Murder on the Bride's Side (10 page)

“Really?” I couldn’t resist, so added, “I confess, every time I see Ashley, I never think of polite, well-mannered children with any abhorrence.”

Before Chloe could respond, Mr. Keys, the photographer, anxiously clapped his hands to get our attention. “I need the bride’s family now!” he called.

I focused on him rather than on Chloe’s obvious ploy to demonstrate to everyone within earshot that she was quite ready to be a mother to Peter’s children. Everything about Mr. Keys was round. He had round, wire-rimmed glasses, a round, soft-looking body, a round, pink mouth, and a round balding head. In his right hand, he clutched one of those large white linen handkerchiefs that were popular in the early 1900s. Peering thoughtfully at our group, he alternately coughed into the handkerchief and mopped his head with it. Peer, cough, mop. Peer, cough, mop. We stood patiently while he did this. Mr. Keys might be eccentric, but he was also talented. Finally, a gleam of inspiration replaced the peering. The coughing and mopping stopped and he methodically arranged us according to some unknown master plan. In the midst of the shuffling, Avery called out, “Wait! Where’s Megan?” We looked around, and realizing that she wasn’t nearby, began to call her name. Within seconds she appeared from the terrace, flushed and apologetic.

“Sorry, I was just listening to the band,” she said. “They’re really good.”

As Mr. Keys crankily reshuffled the rest of us to create a spot
for Megan, Roni eyed her daughter critically. “Megan,” said Roni, “is that the dress you wore to the church?”

Megan glanced warily down at her outfit before answering. The full-skirted silk dress of midnight blue was sophisticated and flattering. She looked lovely. Still, Megan tensed. “Yes,” she finally said suspiciously. “Why?”

With a perplexed expression, Roni shook her head. “Where did you get it?”

Megan threw her head back and stared defiantly at Roni. “I bought it.”

Roni’s winged eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch. “Really?” Her eyes flickered disparagingly at the dress. As she turned to face Mr. Keys, I heard her add under her breath, “From whom? Omar the tentmaker?” I wasn’t the only one who heard the vicious remark. Megan bit her lip and looked away. Behind me I heard a sharp intake of breath, while another low voice muttered, “That bitch.” The camera flashed just then, forever capturing the moment: Roni smiling obliviously, Megan’s head ducked in embarrassment, Harry’s mouth a hard, thin line of anger, Elsie’s eyes narrowed and focused on Roni, and Avery with his eyes closed. Around them, everyone else wore bright, painfully artificial smiles. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. This one was worth twice that.

By eight o’clock the reception was in full swing. The band, abandoning its earlier serene melodies, was now blasting out “Mack the Knife.” Guests packed the dance floor and gyrated in inverse proportion to their skill level. The air was filled with the smell of muted sweat underneath expensive perfume.
Peter and I briefly joined the fray, but the onslaught of flailing arms and sharp elbows proved too much for us. After a particularly painful jab to my upper arm, I gave up. Deftly avoiding a twirling woman in a fuchsia dress, Peter led me off the dance floor and toward one of the refreshment tents. After getting me a glass of wine and a beer for himself, Peter shifted uneasily on his feet. “Elizabeth?” he said. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

My stomach flipped sickeningly and my body temperature instantly rose ten degrees. This is it, I thought. He’s going to tell me about Chloe. I had refused to bring up the matter myself with the knowledge that to do so would only make me appear petty and jealous. I had been down this road too many times before and had finally learned my lesson. I would stay calm and cool. I would be—to coin a phrase—mistress of myself.

Taking a deep breath, I put my wineglass down before my shaking hands spilled it down my dress and looked at him. However, his next words were interrupted by the arrival of Harry. As he saw us, Harry’s face split into a lopsided grin.

“How come you two aren’t dancing?” he asked.

“I forgot to bring my body armor,” I said, rubbing my still-tender arm.

“Well, it’s a take-no-prisoners kind of crowd. We Southerners take our dancing very seriously,” he replied.

“I notice
you’re
not out there,” I said pointedly.

Harry took a sip of his beer before answering. “We Southerners also take our drinking very seriously.”

“No point in spreading yourself too thin,” said Peter with mock seriousness.

“Exactly.” Harry nodded, clinking his beer bottle against Peter’s.

I rolled my eyes. A woman in a powder-blue linen suit moved past Harry and then stopped and looked up at him. “Hello, Harry,” she said quietly.

At the sound of her voice, Harry whirled around and stared down at her. She was a plump woman in her late fifties with chestnut brown hair, light green eyes, and an open, kind face. When he saw her, Harry’s demeanor changed. The sardonic façade vanished, his mouth lost its ironic twist, and the mocking glint faded from his eyes. Without a word he wrapped his long arms around the woman and enveloped her in a giant bear hug.

“Julia!” he said, once he had released her. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, kiddo. I saw you in town today, but I guess you didn’t see me.”

“Really?” said Harry flushing, “I don’t think I—”

“Don’t worry about it. You were in a rush, no doubt getting ready for the wedding. How are you? Have you lost weight? You look tired,” she said, giving him a motherly pat on the cheek.

“Really? Shoot. I thought I looked debonair. Oh, well. Story of my life.” Turning back to Peter and me, he said, “Elizabeth? You remember Julia, don’t you?”

I smiled and extended my hand. “Hi, Julia. I’m Elizabeth Parker, Bridget’s friend . . .”

Julia smiled and took my hand. “Of course, I remember you, Elizabeth. It’s lovely to see you again. I was so sorry to hear about your father’s passing. How is your mother doing?”

“She’s fine, thanks. She’s actually dating someone now,” I said.

“Really?” Julia said. Julia worked as a family therapist. Something in my voice must have aroused her professional instinct. With a slight tilt of her head, she asked, “How do you feel about that?”

My mother is an English professor with a passion for Victorian literature. Her boyfriend, George, is a man heavy on the brawn and light on the brains, who labors under the illusion that George Eliot was really a man. He’s a nice enough guy, but as Dorothy Parker once said about someone, “His ignorance was an Empire State Building of ignorance. You had to admire it for its size.”

I waved my hands, at a loss for words. “Whatever makes her happy, I guess,” I said finally.

“Loss is hard. It’s a good sign that she’s moving on,” Julia replied.

There was a hint of sadness in Julia’s voice as she said this, and I was sharply reminded that Julia had had her own share of loss. Her daughter, Becky, had died tragically some years back.

Becky was Julia’s only child. As kids, Harry, Bridget, and I played with her, although she and Harry were the closest. Becky’s father, Tom, was an alcoholic who took his anger at his own failings out on his wife and child. I’m not sure when Becky started using drugs and alcohol to numb the demons that plagued her, but by her eighteenth birthday, she had a serious problem. After being told that she was a worthless waste of space almost daily by her father, it was hard for Becky not to believe that on some level it was true. Julia did everything she could to help her daughter, but nothing worked. After attending a party one night, Becky showed up at Harry’s bedroom
window, high and drunk. Harry wanted to take her home, but she begged Harry to let her sleep in his room, saying that if her parents saw her in her current condition, her father would kill her. Harry relented and snuck her into his room. But Becky was drunker than Harry realized, and sometime during the night, she slipped into a coma. She never came out of it and died two days later. Julia was devastated.

Julia’s eyes now slid to Peter, and I quickly introduced them. From there we all fell into easy conversation. Harry was regaling Julia with exaggerated stories of his past exploits when raised voices to our left caught our attention. Not ten feet from us stood Roni and Megan. Megan’s back was to us; Roni’s was not. Her artfully made-up face contorted in anger, she leaned in close to Megan, her face mere centimeters away, and gripped Megan’s arm with such force that her nails made angry red marks. Roni’s next words floated clearly to our ears. “I’m not going to tell you again,” she hissed. “You’re making a fool of yourself out there. Stop gawking at the boys in the band. They are not interested in you, nor are they likely to ever be. Men are not interested in obvious girls. Especially obvious
overweight
girls.”

Megan yanked her arm free of her mother’s grip. “I hate you!” she spat out before whirling around and pushing blindly past us.

Roni took a half step in Megan’s direction, then seemed to rethink the move. Instead, she pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and walked off in the opposite direction.

Julia’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “She’s just—”

“A real bitch,” finished Harry succinctly. Julia raised confused eyes to his but said no more. “I’ll go after her,” Harry said.

“No,” I said suddenly. “Let me go. She’ll be even more embarrassed talking to you about it.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asked.

“Yes. Peter, I’ll be back in a little bit.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll wait for you here.”

The band launched into the first few chords of “I Could Write a Book.” As I turned back to wave good-bye to Peter, I saw Harry offer his arm to Julia. “How about a dance, Julia?”

Taking his arm, she walked silently away with him. When they were well out of earshot, they turned toward each other and began to talk, earnestly and passionately.

It didn’t take me long to find Megan. She was in the summerhouse, the little cottagelike structure that sat on the edge of Elsie’s property. Marianne Dashwood would have found it sadly defective. The building was regular, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles. It was used mainly to store boating supplies, but there were a few chairs and a cot, as well. Bridget and I had used it as a place to sneak cigarettes when we were younger.

Megan was sitting with her back to me, her shoulders hunched. On the floor next to her, I saw a beer bottle. I considered saying something about it but dismissed the idea. When I was seventeen, I’d snuck a few beers myself now and again. Megan’s rebellious behavior was the least of her worries. “Megan?” I said softly. “Are you okay?”

She nodded her head but didn’t turn around. “I’ll be fine,” she answered in a choked voice.

I pulled up one of the folding chairs and sat down next to her. She kept her head averted.

“Megan, I don’t want to sound like a cliché, but, trust me, it does get better.”

“The only way it will get better will be if she drops dead,” she said bitterly.

“I know how you feel. I really do. Being a teenager is hard enough, and when you don’t look like a Barbie doll, it’s all the worse. When I was your age, I had to wear these horribly thick glasses, I had a retainer, and looked like I was in training to become a sumo wrestler.”

She looked at me, her eyes red and puffy. “You’re just saying that. I can’t believe you were ever fat.”

“My nickname was Cocoa Puff because I ate that stupid cereal day and night.”

“Really? You’re not kidding?”

“Nope.”

She looked down again. “Well, that may be so, but I bet you didn’t have a mom who made you feel worthless. You should have heard her tonight. She actually compared me to that stick woman, Chloe, saying that’s the kind of figure I have to have if I ever want a boyfriend. She wouldn’t shut up about her. I bet your mom never did anything like that to you.”

My dislike of Chloe only increased at the news that Roni liked her. Viewed in a certain light, however, they did seem a perfect match. Unbidden, Austen’s words came to mind, “There was a kind of coldhearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually
attracted them; and they sympathized with each other in an insipid propriety of demeanor, and a general want of understanding.” Maybe I
had
been immersing myself in
Sense and Sensibility
a tad too much lately. “No, you’re right,” I admitted, after a moment. “My mom never made me feel worthless.” I gave a little laugh. “The creeps I dated in high school did that.”

Megan sighed. “She won’t even
let
me date, so I wouldn’t know about that.” Shaking her head, she continued. “You know, if it weren’t for Harry, I don’t know what I’d do. He’s been so nice to me. Did you know he takes me out almost every weekend?” she asked me with a small smile. “We go to the movies or to lunch—basically any place that’s out of the house. I mean, Avery is great, too, and it really meant a lot to me when he officially adopted me last year, but he’s so infatuated with
her
that he can’t see what she’s
really
like.”

“I’m sorry, Megan. I won’t pretend that this isn’t hellish for you right now. All I’m trying to say is that there
is
life after your teen years. And there will be life after your mother. You’re a smart, nice girl. You’ll go off to college next year and start a new life and you’ll see. It gets better.”

She sighed and stared at her lap. “I guess it has to, right? But still, there are times when I really wish she would just disappear.”

“I know.” I put my arms around her and hugged her. From what I could see, Megan wasn’t the only one who held that sentiment.

I left Megan shortly after. She wanted to stay at the summerhouse a while longer. It was hard to see Megan so miserable. I
just hoped that she’d heard me when I said that it gets better. But when you’re a teenager, it’s hard to see beyond next week.

As I walked back, I saw Elsie standing at one of the tables. With a furtive glance around, she pulled something small out of the pocket of her peacock blue silk gown. Looking around one last time, she reached down and opened a bright pink clutch purse on the table and dropped whatever it was she was holding inside. Closing the purse again, she turned my way. When she saw me, surprise registered on her face, and she made her way over.