“Tabitha?” The connection died.

“Strange,” Katie mumbled. “Very strange.”