Tracy Kiely - Murder on the Bride’s Side

“Well, obviously, but they’re a little off themselves. I know she’s your sister, Mom, but really, did you see what she sent for a wedding gift? A gold-plated toothpick case ! What is that all about?”

Blythe shook her head in understanding while halfheartedly muttering something about it being an antique. Bridget continued, “In any case, I don’t particularly care if Ashley’s problem is nature or nurture. I just don’t want her pitching a fit in the middle of everything tomorrow. What that child needs is a firm spanking. And if she tries any of her usual stunts tomorrow, I may just take the job upon myself.”

“That would make for a nice addition to the wedding album,” said Colin with a grin. “The glowing bride smacking around the little flower girl.”

“You don’t believe in spanking?” asked Bridget.

“Not until after the wedding,” Colin replied primly.

“Kinky,” Peter opined.

“Okay, enough, you two!” said Blythe. “Bridget, just be nice tomorrow. And as it is almost tomorrow, I think the two of you should say good night. Call me old-fashioned, but it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding on their wedding day.”

Colin stood up with a smile. “Point taken, Mrs. Matthews.”

Forgetting the extreme height of her heels, Bridget hopped quickly to her feet. The sudden movement wreaked havoc with her balance and she teetered dangerously to one side before Colin grabbed her arm.

Once steady, Bridget grinned sheepishly at Colin. “Come on. I’ll walk you out,” she said.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Graham offered.

The laughter following this remark died in our throats upon entering the house. Normally, I love the living room at Barton Landing. With its bright yellow walls, blue-and-white-floral-patterned chairs, and charming watercolors by French artists whose names I can never pronounce, the room is cheerful and inviting. But tonight the palpable tension in the room, combined with utter silence, rendered its appeal more on par with a dentist’s surgery chair.

Roni was curled up in one of the overstuffed armchairs. Her bare feet tucked up underneath her, she serenely sipped a glass of red wine. If she was aware of her in-laws’ animosity, she was doing an excellent job of hiding her emotions. The same could not be said for the rest of the room’s inhabitants. From her high-backed cane chair, Elsie glowered at her daughter-in-law without the slightest attempt at pretense. Anna lay flopped at her feet, her intelligent eyes watchful. Claire absently picked at her stunted fingernails, an overbright smile pasted on her face. She sat nestled in close to David, but I doubt he even registered her presence. He was, to put it bluntly, drunk. His bleary eyes shifted unseeingly around the room and his large frame was slumped so far back into the blue brocade cushions of the couch that he seemed to have been partially swallowed by them. Megan sat away from the group in a small leather armchair next to a large potted fern. She appeared to be reading a book, but she turned no pages. Between the sprawling branches of the fern and the generous folds of her green corduroy dress, she faded from view like the Cheshire Cat, except there was no smile on Megan’s round face. I wondered if she came by her ability to disappear naturally or if it was a practiced trait. Next to Roni, Avery sat in his wheelchair, seemingly preoccupied with a mark on the chair’s wheel. At our entrance, he looked up with an expression more normally associated with drowning men seeing life preservers.

“Ah,” he said, forcing his long face into a smile. “There you all are! Come and join us for a drink.”

“I’d love to, sir,” said Colin, “but I’d better be getting back to the hotel.”

“I’m going to walk him out. Be back in a minute,” Bridget said, as the two practically ran from the room.

Avery’s face fell at their departure, but, spying Peter and me, he rallied. “Elizabeth! I insist you join us, although it’s strange to be offering you a drink. It seems only yesterday that you, Bridget, and Harry were youngsters bent on bedeviling Elsie.” Avery turned to his mother with an inviting smile. “Remember the year that you hosted the local marksman tournament, and Harry threw a rubber chicken out his window and it landed at the feet of the club’s president?” Elsie nodded her head slightly but did not answer. Avery pressed on, a note of desperation in his voice. “And what about the time the three of them snuck out of the house by crawling out onto the roof? Didn’t one of them fall and sprain an ankle?”

Again Elsie’s frozen expression gave no sign that she was going to answer, so I jumped in. “That was me,” I said. “I had a fun time explaining that one to my mom. But since Harry’s not here to defend himself, I have no qualms about blaming the entire incident on him.” The whole thing had been Harry’s fault, too. He convinced Bridget and me not only to sneak out, but to go out by way of the roof. Harry could climb like a cat, but my skills were far less nimble. I skidded off the roof, managed to grab hold of the gutter, and hung for a moment suspended in space before falling into an ungainly heap in the laurel bushes below. In a flash, Harry jumped down to my side—unhurt, of course. He carried me inside and was so overcome with guilt at my injury that he waited on me hand and foot for the rest of my visit and carried me wherever we went. It was quite a heady experience for an impressionable twelve-year-old girl and effectively cemented my crush on him.

Avery smiled. “I’ve no doubt of that. My son has a talent for finding trouble. But still, you three always had fun together.”

Bridget returned to the room in time to hear these last words. “Who had fun?” she asked.

“You, Elizabeth, and Harry,” Avery answered, “when you were kids.”

“I had a terrible childhood,” Roni suddenly announced, pausing for effect. We all dutifully turned her way. Bridget caught my eye and quickly placed her right pinkie on the corner of her mouth in a dead-on imitation of Mike Meyers’s Dr. Evil. I knew exactly what she was thinking—Dr. Evil’s hysterical recital of his personal history during the therapy session: “My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low-grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen-year-old French prostitute named Chloe, with webbed feet.” It took all of my self-control not to burst out laughing. Idly tracing the rim of her wineglass with her finger, Roni continued, “My father left when I was only six and my mother had to work two jobs to support us. We had no money and had to wear secondhand clothes. When I grew up, I swore I’d never let that happen to me. But, of course, it did anyway. Megan’s father walked out on me just like my dad did.”

From the folds of the couch, David mumbled something. I couldn’t hear him, but Claire blushed and shushed him.

Roni stared at him a moment before shrugging her shoulders and continuing. “I never even had a proper vacation until I was twenty-three.”

“How positively Dickensian,” Elsie muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Roni asked, her eyes narrow with suspicion. No doubt Roni fancied Elsie to be satirical, perhaps, I amended, without knowing what it was to be satirical.

“Bridget, would you be a dear,” said Elsie, changing the subject, “and play something for us?” She nodded toward the piano. “Nobody plays unless you’re here.”

Bridget smiled. “Sure, Elsie. I’d be happy to.” Bridget was a very accomplished pianist, having studied the instrument for more than ten years. In college, she even made some extra money working in nightclubs. She settled herself on the padded bench and commenced with a jazzy rendition of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” Elsie sat back with a smile.