Shadow Waltz (11 page)

Eighteen

After their interrogation of
Gordon Merchant, Creighton and Marjorie said goodbye to Detective Jameson and traveled back to Ridgebury to pay a visit to Reverend Price. They arrived to find the white-haired cleric seated at his desk, perusing a copy of Marjorie McClelland's
Homicide in Hungary
.

When he saw the young couple, he shut the book and rose to his feet to greet them. “Marjorie. Creighton.”

Marjorie gave the minister a hug and then stepped aside so that the two men could shake hands. “How are you?” she inquired.

“Excited,” he answered. “And very happy to see you. How are you children doing?”

“Oh, we're fine,” Creighton replied. “Engaging in some reading there, Vicar?”

Price laughed. “I read it when it was first released, but it's my favorite. I find it …
inspiring
.”

“Inspiring? You're not planning on pushing someone onto the tracks at the Ridgebury Railroad Station are you?” Marjorie asked.

The Reverend's mouth formed the shape of a tiny
o
. “Oh no,” he chuckled. “Nothing like that. It was going to be a surprise, in fact, but now that you're here, I may as well tell you.” He gestured them to be seated.

“Mrs. Patterson did say you were cooking up something special for our wedding,” Marjorie acknowledged as she sat in one of the two carved wooden chairs that faced the minister's desk. “She didn't say what it was, mind you. But she did tell us you were up to something.”

“Oh that Emily,” he waved a scolding finger. “I knew she couldn't keep a secret if her life depended on it, that's why I didn't give her any of the details. I figured if anyone was going to spill the beans
, it was going to be me.”

“We're all ears,” Creighton urged.

“Yes, go on and tell us,” Marjorie egged him on.

Reverend Price lifted the cover of
Homicide in Hungary
and extracted the sheet of scrap paper he had placed there for safekeeping. “Marjorie, you and I have known each other for quite a while now. By virtue of being a member of the community, I've had the opportunity to watch you grow from a little girl into a beautiful young woman. However, it wasn't until you became an author that you and I found we had quite a bit in common: namely, murder. I had always been a fan of mystery novels, but your books have truly been an eye-opening experience. Because of my admiration for your work, I want your ceremony to be as unique and memorable as you are.”

Marjorie smiled, “Why, thank you, Reverend. That's very kind of you to say.”

“It's not kindness. It's the truth. However, as I am a minister, the heart of the ceremony will be spiritual, dignified, with a little twist at the end—just like Marjorie's books.”

“Well, you've piqued my interest,” Creighton confessed.

“Good. I'll give you a brief overview of the ceremony I envisioned.” Price referred to his notes. “Creighton, you will be at the altar—”

“We're getting married beneath the tent you're loaning us,” Creighton pointed out. “There is no altar.”

“Yes, that's a very good point.” Price scratched out an item on his list. “So, you will be standing at the front of the tent with your best man. Emily mentioned that you had asked Detective Jameson to stand up for you.”

Creighton winced. “Not exactly. I'm still undecided.”

Reverend Price jotted this information onto the scrap paper. “While you and your best man—whomever he may be—are at the front of the tent, the music will start.” He looked up from his notes. “Since you're not getting married in the church, we don't have the luxury of using the organ. But my secretary, Mrs. Reynolds, has kindl
y volunteered the use of her wind-up phonograph.”

“How nice of her. Does she have Mendelssohn's ‘Wedding March'?” Marjorie inquired.

“Unfortunately no, but we have been able to locate a very good, scratch-free copy of ‘Alice Blue Gown.'”

Marjorie's jaw dropped.

“That's a lovely song,” Creighton noted, “but Marjorie is neither an Alice, nor will she be wearing a blue gown.”

“I understand your reluctance; however, the only other alternatives were ‘Alexander's Ragtime Band,' ‘Yoo-Hoo,' and ‘You Cannot Make Your Shimmy Shake on Tea.' Apparently, Mrs. Reynolds is a big fan of dance music,” Reverend Price whispered. “She even has sheet music of ‘The Charleston.' I'm beginning to suspect she was a flapper back in the day!”

Marjorie and Creighton stared blankly.

“Ehem,” Price cleared his throat. “Where was I? Oh, yes, given the choices, I think ‘Alice Blue Gown' is the most appropriate selection.”

“Don't worry, darling,” Creighton soothed. “I'm sure if we take a drive into Hartford, we'll be able to find some shop that has a copy of ‘The Wedding March.'”

“You can certainly try,” the Reverend encouraged, “but I don't know of too many stores that still carry recordings on cylinder.”

“Cylinder?” the couple cried in unison.

“How old is this phonograph?” Creighton asked.

“Oh, I don't know the precise year, but I'm confident it dates from before the war, since I stumbled upon a badly damaged recording of ‘Goodbye Broadway, Hello France.'”

“Great,” Creighton quipped. “We can save that for the recessional.”

“Yes, quite,” the minister chuckled. “So, assuming we can't locate a copy of ‘The Wedding March'
the first few notes of ‘Alice Blue Gown' will mark the beginning of the processional. Do you have any bridesmaids?”

Marjorie shook her head. “No, nor flower girls.”

“Then it's the maid of honor, Sharon Schutt …”

It was Marjorie's turn to wince. “Reverend? I-I-I-I-I-I don't know about that.”

“I'm only quoting Emily. She said you were thinking of asking Sharon Schutt. Didn't make much sense to me either at the time.” He drew a line through an entry on his list. “So, we have the maid of honor—whomever that may be—and then,” he took a deep breath. “The bride.”

At this statement, Marjorie and Creighton exchanged smiles and reached for each other's hands.

Reverend Price continued to expound upon the scene. “When I speak with the couples I've married, none of them ever forget the moment they first laid eyes on each other at their wedding. Women remember the sight of their husbands standing at the altar and men remember the sight of their wives as they entered the church, er, or, in your case, the tent.”

“Believe me, Vicar,” Creighton started, “those couples might remember gazing into each other's eyes in the church. But for Marjorie and me, this entire experience portends to be unforgettable. Unforgettable from start to finish,” he added wearily.

Price beamed. “Good. Your wedding day should be the most memorable day of your life.”

“Don't worry,” Marjorie quipped, “it will be.”

“Oh, I am glad. Most couples would be disappointed to learn that they couldn't be married in the church.”

“Disappointed? No,” Creighton denied. “We always dreamed of being married beneath a red and white circ-church tent. Everyone has a church wedding nowadays. It's so … so … run of the mill. But a tent wedding is so … so … original. Don't you agree, Marjorie?”

“Hmm? Oh yes. We're quite excited by how … original … our wedding will be. Everyone walks down the aisle to ‘The Wedding March,' but it takes a special kind of woman to drag the train of her white satin wedding gown through church fair grounds to the strains of ‘Alice Blue Gown.'”

“Just wait. If you're excited now, it gets even better,” Price promised.

Marjorie and Creighton nodded and replied in unison, “Ah.”

“After the bride's entrance, the ceremony will officially start with the Lord's Prayer. Then I'll say a few words—some remarks about Marjorie, her childhood in Ridgebury followed by some reflections upon Creighton's first appearance in town. After that, there will be a few more prayers, and another song, if we can find one.”

“I'm certain we can drum up a copy of ‘Happy Days Are Here
Again,' or perhaps, ‘I Found A Million Dollar Baby,'” Creighton cracked. “For some reason I've always liked that tune. ‘
It was a lucky
April shower
…'” he sang.

“Yes, and then, after the prayers and the music, there is the exchange of vows and rings.” The minister's eyes lit up. “However, it won't end there. In fact, that's where it gets interesting.”

“Interesting?” Marjorie and Creighton asked in unison.

“Yes. See, I want the ceremony to be as exciting and mysterious as one of Marjorie's books. So, whereas I'd normally ask, ‘If anyone here knows of any reason why these two people should not be joined in holy matrimony,' I'll ask, in its place, ‘If anyone here knows who murdered John Braddock, speak now or forever hold your peace.'”

“John Braddock?” they cried in unison.

“Who's John Braddock?” Marjorie quizzed.

“Oh, he's my character. Marjorie, my dear, reading your books has inspired me to take the plunge and write a short mystery story of my own. I haven't had the courage to try and publish it, but I thought it would make a wonderful gift to you and your craft. Keeping in that vein, I thought I'd unveil it at your wedding.” He laughed. “Oh, I made a pun. ‘Unveil' at a wedding—wedding veil. Too funny.”

Creighton smiled politely. “Yes, that's very amusing. Um, Reverend?”

“Yes?”

“When you say you're unveiling your story, do you mean you're reading it aloud?”

“Reading? Heavens no! Acting. You see, when the story opens, the murder has already occurred. In order to reconstruct what has happened to John Braddock, the action rewinds to recount the events of the past forty-eight hours. What occurred to bring about the man's murder? Who had a motive to want him dead?” The minister took a break from his intensity. “What do you think?”

“Very creative,” Marjorie praised. “However I'd have to read—”

“I've already approached a few of the ladies with the church league to take on roles,” Price interrupted. “My secretary, Mrs. Reynolds has typed up copies of the ‘stage version' and Freddie, dear Freddie from the drugstore, has volunteered to make the sets.”

“We have sets?” Marjorie asked in disbelief.

“Why of course! This isn't some cheap affair after all,” Rever
end Price chided. “The wedding of Ridgebury's most esteemed author and the debut of
The Murder of John Braddock
is an event this town will be talking about for some time. It may even make the papers!” He stared into the distance as if the newspaper were posted
on the wall across the room. “I can see it now: the first item in the society column or even the local news page—”

“Or the illustrated ‘Believe It or Not' feature,” Creighton suggested.

“—and the headline will read: ‘A Tale of Two Authors: One Weds, the Other … the Other …' I can't think of anything that rhymes.”

“… Makes Us Scratch Our Heads?” Creighton offered.

The minister nodded approvingly. “Not bad. You might want to try your hand at writing, Creighton.”

“Oh no, not me, Vicar. I used to write poetry when I was younger, but then the doctors removed my appendix and I completely lost the ear for rhythm. Now, I'm afraid I can't even tell the dif
ference between iambic pentameter and dactylic hexameter.”

Marjorie suppressed a laugh while the minister looked sympathetically at Creighton. “I'm very … sorry,” Price offered. “That must have been very difficult for you.”

“You have no idea. I was once the Limerick King of Coventry, and now …” Creighton shook his head mournfully.

“Cheer up, son,” the minister advised. “You may not have the ear for poetry, but very soon you'll have a beautiful wife. And you'll marry her in style, to boot! It's all too exciting for words,” Reverend Price gushed. “What do you think, Marjorie?”

“For the first time in my life,” she stated honestly, “I'm completely and utterly speechless.”

After leaving the church rectory, Marjorie and Creighton stopped
by Marjorie's cottage so that she could change and prepare for their dinner with Mrs. Patterson. Upon entering the tiny, four-room dwelling, Marjorie removed her shoes and dropped them by the fron
t door.

“A play,” she nearly shouted. “Can you believe that our wedding ceremony is going to be topped off with a play?”

Creighton removed his hat and flopped onto the overstuffed living room sofa. “I still can't believe you're walking down the aisle to the sound of ‘Alice Blue Gown' being played on a wind-up gramophone. How did they come up with that idea? Were the organ grinder and his monkey too busy that day?”

Marjorie went into the bedroom. “I suppose we should be happy that Mrs. Schutt didn't volunteer to sing.”

“Oh, don't worry, darling,” Creighton called. “She'll volunteer for something. Remember, we haven't even discussed the reception yet.”

Marjorie peeked around the wall dividing the bedroom from the living room. “Oh my goodness! I completely forgot about the reception. I can't imagine what they'll come up with for that!”

“My money's on Mrs. Schutt's Perfection Salad, followed by a round of sandwiches and lemonade—this is the ladies' church league, so no alcohol, remember? Then the wedding cake and—just to provide the appropriate finale to the day—performances by a conjurer and a barber shop quartet.”

“Well, my question is,” she called from the bedroom, “if we're not using the church for the wedding, can we use the parish hall for the reception?”