BLUE WEDDING (Melody The Librarian Mysteries Book 3) (5 page)

Finally, the Big Day came to pass. After my half-day at the library, I would be off to change and then meet up with Gary and then off to the wedding. I should have been focused on my job and the wedding reception, but instead I was plagued by the events of the past few days, chiefly the appearance of Gavin, but also my vaguely defined relationship with Gary.

My marriage to Gavin came about shortly after my father died and during a period when my mother and I weren’t speaking. That went on for nearly 18 months. I can’t even remember what particular issue served as the final straw, but after the blow-up neither side would give an inch. In my defense, I can claim that I inherited my stubbornness from Mom.

Anyway, when I was introduced to Gavin by my closest friend, Shelly, I was socially adrift, rudderless, and easily swept off my feet. I fell under the spell of his charm, the vitality he generated and, I suppose, the opportunity he represented to rebel against years of maternal repression. One night, we got the crazy idea of getting married, so we did.

The most enjoyable part of the relationship turned out to be keeping it a secret from Mom, although once my dream guy morphed into a nightmare, there were many times I wanted to confide in her. But I held my ground and dealt with Gavin’s infidelities the best I could, finally arranging to annul the marriage. When it was over, it became my most closely guarded secret. I didn’t even take my brother, Michael, into my confidence, and that was a deep source of regret.

I realized that all the slings and arrows whizzing around in my brain revolved around that elusive concept we call love, in all its myriad forms: bad love, one-sided love, non-committal love, delusional love, you name it. Between Gavin and Gary, love was getting a bad rep. And then, throw in the likes of Cat Spencer, who dispenses love at an hourly rate, and Tiffany Ashcroft, who loves money more than the man she’s marrying, it reminded of the song Annie Ross sang in the movie ‘Short Cuts’:  ‘To Hell with Love.’

Speaking of Cat, I’d seen neither hide nor hair of her daughter Molly since the school year had ended. I’d expected to see more of Molly, not less. Maybe it had something to do with the last time Cat and I had spoken. She’d been worried about her pending questioning by the police, and our conversation ended on a sour note. She’d been drinking and felt that my recommendation to tell the authorities everything she knew was naïve and ill-advised. Cat had some skeletons in her closet, and perhaps she felt that keeping Molly away from me would ensure that they stayed there.

Fortunately, I was rescued from my pessimistic musings by a call from Michael. There’s nothing like family to pick you up when you’re feeling low.

“I just got word from my boss that the prosecutor isn’t filing any charges against Bob Christian in the death of Amanda Holt. He’s ruled it an accidental death. Not even involuntary manslaughter, can you believe it?”

This wasn’t quite the emotional lift I’d been anticipating, but Michael sounded like he could use a little encouragement. I could tell he was irritated; he spoke in a higher register than usual. “Accidental death?” I repeated. “He dragged her body into the bushes! He planted the fatal arrow in Max Colopy’s car! He didn’t come forward and, in fact, impeded the investigation. Not to mention that Amanda was shot from a distance of – what? – thirty feet, while standing in a clearing by her cabin…in daylight!”

“Exactly. You know, I hate to sound like a sore loser, but something’s going on behind the scenes here. I mean, Leonard Russell, the D.A., is clean as a whistle, but this stinks. I imagine Christian’s attorney trotted out his military record, his clean criminal record, his management position at Cooke Paper Products, etcetera, etcetera, and Russell thinks, ‘Well, it
was
hunting season and she
was
killed with an arrow. Must have been a hunting accident!’”

“Yeah, some flawless logic there,” I scoffed.

“And you know what else? The decision was made at 4:45 on a Friday. That’s always suspicious. You know how that goes:  nobody’s paying attention. It’ll be a two-paragraph item on page 3, or a quick segue story on the local weekend news, which no one watches. Like I say, it stinks.”

“I’m with you, brother,” I said. “Something’s rotten in Lake Hare. He must have had a good lawyer, eh?”

“Mason Scott, from a Southfield firm, and he’s not cheap.”

“Well, I’m sure old Bob is handsomely compensated for his labors, but I wonder if there’s a way to find out who’s actually paying the lawyer.”

There was a pause. “Why?” Michael asked.

“I just have a hunch that Nathan Cooke is covering Bob’s legal expenses. And that might explain why the D.A. was so magnanimous on Bob’s behalf. Nathan Cooke has a lot of influence in this county.”

“You know, that just might be worth looking into. Thanks for the tip, sis. So what are your plans for the weekend?”

“I’m getting ready to head out the door to play a wedding gig. The reception is at the Hartford House. They’ve got a real nice courtyard, trestles with vines, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s very nice. I’ve been to a wedding there once. They’ve got that cute little apple orchard. Are you and Gary playing?”

“Yeah, and we’ve got a drummer who sings and – oh, man! – you should hear this guitarist Gary discovered; a multi-instrumentalist, actually. Fourteen years old and he can play anything! You’ll have to catch us sometime,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound like a hype artist.

“I’d like that. Fourteen, eh? Probably won’t get to hear you playing a bar gig if he’s that young. Well, I hope you have fun. Knock ‘em dead, sis.”

“Alright, I will. Thanks for the update on Christian, Michael. And if you hear anything….”

“I know. I’ll be sure to keep you in the loop, Mel. Okay, gotta go. Take care.”

Despite the discouraging news about Bob Christian, speaking with Michael actually lifted my spirits. It’s weird, but sometimes when a door slams shut in your face, it just makes you more eager to find out what’s being hidden inside. I felt that way when Chief Benson tried to brush off Jacob Miler’s killing, and I felt that way now with Amanda Holt. I didn’t understand how the authorities could just decide a case was closed satisfactorily when there were still so many unanswered questions surrounding their deaths.

Well, if they wouldn’t do their jobs, maybe someone else needed to pick up the slack.

Our drummer, Don Carlos, was the last to arrive at Gary’s. I think the reason Gary had us meet at his place was to inspect us to ensure we complied with his dress directive:  white shirt (long or short-sleeved), black slacks (or skirt) and black shoes. When Don showed up in a green t-shirt, I thought Gary was going to go ballistic, but Don explained that he didn’t want the shirt to get wrinkled as he drove.

“I’ve got in on a hanger in back of the van,” he explained.

“Well, go ahead and get it on so we can head to the Hartford House.” When Don emerged from the bathroom, I couldn’t help giggling. The shirt was too small, and his belly threatened to burst his buttons.

“You’re going to put somebody’s eye out,” I sputtered.

“Hey, it’s the only white shirt I’ve got, okay? Besides, nobody’s going to see me behind the drums anyway.”

Gary just sighed and looked at his watch. “If we get going now, we’ll have time for a sound check before the guests start arriving. It’s a short walk from the church. Anyone need to use the restroom? Okay, let’s go.”

I felt a little guilty about driving such a short distance, but I knew Don’s van would be filled with his drum set, and Gary was taking both his and Tommy’s equipment, plus the mikes and monitors. I brought Grandma’s piano accordion and my concertina, leaving the new button accordion at home. Although I’d been familiarizing myself with the positioning, I didn’t know my way around the buttons yet.

The caretaker for the Hartford House, Tim Neil, showed us where to park, escorted us to the gazebo where we would set up and helped us with hooking up to a power source. He was a serious-looking man, in his forties, maybe, and made sure that the cords and cables were as unobtrusive and secured as possible. His significant other, Fiona Finn, worked as the housekeeper, and was now helping out as a server. She brought over a large, glass pitcher of pink lemonade with ice.

“I’ll keep an eye out for you and make sure your pitcher is full,” she smiled, “but if you prefer something a little stronger as the day goes by, just let me know.” She winked and scampered away. She was a petite woman, but had no trouble maneuvering with the pitcher and glasses.

“No drinking until after the second set,” Gary cautioned. He picked up his tenor sax and walked up to his vocal mike. Addressing our soundman, Clyde, he said, “Clyde, let’s check those levels, okay?” Turning to us, he said, “Let’s try the ‘Peter Gunn Theme,’ alright?” I was the only one who needed to refer to the sheet music to see which key we were playing in. In a low voice, Gary counted off, “One, two, three four, one, two, three, four.”

And – boom! – we locked into that gritty groove flawlessly, with Tommy playing the familiar guitar riff, with me doubling on bass notes, while Gary nailed the melody with a raw tone that would have made Clarence Clemons proud. I looked up and saw Tim, Fiona, and the other staff members looking our way, some stood smiling, while others moved to the music.

Gary encouraged Tommy to run with a solo as Clyde focused on tweaking the highs and lows and mix of the instruments. Like a well-tuned racecar, Tommy opened up and shredded around the theme, never at a loss of ideas, constantly surprising us with his endless bag of tricks and licks. By the end of the song, Clyde removed his headphones to hear the sounds as others would and gave Gary an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

There was a smattering of applause from the B and B staff as we shut down and took a break. Now it was a matter of waiting for the ceremony to finish and the wedding party to stroll the two blocks from the church to the Hartford House’s courtyard. We would wait for our cue to assemble for the first dance and, afterwards, our set would begin.

The layout was lovely. There were a dozen circular tables with sky blue linen tablecloths and floral centerpieces dotting the grounds, along with a long, head table for the guests of honor. The gazebo was off to the side about midway through the tables, so everyone would be able to hear us. The grass was perfectly manicured, and there was a tiled dance area near the band. Blue lanterns were strung overhead. I was curious to see how it would look after the sun set.

A blonde woman in a powder blue dress suit came prancing through grounds. “They’re coming!” she exclaimed. “They’re coming!”

The break was over, as Gary signaled us to take up our positions. Gary had laid out a series of innocuous, mid-tempo pieces to serve as background during the reception line. I could see Tiffany and Charlie greeting the guests. Charlie had dark hair, possibly dyed, and a pronounced widow’s peak, which went well with his neatly groomed goatee. If Central Casting had sent out a call for someone to play Satan, Charlie would be a shoo-in.

Once the reception line was finished, the schedule called for an hour of cocktails. We kept the music light, but were able to incorporate a little jazz into the proceedings. Don Carlos had a deft touch with the brushes and Tommy mostly played chords, using a subdued tone, without much treble. A few of the guests wandered in front of the gazebo to check us out, but mostly the gathering was focused on conversation, and we didn’t want to distract from that.

From my vantage point on stage, I was able to spy some of the well-wishers as they approached the bride and groom. Nathan Cooke and his wife, Charlene, paid their respects, and Nathan huddled with Charlie for a short time. I wasn’t sure that the two were acquainted, but evidently their affluence formed a bond of mutual respect.

Other familiar, local faces included Lake Hare’s mayor, George Lowell, recently appointed library board member Marlene Simmons, accompanied by someone I assumed was her husband and Nathan Cook’s brother, Nick, and Pastor Don Paul, who performed the ceremony at the church. Gus Whitehead was there, cocktail in hand, smiling and managing to maneuver through the crowd to engage, it seemed, nearly every young woman present in conversation. And there, catching all of the hobnobbing on digital media was Bergman, the photographer I’d first encountered in the company of Peter Proctor, ace reporter for the Crawford Caller. I’d seen his van pull up near our vehicles, sporting a stick-on panel sign, Portraits by Bergman. He was accompanied by a young, tomboyish woman manning a video camera.

But the most interesting interaction I observed was when Gavin – my ‘ex’ – seized his opportunity to corner the newlyweds. I could tell he was pulling out all the stops, with animated facial expressions and gestures, his smile switched on high-beam mode as he turned on the charm for his prospective client. Even more interesting was the handsome young man in tow, blond and tanned, who didn’t seem to be contributing much to the conversation, focused as he was on staring unblinkingly at the bride, and she seemed to be similarly enthralled. I doubt they even heard the conversation taking place around them, or the music, or much of anything, so enrapt were they in each other’s presence.

During the cocktail hour, I saw Charlie catch passing waitresses at least three times to replace his drink. A ruddy glow penetrated his deeply tanned face, and his voice carried over the murmured conversations and music as the hour wore on. Tiffany wore a frozen smile as Charlie grew increasingly boisterous. She intertwined her arm in his and, no doubt, was jabbing his ribs in order to rein him in.

Finally, the band was allowed to take a break when the luncheon was served, and we huddled at a small side table – not unlike a kiddies’ table, it seemed – joined by Tim and Fiona. Tim didn’t say much the entire time, just chewed his food slowly while casting a dour eye upon the guests and, I thought, the band. Perhaps he thought musicians were a frivolous lot, not quite as essential as one who tends the grounds, the shrubs, and the apple orchard. That was just speculation on my part, but his disdainful demeanor was all too real.

Fiona, on the other hand, was quite sociable and, I noticed, younger than Tim by at least ten years. In fact, she was quite attractive. Although she wore a simple pale blue blouse with a dark blue skirt, I noticed a few heads turning as she’d moved about earlier.

“They would’ve outfitted me like the catering staff,” she said, cocking her head to the nearest server, who wore black slacks, a burgundy shirt and black bow tie, “but I said, ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just wear my usual attire. It’s comfortable and I won’t be mistaken for those folks. I’m just helping out Mrs. Hartford; I don’t want anyone snapping their fingers or tinging their glasses for a refill at me.”

“That’s what we peasants are here for,” Tim growled, as he stood. “To serve the whims of the chosen ones!” He stumbled as he pushed back his chair, but caught himself.

“Honey, why don’t you double-check to make sure you reset the irrigation timers? We wouldn’t want to put a damper on the festivities, would we?” As she spoke, she took the glass he’d been drinking from and placed it next to her own. Tim made a snorting sound and walked away.

“This sure is a great place for a reception,” I said, jumping into the conversational void. “Everything is arranged so tastefully.”

Fiona smiled. “Yes, we’re booked for the entire month of June, and every weekend through Labor Day. Tim and I feel that we’ve helped contribute to Hartford House’s success. We’ve been here three years now, and Mrs. Hartford trusts us completely in handling our areas of responsibility. She almost runs it like a co-op; not financially, of course, but we’re allowed to make a lot of the decisions. It’s nice to have your opinions valued.”

She leaned closer and said in a conspiratorial hush, “Originally, Charlie Hayes – the groom? – wanted to have the wedding on his yacht. It would’ve been a more intimate gathering, of course, but Mrs. Hartford had the ear of Tiffany’s mom and…saner heads prevailed, shall we say? Charlie loves to fish, and all Mrs. Hartford had to do was suggest that Tiffany’s wedding might turn into a fishing excursion, and Mrs. Ashford slapped that deposit in her hand!”

The sound of a tapping glass ended our conversation. A tired looking, middle-aged man at the head table held a microphone. His coat was unbuttoned and his tie was askew.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time for a toast. But before we get to that, I’d like to offer a personal testimonial about my friend, Charlie Hayes. Most of the folks here, it seems to me, are better acquainted with the lovely bride, and it would be completely understandable if some of you were wondering, ‘Who is this old geezer she just married?’”

I wolfed down the remaining portion of the delicious cherry pie I’d been savoring. After the toast, the band would launch into the first dance. Gary and the others rose and walked toward the gazebo.

Charlie said something to the man with the microphone who waved him off. “I don’t need any notes. I’m an old pro at this sort of thing. Hell, this is my third wedding toast just with you!” The crowd chuckled politely, but I sensed an uneasiness in their good humor.

“Charlie and I go way back,” the man continued. “Certainly before this lovely young lady was born, for sure! Oh, I’m Gordon Haskell, by the way, Charlie’s business partner for over twenty-five years. In a way, our relationship is almost like a marriage:  two individuals united by a common goal, sharing a bond that grows deeper with each passing year, with each one trying their darndest not to get screwed!”

Charlie’s face was redder than ever, but it was now anger that propelled the blood through his veins. He looked as if he was getting up to cut Gordon off, but Tiffany’s hand held his arm, motioning him to stay put.

“Well, I could go on, but I won’t. A toast!” The guests rose, holding the champagne that had been served minutes ago. “To the young bride…Ashley, is it? Tiffany, of course, like the jewelry store!” He chuckled, as if at a private joke that, fortunately, he chose not to share. “Tiffany, I wish you many years of happiness. And Charlie, your years may be numbered, but I pray that they, too, are happy ones. Prosit!”

“Prosit!” the guests repeated. Gordon gulped his drink down, dropped the microphone, and extended his hand to Charlie, who refused to even look at him, let alone shake. A few words from Tiffany, however, and Charlie did get up, clasped Gordon’s hand, and said something to him through clenched teeth that drained the color from Gordon’s face. Gordon squirmed, trying to pull his hand away from Charlie’s grip, and when they did separate, Gordon walked away from the table, looking back and muttering something in Charlie’s direction that seemed as if it might be at odds with the toast he’d just made.

I gulped my champagne and, seeing, that Tommy’s glass was untouched, gulped it, too. This looked like it could get interesting, and I wanted to make sure I was properly fueled for the hours ahead.

Gary announced that it was time for the first dance, and the crowd clapped as Charlie and Tiffany made their way to the dance floor. Gary counted off and we eased into “Since I Fell for You.”

Since I fell for you, my whole world is spinning around,

Believe me, ‘cause it’s true, I may as well have hit the ground.

Like an angel from above, lift me with your love, and let us share what we have found.

Yes, it was a little maudlin, but if you didn’t focus on the lyrics, the melody was kind of dreamy. Charlie looked handsome in his black tux and Tiffany was beautiful in her white gown, and for a magical moment, the guests looked upon the newlyweds wistfully.

When we finished, Gary picked up the pace with the next piece and soon the dance floor was full. It felt like things were loosening up; the dancers were animated, there was laughter and people looked more comfortable. Or was I feeling the effects of the two glasses of champagne I’d knocked down in rapid succession?