Tracy Kiely: Murder on the Bride’s Side

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked. Ever since Bridget and Colin had asked Peter to give one of the readings at the mass, Bridget had constantly been on Peter’s case to add more “dramatic flourish.” She felt his usual style of delivery was too tame.

“They’re only suggestions,” Bridget said defensively.

“Bridget! Peter reads just fine!” I said. “It’s a church reading, not a recital of Cowper!” Bridget rolled her eyes at the reference but did not look convinced.

Colin appeared next to Bridget, putting an end to the debate. With his curly brown hair and soft brown eyes, Colin resembles an enormous teddy bear. He is six two, but he looks taller. This is probably due to Bridget more than anything else. Even in the spiked heels that she considers a mandatory element of every outfit, Bridget is only about five three. “Thanks for coming, Peter,” Colin said, extending his hand. “It’s good to see you. How was L.A.?”

“Great. The opening went really well, but I’m a bit jet-lagged. I hope I’m not too late.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Are you hungry? They have scallops, if you’re interested.” Peter nodded, and with Colin and Bridget in tow, I led him back to the hors d’oeuvre table where Harry stood, still holding my plate.

“You must be Peter,” Harry said, handing me back my plate so he could shake hands. “I’m Harry. I’ve just been trying to get Elizabeth to run away with me, but to no avail. I’m told you’re the reason.”

“Well, that and good common sense,” I added.

“Oh, yes.” Harry nodded affably. “That goes without saying.”

Peter looked blankly at me and then at Harry before shaking his head. “I think I need a drink before I can do this conversation justice,” he said.

Harry laughed. “A man after my own heart. Let me get you something from the bar. I’m in need of a refill myself. What would you like?”

“Heineken, if they have it, thanks.”

Harry went off to the bar, while the three of us tried to talk to Peter at once.

“How was your flight?”

“How are your parents?”

“Colin hates my shoes, Peter. I say he’s blind. What’s your opinion?” This last question was posed by Bridget. She twisted her leg out for Peter’s appraisal. We silently considered the item in question, a bright purple-and-blue-plaid pump, the heel of which was not only zigzagged (and green) but a good three inches high. I may have mentioned that Bridget has eclectic taste.

“I saw something very similar when I was out in L.A.,” Peter said wonderingly.

Bridget turned to Colin with a triumphant smile. “See?

He saw these in L.A. and everyone knows that L.A. is fashion central.”

“He probably saw them on a hooker,” Colin deadpanned.

“Colin!” Bridget yelped. “What an awful thing to say!” Colin looked as if he were about to apologize, when Bridget amended with a rueful glance at the pumps, “Okay, maybe they are a teensy bit over the top. But I had to do something outrageous. Tomorrow I’m going to look... well, I’m not going to look like me .”

Her shoulders slumped underneath her neon apple green dress (a fashion statement in and of itself) and she stared dejectedly at her feet. It took all of my self-control not to burst out laughing. Colin smiled at her and grabbed her hand. “Honey, I don’t care if you wear a bathing suit tomorrow.”

Bridget’s green eyes glinted and I thought she was about to take him up on the offer when Harry returned. Thrusting a bottle into Peter’s hand, he said hurriedly, “I’d drink this quickly if I were you. Elsie’s spotted you. I don’t know if Elizabeth warned you about her, but she considers it her duty to, well... to test those who date the ones she loves. And from the look in her eyes, you are about to be tested.”

We all turned to see Elsie bearing down on us. Her silver hair was pulled back into an elaborate bun and her royal blue floor-length dress billowed out behind her as she skillfully maneuvered her way across the floor with the aid of a silver-tipped mahogany cane. There is nothing wrong with Elsie’s balance. The cane is just for dramatic effect, a bit like Bridget’s shoes. Nevertheless, she looked haughty and intimidating, like one of Jane Austen’s characters who make life hell for everyone else.

“Elizabeth!” she said crisply. “I don’t believe I’ve been introduced to your young man.”

I have known Elsie since I was nine years old and I still found myself stifling an urge to curtsy. I could only imagine what Peter must be thinking.

“Of course,” I said quickly. “Elsie, may I present Peter McGowan. Peter, this is Bridget’s grandmother, Elsie Matthews.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Peter said, extending his hand. Elsie took it and held it in her own heavily bejeweled hand.

“Elsie,” said Bridget, a warning note in her voice.

“Hush, Bridget,” Elsie replied, not taking her eyes off Peter. Firmly holding his hand, she said, “You remind me of a man.”

I groaned. Elsie not only loved old movies, she considered them a mandatory element of any proper education, like history or algebra. Bridget shot me a sympathetic look and shrugged.

“What man?” Peter replied pleasantly.

Elsie’s blue eyes snapped. “Man with the power,” she continued conversationally. People started to gather around; they, too, were used to Elsie’s tests.

Peter did not miss a beat. “What power?” he said. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Elsie’s lips turned up appreciatively. “Power of hoodoo.”

“Who do?”

“You do.”

“Do what?”

“Remind me of a man,” finished Elsie, letting go of Peter’s hand with a snort of laughter. “I’m impressed, young man. Not many people know that one. For instance, I bet David here doesn’t,” she said, turning to her son-in-law. As usual, David had plastered his thick hair with products and was preparing to do the same to his liver from the looks of the very full glass of amber liquor in his right hand.

At Elsie’s challenge, I tensed. So did most everyone else, for that matter. When he was younger, David had been nothing more than a good-looking blowhard. His dreams of one day being a football hero buoyed him through any hard times and kept him upbeat. But once he realized that those dreams were never going to happen, he changed. His drinking increased and his moods became mercurial. In the early part of the day he was still the jocular backslapping friend to all—annoying but not threatening. However, somewhere between his fifth and sixth scotch, he turned nasty. Rather than a slap on the back you were more likely to get a punch in the face. Not an enjoyable prospect from a man who was six three and weighed somewhere north of two hundred pounds.

Luckily, David was still shy of his fifth drink. He threw back his shoulders and laughed. It was a sound not unlike a donkey’s bray. “Of course I do, Elsie,” he said. “It’s from that movie with... um, Gregory Peck.”

Elsie brandished her cane at him, causing David to take an involuntary step back. “Ha!” she cried triumphantly. “No! It’s from The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer with Cary Grant, Myrna Loy, and Shirley Temple.”

“Yes, I know, Elsie,” David said. “I was only teasing you.” Turning to Peter, he continued smoothly. “So you must be Peter. I’m David Cook. We’ve heard a lot about you. Elizabeth said you were out of town on business. What is it that you do?”

“My family runs a hotel chain,” responded Peter.

“Hotels? You don’t mean McGowan and Company?”

“That’s me,” replied Peter.

David pulled his drink away from his mouth long enough to let a low whistle escape from his thick lips. “Jesus,” he said. “You must be loaded, huh?”