Murder on the Bride's Side (2 page)

A gentle sigh escaped from Blythe as she surveyed her daughter from head to toe. “You look lovely, Bridgie,” she said, with a slight catch in her voice. Thankfully, she made no mention of Bridget’s short spiky hair—a constant source of irritation for the conservative Mrs. Matthews. Bridget herself had made some concessions in deference to the occasion, by toning down the color from near magenta to a more sedate red.

“You look beautiful, Bridge,” I agreed. “Colin is going to flip when he sees you.”

“He most certainly will,” agreed Elsie, with a firm nod that sent the elaborate upsweep of her silver hair teetering precariously to one side and then the other before coming to a halt only millimeters from where it had started. “As my father would say, you look monstrously pretty. Colin is a lucky man. And speaking of Colin, has your mother told you everything you need to know?”

“About what?” Bridget answered absently, still twirling happily in front of the mirror.

“About your wedding night, dear. About sex.”

Bridget’s eyes blinked in surprise and a color not unlike her hair seeped over her cheeks. “Um, yeah, Elsie,” she mumbled. “I think I know everything.”

“Oh, I’m sure you know the
basics
, like what goes where. I’m talking about satisfaction.”

“Elsie!” Blythe yelped, her eyes growing wide over the rims of her half-moon glasses. Although Blythe had served for twenty-odd years as the headmistress of a local boarding school, and had no doubt been exposed to her fair share of explicit girl talk, Elsie nevertheless always took her by surprise. Elsie had that effect on a lot of people.

“What?” Elsie replied blandly. “You know perfectly well that men can be a bit, well,
selfish
in that department. You have to show them. That’s why I brought you this, dear. I always found it most helpful.” She reached into her ever-present hounds-tooth handbag and pulled out a well-worn book. The graphic sketch of the couple on the cover gave no doubt as to its contents. Elsie fingered the frayed binding almost reverently. “This book was a blessing for Walter and me,” she said with a wistful sigh. “God, I miss that man.”

“I’m going to try on my dress now,” I said, diving into one of the empty dressing rooms. Bridget caught my eye in the mirror and mouthed the word
coward
. I nodded in full agreement before shutting the dressing room door tightly behind me.

I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against the cool wood of the heavy door. When Colin proposed to Bridget last New Year’s Eve, no one was happier than I. But now, eight months later, I felt on the verge of a nervous breakdown. From the moment they announced their engagement, there had been a nonstop whirlwind of activity. As maid of honor, I wasn’t at the center of the storm, mind you. That spot was reserved for Bridget and Colin. No, I was off to the side, where, as any
meteorologist will tell you, the real brunt of the tempest lies. I’d attended engagement parties, engagement teas, and engagement brunches. I’d participated in endless earnest discussions about china place settings versus the everyday kind. I’d tried (stupidly) to referee numerous conflicts between Blythe and Bridget. The wedding was tomorrow and rather than experiencing the proverbial calm before the storm, we’d increased our frantic pace.

To make matters worse, if that was even possible, as maid of honor I was expected to give the toast at the rehearsal dinner. An actual toast, made in public and in front of actual people. That fact alone loomed over me like an executioner’s ax. I love Bridget and Colin dearly, but my skills at public speaking are second only to my skills as a sumo wrestler. Glancing at my watch, I saw that I had six hours to go. My insides promptly transformed to hot goo and I fancied I heard that weirdly German/mechanical voice from the James Bond movies intone, “Six hours and
counting
.”

As a result of all this stress, my once-vanquished vices were sniffing around me like long-forgotten friends. I was overeating and seriously considering taking up smoking. Not start smoking
again
—just start, period. It had been that kind of a month. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve known Bridget and the Matthews family for most of my life and I consider them an extension of my own family. Which is why, I suppose, they have the ability to drive me so absolutely batty. Only family can worm its way under your skin like that.

I glanced longingly at my canvas tote bag, where I had stashed my copy of
Sense and Sensibility.
Some people turn to spas for
stress relief, others to holistic herbal remedies. Not me. Let me curl up with a Jane Austen novel and I’m good to go. Bridget had once accused me of using the novels as a kind of security blanket. She was absolutely right. Among other reasons, Austen’s books are populated with eccentric, trying individuals. When your favorite heroine has to deal with such characters, it can make your own daily encounters a little easier to bear.

Normally,
Pride and Prejudice
was my go-to book in times of distress, but lately I’d been rereading
Sense and Sensibility
(and watching the DVD). There was something reassuring about Elinor Dashwood’s almost transcendental calm in the face of chaos; in an odd way it gave me hope. Especially in light of the new tactic I’d adopted for myself over the last few months—one of restraint and control. Too often in the past I’d let my emotions get the better of me. The results were never pretty. But no more; I was determined finally to acquire an inner strength. And if that meant I had to squelch every last one of my natural reactions, then so be it.

With more than a little apprehension, I shrugged out of my red polo dress and into the pale yellow gown. Cautiously, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror.

I’ve been told that I resemble a young Audrey Hepburn. Granted, it was only the
one
time and was said by my great-aunt Mitzie—who was not only tremendously fond of her Baileys Irish Cream but also in dire need of cataract surgery. Still, it
was
said and so I count it.

What the rest of the world sees is far less glamorous. I’m five foot seven, 125 pounds (usually), with shoulder-length brown hair, and have been told that I have the map of Ireland stamped
on my face. This is a polite way of saying that I’m pale and freckled. As a kid I used to wish that my freckles would merge together—then at least I’d have a semblance of a tan. Now I just hoped they didn’t look like premature age spots.

I shifted my attention from my complexion to the actual fit of the dress. I’ve never had much luck with wedding attendant dresses. Their main goal seems to be to make the bride look good by comparison. The worst one was for my friend Violet Mitchell’s wedding. She had insisted that all the bridesmaids wear—you guessed it—violet dresses. I looked like an ailing grape. The guy I’d been seeing at the time broke up with me shortly after that. I still think it had something to do with the dress. But, as I studied my reflection with a critical eye, I allowed that this one was different. Its basic design was similar to Bridget’s, and with its high waist and sleek lines it disguised not only those areas of my body that were underdeveloped but those that were overdeveloped as well. Better still, as her only attendant (Bridget having adamantly stated that she did not want to be preceded down the aisle by a Stepfordesque chorus line), I did not have to compete with other figures in an identical dress.

As I tentatively craned my neck to check the dreaded rear view, I decided that not only was the dress a far cry from my last wedding, but so was my date. The thought of Peter McGowan brought a warm flush to my checks. It still took me by surprise that we were dating. I’d known him as a kid, but it hadn’t been a pleasant experience. In fact, for years I put him in the same category as clowns, intimidating grade school teachers, and other nightmares of youth. A series of bizarre events last New Year’s (which included two murders and an insufferable cat)
had thrown us together again. Since then, Peter had been atoning for his obnoxious past, and I spent a lot of time keeping my fingers crossed that nothing would happen to ruin everything. My dating track record would make the most hardened of bookies seek out Gamblers Anonymous. Things had been bumpy lately due to my immersion in wedding duties and Peter’s immersion in his work, but I told myself that once this wedding was over things would get back to normal.

My reverie was interrupted by an impatient call from Bridget to come out and show everyone the dress. I pushed open the door to my dressing room and stepped out.

“You look very pretty, Elizabeth,” said Elsie matter-of-factly.

“You do look lovely,” Blythe agreed, adding, “You’re more of an Irish rose than ever. That dress is the perfect color for you. It looks wonderful with your dark hair and it really livens up your complexion.”

I had smiled, a polite thank-you hovering on my lips, when Bridget shot me a knowing grin. “Oh, I don’t think the dress is responsible for her coloring.”

Almost before I knew what I was doing, I found myself parroting, “Well, whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them.”

Bridget immediately retorted with, “I never had any conjectures about it, it was you who told me of it yourself.” Maybe I
had
been watching the DVD a tad too much back at the apartment Bridget and I shared.

Our brief exchange, however, was enough to excite Elsie’s interest. “Oh? Then what
is
the reason?” she asked, instantly on the alert. “Now don’t shake your head at me, Elizabeth. There’s
no point trying to hide anything from me,” she teased, wagging her finger at me. “I’ll get it out of you one way or another!”

In addition to considering herself entitled to know the intimate secrets of everyone around her—related or not—Elsie fancies herself a skilled matchmaker. What others think of her efforts in this area is far less complimentary. While “infernal, meddling bull in a china shop” is not the most frequently used expression to describe her, it is the least profane.

I gave a shudder at the thought of what Elsie would do should she realize the extent of my feelings for Peter. It would not be enough for her to know that we were dating. She would not be satisfied until Peter had proposed, preferably while she stood behind him, beaming proudly. I turned agonized eyes toward Bridget. She seemed to belatedly realize the inherent danger in exciting Elsie’s matchmaking inclinations and now tried to defuse the situation. “Don’t get yourself all worked up, Elsie. There’s no secret,” she said quickly. “I was only teasing Elizabeth about her boyfriend, Peter. And he’s already crazy about her, so there’s no need for your interference!”

“Interference! Of all the silly ideas!” Elsie protested. Tapping her chin thoughtfully, she then ruined this sentiment by adding, “Still, it would be romantic for your best friend to get engaged at your wedding, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t,” said Bridget. “As a matter of fact, if you
really
want to know what I think—”

“Oh, Peter’s such a nice young man,” Blythe interrupted, trying to steer the conversation away from Bridget’s thoughts, which no doubt contained various obscenities. “He’s coming tonight for the rehearsal dinner, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” I said. “His flight gets in at six.” Peter had recently joined his parents’ hotel business. He’d just helped them open a hotel in Los Angeles and was due back tonight. I hadn’t seen him for three endless weeks. Up until a few moments ago, I’d been anxiously counting the minutes until he arrived. Now, seeing the calculating look on Elsie’s face, I began to rethink that excitement.

“Bridget,” said Elsie with a knowing smile, “pass the book on to Elizabeth when you’re done with it. Leave everything to me and I guarantee that she’ll be needing that book for her own wedding night—and before too long!”

Bridget rolled her eyes in defeat and tossed me the book. It flew past my outstretched hand and landed—open—on the carpeted floor. I won’t say what the couple in the book was doing, but the caption of their activity was “Happy Death.” Bridget and I dissolved into a loud fit of giggles. After a moment of shocked silence, Blythe gave up and began laughing, too. Only Elsie didn’t join in. Cocking her head, she stared down at the illustration, her thin lips pulled into a frown.

“Death again,” she said slowly.

Nobody, who has not been in the interior of a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that family may be.

—
JANE AUSTEN
,
EMMA

Our dresses in tow, we returned to Elsie’s house. Although
house
really isn’t the word I’d use to describe the structure. It isn’t quite a mansion, but only by a hair. It looks like a place where foreign dignitaries might sign treaties—or map out invasions. Located just outside Richmond, the Revival-style building sits on the remains of Elsie’s great-grandfather’s tobacco plantation. Over the years, much of the property has been sold off, but the main house, which affords a view of the James River and surrounding land, is still intact. An entry porch, with a gable above, dominates the two-story white brick façade. Four gleaming white columns with shallow square bases line an equally gleaming front porch. The only spot of color is the glossy black-paneled door topped by a semicircular fanlight. When I was a kid, it reminded me of something out of
Gone With the Wind
. Which is why, although the actual name of the place is Barton Landing, I have always privately referred to it as Tara.