For Better or Hearse (4 page)

“This isn't exactly how I imagined spending a Sunday off,” Kate whined as I handed her one of two Grande Skim No Whip Mocha Frappuccinos and got in the passenger seat of her car. She'd double-parked in front of the Starbucks on Georgetown's bustling M Street, and taxicabs honked as they veered around her.

“I know.” I'd barely closed the car door and balanced the drink between my knees when Kate careened the car out into traffic. “I'm missing my yoga class for Richard's bridal tea.”

“Wasn't that class in the morning?” She glanced at the digital clock on her dashboard. “It's almost two o'clock.”

I took a sip as Kate stopped for a red light. “I didn't want to cut it too close. Anyway, it took me forever to figure out an outfit.” Actually, the thought of wrapping myself into a human pretzel had seemed far less appealing as I lay in bed this morning than it had when I'd signed up for Beginner Yoga. I'd only missed three
classes, I reasoned with myself, ignoring the fact that there had only been four total.

“Annabelle, you're wearing a wrap dress. How hard is that?”

I tugged the beige fabric of the low wrap neckline together. “Well, I had to shave. And not only my ankles like when I wear pants.”

Kate made a right turn without signaling and the cars behind us screeched to slow down. “At least that explains why you don't have a boyfriend.”

I glared at her as we bounced over the uneven pavement of the latest street construction, and I clutched my drink to keep it from spilling. “Have I fired you yet today?”

Kate stuck her tongue out at me. I noticed that she'd actually taken my advice and skipped the usual cleavage display. Her white cowl neck top was practically prim, although her hot pink skirt had a side slit that revealed most of her thigh. I knew I should be grateful for any nod to modesty, so I ignored the skirt.

We passed a row of tiny restaurants and shops as we headed toward the Potomac. People lingered over brunch on one of the restaurant balconies, and my stomach growled at the thought of Eggs Benedict. I could be sure that the bridal tea would feature pretty, dainty food not even remotely as satisfying.

As we turned up K Street and skirted past Washington harbor under the bridge, I rolled down my window so I could enjoy one of the few days of perfect autumn weather in Washington. We exited off K Street and Kate merged into traffic without looking or slowing down. The wheels screeched against the pavement, and I knew we'd left tire marks and possibly an accident
behind us. I sunk a little lower in my seat and clung to the seat belt with my one free hand.

We passed the Watergate Hotel, all retro curves with fabulous views and even more fabulous scandal. On the other side, trees with burnished gold leaves edged the shores of the Potomac and colorful sailboats dotted the water. This was exactly the type of day that brought tourists in droves and made it impossible to get around. I looked at the rows of tour buses as we approached Memorial Bridge and shook my head.

“Richard will kill us if we're late.”

“Relax.” Kate pushed her sunglasses back on her head. “It's an afternoon tea. It's supposed to be fun.”

“You call a roomful of brides and their mothers fun?”

“Good point.”

“First a murder and now a bridal tea. I don't know which is worse.”

“I'm surprised Richard didn't cancel the tea.” Kate burned a red light to make a turn.

“Are you kidding?” I laughed. “The police know he had nothing to do with the murder. And you know Richard. Even if he were a suspect, he'd manage to pull off the event covertly.”

“Right. What was I thinking?” Kate flipped her hair out of her face. “The police don't still think you had anything to do with the murder, do they?”

“No. Ian said they seemed to be most interested in the kitchen staff at the hotel.”

Kate slammed on the brakes as the car in front of her stopped to take a photo of the Washington Monument out the window. “Ian?”

I pulled myself back from the dashboard. I didn't know whether my heart pounded from the near-death
drive or the impending third degree. “You remember. The lead singer from the band.”

“The cute one with the tattoos? The one who is
so
not your type?”

“Why is he not my type?” I turned in my seat to face Kate. “I've dated wild guys before.”

Kate raised an eyebrow and accelerated the car. “Who?”

“Steven in college. He was an environmental protester always chaining himself to something.”

“Please, Annabelle. I'll bet he wore a ponytail and wrote poetry, too.” Kate rolled her eyes at me. “Sensitive ponytail boys are not wild. Moody, maybe. But not wild. Trust me.” When it came to men, I usually did.

“I never said I was interested in Ian, anyway.”

“But you've talked to him since the wedding?” Kate screeched to a stop to let a tour group wearing identical bright orange T-shirts cross the street next to the Smithsonian Castle. She gunned the engine as the last person crossed.

“He came by my apartment yesterday.” I held up a hand when I saw the “I told you so” look on Kate's face. “Just to return my emergency kit. It got mixed up in the band's equipment.”

“Okay, so you're completely uninterested in this hot musician who came by personally to return your stuff. Got it. Please continue.”

I ignored her sacrcasm. “As I was saying, Ian thought the police spent a lot of time with the cooks.”

Kate weaved her way through traffic to make all the green lights, passing the row of massive Smithsonian museums leading up to the Capitol. “Which makes sense. They would have had more motive and opportunity than anyone.”

“But there are so many of them, and they all dress alike.” I took a final sip of my frappuccino and put the empty plastic cup in the armrest holder. “How will we tell the suspects apart?”

Kate gave me a sideways glance. “Why would we have to tell them apart?”

“We won't,” I said quickly. “I'm a little curious about who hated Henri enough to impale him on an ice sculpture, that's all.”

“If the police just cleared me as a suspect, I wouldn't want to cause any more trouble.” Kate began scanning the streets for parking as we drove through the Capitol Hill business district. “But that's me.”

“I have no intention of stirring up trouble.” I pointed to a marginally legal parking space on Eleventh Street right across from Richard's town-house showroom. “I only said I'm curious. Georgia and Darcy will be able to tell us more.”

“You mean Georgia and Darcy from the Fairmont?”

I nodded and looked out the window, pretending to be inspecting the parking space intently. “We're having lunch with them tomorrow.”

“Well, well, well.” Kate drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “You didn't waste much time sticking your hose in this murder case.”

“It's not my
hose
, it's my
nose.
And I'm not sticking it anywhere. We have lunch with Georgia and Darcy all the time. Georgia is one of my few friends from UVA who ended up in D.C., and the only one aside from me who isn't a lawyer or doctor.”

“Didn't you meet in ‘Wedding Receptions for Fun and Profit'?”

“Very funny. You know there's no such class.” I shook my head. Kate loved to joke that UVA had a
mythical wedding planning degree. I'm sure the university founders would be spinning in their graves if they could hear. Georgia and I liked to joke that we were living proof that you could make a good living with an English degree as long as your job had very little to do with your major.

“And so what if I'm a little curious about the investigation?” I asked Kate angled the car into the parking space and turned off the engine. “As long as you're just curious. Promise me you won't get us any more involved in this mess than we already are, okay?”

“Why would you think that I'd get more involved—”

“Annabelle,” Kate cut me off and leveled a look at me.

I sighed. “Fine. I promise.”

“Thank you.” Kate let out a long breath. “I feel much better.”

“Ready for a roomful of brides?”

“And their mothers?” Kate examined her lipstick in her visor mirror, and then flipped it up. “Bring it on.”

“Where have you been?” Richard met us at the tall double doors of the gray row house. The metal plate next to the door read
RICHARD GERARD CATERING
and had been added since my last visit. Not surprising. Richard loved making changes to the office decor so he could stay on the cutting edge. I had recently talked him out of repainting the entire building in a greenish brown hue called “Baby's First Summer,” and he was still in a snit that I'd referred to his new favorite color as “Baby's First Diaper.”

I glanced at my watch. “The party only started half an hour ago. What could possibly have gone wrong yet?”

“Wrong?” Richard gave a falsetto laugh and looked behind him. “Who said anything is wrong?”

Kate lowered her voice. “Are you feeling okay?”

“You've got to help me,” he said through a fixed smile. “My best captain, Jim, couldn't come at the last minute because his flying squirrel got sick, so it's just me and the kitchen staff.”

“A flying squirrel?” I exchanged a look with Kate. “Is it legal to have those as pets?”

Richard held up his hand and shook his head. “Don't ask. My life is a Fellini film today. Not to mention, these people are out of control.”

“The brides or the mothers?” I peeked around Richard to assess the roomful of guests. About a dozen or so women and one stocky man clustered around a table draped in a chartreuse silk cloth and decorated with china teapots full of pink peonies. Trays of open-faced tea sandwiches and miniature pastries surrounded the flowers and were the focus of the oohs and aahs coming from the guests. It was hard to see any reason for Richard's anxiety. Then again, Richard didn't need a reason.

He arched a brow. “Take your pick.”

I took another look at the guests. “I hate to burst your bubble, but this is a dream event.”

“Oh, really?” Richard jerked his head in the direction of the one man in the group, clearly a Father of the Bride who was built like a fire hydrant and wore a dark, double-breasted suit. “Do you have any idea who that is?”

Kate shook her head. “He doesn't have the look of a politician.” Kate kept up with politics by dating plenty of political staffers. She may not have known anything about the issues, but she knew which states had the cutest interns.

“I wish he were a politician,” Richard said with a sigh, then lowered his voice and gave me a meaningful look. “He's in trucking.”

My eyes widened. “Do you mean…?”

“The family business.”

“And?” Kate looked between the two of us. “I don't
see the problem with a family-owned trucking company.”

“Organized crime, Kate,” I hissed.

“Oh.” Kate shrugged. “Leave it to D.C. to have an organization for everything.”

“It's not an association,” I started to explain, and then thought better of it. “Never mind.”

“Mr. Constantino's daughter, Sophia, is getting married next year, and he wants it to be the wedding of the century.” Richard dabbed at his brow. “I don't know if I can handle the pressure.”

“You're the best, Richard.” I gave his arm a squeeze. “Don't worry about it. What's the worst that could happen?”

“I could end up lying facedown in fresh cement, that's what.”

“Doubtful. He's in trucking, not construction.” I grinned.

Kate nudged him and smiled. “You could end up in a shipment of bananas headed for Canada, though.”

Richard glared at Kate. “Now I feel much better.”

“That's what we're here for.” Kate fluttered her eyelashes.

“And for the free food.” I eyed the tray of scones a waiter set out on the buffet. Richard's cream scones were heavenly and usually vanished in a matter of seconds. “I don't have a thing to eat at home.”

“Shocking,” Richard drawled as he motioned us into the main room. “I'm going to check on the kitchen.” He spun on his heel and disappeared down the hall.

“Do you think we can get in, eat, and get out without actually having to talk to any brides?” Kate asked.

“Annabelle Archer?” My name was practically screeched over the conversation, which came to a
complete halt. A mother and daughter in matching pink and green plaid headbands and grosgrain belts ran across the room. Debbie and Darla Douglas. One of my upcoming June brides and her mother.

Debbie's wedding to Turner Grant III promised to be an event fit for the son of a Mississippi congressman and the daughter of a country club Lady Who Lunches. Darla had happily turned over all the wedding planning to me once she'd negotiated free-flowing mint juleps and a bourbon-tasting bar for the reception. Darla was my favorite mother of the bride because she was usually too soused to care what went on.

“Debbie and I were hoping we'd see you here.” Darla leaned in for an air kiss, and I tried to avoid getting splashed by her cocktail. Leave it to Darla to procure a martini at an afternoon tea. I wondered if she'd actually brought her own.

“Mother and I were discussing your idea of using magnolia leaves everywhere for the wedding.” Debbie gestured with her matching martini. “We think it's an adorable idea.”

Darla rested a hand on my arm. “Do you think we could find a magnolia china pattern or would that be too much?”

The wedding had already passed “too much” months ago.

“Maybe we could use that new leaf plate at Perfect Settings for the salad course,” Kate said. “It's shaped kind of like a magnolia leaf.”

Darla glanced at Kate next to me and a look of surprise crossed her face. “Kate, dear. I didn't see you there.”

How many martinis had this woman already gone through? Kate elbowed me, and I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing.

Debbie put a hand to her cheek. “I didn't recognize you in that turtleneck.” I'm sure they'd never seen fabric even remotely close to Kate's neck before.

“You look practically Republican.” Darla giggled.

Kate flinched. “It's technically a cowl neck—”

I cut her off in mid-sentence. “Have you tried the scones yet? They're one of Richard Gerard's signature items.”

“We haven't gotten to the food.” Darla's eyes flitted to the buffet, and then dismissed the bowls of cream and berries with a shudder. Darla would as soon let a scone pass her lips than she would drink her morning orange juice straight.

Debbie raised her glass. “We're on a liquid diet until the wedding.”

“But you both look fabulous.” I couldn't imagine either woman getting more willowy, and I'd bet the only nutrition Darla had gotten for years came from the garnishes in her drinks.

“I have to fit into my Monique Luillier slip dress.” Debbie downed her drink in one final gulp.

I had visions of Debbie walking down the aisle in a narrow slip dress holding a bouquet, her father's arm, and a martini. Kate and I would need a drink after this wedding. Or during it.

“Can we get you anything from the bar?” Darla cooed as she peered at the lonely olive in the bottom of her glass. “Our drinks need a little freshening up.”

“I think I'm going to start with some food, but thank you.”

“Suit yourself, sugar.” Darla patted my hand, and then teetered off across the room to the bar with Debbie close on her Ferragamo heels.

“I hope Richard didn't invite anymore of our clients
to this,” Kate whimpered. “We can't count on all of them to be drunk on a Sunday afternoon. I would hate to have to pull off a coherent conversation.”

“I'm going to be incoherent if I don't eat soon,” I whispered to Kate as I tried to see through the crowd to the buffet. “Are there any scones left?”

“I can't see.” Kate grabbed my elbow and pulled me forward. “Follow me, and don't make eye contact with anyone.”

We maneuvered past clusters of chattering brides comparing bridesmaid dress colors and swapping favor ideas. I crossed my fingers no one would recognize us. We reached the food display, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw several scones left on the tray. Maybe everyone at the party was dieting to fit into their wedding dresses.

Kate held up a heart-shaped scone. “Is this a theme or has Richard gone soft on us?”

I looked at the trays of heart-shaped cookies and tea sandwiches that filled the table from end to end. I placed a tiny butter heart on my plate and reached for a scone. “It's official. He's finally lost his mind.”

Kate laughed and handed me a napkin.

“Can you believe this, Mother?” The girl next to me motioned at the food. I guess she wasn't a big fan of hearts, either.

“What is it now, Viola?” The woman beside her sounded less than patient.

“There isn't a thing here that's vegan.”

“You're not still on that kick, are you? Don't think for a second that your father and I are paying for a wedding where you serve nothing but vegetables.”

“How can you expect me to use my own wedding to exploit animals?”

Kate raised an eyebrow and edged away from them. I turned to get some whipped cream and saw that the bride had straight dark hair parted down the middle that almost reached her patchwork skirt. She wore no visible makeup and was in serious need of eyebrow maintenance.

Her mother, on the other hand, could've given Tammy Faye Bakker a run for her money. She stood about a head taller than her daughter and wore her shoulder-length dark hair in a bob that was sprayed to within an inch of its life. Her eyelashes had so many coats of mascara it was a wonder she could still blink, and her eyelids were layered in about a dozen shades of blue.

“Viola, you cannot have a vegan wedding. How will you have a wedding cake if you can't use dairy products or eggs?”

“I'm sure they can make wedding cakes with soy.”

The mother sucked in air. “If you won't listen to me, then at least listen to an expert. The caterer said that one of the best wedding planners in the city would be here. She can settle it.”

I froze in mid-dollop and dropped the spoon back in the whipped cream. This was exactly the kind of wedding that would make me want to throw myself off Memorial Bridge within a week. I turned to Kate and motioned her toward the kitchen. I had to find Richard so I could kill him for giving my name to the Odd Couple.

“But I didn't get any berries to go with my scone,” Kate argued as I pushed her down the hall and through the swinging door of the kitchen. A massive chef with salt and pepper hair stood behind a metal table singing an operatic version of the
Green Acres
theme song as
he stamped out tea sandwiches with a heart-shaped cookie cutter. Several other cooks scurried around him in matching white chef jackets.

“You can eat as much as you want as soon as you help me murder Richard.”

“It's always work, work, work with you.” Kate put a hand on her hip. “Fine, then. Let's get this over with.”

I realized that the kitchen chatter had died, and I looked behind Kate at the row of cooks staring at us in silence. The head chef's thick black eyebrows had become a solid line across his forehead as he scowled at us. He looked much more menacing when he wasn't singing old TV theme songs, despite the red plastic cookie cutter in his hand.

“Oops,” Kate gulped. “Out of the frying pan and into a friar.”