Just Murdered (7 page)

Poor little rich girl.

She hoped the bride would have as much fun on her honeymoon as Helen had last night after Phil carried her over the threshold. They’d spent the whole night in bed, but they didn’t sleep much. That man was one hot lover. Helen stretched luxuriantly, her body pleasantly tired and sore.

She looked out the dressing room window. Four cars pulled into the parking lot. She downed the last of her coffee and rinsed the cup. It was bridal battle stations.

Four makeup artists and three hairstylists began setting up in the dressing room. They would paint and prep all the women in the wedding party except Kiki. The mother of the bride was having her own makeup artist and stylist come to her home. Kiki planned to breeze in about forty-five minutes before the ceremony.

Why she didn’t arrange the same service for her daughter, Helen didn’t know. But she was grateful for Kiki’s absence. It was more pleasant without her. Kiki left havoc and hurt feelings in her wake.

The first three bridesmaids straggled in at seven, looking hungover. Helen hoped the makeup artists had packed plenty of concealer. Those young blondes had enough bags to stock a Coach outlet.

Desiree and her friend Emily arrived at seven thirty. Emily was wearing what looked like an orange tablecloth. Desiree was a walking corpse. Her skin even had a slightly livid tinge.

The stylists went to work. Desiree’s droopy hair was twisted into a stylish knot. Then the makeup artist started smearing goo on the bride’s face. Helen had painted entire rooms in less time. But the woman was an artist. When she finally put down her brush, Helen thought she’d created a minor masterpiece. Desiree wasn’t exactly radiant, but she no longer looked like she should wear a toe tag. She even had a chin.

Soon the room was abuzz with activity. The blond bridesmaids giggled and gossiped while their hair was done in identical twists. Hair dryers screamed. Cans of hair spray spritzed. One makeup artist brandished a mascara wand and said, “Now look up at the ceiling while I get those bottom lashes.” Another held up a sponge and said, “Let me cover that nasty scrape on your arm.”

At nine o’clock, Desiree was ready to be helped into the Hapsburg princess dress. Helen held it carefully, so Desiree wouldn’t get scratched. The bride already had a long, thin scab on her arm.

“Did the dress do that when you tried it on at the store?” Helen said.

“No, the cook’s cat got me,” Desiree said.

Helen started on the one hundred slippery satin buttons, each the size of an aspirin.

Desiree, who’d been inert most of the morning, began fidgeting.

“Hold still or I’ll never finish by ten o’clock,” Helen said.

“I hate this dress,” Desiree said.

“You don’t have to wear it. You have a beautiful wedding dress in the closet. Let’s put it on.” Helen was in a rebellious mood. She headed for the closet to get out the cobweb dress. She was prepared to battle the dreaded rose dress to get Desiree what she wanted.

“No!” the bride shouted over the shrieking hair dryers. Heads turned. Eight bridesmaids stared like startled gazelles. Desiree had turned pale under her makeup. Was she that afraid of her mother?

“I only have to put up with this dress for an hour or two, and then I can wear what I want. I don’t want to have to deal with Mother.”

Helen understood, but said nothing. She still had eighty-one buttons to go. Where was Mommy Dearest? She should be here by now.

The room resumed its dull roar. It was nine thirty when the last button was done and the ten-foot cathedral train was arranged. Helen’s fingers ached and she’d torn a nail.

“There. That’s it. Now I can pin on the veil,” Helen said.

“Hold it! The mother should be here for that,” the videographer said. He’d been buzzing around all morning like an irritating gnat.

“I don’t want my mother putting on my veil,” Desiree said. “She wouldn’t anyway. It would mess up her manicure.”

“The pictures won’t look right without your mother,” the still photographer added.

“I don’t care.” Desiree stamped her foot. Tears trembled at the edge of her eyes. The makeup artist hovered with powder and a foam wedge. Bridal tears could undo her work.

“Honey, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” her friend Emily soothed. At least, Helen thought it was Emily. Her hair was done up in a fashionable twist and she was wearing an elegant plum-colored Vera Wang. “But Kiki’s late. I’ll go look for her.”

When the young woman ran from the room to begin her search, Helen knew for sure it was Emily. She made her Vera Wang flap. Helen liked that.

“Put my veil on,” the bride commanded Helen.

“We can always stage it with the mother later,” the still photographer said.

“It won’t look the same,” the videographer said. He was an auteur.

Helen pinned on the trailing veil.

“Ouch,” the bride said.

“Sorry. I have to anchor it in your hair. There. You look beautiful.” Helen patted Desiree on her shoulder. This was such a sad moment. Those words should have been said by the bride’s mother, pronounced with love, pride, and teary eyes. Helen wanted to hug the forlorn little creature, but she didn’t dare. With that dress, it would be like clutching glass shards to her bosom.

The bride studied herself in the full-length mirror. “I don’t look as bad as I expected.”

“You look lovely,” Helen said.

Desiree smiled and almost seemed to believe her.

This is so sad, Helen thought. I’m bought and paid for—or maybe not. Helen wondered if Millicent had collected her money last night, but didn’t have the nerve to ask.

“I’m glad it’s you and not that awful Millicent,” Desiree said. “She called my mother last night and said the most shocking things. She wanted her money right then, at the rehearsal dinner.”

Imagine that, Helen thought. A merchant who wanted to be paid.

“Did she get it?” Helen said.

“Of course not. Mother said she’d give it to you today. I’ll make sure she writes the check as soon as she shows up,” the bride said.

Helen decided debt collection was Millicent’s problem. She had enough to worry about. Helen checked the bridesmaids, making sure everyone was properly zipped and hooked, and no tags or straps showed. Then she unwrapped the bridal bouquet from the florist’s tissue paper. The greenish white flowers looked like they’d been grown in a test tube.

Emily came flapping back, face flushed, makeup smeared, hair hanging. The hairstylist and makeup artist hovered nearby for emergency repairs, but they couldn’t do anything about the sweat stains on the plum Vera Wang.

“I’ve looked everywhere for your mother,” Emily said. “No one’s seen her. The organist wants to know when to start the procession. She’s playing the same songs over and over.”

“Better get my father in here,” Desiree said.

Emily broke free of the flurry of combs and makeup and ran out again. She returned shortly with the bride’s father. Brendan looked splendid in his pearl-gray morning coat. Helen wondered if his silver hair had been touched up. Helen expected Brendan to turn teary-eyed when he saw his daughter in her wedding dress, but he ignored her bridal beauty.

“What’s she done this time?” he demanded. He couldn’t even say Kiki’s name.

“She hasn’t shown up yet,” Desiree said. “We’re supposed to start at ten, and it’s ten fifteen.”

Brendan whipped out his cell phone and began punching in numbers. He had long, thin scratches on both hands. The cook’s cat must have been busy.

“She’s not answering her home or cell phone,” Brendan said.

The blond bridesmaids looked bored. Their foreheads were shiny. The makeup artists kept patting them with powder, which speckled their black dresses. Hairstylists poked their coiffeurs with pins.

“People, what’s the
problem?
” Jeff, the wedding planner, looked like a worried little boy. “If we don’t start soon, the
flowers
will wilt and the
dinner
will be delayed, the
chocolate souffles
will fall, and the
band
will . . .”

The dominoing disasters were cut short by the appearance of the groom, against all protocol.

“Desiree, darling,” Luke said, “is there a problem?”

Chauncey, his best man, was right behind him, mobile red lips in their perpetual pucker. The bride’s father strutted back and forth, looking at his watch and dialing his phone.

The room grew smaller and hotter. Desiree seemed overwhelmed by the heavy dress and the crushing crowd. She stood like a melting snow queen in her crystal-frosted gown. “It’s ten thirty,” she said. “The wedding should have started at ten. What should I do? Should we postpone the ceremony or go ahead?”

“Marry him,” her father said. Helen could see the man’s panic. His wife could delay this wedding, then run up even bigger bills for a second ceremony.

“Marry him,” Chauncey the best man said. His voice quavered theatrically.

“Marry me.” Luke kissed her passionately, but the bride remained rigid and unyielding.

The bridesmaids said nothing. Emily patted Desiree’s back as if she were a colicky infant.

“Is that your mother’s Rolls in the parking lot?”

Helen wasn’t sure who said that.

The bride broke from Luke’s embrace and looked out the window. When she turned back, Desiree’s face was a mask of hate and shame. “That’s her car. She’s with her chauffeur. She’s disgusting. I’m not holding up my wedding so that old tart can screw her chauffeur.”

The bride took her father’s arm defiantly. “Let’s go.”

The bridesmaids were shooed down the aisle like a flock of chickens.

The makeup artist gave Desiree a final dusting of powder. The organist launched into the bride’s music. It was supposed to be a wedding march. But Helen thought the bride and her father looked like two invaders crossing enemy borders. They stomped down the aisle, Desiree’s cathedral train raising small flurries of rose petals in their wake.

Just before they reached the altar, Desiree turned around and scanned the church for her mother. For one instant, Helen saw a vulnerable young bride who wanted her mother—even a mother like Kiki.

But there was no sign of the woman. Desiree squared her shoulders and faced the altar.

Her father presented her to Luke. Brendan did not kiss his daughter good-bye.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the minister said.

He could have pronounced them dead.

The bride glittered in the cold blue light of the stained-glass windows. The groom looked cyanotic.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

Luke wrapped his arms around Desiree for a soap-opera smooch, then jumped back as if he’d been stung. That sent her staggering backward. The maid of honor caught the rejected bride. Desiree burst into tears.

There were titters and disapproving murmurs from the congregation. Only Helen guessed what had happened: The groom had cut his hand on the crystal dress. It was a vicious cut. Helen could see blood drops on the white carpet.

A quick-thinking bridesmaid swung the cathedral train away from the dark red spatters. The best man whipped off his cummerbund and gave it to Luke for a bandage.

Muddy brown tears ran down the bride’s face and splotched her dress. So much for waterproof mascara. Desiree dabbed at the tears with her veil, leaving nasty brown smudges on the delicate fabric.

Another couple might have laughed off the mishap. But Luke didn’t laugh, nor did he comfort his new wife. Desiree did not care about his bloody hand. They stood at the altar, separate and self-absorbed. They’d failed as a couple from the first moment of their marriage.

The whole sorry incident was caught by two video cameras and a still photographer. Helen wondered if it would be edited out of the wedding photos or saved for the divorce proceedings.

This marriage was doomed, she decided. The perfect rehearsal led to a wedding-day disaster. All the practice and planning couldn’t prevent these problems. Who knew a randy Kiki would skip her daughter’s wedding for hot sex with her chauffeur? The bride didn’t wear her crystal dress at the rehearsal, so the groom had no idea it was like embracing broken glass.

Luke never did kiss the bride. When the confusion died down the minister said, “Let me present the new Mr. and Mrs. Praine.”

The traditional applause was tentative. Luke frowned. He was used to thundering ovations. He grabbed his wife’s hand and held it up triumphantly, like a victorious boxer. Now the applause was louder and mixed with laughter.

Helen wasn’t sure what Luke’s gesture meant, but she didn’t like it. Was he saying his wife was a prize? The little bride with her tear-blotched face looked confused.

That look pierced Helen’s heart. She felt tears in her eyes. Helen never cried at weddings, but she felt sorry for poor unloved Desiree. She was a showpiece for her parents’ ambitions and a bankroll for her husband’s career.