Jaine Austen 7 - Killing Bridezilla (7 page)

Dickie got up and stood next to one of the cupids on the lawn below her.

“Stand closer to the statue, honey,” Patti cooed from above. “It symbolizes our undying love.”

Where’s a barf bag when you need one?

They proceeded to recite my bowdlerized balcony scene from
Romeo and Juliet
, wherein Patti gets the brilliant idea to get married here and now, thereby doing away with those pesky extra acts of the original play. Then she leaned over and blew her beloved a kiss to seal the deal. Minutes later, she came skipping out of the house and embraced Dickie for a big steamy smacker.

When they finally came up for air, she glared at her ragtag audience.

“You’re supposed to be applauding.”

As we clapped feebly, she and Dickie made their way up the aisle, where they then proceeded to come right back down again—Dickie with his mom, Patti with her stepfather.

Finally, flanked by their wedding party, the happy couple stood before the minister to the stars and ran through their actual wedding vows, a treacly bit of pap written by Patti that made the scribes at Hallmark look like Ezra Pound.

At last the rehearsal was over, and I began easing my way toward the house. I was determined to make my escape before Patti could ambush me with any surprise “tweaks.”

I didn’t get very far when I heard someone calling my name. I turned and saw Patti’s stepfather hurrying to my side.

“We haven’t been formally introduced,” the dashing sixtysomething said. “I’m Conrad De60

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vane. I just wanted to tell you what a wonderful job you did on the script.”

“Thank you.”

At last. Someone in the family had said something pleasant to me.

“I hope Patti wasn’t too demanding,” he said with an apologetic smile.

Not any more than your average third-world despot.

“Not at all,” I managed to lie.

“Please don’t hurry off. We’re having a little cocktail party before the rehearsal dinner, and we’d love you to join us.”

And put myself in Patti’s line of fire? Not on your life.

“No, thank you. I couldn’t possibly. I’m not dressed for a party.”

“Don’t worry about that. Everyone’s going to be casual.”

“No, really, I can’t.”

“You don’t want to miss out on any of Veronica’s delicious hors d’oeuvres, do you?”

Oh, damn. Why did he have to go and mention hors d’oeuvres? Along with appetizers, entrées, side dishes, and desserts, hors d’oeuvres happen to be one of my favorite food courses.

“I tasted her crab-stuffed mushrooms,” he said,

“and they’re out of this world.”

Crab-stuffed mushrooms? C’mon, I’m only human.

So, throwing caution—and sanity—to the winds, I said, “Sure, why not?”

I was about to find out exactly why not, because just then I saw Walter Barnhardt sprinting across the lawn to join us.

“Jaine!” he beamed. “I thought that was you!”

Poor Walter. Whereas Dickie had blossomed KILLING BRIDEZILLA

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into a studmuffin, Walter had remained firmly entrenched in the Valley of the Nerds. If anything, he’d grown nerdier. His ears seemed to stick out farther than they had in high school, as did his teeth. And to top things off—literally—

he was sporting the ghastliest wig I’d ever seen outside of a Halloween party.

“Are you staying for cocktails?” he asked.

“Of course she is,” Conrad said. “She just told me she would.”

“Super!” Walter said, eyeing me like a starving dog who’s just been handed a T-bone.

Chapter 7

It turns out I had totally misjudged Walter. I just assumed by the creepy way he’d clung to me like lichen in high school that he was a painfully awkward geekazoid. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Now that I finally got a chance to talk with him, I discovered he was a painfully obnoxious geekazoid.

The guy never shut up. He had me trapped in a dim corner of the party, blocking my escape, while he rattled on about his colorful life as an insurance actuary.

I tried not to stare at the god-awful nest of hair perched on his head like a dead hamster. I wondered if it had come with a rabies shot.

“Want to know your odds of getting killed by decapitation?” he asked cheerfully.

“Who doesn’t?”

Having failed to detect the irony in my reply, he was off and running with a bunch of gruesome statistics. Actually, at this point, the idea of death by decaptitation was beginning to have a certain appeal. At the very least, it would put an end to this conversation.

What really got me was that while I was trapped with the Human Actuarial Table, I could see 64

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Veronica and her wait staff circulating around the room with trays of divine smelling hors d’oeuvres. I tried to signal them, but they didn’t notice me tucked away in this godforsaken corner.

At last, Walter stopped yapping about his job and flashed me what he probably thought was a sexy grin.

“So, Jaine. I don’t see any ring on your finger.

I guess that means you must be single.”

“Actually, Walter, I’m engaged.”

“You are?” He blinked in amazement.

I couldn’t help but feel a tad irritated. What was so damn surprising about me having a guy in my life?

“Yes. My fiancé will be coming to the wedding tomorrow.”

Thank heavens for Miss Emily aka Rocky and the fabulous Brad aka Francois. Maybe telling Patti and Denise that whopper of a lie wasn’t such a stupid move after all.

Walter gulped, disappointed, and I took advantage of the momentary lull in the conversation to make my getaway.

“Well, it’s been fun chatting,” I said, practically burning rubber as I bolted to freedom.

By now the Devanes’ “little” party was wall-towall guests. Patti sashayed among them, arm in arm with Dickie, showing him off like a trinket she’d picked up at Neiman’s. Her stepfather, engrossed in conversation with another captain of industry, didn’t seem to notice or care that his wife was flirting shamelessly with the hunky reverend.

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I joined the revelers and scooted over to Veronica, who was weaving her way among the partygoers in her chef’s jacket, holding a tray of those crab-stuffed mushrooms Conrad had touted.

I grabbed one and gobbled it down. Sheer heaven.

“Have another,” Veronica urged. “All the skinny minnies here are afraid to eat anything more fattening than a celery stick.”

So I took another. And, if you must know, another.

“How come you’re out here serving?” I asked, between bites. “Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen?”

“Yes, I should, but Patti sent home one of my waiters. She said his red hair clashed with her dress.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I wish I were,” she sighed. “Hey, it looks like you’re about to have company.”

She nodded in the direction of Walter, who was making his way across the room.

“Quick, where’s the bathroom?”

“Down the hall to your right.”

“Thanks.”

Grabbing one more mushroom for the road, I dashed down the hallway and ducked into the first room I saw.

It was not a bathroom, but a library of some sort, decorated in tufted Gentleman’s Club leather and hunting prints. What riveted my attention, however, was not the plush upholstery or the Currier & Ives prints—but Cheryl, sprawled out on the sofa, a bottle of champagne balanced on her tummy.

“C’mon in,” she said, waving me inside. “Want some champagne?”

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She held out the bottle.

“No, thanks.”

Call me wacky, but I prefer my bubbly sans spit.

“I stole it from behind the bar,” she giggled.

“I figured I deserved it for sitting through that stupid rehearsal.”

She raised the bottle to her lips and took a healthy slug.

“I still can’t believe I drove all the way up here to watch that nonsense. But Patti insisted. Said she didn’t want me to miss out on any of the fun.

Hah! She just wanted me to feel like a fat fool while that skinny Swedish chick paraded around in my place. I should’ve told her to take her stupid wedding and blow it out her liposuctioned fanny.”

She held up the champagne bottle in a mock toast.

“Here’s to the bride. May she get herpes on her honeymoon.”

She took another slug of the bubbly and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Hey, why don’t we go back to the party and grab some hors d’oeuvres?” I suggested, thinking it would be wise to put something else in her system other than alcohol.

But Cheryl wasn’t listening.

“The miserable bitch,” she muttered, lost in thoughts of Patti. “She ruined my life.”

“The crab-stuffed mushrooms are fabulous,”

I said, wondering how Patti had ruined Cheryl’s life.

Cheryl looked up, a flicker of interest in her glazed blue eyes.

“Crab-stuffed mushrooms, huh?”

“They’re really good.”

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Then she eyed her champagne.

“Nah,” she said, succumbing to the lure of the bubbly. “I think I’ll stay here.”

“Well, it was nice running into you,” I offered lamely as I headed for the door.

“Jaine,” she called out from the depths of the sofa.

I turned to face her.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry I was so nasty to you in high school.”

“You weren’t so bad.”

“Oh, yes, I was,” she sighed. “And I’m paying for it now. I’m utterly miserable, if that’s any consolation.”

“It’s no consolation, Cheryl,” I said, meaning it. “I hope things get better for you. Just take it easy on that champagne, okay?”

“Sure,” she said, once more putting the bottle to her lips.

I dreaded to think of the sparks that would fly if Patti discovered Cheryl snockered under the Currier & Ives.

But when I got back to the party I saw that Patti was somewhat tootled herself.

As I stood in the entrance to the living room, she was still making the rounds of the party, her arm hooked proprietarily through Dickie’s. She stopped to chat with Denise and her significant other, a sleek bizguy who looked like he just stepped out of a Rolex ad.

“You guys having fun?” Patti asked, her voice loud and a bit slurred.

“Of course,” Denise replied. “We’re having a lovely time.”

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“Not as much fun as last night, huh?” Patti said with a broad wink. “That was some bachelorette party. Did we get wasted or what?”

Denise nodded, smiling stiffly.

“We went to a male strip club,” Patti informed Mr. Rolex. “Talk about your hunk heaven, huh, Denise?”

Denise offered another stiff smile. Clearly it had not been her idea of a fun evening.

“But none of the strippers were as hot as my Dickie,” Patti said, nuzzling Dickie’s neck with a kiss.

Dickie blushed, both embarrassed and pleased.

It was then that I heard someone hiss:

“Drunken slut.”

I turned and saw Dickie’s parents standing not far from me. Mrs. Potter’s jaw was clenched tight with disgust.

“I can’t let him go through with it, Kyle.”

“Take it easy, Eleanor,” her husband said, putting his arm around her.

She jerked away from his touch.

“Don’t try to pacify me. Can’t you see what’s happening? Dickie’s nothing but a toy to her.

Her latest plaything. She’ll be cheating on him before the ink on the marriage license is dry.”

Her husband sighed.

“Just look at the way her mother is flirting with the minister. Like mother, like daughter.

Sluts, both of them.”

“Try not to worry, dear. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“You bet things are going to be okay,”

Eleanor Potter said, her eyes steely with determination. “That bitch is not going to be my daughter-in-law. I’m going to see to that.”

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“Eleanor, hush.” Her husband, having spotted me eavesdropping, gestured in my direction.

I smiled weakly and backed out into the hallway.

Oh, well. It was time I left the party anyway. As much as I would’ve liked to nab some more hors d’oeuvres, I couldn’t risk running into Walter.

So I made my way to the front door, wondering exactly what Eleanor Potter planned to do to stop Patti from becoming her daughter-in-law.

I was just about to let myself out when I heard Patti calling my name.

“Jaine, wait.”

I turned and saw her coming out into the foyer.

“Before you leave,” she chirped, “I’ve got something for you.”

My paycheck! O blessed day!

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Well, wasn’t that a happy surprise? I thought for sure she’d be one of those clients who kept me waiting for weeks before coughing up my pay.

Minutes later she came back—alas, paycheck-free. The only thing she had in her hot little hands was her dog, Mamie, whiter and fluffier than ever, with a pink polka-dot bow in her hair.

“Look who just came back from the groomers,”

Patti cooed. “Doesn’t she look gorgeous?”

“Gorgeous,” I echoed, a stiff smile plastered on my face.

“She’s going to be Flower Dog at the wedding tomorrow.”

“Flower Dog?”

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Now I’d heard everything.

“Yes, she’s going to walk down the aisle with a basket of rose petals in her little mouth.”

Poor Mamie. I could only imagine what nonsense she had to put up with. I was surprised she wasn’t wearing thong underwear and hair extensions.

“Anyhow, I was wondering if you could do me a teeny tiny favor and keep her at your place tonight.”

My place? Was she nuts?

“We’re all heading off to the rehearsal dinner, and I hate leaving her home alone.”

“What about your maid? Won’t she be here?”

“Oh, Mamie doesn’t like to be with servants.

She wants to hang out with real people. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Real people?? Alert the media. Marie Antoinette was alive and well in Bel Air.

“You don’t mind, do you?” she said, thrusting the dog in my arms.

“Actually, Patti, I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”