Murder of a Wedding Belle (2 page)

Scumble River is not a real town. The characters and events portrayed in these pages are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to living persons is pure coincidence.

Just a Matter of Time

 

S
kye Denison twisted her left hand from side to side, admiring the glitter of the diamond engagement ring on her finger. Sunshine streaming through the windshield of her aqua 1957 Bel Air made the two-carat gemstone blaze like a Fourth of July sparkler. Reluctantly, she slid the ring off, tucked it into its Tiffany blue box, and zipped it into the inner pocket of her purse. The last thing she needed was her mother getting the wrong idea.

Wally Boyd, Scumble River police chief and secret heir to a Texas oil fortune, had proposed to Skye a month ago. Although she hadn’t said yes, he’d insisted that she hold on to the ring until she decided. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him; she just didn’t trust her judgment where men were concerned. After making some bad choices in the past, she was leery of commitment.

She had to make up her mind about Wally soon, but not today. Today was all about Skye’s cousin Riley Erickson. Ten years ago, while Skye had still been away working in the Peace Corps, Riley had left their hometown of Scumble River to attend college in California, and decided to stay there permanently. She had finally returned for a visit, and Skye didn’t want to be late for her party.

After checking her lipstick in the rearview mirror, Skye picked up the seven-layer salad—her food assignment for the gathering—and got out of the Chevy, which she’d parked in the alley behind her grandma Cora’s house. The Denisons didn’t get together as often as her mother’s extended Italian clan, the Leofantis, did, and Skye looked forward to catching up with her dad’s side of the family.

However, when she put her hand on the knob of the kitchen’s screen door, the excited chatter echoing through the aluminum mesh brought her up short. For an instant she wasn’t sure she was at the right house. The Denisons came from stoic Swedish farm stock. They never got worked up. Heck, they seldom raised their voices, and they certainly didn’t squeal like a gaggle of schoolgirls.

What in the world could cause her unflappable relatives to make sounds like whooping cranes on crack?

Skye pushed open the door and walked into pandemonium. Her great-aunt Dora was crying.
Yikes!
Had someone died? No. A blond beauty with white-gold curls was standing at the heart of the uproar, surrounded by a flock of chirping women who were all fluttering around her like birds at a feeder and patting her as if she were a prize parakeet.

It had been nearly seventeen years since Skye had seen her cousin, and she wouldn’t have recognized her in a crowd, but she figured the blonde must be Riley.

No doubt the men were in the living room, probably watching a football game, or whatever sporting event was on TV in late November, but Skye was surprised that there wasn’t anyone at the stove cooking. One thing the Denison and Leofanti females had in common was their culinary skills.

Skye spotted her mother on the fringe of the group and joined her. Come August, May would turn sixty, but she looked at least fifteen years younger. With her petite build and the perkiness of the high school cheerleader she’d once been, she was the personification of eternal youth.

Before Skye could speak, May grabbed her arm. “Isn’t it thrilling?”

“What?” Skye set down her salad bowl on the kitchen counter before her mom could accidentally knock it out of her hands.

“Riley’s getting married right here in Scumble River on June twenty-fifth!” May trilled.

“She’s having the ceremony here?” Skye had heard of destination weddings but had never imagined Scumble River as one of those destinations.

“Yes.” May beamed. “And she wants you to be her maid of honor.”

“Why me?” The question slipped out before Skye could stop it.

“Shh! Do you want Riley to hear you?” May dragged Skye through the dining room into the nearest bedroom and whispered, “She’ll think you aren’t tickled pink that she asked you.”

“Well, technically, she hasn’t asked me.” Skye stalled for time. May would be unhappy with her decision to refuse Riley’s request, but sometime after Skye had hit thirty, being a bridesmaid had lost its appeal.

She’d stood up for several of her sorority sisters right after college, a couple of friends while she’d been in the Peace Corps, and her graduate school roommate the year before she’d moved home. Being in a wedding was a lot of work, not to mention a huge expense, and seven hideous dresses she could never wear again were her limit.

May narrowed her eyes and stared at Skye. “But once she asks you, you are going to say yes, right?”

“My question stands. Why would Riley want me to be her maid of honor?” Skye held firm. “She was only twelve when I left for college, and we haven’t seen each other since.”

“Blood is blood, no matter how much time has passed,” May countered. “She idolized you. She followed you around at family gatherings and begged her mother to hire you as her babysitter.”

Skye refused to be swayed. “But we haven’t kept in touch. Not to mention I’m not even entirely sure how we’re related.”

“Your grandma Denison and Riley’s grandmother Dora are sisters. That makes your father and Riley’s mother, Anita, first cousins,” May explained. “And since both Anita and Riley are only children, close or not, you are Riley’s only female relative young enough to be in her wedding.”

“How about Riley’s father’s people?” Skye knew Anita had been married and widowed during a brief time when she had lived out east, but couldn’t remember the details.

“Anita lost touch with them after he died and she moved back home.”

“Oh.” Skye paused, then shook her head. “Anyway, I just don’t have the money.”

“That’s the best part. Riley’s fiancé is filthy rich. Nick is some big developer in California. He drives a Maserati.”

“Owning an expensive car doesn’t impress me.” Skye attempted to distract her mother. “It doesn’t take any special talent to make a car payment each month.”

“He collects art, too,” May gushed, ignoring Skye’s comment. “It’s a shame he couldn’t come with her so the family could meet him, but he’s paying for everything. They’ve even hired a wedding planner from Beverly Hills who’s going to be in Scumble River for the entire month before the wedding.”

“That’s wonderful.” Skye understood her mother’s awe. May had never had a lot of money, so being able to spend it on frivolous nonessentials seemed like a fairy tale to her. “But I’m sorry. The answer’s still no.”

“I wish you’d reconsider, Skye,” an elderly voice quavered from the bed.

Skye whirled around. She had been so intent on her conversation with May, she hadn’t realized that someone else was in the room.

Cora Denison, Skye’s grandmother, swung her legs over the side of the mattress and struggled to stand. At eighty-five, she had buried a husband, two stillborn babies, and a teenage grandson. Up until Halloween, she’d made a batch of her famous Parker House rolls nearly every Sunday, but she hadn’t been feeling well for the past few weeks.

Skye rushed to Cora’s side and helped her to her feet, then handed her the cane that had been leaning against the wall. Skye’s heart sank. Having lost both her grandfathers and Grandma Leofanti, she wasn’t ready for her last remaining grandparent to die, but it was clear that Cora was failing.

Once she was steady, Cora said, “I’d really like you to be in Riley’s wedding.”

Skye opened her mouth to explain why she couldn’t, but a movement near the door drew her attention. Her father, Jed, was standing on the threshold, his faded brown eyes pleading with Skye to agree to her grandmother’s request.

What could she do? Skye knew a lot of people thought she needed to grow a spine where her family was concerned, but there was no way she could disappoint her grandmother or her father, both of whom rarely asked her for anything.

She forced a smile to her lips. “If
you
want me to, Grandma, I’d be happy to be Riley’s maid of honor.”

As she gave Cora a hug, Skye mentally shrugged. How bad could it be? All she’d have to do was buy a few gifts, throw a bridal shower, and attend the rehearsal dinner, the ceremony, and the reception. The wedding planner would do the rest.

Suddenly a shiver ran down Skye’s spine. She wasn’t sure whether it was brought on by the thought of an eighth ghastly bridesmaid’s dress hanging in her closet or the idea of a swarm of strangers descending on Scumble River. Considering her experiences, she had a theory that mixing a horde of out-of-towners with a crowd of Scumble Riverites nearly always produced a lethal concoction. She sure hoped this wedding didn’t turn out to be the event that proved her hypothesis correct.

The Belle of the Ball

 

S
kye frowned as she peered through the peephole of her front door. What was a fashionista clutching a Chanel umbrella doing on her porch? What possible reason could a woman who looked like this have for showing up at an isolated old house along a barely paved farm road in Illinois on a rainy Saturday afternoon?

Her visitor wore Couture Couture tuxedo-style pants, a silk blouse with a ruffled bib, and a blond mink shrug. Skye had seen the exact same outfit in
Elle
and knew it cost more than a year’s tuition at the local community college. The woman’s blue-black hair was held back at the temples with Swarovski crystal–bow barrettes that emphasized a dramatic widow’s peak. Her bright red lips pursed as she rang the bell a second time.

Bingo, Skye’s black cat, was sitting by her feet, and she whispered to him, “What do you think she wants?”

He twitched his tail and meowed sharply, perhaps trying to remind Skye of stranger danger—a lesson most children had learned by age six, but one Skye often ignored.

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical reason why a woman dressed for lunch at Spago has shown up at my house.” Another
ding-dong
made Skye reach for the knob. “She probably has car trouble and needs to use the telephone.”

Bingo’s ears flattened, and he seemed to shake his head.

“A lot of cell phones don’t work around here,” Skye informed him. “I can’t just let her stand out there in the rain.” Keeping the chain on, she opened the door a few inches—she was ready to help someone in need, but she wasn’t totally naive. “Yes?”

“I’m Belle Canfield.”

Skye was taken aback by the woman’s high-pitched voice. She’d been expecting a throaty purr. “Nice to meet you.”

Belle looked Skye up and down, a faint sneer on her perfectly made-up face. “Are you Skye Denison?”

“Yes,” Skye admitted, wishing she had on something other than ratty sweatpants and a faded orange Illini T-shirt. “Can I help you?”

“Well, duh. How about we start with you letting me come inside?”

“And why should I do that?” If her visitor was going to be snarky, so was Skye.

“Because we have an appointment.” Belle’s tone conveyed that she was stating the obvious. “You don’t think I drove down this rutted path you people call a street for the fun of it, do you?”

“We have an appointment?” Skye tucked an escaped chestnut curl back into her ponytail. Surely she’d have remembered agreeing to meet with
this
woman. “For what?”

“To go over details for Riley’s wedding.” Belle handed Skye a candy-apple red business card. Printed under her name were the words
Bridal Consultant
. “You’re my local liaison.”

“No, I’m the maid of honor.”

“Yes, but you’re also acting as my assistant.” When Skye shook her head, Belle enunciated slowly, as if she thought Skye might be a little dim, “You know, my helper.”

“You’ve been misinformed.” A sharp wind dashed a sheet of rain into Skye’s face. “But I guess you’d better come inside so we can straighten this out.” She unchained the door and swung it open.

“Finally,” Belle muttered loud enough for Skye to hear. The wedding planner closed her umbrella, leaned it against the side of the house, then stepped over the threshold, her Alexander McQueen ankle boots clicking on the hardwood floor. Belle’s gaze swept the foyer from the freshly painted mocha walls to the curving staircase. A slight smile on her lips, she said, “This is so sick. That spot would really rock it for a picture.”

Sick?
Was that the new word for
hot
? “Not really.” Skye pointed to her left. “Let’s sit in here while we figure this out.” She needed to get the woman seated before she insisted on a tour of the house. Only the foyer, parlor, and dining room were fully remodeled. Skye had run out of money before completing all the needed renovations, and she didn’t want to see Belle’s look of contempt when she saw the rest of the place.

After they were settled, Belle asked, “Seriously, you’re telling me that no one talked to you about assisting me?”

“Yes. I’m fairly sure I would have remembered that conversation.”

Bingo, who had followed them in, began sniffing the woman’s legs. Belle moved her feet. “I’m allergic to cats.”

“Would you like a Benadryl?” Skye fought the impulse to put Bingo in another room. She didn’t see any indication of red eyes or a runny nose, but if the bridal consultant was truly allergic, maybe she wouldn’t stick around long.

“Let’s just get this over with.” Belle took a legal pad from her briefcase. “Next time we can meet somewhere else.”

“I told you”—Skye barely held on to her temper—“there won’t be a next time.” Clearly the woman was used to ignoring whatever she didn’t want to hear.

Belle’s squeaky voice was petulant. “Do you know who I am?”

“Riley’s wedding planner.” Skye raised an eyebrow. “Unless you just gave me a fake business card.”

“Not just
a
wedding planner.” Belle tossed her head. “
The
wedding planner to the stars.”