The Ghost of Grey Fox Inn (6 page)

“How about Nancy?” Bess said. “She's not related.”

I froze in my seat. Me? A stand-in for the bride?

“You mean the redhead?” Mrs. Hill said, forgetting to whisper into the reverend's ear again. Apparently the mother of the groom hadn't forgotten that I was a walking, talking bad-luck charm.

“Mother . . . ,” I heard Parker growl.

Mrs. Hill recovered quickly and smiled at me. “If you're willing, Miss Drew. I would . . . very much appreciate it.”

“Sure, of course,” I said, trying to sound breezy. Truthfully, I felt like my knees had turned to water. I may not blink an eye at facing down criminals or running full tilt into danger—but standing up in front of a lot of people? People who are looking at me? I'd take a high-speed car chase over that any day.

Despite my fear, I stood up and walked down the aisle to where the rest of the bridal party was lined up and took my place last in line, where the bride was supposed to stand. Bess grinned back at me. “How could you do this to me?” I grumbled.

“Lighten up, Nancy,” she said with a giggle. “This will be fun. Oh! I almost forgot!” She grabbed a bag sitting on the floor nearby and pulled out a bouquet made of gift bows and a plain white veil. “These are from the bridal shower Charlotte had a few weeks ago. It's tradition for the bride to wear them during the rehearsal. And today, that's you!”

Before I could protest, Bess had pinned the veil to the top of my head and shoved the bow bouquet into my hands. “I feel ridiculous,” I said.

“You're cute as a button!” Bess said, snapping a picture with her phone. “Now get ready, we're about to walk in!”

One by one, each couple walked down the aisle as romantic piano music was piped in through the speaker system. Finally it was down to me. I took a deep breath, prayed that I wouldn't trip over my own feet, and started down the aisle.

As I went, painfully slowly to match the music, I felt every eye in the entire church on me. I looked around the room and thought that one of these people was probably the person responsible for sabotaging Charlotte's wedding. But who?

I finally got up to the front and passed the pew where George was sitting. She leaned over and whispered, loud enough for me to hear, “Looking good, Nance—that veil was made for you!”

Blushing, I nudged George with my foot—hard—as I went by. If only Ned could see me now!

AFTER TWO MORE PRACTICE RUNS
of the procession and the recession, the rehearsal was over. George chortled gleefully at the dozens of embarrassing pictures she had taken with her phone. “Look at your face!” she giggled, showing me a snapshot of myself cowering under the gauzy veil. “You look like you'd rather be getting a root canal.”

“Humph,” I grumbled. “Well, it isn't far from the truth.”

“These are going straight to Ned!” she announced, tapping at the screen.

“Don't you dare!” I lunged for the phone, laughing, just as Bess walked up.

“Oh, calm down, Nancy,” she said, smiling. “Just because Ned sees you wearing a wedding veil doesn't mean it will send him running for the hills.”

I chuckled. “I suppose not.”

“Anyway, everyone's heading over to Indigo Blue for dinner—here are the directions.” Bess handed me a slip of paper with detailed directions to the restaurant—complete with map and points of interest on the way.

“Charlotte strikes again,” I said, impressed at the level of detail. “She really does think of everything.”

“Everything except why someone would want to mess up her wedding,” George muttered. “Maybe we'll be able to gather more information at the rehearsal dinner.”

“Let's hope so,” I replied. “The wedding is tomorrow afternoon! And I have a feeling whoever is behind the pranks is planning something . . . tonight.”

“I hope you're wrong,” Bess said, her eyebrows creased with worry.

We made our way out of the church with the rest of the bridal party, jumped into the convertible, and followed the directions to the Indigo Blue restaurant a few miles away.

Indigo Blue was a sleek, modern building with huge windows on each side. The restaurant was perched right on the waterfront, overlooking the Ashley River, where a glorious pink-and-orange sunset burned on the horizon. A very well-dressed gentleman greeted us at the door and graciously led us in once we told him we were with the Goodwin-Hill wedding party.

“Wow, swanky,” George said. “I bet the steaks here cost more than my car.”

Bess snorted. “I bet the contents of my purse cost more than your car.”

George stopped, hands on hips. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Bess smirked. “It means you need a new car.”

While George tried to defend her car—which, by the way, is held together with duct tape and a prayer—we all walked into the main dining room, where guests
were already milling about, drinking cocktails and munching on appetizers. After finding our names on a seating list, we discovered that Bess would be sitting up front with the rest of the bridesmaids and groomsmen, while George and I would be at a table with some of Parker's coworkers from the news station.

Since we were among the last guests to arrive, the waiters called everyone to their tables shortly after we located our seats. The tables were all adorned with tall vases full of white magnolias, and their sweet smell perfumed the air. The guests were bubbling with excitement, many of them exclaiming to one another about how delighted they were to be invited to Charleston's most anticipated wedding of the year. George and I sat down between a young blond woman and a stocky, middle-aged lady with iron-gray hair.

“Wow! I love your dress,” the blonde exclaimed as we took our seats.

George didn't seem to register this, so I nudged her. “She's talking to you,” I whispered.

“Me?!” George replied. She looked down in confusion at her army-green asymmetrical shift dress. “You really like it?”

“Oh, yeah. It's really contemporary—gritty. I think I saw something just like it on the runway last month! You're, like, ahead of the trend.”

“Um, cool,” George said, blushing. Being fashionable wasn't normally part of George's wheelhouse, but I could tell she was tickled by the compliment. “I'm George, by the way, and this is Nancy. We're friends of the bride.”

“I'm Marsha,” the blonde said. “I'm one of the production assistants at WCHR—my job is to make Parker look good.” She winked.

I looked over at Parker, who was greeting groups at each table and looked like a million dollars in his light-gray suit. “I know what you're thinking,” Marsha continued. “Making Parker Hill look good can't be very hard. Well, you're right. Of all the anchors I've had to work with, Parker is the best by a mile. The guy hasn't a mean bone in his body.”

It was nice to hear, but part of me grumbled at this. A really nice guy doesn't have a lot of enemies—which made for a very short list of suspects. I decided to dig a little deeper. “And how about Tucker Matthews?” I asked. “I met him at the inn yesterday, and he seemed like a nice guy. Do you work with him, too?”

Marsha glanced across the table at the middle-aged woman, and when she saw that the woman was deep in conversation with another guest, Marsha lowered her voice and moved in close. “Well, I don't like to gossip, especially not with our boss listening”—she nodded toward the middle-aged woman—“but Tucker has not been doing well lately. I used to work with him on the morning broadcast, but then he and Parker started vying for the open anchor position on the evening news. Obviously, Parker got the gig. The executives decided to put Tucker on at midnight, since it was the only other anchor position open, and they needed someone to do it. Tucker put a good face on it and all, but everyone knows he's unhappy. It was a real blow.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “But there was no bad blood between Tucker and Parker after that?”

Marsha shrugged. “Tucker's in this wedding, isn't he? I guess maybe he's decided to let bygones be bygones.”

Soon waiters appeared with plates of salad and baskets of warm rolls, and we all settled in to eat. Casually, I leaned over to George. “Well, what do you think?” I asked.

George swallowed a mouthful of bread and said, “I think Tucker has the strongest motive we've seen so far. If Parker messed up his dream of being a popular anchor, then why not mess up Parker's dream wedding as retribution?”

I pondered this as I speared a cucumber. “He's definitely one to watch,” I said. “But let's see how the rest of the night plays out.”

As I finished crunching my salad, I overheard a woman at the table behind me speaking in a loud voice.

“I'm missing my favorite gold chain-link bracelet. I
could have sworn I brought it with me, but I can't find it anywhere in my hotel room.”

A man joked, “Maybe the ghost took it.”

I had to solve this mystery, and fast!

Once the waiters whisked away the empty salad plates, I excused myself to the ladies' room. I followed the signs to a hallway off the dining room, but before I could reach the restroom, two familiar voices filled my ears.

“Stop this, Russell!” a woman's voice said. “You're being unreasonable!”

I quieted my footsteps and continued down the hallway toward the sounds of the voices. They were coming from the coatroom. The door was ajar, just enough to allow the voices to be heard from where I stood, but not so far as to allow the people inside to see me. I lingered outside the door, waiting to hear more.

“I'm being unreasonable?” a man's voice retorted. “It's those Hills who are the difficult ones! I should never have let them convince me to pony up for all
this. I mean, sure, they're paying for this rehearsal dinner—but tonight's little meal is nothing compared to the cost of the rest of this ‘Wedding of the Year'! If they wanted to make such a big splash and invite half the city, they should have paid for it themselves!”

Russell and Sharon,
I thought.
Those are Charlotte's parents in there!

“What I understand,” Mrs. Goodwin replied, furious, “is that three months ago, you had no problem with any of this! You barely even looked at those numbers before you signed the contracts for everything. And now, all of a sudden, we get to Charleston and you're acting like someone held a gun to your head and forced you to pay for a wedding!”

There was a long moment of silence before Mr. Goodwin said anything more. “I'm . . . I'm sorry.”

I heard Mrs. Goodwin sigh. “Russell, is there something you aren't telling me?”

Another pause. “Last week,” Mr. Goodwin finally said, “a few days before our flight . . . I lost big in the stock market. Big. The CEO is less than pleased about
it—he thinks I should have seen it coming. At any rate, it's not looking good for me.”

“Oh, honey,” Mrs. Goodwin breathed. I heard the rustle of an embrace. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't want to ruin the wedding for you. You should be thinking about Charlotte right now, not worrying about our finances.”

“Perhaps, but—”

Just then, a couple of the guests came down the hallway, laughing and talking loudly. Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin went silent, and a moment later, Mr. Goodwin opened the coatroom door to find me standing right beside it. He glanced at me uncertainly.

“Oh!” I said, “Sorry, I was looking for the ladies' room. I guess I picked the wrong door!”

Mr. Goodwin's face relaxed. “No problem, Nancy. It's just down there on the left.”

“Thanks!” I said with a smile. And with that, I scooted down the hall and away.

I thought about the conversation as I reapplied my
lipstick in the restroom. Mr. Goodwin's motives to stop the wedding just didn't add up. Money did make people do crazy things, but most of the money would have already been spent by now, wouldn't it? And from the sound of it, Mr. Goodwin only wanted the best for Charlotte—even if it meant putting up with some irritating in-laws. His negative attitude could be explained away by this problem with his job, plain and simple. Bess was right—Mr. Goodwin didn't belong on our list of suspects, after all.

Feeling at loose ends with the case, I made my way back to the table. Part of the problem with this mystery was that the relationship between the incidents so far was unclear. Sneaking into people's rooms at night was creepy—but the perpetrator didn't steal anything or hurt anyone. So was their motive simply to frighten people? Changing the flowers felt more like a personal insult, a move meant to rattle Charlotte and make her feel uneasy about the wedding.

Thinking about it all, I started to become uneasy myself. I realized exactly why as I reached my seat: the
two incidents felt like a prelude. The main event was still to come.