The Wedding Caper (3 page)

I had to
get moving. I gave Warren one last peck on the cheek and then waved as if
heading for home. And, indeed, I took a few steps toward home, just to throw
everyone off a bit. However, once safely out of view, I slipped down the
walkway on the north side of the savings and loan to do a bit of investigative
work. I had to clamp eyes on the night deposit box, had to see for myself the
location of the crime, to scope out the scene, as it were.

I inched
my way along the wall, doing all I could to avoid the glances from folks sitting
at the bank’s drive-through just a few yards away. One lady stared in vague
curiosity, and I shifted my gaze, avoiding her penetrating gaze at all costs.
Where in the world was the night deposit box again?

Man.
Turned out the metal contraption was smack-dab in the middle of the wall at the
drive through. Mental note: Come back at night when there aren’t so many people
around. Be sure to bring a flashlight.

With
frustration threatening to eek its way into my pores, I turned to begin the
walk home. This morning’s verse ran through my head, taunting me, “You will
know the truth and the truth will set you free.”

In all
honesty, I felt like a failure. Sure didn’t have much to write in my notebook.
I tried to cheer myself with happy thoughts, but the ever-present image of
Warren in prison garb reminded me of my dilemma.

So, I had
to get cracking. Had to at least speculate. If the truth refused to present
itself, I’d continue on in my quest to find it. I would get to the bottom of
this, if it
was
the last thing I did.

If I had
to solve this riddle right here, right now, I’d still lean toward Nikki. I’d
watched enough episodes of whodunit television to know you couldn’t trust the
innocent-looking
ones as far as you could throw them. And
what was all that stuff about being unnerved? What did she have to be nervous
about, if not the obvious?

I allowed
my thoughts to ramble that direction as I continued the journey toward home. By
the time I turned onto our street, excitement had risen to an all-time high. I
couldn’t wait to settle down with my notebook to make sense of the facts now
swirling through my head. Yes, Nikki had surely done this thing, and I would
watch the cards as they stacked against her.

No sooner
had I walked in the front door than the phone rang. I answered it with a hint
of frustration, wishing I could just stick to my work and avoid interruptions.
I was startled to hear Warren’s anxious voice. “Um, honey?”

“Yes?”

“Did you
forget something?”

Forget
something? I looked down into my bag to figure out what I might have left. Got
the deposit receipt. Got my notebook and pen.

“I’m
clueless,” I spoke into the phone.

His
“obviously” did little to set things straight in my mind.

Until
I heard the barking in the background.

Chapter Three

Hardly a
secret goes untold in our tiny town of
Clarksborough
,
P-A. Whether it’s the high school football coach’s clandestine crush on the new
postal carrier or Mayor Hennessey’s eyebrow and chin lift—we hear it all.
And “all” can be a lot to swallow, especially when you’re not sure it’s “all”
the truth.

Now me, I
avoid gossip like the plague. Always have. I mean, I’ll occasionally chat with
Sheila about this little thing or that—but most of our conversations
revolve around prayer requests for the needs of others—like Mary Lou
Conner’s failed marriage or Betty Sue Anderson’s good-for-nothing son who can’t
seem to stay out of the local jail.

But this
thing about my husband stealing $25,000 I’ve managed to keep to myself. There are
some stories you just don’t need to have spread around. People might get the
wrong idea. And besides, I have my reputation to uphold. I’ve been a fine,
upstanding member of the
Clarksborough
Community
Church for over twenty years. And as president of the Clark County Ladies
Political Action League, many depend on me for social guidance.

That’s
why, when I opened my e-mail box after fetching Sasha from the bank, I knew I’d
struck gold. The title of Lesson
Two
jumped off the
page: A GOOD INVESTIGATOR DEVELOPS SOCIAL GRACES. I could scarcely control my
enthusiasm.

The more
I read, the more intrigued I became.
Turns out, a skilled
investigator needed more than just a keen intuition.
She needed to be
trained in the art of proper etiquette. Dinner parties, political gatherings,
public events—a socially adept investigator should find herself at home
in them all. I rubbed my hands together in anticipation. Now this, I could sink
my teeth into.

With my
back perfectly straight and my right ankle delicately crossed over the left, I
scanned the lesson to review the basics of etiquette. I doubted there would be
much to learn, all things considered. I might live in the North now, but my
genteel Southern upbringing would surely give me an added advantage. If anyone
understood the importance of the unspoken rules of society, a proper lady from
Mississippi would.

Hmm.
Turned
out, there was a bit more to this than met the eye.
Some of the questions threw me a little.

How do
you receive a compliment? Graciously, of course, offering one in return.

Do you
take a gift to the hostess of a party? Hmm. Looks like I owe Sheila a gift for
that little soirée she held last Saturday night.

Does the
twenty-first-century man still open the door for a woman? If he knows what’s
good for him.

If a
wedding is called off, should the bride return the engagement ring? Whoa,
Nellie. Stop right there. Return a diamond? Are you kidding?

On and on
it went. After a while, I had to rest my eyes. I pondered the things I’d read.
For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how “seating party guests in
appropriate places” at my next big event could help me solve the Clark County
Savings and Loan mystery, but I would give this “social awareness” thing my
best shot. Yes, I would be a social butterfly before day’s end.

Before
day’s end?
A gasp
erupted as I glanced at the clock. Five twenty-five? After my escapades at the
bank, the afternoon had pretty much slipped away from me. Warren would arrive
home in less than an hour, prepared to leave for the steakhouse. And
me.
. .

Man, oh
man. I flew into action, nearly tripping over poor Sasha in the process. “I’m
sorry, little one.” I gave her a scratch behind the ears, but she didn’t
respond with her usual burst of joy. She’s probably still mad at me for leaving
her at the bank. I crouched down to make a proper apology, one befitting a lady
of honor. “I’m truly sorry for tying you to the flagpole, Sasha.” Her tail gave
a hint of a wag. “And I promise not to do it again.” This time she leapt into
my arms, as always, tongue lapping at my face in shameless glee. “Atta girl.”
One more pat on the back for my canine crime-solving partner and I
sprinted off to the bathroom.

It never
ceases to amaze me, the ability of a woman to get ready for an “event’ in a
hurry. Truly, this has become almost an art form for me. I managed to shower,
dress, curl my hair, and apply makeup—all within a matter of forty-five
minutes. Granted, my shoes didn’t match, my eyeliner came out a bit heavier on
the right eye than the left, and my blue silk blouse required
rebuttoning
, but
all-in-all
, I
think I made remarkable time.

As I
headed to the closet to fetch the proper shoes—a lovely pair of fall
pumps—I heard Sasha let out a joyful “yip” from the living room. Ah.
Warren’s home.
I gave myself another once-over in the
full-length mirror. Not bad, not bad. The face staring back at me conveyed
genteel confidence.
Etiquette,
schmetiquette
.
I’ve got this thing covered.

Less than
an hour later, we met up with Brandi and her fiancé, Scott, at
Clarksborough’s
first-ever “fancy” steakhouse. CC’s
Steaks-n-More practically buzzed with excitement and some of it rubbed off on
me. I couldn’t still my nerves and the chaos of the place didn’t help much. I
glanced down one more time, just to make sure I’d remembered to put on my
skirt. I’ve had that dream one too many times, I guess. You know the
one—where you show up in public dressed in little more than your smile?

Brandi
and Scott must’ve picked up on my nervousness. He nodded and smiled as she
whispered, “You look great, Mom. They’re going to love you.”

God bless
that precious daughter of mine. She hit the nail right on the head this time
around. For whatever reason, I was a little nervous about meeting Scott’s
parents. Sure, they were supposed to be wonderful people, but what if they
didn’t like us? What if we didn’t get along or had nothing in common? Would
Brandi’s new mother-in-law sweep in and take my place, turning my daughter’s
head—and heart—away from the family? Would she talk Brandi and
Scott into moving to Georgia? Would she raise my grandchildren in my stead?

Where in
the world is
all of this
coming from?

I’d
almost calmed myself when a syrupy voice near the door rang out: “How
wun
-duh-
ful
you look, dah-
lin
!”

I pivoted
on my heel and swallowed my fear. There she stood, in all her glory.
Scott’s mother.
Nadine Cunningham.
With
her arms around my daughter, proclaiming Brandi’s beauty to the masses.

Yep. She
was definitely going to end up with the grandchildren. I could feel it.

On the
other hand, she did have a pleasant-enough smile, and as she approached, I saw
the laugh lines around her eyes.
A very good sign.
I
reached out to take her hand and we bonded the moment we touched. Tears rose to
cover my lashes. The words must have come from the Lord. I certainly hadn’t
planned them. “We’re going to be the best of friends,” I found myself saying.

“Oh, dah-
lin
, we are. I can feel it!” Nadine wrapped me in a warm
embrace and all the rules of proper etiquette flew right out the steakhouse
window as two Southern women reveled in each other’s presence. For a moment we
giggled like schoolgirls, then began to ramble. “How lovely you look.” “What an
a-dah-
rable
shade of blue. Looks
mah-vuh-lus
with your eyes.” I found myself caught up in the wonder of it all—and in
the wonder of Nadine. It had nothing to do with her undeniable physical beauty;
this was something different, altogether. We were truly kindred spirits. I
could sense it right away.

I also
sensed Warren’s humor as he watched me slip back into “Southern” gear. A playful
smile crept across his lips. I smiled too—until, of course, I remembered
how he had acquired the money to pay for the wedding we’d gathered together to
discuss.

“Are you
cold, dah-
lin
?” Nadine gave my fingers a little
squeeze. “Your hands are trembling.”

“No, no.”
I clasped them behind my back and tried to imagine how my new friend would take
to the idea that her daughter-in-law’s father had stolen the funds to cover the
cost of the wedding.

Thankfully,
Brandi and Scott chose that moment for a “get-acquainted” session. The tall,
silver-haired man to Nadine’s left was introduced as Scott’s stepfather, Brad.
With his soft round face, slightly protruding belly, and warm, laughing eyes, I
couldn’t help but think of the fellow as a pre-mature Santa Claus. Warren
reached to take his hand for a friendly shake and I noticed the look of relief
in Brandi and Scott’s eyes. Only then did I realize they had probably stressed
over this meeting more than I had. Somehow, that put everything in perspective
for me.

We spent
the better part of the evening focused on the wedding. Brandi and Scott beamed
as they shared their ideas. We all joined in with excitement, like school
children released to the playground. Within an hour, most of the particulars
had been penciled into my notebook, which I’d stashed in my oversized purse.

Date:
Saturday, February 14th—Valentine’s Day.

Time:
7:00 p.m.

Locale:
The new Be Our Guest wedding facility about halfway between
Clarksborough
and Philly.

Colors: Wine-colored
dresses for the ladies, black tuxedos for the gentlemen

Wedding
Party: Four bridesmaids (Candy and three of Brandi’s best friends from church
and school); four groomsmen (mostly college buddies); one flower girl (Nadine’s
“dah-
lin
” granddaughter, Madeline); and one ring
bearer (my great-nephew, Shawn).

Invitations:
Personally designed and printed by the bride and groom, to be mailed early
January.

Showers:
Two.
One for wedding gifts, another for lingerie.
Mental note: Don’t ask if you’re invited to the second. Assume it’s for the
girls.

Food:
Clarksborough
Catering—Italian cuisine

I bit my
lip as I wrote that last one. I couldn’t help but wonder how the fine folks at
Clarksborough
Catering would feel if they knew we were
paying them with money my husband had stolen from them in the first place.

Thankfully,
the wedding talk turned to other things, and Brandi and Scott lost themselves
in each other’s eyes. Warren and Brad took to discussing the ins and outs of
investment banking, and Nadine and
I.
. . well, we
talked about everything from our joy at becoming mothers-in-law to the Bible
study she led on Monday mornings at her church in Savannah. Apparently there
was more to this woman than met the eye. As she talked about caring for the
homeless and feeding the poor, my heart twisted every which way. The love of
the Lord literally beamed from her eyes, and I found myself captivated.

Throughout
the meal, my mind wandered back to the lesson of the day. I couldn’t help but
be taken with Nadine’s social graces as the evening continued on.
Nothing contrived or fake.
Simple. Genuine. Real. God-given.

If Nadine
Cunningham didn’t have her hands so full caring for the poor, leading a Bible
study and ministering to the sick, I dare say she would make an excellent crime
fighter.