Tracy Kiely: Murder on the Bride’s Side

“You do look lovely,” Blythe agreed, adding, “You’re more of an Irish rose than ever. That dress is the perfect color for you. It looks wonderful with your dark hair and it really livens up your complexion.”

I had smiled, a polite thank-you hovering on my lips, when Bridget shot me a knowing grin. “Oh, I don’t think the dress is responsible for her coloring.”

Almost before I knew what I was doing, I found myself parroting, “Well, whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them.”

Bridget immediately retorted with, “I never had any conjectures about it, it was you who told me of it yourself.” Maybe I had been watching the DVD a tad too much back at the apartment Bridget and I shared.

Our brief exchange, however, was enough to excite Elsie’s interest. “Oh? Then what is the reason?” she asked, instantly on the alert. “Now don’t shake your head at me, Elizabeth. There’s no point trying to hide anything from me,” she teased, wagging her finger at me. “I’ll get it out of you one way or another!”

In addition to considering herself entitled to know the intimate secrets of everyone around her—related or not—Elsie fancies herself a skilled matchmaker. What others think of her efforts in this area is far less complimentary. While “infernal, meddling bull in a china shop” is not the most frequently used expression to describe her, it is the least profane.

I gave a shudder at the thought of what Elsie would do should she realize the extent of my feelings for Peter. It would not be enough for her to know that we were dating. She would not be satisfied until Peter had proposed, preferably while she stood behind him, beaming proudly. I turned agonized eyes toward Bridget. She seemed to belatedly realize the inherent danger in exciting Elsie’s matchmaking inclinations and now tried to defuse the situation. “Don’t get yourself all worked up, Elsie. There’s no secret,” she said quickly. “I was only teasing Elizabeth about her boyfriend, Peter. And he’s already crazy about her, so there’s no need for your interference!”

“Interference! Of all the silly ideas!” Elsie protested. Tapping her chin thoughtfully, she then ruined this sentiment by adding, “Still, it would be romantic for your best friend to get engaged at your wedding, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t,” said Bridget. “As a matter of fact, if you really want to know what I think—”

“Oh, Peter’s such a nice young man,” Blythe interrupted, trying to steer the conversation away from Bridget’s thoughts, which no doubt contained various obscenities. “He’s coming tonight for the rehearsal dinner, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” I said. “His flight gets in at six.” Peter had recently joined his parents’ hotel business. He’d just helped them open a hotel in Los Angeles and was due back tonight. I hadn’t seen him for three endless weeks. Up until a few moments ago, I’d been anxiously counting the minutes until he arrived. Now, seeing the calculating look on Elsie’s face, I began to rethink that excitement.

“Bridget,” said Elsie with a knowing smile, “pass the book on to Elizabeth when you’re done with it. Leave everything to me and I guarantee that she’ll be needing that book for her own wedding night—and before too long!”

Bridget rolled her eyes in defeat and tossed me the book. It flew past my outstretched hand and landed—open—on the carpeted floor. I won’t say what the couple in the book was doing, but the caption of their activity was “Happy Death.” Bridget and I dissolved into a loud fit of giggles. After a moment of shocked silence, Blythe gave up and began laughing, too. Only Elsie didn’t join in. Cocking her head, she stared down at the illustration, her thin lips pulled into a frown.

“Death again,” she said slowly.

Our dresses in tow, we returned to Elsie’s house. Although house really isn’t the word I’d use to describe the structure. It isn’t quite a mansion, but only by a hair. It looks like a place where foreign dignitaries might sign treaties—or map out invasions. Located just outside Richmond, the Revival-style building sits on the remains of Elsie’s great-grandfather’s tobacco plantation. Over the years, much of the property has been sold off, but the main house, which affords a view of the James River and surrounding land, is still intact. An entry porch, with a gable above, dominates the two-story white brick façade. Four gleaming white columns with shallow square bases line an equally gleaming front porch. The only spot of color is the glossy black-paneled door topped by a semicircular fanlight. When I was a kid, it reminded me of something out of Gone With the Wind . Which is why, although the actual name of the place is Barton Landing, I have always privately referred to it as Tara.

We stepped into the ornate entrance foyer, roughly the size of my entire apartment. A large mahogany table stood center, topped by an enormous blue-and-white vase, yellow roses spilling out. Knowing Elsie, the vase could be from either Pier 1 or the Ming Dynasty. To the right and left stood arched doorways with intricately carved moldings. Directly in front, a wider doorway led to the living room. It was from here that Elsie’s newly acquired black Russian terrier puppy, Anna (as in Anna Karenina), came charging. Her paws hit the waxed wood floor and she lost control, skidding sideways into the wall.

“Anna! No!” admonished Elsie. Anna paid no attention. Untangling her legs, she righted herself and charged again. Bridget and I instinctively stepped back, pressing against the wall and out of her path. Placing her hands on her hips, Elsie turned and yelled, “Vronsky!”

Anna’s furry ears perked and her hind legs pulled up, slowing down her onslaught. She skidded to a halt inches from Elsie’s feet.

Elsie looked down and smiled proudly. “Good girl.”

Blythe couldn’t believe her ears. “Vronsky? You trained her to stop on Vronsky?”

“What’s Vronsky?” asked Bridget.

“Who, not what,” replied Blythe absently. “Count Vronsky was Anna Karenina’s lover. The one she gave everything up for.”

Elsie nodded. “Exactly. When Anna is about to do something really naughty, I simply yell, ‘Vronsky.’ It’s much more effective than ‘no.’ ” Anna sat complacently at Elsie’s feet, happily thumping her tail against the floor.

Blythe stared suspiciously at Elsie. “You are kidding me, right?”

Elsie’s answer was lost in the arrival of her daughter, Claire. At forty-two, Claire looked exactly as she had at eighteen. She wore an ankle-length floral print dress that minimized but did not obscure her plumpness, and her straight auburn hair was cut in a pageboy style. Over the years, I had seen only two variations to Claire’s hair. Her bangs were either pulled back off of her round face with a tortoiseshell headband or left hanging in an even line above her brown eyes. Today she had opted for the latter. While some women find a flattering hairstyle and stick with it for life, Claire’s homage to an entire look had more to do with her husband, David Cook, than with a becoming fashion.

David and Claire had gone to high school together, but that’s not to say that they had been high school sweethearts. Far from it, in fact. Claire, a plain, shy, and not particularly athletic girl had adored David with his thick ash blond hair, ruddy complexion, and toothy grin. He had been the revered captain of the football team. He was also, as he would tell anybody in earshot, destined for big things. Unfortunately, in his senior year a knee injury had ended that career path. Instead of continuing with his plans to go pro, he had married Claire and accepted a position in the Matthewses’ family business, the Secret Garden. The marriage was a puzzlement to most until six months later when Claire gave birth to their eight-pound baby daughter, Georgia.