Kate Kingsbury - Wedding Rows

“I suppose it’s useless to suggest that you let George and Sid conduct that investigation.”

“Quite useless.”

“That’s what I thought. How’s it coming along?”

“Well, George seems convinced that Rodney killed Brian, and I have to admit, circumstances do point to him, though there’s no proof at all. It’s pure conjecture at this point.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know.” She pondered on that for a moment, then added slowly, “I think I need to ask a few more questions before I make up my mind.”

“Well, just be careful, okay?”

“I will if you will.”

“I’m always careful.”

She smiled. “I wish I could believe that. When will you be coming home, or is that something else you can’t tell me?”

There was an odd pause, then he said softly, “‘Home.’ That sounds so darn good. Wish I could be there right now.”

Aware of Violet bustling around in the background, she said fervently, “Oh, so do I.”

“Well, with any luck, it won’t be long. One thing I can tell you, I’ll be there just as soon as possible.”

“I know.” She lowered her voice. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too, sweetheart.”

She hung up the telephone, her eyes moist. Without looking at Violet she headed for the door. “I’ll be back in time for dinner,” she said, not trusting her voice to say more.

For once, Violet didn’t give her a cheeky reply.

“Come on, Florrie.” For the tenth time that morning Marge paused, waiting for Florrie to catch up with her. She was thoroughly fed up. All Florrie had done was whine ever since they started down the trail through the woods. Marge watched her companion trudge slowly toward her, stopping every now and then to wipe her brow.

“I’m thirsty,” Florrie complained, “and it’s getting hot.”

Marge had to agree; it was getting awfully warm and muggy. Unusual for the end of May. Must be a storm coming. “Well, come on, we’re almost out of our side of the woods, and Rita said once we get out the other side we should start back to the village.”

“It’s such a long walk back from here,” Florrie moaned. “I’ll never get there. Me feet are all blistered.”

Marge looked at Florrie’s feet. “I’m not surprised. Where on earth did you get those shoes? The rag bag?”

Florrie looked offended. “They’re the most comfortable shoes I’ve got. I’ve had them for years.”

“Bloomin’ looks like it, too.” Marge started walking again, impatient for the search to be over so she could get back to the tea room and have a currant bun and a nice hot cup of tea. They weren’t going to find Nellie in the woods. She was sure of that. It was too easy to get lost in all the trees unless you stuck to the trails, and if she were tied up somewhere, as Rita seemed to think, they’d have surely found her by now.

“Wait for me!” Florrie whined behind her.

Marge stomped on. She wouldn’t put it past Nellie to be messing about with them musketeers, having a good time with them, instead of in danger like Rita said. Somehow Nellie being in danger didn’t seem real.

War was real. Bombs falling and soldiers fighting and planes going down in the ocean. All that was real. People just didn’t go around kidnapping strangers in wartime. There was too much else to worry about. Them musketeers had taken Nellie for a lark, and she was probably back in Bessie’s tea room, telling everyone what a good time she had.

Having salved her conscience, Marge was prepared to make straight for the lane that would lead them back to the main road. To heck with plodding through the rest of the woods. Nellie wasn’t here, and that was that.

“Come on, Florrie,” she called out. “We’re going back home.” Judging whereabouts the lane would be, she veered off the trail to the right and headed in that direction. It took longer than she thought, and she had to struggle up and down banks, squeeze through shrubbery, and climb over fallen logs before she finally sighted the clearing up ahead.

Lost in her thoughts, she’d forgotten about Florrie, until she turned around and saw no sign of her. “Florrie?” She waited, expecting to hear Florrie’s whine, but only the birds twittering in the trees answered her.

“Florrie? Florrie !” Cursing under her breath, Marge climbed back up the bank she’d just slid down. Stupid woman. Now she’d have to go back and get her.

It was even harder going back than it had been coming. She had to hunt for the signs of her tracks to make sure she was going in the right direction. All the time she called out Florrie’s name, until her voice was hoarse. Squirrels chattered at her, sparrows fluttered out of branches, and crows screeched at her, but no sound of a human voice answered her cries.

It didn’t seem possible that the woods were full of people searching for Nellie, and not one of them could hear her. To make matters worse, a faint rumbling of thunder in the distance warned of a storm approaching.

Marge was almost in tears by the time she reached the trail again. Still no sign of Florrie. Stumbling and running, Marge hurried along the trail in the hopes that the silly woman had continued along it. At the pace Florrie was walking, Marge should easily catch up with her. The trail ended, however, without Marge ever seeing another living soul. Thoroughly fed up, she reached the lane and set off for the village.

Either Florrie had gone back the way they’d come, or something bad had happened to her. Now Marge no longer thought Nellie was having a good time with the musketeers. In fact, she was beginning to really worry about her. She was also worried as to how she would explain to Rita that she’d lost Florrie somewhere in the woods.

Elizabeth arrived in North Horsham just before noon. She hadn’t rung Dickie Muggins to let him know she was coming. She’d learned that when people are taken by surprise, they reveal much more if they haven’t had time to prepare their answers.

To her relief, Dickie was in his studios when she called on him. His assistant, a freckled-faced redheaded woman with the unlikely name of Frenchie, ushered her into a waiting room and handed her a tattered copy of a film magazine.

Elizabeth, preferring live theater to the cinema, thumbed through it without paying much attention. She was relieved when Dickie came bustling in, wearing a gaudy orange silk shirt with baggy brown trousers. His black scarf floated behind him as he surged forward, his hand extended as if he meant to shake hers.

Holding firmly onto the magazine, Elizabeth rose smoothly to her feet. Now that she knew the truth about the photographer, she found it rather difficult to meet his gaze. “It was kind of you to see me on such short notice, Mr. Muggins,” she murmured, as he led her into a tiny office.

The walls were covered with photographs, some in color, most in black-and-white. Weddings, birthday parties, horse races, boating regattas, there seemed no end to the functions this weird little man had attended as official photographer.

“I’m so glad you paid me a visit today,” Dickie said, ushering her onto a chair. “I have the proofs of the wedding. I was going to take them into Sitting Marsh, but as long as you’re here, would you mind taking them with you? It would save me a trip.”

“I’ll be happy to take them.” Elizabeth waited until he’d handed her the package before saying, “I don’t know if you’ve heard the sad news, but shortly after you left the wedding on Saturday, Brian Sutcliffe was found dead in the cellar of the Sitting Marsh village hall.”

Dickie’s hand fluttered in front of his face as he uttered a shocked, “Oh, my goodness! Oh, how perfectly dreadful. The poor, poor man. Whatever happened?”