Murder of a Wedding Belle (29 page)

Earl loped toward her, smiling widely. “I knowed you would come. Glenda said you wouldn’t, that you was too snooty. But I knowed you’d wouldn’t never miss Elvis gettin’ hitched.”

“Of course not.” Skye allowed herself to be hugged, briefly, then handed Earl her gift. “Sorry I’m late.” She removed herself from the little man’s embrace and said, “I wouldn’t miss this wedding for the world.”

Out of sight, a dog was barking, but the canine’s recent visit to the front lawn was evident from the pungent odor lingering in the air. Skye felt her nose twitch and hastily reached in her pocket for a Kleenex.

As she raised the tissue toward her face, Earl said, “No need to cry, Miz Skye. It’s time the boy settled down.” Elvis was all of eighteen, but the Red Raggers married young, and Skye wondered whether his twin sister was now considered an old maid. For that matter, what did the Dooziers think of
her
, still single at thirty-five?

“Has the ceremony started yet?” She needed to ask Earl about Belle but knew it was best not to question a Doozier directly. You had to mosey into the discussion, then sidestep the subject into the conversation, pretending you weren’t all that interested.

“Nope.” Earl pointed to a Harley skidding into the driveway. “That-there’s the preacher now.”

Skye tried not to stare as the tall, gaunt man, dressed from head to toe in black leather and sporting a ZZ Top beard, dismounted and walked toward them. His nearly waist-length gray hair floated around him like a cloak, and the hand that held the Bible was missing two fingers.

Earl introduced the minister to Skye, then took them both around back. Mismatched picnic tables were arranged facing a beer-bottle arch erected over a child’s swimming pool that had been filled with concrete to form a dais. Sitting on the tables’ benches and scattered lawn chairs were the cream of Red Ragger society.

Skye could barely keep her mouth from hanging open. There were more piercings and cleavage, and fewer teeth, than she’d ever seen gathered in one place before. Multiple earrings were stuck in every visible orifice, and probably those that weren’t visible, too. Low-cut tank tops strained to cover the breasts of the female guests, and some of the more well-endowed male guests, as well.

As Earl pushed Skye into an empty seat, a cartoonlike voice screeched, “Earl Doozier, get your ass in this house right now. Your brother’s locked hisself in the can and won’t come out.”

Earl whirled around, smashing his knee into the edge of the picnic table’s bench. As the Doozier hopped around, using scatological terms Skye barely recognized, she watched an older man wearing overalls and carrying a shotgun stride toward them. Accompanying him was Earl’s wife, Glenda.

“I knowed the Dooziers weren’t honorable.” The gun-toting man pointed at Earl. “You’d better get your no-account brother out here pronto. Unless, a’course, your word don’t mean nothin’.”

“Y’all hang on your britches.” Earl leaned down and whispered to Skye, “As a rule, I’d beat the sumbitch up for sayin’ that, but since it’s Elvis’s weddin’ day, I’m tryin’ not to stink to old man Beckman’s level.”

“Good for you, Earl,” Skye encouraged. “You know what they say, if you lie down with dogs—”

“You’ll smell bad the next mornin’,” Earl finished, grinning proudly.

“Uh, right.” She had to quit trying to quote proverbs to this man.

Earl punched Skye lightly in the arm, then rushed into the house, pausing at the screen door to say to the crowd, “We’ll be startin’ shortly.”

Skye smiled at her tablemates and willed herself to relax. Nothing to do with the Dooziers ever went smoothly. She had plenty of time, and she had a good feeling that Earl’s information was the break in the case they needed.

Still, when twenty minutes went by and no bridegroom had appeared, she started to get antsy. What was taking so long? Had Elvis run away and jilted his bride-to-be?

At last, a woman slipped in beside Skye and said to the couple sitting across the picnic table, “They’ll be out directly. We finally found my daughter’s teeth and got her into her dress.” The mother of the bride chugged a beer, then continued, “I warned Mavis not to order it over the Internet. They sent a size eight instead of an eighteen. No way would the zipper close. We had to duct tape that sucker shut.”

A few seconds later Earl and Elvis emerged from the house. Earl had a death grip on his brother’s arm as they took their places under the beer-bottle archway. Then the music started and the crowd stood. Skye had never heard the wedding march played on the banjo before—at least she assumed it was the wedding march; to her it sounded a little like the tune from
Deliverance
.

When the bride started down the aisle, Skye blinked. The girl’s right eyebrow held three silver rings and her left had been shaved off, her fingernail polish was camouflage brown and green, and her dead-black hair was styled in a way that would look good only on supermodels and poodles. She was a scary combination of redneck and Goth.

Skye spent the next ten minutes marveling over the bride’s appearance, missing most of the ceremony, but she tuned in when the minister indicated that the groom should recite his vows.

He began, “I, Elvis Aaron Presley Doozier, takes you, Mavis Charmin Beckman, to be my lawfully bedded wife because you’re hotter than a Hot Pocket.”

Mavis answered, “Our relationship is like a dirt road, because sometimes it’s bumpy, but it’s sure fun when it’s muddy.”

The minister pronounced them married, and as the couple kissed, Cletus and Junior threw chickens off the roof of the tool shed—nothing as tame as a dove release for the Dooziers. Skye held her breath until she saw that the poultry could actually fly. She’d been worried that they might hurtle to their doom. Then again, maybe that had been the plan, and now there wouldn’t be a main course for the reception.

Once the bride and groom do-si-doed down the aisle, Earl announced, “The hog is in the smoker and the beer is in the washtubs. Y’all have a good time.”

The guests quickly dispersed, seeking food and refreshments, and Skye headed for Earl.

He met her halfway. “Miz Skye, what’d ya think? Wasn’t that the bestest weddin’ you ever seed?”

“It was certainly the most unique,” Skye assured him.

“I knows you don’t drink beer, but we gots wine if you want some.” Skye was about to accept when he added, “It’s the good stuff. It came in a pink box.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.” Earl’s expression was earnest. “And the box comes in real handy, too.”

“For what?”

“Once you drunk all the wine, you can barf in the carton.”

Skye decided it was time to change the subject. “Did you say you had a whole hog?”

“Sure.” Earl took her arm. “Come on. I’ll show you. It’s out back.”

“That must have cost you a fortune.” Skye was well aware of how expensive feeding a lot of people could be from arranging Riley’s reception.

“Nah.” Earl led her across the backyard, past the dog pen, and into a small metal outbuilding. “We didn’t pay for it; we hunted it.”

“But there are no wild pigs around here.” Skye knew that for a fact, or her own relatives would have been out shooting them.

Earl’s innocent expression wavered.

“Wait a minute. Please tell me you didn’t go to the Pickett farm?”

“Hell, yeah.” Earl guided her inside the shed. “They got lots and won’t miss one ... or two.”

“Two?” Skye squeaked.

“We needed one for the greased-pig chase.” Earl patted her arm. “But don’t worry, Miz Skye. We’ll put that one back after the weddin’. It’s too small to eat, and we don’t wanna have to feed it.”

She let the matter of their swine crime drop. As a school psychologist, Skye had learned to pick her battles, and today her mission was to find out if the Dooziers knew anything that would help catch Belle’s murderer, not to convince Earl that stealing was wrong.

After Earl had showed her the pig in the smoker, Skye said, “When I saw you at Wal-Mart, you mentioned that you had favors for your guests.”

“Yep, real purty-smellin’ perfume.” Earl frowned. “Buts I’m sorry, Miz Skye, we run out before you got here.”

“That’s okay,” Skye reassured him. “I just wondered where you got it. I was, uh, thinking of getting some for my cousin’s wedding.”

“No, you weren’t.” A crafty look appeared in Earl’s brown eyes. “You done throwed it away.”

“Oh, so it is the bottles we got rid of,” Skye said carefully. “Were you able to use any of the other stuff Belle threw away earlier?”

“Yessirreebob.” Earl puffed out his chest. “Once we seed what that city slicker was wastin’, we checked the Dumpster every day.”

Skye opened her mouth to ask if he’d seen anything, but Glenda flung open the shed’s metal door and shrieked at her, “We ain’t done nothin’ illegal.”

“I never said you had,” Skye quickly appeased the volatile woman. Dealing with Glenda was like handling wet TNT; one wrong move and
kapow!

“If it’s in the garbage, it’s free for the takin’.” Glenda glared at Skye.

“It sure is,” Skye agreed. “I’m glad you could get some use from it. The thing is ...” She paused. She had to be careful how she phrased her question. “I was just wondering, because Earl mentioned that people were yelling at Belle, if you’d seen her fighting with someone when you were, uh, helping her recycle.”

“You bet your ass we did.” Earl’s noggin moved up and down like a bobblehead doll. “Saturday afternoon, some guy was screamin’ at her about money or some such thing like she’d cut off his balls or somethin’.”

“So, nothing early Sunday morning, like around one a.m.?” Skye questioned.

“Don’t be an ijit,” Glenda snapped. “Why would we go back after we already checked once that day?”

Skye’s shoulder sagged. Another dead end.

Glenda left, warning Earl that he needed to tap the keg because they were already out of cans of beer and the crowd was getting ugly.

Not wanting to witness an ugly Red Ragger crowd, since they already seemed fairly unattractive, Skye made her excuses, assuring Earl before she left that she didn’t want a ride on the mechanical bull. He insisted on showing her the wedding cake—Ding Dongs, Ho Hos, and Zingers formed into three layers of snack-food delight—then escorted her back to her car.

As they got to the driveway, he said, “That guy yellin’ at that weddin’ gal was sure mad.”

“Oh.” Skye felt a flare of hope. “Did you see him or just hear him?”

“I seed him all right. I didn’t knows him. He wasn’t from around here. But I seed him.”

“What did he look like?” Skye asked. Earl was silent for so long, Skye prodded, “Earl?”

“Sorry, Miz Skye. I stopped to think and forgot to start again. What was the question?”

“What did the guy arguing with Belle look like?”

“Well. He was a lot like me—in his forties, you know, the prime of life, missin’ some hair, and not real tall.” Earl wrinkled his brow. “But he wasn’t like me, too.”

“In what way?”

“His clothes and such was real fancy.”

“Do you think you could identify him from a picture?” Skye asked. Earl had described both the groom and the best man.

“Nah.” Earl shook his head. “I never seed his face. His back was to me the whole time.”

Skye thanked him, then got into her car. As she drove home to get ready for the rehearsal, she thought about what Earl had told her. If the man fighting with Belle was yelling at her about money, it would more likely be Nick. After all, he, not Zach, was the one paying her to put on a million-dollar wedding.

Ready, Set, Rehearse

T
he rehearsal and dinner afterward were being held at the Thistle Creek Country Club. Riley had originally wanted to go to Everest in Chicago, but Skye had pointed out that the three-hour round-trip into the city would result in an extremely late night for the wedding party. After a short deliberation, the bride had decided she didn’t want red-eyed attendants who might be too tired to follow directions and would thus screw up her big day.

Skye’s detour through Doozierland had put her behind schedule, and by the time she changed clothes and drove to the club, she had only ten minutes to check out the arrangements for the rehearsal before everyone else was supposed to arrive.

With the clock ticking down, Skye dashed up the front steps, flung open the door, and rushed inside the building. The lobby’s lights blazed, but there was no sign of Allison Waggoner. In fact, as Skye hurried down the hall, the whole clubhouse had an eerily empty air.
Shoot!
Where was the event coordinator, not to mention the rest of the staff?

The first thing Skye noticed when she entered the darkened ballroom was a faint musty odor. Once she found the light switches and flicked them on, she pulled a small memo pad from her purse and using the attached pen made a note:
Febreze before ceremony.

Other than the smell, everything seemed in order as she continued her inspection and moved on to the dining room. It was brightly lit, with large windows that overlooked the golf course, moss green walls decorated with wildlife paintings, and a large natural stone fireplace.

The tables were arranged in a horseshoe shape and set with crisp linens, sparkling crystal, and shiny silver. As Skye admired the scene, she heard faint sounds coming from behind an exit in the rear. She crossed the polished wood floor and stepped through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

“Hi, everyone.” Several employees were busily preparing for the dinner, and Skye was relieved to see the event coordinator among them. “The dining room looks wonderful.”

The staff nodded and continued working, but Allison separated herself from the others. “I think we’re all ready for you, but let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks.” Skye tilted her head. “It sounds as if my group is here, so I’d better go get the show on the road.”