Dearly Depotted (6 page)

There on the ground, his coal black suit askew and his nose dripping blood, was none other than Josiah Turner. His sparring partner, who was now being helped to his feet, was the infamous arsonist, thief, felon, and, now, wedding crasher—Jack Snyder.

 

 

 

 

S
eeing that the danger was over, Pryce stepped forward to take command, directing Marco and Bertie to take Jack off the premises and the guests to resume their seats. As Jack was being led away, Josiah shook his fist at him, thundering, “Sinner, ye shall be damned for all eternity for what ye have done!” He attempted another lunge and was instantly strong-armed into the building, while Aunt Corrine edged through the crowd to comfort a sobbing Melanie.

After order had been restored, we returned to our positions so the embattled bride and groom could get hitched. Unfortunately, the brawl had delayed the ceremony long enough to cause one more problem. As the anxious couple recited their handwritten pledges of devotion, the fireworks display roared into the night sky, exploding into loud, splashy waterfalls of color, then spiraled down with shrieks and hisses—completely obliterating their words.

“You were right. That certainly was different,” Marco said as we took our place in the reception line inside the banquet center. “I’ve seen a lot of bar fights, but this is the first fight I’ve ever seen during a wedding ceremony.”

I paused to shake a guest’s hand, then whispered, “Could you tell who started it?”

“The big guy in the black suit.”

“That was Josiah Turner, Jillian’s uncle. The other one was Jack Snyder.”

“Apparently, Turner saw Snyder come through that arched thing and take a seat in the back row on the groom’s side, and the next thing I know the big guy—”

“Josiah.”

With a look that asked,
Is it important to fill in the names right now?
(men don’t understand our need for details), Marco finished, “Okay,
Josiah
took Snyder down.”

“Wow. I knew Jillian’s uncle hated Jack, but I had no idea his hatred was that strong.”

At that moment I caught sight of Grace outside the glass doors, talking to Richard, her hand on his arm. He bent to give her a kiss, then, after a lingering look between them, he turned and strode away. Clearly they were much closer than Grace had let on. I was delighted for her.

Moments later, Grace came down the line, looking her usual dignified self in a pale blue silk suit and matching pillbox hat that covered her neatly layered gray hair. “Lovely ceremony, dear,” she said, then leaned close to whisper, “I doubt anyone will notice the grass stain on the back of your gown. It blends rather well with the print.”

“Thanks—I think. Where did Richard go?”

“Something came up at work that needed immediate attention. He’ll be back shortly.”

Grace moved on and other guests followed, congratulating the groom, hugging the bride, and nodding politely at the rest of us.

“Why do we have to stand here?” Marco whispered in my ear after several people shook his hand. “I didn’t do anything except show up in a monkey suit.”

“It’s custom,” I whispered back. “Haven’t you ever been to a wedding before?”

“Yeah, but I skipped out right after the last ‘I do.’ ”

“I hope you weren’t the groom.”

He paused as more people came past, then he leaned toward me to whisper, “I’d elope before I’d go through something like this.”

Elopement. There was a new fantasy to add to my list. I imagined Marco and myself on a tropical island, standing barefoot on the white sand of a pristine beach, flowers woven through my hair, a boom box blaring the wedding march, and a sea captain with a neatly trimmed beard saying, “Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do.”

“You do what?” Marco asked, jolting me out of my daydream.

“I do—think you’re right about that elopement.”

After all the guests had gone through the line, the members of the bridal party were herded back to the gazebo for more photographs before finally being allowed to join the guests in the ballroom. We took our places at the head table, decorated with my four-foot-long arrangement of callas, roses, and baby’s breath, then Pryce rose to give the toast. He lifted his glass of champagne and the guests followed suit, ready to clink rims and get to the food.

After ten minutes of Pryce’s droning voice, their joy had dissolved and their arms wavered as they struggled to keep their glasses aloft. The only one who seemed to be enjoying herself was Grandma Osborne, planted firmly between Claymore’s parents at a table right up front. Grandma had polished off her champagne and was contentedly munching a roll.

I gave up, too, set my glass on the table, and propped my chin in my hand, letting my mind tiptoe down the table to Marco, who looked so dashing in his black tux that I wanted to nibble his sleeve and work my way up from there. I sighed, happily ensconced in my tropical island daydream, only to have Sabina nudge me with her elbow. I sat up with a start, grabbed my glass and hoisted it, sloshing some bubbly on my hand, ready to toast the newlyweds.

“He already gave the toast,” Sabina whispered. “Now he’s doing introductions. Where have you been?”

In a much happier place.
I glanced at Pryce, who was shooting daggers at me with his eyes as he said, “And on the end we have Abigail Knight, cousin of the bride, who did all the beautiful flowers here today.”

My face filled with heat at the applause, most of it coming from the Knight table, specifically from my mother, who was giving me a standing ovation. The Osborne section was much quieter. Actually,
muted
.

After the food had been consumed, the cake cut and distributed, and the tables cleared, the fun finally began. The room had a great dance floor, and Jillian had hired an enthusiastic rock band with amps loud enough to shatter eardrums, so I was ready to kick off my heels and get down, when the band launched into a sedate waltz. Marco and I watched from the sidelines as the bride and groom took the floor for the traditional “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.”

“If they do the Hokey-Pokey,” Marco said, “I’m out of here.”

I decided not to tell him about the Chicken Dance. As Jillian and Claymore swept past, I said, “You have to admit it’s romantic.”

“A moonlit beach, a sky full of stars, a bottle of champagne—that’s romantic. Dancing in the middle of a room with hundreds of eyeballs watching every step you take—not romantic.”

“Tell me more about this moonlit beach,” I said, seeing the opening scene of a new fantasy begin to play in my mind:
Dancing on the Dunes,
starring Abby Knight and Marco Salvare, Hollywood’s hottest duo.

Seeing Claymore’s parents take to the dance floor suddenly reminded me that I was supposed to be watching Grandma Osborne. I glanced toward their table, now pushed to the side of the room, but she wasn’t there, nor was she in the surrounding area.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” I whispered to Marco, then quickly wove through the tables, searching all the silver heads, until I finally spotted Grandma soliciting guests with a bread basket.

“Save the platypuses,” she cried, shaking the basket. Coins rattled inside. People had actually donated money.

“Grandma, I think you should do that some other time,” I said quietly.

“You’ve got those sturdy, childbearing hips, don’t you?” she announced. “Not like those skinny minxes Pryce has been seeing. That boy never did know what was good for him. Do you know where I can get some water?”

I steered her across the room. “There’s a big pitcher at your table.”

“It’s not icy, is it? Ice hurts my tongue.”

I poured her a glass of ice-free water, seated her next to Claymore’s aunt, and asked her to stay put until I returned. Then as the bridal party merged onto the floor for a slow number, I grabbed Marco’s wrist and pulled him into the center. He put one hand on the small of my back and took my other hand in his, as if he actually knew what he was doing. I smiled into his eyes, content to stay in one spot and sway with him. What did it matter as long as his arms were around me?

Without warning, his grip tightened and away we went. “You told me you only danced a little,” I said in surprise as he led me into a turn.

“This is it: the only two steps I remember. Forward and turn.”

“You’re very smooth.”

“My dancing isn’t bad either.” He arched an eyebrow, giving me a look that made my ribs tingle. Or was it that someone had just jabbed me in the side?

I looked over my shoulder in time to see Pryce glide by with Onora. Her face was expressionless—the result of her Botox treatments. His face was hostile—the result of being a class-A jerk. In the spirit of the day, I dismissed the jab as an accident and turned my attention back to the extremely good-looking man holding me in his arms.

“What are you doing after the reception?” Marco asked. He gave me that lazy smile that made me forget everything but him. Then I got another jab, this time in my arm. I stopped and turned, ready to let loose with a few uncharitable remarks, only to find that it was Jillian and Claymore, not Pryce, doing the jabbing.

“You’re supposed to be watching Grandma Osborne,” Jillian hissed.

“I
am
watching her. She’s right over . . .” I pointed to where I had put her minutes before, but the seat was empty. “I’ll find her,” I assured them. “Keep dancing.”

Marco and I split up to circle the room, threading our way through chattering guests. We met at the exit. “Maybe she went to the restroom,” I suggested.

“You check the ladies’ room. I’ll check the men’s.”

Except for a waitress who’d sneaked in for a smoke, the ladies’ room was empty. So were the dressing room and coatroom. The kitchen staff hadn’t seen her either.

I met Marco in the reception area. In the distance the pops of firecrackers could be heard. “She might have gone outside for some air,” Marco said.

I didn’t like the image that sprang to mind: an elderly woman stumbling around in the dark, growing disoriented and frightened, all because I hadn’t done my duty. “I’ll take the garden; you scout the parking lot.”

With my heart in my throat I exited the building, then hurried up the sidewalk, through the arch, and into the garden area—unlit now except for the light that spilled out of the huge windows of the ballroom. I was halfway up the aisle when a small figure suddenly appeared at the top of the gazebo steps. I knew by the faint glint of silver that it was Grandma.

“Are you okay?” I called as she made her way down the steps.

“I found water.” She held up a glass. “It was sitting on a shelf behind the pulpit.”

“You came all the way out here for water?” I asked, taking her arm to escort her back.

“No, it was too noisy inside. Noise makes me jumpy.”

“Let’s find you a clean glass, okay? That one was probably the minister’s.”

She gave me a puzzled look. “He didn’t look like the minister.”

“Who didn’t?”

She stopped to point a shaky finger toward the gazebo. “That man behind the pulpit.”

“There’s a man back there?”

“Yes, but don’t disturb him. He’s napping. He probably had too much to drink.”

Napping? I didn’t like the sound of that. I left Grandma on the path, climbed the steps to the gazebo, and moved cautiously around the right side of the podium, squinting to see in the dim light. I stopped suddenly when I saw a pair of legs clad in black trousers lying on the floor. “Hey,” I said, touching an ankle with the tip of my shoe. “Wake up.”

No answer or movement. I crouched beside the legs. “Hey, are you hurt?”

Still no response, just an eerie silence that was giving me a really bad feeling.

“Abby?” Marco called. “Where are you?”

“Behind the pulpit. Call 911. There’s someone up here and I think he’s unconscious.”

I could hear Marco’s phone buttons beeping as I searched for a pulse. I found the wrist and knew by the coarse hair and thickness of the bone that it belonged to a male. I also knew the male wasn’t unconscious. He was dead.