Margaret Millar - The Devil Loves Me

The organ blared, piped, and pealed, coaxing the bride to come into the aisle.

Here comes the bride, shouted the organ, stand by her side.

The ladies craned their necks delicately toward the back of the church and resumed their conversations.

“I fry mine in lard...”

“He’s not half good enough for you, I said...”

“Henry, sit up straight. This isn’t a sermon!”

The gentlemen tugged at their collars and thought, thank God it’s not me.

In the vestry the two elegant young men fumbled with their ascot ties and brushed off their pearl-gray spats.

“Nora’s late,” said the bridegroom.

“Weddings are sad...”

“Maybe she’s changed her mind.”

“... and uncivilized. I’d like a drink.”

“A drink would be fine.”

“I wonder if the minister keeps a little something in case a lady faints.”

“Very likely,” said the bridegroom.

“Let’s find a lady who’ll faint.”

“Too much trouble. You faint.”

“Might spoil my pants.”

The society editor of the Courier studied the church decorations with a blasé eye.

“Local Girl Plights Troth,” she wrote. “One of the most beautiful weddings of the autumn season took place this morning when Miss Nora Kathleen Shane, daughter of Mrs. Jennifer Shane and the late Mr. Patrick Shane, became the bride of Dr. Paul Richard Prye, of Detroit, son of the late Major and Mrs. George Prye. The bride looked beautiful in...”

“... you don’t chop the onion fine enough.”

“Henry, for God’s sake, if you can’t keep your eyes open...”

“Your life’ll be hell, I told her. You’ll see.”

The organ swelled again, desperately, it seemed, drowning the impatient little coughs and murmurings from the pews, the shifting of feet, and the rustle of silk. Stand by her side.

It was muted now, and doleful. Above it a high, thin wail came from the front of the church. It grew sharper, higher, now and then blending with the music. The organ stopped with a “Woooosh!” and the wail went on by itself.

At the sound of it the pews quickened into life. Striped pants clambered past blue taffeta. Mauve silk swooned and black crepe screamed.

Purple faille muttered triumphantly into the ear of agitated rose crepe: “What did I tell you, Jennifer? We should never have let Nora have anything to do with a man we know nothing about. A psychiatrist! Indeed! Is it any wonder I felt disaster in my bones?”

“Do be quiet, Aspasia,” Jennifer Shane said.

Mrs. Shane moved briskly into the aisle, a tall, stout, handsome woman with a confident smile and a general air of competence. She walked toward the vestibule, bestowing reassuring nods, holding her rose crepe off the floor with a black-gloved hand.

Miss Aspasia O’Shaughnessy leaned over and tapped her neighbor on the shoulder.

“I predicted this,” she said darkly.

The society editor of the Courier raised a bored brow. “You did? Well, well. Predicted what?”

“Disaster.”

“Really?”

“I frequently do.”

“I have an aunt like that,” said the society editor.

“I am an aunt.” Aspasia moved a little closer. “I am the brides aunt, as a matter of fact, her mother’s sister. I told Jennifer that nice girls don’t marry psychiatrists.”

“You’d be surprised what nice girls will marry,” said the society editor sadly. “This is my two-hundred-and-forty-ninth wedding and I should know.”

“Really.” Aspasia’s voice was cold, and she moved away and fixed her eyes glassily on the empty pulpit.

The society editor was quite unmoved by the snub. “It’s probably a faint,” she said. “A lot of people faint at weddings. Who’s the man coming out of the vestry? Bridegroom?”

“Quite,” Aspasia said distantly.

The society editor was interested. Very, very nice, she thought, watching Prye moving quickly up the far aisle. Tall. God, I like them tall. Dark, too, and just young enough and old enough. Thirty-three, perhaps?

“He’s handsome as hell,” she said to Aspasia. “What’s the bride like?”

“She’s lovely.” There was a faint quiver in Aspasia’s voice. “She’s very dark, with the most beautiful blue eyes.”

“Irish?”

“We are all Irish.”

At the end of the aisle Prye collided with Mrs. Shane. Without speaking he grasped her arm and hurried her out into the vestibule and closed the door.

A slim red-haired girl in a yellow bridesmaid’s dress stood just inside the door. She took a long, shuddering breath and prepared to emit another wail. Mrs. Shane stepped over and seized her by the hand.

“Dinah, stop that screaming! What’s going on here? What’s—”

Her words stopped abruptly as she looked past Dinah’s shoulder and saw the small figure huddled on the floor.

Dinah gulped and said, “It’s Jane. She’s... she’s having a fit!”

The girl on the floor was moving her arms convulsively, her face twisted as if she were choking and trying to speak.

Nora was on her knees beside her. “Jane, what are you trying to say? Jane!”

Prye pushed past Mrs. Shane, drew Nora to her feet, and took her place beside Jane. The lobby of the church had become very quiet except for the small, strangled sounds coming from the girl’s throat and the spasmodic thump of her heels hitting the floor as she writhed. Her eyes were half closed and glassy, and her face was contorting into grimaces as she tried to speak. Her skin had turned a vivid pink.

Prye felt her pulse and lifted one of her eyelids. Her eyes followed his movements, glazed with fear. Her limbs relaxed suddenly and her face grew still.

“She’s dead!” Dinah screamed.

Mrs. Shane turned on her. “Dinah, stop that and go away. Phone an ambulance, someone. The General Hospital’s just around the corner.”

Dinah gathered up her frock and walked down the steps that led into the street, lurching a little as if she were drunk.

Nora was saying hysterically, “She said she felt faint. I told her it was just nerves—”

“Maybe it is.” The words came from a short, chubby young man lounging against the wall. He was exquisitely pink and blond and exquisitely bored. “I’ve already sent for the ambulance, incidentally. Perhaps by the time it arrives Jane will have recovered. I seem to remember similar bids for attention on the part of my sister.”

“No, Duncan!” Nora cried. “This is— She looks as if she’s having a convulsion.”

Prye got to his feet, frowning. “She is having a convulsion. I think she’s been poisoned.”

Nora gave a little cry. Duncan Stevens swung round to face Prye. “You’re crazy, Prye.”

“Take it or leave it, Stevens.”

Duncan’s face grew pink. He looked like a fat, angry honey bear.

“She’ll have to be taken to the hospital,” Prye said. “I’ll notify the police.”

“The police?” Duncan repeated. His pale eyes were frightened. “Aren’t you taking just a little bit too much on yourself, Prye?”

“You may think so,” Prye said. “You may also go to hell.”

“Please,” Mrs. Shane said briskly. “There’s no need to quarrel. Poison does seem a bit farfetched, of course. Nora, don’t twist your veil. But if Paul thinks it’s poison, naturally it is.”

“Thank you,” Prye said dryly.

Nora was sitting on the floor holding Jane in her arms, loosening the girl’s clothes.

“I shall tell the minister,” said Mrs. Shane calmly.