The Bride Wore Black (2 page)

“
W
e might be
a go for Blanchard House,” Stacy announced at an emergency staff meeting. It had to be an emergency to get her to violate her own firm policy of “no meetings first thing in the morning.” She waited for her staff’s burst of applause to quiet down before explaining.

“I’ve been on them for weeks!” Tori, the firm’s lead stylist, cried. “How in the world did you manage to pull it off?”

“Well, it’s not a done deal yet, but I can be persuasive, and apparently, so can the governor. When it comes to his little girl, there’s no such thing as a budget. They were awfully quick to oblige, considering they’re the ones who called me and told me they’d changed their mind. Maybe they have some expensive repairs or renovations coming up and decided the money was worth more than poor Agnes’ happiness.”

“And Agnes isn’t happy about this?” Jeremiah asked, still holding the placards for the floral design he envisioned for a separate upcoming event on the company’s calendar.

“It would appear not, given how much trouble I had to go through to get them to agree,” Stacy said, fiddling with her clipboard and looking away. Her best friend Tori narrowed her eyes, knowing her boss’ tell the moment she saw it. Stacy was always the epitome of dignity and professionalism, but she looked like a ninth grade girl waiting to see the principal every time she lied.

She dismissed her team, but Tori decided to wait. There was a story here, and she was sure she’d only heard half of it.

“I’m sorry, bestie, but I’m a total liar,” Stacy began after making sure the others had headed safely down the hall.

“No kidding. What do you mean?”

“They didn’t cave for the governor’s daughter because they’re nice people. They gave in because…” Stacy looked around to make sure no one was lurking outside in the hallway before continuing in a whisper. “…because there have been some strange things happening for the past two weeks, ever since the day we sent the bride’s request to use the venue. The event coordinator on their end actually said—and I quote—it’s like Agnes knows she’s being sent on.”

Tori narrowed her eyes. “Are you drunk?”

“No! I’m serious! I’m just telling you what they said!” Stacy protested.

“Okay, like, what kind of things? Like, blood running down the walls and voices hissing ‘Get out,’ stuff like that?”

“No, don’t be ridiculous. But… things. Objects going missing after the person was certain they were there. The temperature in the room being ice cold even though the air conditioner isn’t on. Weird stuff. It’s freaking them out, or so they claim. They’ve always said Agnes was a friendly ghost who was happy to be with them, but now that there’s talk of a wedding, they’re not so sure.”

“Wait a minute, I know that look. You’re not telling me something,” Tori said in an accusing tone. “You know I have my ways of getting you to talk.”

“Yes, Tori, but first of all there’s no drinking on the job, and second, we don’t happen to have any tequila on the premises! So either way you look at it, I’m safe!” Stacy rolled her eyes and pretended to look for something in the cabinet.

“I have other ways, and you know it. And you know I’m gonna find out anyway, so you might as well spill it.” She leaned against the table and crossed her arms, a patient but confident look on her face. Stacy met her gaze and crumbled like a stale graham cracker.

“Okay, fine!” She took a deep breath and paused to choose her words carefully. “This lady came to see me yesterday… and she kind of freaked me out.”

Stacy told Tori the whole truth, the secret plan to release Agnes’ ghost while pretending it was all just for show at the rehearsal. Tori nodded thoughtfully as she listened to Stacy explain how it had all been unsettling, how the reality of the situation suddenly blurred with the reality the medium believed in.

“So that’s it,” Stacy said when she finished. “That’s why I’m a little put out, and quite frankly, I think that’s why Blanchard’s people finally agreed to let us use their property. Maybe they want Agnes to have the chance to move on, too.”

“Well, now I know why there’s no tequila… you drank it all for breakfast,” Tori said sarcastically. She patted Stacy’s shoulder and walked out.

T
he group began convoying
to the Blanchard House immediately after the fitting, stopping for lunch in a quaint little hamlet at a soul food restaurant whose unfortunate name was Chicken Lips. Jeremiah insisted they stop there because “how do you not eat at a place called Chicken Lips?” They gathered inside at the small tables with the vinyl checkered table cloths, each of which had a slight sheen from the sheer amount of cooking grease saturating the very air.

“Can I ask you a question?” Jeremiah asked of the cook, a large dark-skinned man with a bright smile that offset his ominous seven foot tall, four hundred pound frame. He looked as though he could be fairly old, but his easy mannerisms and athletic build spoke of a man who could also be still in his prime.

“Sho’ ting, folks. Axe away!” the man said loudly as he dished their plates from a series of large silver pots on a cart and passed them around.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

The man looked at Jeremiah for a moment to see if he was serious, then laughed so loudly the pots on his cart rattled. “You done seen me? You oughts to be askin’ dem ghosts is dey believes in ‘ol Jebbie heyah! I’s way scarier than any old ghost. But don’t tell my mama I said dat, she still do believe. She puts the prayer o’ protection ovah da house ever’night, just to keep the hex from comin’ our way.”

The group smiled jovially at his description of his aged mother and her superstitious ways. They murmured words of polite thanks for their plates and dug in, but Jeremiah pressed on.

“Do you know anything about a ghost in that old Blanchard place?”

The sound of the metal ladle falling out of Jebbie’s hand and clanking against the metal pot echoed through the low-roofed building. The other patrons in the place turned to see what the noise was.

“Don’t speak of Miss Agnes in my restaurant, you hear?” Jebbie said in a menacing voice, barely loud enough to be heard. Jeremiah gulped.

“But I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”

“I never said dat, I said I ain’t skeered of ‘em. But old Miss Agnes… that’s a whole othah story. Y’all finish yo lunch, and best you be on yo way.” He turned and walked away, leaving his cart sitting beside their table in his rush to get back into his kitchen.

“Was it something I said?” Jeremiah mumbled, looking to the others for support. They suddenly became engrossed in their meal in order to follow Jebbie’s very wise advice, then paid their tab and left.

H
alf an hour later
, the group arrived at the Blanchard House, an antebellum mansion that had been restored to its pre-War glory by various historic committees and generous benefactors over the years, presumably with the approval and under the watchful eye of Agnes Fearnot’s ghost. The current curator of the property stood waiting on the wide wrap around porch watching for them. Stacy knew they were in trouble by the fact that he was holding his pocket watch in his hand, glaring at it pointedly.

“Mr. Lariviere, I’m Anastacia East, we spoke on the phone. I hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long.” This wouldn’t be the time to mention that they were late due to the ominous scene with Jebbie.

He looked over his glasses at her in a way that gave her flashbacks to elementary school and her hateful second grade teacher. His dismissive sneer told her exactly what he thought of her tardiness and her appearance on the property in general.

“Yes, Miss East,” he said in a whiny drawl that didn’t really answer her concern. “But you’re not quite the biggest of my problems at the moment. Regardless of what the governor may think, even he can’t demand to have a wedding here with this latest development underway.”

“Development? What development?” Stacy asked with a note of caution growing in her voice.

“Were you not informed about the plague?” he asked in such a casual way that she couldn’t be sure she heard him right. She shook her head, still eyeing him warily. “It’s quite the biblical undoing, such as we have never seen at the Blanchard.”

“I’m sorry, did you say the plague? As in, everyone got sick at the same time?”

“No Miss East, and I would expect someone who comes so highly recommended to be better able to keep up with the conversation at hand. It’s a wonder Ms. Prudell has the patience to tolerate you. A plague!”

He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the door, but Mr. Giudice, the chief of security, was already opening it. He held his arm out for everyone to stay back while he investigated, only to jump backwards several feet when he saw what awaited them inside.

“Holy geez! He’s talkin’ about like in the Bible! It’s the plague of frogs, like from the Moses and the Pharaoh story!”

The group slowly leaned around the door frame to find the dark wooden floors of the hall filled with thousands of frogs. Their croaking cries reverberated off the vaulted ceilings as more frogs poured down the wide staircase. Tori made a face and jumped back.

“I am not going in there!” she stated firmly. “That is beyond disgusting.”

“They’re just frogs, Tori,” Stacy insisted before turning to Mr. Lariviere. “How did they get in there?”

“I’m sure I have no idea, but my staff is convinced it’s Miss Agnes’ doing.”

“Oh please, not you too!” Tori called from the safety of the porch rail where she was currently sitting, her feet pulled up off the ground. “This is a local wildlife problem, nothing more, one that should be dealt with by a qualified exterminator! It’s NOT the work of a ghost!”

“Perhaps you’re right, miss,” he answered, sneering again for Tori’s benefit. “And whom do you propose we call to unlock the door to her room?”

“Well, I’m no industry expert, but a locksmith sounds like a logical choice to me.” She leveled her gaze at the irritating man, refusing to be put in her place by Truman Capote’s doppelganger.

“Why, I wish we’d thought of such a thing earlier!” he exclaimed wide-eyed, pressing the flat of his hand to his chest. “Unfortunately, no one here considered that option since there is no lock on that door.”

“Then what happened?” Stacy asked calmly, trying to keep from lashing out at the man who stood between her and getting this wedding over with.

“We don’t know. The door knob has always turned easily as we are required to change the linens in Miss Agnes’ room once a week and refresh her water pitcher twice a day. Now the door knob won’t turn, just as if it’s been locked from the inside. We have pleaded with Miss Agnes to open the door, but so far she has not acquiesced.”

“I see. Well, we’ll just make sure to steer clear of Miss Agnes’ room then,” Stacy said firmly, intent on moving this event forward and getting it out of her life. “Mr. Giudice, your men have been so helpful in the past in dealing with pranksters, do you think you can request their help one more time in dealing with these frogs?” Her security chief nodded and walked away to make the calls while Stacy assembled her group and refreshed everyone’s orders. They scattered to get busy with their tasks and she turned to go, but not before noticing Mr. Lariviere settling into one of the rocking chairs on the porch.

“Aren’t you coming inside?” she asked pointedly. He looked at her over the tops of those glasses before reaching for a newspaper and unfolding it.

“No, miss, I shall not. You and your wedding have upset Miss Agnes, and I will not set foot on this property again until you have cleared out and managed to make amends. The caretaker will watch over the property to see that you don’t do any further damage. I am henceforth unavailable.”

Stacy and her staff exchanged worried looks before turning and considering the frogs again, many of which were currently taking advantage of the access to daylight and hopping towards the porch. Tori pulled her feet up even higher as they began their advance.

A car pulled up on the long, winding cobblestone driveway. They turned to look and saw an aging Toyota whose better days had happened three Presidents ago. The driver turned off the engine but the car continued to rattle for a few moments after. With no small amount of physical effort, the driver’s side door opened and a skinny young man with an unfortunate haircut stepped out. He reached back into the car for a backpack and a camera then proceeded up the walkway.

“May I speak with the owner please?” he called out from the bottom step.

“No, you may not,” Mr. Lariviere answered in his painfully bored voice without looking up from his newspaper. The newcomer didn’t seem to be put off in the least, in fact, he seemed to be used to that kind of treatment.

“You can point me to the owner or I can pester him with FOIA requests and subpoenas,” he said smugly, looking around the group from Events by Design for any sign of cooperation. They were as lost as he was, and waited for the property’s executor to do something.

“I have already made this point in the past, this estate is privately owned and you are not welcome to film, photograph, interview, or write anywhere on the property without risk of prosecution. You may go now, and be mindful of the flower beds this time.” He went back to his newspaper, flipping it open loudly to make his point.

The young man grinned. “We’ll see about that. The public has a right to know, and I have freedom of the press.”

“They should have taught you this in college, young man, but that simply means you cannot be thrown in jail by the government for writing and publishing. It has no bearing on my having to tolerate you. Leave the property and do not return, or I will file for an order of protection.”

The reporter laughed, but returned to his car as he was told. He drove away, and for a moment Stacy thought he was going to intentionally smash some of the foliage beneath his tires. At the last minute he turned away, leaving Stacy to wonder if he was just having trouble with the power steering.

“Mr. Lariviere, is this something I need to be aware of?” Stacy asked, crossing over to the porch and extending a virtual olive branch.

“Only if you value your company’s reputation. That individual has been snooping around here, claiming to be writing an article on Miss Fearnot’s ghost. I have determined that he’s caught wind of this wedding you’re throwing, and is actually after an above the fold front page article with a handsome byline at the top. He’s a gold digger, nothing more, and the owners of Blanchard House have stated that he is not to be allowed on the property under any circumstances.”

Great, another headache
, Stacy thought before smiling in her most responsible-looking way.

“We will certainly do our utmost to keep him as far away from here as possible,” she said, but the executor was not impressed.

“See that you do,” he answered menacingly. “The current ownership of this estate happens to be a well-known law firm, and they have nothing better to do than sue you and your company for breach of contract and invasion of privacy… Well, there’s my ride. Have fun with your little party.”

He left Stacy to rub her temples in slow circles while taking deep cleansing breaths. It usually worked wonders, but it was strangely powerless in this situation. She went inside and stepped carefully to avoid the frogs who were still hopping from various rooms. Ghost stories or not, Tori was having none of it and had already declared that she would wait in the car.

“Besides, there’s a hideous smell in here and I’m not letting that stench get in my hair. I knew frogs were gross, but I had no idea they smelled this bad!” She threw up her hands and walked back outside into the fresh air, changing her mind about the car and heading for the rocking chair the curator had just vacated.

Stacy blinked, the smell suddenly hitting her too. It couldn’t be the frogs, she realized, unless their sheer numbers were somehow combining into a wall of rotten aroma. It was an unpleasant smell but not overpowering enough to be able to know exactly what it was or where it was coming from.

Her team milled around the house, making notes, drawing floor plans, and otherwise rushing through their planning. She watched from time to time as she caught one or two of them pressing their hands against their noses any time they caught too deep a whiff. Stacy made a note to contact the curator about the smell, and see what steps they could take before the wedding.

“I found that door that weird little guy was talking about,” Mr. Giudice said, coming down the stairs. “It’s just like he said, there’s no lock on it but the knob don’t turn no more.”

“Is the door blocked? Or is there one of those little latches where you can slide it to lock it?”

“No, ma’am. You’d hear it hitting something on the other side. The knob just won’t turn enough to let the catch slide outta the door jamb. I thought about forcing it a little, but it looks like an antique iron knob.”

“Well, we really have no business in that room anyway, unless that crazy medium decides she needs access to Agnes’ room for the…” Stacy stopped in midsentence, struck by a horrible thought. “Do you think one of your guys can step out onto the porch overhang and walk around to the window to that room?”

“I don’t see why not. What’s up?” he said with a shrug.

“A really awful, sick hunch,” she answered, her voice starting to shake.

The security chief looked her over for a second, then said he’d get someone right on it. “Why don’t you go have a seat outside with your friend there? You’re looking a little green.”

Stacy took his advice and joined Tori on the porch. Her friend looked up from the curator’s newspaper and sat up straight in alarm.

“Stace? What’s up? What’s the matter?” she cried, grabbing her friend’s hand.

“I think I know why the door won’t open,” she began weakly, but they were interrupted by a man’s scream above their heads. They looked up in time to see a dark shape crash to the ground in front of them, its fall broken by the boxwood hedges.