Chapter Twenty

On the Friday evening, two weeks before the wedding, I drove downtown to the church my family attended. Tracey and Stuart selected the smaller chapel set apart from the rest of the church complex.

I loved the building, as well. A mossy brick walkway linked the chapel to the main sanctuary. Limestone archways provided a unifying architectural detail. Two dark-stained, heavy oak doors opened into the inner sanctum. The chapel walls soared from floor to ceiling with stained glass windows. In the afternoon, light filtered through the glass, painting the floor with jewel colors. Tiny gold tiles covered the wall beyond the altar railing. A wooden cross dangled from the ceiling in front of the gold-ness.

I arrived before the others for the rehearsal, which slightly bothered me. Agitated, I checked around for them. Why hasn’t the rest of the wedding party shown?

Who needed a rehearsal nowadays? What could go wrong? Everyone knew the basic routine. My maid of honor duties included:

—Help with hair and makeup.

—Be supportive.

—Walk the walk.

—Smile.

—Stand just so.

—Hold the bride’s bouquet.

—Adjust her train.

—Carry spare tissues.

I ruffled my hair at the crown and slipped into the second from the front pew to wait. And to think. Think about Tracey and Stuart, their ordeal, my frantic parents. The whole sordid enchilada. How can a problem like my sister's be in any typical suburban family?

I heard crunchy scuffs on the carpet but didn’t look. When someone paused by my side, I looked up—Allan. “Hey. Why are you here?” Then remembering, I tapped my temple. “Best man.”

Allan set his hand on the back of the pew. “I guess you don’t know.”

Did not sound good. “What?”

“Over kumquats at Super Saver, your mom told my mom, Tracey felt…let’s say…ill.”

I jumped to my feet and glanced toward the building door. “Tracey’s sick?” Very newsworthy. “She didn’t say a word yesterday. Did she go to the doctor?”

Allan shook his head. “I…don’t…think…so.”

“Because…” I rolled my hand.

He didn't utter a word, just glanced at his shoes and lifted his toes.

Maddening man. I squinched my eyes into slits. “Something’s going on, and you better tell me. Now.”

Allan sighed. “Here’s the short story. Your mom, dad, Stuart, and Tracey are, er, missing the rehearsal. We’re”—he motioned from himself to me and back—

“standing in for them.”

Un. Be. Lieve. Able. My jaw dropped. This wedding will be the death of me. “Stand in for them—again? You’ve got to be kidding.”

He leveled on me his best no-nonsense look. “Do I look like a comedian?”

He didn’t. Fanning my hands wide, I paced six feet to my right, spun about, six feet to my left. “I’ve tried on Tracey’s dress. I’ve stood in for their tango dance…” I rotated fully to face him. “No. I won’t do it. I won’t be a stand-in at her wedding rehearsal. Period.”

“Our mothers say Trace is a little…embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed? What’ll she do on the day of the real I Dos?” I stood and brushed past Allan to the altar railing. Once there, I paused and studied the cross, praying for divine wedding intercession. I wheeled about and stepped closer to him, so close, I nearly hugged him and almost forgot why I was so mad. “I’ll show her embarrassed—”

Stepping back, I smacked my hand against my forehead. “How could I forget. I know why. It’s because of you. You questioning Tracey at the station and your ineptness in finding the real murderer.” Did I say murderer in church? Lordy. I set an evil eye on him. “Thanks bunches…pal.”

Allan walked to the first pew and sat. He dropped his forearms to his thighs and stared near the vicinity of his perfectly polished oxfords. He raised his head a fraction. “You know, Hattie, your blame game is old.”

Blame game? Before I could speak one word, the chapel door burst open. I snapped my gaze toward the entry. In walked the rest of the party—at a high-octane chattering pitch—followed by the minister, Reverend Walsh, the same guy who baptized Tracey and me, all sober and dressed in a no-nonsense dark suit.

“Hi, Hattie.” Trixie pointed at Allan, who stood and faced the group. “Oh, look, everyone. It’s Allan Wellborn—”

The girls tittered. Truly, tittered.

“Detective”—Trixie sauntered down the aisle—“Allan Wellborn, the dirty rotten rat.”

Mr. Saintliness glowered.

Calling him “rat”—not popular.

Jenny, who followed Trixie, looked at Allan, then me. A glance of understanding passed through her eyes.

She mouthed, “You okay?”

I nodded.

I stepped past the bridesmaids collected in the aisle, still giving Allan their best “go to hell and burn” glare.

Looking way too cheerful, Reverend Walsh smiled, scrubbed his hands, and placed himself in front of the altar railing. “Shall we get to it?”

Allan stood, jamming his hands in his pants’ pockets.

Trixie looked to the entry. “What about the other groomsmen?”

“We have one; he’ll have to do. I'm sure you ladies have played the role before and can help the young men when need be. All standard stuff.” Reverend Walsh waved to the Funsisters. “Please, take your places in the narthex.”

Leisurely, Kella and Jenny led the way up the aisle to the narthex, sharing silly stuff the whole way.

Trixie shot Allan another from her Book of Nasty Looks, then followed our girlfriends.

With a tight smile, Allan watched them.

So not a proper wedding. I lagged behind the others. Anger issues over Tracey and Stuart and Allan made irritableness consume my head. Who wouldn’t be irritated with everyone's interference in my life?

In the foyer, I skirted my friends to stand by the door. Yup, time for a vacation. An extended retreat to a Pacific island with no phones, a state-of-the-art spa, and glorious sunny days. Never mind not having the money to go. I’ll figure something out.

At “uh hum” and a signal from Reverend Walsh, the bridesmaids aligned themselves in the predetermined order to advance down the aisle. Once he saw us organized, the minister raised his finger like a conductor. “Ready?”

The Funsisters nodded.

He sang, “Tumtum ta tum, tumtum tat um.”

Trixie proceeded first. She stood regally while holding her pretend bouquet. One by one, the other bridesmaids marched slowly and intently in perfect time as the minister hummed the traditional wedding march. Their hands clasped nonexistent bouquets at their waists. Mostly, they looked demure, except for Trixie. She never looked demure. She still looked…pissed off.

When they stopped at the altar and took their spots, I stepped forward.

“Hattie, fix your eye on me, please,” Reverend Walsh said.

Shifting my gaze meant I couldn’t ignore Allan, who stood to the minister’s left. But I did my darndest. Damn Jonson Leggett the Third. How could Tracey get dumped in such a pickle right before her wedding?

I expected to find Allan’s eyes sparkling with a twinkle, one which relished in my discomfiture. But I didn’t. His irises turned nearly black. And on his face, his expression read “mine.” I sensed my heart kick in extra beats.

I continued to face the, er, faux groom side. Blinking rapidly, I pretended the whole thing was a dream or nightmare—it depended. Maybe whichever would pass quickly. Simultaneously, Allan and I rotated to face the minister.

Reverend Walsh said, “Perfectly executed bridesmaids and grooms”—he took in only Allan and harrumphed—“groomsman who’s substituting for the groom. And now, we’ll practice the vows.” He grasped our arms and turned us to face each other.

I wriggled away. “I don’t want to be the bride—”

“Hattie, it’s not a big deal. Not a lifetime commitment. Not legal. Just a re-hear-sal.” Reverend Walsh rubbed the top of his bald head. Over his wire rims, he studied me with the lift of one brow. “Unless, perhaps, you want it so? Maybe the lady protesteth too much?”

I shook my head, but through my lashes, I saw Allan gulp then square his body. The big horse’s patootie.

“Now, we’re settled.” Reverend Walsh tucked his chin and let his gaze rove those of us at the altar. “However,” he said softly, “I expect your situation will change…one day soon.”

What I'd like to know is if my situation would change before anyone else knew.

He lifted his Bible. “Dearly beloved…”

Before long, I zoned out. I zoned to a faraway land of another church. Beside me stood a groom dressed in a black tux with a pink cummerbund. Blush dahlias and stargazer lilies, spreading their scent, decorated the urns by the altar railing. I wore a white flowing gown with an off-the-shoulder look. The music soared through the loftiness of the sanctuary—

Someone jabbed my ribs. I pushed aside the daydream and joined in with an, “I do.”

Sounding like happy fledglings, the bridesmaids twittered.

I didn’t dignify it. I didn't look. I didn't comment.

“I now pronounce you man and wife.” Reverend Walsh closed his Good Book. “You may kiss your bride.”

Again, significant twittering from the birdie chorus.

Allan held my hand—How did that happen?

He dipped his head lower, then lower until we were a lip lock apart.

I stared into his chocolate irises. Kiss me—kiss me—kiss me.

He did, but not on my mouth, which throbbed and ached for him. Nope, he played it safe and smacked me on my hair.

More significant twittering.

“Please turn and face the congregation,” Reverend Walsh said. “May I introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Steems.”

The bridesmaids clapped.

Allan twined my arm with his. Jenny passed me an invisible bouquet. We, the poser newlyweds, strode arm in arm down the red carpet, mostly because Allan held me in place with his hand on top of mine when I tried to jerk away.

From behind us, I heard Reverend Walsh say, “Shall we repeat?”

Allan’s shoulder brushed against mine. “I do.”

My breath caught. Lord, save me. And then, my prayer was answered.

Trixie said, “No way in hell.”

Isn’t Trixie the epitome of a best friend?

****

I drove from the church to the Waterworks building by Sommerville Lake for the rehearsal dinner, which had morphed into a party. Lots of family and friends had been invited. Along the small street which wound along the curves of the lakeshore, I found direction signs inscribed with “Steems-Cooks Rehearsal” and red arrows, which indicated the way to turn.

So far, Allan did a meticulous job.

Duh. Of course, he would.

After parking the Jeep, I entered the building through an archway formed with teal and pink—the bride’s colors—balloons. I dragged my finger along one, hearing a rubbery squeak. Allan’s penchant for balloons popped in my mind.

As I rounded the corner to enter the party room, I stopped abruptly. Smack dab in front of me stood life-sized cutouts of a bride and groom, the kind where people stuck their faces in the holes to have their picture made.

Surprise! I didn’t know about the photo prop.

Surprise! I knew what was coming.

The wedding party and family guests circled the stand-ups to admire the handiwork. They clamored for a chance to poke their heads in the cutouts. A family friend jumped into position while another friend held a camera-ready smartphone.

Rubbing the length of my nose, I readied myself. Some well-meaning person would inevitably pair me with Allan for a goofy portrait. I would slap a smirk on my face and let them snap away until the giggles had subsided. Then run for—well, anywhere else but here. Mount Rushmore seemed like the perfect spot. Tons of crevices were carved in the Presidents, making them the ideal location for hiding.

I dreaded the whole thought behind this-this coupling with Allan. Yes, I wanted to kiss him and do other romantic things. But part of me held back because he always, always put work first, like his questioning my sister. And our so-called romance seemed to play in front of everyone. I wanted to hold our affair for myself. To cherish the newness of discovery. To know at any moment, images of us would form in my brain and make me squishy-wishy.

Until the little issues were resolved, I'd guard my heart.

Sigh. If only…

I would pose for pictures for Stuart’s and Tracey’s sake—just once—to maintain a cool status quo and not make a scene. But later, I would eliminate the person who dreamt up the little enterprise, and dollars to donuts, the mastermind was…Jenny.

Jenny helped Allan.

She tugged me into the hallway.

“I’m gonna kill him,” I mumbled out of the side of my mouth.

“No, you’re not. You can’t. Allan’s a cop. Cops don’t like people who hurt their cops.”

I pulled my arm free and crossed them. “Ya, whatever. Besides, I’d get off—extenuating circumstances.”

Jenny waved toward the cutouts. “You didn’t know?”

“About these? Nope. Not a thing.” I sent my head from side to side. “I ordered the food and the tables. Allan ordered the hay.”

“Did he do the cutouts on purpose?” Jenny pulled on her bottom lip. “I don’t think he’s creative. Someone helped him.”

“And which of my best friends would help him?”

Jenny proudly thumbed her chest. “Me.”

I rolled my eyes and tossed my hands. “Of course, you would.”

Arms lifted, Jenny twirled, then tilted back her body. She looked mighty happy with what she’d done. A savvy grin with a smart-ass gleam fired in her brown eyes. “He seemed…inundated.”

“Inundated? Allan? Wrong.” I fixed on her my most extraordinary evil eye. “I thought you were my friend. Why-why-why would you embarrass me?”

“Remember way back when Mrs. Steems threw the rehearsal dinner on Allan, and you said he needed lots and lots of help?”

I bobbed my head. “He roped me into riding to the rescue.”

“Ride ’em cowboy.”

I stared so hard, Jenny should be bleeding from the piercing holes.

“Fine,” Jenny said. “Allan needed other ideas to make the reception special. Someone at work attended a wedding and the cutouts”—she waved her hands over her idea—“were at the reception. I liked the concept and told Allan. The rehearsal dinner seemed to be a fun place to do it. I contacted a rental company, and for a mere one hundred seventy-five dollars apiece, you can take them home.”

I stuck my hands to my hips and swiveled to check out her triumph. “As cute as they are, I'll pass.”

“Me, too.”

“Mr. Who-Uses-All-The-Hot-Water might have other ideas.”

“Don’t go there.”

“How come we can talk about Allan and me ad nauseum and not you and Mr., er, you know—the guy you’re dating?”

“Because”—Jenny stabbed my shoulder with a finger—not too delicately—right where the bone met the soft tissue—“I’m me, and you’re, you know, you.”

Okay.

“I love you like a sister, Hattie. If you suppose my intent with the cutouts was to pair you with Allan, fine. Despite what you may believe, there’s not any huge Conspiracy Theory, except in your head. I only wanted to help a friend—”

“I am your friend.”

“I had no ulterior motive.”

“As you say.”

Jenny liked Allan; she always had. She always seemed to take his side, and today was one of them. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m grumpy.”

“Apology accepted. For what it’s worth, here’s my short opinion.” She raised her index finger. “I think it’s time for you to get over your hang-ups. He didn’t get you killed; you didn’t get him killed. No one’s out to get you. Admit your feelings for him.”

Jenny pulled me close, so close her forehead met mine.

“Hattie, it’s time for a heart to heart. You’re in love with Allan Wellborn. Everyone knows you care for each other.”

“Everyone?” I gulped, then considered. “Of course, they do. Everyone in little ol’ Sommerville knows everyone's business. I'm no exception. Nothing’s ever private.”

“Then own it. Own it in your heart. Say 'I love Allan.' Maybe the town’ll find another hot item.”

Jenny could be right. I considered some more.

“Hattie?”

“I’m thinking.”

“I can't stand here all night with my forehead stuck to yours. You’re sweaty.”

Straightening, I gulped deeply and said softly, “I l-love Allan.”

“Doesn’t sound much like owning it. Nor heartfelt.”

“You heard me.”

“I’ll turn on my hearing aids.”

Fine. Louder, I said, “I. Love. Allan.”

Just like in the movies, the proverbial dropped pin pinged like a bomb, and by coincidence, exactly when everyone stopped talking. Sensing all turn our way to stare, I closed my eyes. Thank God, my backside is to the crowd. I could feel holes drilling into the back of my swanky little black dress. Their hot looks melting my zipper to my spine.

The quiet seemed overwhelmingly profound. I peeked through my eyelashes and barely shifted my gaze to the left and then to the right. I very, very quietly asked, “How bad do you think it is?”

She lifted her hands just enough to reveal hopelessness. “Oh, you know…”

Great. “No possibility of an earthquake swallowing and spitting us out somewhere else?”

Jenny smiled. “I don’t think so—not today. But you never know. Seems some new gas wells have created heave-ho issues.”

“No molten lava cascading from a nearby erupting volcano, causing the need to evacuate and mass pandemonium?”

She giggled. “No.”

“No drug bust because someone caught a bunch of teenagers smoking weed on the balcony?”

“No, Hattie.”

“Damn.” I bit my lower lip. “It’s a good guess everyone knows something’s up?”

“Yep.”

“Is my mom here?”

“Can’t tell from this angle.” Jenny lifted her chin and adjusted for a better view. “Yes, and Mrs. Wellborn and she are whispering furiously.”

Darn. Those two and their matchmaking. Why didn’t Mom stay at home? “Allan?”

“I see him. He’s”—she peeked past my shoulder— “he’s moving our way…”

Could I be any more mortified? I bounced into an upright stance and squeaked, “Allan’s coming over here?”

Jenny rose to her toes and looked over my shoulder to check again. “It’s hard to say. A crowd of people is between us, but I can see his head. He’s zigzagging around them to find you.”

Allan heard everything. Everything. Every. Little. Thing. Awkward. Uncomfortable. Embarrassing. No privacy.

“I know.” Jenny grabbed my elbow. “Let’s escape to the ladies’ room.”

A good plan, way better than any I had now. “Brilliant. Allan wouldn’t dare go in.”

“Ready?” She propelled me from the reception room.

I let her take me. I could hide indefinitely in the ladies’ room, especially if I locked the door. No one would bother us, especially Allan.

Check that. He might.

However, his mother raised him to be the perfect gentleman. He might not.

My tummy grumbled. Can I order a plate of fried chicken to be delivered?

****

Pale pink and black tile decorated the women’s bathroom walls and floor which looked like a flashback to the forties. In an alcove, women could check their makeup and clothing in tall pier mirrors gilded in gold leaf. Large upholstered chairs and ottomans in a pink trellis pattern were scattered about for comfy seating.

I picked up a soap dispenser and sniffed—lavender—my favorite. I circled the rest of the room—unexciting, but then, what public bathrooms are? Crossing my arms, I rested my backside against the vanity. “So, exactly how long do we have to stay out of sight?”

Jenny turned the lock. “Work with me. We’ve been in here all of two minutes.”

“An eternity.”

“I’m thinkin’ ”—she stared at her phone—“twenty more minutes should do it. Do you want me to see where Allan’s at?”

I turned to look at my reflection in the vanity mirror and grabbed a tissue which I dabbed to the corners of my mouth. “Yes, please. Being stuck in a restroom is as boring as dirt.”

Jenny harrumphed. “I've never been compared to dirt before—”

“Sorry—”

“I know what you mean.” She twisted the doorknob. “Maybe if the coast’s clear, I can scarf up food. I love fried chicken.”

“Excellent plan. Don't forget the peach cobbler with ice cream.”

I turned and let my rear end rest against the counter again. I didn't exactly count out how many minutes, but after a long while, I believed Jenny had disappeared forever. Then, the door creaked with a squeak.

My friend entered backside first, carrying a tray. “Look what I have. Texas sheet cake.”

I grabbed a plate of cake and a utensil, forking a hefty bite with no consideration about fitting into the bridesmaid dress. Around the crumbs, I said, “I. Love. Cake.”

“I know. Sorry, no cobbler. The caterer took her time replenishing it.”

“At least someone is eating something.” When hearing the door rasp a second time, I stuffed a large bite in my mouth. “Did you lock the door behind you?”

Jenny cringed and checked over her shoulder. “Umm. Maybe not. I was cake distracted.”

Another squeak. Somebody pushed a metal utility cart—the stainless kind used for industrial purposes—into the room.

In better lighting, Allan materialized.

“Hi, ladies.”

His wide toothy smile looked brilliant like his pinpoint white shirt over which he wore a sport coat.

The man excelled in dressing, but I bet my last dollar he used toothpaste guaranteed to whiten teeth. I'd seen a tube when I searched his house a few months ago. I stared at the toilet doors. Sometimes, I don't know what to think about him.

I shifted my gaze back to Allan. “Shouldn't you be entertaining your guests, oh sainted one?”

“All's cool. I left the party in Trixie’s and Kella's capable hands,” he said.

“My friend? Trixie? She'll demand everyone join the limbo contest. Kella’ll will make sure all is okay.” I dropped into a chair. “I see you brought food. Are you hungry? Were all the chairs taken in the boy's restroom?”

Allan locked the door. “I might get a warmer reception in the men’s room.”

How…unexpected.

He looked around. “I've never been locked in a women’s restroom at a rehearsal dinner before. A real first.”

Someone pounded on the door.

“Out of order,” Jenny hollered.

“Hattie, are you okay?”

I mouthed, “Mom.”

When my mother banged a second time, Jenny's shoulders shuddered with laughter.

I raised my palms and said in a soft voice, “Help.”

“Can you unlock the door, Jenny?” my mom asked.

Jenny moved to the door where she pressed her ear to it. “Something’s wrong with the hot water, Mrs. Cooks.”

“Shall I find the Waterworks building manager?”

I rolled my eyes.

“No, ma’am. Shouldn’t be much longer.”

“Thanks, Jenny,” Mother said.

“Sure, Mrs. Cooks.” Jenny wiggled her smartphone in my face. “I have Kella on the phone. I’m telling her the downstairs restroom’s out of order and, in case of an emergency, to send the guests to the upstairs one.”

“Good plan,” Allan said.

Selecting a plate, she set a chicken breast on it. “Looks yummy. Thanks for organizing the food for…er, us.”

“My pleasure. Good eats shouldn’t be missed. Go on”—Allan flicked a finger at the rest of the tray—“mac ’n cheese. Salad. Biscuits and strawberry jam in the basket.”

“Don't mind if I do.” Jenny heaped the sides on her plate.

After she snagged a baked goodie and topped it with butter and jam, she looked over. “Hattie, would you like me to fix you a plate?”

With a sigh, I stood and walked toward her. The gurgles in my tummy sounded very unladylike. The chicken smelled divine. I extended my arm. “Just a small piece will do.”

Jenny passed me a full plate. “Here you go.”

I returned to my chair and, when settled, bit into the chicken. Closing my eyes briefly, I savored the lovely crunch of the perfect golden crust. Slowly, I took a second and third bite.

Allan set a glass of iced tea on the table.

I glanced up. “Thank you.”

His smile framed the perfect teeth. He took a swallow from a beer. “You're welcome.” He munched on the entrée, too. Between mouthfuls, he met my gaze. “Good choice on the caterer, Hattie.”

I nodded. For a while, the three of us concentrated on filling our bellies.

Jenny looked over the room, then giggled. “I don't think I've ever eaten in a women’s restroom before. Nor the men's, either.”

“Me neither. Before you ask, beer isn’t food.” Allan pointed to the platter of chicken. “Seconds?”

Jenny took a drink of tea and wiped her fingers. “No, thank you.”

I shook my head and followed with a clearing of my throat.

“Something on your mind, sweetheart?” Allan asked.

Sweetheart. That would be me. “Well—”

Jenny blurted, “We want to know what you’re thinking about the videos.”

“Videos?” He scrunched his brow. “What videos?”

“Don't play dumb, Allan.” I set my empty plate on the vanity and rubbed my hands on a pink paper square. “We talked about how I've been to Dee's Donuts and Little Egypt and watched their security tapes.”

“Oh. Those videos.” Allan nodded. “No comment.”

I moved to stand in front of him, crossing my arms. I stared at every nuance in his face, his lips, and his eyes. He knows more than he’s saying. He always does. “I can remind you if you need me to.”

He waved his piece of chicken. “Tell me what you think.”

“Dear God,” Jenny said to no one. “Not again.”

Allan and I looked at her.

She raised her palms. “What? You will go at it until one of you gets mad.”

Allan and I acknowledged each other. Together, we nodded. “Probably.”

I circled the cart. “Both Dee's and Little Egypt's tapes show someone in a white suit approaching Jonson's vehicle.”

Allan rubbed his chin. “Okay—”

“But”—I paused and raised my finger—“I see differences.”

His eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

I ticked off my right hand. “From what I’ve seen, size-wise, the person is bigger than Tracey. Hair is whiter than Tracey's. The coat doesn't exactly match Tracey's.”

Allan drank deeply from his beer and abruptly stood. He picked at a corner of the label and then took another swig.

The interesting look he placed on me made me shift away, but not for long. In the past, I learned he might be a cop, but his work behavior would never intimidate me. I firmed my stance and leveled my shoulders, noting his delicious lips—

Delicious lips?

“Anything else?” he asked.

I cocked my head to my right. His lips are delicious, and he knows how to use them. “No. Just pointing out what was recorded. The police will probably want to review, you know, to be sure.”

“You're correct. The police will review with more detail in mind. We’re requesting lengthier footage.” Allan leaned closer. “So…you love me?”

Jenny's eyes widened with Dear-God-Help-Me-Cause-I’m-in-the-Wrong-Place. She quivered with a slight head jiggle and did her best to become one with the wallpaper in the alcove.

Like anything could stop her from listening. Stepping closer, I sensed the toes of my shoes touch his.

Allan tilted my chin toward him.

Words escaped me. The urge to delve into his eyes—dark irises like a ninety-percent cocoa bar with a flash of golden light—pushed to the front. I swallowed long and deep. Lordy.

Allan nodded. “Thought so.” He broke away and returned to the cart, wheeling it to the door. “Ladies, thanks for a memorable rehearsal party.”

“Thanks for the food, Allan,” Jenny said.

He winked. “Anytime.”

The tension slipped from my legs to collect at my feet. As the door swooshed closed behind him, I blinked and swayed.

Jenny glided to my side and nudged me with her elbow. “I didn't know Allan could read minds.”

Planting my right hand against the wall for support, I bit into my lower lip. “I did.”

****

Over the next few days, my time was consumed by a flurry of tango lessons, work, and subbing for Tracey at her shower—what a non-event that was. No bride-to-be. No exclamations over gifts. Jenny had salvaged the Stuart and Tracey paper dolls from the rehearsal and set them around Kella’s living room and dining table. The best part? Eating two lemon cupcakes.

I kept busy with organizing Wedding Wonderland. I cleaned the shop more than I cleaned my apartment. First, I vacuumed the dressing rooms and then arranged the gowns in the gown room. Dusted and swept the reception area and the raised platform. Finally, I tackled the storage and office area.

On a bookcase shelf behind Miss A.’s desk, I shifted the toolbox to wedge new bridal magazines next to it. A hammer sitting on top of the hard, plastic case caught my eye. Is it the one Miss A. lost long ago? Even though Miss A. replaced the misplaced one, she would be happy about my find.

“I found it,” I said a little loudly, “Miss A.”

“What is it, dearie?” Miss A. moved to the front of the store where she polished the glass door panes fingerprint-free.

“I found the hammer.” I walked to the storeroom door and held high the tool so she could see it. “The missing one. What was lost is now found.”

“Good job, Hattie. I saved the receipt and can return the replacement I bought. The cost of a new one—it was ridiculous how much the hardware store charged. Did you put the old one in the toolbox?”

“Sure will.” Swiveling, I stepped to the shelf and lifted the toolbox lid. I dropped the hammer inside, and I took the new one and put it on her desk.

After snapping shut the lock, I saw a brown-ish residue on my palm. Resisting the first urge to rub my hand on my skirt, I sniffed my hand. Yuck. I couldn't determine the scent, but pleasant did not come to mind. With a second sniff, a faint…metallic odor found my nose. Confused, something about the smell nagged me. I tried to remember, but the memory wouldn’t resurrect.

I reopened the box and checked out the hammerhead on the old tool. Nothing weird, just beat-up and used. I studied the new one, then the old one. Wisps of light brown fuzzy lint were stuck on the nail driver of the new one. No clue what that could be.

While I considered, I focused on Miss A.’s white jacket, which hung from the brass coat hook screwed onto the back of the office door. I set the new hammer on her desk.

Somehow, I needed to unravel this conundrum. I studied the coat, its size, and the blue embroidered name. The pockets. I was struck by how similar it looked to Tracey’s suit coat.

While my head wrapped around “coat,” I compressed my lips. Something filtered through my thoughts, and I envisioned Miss A. at the crime scene wearing her white jacket. And wham! I knew. I really, really knew.

Miss A. went to Super Saver Grocery wearing her white coat to buy a hammer.

My heartbeat intensified. Wheeling, I walked to Miss A.’s desk and sank into her chair. I cradled my chin in my propped hands and deliberated. I’d seen the videos, and the person didn’t look like Tracey in her white suit and short hair. The person looked like…Miss A.

-Both wore a white coat.

-Both had light-colored hair.

-Both were near Jonson Leggett’s car.

My feminine intuition told me Miss A. murdered Jonson. I bet twenty bucks she used the new hammer I just found. Allan said someone left fingerprints on Jonson’s car—beside my sister. Do the prints belong to Miss A.?

Ey, yi, yi. I should call Allan. He knows what to do.

I heard a rustle from behind me, and before I could check, I felt something flung over my biceps. In an instant, I felt my arms pinned against my body. I pushed to my feet. I fought, twisting from my right to my left to get loose. In the struggle, the hammer jostled off the desk. The clank on the floor caused me to jerk. My legs were kicked out from under me. Off-balance, I face-planted on the cement floor.

I couldn’t focus. My head circled to la-la-land. When the pain subsided, an awareness of my surroundings filtered in. I attempted to flex my hands, but they didn’t move. Turning my head, I looked about barely able to comprehend how my arms and ankles were bound.

I wriggled to no avail. In the shadows, I saw an outline of Miss A. stooped over. She pulled on the knot around my ankles.

My boss had trussed me like a damn turkey.

I croaked, but nothing came out. Trying again, I forced out a hoarse, “Miss A.”

She hoisted herself upright and walked to stand by my head. After she pulled a hankie from her pants pocket, she fluttered the folds apart, then patted her forehead as well as the back of her neck. Her plump chest palpitated with the exertion. “Oh, my dear, Hattie. I am so sorry about everything. Things have gone from horrid to horrible.

“I didn’t think very clearly when I left the new hammer on top of the toolbox. When your friend, the detective, visited—the morning after Jonson died—to interview me, I had to move quickly and hide it. I shoved the paper bag under my desk. The other day, my foot kicked it, and I remembered what I'd done. I thought, ‘You’re in a pickle, Anna,’ and had no idea of what to do next. A splendid notion came into my mind—what better place to hide a tool temporarily than on a toolbox?”

Miss A. twisted the fine cotton square in her hands. “Everything has been so confusing and hectic and-and I guess I forgot the hammer was on top of the toolbox.”

God, no words. “I…don't…understand.”

“You don’t, dearie? Looks like you are the dimmest bulb in the store.” She tilted her head. “Shall I explain? It is all so simple—really. I killed Jonson Leggett the Third.”

Oh. My. God. Miss A.—a work colleague I admired, and whom I believed was a friend, and my mentor—killed my sister's ex?

But her dispatching Jonson made no sense.

Concentrating on what was unfolding made my head hurt. I needed to focus on her. “You-you did? You killed J-Jonson? W-why?”

She lifted a shoulder. “What a prick. A slimeball like you said. Repeatedly.”

“Lots”—I swallowed profoundly and rubbed my jaw against my shoulder—“of people…are slimeballs, but most humans don't murder them.”

“True.” Miss A. frowned. “Jonson and I appreciated a different philosophy about marriage. His track record—not on par.”

She propped one hand on her hip in the teapot stance all pre-teen girls learned in deportment classes.

“You and I know his marriage to Barbie wouldn’t have worked out, and she would have divorced him, and down the road, he would have married again. He didn’t value the sanctity at all. A serial groom similar to a serial killer.” She snorted. “Serial groom. Ha-ha. Funny if I do say so myself.”

Miss A. was right. Jonson Leggett the Third only valued himself and sex. The whole world knew of his narcissism. And serial groom—an appropriate appellation.

But is Miss A. a serial killer? Oh my God. This is horrific. I felt my belly roil and not in a good way.

Miss A. bent over and pulled on the knots hobbling my hands to confirm their tightness. Standing, she brushed the dust from her palms. “Jonson’s devil-may-care attitude toward marriage rubbed me funny. He was walking the aisle for the third time. I couldn’t let him. His awful pattern would continue, and it just made me so angry.

“You see, my dear, I know all too well his type. My ex-husband did the same thing. Married six times, he found his final resting place with the Lord.” Miss A. crisscrossed her chest in the fashion devout churchgoers did.

I didn’t know people could be married so many times in our state. I mumbled, “S-six times?”

“Absolutely. Where I lived before, my understanding is there’s no limit to how many marriages. All that’s needed is proof of divorce.”

“Who would want to marry someone after two or three or five times?”

“As I said, you're only partially dim.” Miss A. scuffed the toe of her shoe against the desk leg. “Back to my ex, he had an, oh, let’s say, an accident.”

An “accident”—like Jonson’s? Miss A. posed as a sweet, older woman; yet, inside that façade housed a psycho insane one.

Lordy. Some people were never who you thought they were.

What about me attracts weirdoes?

In my DNA, I must possess one of those syndromes the talk show hosts on television described. Probably the “Be Kind to Everyone” my mother instilled in me with her oft-repeated little lectures.

“It was a long time ago.” Miss A. ran her fingers over her forehead. “I bumped into my former husband at the grocery store, and things got out of hand. I let him seduce me in the back seat of his Cadillac.”

Her mouth shaped a vague faraway smile. She bounced lightly on her toes, flouncing her hankie.

“Ooh, how we tested the springs,” she said. “Such a charmer. Good thing it was nearly dark out.”

The daydreamer look on Miss A.’s face—a pleasing sweet gleam in her eyes and a happy countenance—while she remembered her ex and their, er, affair, made a bilious churn in my stomach creep up the back of my throat. I swallowed multiple times to avoid throwing up. It was the last thing I ever wanted to do.

She waved her hand. “Did you know it rains almost every day in Seattle? But one particular Friday—if I remember correctly—simply glorious.” She clasped her hands to her chest and sighed. “It had been a long while since I had good sex, and my ex-husband performed—well, good, just like the old days.” She assessed a distance with her hands, which looked to be twelve inches.

Ick. Ick. Ick. Did Miss A. just rate the size of her ex-husband’s man-part? I sooo didn’t need to know that.

“Afterwards, I freshened myself with the handkerchief he passed me while he sat in the front seat. He strummed his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. Then he said, ‘Hurry, Anna. God, you’re slow. I’ve got people to see.’ I took ‘people’ to mean ‘other women.’

“Well, dearie, his lack of consideration infuriated me. No way to treat a lady after sex, except maybe a prostitute, and I have no doubt he would have been kinder to her. I was no prostitute. Not a hooker. Not a whore. I am above that. And he cleaned out our bank account, most of which was my money. My money. Mine. I became infuriated.”

“Are you still alive?” She nudged my foot with the toe of her sturdy navy-blue heels. “Where am I?… Oh yes. Thinking about the harsh words he’d spoken made the sting of them grow and grow. A hurt developed in my chest. My brain seized in a white light.”

The corners of her mouth drooped. Furrows as deep as canyons between her brows developed. How in the hell am I getting out of here?

“I went to take my purse”—she showed me how she stretched her hand toward the floor—“and instead of my bag, I, somehow, ended up…with…a hammer, one most likely from the tool kit he deposited on the back-seat floorboard. I guess it fell out.

“I stared and stared at the hammer in my hands. I rolled it in my left, then the right hand. I raised my head when I heard him say, ‘Seriously, Anna. What’s taking so GD long?’ Before I could utter, ‘One Mississippi,’ I hit him on the head.

“Oh my God, the sound—like a hideous clack—nothing else like it. The blood spurted. I-I recoiled. Everything was so shocking. The smell. My mind snapped into another zone. His skin color faded from pink to gray. His eyes shut. His limbs—limp. What happened? What did I do? I had no idea he would die. Then, I noticed the blood. The blood on the hammer, my arm, and the car. Something possessed me to clean. Clean the car's interior. Clean my arm. Clean-clean-clean everything I touched.”

No amount of cleaning could fix her problem.

“With my slip, I wiped my arm and the interior and eased my way out of the back seat. I took the hammer with me, which I disposed of in a pond at a nearby park. I even took his—”

I couldn’t plug my ears so I couldn’t hear—

“—handkerchief, the one I’d used. I held it between my—”

Don’t say teeth. Don’t say teeth. Don’t say teeth—

“—fingernails.” She pinched her fingers.

I could hardly blink. My eyes seemed super-glued to open.

“No one ever figured out what I did… Oh, Lord. The police interviewed me because I was the ex. But they had a lot of other ex-wives to contend with besides me. Later, I reasoned I did the world a great service by ridding humankind of the slick philanderer. I shouldn’t have done what I did with him. Still, a long time had passed since good sex came my way.”

Miss A.’s face glowed with the remembered orgasm. “Lordy. He still had it. All…twelve…inches.”

Again, with THE Number. I wondered about older men and how he got it up without Viagra and thinking of what old-man penises look like. My imagination took me to ugly, bumpy, stumpy sour pickles, like the king-sized ones in white plastic buckets sold at the movies. I shook my head. Gross.

I did not want to know. I did not need to know. I needed to leave Wedding Nightmare-land. I wiggled like a landlocked earthworm.

Miss A. yanked the knots tighter, then turned me over.

Because of the awkward bend to my body, my arms strained in their sockets. My feet grew numb. Her handiwork cut deep ridges in my skin. The pain? All encompassing. I held my eyes shut until the agony passed.

Miss A. straightened. “Those knots should hold you, my dear.” A moment later, she added, “Sorry. I really am, Hattie. You were the best I ever employed. Now, I must go.”

“You’re leaving me…here?”

“I have to, dearie,” Miss A. said. “I don't want the police to catch me. I'm pretty sure a little old lady like me wouldn't do well in prison.” With her gaze fixed on me, she stepped toward the exit.

I wanted to plead, beg, scream, cry, but I couldn’t. I lay on the floor, dumbfounded, knowing my boss had transformed into the classic villain.

Miss A. stepped beyond the threshold and pulled the door to.

Perhaps, regret, caring—who could say, and at this point, who cared—but something made her pause.

“I should phone your friend Jenny and let her know you’ll be late while we catch up with paperwork. Since my car is a direct tie to me, I will take yours—”

No-no-no. My eyes rounded like saucers as I vigorously shook my head. Not my beloved Jeep. “Nononononono—”

“—I’ll get the keys from your handbag.”

Miss A. slipped out of view, then returned, jingling my car keys. “It’s regrettable your sister Tracey was implicated in Jonson’s murder. I went to Super Saver to purchase a new hammer—isn’t it great how that store has everything—and on my way back to my car, Jonson pulled into a parking spot a row ahead of me. I sat in my car, watching, and remembering what you said and how he acted. A young woman passed, and I wondered who was that girl?

“When she stepped closer to Jonson’s car, he reached out the window and grabbed her, pulling her body against the door frame. Her face turned all red like a boiled lobster. She looked scared. What words I heard Jonson say sounded…disgusting. Your sister tried to get away, but he held her tight. Jonson said something, and she socked him with a left jab. He grabbed his head and yelled as she ran away.

“Tracey’s anguish reached me, but what could I do?” Miss A. shook her head. “Jonson went into Super Saver, presumably to clean his wound, and while inside, something possessed me to try his car's back door. Luckily for me, it was unlocked.”

Did Allan check the security tape’s additional footage and see Miss A.?

“I crouched on the floorboard—which was hard for this old gal’s knees.”

She tucked and untucked her bottom lip. “I remembered the newly purchased hammer in my hand. Jonson returned. He reached to start the car. I sat up and hit him in the head. No muss and no fuss would be wrong—blood and brain matter everywhere. I was a mess, and his car was, too.”

Miss A. looked at the imaginary red stuff supposedly coating her palms. “Guess I went a little crazy.”

No shit. Good thing she wasn’t holding a hammer right now.

“You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, Hattie. Simple as that. Toodles.” The storeroom door slammed shut.