Weddings Can Be Murder (31 page)

“So, what’re you sayin’? You’re not turning
the evidence over?” The mobster’s expression became hopeful.

My hopes sank. Without that documentation,
all we had in court against Proletti were the pages I’d photocopied
and Victoria’s testimony. It might be enough to convict him for
breaking into her house and harassing her, but the real proof of
the long ago murder the new FBI director was investigating—that was
inside the bag. I scrambled for ideas. How could I get hold of the
bag and get out of here? The three of them would hold a contest to
see who could grab me and throw me off the side of the building
first. Or they would simply shoot me down as I ran.

Ahern flicked the lighter again and a flame
rose to life. He started to wave it toward the bottom corner of the
bag of evidence.

I don’t know what happened next, what silent
communication passed between Proletti and his thug, Fausto. I only
heard a deafening blast that reverberated off the concrete walls.
Gilbert Ahern went down and a red blotch spoiled the center of his
pristine white shirt. I fell to the floor and rolled under my Jeep,
holding my breath, squinching my eyes shut, waiting for the bullet
that would either come at me directly or ricochet off a concrete
surface somewhere. Shouts and pounding footsteps echoed from a
hundred unknown places.

“Shots fired! Shots fired!” was what I
thought I heard, but my ears rang so badly I couldn’t be sure of
anything.

Pure pandemonium reigned for what felt like
a long time. Blue-clad legs and black police uniform shoes appeared
when I first opened my eyes. The Jeep rocked with thuds. Proletti’s
face hit the floor, startlingly close to mine, his blue eyes
pinning me. His arms were yanked backward, cuffs went around his
wrists. Someone jerked him to his knees then to his feet.

Near the tire of the dark car I saw the same
thing happening to Fausto. If I’d rolled over, behind me lay the
body of Gilbert Ahern. I didn’t roll over—I didn’t want to see him.
I massaged my ears, wishing they would stop ringing. Gradually, the
scurrying feet went away and the ringing got better.

“Charlie? Charlie, where are you?” It
sounded kind of like Kent Taylor’s voice, a little more
high-pitched than usual.

I bumped my shoulder on an extremely hard
metal object under the car as I struggled to get out. Rolled away
from the protection of my Jeep and stayed there on hands and knees
for a second, until I no longer felt like I would pass out. When I
finally stood, pulling myself upright by gripping the door handle,
Kent Taylor was standing beside the dark car scanning the
surrounding area.

“I’m here,” I said, although I could barely
hear my own voice.

“Charlie, my god!” He came over to me. “I
got worried when you didn’t show up and came down here looking for
you. By then the situation had already blown up. Are you all
right?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I’m great. Just great.”

I started shaking so hard I could barely
stand up. He caught me before my knees gave way. Then I really
embarrassed myself by bursting into tears.

Chapter 33

The next week passed in a blur—police
questions, family calls … I remember a lot of chicken soup
delivered by Elsa. My brother credited Kent Taylor with saving my
life.

Ron and Victoria walked around emanating a
sort of glow. They’d decided the wedding would go forth and,
miraculously, managed to snag a one-hour window of time at the same
little chapel where we all would have walked down the aisle two
weeks ago. The place was already beautifully decorated because of
the holiday. No thanks to me, Vic had her gown back, cleaned and
fluffed, courtesy of APD.

Most of the guests were able to get there
long enough for the ceremony but since we’d not been able to book a
reception venue, that part of it would be limited to family and
closest friends at our house, where the wedding cake had come out
of the freezer in plenty of time to be nearly as tasty as on the
original date.

In the spacious ladies’ lounge at the
church, Victoria and I were alone. I pulled up the zipper on her
gown and worked at the row of tiny satin-covered buttons concealing
it. My matron-of-honor dress was a tiny bit loose on me, but
hopefully no one would notice. I’d not been able to eat much since
the shootout, plagued by persistent faint nausea caused by shock to
my inner ear or something like that. According to the doctor it
would go away with time.

“How are you doing?” I asked Victoria,
noticing in the mirror that she seemed a bit wistful.

Her reflection smiled at mine. “Good. I’m
happy we’re going ahead with our plans.”

“No regrets about Al Proletti and the big
secret?”

“Oh no. My father, the dream man Mom came up
with for me … she was right, he died before I was born.”

I suspected her pensive expression had more
to do with the fact that her mother never lived to see her only
daughter marry. That was my guess, based on my own feelings at my
wedding. We both felt a longing for the parents who had died far
too young.

We picked up our bouquets and walked into
the vestibule. Behind the chapel doors we could hear soft music
from the string quartet. I knew Ron and Drake would be standing at
the front, outwardly poised, inwardly wondering what they were
supposed to do with their hands, standing around in those awkward
minutes before the bride made her appearance.

Ron would be thinking it was kind of sad our
brother Paul hadn’t been able to fly back to attend and to walk the
bride down the aisle, but he’d been chosen a long time ago as the
lead singer in his home church’s musical program and there was no
way he could change plans on such short notice. We all said we
understood.

I reached down to shift Victoria’s train
into position, then tucked her veil the way she wanted it over her
shoulder.

“You ladies ready?” Kent Taylor stepped
toward Victoria, extending his arm.

My eyes met hers and we both took deep
breaths. “Ready.”

I gripped my bouquet and nodded to the
ushers, who pulled the double doors open, and then I took my first
steps forward, in time with the music.

* * *

Get two of the recipes from this
story—Pedro’s Chicken Enchiladas and Christmas Biscochitos. Click
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* * *

Thank you for taking the time to read
Weddings Can Be Murder
. If you enjoyed it, please consider
telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an
author’s best friend and much appreciated.

Thank you,

Connie Shelton

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* * *

As always, this one is for Dan, my husband,
best friend and constant inspiration through all the years.

Special thanks go out to my editors Susan
Slater and Shirley Shaw for spotting my errors and helping me to
make this book as good as it can be.

Books by Connie Shelton

The Charlie Parker Series

Deadly Gamble

Vacations Can Be Murder

Partnerships Can Be Murder

Small Towns Can Be Murder

Memories Can Be Murder

Honeymoons Can Be Murder

Reunions Can Be Murder

Competition Can Be Murder

Balloons Can Be Murder

Obsessions Can Be Murder

Gossip Can Be Murder

Stardom Can Be Murder

Phantoms Can Be Murder

Buried Secrets Can Be Murder

Legends Can Be Murder

Weddings Can Be Murder

Holidays Can Be Murder - a Christmas
novella

The Samantha Sweet Series

Sweet Masterpiece

Sweet’s Sweets

Sweet Holidays

Sweet Hearts

Bitter Sweet

Sweets Galore

Sweets, Begorra

Sweet Payback

Sweet Somethings

Sweets Forgotten

The Woodcarver’s Secret

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