Say Yes to the Death (6 page)

“Go for it,” I heard Olivia urge to nervous laughter.

After counting “one-­two-­three” aloud, the pair finally brought the knife down onto the bottom tier of ivory fondant ringed with lifelike orchids glistening with sugar. I found I was holding my breath, waiting. Others must have done the same as a collective sigh followed when the knife plunged into the cake. Only instead of sliding through, it got stuck like the sword in the stone. Though the newlyweds pushed, the knife resisted.

“What's the damned thing made of?” I heard Lester Dickens say with a snicker. “Concrete?”

Penny and Jeff both let go and glanced anxiously at Olivia, which is when La Belle from Hell marched toward the cake and bent down to take a closer look.

“My God, it's Styrofoam!” Olivia remarked quite loudly enough for everyone to hear. And then she pulled the knife from the cake, shook her fist to the heavens, and shouted, “Millllieeeee!”

I felt like I was watching a scene ripped from the Star Trek movie that Malone had made me watch last weekend where Captain Kirk screwed up his face and screamed, “Kaaaaahn!”

To say I was startled by the outburst was putting it mildly. It seemed so staged that I had a strong suspicion Olivia had rehearsed her reaction, although Penny and Jeff seemed earnestly surprised, and not in a good way. In fact, Penny's eyes welled up and a big sob escaped her throat.

And all the while Pete moved about with his camera, recording every tacky moment.

Chapter 7

“I
'm free at last, and I'm heading home,” I told Malone, speaking into the cell phone that I'd retrieved from the Black Suits with a coat-­check stub. At least they hadn't frisked us on the way out to make sure we hadn't stolen pieces of silverware.

“So it was that bad?” Brian asked, and I could hear the noises of the hockey game on the TV in the background.

“Let me count the ways,” I said and sighed.

“You'll have to tell me all about it.”

“Only if you promise to give me a foot rub,” I said, and my mother quietly snorted from behind the steering wheel of the Lexus.

I hung up and slumped back against the comfy leather seat, happy to be leaving Lester Dickens's House of Horrors. Although I still wore the ugly bridesmaid's dress, I had my own shoes on at least. I couldn't wait to return the borrowed dress and heels to Olivia first thing in the morning. While I was there, I planned to give her another piece of my mind about her public bashing of Millie Draper. The bullying had to stop.

“Well, that was certainly something,” my mother remarked, and I knew she didn't mean the ceremony. She'd also seemed stunned by Olivia's histrionics involving the cake. “I can't believe Olivia behaved so badly. Shelby looked horrified, and Penny burst into tears. Why on earth would she do that?”

“Because she's like a black hole bent on sucking happiness from the galaxy,” I said, and my chest tightened. I had a feeling I knew exactly why Olivia had performed her
Wrath of Kahn
routine. I'd been an eyewitness to her threatening Millie with nonpayment if the cake wasn't perfect. What better way to carry out that threat than to point out an “imperfection” in front of two hundred guests.

But something didn't sit right with me—­namely, why should Olivia care about a $10,000 bill for a cake if that's what Penny had ordered? Surely Senator Ryan—­or Lester Dickens—­would pay the tab, no matter how high. Olivia's actions made no more sense than the senator allowing Pete the Cameraman to selectively tape footage from the wedding for Olivia's show. What was up with that? Could it be that the senator didn't care because Pete was mostly focused on Olivia's take-­down of Millie rather than on Penny and her burgeoning belly? Or maybe he'd given Olivia a pass because the show wouldn't air for months down the road, until after the election, so it wouldn't likely damage his campaign.

“Something smells fishy and it's not the Chilean bass,” I said aloud, only to have my mother agree.

“You're darned tootin' something's fishy,” she drawled, “because if Millie used foam, there was good reason, and Olivia has to be well aware of that. Millie's Cakes is not some fly-­by-­night operation.”

I agreed.

“I've chaired enough fund-­raisers and hosted enough galas to know that a cake with that many layers needs a strong foundation,” she went on, flicking manicured fingers in the air. “If Millie hadn't used Styrofoam on the bottom, I'm sure it would have collapsed. Certainly Olivia understood that.”

Oh, yes, I'm quite sure Olivia had understood. I'd bet my brand-­new convection toaster oven that Millie had told her there would be a polystyrene foundation, or perhaps Olivia had even asked for it. Either way, it meant Olivia had acted like a jerk.

“They don't call her La Belle from Hell for nothing,” I muttered.

“Who calls her that?” Mother asked.

Well, um, I did, and I was sure that I wasn't the only one.

“It's too bad no one will stand up to her,” I said, changing the subject. “It would serve her right if someone would give her a taste of her own medicine.”

“As the rumor mill has it, someone did stand up to her,” Mother informed me. “Jasper Pippin used to do all the flowers for the White Glove Society's deb balls, but Dorothea Amherst quit using him. She said he didn't follow through as promised on last year's fete and then she saw the bit on Olivia's show about him overbilling the mayor for flowers that weren't fresh. Now he's out of business.”

That had to be the Jasper I'd heard Millie mention. Yep, those dirty tricks sounded just like the Olivia La Belle I knew and detested.

“So if you don't play Olivia's game, she'll shut you down,” I said, shaking my head. “Why does anyone want to work with her? Surely, there are other event planners in town that don't treat people like crap.”

“She has exquisite taste,” my mother explained, “and she's incredibly well-­connected. She's on a first-­name basis with everyone who's anyone. Her father was once an ambassador and traveled extensively. In fact, he and Jolene live in Monte Carlo now.”

So what exactly did that mean? Had Ambassador La Belle taught his only child how to twist people's arms with a smile on her face? Olivia had always been great at kissing up at Hockaday. She knew how to get what she wanted by charming those who could help her most. The rest of us got kicked to the curb.

“I'm sure Millie won't suffer the same fate as Jasper,” my mother offered with a lift of her chin. “I had heard friends complaining that Jasper's arrangements were too fuddy-­duddy. Everyone wants organic, earthy arrangements now. But everyone
loves
Millie's cakes. They're exquisite. Anyone who's ever tasted Millie's Italian meringue butter cream icing knows that she doesn't skimp or take shortcuts. I said as much to Shelby, for all the good it did,” she murmured, and her fingernails testily tapped the steering wheel. “Millie's a magician for even getting that cake done on such short notice, and she pulled it off beautifully. Olivia should have praised her to high heaven for that alone, and Shelby should have given her a generous tip.”

“Amen to that.”

Millie had looked positively exhausted when I'd stumbled upon her and Olivia in the kitchen before the ceremony. She'd undoubtedly stayed up all night, working her fingers to the bone, and for what? So that Olivia could bad-­mouth her in front of two hundred very influential Dallasites?

“I certainly hope she doesn't lose business over this,” my mother remarked. “But people do talk in this town.”

“And how,” I whispered. CNN had nothing on the real housewives of Highland Park.

Well, at least the Black Suits had separated the wedding guests from their cell phones, otherwise someone would have recorded Olivia's rant against Millie and it would have gone viral already. Then I remembered Pete and groaned. Even if the besmirching didn't happen overnight, it would happen as soon as the new season of
The Wedding Belle
premiered, since the tattooed camera guy had definitely caught Olivia's outburst.

Would word spread so quickly that Millie would instantly feel the repercussions? Were canceled orders already popping up? Though I'm sure the worst wouldn't come until after the scene aired on TV, whenever that would be. I'd have to check the local listings, as Olivia's televised train wreck wasn't exactly on my “must watch” list.

“Olivia admitted that she ramps up the drama for ratings,” I said. “I wonder how many vendors she's skewered so that she can keep her show on the air. I'm surprised no one's sued her for defamation.”

“Maybe they tried but it never got very far,” Mother suggested. “Besides”—­she clicked tongue against teeth—­“I can't imagine anyone believes anything they see on TV these days. Even the news has gone tabloid. It's all sordid crimes and scandal.” She sighed. “How I miss Walter Cronkite.”

“The public is fickle, and the Internet's pretty much a web of misinformation,” I said, because it was the truth. What seemed like real news on Monday could be exposed as a lie on Tuesday. I'd designed Web sites for hardworking nonprofits that reaped steady donations until one piece of bad press—­often an unsubstantiated story, review, or tweet on the wonderful World Wide Web—­could dry up the well in a snap.

“It's a shame,” Cissy said, shaking her head. “It's as though there's no dignity in anything anymore.”

Since I couldn't disagree with her there, we both got quiet. In fact, neither of us said another word as the Lexus rolled north. It wasn't until we'd exited the Tollway, driven along Preston Road for a spell, and Cissy had pulled into the parking lot of my condo complex, that she opened her mouth again.

“You know what, Andrea? You're right,” she said, putting the car in park and letting the engine idle as I unhooked my seat belt.

“I am?” I hesitated before opening the door. “About what?”

She nudged the bridge of her Jackie O sunglasses and sucked in her cheeks before she replied, “I don't think I want to hire Olivia to plan your wedding after all. She's too unpredictable, and I don't want to risk her mucking up your big day. So after you return that god-­awful dress tomorrow, we'll wash our hands of her.”

Hallelujah! My mother had seen the light!

“Do come by the house in the morning once you've dispensed with the dress,” she told me. “It's the perfect opportunity for some girl time with Stephen away. We'll have lots of time to chat.”

“You want to hang out?” I asked, because my mother and I didn't usually chill together. There was generally an ulterior motive behind our get-­togethers, like her calf-­roping me into Penny's wedding. “But it's Sunday, won't you be at church?”

“I think God would forgive me for missing a sermon if it was for a good reason.” She shot me a grin like she had something up her sleeve.

“Um, I'm not sure I can make it,” I murmured, not wanting to miss pancakes with Malone. “Maybe another time?”

As I waited for her response, I grabbed the borrowed shoes from the floor mat. Before I slid out of the Lexus, I took my ChapStick and Life Savers out of Mother's sparkly Judith Leiber bag and left the bejeweled clutch on the seat along with the torn Carolina Herrera dress and the Spanx. The Underpants from Hell belonged to her, too, I figured, since she'd bought them, and I definitely didn't want to keep them. I would never wear them again. She could burn them both for all I cared.

“
‘Bye, Mother—­” I started to say, but she wasn't finished.

“Andrea, please!” she begged. “Olivia's office is just around the corner. I insist you drop by when you're through with her.” She had her chin up and her jaw firmly set like she wasn't going to take no for an answer. “I'll grab some bear claws at Starbucks and we can confab over coffee.”

I didn't drink coffee. But that was beside the point.

“Why do we need to confab all of a sudden?” I asked as I planted my feet on the asphalt and stood up. “What's so important? Are you dying?” I asked facetiously, but suddenly I felt a bit worried. She had been acting pretty weird.

The window whirred as she opened it. I shut the door and ducked down to hear her answer.

“Am I dyin'?” she echoed, then cracked that Cheshire cat grin again. “I don't have that scheduled any time soon, pumpkin, not before I get you married with a house full of babies.”

“Good,” I said, “because that might be a while.”

“No, no, it's not about
me.
It's about
you.
Since you're so dead-­set against hiring a wedding planner, we'll need to get started
toot suite
on planning your wedding ourselves. Won't that be fun, sweet pea? Just you and me and my checkbook?” she asked, then added in a singsong voice, “Dum dum da dum, dum dum da dum!”

My mouth fell open.

“
Hasta la vista,
pumpkin!” Cissy wiggled her fingers in a wave as she rolled the window up.

Then she backed up the car and drove off.

Chapter 8

I
was lucky Mother didn't roll the Lexus over my foot because I couldn't move. I'd gone catatonic at the idea of Cissy taking charge of my wedding.
Because that was exactly what would happen.
She would do what she wanted come hell or high water, taking over like that bossy Tabatha on Bravo who bulldozed bad beauty shops. I'd end up in a frothy frou-­frou dress that made me look like a giant marshmallow for starters. She'd invite five hundred of her closest friends and have a staid and formal reception and sit-­down dinner at the Dallas Country Club. It would be
her
dream wedding, not mine.

Suddenly, I felt the Chilean bass lurch in my stomach.

“Hey, Kendricks! What're you doing standing in the parking lot when there's a hockey game going on?”

At the sound of Malone's voice, I glanced up.

He must have spotted my arrival out the window as he stood on my tiny porch, wearing his St. Louis Blues T-­shirt and waving his arm.

“If you hurry, you can catch the tail end. We're heading into triple overtime!” he said and waved again, clearly wanting me to move it. When I stepped onto the sidewalk and headed toward the porch steps, he cocked his head and let out a whistle. “What the heck are you wearing? That's not the dress you left in. So was it a theme wedding? Are you supposed to be some kind of mutant flower like the one that only blooms once a year and stinks?”

“You're getting warm,” I said as I preceded him through the doorway and into the tiny condo that had been my sanctuary since I'd moved back to Dallas after college. “What happened was worse than being a stinky flower in a theme wedding. I ended up being a bridesmaid.”

“Are you serious?”

“Sadly, yes.”

He smothered a laugh. “I want to hear the whole gory story,” he remarked, and his hand attempted to squeeze my shoulder but grabbed a fistful of the humongous chiffon butterfly instead. He knit his brows and tried to fluff the fabric that he'd crushed.

“Gory sums it up pretty nicely,” I replied with a sigh. I felt lucky to be marrying a guy who was such a good listener, especially since I did a lot of talking. Brian reminded me of my dad in that respect. My father was never too busy for me, never too wrapped up in work or my mother to pause and lend me an ear, and I had loved him all the more for it.

When I got inside, I dropped my bag and the borrowed shoes to the floor. Then I turned and reached for Malone. I needed a hug, and how. Only all I caught was air. Malone wasn't right behind me anymore. He'd skedaddled over to the sofa and plunked himself down in front of the TV.

Ah, so much for being a good listener, I thought, although I noticed he was paying very close attention to the hockey announcers.

I walked over and stood in front of him, my hands on my hips. “I thought you wanted to hear the whole gory story,” I griped.

He leaned to the right so he could see around me. “Third overtime has started, babe,” he said without shifting his gaze from the screen. “Can it wait until the game is over?”

I wanted to shout,
No, it can't!
Only describing my afternoon as my mother's date at Penny Ryan's wacko wedding wasn't urgent, and I knew how much Brian wanted to watch this game. If I'd been bleeding, I'm sure he would have diverted his attention from the TV at least long enough to assess whether or not he needed to call 911.

“Hooking? Are you freaking kidding me?” Malone complained and threw his hands in the air as I went into the bedroom to change.

When I emerged a few minutes later wearing my yoga pants and a Dallas Stars T-­shirt, the game was over and Brian was frowning.

As I settled beside him, he glanced at my shirt with his bespectacled eyes and said, “I think I liked you better in that butt-­ugly purple dress.”

“The Blues lost?” I asked.

He grunted in response.

I wriggled over and wrapped my arms around him as tightly as I could. He looked like he needed a hug even more than I did.

“Hey, it's four out of seven, right? They'll beat the Stars next time,” I remarked.

“If you can't win on home turf—­” Brian shook his head and nudged at his specs.

“I know how to make you feel better,” I said, and he raised his eyebrows as if expecting something salacious. Instead, I started in on my zany tale of Penny's wedding, from having my cell phone confiscated by Lester Dickens's hired goons, to seeing Olivia La Belle rip Millie apart about the $10,000 cake that was late, to prying the pregnant, hoop-­skirted bride from the toilet, and walking down the aisle in the role of bridesmaid number nine.

When I finished, Brian let out a soft, “Whoa.” He took off his glasses, rubbed the lenses on his shirt then propped them back on his nose. His blue eyes blinked from behind them. He said nothing, although I heard him slowly exhale.

My pulse thumped. Was he having second thoughts about tying the knot with me? He was such a good guy, funny and sweet, as down-­to-­earth as his Midwestern roots, and one of the best young defense attorneys in Dallas. I was a wannabe artist who worked as a Web designer (and tried not to touch my trust fund except in emergencies). My mom was a well-­meaning lunatic. Maybe Malone was considering what would happen if he mixed my DNA with his. Our children had a fifty-­fifty chance of being whack-­a-­doodles.

“I know what you're thinking,” I said, because he kept looking at me so strangely. “That I'm like a living, breathing episode of
I Love Lucy,
especially when Mother's involved.” My mouth went dry when he didn't respond. “You're wondering if you should be marrying someone who's a magnet for lunatics. You're probably afraid our wedding is going to turn into the deb ball I never had, which it very well may if my mother has anything to do with it.”

An amused smile slipped over his lips, and he shook his head, reaching out to touch my hair (which I hoped wasn't quite the rat's nest Olivia had implied).

“No,” he replied quietly. “I'm thinking how lucky I am to be with someone who cares so much about other people. You did your mom a favor today. You stood up for Millie. You got the bride out of a jam. Hell, several jams. You've got a big heart, Kendricks. It's what I love about you most.”

I was so relieved I nearly burst.

“And I thought it was my killer bod,” I cracked, because I wasn't good at mush.

He screwed up his face. “Okay, yeah, it's your killer bod first then your big heart. My bad.”

I opened my mouth to make another joke but bit down on my lip. Instead of zingers, I wanted to spout vapid Hallmark card thoughts about love. I can't believe I'd ever doubted that there was someone out there just for me. It wasn't that I'd felt like half a person without Brian; but falling for him had made me feel
more
than whole. Malone had experienced firsthand the insanity that was my life, and instead of running away from me as fast as he could, he wanted to stay with me for better or worse. If he wasn't The One, then there was no such thing on earth.

“It's me who got lucky,” I whispered back—­the least I could say—­and leaned forward to press my lips against his.

I couldn't tell you what came on the TV after the hockey game. I didn't even realize it was dark until we surfaced for air a few hours later. We were both hungry enough to order pizza from Besas (the Meat Lovers Special for him and green pepper and onions for me). By the time I'd eaten enough to fill my belly to the brim, Malone had popped another of his old Star Trek movies into the DVR. This one had to do with saving whales in San Francisco Bay. I snuggled into my fiancé's shoulder and tried hard to watch, but somewhere in the middle I drifted off.

Malone must have put me to bed after the movie ended. When I forced my eyelids open, the yellow haze of early morning filtered in through the shutters. I rolled away from the noisy lump that was my fiancé snoring. Picking up the alarm clock on the night table, I saw the hands pointed at 7:45.

Time to make the doughnuts, I thought and rolled off the mattress. I figured I might as well run down to Olivia's office and drop off the dress and shoes before Malone even woke up. Then I wouldn't have to ruin my
entire
Sunday.

So I tiptoed around the room, pulling on clothes. I did a quick toothbrushing and an even quicker splash of water on my face. Just in case Malone awoke from his stupor, I left a note in the kitchen saying,
Gone to Olivia's to return Hideous Dress. Back soon. Don't make pancakes without me! Love U, Andy.
I didn't bother to drag a brush through my bird's nest before stepping outside and closing the door.

It was kind of nice being up early on a Sunday. Usually Malone and I slept away half the morning and then made pancakes—­blueberry or chocolate chip, whatever we felt like. Sometimes we stayed in our pajamas until noon.

When I stepped outside, I heard birds chirping. The sky looked like a canvas of brilliant blue that some invisible hand had swept with hazy white brushstrokes. I wanted to run back inside to my easel so I could paint it. But that would have to wait. The tiniest breeze ruffled the trees and shrubs, and I drew in a big whiff of honeysuckle. Once I got in my Jeep and headed out, I found traffic was almost nonexistent, something rarer than a natural blonde in Big D.

I'd looked up Olivia's business address and knew right where to go. I'd grown up in Highland Park and my mother's favorite shops were located in Highland Park Village, so it was familiar enough turf.

When I turned off Preston Road and rolled into the shopping center, the parking lot was pretty much empty. I pulled into a space near the Stella McCartney boutique, which was on the same side as Harry Winston, Dior, and Balenciaga. It was hardly surprising that Olivia liked to keep such pricey company. I was sure the snob in Olivia appreciated, too, that the buildings were on the historical register, so Highland Park Village was a landmark as well as
chi-­chi.

I locked the Jeep and headed toward the building that housed the Wedding Belle's office suite. As I approached the glass doors, another vehicle caught my eye, and not just because there were so few cars in the lot at 8:15
A.M.
on Sunday.

It was a white Acura SUV with a discreet but readable sign across the rear window:
MILLIE
'
S CAK
ES,
it said in hot pink,
LET THEM EAT CAKE!
There was a phone number and Web URL as well.

The sight made me uneasy.

Why would Millicent Draper show up at Olivia's office so bright and early the day after Penny Ryan's wedding?

Had she gotten wind of Olivia's trash-­talking and driven over first thing to have it out with her? Or had Olivia summoned her here?

Whatever the answer, it didn't bode well for Millie. She was such a nice woman. Olivia would shred her up like taco cheese.

I swallowed hard and kept walking, thinking the grandmotherly baker would surely need backup defending herself against my prep school enemy yet again.

The bad feeling in the pit of my stomach only deepened as I entered the doors to Olivia's building and climbed the stairs to her second floor office. I'd barely gotten halfway up the steps when I heard a gut-­wrenching cry. Without a doubt, I knew it came from within Olivia's suite.

That danged bully! She was probably tearing into sweet Millie again.

I ran up the remaining stairs, turned the knob, and pushed my way inside to Olivia's reception area.

“Millie?” I said and glanced right and left, looking for the cotton-­haired baker and hoping she was okay. But I saw no one and nothing seemed out of place in the anteroom with its trendy black-­and-­white patterned wallpaper, upholstered chairs, and shabby chic painted tables topped with stacks of bridal magazines.

Then I heard the mournful wail repeated.

“No, no, no,” a voice sobbed in a tone that broke my heart.

I dropped the borrowed dress and shoes, hurrying as fast as I could through the waiting area. Without further preamble, I burst into Olivia's office.

“Millie, are you o—­” I started to say, and then my tongue lodged in my throat. “Dear God,” I breathed, taking in the frightening tableau before me.

Millie kneeled on the rug not six feet away, looking anything but okay. She turned her wide eyes upon me, her time-­worn face stricken.

“Oh, Andy! This is bad,” she choked out and shook her head, “very bad.”

Very bad?

That had to be the understatement of the year.

For Millie held a silver cake knife in her hand, its blade slick with blood. And lying on the rug before her was Olivia La Belle, her body still and her eyes rolled to the heavens, her throat slick with blood as well.