Sharyn McCrumb - The Windsor Knot

“I think it’s a touch of swine flu,” said Geoffrey.

They adjourned to the living room, where Elizabeth began to pile the unopened packages on the rug in front of the sofa. “Sit here,” she said to Cameron. “You open the gifts and I’ll make a note of who sent the package and what it is. For the thank-you notes.”

“I hope you’re going to write them,” said Cameron. “After all, I ground out all those invitations.”

“I sent out more than you did!”

“Oh, there’s nothing to thank-you notes,” said Geoffrey. “Just say Thanks for the lovely teapot. Of all the teapots we got, yours was our favorite.”

“No,” said Elizabeth. “On no account should you say that. Go on, open something.”

One crystal vase, a toaster, and two cookbooks later, Elizabeth said, “Why don’t you open the big one from New York? It’s awfully heavy, and I’ve been dying to know what’s in it.”

“New York?” said Cameron. “I didn’t invite anybody in New York. Isn’t that one of your lot?”

Elizabeth pointed to the label. “It’s addressed to Dr. Cameron Dawson and Fiancée . Hardly proper,” she sniffed, “but I think it leaves no doubt that the present is from one of your friends.” Her tone implied that her friends had better manners.

“Return address The Package Store, Jamaica, New York; sent UPS. Well, we’ll soon see,” said Cameron, cutting the twine with his penknife.

Half a minute later, he had cut open the top of the cardboard box and slit one side, so that the box could be folded back to reveal its contents. “Here goes!” said Cameron with a flourish. He peered inside and reeled back at once. “Bloody hell!”

“Oh, a garden gnome,” said Aunt Amanda politely. “How very British. But that’s a very unusual one.

“It certainly is,” said Cameron, over Ian’s howls of laughter.

“He’s quite an old friend,” said Margaret Dawson. “I wonder how he got here.”

“United Parcel Service,” said Geoffrey kindly.

The red-hatted garden gnome was wearing sunglasses and his face was painted with a bronze suntan. Pinned to his recently acquired Hawaiian shirt was an invitation to Cameron Dawson’s wedding.

“Is that your gnome from Edinburgh?” asked Elizabeth.

“The stolen one. Yes. Came over for the wedding.” Cameron laughed in spite of himself.

“There’s no card saying who it’s from. I wonder who sent it?” asked Elizabeth, looking suspiciously at Geoffrey. “It was taken from Edinburgh, so I suppose that lets you off the hook.”

“It wasn’t I,” said Geoffrey.

“Then who did it?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, cousin. I only take murder cases.”

ELIZABETH STOOD AT the top of the Chandlers’ oak staircase, clutching her father’s arm. Beneath the veil her dark hair curled about her shoulders, and the satin dress with the low rounded bodice made her look like a Renaissance princess. Draped across one shoulder was the red and blue tartan of Clan MacPherson. In front of her stood two blonde bridesmaids in yellow dresses, carrying bouquets wrapped with tartan ribbons.

“Don’t be nervous!” whispered Jenny Ramsay, tapping her on the shoulder. “Everything will be fine.”

“Fine?” hissed Elizabeth, over the strains of the organ music. “Are you serious? My wedding dress was delivered by the sheriff!”

“Yes, wasn’t it sweet of him? He’s staying for the wedding, too, isn’t he?”

“You ought to be glad Miss Geneva insisted on finishing it in her cell,” said Mary Clare.

“I’ll never live it down,” moaned Elizabeth. “I’m getting married in a dress made by a murderess.”

“I suppose that could count as your something blue,” drawled Mary Clare. “Now shut up. They’re starting the wedding march.”

With great precision, Jenny Ramsay began to march down the stairs in time to the music. She had assumed her Solemn Weather Princess mode, the one she used for religious occasions and forecasts of hurricanes. A murmur of recognition from the crowd signaled her arrival downstairs.

When Mary Clare, the other bridesmaid, had reached the bottom step, Elizabeth nodded to her father and they began to walk down the stairs. Elizabeth, while pretending to keep her eyes focused on nothing, could see her mother, Mrs. Dawson, and Aunt Amanda, all in blue, in the front row, looking gratifyingly misty. And in various places in the audience, she glimpsed Jake Adair, Tommy Simmons (clutching a briefcase full of documents), and Wesley Rountree. The ushers-Bill, Charles, and Geoffrey-were now standing off to the side. Cameron, in a dress suit and his Duke of Edinburgh tie, was standing at the altar beside Ian, looking rather like a prince himself.

Elizabeth looked modestly down at her bouquet. There was a tiny note sticking in among the white roses. As unobtrusively as she could, Elizabeth maneuvered the note out of the arrangement and eased it open. In Geoffrey Chandler’s unmistakable handwriting was the advice for the wedding night that Victorian mothers were said to give to their just-married daughters: Close your eyes and think of England .

Elizabeth giggled all the way to the altar.

“A fête worse than death,” muttered Cameron as they walked toward the grounds of Holyroodhouse.

“They could have arranged better weather for it,” agreed the new Mrs. Dawson, huddling under her umbrella. “At least it isn’t a steady rain.”

“No. We’ll have time to dry out a bit between bursts. Have you got the invitation?”

“It’s in your coat pocket,” said Elizabeth. “I checked three times.”

Despite the initial chaos of the hasty preparations, the wedding had proceeded without incident. As soon as the ceremony was over, Tommy Simmons insisted upon meeting with the new Mrs. Dawson in the study so that the papers pertaining to the inheritance could be signed. He would not hear of her having so much as a sip of punch before the matter was attended to. In fact, his attitude on the matter was rather ominous. Fortunately these suspicions proved unfounded, despite Elizabeth’s attitude of gloom upon leaving the conference. She later explained to Cameron her original impression that inheriting one million dollars ought actually to make one richer, whereas Tommy Simmons seemed to feel that the money was simply a theoretical Monopoly set that existed for the benefit of lawyers. Apparently, although she was rich, she did not in fact have any more money. It was tied up in real estate that it would not be advisable to sell; it was owed to the government in inheritance taxes; or it was soundly invested by the attorneys and ought to remain where it was-for tax purposes. It was a sobering feeling, she said, to learn that one had inherited a collection of attorneys rather than an endless supply of cash.

Other than that, all went well for the newlyweds. At the reception, Charles Chandler took a liking to anthropologist Mary Clare Gitlin. After they had both overindulged in champagne, Charles was heard several times to say to her: “If only I’d met you sooner!” And many of the local guests took home a delightful souvenir, a paper wedding napkin bearing the autograph of the Channel Four Weather Princess.

The Dawson newlyweds had arrived in Edinburgh on Tuesday morning, where they had enjoyed having the house to themselves, except for one indignant Siamese cat, who insisted on being held at every possible moment to compensate for his week’s abandonment. Apparently, Dr. Grant, who had fed him diligently twice a day, had neglected to provide the proper subservience that Traveller considered his due.