Wisconsin Wedding (Welcome To Tyler, No. 3) (2 page)

“Mother’s doing. She’s got half of Tyler coming. Cliff and I would have been happy getting married by a justice of the peace without any fanfare.”

That, Nora felt, wasn’t entirely true. Cliff no doubt dreaded facing a crowd, but would do it for Liza—and for her mother, too, who’d been his only real friend for years. But in Nora’s estimation, Liza Baron relished being the center of attention again in Tyler. It wasn’t that she was spoiled or snobby; she was still getting used to having finally come home to Tyler at all, never mind planning to marry and stay there. It was more that she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to act now that she was home again. She needed to find a way to weave herself into the fabric of the
community on her own terms. The wedding was, in part, beautiful vivacious Liza’s way of welcoming the people of her small hometown back into her life. As far as Nora was concerned, it was perfectly natural that occasionally Liza would seem ambivalent, even hostile. In addition to the stress of a big church wedding, she was also coping with her once-tattered relationship with her mother, and all the gossip about the Ingalls and Baron families.

And that included the body that had turned up at the lake. But Nora wasn’t about to bring up that particular tidbit.

She discreetly glanced at the antique grandfather clock that occupied the corner behind Liza. Of the office furnishings, only the calendar, featuring birds of Wisconsin, had changed since Aunt Ellie’s day.

“Oh, all right,” Liza said with great drama, “I’m here. Let’s do this thing. The prospect of coping with stacks of plastic place mats with scenes of Wisconsin and a dozen gravy boats does give one pause.”

Gates carried both items Liza considered offensive. Nora herself owned a set of Wisconsin place mats. She used them for picnics and when the neighborhood children wandered into her kitchen for milk and cookies. Her favorite was the one featuring Tyler’s historic library. She didn’t tell Liza that she was bound to get at least one set of Wisconsin place mats. Inger Hansen, one of the quilting ladies, had bought Wisconsin place mats for every wedding she’d attended since they first came on the market in 1972. Nora had been in high school then, working at Gates part-time.

They got down to business. “Now,” Nora explained to her reluctant customer, “here’s how the bridal register works. You list your china, silverware and glassware patterns, any small appliances you want, sheets, towels, table linens. There are any number of variables, depending on what you and Cliff want.”

Liza wrinkled up her pretty face. She was, Nora saw, a terribly attractive woman. She herself was of average height and build, with a tendency to cuteness that she did her best to disguise with sophisticated—but not too chic—business clothes and makeup. She didn’t own a single article of clothing in pink, no flowered or heart-shaped anything, no polka dots, no T-shirts with pithy sayings, damned little lace. No serapes, no bright orange tops, no skinny black leggings. She preferred cool, subdued colors to offset her pale gray eyes and ash-blond hair, which she kept in a classic bob. Liza Baron, on the other hand, would look wild in anything. Cast them each in a commercial, and Judson Ingalls’s rebellious granddaughter would sell beer, Ellie Gates’s grandniece life insurance.

“Nora, Cliff doesn’t want anything. He’d be happy living in a damned cave.”

But, as Nora had anticipated, in the quiet and privacy of the third floor office, with its window overlooking the Tyler town square, Liza Baron warmed to her task. She briskly dismissed anything too cute or too simple and resisted the most expensive patterns Gates carried. She finally settled on an elegant and dramatic china pattern from England, American silver-plate flatware, a couple of small appliances, white linens all around, Brazilian knives and a special request to please discourage can openers. The stemware gave her the worst fits. Finally she admitted it was Waterford or nothing.

“Go for it,” Nora said, amused. She tried to picture Cliff Forrester drinking from a Waterford goblet and found—strangely—that she could. Had someone said he was from a prominent East Coast family? Like most people in Tyler, Nora knew next to nothing about the mysterious, quiet man who lived at run-down Timberlake Lodge.

Liza slumped back in the delicate caned chair. “Is it too late to elope?”

“People would still buy you gifts.”

Their work done, a silence fell between the two women. Despite her busy schedule, Nora was in no hurry to rush Liza out. The young woman had gone through a lot in the past weeks, and if the rumors circulating in the shops, restaurants and streets of Tyler were even remotely on target, she had more to endure. Falling in love with an outsider had certainly been enough to stimulate gossip, even undermine Liza’s beliefs about what she wanted out of her life. In Nora’s view, that right there was enough reason to steer clear of men: romance caused change.

It was as if Liza had read her mind. “You’ve never been married, have you, Nora?”

“No, I haven’t. I like my life just the way it is.”

Liza smiled. “Good for you. Have you ever been tempted?”

Nora’s hesitation, she was sure, was noticeable only to herself. “Nope.”

“Well, I certainly don’t believe a woman has to be married to be happy or complete.”

“But you’re happy with Cliff.”

“Yes.” Her smile broadened. “Yes, I am.”

Indeed, falling so completely in love with Cliff Forrester had already had an unmistakable effect on one of Tyler’s most rebellious citizens. Liza Baron, however, seemed much more willing to embrace change than Nora was. She seemed more at peace with herself than she had when she’d first blown back into town, if a little rattled at the prospect of a big Tyler wedding.

Nora shrugged. “Romance doesn’t have a positive effect on me, I’m afraid. It makes me crazy and silly…I lose control.”

Liza’s eyes widened in surprise, as if she’d never imagined Nora Gates having had anything approaching a romance, and she grinned. “Isn’t that the whole idea?”

“I suppose for some, but I—” Nora stopped herself in the nick of time. What was she saying? “Well, I’m speaking theoretically, of course. I’ve never…I’m not one for romantic notions.” A fast change of subject was in order. “How’re the renovations at the lodge coming?”

“Fabulously well. Better than I expected, really, given all that’s gone on. You should come out and take a look.”

“I’d love to,” Nora said, meaning it. As if marriage and her return to Tyler weren’t stressful enough, Liza had also come up with the idea of renovating Timberlake Lodge, a monumental project Nora personally found exciting. Unfortunately, the work had led to the discovery of a human skeleton on the premises. Not the sort of thing one wanted percolating on the back burner while planning one’s wedding.

“Anytime. And thank you, Nora.”

“Oh, you don’t need to thank me—”

Liza shook her head. “No, I’ve been acting like a big baby and you’ve been so nice about it. The store looks great, by the way. Your aunt would be proud, I’m sure. You’ve added your own touches, but retained the flavor and spirit everyone always remembers about Gates. When I think I’m living in the boondocks, I just walk past your windows and realize there is indeed taste and culture here in Tyler.” She hesitated a moment, something uncharacteristic of Judson Ingalls’s youngest grandchild. “Ellie Gates was quite a character. She’s still missed around here.”

“She is,” Nora agreed simply.

“Well, I should be off.” Liza rose with a sudden burst of energy. “I guess I’ll go through with this big fancy
wedding. If nothing else, Tyler could use a good party right now.”

Now Liza Baron was sounding like herself. Nora swept to her feet. “You’re probably right about that. I suppose you haven’t heard anything more from the police?”

Liza shook her head. “Not a word.”

Without saying so outright, they both knew they were talking about what Nora had begun to refer to as the Body at the Lake. The
Tyler Citizen
reported every new and not-so-new development in the case, but the rumors were far more speculative. Given her ownership of Tyler’s only department store, her membership on the town council and her circumspect nature, Nora was privy to considerable amounts of local gossip, which she never repeated. Certainly
anyone
could have been buried at the long-abandoned lodge. Someone from out of town or out of state could have driven up, plucked a body out of the trunk, dug a hole and dropped it in. But townspeople’s imaginations were fired by the idea that the body was that of Tyler’s most famous—actually, it’s only—missing person, Margaret Alyssa Lindstrom Ingalls. People said Liza was a lot like her flamboyant grandmother. Bad enough, Nora thought, that Liza had to cope with having a dead body dug up in her yard. Worse that it could be that of her long-lost grandmother.

“I’ll continue to hope for the best,” Nora said diplomatically.

Liza’s smile this time was feeble. “Thank you.”

But before she left, she spun around one more time, serape flying. “Oh, I almost forgot. Cliff specifically wanted me to ask if you were coming to the wedding. You are, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes, I’d love to, but I’ve never even met Cliff—”

“Oh, he’s seen you around town and admires your de
votion to Tyler and…how did he put it? Your balance, I think he said. He says if he has to endure a huge wedding, he should at least have a few people around who won’t make him feel uncomfortable.” Liza’s eyes misted, her expression softening. She looked like a woman in love. “God knows he’s trying. He’s still uneasy around people—I guess you could call this wedding a trial by fire. Not only will half of Tyler be there, but there’s a chance his family’ll come, too.”

“I didn’t realize he had any family.”

“A mother and a brother.” Liza bit the corner of her mouth, suddenly unsure of herself. “They’re from Providence.”

“Providence, Rhode Island?” Nora asked, her knees weakening.

“Umm. Real East Coast mucky-mucks.”

Byron Sanders, the one man who’d penetrated Nora’s defenses, had been from Providence, Rhode Island. But that had to be a coincidence. That wretched cad couldn’t have anything to do with a man like Cliff Forrester.

“Are they coming?” Nora asked.

Liza cleared her throat hesitantly. “Haven’t heard. From what I gather, our wedding’s pretty quick for a Forrester, so who knows?”

“Cliff must be anxious—”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so. He hasn’t had much to do with his family since he moved out here. Nothing at all, in fact. He takes all the blame, but I don’t think that’s fair. He didn’t tell them where he was for a couple of years, but when he did finally let them know, he told them to leave him alone. But they could have bulldozed their way back into his life if they’d really wanted to.” She grinned. “Just like I did.”

“But Cliff did invite them?”

“Well, not exactly.”

Nora didn’t need a sledgehammer to get the point. “You mean
you
did? Without his knowledge?”

“Yep.”

Now that, Nora thought, could get interesting.

“I guess we’ll just have to see how it goes,” Liza added.

With a polite, dismissive comment, Nora promised Liza that she and her staff would steer people in the right direction when they came to Gates hunting for an appropriate wedding gift. Liza looked so relieved and happy when she left that Nora felt much better. Why on earth was she worrying about Byron Sanders, just because he and Cliff Forrester were from the same state? Rhode Island wasn’t
that
small. No, that weasel was just a black, secret chapter in her life.

She tucked the bridal register under her arm to return to Claudia Mickelson. She did love a wedding—as long as it wasn’t her own.

“I
DON’T KNOW
how Liza Baron can even
think
about getting married with this body business unresolved.”

Inger Hansen’s starchy words stopped Nora in her tracks. It was two days after Liza had sat in her office grumbling about feudalistic rituals while thumbing through a Waterford crystal catalog. As was her custom on Thursdays, when she gave piano lessons, Nora was moving toward Gates Department Store’s rear exit shortly before five. She usually didn’t leave until six.

Inger, the most imperious member of the Tyler Quilting Circle, went on indignantly, “That could be her grandmother they found out there.”

Martha Bauer held up two different shades of off-white thread. It was just a show; she’d been buying the same shade for thirty years. “Well, I do wish they’d tell us something soon,” she said with a sigh. “Don’t you think they’ve had that body up at the county long enough to know
something?
”

“I understand that the body’s a skeleton already,” Rose Atkins, one of the sweetest and most eccentric elderly women in Tyler, said. “Identification must be a difficult process under such circumstances. And it would be terrible if they made a mistake, don’t you think? I’d prefer them to take their time and get it right.”

Nora agreed, and found herself edging toward the fabric department’s counter. Stella, the fabric clerk and a woman
known for her sewing expertise, was occupied sorting a new shipment of buttons. Nora didn’t blame her for not rushing to the quilting ladies’ assistance; they knew their way around the department and would likely chatter on until the store’s closing at six.

Inger Hansen sniffed. “In my opinion, the police are dragging their heels. No one wants to confront the real possibility that it’s Margaret Ingalls they found out at the lake.”

“Now, Inger,” Rose said patiently, “we don’t know for sure it’s Margaret. The body hasn’t even been identified yet as male or female.”

“Oh, it’s Margaret all right.”

Martha Bauer discarded the wrong shade of off-white thread. “And what if it is?” She looked uncomfortable and a little pale. “That could mean…”

Inger jumped right in. “It could mean Margaret Ingalls was murdered.”

“My heavens,” Martha breathed.

“I never did think she ran away,” Inger added, although in all the years Nora had known her she’d never given such an indication. “It just wasn’t like Margaret to slip out of town in the cloak of darkness.”

Rose Atkins inhaled, clearly upset by such talk, and moved to the counter with a small, rolled piece of purple calico she’d found on the bargain table. “Why, Nora, I didn’t see you. How are you?”

“Just fine, Mrs. Atkins. Here, let me take that for you.”

Off to their left, Martha Bauer and Inger Hansen continued their discussion of the Body at the Lake. “Now, you can think me catty,” Inger said, “but I, for one, have always wondered what Judson Ingalls knew about his wife’s disappearance. I’m not accusing him of anything untoward, of course, but I do think—and have thought for forty
years—that it’s strange he’s hardly lifted a finger to find her in all this time. He could certainly afford to hire a dozen private detectives, but he hasn’t.”

“Oh, stop.” Martha snatched up a spool of plain white all-cotton thread in addition to her off-white. “Margaret left him a note saying she was leaving him. Why should he have put himself and Alyssa through the added turmoil of looking for a wife who’d made it plain she wanted nothing more to do with him? No, I think he did the right thing in putting the matter behind him and carrying on with his life. What else could he have done? And in my opinion, that’s not Margaret they found out at the lake.”

Inger tucked a big bag of cotton batting under one arm. “Of course, I don’t like to gossip, but whoever it was, I can’t see Liza Baron and that recluse getting married with this dark cloud hanging over their heads. You’d think they’d wait.”

“Oh, Inger,” Martha said, laughing all of a sudden. “Honestly. Why should Liza put her life on hold? Now, would you look at this lovely gabardine?” Deftly she changed the subject.

Nora took two dollars from Rose Atkins for her fabric scrap. As had been the custom at Gates since it opened its doors seventy years ago, Nora tucked the receipt and Rose’s money into a glass-and-brass tube, which she then tucked into a chute to be pneumatically sucked up to the third floor office. There the head clerk would log the sale and send back the receipt and any change. None of the salesclerks handled any cash, checks or credit cards. The system was remarkablely fast and efficient, contributing an old-fashioned charm to the store that its customers seemed to relish.

“Everybody’s gone to computers these days,” Rose commented. “It’s such a relief to come in here and not
have anything beep at me. Have you seen those light wands that read price stickers?” She shuddered; the world had changed a lot in Rose Atkins’s long life. “You’ve no plans to switch to something like that, have you?”

“None at all.”

That much Nora could say with certainty. In her opinion, computers didn’t go with Gates’s original wood-and-glass display cases, its Tiffany ceilings, its sweeping staircases and brass elevators, its gleaming polished tile floors. Tradition and an unrivaled reputation for service were what set Gates apart from malls and discount department stores. As Aunt Ellie had before her, Nora relied on value, quality, convenience and style to compete. At Gates, Tyler’s elderly women could still find a good housedress, its children could buy their Brownie and Cub Scout uniforms, its parents could find sturdy, traditional children’s and baby clothes. The fabric department kept a wide range of calico fabrics for Tyler’s quilting ladies. There was an office-supply department for local businesses, a wide-ranging book section for local readers, a lunch counter for hungry shoppers. Nora prided herself on meeting the changing needs of her community. As far as she was concerned, tradition was not only elusive in a fast-paced world, it was also priceless.

The tube returned, and she slipped out Rose’s change and receipt.

“Have you seen much of Liza Baron since she’s come home?” Rose asked.

“She came in a couple of days ago to fill out her bridal registry,” Nora replied. “But other than that, no.”

Rose’s eyes widened, no doubt at the prospect of wild, rebellious Liza doing anything as expected of her as filling out a bridal registry, but, a discreet woman, she resisted comment.

Behind her, Inger Hansen did no such thing. “I can’t
imagine Liza would want to do anything so normal. She’s so much like her grandmother. You don’t remember Margaret Ingalls, Nora, but she was just as wild and unpredictable as Liza Baron. It’s odd, though. Your great-aunt and Margaret managed to get along amazingly well. I have no idea why. They were complete opposites.”

“Ellie was always extremely tolerant of people,” Martha Bauer put in.

“Yes,” Inger said. Even tart-tongued Inger Hansen had respected and admired Ellie Gates.

“I’m sure it’ll be a wonderful wedding,” Nora said, half-wishing she hadn’t delayed her departure to serve the quilters. Liza Baron and Cliff Forrester’s upcoming wedding was indeed the talk of the town, but it was having an effect on Nora that she couldn’t figure out. Was it because Cliff was from Rhode Island?

No. She’d put Byron Sanders out of her mind months and months ago. If the wedding was unsettling her it had to be because of the ongoing mystery of the identity of the body found at Timberlake.

Stella scooted behind Nora. “Here, Miss Gates, let me help these customers.”

Nora backed off, and with Inger Hansen wondering aloud how Liza could have ended up with that “strange man living out at the lake,” ducked out the rear exit.

Even if Liza Baron had been a fly on the wall during the past fifteen minutes, she wouldn’t have cared one whit what the quilting ladies were saying about her and Cliff—she’d marry whenever and whoever she wanted. Liza had a thumb-your-nose-at-the-world quality that Nora appreciated. Nora wondered if
she
was ever the subject of local gossip. Not likely. Oh, her latest window display always received plenty of attention, and the time she’d added a wheelchair ramp to one of the entrances had gotten people
talking about accessibility and such. And folks had talked when, after much soul-searching and calculating how few were sold, she’d ceased to stock men’s overalls. But nobody, she was quite certain, talked about
her.
Her personal life.

“That’s because it’s dull, dull, dull.”

But wasn’t that exactly what she wanted?

The crisp, clear autumn air lifted her spirits. It was getting dark; the streetlights were already on, casting a pale glow on the bright yellow leaves still clinging to the intrepid maples that lined the perimeter of the parking lot. The feeling that life was passing her by vanished as quickly as it had overtaken her.
This
was life, at least hers. Small-town Midwest America. So it wasn’t Providence, Rhode Island. So it wasn’t wandering place to place with an elitist East Coast photographer who neither understood her nor the community she cared about. She belonged in Tyler. It was her home, and if it was Byron Sanders’s idea of hell, then so be it.

He was a cretin anyway.

Coincidence or not, Cliff Forrester’s own Rhode Island origins had gotten her thinking about the rake who’d almost ruined her life. For two days running now. She couldn’t make herself stop.

Well, she had to. Rhode Island might be a small state, but the chances of Tyler’s town recluse and a sneaky photographer having any knowledge of each other were remote. And Byron Sanders wasn’t from any “mucky-muck” East Coast family.

He also knew to keep his size elevens out of Tyler, Wisconsin.

But he’d been her one love, and he remained her one secret.
No
one knew they’d been lovers. Not even Tisha Olsen over at the Hair Affair, who knew everything that
went on in Tyler, or the quilting ladies, whose combined knowledge of the town’s social history went all the way back to its founding during the great German immigration to Wisconsin 140 years ago. As far as everyone in Tyler was concerned, Nora was just like her great-aunt, the memorable Ellie Gates.

Only she wasn’t. And she knew it.

So did Byron Sanders.

She was so preoccupied that she arrived at the doorstep of her 1920s house before she even realized she’d come to her tree-lined street. She’d inherited the house from Aunt Ellie. They’d lived together from the death of Nora’s parents in a boating accident on Lake Superior when she was thirteen until Aunt Ellie’s death three years ago, not long after Byron Sanders had moved on. In the house’s quiet rooms and in Aunt Ellie’s quiet life, Nora had found peace and stability and hope.

She’d had the wide clapboards repainted last summer in the same cream color Aunt Ellie had chosen back in 1926. The trim was pure white. It was almost Halloween, but the porch swing was still out, the flower boxes planted with bright yellow mums.

With the house having been shut up all day, Nora left the front door open to catch the afternoon breeze while she went back to the kitchen. It was still thirty minutes before her first student arrived. Time enough for a cup of tea.

She’d made a few changes to the interior of the house, softening some of Aunt Ellie’s relentless formality. She’d covered the furniture in pale neutrals and had added cotton throw rugs, Depression glass, quilted pastel wall hangings. There were two small bedrooms upstairs, one downstairs, a small library, a living room and a dining room that she’d converted into a music room, shoving the gateleg table up against the wall to make room for a new baby grand.

Nora, however, hadn’t changed a thing in the kitchen. Its white cabinets, pale gray-blue walls and yellow accents didn’t need changing so far as she could see. Her friends said she should get a microwave, but she hadn’t yet succumbed. Before she died, Aunt Ellie had purchased a toaster oven. It still worked fine.

After putting on the kettle for tea, Nora sat at the kitchen table and looked out at her darkening yard. The bright leaves of the sugar maple had already fallen to the ground. Lately, birds had taken to fattening themselves at her bird feeders. Soon it would be completely dark. Winter wasn’t far off.

She sighed. She loved autumn; she even loved winter. So why was she hovering on the edge of depression?

She fixed a proper tea: Earl Grey tea leaves, her English porcelain pot, her matching cup and saucer, milk in a tiny milk glass pitcher. A sterling silver spoon. Homemade butter cookies from her favorite bakery. She put everything on a teak tray, which she carried out to the music room.

And nearly dropped it all on the floor.

Moving with the speed and silence of a panther, Cliff Forrester took the tray from her and set it one-handed on the gateleg table. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.

In his five years in Tyler, those were the first words Nora remembered his ever saying to her. She’d bumped into him on occasion at the hardware store, but Liza Baron’s fiancé had made clear he didn’t want to be disturbed at Timberlake Lodge. He wanted to be left alone. To heal his wounds and chase his demons or do whatever it was he did. Nora had heard all the rumors and possibilities. He was a tall, dark man. He didn’t look like…how had Liza put it? Like his family were East Coast mucky-mucks.

“It’s quite all right,” she said, sounding stuffy even to herself. “I was expecting a piano student.”

“You play?”

“Mmm, yes.”

His brow furrowed. “I didn’t know.”

How could he have known? They’d never even officially met until now. “Would you care for a cup of tea? I made more than enough. I always end up having to throw out half the pot.”

He shook his head. “No thanks.”

And then he smiled. Nora found it an unsettling experience, but she couldn’t pinpoint why. She felt no attraction to Liza’s lover. It wasn’t
that
at all. Then what?
Men in general,
she thought, disgusted with herself.
Tall, dark men from Rhode Island in particular.

Too darned much thinking, she added to herself.