For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (22 page)

We decided the most effective plan was to have the subcontracted centerpieces delivered directly to the Ashbury. Eric brought in a few members of his construction crew to handle the task of cleaning up the shop. Darnell and his friends stayed there, too, tasked with rescuing any usable blooms and running them down to us at the Ashbury.

The reception space itself was waiting only for flowers. The linens on the tables were fresh and pressed. The up-lighting was in place, filtered through gossamer draping that softened the rough edges of the room. Every few minutes, the colors changed. The effect was ethereal, but I couldn’t imagine Kathleen Randolph was all that pleased. She’d hoped the reception would showcase the charm of her historic inn, but you couldn’t see more than a few square inches of it. Gigi, however, as she rushed about overseeing details for the reception, heaped more than a few praises on her lighting guy.

On the other hand, she sent a few sideways glances our way as we draped new shower curtains we’d purchased at the dollar store over a couple of her perfectly covered tables and started using them as impromptu workstations.

Meanwhile, the baker with the national reputation was placing the cake on a gigantic wheeled cart so it could be unveiled at just the right moment. It was lovely, yes—tier after tier of fondant, festooned with edible bells dusted with edible glitter. I couldn’t help but think that Nick could have done just as good a job.

Fortunately the bell-shaped vases we’d special-ordered for the table centerpieces were metal and not smashed along with our other containers. A couple were dinged up a bit—not much we could do about it—but if we placed them away from the camera, maybe dangled a few ribbons over the sides . . .

Gigi winced as we explained our plan. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

“We’re so sorry,” Liv said, a model of diplomacy. It wasn’t our fault that someone broke into our store and vandalized it.

“We’re doing everything in our power to make it right,” I added. Yes, I was a fellow graduate of Grandma Mae’s School of Diplomacy for Girls.

Gigi let out one last frustrated huff. “Will there be one or two that will be perfect enough for a close-up?”

“Absolutely,” I said sweetly. “More than that. We’ll place any that are lacking at the tables farthest away from the VIPs and the camera. They will still look gorgeous.”

“Flowers are very forgiving.” Liv’s tone implied that Gigi ought to be, too.

“We can film the venue just before the bride and groom come in, after we restage the wedding at the church to shoot the close-ups,” Brad said. “There’s a good three hours between the end of the wedding and the reception, so there shouldn’t be a problem.”

“There’d better not be.” Gigi glared at Brad. “We’ve had enough of those.”

When she marched off, Brad turned to us, placing a firm hand on my arm. “Please tell me you really can pull this off.”

Liv sighed. “As long as all our flowers come in.”

Liv’s contacts proved amazing. Within three hours of her emergency call, arrangements started to arrive, roughly approximating Amber Lee’s pictures. Liv placed the plastic containers they were constructed in into the large bell-shaped vases, draping greenery and ribbons over any dings and scratches.

I had a strong sense of déjà vu as I reproduced the bride’s bouquet using the flowers salvaged from the shop and from Larry’s morning delivery. Amber Lee worked beside me, helping to re-create the bridesmaids’ bouquets—although a little smaller and differently composed than the originals. Then again, the bride hadn’t seen those.

Shelby arrived with Melanie and Opal in tow, escorted by Ken Lafferty. “What happened over at the shop?” Shelby said. “Eric just told us to meet you over here.”

Liv explained about the break-in to our interns, then set them to work. Melanie met with the baker to arrange some of the rescued flowers around the cake. Opie began making new boutonnieres, mumbling about what she was going to tell her dad, while Shelby joined Liv in tweaking the newly arrived centerpieces.

Henry Easton bustled in with Nevena in tow as I was setting the completed bridal bouquet in its holder.

“Why are you doing this at the last minute?” he asked, but never waited for an answer. He roughly lobbed the completed bridesmaids’ bouquets into a box with the boutonnieres and corsages. “It’s bad enough to have to use all that makeup to cover bruises on all the bridesmaids . . . because
somebody
wasn’t adequately supervising the bachelorette party.”

Somebody had thrown me under the bus. When was that ever my responsibility? I was failing in an attempt to bite back a snarky remark when Easton handed the box to Nevena. “You. Carry. Church,” he said, slowly and loudly, as if volume were the key to understanding.

Nevena nodded, but looked slightly confused. I expected her English lessons involved sentences with more parts of speech in them, rather than Easton’s Tarzan-esque variety.

Easton cradled the bride’s bouquet, popped the stand into his suit pocket, and nodded to me. He left without another word, but somehow I translated the nod as “Bouquet good.” Still in Tanzan-speech.

With the bouquets and boutonnieres for the wedding party completed and out of the building, we turned our full attention to the reception flowers. When a half dozen arrangements came in from another florist with bluebells instead of bellflowers, I closed my eyes and exhaled.

“What should we do?” Shelby asked. “We don’t have enough of the white and pink bellflowers to replace them all.”

“I think they look lovely,” Liv said. “The question is, do we want to keep them as they are? Or pull some of the bluebells and mingle them with the bellflowers in the other arrangements?”

I was staring at the bluebells when Liv put her hand on my arm. “What?” she said. “You look disappointed.”

“The meaning of bluebells. Well, they can have two meanings, so I guess it’s okay. They can mean
constancy
, like any other bellflower.”

“I take it that the other meaning isn’t as positive,” Liv said.

“
Sorrowful regret
. Not the best wedding flower. But in a way, it fits. I know I’m sorry I ever got involved in this wedding.”

Liv pulled me into a hug. “No one but you will know that.” She then gestured at the room. Three quarters of the tables held their arrangements, and I had to admit, the reception space looked almost as spectacular as I had envisioned it. “You know, with all the shops we called—and them having to call in extra workers to help them—half the florists in Virginia had a hand in this wedding.”

“Flower power,” Opie called out, fist raised, and the rest of us chuckled.

It was a good, cleansing laugh. And it helped to have my hands working with the flowers. A couple more hours of work, and all the tables bore their gorgeous calla lily and campanula—or bluebell—centerpieces in the metal bell vases, albeit with a little extra greenery and a few festoons of ribbon draped “randomly” over the sides. We’d even managed flowers for the buffet stations for the cocktail hour. The dinner itself would be strictly sit-down. We could have done more, but we were simply out of flowers.

Liv pulled out her cell phone and glanced at the time. “I wouldn’t have guessed it this morning, but I think we can still make it.”

“Make what?” I asked.

“The wedding, of course.”

Shelby and the girls bounded around us.

“I’d given up on the idea that we’d have time,” I said.

Liv shrugged. “Nothing more we can do here. Why not?”

When I rushed in my door to change, Chester hinted strongly that he needed to eat again. I scooped a little soft food into his dish before staring into my closet, wondering what would hold up best in that overheated church. I pulled out a lightweight maxi dress with a geometric print in teal. Its open back was a good choice for the warm church, but the drop waist was easy and breezy enough to wear in case I ended up having to work.

And then I eyed shoes. I’d picked up the high teal pumps I had bought to go with the dress, then shoved them back into the closet, opting rather for the thong sandals that could play dressy, but were much more comfortable for standing, walking, dancing, and stalking killers. Plus a good choice when I didn’t want to tower over a date. Not that I had a date.

I pulled into the church parking lot as Eric was helping Liv out of the car—and Liv was complaining that she wasn’t an invalid.

“How’s the shop?” I asked him.

“Not too bad,” he said. “Little damage to the fixtures, and we were able to straighten the hinges on the cooler and get most of the spray glitter off the door.”

“I can see that,” I said, picking a bit of glitter from his suit jacket.

“How did that get there?” he said. “I showered and changed.”

“It’s glitter. It’s insidious.” Liv pulled another speck from his beard.

One of Bixby’s retirees stood, wearing his dress uniform and holding a clipboard, just outside a newly erected police barrier. I doubted the barrier or the elderly man guarding it would keep out anyone truly determined to get in. But the small crowd outside the barrier seemed well behaved, at least at the moment. Jackie and her bridesmaids were sitting on the curb, drinking iced coffee from disposable cups from the Brew-Ha-Ha.

“There’s Audrey Bloom, the florist!” Dennis Pinkleman shouted, his camera phone in the air and focused on me. “Say hi to the fans!”

I sent him a tiny wave.

“Audrey Bloom . . . Olivia Meyer . . . Eric Meyer . . .” The retired officer peered at us over his reading glasses, and then highlighted our names on his list. We must have passed muster, because he let us pass.

As we walked into the church, Shirley and Pastor Seymour were pacing the foyer—Pastor Seymour probably pacing out of nerves, and Shirley there to make sure he didn’t fall down.

“Good afternoon,” he said, coming over to shake our hands with his still-firm grip.

“How does it look in there?” I asked.

“How am I to know? That woman won’t even let me in.”

“Gigi?” I asked.

“Said I can’t even keep my water glass by the podium. And on a hot day like this.”

“She meant that it wouldn’t look nice on camera,” Shirley said. “But I’ve got a water bottle right here for you.” She pulled a plastic bottle out of her purse. “You can keep it in your pocket.”

“Confounded plastic.” He shook his head, like a diver shaking water out of his ears. “Listen to me, sounding like a crotchety old man.”

“Like?” Shirley said.

He glared at her, but then resumed a playful smile. “I guess I don’t like being put out of my own church. But soon the wedding will be over, and they will all scatter to wherever they came from, and we can get back to normal.”

A huge sneeze punctuated his last sentence, followed by Bixby and Brad walking out of the auditorium. At first I thought Bixby was escorting Brad—as in Brad being arrested. But then I realized that Brad was leading.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but the microphones are picking up all that sneezing and sniffling. You can’t stay.”

“But I have a murder to investigate.”

“Then take some Benadryl,” Brad said.

“I did take some Benadryl.” Bixby sneezed again. “I’ve been doing nothing all day except taking Benadryl.”

Brad waited until the chief wiped his nose and eyes. “Sorry, but until it kicks in, you’ll have to wait here.”

“Hi, Audrey, Liv,” Brad said. “Gigi loved the flowers in the church. I have to . . .” He pointed in the direction of the church and ducked back inside.

Pastor Seymour laughed. “Welcome to the doghouse,” he said to Bixby.

“You all can go in,” Shirley said, gesturing to us. “The ushers are seating guests now. Make sure you check out their cool guestbook.”

Liv, Eric, and I walked up the stairs, and as soon as we rounded the corner, stopped at a long table covered with a poster and ink pads. The poster was of a large tree, with branches curling into hearts in various places. A few bells hung from the tree, almost as an afterthought, and they were already mostly obscured by the inked fingerprints of the wedding guests, which resembled the leaves and blossoms of the tree. Brad was manning the station, handing little packets of hand cleaner to the couple who had just signed.

“You’d think there’d be more bells,” I told Brad. I scanned the signatures and recognized the bride’s, next to the groom’s illegible scrawl at the center, surrounded by those of some of the bridesmaids I’d met at the bachelorette party, then some townsfolk, too.

“Not my idea,” he said. “This was one of Gary’s pet projects.”

I pressed my finger onto a light green ink pad, dabbed my digit on an empty spot on the poster, and signed my name above it with one of the fine-point Sharpies there for that purpose.

Instead of handing me the towelette, Brad opened the package and took my hand. “We’ve been to a lot of weddings in this place,” he said, stroking the cloth over my finger.

I swallowed. Where was he going with this?

Another couple filed into line behind me at the table.

“Look,” he said, finally releasing my hand and handing me a fan with the wedding program printed on it. “I have to work, but save a dance for me at the reception?”