Amanda Flower - Maid of Murder

I turned my body away from the group so they couldn’t see my expression. I watched Dr. Blocken place a plate of hot dogs and hamburgers from the grill next to the platter of fried chicken. Thank goodness for the veggie tray, I thought.

“Please, everyone. The food’s ready,” Mrs. Blocken called from the patio. We trooped to the picnic table. I filled my plate with carrots, celery, and a heaping helping of potato salad. Bobby and I sat with Bree and sulky Olga. During the meal, Bobby lobbied for Bree’s attention. They discussed their respective jobs and families, trading all vital statistics. I began to wonder how long politeness required me to stay at the Blockens. One hour? Two? Certainly not three.

“I wish my mother could have come to the wedding. She’s so fond of Olivia,” Bree told Bobby. She dabbed a napkin to her eye.

“Why couldn’t she?” Bobby asked.

“She hasn’t been feeling well.” Bree looked mournful.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you close?” He all but batted his eyelashes at her.

Bree nodded. “She was a single mom, and I’m her only child.”

“Family is definitely the most important thing in my life.”

I swallowed a snicker. Bobby only visited his family on Christmas and every third Thanksgiving.

Bree beamed at him over her cheeseburger.

Feeling frumpy and churlish in comparison, I turned to Olga. “Nice T-shirt, Olga.”

She snorted some type of response that, even though I don’t speak teen angst fluently anymore, I interpreted as, Leave me alone; I’m busy being unhappy.

Taking another tack, I said, “I like your hair color,” I paused. “It’s vibrant.”

She touched her hair, but didn’t respond. Not even a snort. But just when I was about to give up on her, she mumbled, “Oh em.”

“Excuse me?” I asked, leaning closer.

She looked me in the eye for the first time. “O.M. My name’s O.M. Never call me Olga. Ever.”

“No problem.”

Olga—sorry O.M.—must have used up her daily word limit. She was silent for the remainder of the meal. I shrugged and enjoyed the food, watching Bobby salivate over Bree and counting the ways I could tease him about it later. At the next table, Olivia, gathered with her parents and Kirk, organized wedding logistics.

I overheard Mrs. Blocken say, “The doves will arrive early in the morning on the wedding day.”

“Mother, I told you that I don’t want doves. What if they get loose? It’s too much of a bother.”

“What if the birds poop on the guests?” Kirk asked.

Mrs. Blocken gaped at Kirk. I choked on a bite of potato salad.

Olivia gasped. “Ohmigawd. They’ll ruin everything. Mother, cancel the doves,”

“If the bird handler wants the good money that your father and I are paying him, he’ll keep those doves in line,” Mrs. Blocken said.

Considering her tone, if I were one of those doves, I would certainly control myself.

“But Mother . . .” Olivia said.

“Honey, it’ll be charming. I’ll handle it. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“How can the handler stop the birds from pooping?” Kirk asked. Obviously he hadn’t spent much time with Mrs. Blocken. It was probably a very good thing that he and Olivia lived in Virginia, hundreds of miles from Stripling.

Mrs. Blocken gritted her teeth.

“Olivia should have everything that she wants.” Dr. Blocken bit his thumbnail. “If she doesn’t want the doves . . .” he trailed off. His thumbnail started to bleed.

Mrs. Blocken slapped his hand. “Stop that.”

A cell phone played the “Star-Spangled Banner.” Everyone began patting themselves down.

“It’s me.” Olivia announced with a satisfied look.

After several “Uh-huh,” “That’s rights,” and “Okays,” Olivia snapped her cell shut. She turned to her party. “Great news. Topaz is coming.”

Everyone except Bobby and me, who had no idea what this meant, and O.M., too, because it would hurt her image, no doubt, cheered happily at this report. I took this as a bad sign.

I leaned across the table and asked Bree, “Who’s Topaz?”

Bree looked unhappy to have her conversation with Bobby interrupted. She studied me with appraising eyes. “Topaz is the dress designer for Olivia’s wedding. She’s bringing the bridesmaids’ dresses for us to try on.” I had the feeling she wanted to add silly at the end of that sentence.

My stomach tightened in dread. I knew the dress would have come up eventually. I was a bridesmaid after all. But not now, not here, not with an audience.

Bobby pried his baby blues from Bree to grin at me. The jerk.

Fifteen minutes later, the Blocken doorbell rang. Olivia and Mrs. Blocken rose as one. Topaz had arrived. She came too quickly for me to come down with the flu or the E. coli virus, which I planned to contract in the next ten minutes. I slumped in the patio chair, defeated. Bree said Topaz would need help bringing in the dresses and hurried after them. Bree’s absence freed Bobby to torture me.

“That was really good planning on Olivia’s part, wasn’t it, India? I mean, what better time to have the dresses fitted than when all the bridesmaids are together at her mother’s house?”

I gave Bobby my best withering glare. O.M. watched our exchange with mild interest. Or, was she watching Bobby with mild interest? I’d have to remember to keep him away from her.

Moments later Olivia, her mother, and Bree returned to the patio with a tall and graceful black woman, presumably Topaz, the dress designer who made house calls on national holidays. Her hair was cropped close to her head, revealing its perfect form and reminding me of an Egyptian bust of Nefertiti. Olivia and her entourage made a quick circuit around the patio with breathy introductions. “This is India Hayes, Topaz. She’s a childhood friend of mine. She’s bridesmaid number three.”

I smiled politely at Topaz, flabbergasted that Olivia had the audacity to number her bridesmaids, and that I was number three out of three.

Topaz gave a pleasant but noncommittal smile.

“I hope it wasn’t too much trouble to come out here on a holiday,” I said.

“No trouble at all,” she replied, but her eyes flickered. I was willing to bet that she was collecting time-and-a-half.

Mrs. Blocken broke in. “We should begin the fitting. Who would you like to see first? India?”

Why am I not surprised? I thought. Without a word or a glance in Bobby’s direction, I followed Topaz and Olivia into the house.

Inside, Topaz handed me a garment bag.

Olivia said, “You can change in my old bedroom.” She was practically jumping up and down in prenuptial ecstasy.

I trudged upstairs. Although I hadn’t been in the Blocken house for several years, the layout was as familiar to me as my childhood home. Olivia’s room was on the second floor, the second doorway on the left, and looked the same as it had when we had graduated high school. I was relieved to discover that at least one memory of Kilbourne Street had not changed.

I walked across the lush carpet and threw the dress bag on Olivia’s old double bed in disgust. I stalled for time by snooping. Olivia’s personality had defected when she’d fled to college by way of Dixie. Left behind was the image of Olivia Mrs. Blocken had tried to create throughout Olivia’s childhood. The room was painted lavender and the furniture was a matched set of white provincial, consisting of two dressers, a writing desk, and headboard. On the dresser, Olivia had abandoned her silver-plated brush and mirror, as well as various childish knickknacks. A white shelf nailed high on the wall above the desk held a complete set of ceramic girls in frilly Victorian-inspired gowns with numbers in front of them, one dainty lady for every birthday through eighteen. At sixteen, Olivia confessed that she hated those figurines, and she didn’t know what in the world she was going to do with them. I smiled at the memory.