Chapter 8

 

I will die bravely, like a bridegroom

 

 

 

Delia wheeled around, and almost lost her beret. She stuck her hand on her head.

His eyebrows were up, and his jaw was set. As he continued to gaze at her, Daniel’s light brown eyes began to narrow. “I know you.”

She used an accent. “Blimey mate, where’s the loo?”

God, was that Australian? I don’t know how to do an Aussie accent!

“It’s out front,” he said, nodding toward the door. His features still looked a little concerned, mouth downturned, his brows wrinkled. “You look familiar to me.”

Delia switched to an accent she was more comfortable using. “Danke. Sprechen Sie Englisch?”

“I’m speaking English. Weren’t you just speaking with an Australian accent?”

She smiled and nodded and then threw out a word she knew by heart, “Bratwurst!” while pushing the beret farther down her forehead.

“Sorry?”

“Auf wiedersehen. Guten tag.” She pulled the beret off her head and waved it at Daniel—in the face to block his view of hers. 

“Jesus,” he let out, and jumped a couple steps backward.

Delia didn’t stop moving. She made for the restaurant’s front, and then went straight out the door.

“Hey …”

It was Ty’s voice but Delia kept moving. She was already buckled into Freddy when he came running out the door behind her. 

Delia rolled down the glass, and a rush of cold air blasted into the interior of the SUV.

“Am I that bad a date that you can’t stay for the drinks?”

“Daniel Curran was in the back room,” she told him, still out of breath. “I was worried he’d followed me.”

Ty turned his dark head and stared at the front of the shop. He had his hands on the window frame. “Well, get a load of this. Miss Geisha in there tried to sell me something stronger than herbs.”

Delia blinked a couple of times. “What, like hard drugs? Weed?”

He dropped his shoulders. “Weed? I said something stronger.”

“Crack? Downers, uppers?”

“No,” he insisted and leaned in. “Antibiotics.”

Delia lowered her chin and stared through her lashes. “You’ve been to prison. I thought you’d know that antibiotics are legal.”

“I’ve been to the local jail, Delia,” he said, frowning. “Not prison. And selling illegal and fake pharmaceuticals is a felony, by the way.” He said by the way with a lot of sarcasm.

She sat up straighter and gripped the steering wheel. “Oh.”

“It’s big business, online pharmacies selling products without a prescription.”

“Ohhh,” she said, letting it sink in. “That’s what they’re doing? Fake drugs.” Delia thought about it for a moment. “That’s bad, right?”

“Yeah. Counterfeit stuff. She takes people’s money and usually hands out a wrong dose or two.”

“How do you know that?”

“I texted Abram while the geisha was busy with another customer.” His dark and unruly hair lifted with the cold wind. “I wanted to buy an herbal supplement, and she got all flirty and asked if I have any trouble with my lungs—as though she knew I don’t breathe deeply or something.”

“You don’t breathe deeply?” Delia asked. 

Why haven’t I noticed that?

“It’s because of the poisoning I told you about. My still-shallow breathing keeps me from dancing as much as I’d like. Chu Hua noticed it.” He tapped the window ledge with two fingers. “Miss Geisha said she has steroid treatments I could take.”

“Steroids?”

“Yes, illegal stuff without a prescription.”

 “Did you buy it?”

“No, I don’t want to be arrested when they bust this place.”

Delia bit her bottom lip. “We need to tell Nicolo.”

“Here’s the thing, Boss, we have no proof. I didn’t buy anything.”

She ran her hand over the bumps on the steering wheel. “Right. He’ll have to set up a sting operation.”

“Good luck with that,” he said, backing away. “Maybe he’ll use you with your pigtails and pink beret. See you tomorrow.”

“Did you pay for our drinks? I’ll Venmo you.”

He turned and walked away, waving his hand over his head.

“Ty, did you pay?” Delia rolled up her window and glanced at the windows to the dining room. Their waitress was heading toward their table.

Delia jammed Freddy into reverse, straightened him, and then hit the gas.

She made it home at record speed but slowed when she pulled into the parking lot. Eddie’s car was there, but Thomi’s wasn’t. Where had the girl slipped off to when escaping earlier? At the time, Delia thought she meant to meet Eddie.

Delia knew Thomi well enough to know her routine. Even now, when they weren’t friends anymore, she knew Thomi’s daily habits. Where would she be at seven in the evening if she wasn’t with Eddie?

At a funeral home, maybe? Arranging for Louie’s memorial service? It’s pretty late in the day for that.

Out of Freddy, she went upstairs—slowly—listening for any doors opening or faint footfalls that meant Eddie was out and roaming the halls.

So his little gang sold illegal steroids and antibiotics? 

Is that really a thing?

She pulled her phone from her purse and asked Google the question, and then opened her front door. 

Orange fur flew at Delia.

She dropped the phone and grabbed Clawdius. “No, you don’t, sir. Not until you’re through with all your meds.” She set him on the kitchen island, shut the door, and bent for her phone.

Clawdius jumped onto her bent spine and jumped off again and flew into the bedroom.

“Still can’t go out,” she called to him, erect again. She gazed at her display. 

There were plenty of articles on the counterfeit drug market. 

Delia fell onto the chair and let her legs dangle from its arms. She pulled up a Wikipedia article and read: illegal prescriptions are punishable by law, but manufacturing drugs carries a heavier fine and imprisonment time.

Delia jumped off the chair.

Actually, she rolled off the chair and fell onto her knees—but then she jumped to her feet. Suppose Chu Hua and Daniel—and therefore Eddie—were manufacturing drugs. In that case, that might be a way for Nicolo to investigate them … and that might lead to him figuring out that Eddie was a killer, as well as Chu Hua and Daniel. 

Delia paced while texting Nicolo: Chu Hua tried to sell Ty counterfeit drugs this evening. A steroid. Maybe that’s something you can look into…?

Setting the phone on the island, Delia went into the kitchen and raided the freezer. 

Her cellphone buzzed. She hadn’t turned it off of vibrate yet. Grabbing it, Delia was sure it was Nicolo Montague, but then she saw the display: Lily.

Delia’s stomach dropped. Had something happened to her father? Her sister never called. “Lily?”

“Sister dear,” she said with a light tone.

Everything is fine. Lily’s voice says so. 

“Where have you been all evening? I stopped by your apartment.”

“You did?” Delia asked, pulling the phone away and staring at the screen as if she hadn’t heard right. With the phone back against her ear, she said, “I didn’t know you knew where I lived.”

“Of course, I know where you live. You’re my sister.”

“You’ve never been here.”

“Okay, I looked up your address. It’s not difficult.”

“Is everything okay?” she asked, walking back into the living room and sitting on the coffee table.

“Everything’s fine. Can’t I just call my little sister?”

“Um, you never have …”

“Dad’s going to come live with me.”

Delia stood again. “What? Why? Does he want to live with you?”

 Her sister made a tching sound on the other end of the line. “Of course, he wants to live with me. He’s better now, Delia. Let’s stop paying for that nursing home when he can live here.”

Now it made sense. Lily didn’t want any more of their father’s money going to his healthcare.

“He’s going to live in your house?”

“Well, he can’t live in yours, can he? What, are there four-hundred square feet?”

“That’s surprisingly accurate.”

“Then, it’s settled. Brian and I have fixed up the third bedroom. David leaves for college next August, so there will only be a little time that it might feel cramped here.”

“Why can’t he go live with Olivia, then? She’s in his house, after all, and it’s a lot bigger than yours.”

“Because Olivia doesn’t want him to live with her, Delia. You know our dear sister. She barely manages to keep her own children fed. She’s not going to help Dad.”

Delia bit her lip, and then asked, “What about his medications? Are you going to make sure he takes them?”

“I can give him a pill, Delia. For goodness sake. And, I’m going to keep an eye on him. He likes to wander. He was at his lawyer’s office the other day. Did you know that?”

Delia sat on the coffee table again. “He wanted me to take him there the other night, but it was way too late.”

“He needs someone to watch him.”

“That’s what the assisted living is for, you know?”

“It’s settled. Dad agreed to come live with me. It’s done.”

“I’ll want to visit him,” she said, straightening her spine.

“Come anytime you like. I’m buying him a cell phone, too, so I’ll make sure you get the number.”

“Alright. That’s good,” Delia said, trying to convince herself. “I’ll visit him once a week, just as always.”

“You’re welcome here anytime.” Lily’s voice had changed. She almost sounded sincere. 

Which is totally shady!

“Alright, Delia. Goodbye. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.” And then she was gone. 

Delia stared at the screen for a moment and then set it on the kitchen island.

I wish I could bring Dad here.

 No, what she really wished was that Lily would leave their father in the nursing home.

Delia gazed around her tiny apartment, the galley kitchen with twinkle lights along the pot rack and the little fridge and stove. The living room was stuffed with the loveseat, coffee table, and chair. Greenery hung here and there, Boston ferns and spider plants. 

The deal-breaker in Delia’s apartment was that it was only one bedroom. Her little sleeping area was only big enough for a twin-size bed and bookshelves—and more plants, of course. And, there was the fact that her father’s wheelchair couldn’t make it up the three and a half flights of stairs.

Lily does have a much bigger place.

And, Lily didn’t have a large bag of shredded paper in her living room either.

Delia pulled open the top of the plastic. She hadn’t had much time for this little side project. Lifting the top shredded pieces, she set them gently on the table. Each shred was a long piece of paper. “Why, Eddie,” she admonished. “You’ve been cheap. Your shredder is useless.” Delia could see the writing on the first sides of the shred. Moving to the kitchen, she grabbed a thermos of water and returned to the table—ready for a sorting session.

Most of the shredded pieces appeared to be bills or invoices with a lot of numbers and totals—but then Delia’s eyes landed on something handwritten—and it wasn’t shredded. The card paper had been torn into twenty or thirty pieces.

Which means a lot of emotions were put into ripping the thing apart.

And the handwriting was dark and scribbly, almost unreadable.

Then Clawdius jumped on the table and scattered the few pieces that Delia had managed to put together.

She began again, though it was after nine o’clock and she still needed to lay out her things for tomorrow—for Juliet and Paris’ wedding.

Delia thought about this as she reached for pieces of paper beneath the table. She’d already put the iced cake layers in the walk-in refrigerator. Bogart was the designated van driver and Delia would sit in back with the cake. Becca would be in the back as well. King Lears would shut down at noon …

Delia set the papers on the table again and put the shreds together. She needed tape.

Off her knees, she went into the hallway and pulled out scotch tape from a drawer in the little table. She returned to the coffee table—but then stopped. From the angle where she stood, she could read some of the torn bits: a relationship. Well, the p was missing, but those were the words: a relationship.

Delia dug deeper into the bag and found several more card stock bits. None of them fit together well, until she found: I want.

I want a relationship?

 

* * *

 

Becca and Delia sat on either side of the wedding cake in the back of the van. They held out their hands to protect it without actually touching the frosting—just in case Captain Kangaroo Bogart hit another pothole.

“Slow down,” Becca shouted to him. “This isn’t a lunch order.”

“I think we should pretend it is so we can all stop FREAKING OUT ABOUT IT!” Bogart’s dark eyes glared at them in the review mirror. 

“I don’t have that big of an imagination,” Delia told him. She was still in her black jeans and brown and white gingham shirt—actually, all of them were—so that they could transport the cake into the church fellowship hall. Delia had brought along her blue floral skirt and pale blue blouse to change into for the ceremony. “I wonder how Juliet is doing right now? I’d be a basket case if I was just about to walk down the aisle.”

Becca nodded. She still wore a paper hat on her straight brown hair. “I bet she’s had every minute of this planned out long ago.”

Bogart said over his shoulder, “I’ll bet Paris doesn’t even know what time the wedding starts. He’s probably playing golf or out yachting.”

Delia shook her head. “He would never. He’s too perfect to do something like that.”

Becca’s body jostled lightly with the motion of the van. “Is Ty actually going to be in the wedding? Is he a groomsman? Or a bridesmaid …?”

“He’s wearing tails, so I imagine he’s a groomsman.”

“Oh my goodness,” Becca said. “This I gotta see.”

Delia nodded. “He said he’d help serve and clean up once he changes out of the suit, but I told him to forget it and have fun. He and Juliet are close.”

“He’s not much for cleaning up,” Bogart said. “He left a big bag of trash on the metal table in the kitchen.”

“No, that was me,” Delia confessed. “I brought it from home. It’s the bag the cleaning lady threw at me the other night.”

“The one you stole, you mean?” Bogart asked.

Becca wrinkled her nose. “She didn’t steal anything.”

“Oh really? I think that makes you complicit in this unchecked trash theft.”

“Whatever,” Becca told him and then gazed at Delia again. “Why are you carrying the bag around?”

“I’m not exactly carrying it around. I just don’t have enough room in my apartment to pour it all over the place.” She leaned forward as though to tell a secret. “I pieced something together last night.” She pulled the heavy paper out of her jean pocket and held it up for Becca to see.

“What does that say?”

“I want a relationship.”

“Are you sure? It’s tough to read.”

“No,” Delia said, turning it over in her hand. “It’s messy handwriting, too. Almost like a child wrote it.”

“Does Thomi write like that?”

“No, she has beautiful penmanship.”

Bogart stared at the road. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone say the word penmanship in a sentence.”

“So, whoever this is, wants a relationship with Eddie,” she continued, staring at the writing. “Thomi might find this interesting.”

“But probably not. Obviously, Eddie threw the note in the trash,” Bogart said. “He doesn’t want a relationship with whoever wrote the note.”

“Right,” she said, feeling a little disappointed and sticking the note back into her pocket. “How did your speed dating go last night?”

“I didn’t like anyone,” Bogart said, shaking his head. “They were all boring. All I want is a relationship and beautiful penmanship.”

“I want money,” Becca admitted. “And a six-foot-three boyfriend.”

Delia said, with a note of wistfulness in her tone, “I’ve always wanted to have Gisele Bundchen’s hair … and a neighbor who owns an ice cream truck.” She nodded at the thought. “Recently, I’d like to have some skill with a ninja throwing star.”

Bogart slowed the van to thirty when they reached Verona’s Vineyard. The place was built to look like a town in Italy, or maybe France. The main boulevard wound through medieval architecture filled with shops, bars, and restaurants. The place was a tourist trap during spring and summer, but most visitors headed off to the mountains for skiing or leaf-peeping during the cooler months.

It was likely the reason Juliet and Paris chose late October for the wedding. The guests wouldn’t need to fight for parking spots along the cobblestone streets.

“Pull in there,” Delia told Bogart, pointing to the driveway that led to St. Mary’s Church. Ornamental trees stood on either side of the pathway, and dropped flowers floated in the breeze caused by the van’s tires. The parking lot was in the back of the church, and on the north side of the building was a half-acre garden with a gardener’s cottage.

“I think I could just live in that little cottage year-round,” Becca said, watching the view from the van window.

Bogart pulled himself forward on the steering wheel. “Look at those wooden doors on the church. They must be eighteen feet tall.”

St. Mary’s stood three stories high. Two bell towers flanked the main church, and the bells rang out twelve times for noon.

Bogart pulled into a space and shut off the engine. He turned in his seat and grinned at them. “This is like a royal wedding.”

“I know, I’m so excited,” Delia said. “But first, let’s get the cake inside. Then I can relax.”

Out of the van, the three balanced the cake and made their way into the fellowship hall.

“Wow,” Becca said, setting her side of the cake down on the designated platform, her eyes taking in the room.

The three thousand square foot hall had seventy or eighty tables scattered throughout, and all were covered with white brocade tablecloths. Eight chairs surrounded each table, and even those were covered in white cloth with elegant ribbons on the back of every one of them.

The centerpieces were made of crystal with tiny candles and sprays of white flowers branching out on every side. Thousands and thousands of twinkle lights dangled from the ceiling.

That’s when an avalanche of dread fell over Delia. “Is the cake good enough?”

Becca grabbed her arm. “Of course it is. It’s gorgeous. You’ll need to finish up, but it’s stunning.”

Delia had made it six layers, with the base of the cake measuring twelve inches. She’d added two-layer cakes on each side of the large one. Now it was time to add the gold beadwork to resemble split amber stone. Delia had hand-decorated the bottom layer. The second layer was already finished with marbleized fondant, and the rest of the tiers were white-racked buttercream with free-hand gold leaf flowers.

“Don’t you think it’s too simple?”

Bogart said, “Juliet chose you for a reason, Delia. She approved the design.”

“I know. I just … I don’t want to let her down.”

“There is no way she’ll hate this cake,” Bogart said, opening the lid of a large plastic container that held the decorating supplies.

So, they set to work. Delia didn’t look up until someone stood beside her who smelled subtly of citrus, hyacinth, and clove. She turned.

Juliet smiled and then embraced Delia. “My dear friend, you have made the most beautiful cake in the world.”

Her words rushed through Delia like a cleansing waterfall. She stood away from Juliet but kept one hand on the girl’s slender forearm. “Do you really think so?”

She nodded. Juliet’s dark curly hair had been tamed into a loose bun, and tiny white flowers had been scattered throughout it. Winding tendrils fell on either side of her heart-shaped face. The girl’s amber-colored eyes were as bright and liquid-like as a shot of Kahlua on fire.

“You look so beautiful, Juliet.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said with a grin. She was in white, but not the bridal dress. This one was a simple shift that fell to her knees.

“I’ve been thinking about you all morning. How do you feel?”

“My stomach is in knots.”

“So dump him and marry me,” Bogart told her, coming around the other side of the cake. “I know I’m gay, but you’re just too fabulous to pass up.”

“I’m not scared to marry Paris. It’s just …” She waved her hand at the hall. “I’m not really one to stand in front of people.”

“You’ll have Paris on your arm,” Delia reminded her.

“Yes. He is steady as steel.”

“Where is he?” Bogart wanted to know, picking up the plastic container again and setting several tools inside of it.

“I haven’t seen him since last night. I think he was playing golf this morning.”

“I told you!” Bogart said, waving one hand at Delia.

Just then, the hall doors opened, and several people came into the room carrying hot plates and bags of food. Right behind them was a tiny woman shouting something in Italian.

“Oh no,” Juliet said. “I’d better go save the caterers from Nonna.”

* * *

The wedding began at two-thirty, and Delia, Becca, and Bogart sat in one of the side rows of the church. It looked as though every pew was filled with guests, all dressed formally for the occasion and for the reception that would probably go well into the evening. 

The sanctuary was already beautiful, before the enormous floral pew decorations and white birch trees on the platform. Hanging on the walls, between the stained glass windows, were fading tapestries. Many of them looked a hundred years old, maybe more.

A door opened on the right side of the room. Paris led his groomsmen to the front of the platform. 

That golf game looks GOOD on him.

He’d swept his wavy dark hair to the side of his broad face. Even from where Delia sat, she could see his dark lashes and flashing green eyes. Paris was at least six-three—which was so unnecessary since Juliet was only about five-four. 

If someone could bundle up the rest of him and send him my way. Well, that would be great.

The bridesmaids began to float down the aisle in golden halter dresses.

And then the music changed.

Everyone got to their feet.

Delia held her breath. 

There was Juliet at the door with her father. 

Oh my… her dress!

It was airy and princess-cut, with lace leaves falling over the halter top and then down around her waist. The skirt and the train were made of gorgeous white tulle.

Delia glanced at Paris again.

There is that look of love.

His eyes gazed at Juliet with such softness. His cupid-bow lips parted as though he was thinking: Wow!

Delia’s internal monologue throughout the ceremony was just one long, unbroken awwwww.

 

* * *

The reception was in full swing by the time Delia changed back into her uniform. The hall smelled of oregano and basil from the Italian meatballs in the center of a serving table. On either side were trays and trays of vegetables and cheeses of every sort. 

And pasta! 

The main dish was fish—but it was the most delicate filet with white sauce and pink onion petals laced on top.

This is a royal wedding for sure.

Delia focused on the cake then. It did look stunning with accent lighting trained on it. Oh, the relief she felt, now that it was all done. She knew it tasted delicious, too, because she’d sampled every element of it before putting the cake together. 

Now I can focus on Christmas treats … and proving Eddie Chester is the antichrist.

Right on cue, Eddie walked into the fellowship hall.