The Wedding Caper (8 page)

On the
other
hand.
. .

Could be
my listening skills had linked arms with my overactive imagination. Perhaps
Nikki simply needed help getting her foot in the door and her uncle had served
as a catalyst.

On the
other
hand.
. .

Hmm. I
rubbed at my neck to ease the sudden tension that rose up. What was it Sheila
always said at times like these? Ah yes.

“On the
other
hand.
. . you have different fingers.”

Before
frustration could set in, I shut down the Internet and sprang from my chair.
Sasha and I would go for a walk, and I’d tune my ears into something more
peaceful.
. . like the sound of the autumn wind whispering
through the leaves on my neighbor’s old oak tree.

Chapter Eight

“Mom, are you
listening?”

“Hmm?” I
looked up from the china pattern I’d been staring at for the last several
minutes into Brandi’s face. Her wrinkled brow let me know she had some concerns
about my apparent lack of interest in her bridal registration process. Probably
wouldn’t be long before she would voice them. At least, standing here in the
fine china department of Philadelphia’s largest department store, she wouldn’t
make too much of a scene. I hoped.

“Mom, you
haven’t heard a word I’ve said.” She tapped her foot and for a moment I
wondered if, perhaps, she had morphed into the role of mother, and I, the
child.

“Sure I
did.” I offered up a retort. “You love the white china with the silver trim.
Round, not squared.” How’s that for not paying attention?

She
cleared her throat as she lifted a beautiful square plate in front of me. The
wide black trim offset its deep ivory color.

“Wow.
That’s pretty.”

I didn’t
think it was possible for the wrinkles between her eyes to deepen, but lo and
behold if they didn’t.

“I’m
getting worried about you, Mom.” At this point her voice dropped to a concerned
whisper. “We all are.”

All?
Who’s all? “Oh?” I tried to act natural, in the hopes that she would change the
direction of the conversation. In the way of a diversion, I reached for an
elegant crystal goblet and lifted it for her approval. “What do you think of
this one?”

She shook
her head and her lips tightened. Uh oh.

“The same
thing I thought the last time you asked me. I think it’s awful. Gaudy. And
Scott would never go for it. He likes the modern look. We both do.”

“Right. I
knew that.” I placed the goblet down and flashed a smile that would’ve dazzled
Hollywood paparazzi.

The words
from yesterday’s lesson came back to me in a flash: In order to better hone in
on clues, an investigator has to focus on his or her listening skills. I stared
into my daughter’s troubled eyes and had to
conclude.
.
. she was giving me plenty of clues with the wide-eyed stares. And they weren’t
pleasant ones.

With new
resolve, I turned my attentions to listening to her needs. This was her day. I
shifted my mind—away from suspects, clues and other such
distractions—and toward the beautiful daughter standing in front of me.
She needed me. And I needed to get with the program. Pronto.

Together,
we picked out silverware—technically flatware, since she opted not to go
with real silver. She chose a simple but elegant pattern that looked terrific
with her new dishes.

From
there we moved on to linens. I bit my tongue as she pored over the various
patterns and textures and offered up a smile when she settled on “the perfect
one.” Should I tell her that satin sheets aren’t really practical over the long
haul? Tell her my own honeymoon story about wearing a satin nightgown in a bed
with satin sheets—how the combination had nearly proven deadly? Nah.

After
that, we headed to the bath department to select floor mats and towels. Purple?
She’s doing her bathroom in purple? I had to laugh.
Internally,
of course.
As a new bride, I’d chosen brown and gold.
Very
trendy—back in the day.

Of
course, a lot of things had changed since then. When Warren and I married, we
registered for china and crystal. That was about it. These new-fangled brides
registered for everything imaginable. Want to buy the lovely couple a wall
clock? Simple! You’ll find one listed on page three of their registry. What
about kitchen towels or
pot holders
? You’ll find several
options on page five. Thinking about picking up a toothbrush holder for the
master bath? Why stop there when you can buy a matching tissue-paper holder and
soap dish? See page eleven of the registry for details.

Yep, you
could register for just about everything these days. Heaven help the poor
wedding guest who purchased the happy couple a set of bath towels without
checking the list for the appropriate style and color. I shuddered, just
thinking about it.

Ah well.
Brandi and I did have fun making the selections. In fact, by the time all was
said and done, I’d joined right in as if the presents would eventually be
floating my way instead of my daughter’s.

We
finished out our “Saturday Shopping Spree” with a trip to a nearby pizza
parlor, where we nibbled on Alfredo pizza, a favorite for both of us. I let her
ramble on and on about the wedding, and enjoyed sitting in
silence.
. . just listening. Perhaps that’s all she really needed from me right
now—just an ear to fill.

My mind
wandered a bit—and I grew a bit uneasy with the direction it took. Just
an ear to
fill.
. .

Maybe
that’s all Nikki had needed from me, too. Maybe she didn’t need my suspicions
or my internal ponderings. Maybe she just needed my support. After all, the
poor girl had her hands full with a daughter and a full-time job. Could be, a
new friend—in a new place—could walk alongside her as she figured
out how to do this “mothering” thing. Hadn’t I leaned on older women when I was
her age? Hadn’t I made mistakes along the way? And hadn’t the “mothers” of my
day lent me their ears—and their shoulders?

Yes, I
had to conclude, listening had its benefits. It drew me back to those who
needed me—and those I needed.

“Mom, are
you still with me?”

I
couldn’t help but laugh as I looked into Brandi’s eyes. “Honey, I’m here. I
promise.”

I dove
into a funny story about my wedding day, and before long,
she
was
all smiles
. We relaxed and enjoyed the rest of our
time together.

After
arriving home, I searched for Warren to tell him about our adventures. I knew
he would get a kick out of hearing about the “Purple People Eater” bathroom.
And he was sure to chuckle over the square plates.

If only I
could find him. I searched the house, but couldn’t seem to locate him. Next I
headed to the yard. Yep, the hedges had been trimmed, but “said trimmer” was
nowhere to be found. Back inside, I decided to check the office. Perhaps some
last-minute business had reared its head.

To my
surprise, I found the office door closed. Weird. He never closed it. I leaned
in to the door for a listen, and was fairly sure I heard his voice. Sounded
like he was on the phone. Ah well. I could certainly talk to him later.

I’d just
turned away when something caught my ear. What was that he said? I strained to
better hear his end of the conversation.

“I can’t
believe I got away with it. And Annie doesn’t suspect a thing.”

That
panic attack feeling returned and for a moment I felt as if I might faint.
Annie doesn’t suspect a thing? What in the world?

Everything
began to spin and I leaned against the wall to keep from going down. Tears
started at once, followed shortly thereafter by a fit of coughing, which I
couldn’t seem to suppress. I moved away from the door, hoping I hadn’t aroused
suspicions. No sooner had I caught my wind than Warren joined me in the
hallway, his face oddly pale.

“Hey,
Annie.”

“Hey.”
Felon.

“I didn’t
know you were home.”

Obviously.

He
reached to pull the office door closed behind him, as if trying to shut the
door on whatever had just happened in there.

“I’m
here.”

He slipped
his arms around me and gave a squeeze. I tried to squeeze back, I really did.
But something about hugging a criminal just
felt.
. .
wrong.

He pulled
back and gazed into my eyes. “Are you okay?”

Um, no
. .
. But thanks for asking.

“You seem
kind
of.
. . quiet.”

“Even a
fool, when he is silent, people will think he’s wise.”

I
could’ve slapped myself silly. Why in the world did I say that out loud? A
Sheila-ism floated through my head, confirming my inability to turn back. “Once
the toothpaste is out of the tube, it’s hard to get it back in.”

Warren
looked at me as if I’d gone mad. “Annie, I’m getting worried about you.”

“You
are?” I backed away from him and tried to look normal. “Why?”

The
perplexed look on his face did little to console me. “This whole wedding thing
has
you.
. . out of sorts. Are you feeling
overwhelmed?”

To
say the least.

“Because
I’m thinking you need to take a little time for yourself for a change.”

“Oh?”

“How
would you like a little get-away, Annie?”

Get-away?
Sounded like something a bank robber would say. “What did you have in mind?”

I eased
my way into the living room and he tagged along behind me behind me, still
talking. I kept on listening, determined to stick to my lesson plan.

“What
would you think about a little trip to that bed and breakfast you’ve always
wanted to go to? Sound good?”

“W–What?”
Forgiveness washed over me at once. A criminal would never offer to take his
wife to a B&B in the Amish country. “Really?” I could see it all
now—the rolling farmlands, the quaint shops,
the
ever-present buggies. Sounded dreamy, even if it meant spending time away with
someone I wasn’t sure I trusted at the moment.

He pulled
me into his arms and rested his chin atop my head as he explained, “Yes. The
girls and I were thinking you’d like a few days alone.”

“Alone?”
I pulled away as understanding set in. “You want to send me away?”

He gave
me one of
those
Is-this-your-hormones-speaking-or-is-this-really-you?
looks
.
“Of course not. We just thought you would like the peace and quiet. We were
thinking Sheila could go with you.” I could see the hurt in his eyes as he
concluded: “I had a
doozie
of a time getting a
reservation, but our travel agent owed me a favor.” He pulled a brochure from
his shirt pocket and placed it in my hand.

His words
to the person on the other end of the phone now raced through my brain once
again: I can’t believe I got away with it. And Annie doesn’t suspect a thing.

That made
perfect sense to me now. He’d been talking to our travel agent, Joan Edwards.
Warren had been planning a
surprise.
. . for me!
Suddenly, I felt absolutely ridiculous. In an attempt to make up for
everything, I planted approximately a dozen kisses on his pouting lips and then
apologized for my
off-beat
behavior. “I love you, and
I’m very grateful. Thank you so much.”

He nodded
and offered a mumbled response, then headed off to the yard to rake the leaves.
With my emotions now firmly in check, I settled onto the sofa and looked
through the colorful brochure. What a tremendous blessing, especially in light
of all I’d been through. Surely the Lord had dropped this little weekend
get-away in my lap. Out amongst the simplistic backdrop of the Amish country, I
could clear my head, think more logically, spend time listening to His voice,
get His perspective on things.

Then
again, if Sheila came along, things might not be so simple. She always had a
way of seeing deep inside me—to the places others rarely took the time to
see. And she knew how to needle the truth out of folks, one painful sliver at a
time.

Hmm. I
contemplated the inevitable a bit longer. Yes, if Sheila came with me, I’d
probably end up baring my soul—telling her what I’d been up to over the
past couple of weeks. Before all was said and done, she’d know about my
suspicions.

Would
that be so bad? What would it hurt, really, for someone else to know? Maybe,
between the two of us, we could get this crime solved, set my husband free from
the cloud of guilt hanging over his head. Maybe we would become known as Clark
County’s “Crime Fighters Extraordinaire”—an example for all young
would-be sleuths.

Or maybe
we’d just spend the weekend eating chocolate and talking about pedicures.

Either
way, we’d have a whopper of a time.