Killer Cuts: A Dead-End Job Mystery (8 page)

S
oon you’ll be the bride in your own receiving line,” Miguel

Angel said to Helen.”I could fix your hair like Honey’s.”

“Not unless you can give me her chin,” Helen said.”My chin disappears when you pile my hair up on my head.”

She waited for Miguel to disagree. Instead he said,”Maybe it’s better to wear your hair long and loose. But I can do your hair and makeup so you’ll be the most beautiful bride in Fort Lauderdale. It will be my gift.”

“I’ll take it,” Helen said. “But my wedding won’t be like Honey’s. It will be in Margery’s backyard, with tiki torches, box wine, hors d’oeuvres from Publix, and naked chairs.”

“Naked chairs?” Miguel Angel looked puzzled.

“All the chairs at this wedding dinner have rented covers,” Helen said.

“Then I will sit naked,” Miguel Angel said.

Melody, the maid of honor, widened her eyes at Miguel’s remark.

“Uh, that lost something in the translation,” Helen said to Melody, and pasted on a smile.

They moved quickly past the maid of honor and smiled vaguely at the young bridesmaid, Cassie. King’s daughter looked sulky.At last they stood before the bride, a shining princess in white taffeta.

Miguel Angel kissed Honey and said,”I know you’ll be very happy.” Then he patted her nose with the makeup sponge again.

“You look lovely, Honey,” Helen said.At least that was the truth.

“Please get yourselves a drink and some hors d’oeuvres,” Honey said.”And save room for dinner.You’re sitting at table twenty-nine, near the flower urns.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Helen said. Most brides made the hair stylists and makeup artists eat in the kitchen—if they got to eat at all.

The groom wrung Helen’s hand like a dishrag. His hand was damp and he’d sweated through his tux. King was so drunk he could hardly stand.

“Do you think he’s intoxicated by love?” she whispered to Miguel Angel.

“Love doesn’t smell like a distillery,” he said, and wrinkled his nose.

A white-gloved server passed a tray of champagne glasses. Helen snagged one, then headed for the appetizer bar. She piled a small plate with spicy shrimp, smoked salmon, and blue cheese canapés with can died pecans. She added a carrot stick, which made her feel virtuous.

“Are you going to be able to fit into your wedding dress?” Miguel Angel asked.

“Don’t have one,” Helen said.”I’ve been through the white-wedding routine. Never again. Phil knows he’s not getting a virgin.”

“You still need a wedding dress,” Miguel Angel said.”I can advance you the money, if you want. Men are romantics, Helen.What Phil knows in his mind is different from what he feels in his heart. He should see you in a special dress.”

“Thanks, Miguel.That’s good advice.” Helen piled four mini quiches on her already overloaded plate.

“But you are not going to take it, are you?” he said. “You are stub born.”

“Right now, I’m hungry,” Helen said. “Look at that wedding cake. It’s like a water slide.”

The towering cake had seven layers, with auxiliary layers branch ing off on four sides. The calories in the sugar roses would equal the national debt.

On a nearby table was a chocolate fountain surrounded by heaping bowls of fresh strawberries, bananas, oranges, nuts and whipped cream.

Helen heard someone tapping on a glass, and the guests quieted. King’s best man stood at a microphone near the wedding cake, hold ing a champagne glass. The man leaned as if he were charging into a high wind. Helen suspected he was a sex-industry worker. His face was acne-scarred and flushed with alcohol. His bow tie was undone, and his wrinkled shirt bulged over a purple paisley cummerbund.

“Hi.” He breathed into the microphone, and there was earsplitting feedback. “Oops.”

He adjusted the mic. “I’m Barry, the best man. And ladies”—he waggled his eyebrows—”there’s no better man here tonight, now that King is taken. I want to toast the bride and goon—I mean, groom.”

Helen groaned at the corny joke.

“Honey met King in bed, which is how King met most of his ladies, but he didn’t have to pay this one.” Helen could see wedding guests squirming in embarrassment.

“Put your eyebrows down, folks,” Barry said.”The new Mrs. Oden was a nurse, and she met King when he was in the hospital. She looks a lot prettier today, holding roses. When I met her, she’d just stuck a needle in King’s hairy ass.”

There was a shocked silence. Honey was pale with fury. She didn’t enjoy this memory.

“I can say this because I’m King’s oldest friend.” Barry stifled a belch.”Speaking of hairy asses, the bride has seen her share—in the line of duty, of course. But those days are over. Now all she has to do is put up with King.That’s not easy, either. I should know. I’m his TV show producer. Now a toast.To King and his Honey.”

The guests raised their glasses and said,”To King and Honey.”

King reached for his abandoned bourbon bottle and finished it.

“Now, everybody, grab a table,” Barry said.”Eat and drink up. King’s paying the bill, and it’s lobster and prime rib.”

The bride looked relieved that the toasting was over. She was re gaining her color. Helen wondered how many sly humiliations she’d had to endure from King and his low-rent friends.

“But wait, folks. One more thing.” Barry was back at the mic, a drunken grin on his face. The mortified bride clutched her bouquet. Helen thought the bouquet hid her shaking hands.

“Let me give you one more toast, the one my daddy used to say.” Barry paused dramatically:”May you live forever, and may I never die.”

Some guests raised their glasses again. Others looked confused.The toast made Helen shiver. Before Barry could say more, the musicians started playing Handel’s W
ater Music
.

Helen had no idea who gave the signal to start the music, but she was glad Barry was drowned out by it.

The slightly unsteady groom led his drooping bride to the head table. The wedding party followed, two by two. Barry gave maid of honor Melody a lopsided grin and a sneaky grope as she settled into her seat. She inched her chair away from him. Cassie sulked, ignoring her escort, an older man with thin hair and an underslung jaw. She had a small camera near her bouquet, and kept snapping pictures of her father when Honey’s head was turned.

Helen and Miguel Angel found table twenty-nine. It was as over dressed as the bride.The table had a peacock underskirt, a white linen overskirt, and a centerpiece of peacock feathers and blue carnations. Each place setting was marked with a crystal star. Each chair was cov ered in white fabric and tied with a blue bow.

“These are the rented chair covers?” Miguel Angel whispered.

“Yes,” Helen said.”Get a good look.You won’t see them at my wed ding.”

Phoebe sat on Miguel Angel’s right.”Hi,” she said.

He ignored her.

Across from Helen was the older man Phoebe had been flirting with. He sat next to a full-figured brunette in a daring red dress.The gentleman kissed the brunette’s manicured fingers. Phoebe smiled at him and said hello. He looked right past her. Two snubs in less than a minute.

A white-gloved server brought pasta in a cream sauce for the ap petizer.

“Ew, fattening,” Phoebe said, and pushed hers away. Helen and Miguel Angel dug in.

The second course was Caesar salad.

“It’s delicious,” Helen said.”The chef used real anchovies.”

“More fat,” Phoebe said with disgust.

“Shut up,” Miguel Angel said through gritted teeth. “One more word out of you, and you’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me. I’m not working for you today. I am a guest, and I can do what I want.” Phoebe got up without excusing herself and disappeared.

“I’m going to find the men’s room,” Miguel Angel said. He didn’t come back for his lobster and prime rib. Helen finished hers and eyed his plate, but resisted eating her boss’s food.

The dinner plates were removed, and some guests were heading toward the dessert table. Helen heard cries of “Ooh, chocolate” as they approached the fragrant fountain and mounds of cut fruit.

The musicians packed up their instruments. In a corner of the dance floor, a DJ said, “I’m E.J., your electric DJ. Let’s have the new Mr. and Mrs. King Oden cut the cake.”

His voice was dislikable, boomy and sneery at the same time. His Hawaiian shirt was as loud as he was. Helen saw the bride flinch, then look around. King’s seat was empty. Did he wander off for a quick snort? Was he passed out drunk? Groping a wedding guest for his first official act of adultery?

“Where’s King?” E.J. the DJ said. “Come on, man, this is no time to be shy.”

The bride whispered something to her sister. Melody nodded and scurried toward the tennis courts. Cassie got up and hurried off in another direction. Helen wondered if they were looking for the groom, too.

“Oh, Kingy,” the DJ said in a singsong voice.”Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

No sign of King. Now there were murmurs among the guests.The bride looked frantic. She stood up, her bouquet abandoned by her plate. Honey gathered her skirts and managed an odd, hobbling run.

“I think she’s looking for King,” Helen said, but Miguel Angel still hadn’t returned. Phoebe was missing, too.Where did they go?

“Usually, the groom disappears
before
the ceremony,” the DJ tried to joke.

No one laughed.

“Okay, while we’re waiting for the groom to return, let’s play a golden oldie,” the DJ said.

He hit a button, and the Turtles began wailing “Happy Together.” The Turtles were old men now. Their young voices sounded eerie as they sang about investing a dime to call the woman they loved.When was the last time a pay phone call cost a dime?

The old song went on, the verses empty and endless, while the bride searched for her groom. Helen could hear her stiletto heels clattering on the terrace’s pink pavers, and her voice calling, “King! Where are you, King?” It sounded as if she was looking for a lost dog.

And where was Miguel Angel? Helen felt uneasy.The bride’s cries grew louder and more frantic as the Turtles sang that they were so happy together.

Helen saw the bride running toward the back of the mansion.Was she checking King’s yacht? Had he escaped by boat?

Then Helen heard a shrill scream.

“King, no! King!” the bride shrieked.

“I think she’s in the backyard,” Helen said to no one.

The other guests sat in stunned silence. Helen ran. She wasn’t hin dered by high heels or wedding finery in her salon uniform of black shirt and pants. The wedding photographer followed, video camera hoisted on his shoulder. Mireya, his assistant, was nowhere in sight.

Helen got to the pool deck. The bride was standing by the vast turquoise pool, screaming,”No, no, no!” over and over.The front of her dress was drenched with water, the creamy poufs deflated like melting ice cream. Honey pointed at the pool.

Helen wondered why there was a giant inflatable toy on the bot tom of the deep end. The new addition was black with pink rubber flippers.

Then Helen realized that wasn’t a toy.

The groom was facedown on the bottom of the pool, wearing that dreadful tux.