Veiled Revenge (8 page)

Chapter 10

Skipping town without leaving a forwarding address is not an option,
she reflected as her bright orange Yellow Cab lurched through Washington traffic. There would be no rest for the wicked, or for the weary maid of honor, whose responsibilities included ensuring that Stella’s nuptials would come off without a hitch.

Lacey had been summoned to the site of the wedding reception, the Arts Club of Washington, to meet Stella and Miguel Flores.

The event had theoretically been completely planned and scheduled, except for the details—wherein dwelt the devil.

The vows were to be exchanged on the west lawn of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial, by the Tidal Basin. That stunning outdoor wedding site would accomplish two of Stella’s key goals: a uniquely Washington setting and maximum cherry blossom coverage. It was also surprisingly affordable, a mere fifty dollars for the permit. Lack of parking around the Mall was a challenge, but wedding guests would be shuttled to and from the ceremony via a tour bus. All they had to do was pray for perfect April weather and follow the innumerable Park Service rules, designed to leave the grounds the way they found them. And presumably Stella and Nigel would live happily (married) ever after.

The Park Service permit gave the wedding party only two hours, max. Therefore it was impractical, if not impossible, to also host the reception on the National Mall. The reception would have to take place elsewhere. And though Stella had planned her wedding in her head for years, with and without an eligible man in mind, she had surprisingly little money saved for the big event.

“I was totally thinking, like, potluck in a park,” she had told Lacey. “Barefoot. With, like, balloons and someone playing guitar? And maybe we could all blow bubbles? But once I got engaged for real, everything got so complicated. And so expensive.”

Enter Lady Gwendolyn Griffin and her husband, Nigel’s parents, vastly relieved that their wayward offspring was finally settling down. They offered to pick up the entire tab for the reception—at the Arts Club of Washington. A prestigious private club in Foggy Bottom dedicated to the arts, it was an unusual but classy choice for a wedding reception, and the Griffins were longtime members, who knew which strings to pull at the last minute. It was neither too intimate nor too grand, a little off-center for Washington but elegant nonetheless, and it was fully equipped for receptions, with both dining room and garden facilities. Lacey had been there for a few events on her fashion beat, and she seconded it as a great choice. And Nigel’s mother never flinched at the price tag.

In addition, Gwendolyn had arranged for an Episcopal priest to conduct the ceremony. Stella’s parents, a Christian mother and a Jewish father, had rejected organized religion, except when it came to occasions that required presents. Stella generally followed their example. She said she had no problem with the priest as long as she would be legally hitched to Nigel. Forever.

“I will be eternally grateful to Lady G,” Stella had told Lacey when the reservation was finalized. “Who would have figured me and her would turn out to be such good pals?”

Who indeed?

Lacey’s cab ride was the most relaxing part of her day so far. She leaned back and replayed Stella’s riff on Lady G in her head.

“She’s waited her whole life for Nigel to meet someone like me. Who am I to rob Lady G of the wedding reception of her dreams? And mine too! If we can still do balloons.”

“Balloons. I’m writing it down,” Lacey had said.

Lacey rather doubted that the wife of the former British ambassador had always been on the lookout for a daughter-in-law with a punk-rock attitude, a spiky personality, interesting tattoos and piercings, and a New Jersey accent. Lacey, as well as Stella, had been afraid at first that Stella might be a bit too exotic for an ambassador’s wife. But Gwendolyn wanted grandchildren, which Stella might supply, and she had a taste for adventure, which Stella was sure to supply. She and Lady G took to each other like a firecracker to a match.

 * * * 

“You know she’s even got guests coming from England? They’ll be the ones in the funny hats. Like it’s going to be the Kentucky Derby.”

And we’re off to the races
. “I love funny hats. On other people.”

“Me too. Nigel’s cousins will be wearing ‘fascinators,’ those teeny tiny hats, you know like bands with feathers sticking up like a Martian’s antennae? It’s the latest wedding thing in England, like at the royal wedding? It’s going to be totally rad.”

“And Nigel’s mother? She won’t be wearing her tweed riding togs to the wedding, will she?” Lacey inquired.

Lady Gwendolyn Griffin had a wardrobe of browns and beiges in tweed, supported by endless pairs of sensible shoes suitable for shooting parties at their country estate in England. Stella had been trying to polish Lady Gwendolyn’s Agatha-Christie-in-the-parlor look, with mixed results.

“Oh, no. Lady G promised,” Stella said. “We went shopping together. She asked for my advice. Can you believe it? She’s going to wear violet like we talked about.”

“Like Eleanor Roosevelt.” Lacey and Stella had seen pictures of Mrs. Roosevelt’s inaugural gown. It was violet velvet and would, they decided, suit Gwendolyn Griffin about as well as it suited Eleanor.

“And it will totally complement the bridesmaids’ pink dresses. And the copper highlights I gave her. With better hair and trimmed eyebrows. Lady G totally took my advice about everything. Except the hat. It might be a little over the top for D.C.”

“It’s going to be a really big hat, isn’t it?”

“She’s
English
. She doesn’t care about the dress or the hair, but the big hat? De rigueur. And who am I to deny my future ma-in-law? So be prepared, the hat is gonna be gigantic, like something out of
My Fair Lady
. I want lots of pictures.”

“And your mother?”

“She’d never wear a hat. That’s for sure. I got no idea what she’s wearing, she’s holding out on me. Says it’s going to be a
surprise
. I begged her to wear something that goes with my color scheme. She’ll probably turn up in a burlap sack. With a lump of kryptonite slung around her neck. You can write her up as a crime of fashion.”

“When Lady Gwendolyn showed you around the Arts Club, what did you think? Will it fit your barefoot-in-the-park vision?”

“I haven’t seen it yet!” Stella had said. “Lady G’s buying, so who needs to see it? And I’m not going barefoot. I want my heels sky-high, you know that.”

Why maids of honor murder their brides.

 * * * 

Lacey’s taxi finally rumbled to a halt in front of the Arts Club on Eye Street, just a few blocks west of her office, and tumbled her out of her reverie.

The neighborhood known as Foggy Bottom, one of the District’s oldest, was anchored by such weighty institutions as George Washington University, the State Department, the Kennedy Center, the Watergate, and the World Bank. The Arts Club faced James Monroe Park, a small but welcome green space separating Eye Street from Pennsylvania Avenue. The White House was only five blocks away.

Before she could even pay her driver, Miguel Flores, stylist extraordinaire, was opening her door and dragging her out. He looked so comically frazzled, all she could do was laugh.

“Lacey, Lacey, O best beloved maid of honor! Thank goodness you’re here! Oh, my God! Where have you been? I possess
mucho Miguelismo
, as you well know, Lacey, but I cannot handle this Stella Bridezilla all alone! And the storm clouds are gathering!”

“What storm clouds?” Lacey gazed up at the beautiful azure April sky. Miguel’s panic attack was not going to keep her from appreciating the Arts Club, that handsome redbrick Colonial-era building with its glossy black shutters, the historic mansion where President James Monroe had once lived.

Henry Adams had also resided there, she recalled, before he married the tragic Clover Adams.
Why does Clover Adams keep coming to mind? Bad omen?
she wondered, as Miguel chattered on nonstop.

“You were saying?” Lacey asked.

“The mothers-in-law! The mothers-in-law are coming!” Miguel shuddered dramatically, as only Miguel could.

“You haven’t even met them yet.”

“But I’ve heard tales.” He rushed Lacey through the front door of the Arts Club beneath the arched and leaded windows. “Many tales. Dark tales. Tales Told in Tweed.”

Inside the club, the air was cool and still, the polished wood floors gleaming. In the back was a secluded walled garden, a lovely surprise invisible to passersby admiring the edifice from the street. The Arts Club was neither too large nor too small, she thought. If Goldilocks had been looking for the perfect reception space, this one would be just right. And it couldn’t be more Washingtonian. What could possibly go wrong in this charming setting?

“Oh, Lace, there you are! What took you so long?” Stella chirped. Although still on edge from the news of Leonardo’s death, she was now clearly in full wedding-commando mode. Her eyes were sparkling, emphasized by glittery gold liner. “So what do you think of these digs? Is this great or what?”

“I love this place, Stella. The question is do you love it?”

“It’s incredible. What’s not to love?”

Miguel smiled for the first time, relieved that Stella was loving the venue. “It’s very D.C., with a classy traditional vibe, but artsy and a little ironic. We should definitely rock it. Thank God you’re good with it!”

“What, you didn’t think I’d love it?” Stella demanded. “What did you think I’d want?”

“I don’t know, I thought you might want to rent the Black Cat,” he said.

Before Stella met Nigel, Lacey might also have picked that scruffy Fourteenth Street indie punk-rock music club as Stella’s perfect wedding reception venue. But then, Lacey hadn’t known about Stella’s cherry blossom obsession either.

“The Black Cat? Miguel, a year ago, before Nigel, I would have totally rocked the Black Cat. For the whole wedding. In, like, a full-on Goth leather bustier minidress. But things have changed. And to tell the truth, I’m so knocked out by Lady G’s generosity. I mean
no one
ever did anything like this for me. In my whole life. Never. It’s so elegant, and Nigel and I could never afford this on our own. And yeah, I love it. I do. It’s beautiful.”

Whatever happened to the little black-leather punk goddess I used to know?

Stella was a chameleon, which was part of her charm. Since Lacey had known her, she’d assumed at least a dozen very different looks and a rainbow of hair colors. But if after the wedding Stella morphed into someone else again, would Nigel still be there for her? Lacey looked at Miguel for reassurance. He put his arms around both women’s shoulders.

“It’ll be fabulous,” he said. “There will be many touches of pure Stella, not Lady G, not Arts Club. And even more important, touches of pure Miguel.”

“Hey, Lacey, I’m still Stella. Only better, now that I got Nigel. And I’m getting a mother-in-law I don’t hate. I even sort of adore her. She’s kind of cool. How awesome is that?”

“And, my dear, I’m heading up the cake committee as well as overseeing the décor,” Miguel added.

“I thought it was going to be cheesecake,” Lacey said.

“The
groom’s
cake is going to be cheesecake,” Miguel clarified.

“Didn’t you know? I’m having a castle cake!” Stella said. “You were out of town doing your Sagebrush thingy when that got decided.”

“A castle? As in knights-of-old castle?” Lacey raised one eyebrow dubiously.

“Can you believe it?” Stella’s gesture would make the cake at least five feet tall.

“And I know someone who can take it over the top, with lovely fondant icing,” Miguel said. “Even though we have decided on the cake at an unforgivably late date.”

“Sorry!” Stella said. “Lace, it’s going to have lots of flowers and vines and a little bride and groom on the top.”

“On top of the castle?” Lacey repeated. She was trying to visualize all this—cake.

“Duh. My prince has come!” Stella laughed. “I’m having a castle cake and eating it too.”

“It’s not an easy deal to put it all together, and Bruce, my lovely baker, was semi-furious,” Miguel said. “But I am something of a magician. And Bruce adores a challenge.”

“Miguel’s ex.” Stella winked.

“One of my best exes. Bruce is a complete sweetheart. Exes with benefits.”

“This cake is going to be one-of-a-kind,” Stella said.

Lacey didn’t have the heart to tell Stella that the idea wasn’t
that
original. Food maven Felicity Pickles was also in the throes of planning her wedding, to Harlan Wiedemeyer. Every cake known to mankind was passing through
The
Eye
’s newsroom (and stomachs) in the course of Felicity’s exhaustive cake quest. She had already brought in pictures of a castle cake, Cinderella’s pumpkin coach cake, a cake made from a tower of Krispy Kreme doughnuts, and many more.

“There’s going to be a chocolate layer, and a white layer, and a marble spice layer,” Stella went on, a dreamy expression on her face. “And cherry blossoms . . .”

Lacey was about to scream “Enough!” when the front door opened and Lady Gwendolyn Griffin marched in. As made over by her soon-to-be daughter-in-law, Gwendolyn now sported a sleek chin-length bob, trimmed eyebrows, and a dollop of makeup. Even so, there was still much of starch and tweed about her, including her brown tweed skirt, which she paired with a beige sweater and marble-sized pearls. And it couldn’t be denied—her teeth might have been featured in the Big Book of British Smiles. They might have made the centerfold.

“Stella, my dear. Miguel, elegant as usual. And Lacey, so good to see you,” Lady Gwendolyn said. “What do you think of this place? Charming, what?”

Stella gave her a big hug. “It’s way beyond charming. I so owe you, Lady G.”

Directly behind Gwendolyn another woman entered the hall, a woman Stella did not hug. She was of medium height and rail-thin, with gray hair and no makeup, but there was a nervous energy about her. She looked like an aging hippie. Stella had promised she would.

“Hi, everyone,” the woman said as she moved into the room with quick, nervous steps. She put her hand out to Gwendolyn and a mass of bracelets rattled. Her words tumbled out in a thick New Jersey accent. “I’m Retta, Retta Lake Sloan, Stella’s mother, call me Retta, short for Loretta. You must be Nigel’s mom. Who would have thought, my little Stella with all you high-class Brits, I swear it sounds like a marriage made on
Masterpiece Theatre
.”