Say Yes to the Death (14 page)

Chapter 19

“S
o how about you all just give me an overview of what you're thinking right now,” Terra suggested, and she tapped another key on her laptop so the wallpaper morphed into a slide show with photographs of beautiful brides, shoes, gowns, rings, churches decorated with endless flowers, string quartets poised to play, ad infinitum.

“What I'd like for my wedding,” I began, my mouth strangely dry for someone who was merely role-­playing, “is something simple . . .”

“Simple but lush,” Cissy said, butting in, “with no expense spared.” When I looked at her sideways, she added, “I didn't wait over thirty years for my baby to get married to skimp on this.”

“Mother,”
I said, hating the whine I heard in my voice. It seemed to appear out of nowhere when Cissy and I crossed swords. “To be perfectly honest,” I told her, keeping my cool, “I don't see myself getting married in front of hundreds of your closest friends. Don't get too pushy or Malone and I might decide to elope.”

Mother's eyes went so wide, I thought they might pop out.

“Well, we can always keep things small but elegant,” Terra said in an effort to intercede, but Cissy wasn't done yet.

“Elope?”
she squawked like a parrot. “Dear Lord,” she muttered, fanning her face with a hand. “Do
not
say that word again.” Her hand settled on her heart. She looked fit to burst. “You think being married by an Elvis impersonator in Vegas is preferable to being married by the pastor at Highland Park Presbyterian in front of pews filled with friends and family?”

“Yes,” I said, because I did, hands down, no contest. I couldn't even think of more than a handful of friends and family who I wanted around to share such a special moment, much less four or five hundred of them.

“Oh, Andrea, I love you, but you're out of your mind,” Mother remarked, shaking her head. “You've already deprived me of seeing your debut. Now you're going to deprive me of the kind of wedding for you I've always dreamed about?”

“But it's my wedding, not yours,” I said.

“It's a little bit mine if I'm paying for it.” Cissy's gaze met mine, and her pale eyes flashed fire.

My back stiffened. “Who says you have to pay for it?”

“Whoa, ladies, let's take a step back, okay?” Terra said and clapped crisply, trying to get our attention from across the table. It didn't work.

“We're not turning my wedding into a three-­ring circus, Mother,” I said as civilly as I knew how. “If you try, I will skip out.”

“You wouldn't dare!” Cissy turned such a bloodless shade of white that her subtle makeup looked suddenly clownlike in contrast. “Eloping is for drunken fools and girls who find themselves in a pickle,” she announced in that sharp tone she'd always used when I did something to embarrass her. “Oh, no,” she murmured and stared at me, unblinking. “Oh, sweet pea, please, tell me Mr. Malone hasn't gotten you—­” She hesitated and tried again. “That you aren't—­”

“Knocked up like Penny Ryan?” I replied, nearly choking on the words. “For Pete's sake,” I said and started laughing. I couldn't help it. Did she think I was a horny college sophomore?

“Goodness, Andrea”—­my mother frowned, clearly miffed—­“it's not the least bit funny.”

She was right. It wasn't funny. It was hysterical.

I finally caught hold of myself enough to tell her, “Don't worry. I'm not having your grandchild any time soon. So you can untwist your Spanx and breathe easy.”

“I would much prefer that you wait until after the wedding, thank you,” Cissy replied in a stern drawl, and she began fiddling with her double strand of pearls. “I could only imagine the looks I'd get if you walked down the aisle in one of those horrid maternity gowns.” She wrinkled her nose.

I raised my eyebrows. “So you think I'd look better in a giant marshmallow dress?”

“If you mean a gown that covers your chest and has proper crinolines and train,” my mother said, “then, yes, I would.”

God, give me strength.

I opened my mouth to fire back, but Terra leapt up from her seat.

“Ladies, please, you're not the first bride and MOB who've disagreed,” she said, snatching her laptop from the tabletop.

“Mob?” Cissy echoed. “As in Al Capone?”

“As in mother of the bride,” I clarified, although my mom was certainly acting like a mafia don.

“What if we find a happy medium,” Terra offered, dragging her chair around the table, and plunked down between Mother and me, as though trying to prevent a catfight. She pulled her computer up closer so she could tap the keyboard. “It's all doable,” she said, reminding me of the encouragement I'd given her before we'd had to free Penny Ryan and her hoop skirt from Lester Dickens's toilet. “We just have to find things that will satisfy you both. No worries. I do this all the time.” She looked eagerly at me and then at Mother. “What do you say? Can we compromise?”

Cissy sighed. “I guess you're right.” She leaned back so she could see around Terra. “After all, this is your wedding, Andrea, not mine.”

“Although Mother is engaged, too,” I threw out in retaliation.

Terra perked up. “Is that true?” she asked.

“It is,” Cissy said, and stopped fingering her pearls so Terra could admire her emerald sparkler; which was, of course, from Cartier and far bigger than my modest diamond.

“Have you two thought about a double wedding?” Terra asked, and I had to grab the table to steady myself.

“What?” I gulped.

“Why, no, the idea hadn't occurred to me before now,” Mother said and gave me a look, as though seriously entertaining the idea.

I hoped to God she was saying that for the sake of our undercover sting and not because she meant it.

“You know, that might be fun,” she remarked with an overzealous twinkle in her eyes, and I felt a frisson of fear race up my spine.

“No,” I said firmly, “we are absolutely, positively not doing a double wedding.” It would be a disaster of epic proportions. And, besides, we weren't here to actually plan
any
wedding. We were supposed to be finding out about Terra's relationship with Olivia. “Let's just stick to one wedding for now,” I suggested, “
mine.
”

“You are a spoilsport,” my mother drawled, acting disappointed. “But I'll do whatever you want, pumpkin.”

If there was sweat on my upper lip, it was for good reason. If this whole thing wasn't a charade, my mother would have gone ahead and planned a double wedding, if that was what she really wanted. She would have ordered me a marshmallow dress and had us both marching down the aisle in tandem. Because no matter how much I fought her, in the end she would grab the wheel and steer the ship. She was Cissy Blevins Kendricks, the Doyenne of Dallas Society, a blue-­blooded Texas filly to the core. I could insist on a simple, small wedding until I turned blue in the face, but she would never listen. Mother never did anything small and never would.

Terra must have heard me hyperventilating, as she said, “I agree, let's focus on Andy for now and talk about dresses.”

She clicked a few keys on the laptop and brought up photos of wedding gowns. They were very simple with clean lines, many of them ivory and some knee-­length. I leaned forward to better see them.

“They're pretty,” I said, “but maybe a bit too traditional.”

“There's nothing wrong with being traditional,” I heard my mother say with a sniff, but I ignored her.

I was about to point to a cute cocktail-­style dress that had an overlay of antique-­looking lace when I remembered why Terra had come to my condo. I was supposed to be finding out more about Olivia, not picking out my wedding attire.

So I made a noise of disappointment. “You know, I was thinking maybe I'd have someone design my dress. I've heard Draco does really cutting edge bridal fashions. Is he available?”

“Draco?” Terra repeated. “Are you sure? You sound like you want something different but quiet, and Draco's designs can be very loud.”

Hmm. Shouldn't she have encouraged me to order a dress from Olivia's supposed favorite designer cum boyfriend? When it sounded like she didn't want me going near the man, it prompted me to dig in my heels.

“I'm not sure what I want yet,” I told her honestly. “Is it possible just to talk to him? I'd like to see more of his work. Oh, wait—­” I made myself pause. “—­he was involved with Olivia, wasn't he? No wonder you're so reluctant. It's probably not a good time to meet him. He's undoubtedly devastated.”

Terra pursed her lips tightly before she haltingly spoke. “Yes, he's as devastated as I am that she's gone.”

I thought at first she was being facetious but maybe I was wrong. Her expression turned stoic and unreadable. She sat there quietly for a long moment, and her lack of response made me nervous.

I hoped I hadn't jumped the gun, asking for an appointment with Draco. At least I hadn't asked if Jasper Pippin could do my flowers, too. If Terra got suspicious of my motives and backed off, I'd have to find another way to figure out who hated Olivia enough to kill her.

“Yoo hoo, can I ask a question?” my mother said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Who's this Dracula fellow? I know vampires are big these days, but I don't want you in a black dress on your big day, sweetheart, unless”—­her expression turned mortified—­“you're planning to do some kind of Halloween theme.”

What?

“No,” I said, and I raised my foot to nudge Cissy but ended up toeing Terra's shin instead. “Oops, sorry, I thought you were a table leg,” I said lamely, though Terra didn't even flinch. I looked past her at my mom. “No, we're not doing a Halloween-­themed wedding, and Draco is not a vampire. He's a hot young designer from the show
Operation: Runway
who set up shop in Dallas.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Oh, yes, of course, how did I not know that?” she remarked, though I could tell she'd never heard of him. “Well, if Dracula's too busy, there's always Vera Wang, pumpkin, even though she's been done to death,” she went on, improvising so beautifully that I had to wonder if she was being earnest. “I have her private number. I'll phone her this afternoon if you'd like.”

“Hmm, I guess I'd consider talking to Vera,” I said, playing along, and apparently it was enough to get Terra's attention.

Terra swiveled toward me. “No, it's all right.” Her darkly outlined eyes looked worried. “If you want to meet with Draco, I can arrange it.”

“If you're sure, well, okay,” I said, trying to project nonchalance.

“Let me give him a call.” She pushed away from the table and left her laptop sitting between me and Mother while she retrieved her hobo bag, pulling out her cell. “I'll just be a few minutes,” she declared before heading out the front door.

“I guess she doesn't want us to eavesdrop,” I said and
,
with a glance toward the door, grabbed Terra's laptop keyboard and minimized the window she'd opened with all the wedding gowns. I wanted like crazy to get into her emails but that was password-­protected.

Damn.

I clicked on the desktop icon with photos, opening up a folder within labeled
Big Money Shot,
which turned out to be a photo of a man's very white bare butt with a big brown mole and some kind of frog tattoo.

Cissy let out a sharp breath. “What is that?”

“The big money shot,” I said and grinned. “Terra must have a boyfriend with a tat on his ass.”

“Andrea!” my mother scolded and wiggled her fingers. “Make it go away.”

So I shut the windows and maximized the one with Terra's Web site. She wasn't lying about it being in testing stages. I hit the link button for Dresses to see if Draco's designs would be available on Planet Wedding, but the link went nowhere. Ditto the link for Flowers.

“Andrea, what are you doing?” Cissy asked.

“Snooping,” I said under my breath. Did she forget that was why Terra was here?

“I meant, why are you being so obstinate about your wedding dress?” Cissy clarified. “A marshmallow dress?” She shook her head. “Is that what you think I'd pick out for you? Truly, Andrea, if you believe that, you don't know me at all.”

I sighed. Why wouldn't I believe she wanted me in something big and poofy? That was exactly the type of gown she'd picked out for my debutante ball. It was still hanging in my childhood closet on Beverly Drive, as a matter of fact. Perhaps she'd just want it altered so I could finally wear it for something and she'd get her money's worth.

“I'm not going to fight over a dress,” I told her.

“Oh, sweet pea, you don't get it,” she said and let out a laborious sigh. “In all honesty, I don't care what you don on your Big Day so long as you don't wear something strapless with your bosoms falling out. The things I have seen.” She wrinkled her nose. “Whatever happened to modesty?”

“My bosoms won't fall out, I promise,” I said and tried not to smile. Like I had enough boobs to fall out of anything, as Olivia had so often reminded me from the time I got my first training bra.

“Now don't take this as carte blanche to get pregnant before your wedding, but, for your information”—­she squared her jaw and finished with a straight face—­“if you marched down the aisle in a maternity gown, I would neither have a heart attack nor would I disinherit you.”

I smothered laughter. Was she serious?

“It
is
a different world than when I married your father, and I accept that,” she went on, still not giving any indication that this was a joke, and we were a few weeks past April Fools' Day so it couldn't be that. “Just promise me that my grandbaby won't be illegitimate. The ceremony must come before the birth. That's not too much to ask, now is it?”