William Bernhardt - Final Round

The limo eased beside the front steps. Conner hopped out, again holding the door open for O’Brien.

“Enjoy the reception,” the chauffeur said, with a tip of his hat. Then he pulled away in search of other arrivals.

Conner stood next to the fountain. It had an enormous round base, with water spurting up in four different directions at once. Lights at the base made the water change color every few seconds.

O’Brien tugged at his shoulder. “I think we should split up.”

“Why? I wore the tux. I used mouthwash.”

“We can cover more ground separately. Talk to more people. We’ll meet later and compare notes. Make sense?”

“Well…” Conner tried to mask his disappointment. “I suppose.”

“Besides, I’m starving. I gotta find me a deviled eggs plate.”

“What, at a classy soirée like this?”

“You’re in the South, Conner. There’s always a deviled eggs plate.”

Conner entered the clubhouse agog. The reception was located in an immense ballroom-seemingly larger than a football field. The decorations were festive and fabulous. There were vines, flowers, and colored lights everywhere he looked. Ivy and other greenery twined the bannister on a central staircase leading upward, and was draped over the tables and walls as well. Silk streamers shimmied down from the ceiling.

The guests in attendance were no less impressive. O’Brien had been right. All the men were strapped into monkey suits, and the gowns worn by some of the women looked as if they had been borrowed from the finalists at the Miss America pageant.

After a brief survey of the ballroom, Conner discovered the wedding cake-which to his great disappointment was still uncut. It was a seven-tiered number with a miniature staircase descending from each layer. Sparklers jutted out all over the cake. On each staircase was a miniature replica of one of the bride’s friends or relatives. At the top of the cake, of course, stood the bride and groom, in what appeared to be exact replicas of their wedding attire.

“Not bad, eh?”

Ace, looking as if he had stepped out of a Fred Astaire movie, was leaning over Conner’s shoulder. “I assume you’re talking about the bride.”

“Ding, ding. I wouldn’t mind licking off her frosting.”

Conner rolled his eyes. “Keep your tongue where it belongs, Ace. You don’t want the camera crew to get the wrong idea.” He gestured toward the cake. “I notice the bride is wearing white. Isn’t this her second marriage?”

“In Georgia, the bride always wears white. Even if it’s her eighth time down the aisle.”

“I see you decided to come.”

“I had my doubts, but eventually I realized that bringing in a camera crew wouldn’t disrupt the reception. If anything, it would make it more special. And when you get right down to it, I didn’t feel I had the right to make that little girl on the cake’s day any less special just because I might be more comfortable staying at home.”

Conner nodded. “Must’ve been agonizing. Wrestling with your conscience like that.”

“It was. Hey, you know who else is here? Jodie.”

“Jodie McCree?”

“Can you believe it? With her husband not even cold in-“ He stopped short.

“Don’t worry about it.” Creep, he added mentally. He wondered why Jodie had come. To make a social appearance like this so soon after John’s death-she must have a reason. What could it be? “That does seem strange.”

“Hey, I can’t fault the little lady. She’s precious.”

As soon as he was able to extract himself from Ace, Conner made his way to the dining tables that stretched across the center of the ballroom. He grabbed one of the numerous champagne bottles close at hand. He found an empty flute and poured himself a tall, cool one.

He heard a hiccup, and following the sound, spotted Barry Bennett on the opposite side of the table. “Bollinger’s 1989. It’s the best.”

Conner nodded. If anyone would know, it would be Barry. He looked as if he had sampled quite a bit. Why was it every time he turned around, this drunk was sitting opposite him?

Conner found the nearest empty seat and pulled up to the table. Scant seconds after he sat, waiters dressed in white tails appeared out of nowhere. One brought him a glass of sparkling water, another delivered an artfully arranged mixed salad, while another deposited a dinner plate bearing filet mignon, smoked salmon, and caviar.

“What?” Conner said. “No soufflé?”

The senior waiter cleared his throat. “We can have that for you in approximately twenty minutes, sir.”

Conner waved his hands. “I was just-oh, never mind.” He picked up a crostini and nibbled a bit of the caviar. Generally speaking, Conner preferred corndogs and pork rinds, but hey, if they were going to stick this crap under his nose, he might as well give it a try.

Conner licked his lips. A bit salty, but not at all bad. He wondered how he went about getting seconds.

“Tying on the feed bag, Conner?” It was Harley Tuttle, sliding into the seat to Conner’s right.

“That would be one way of putting it,” Conner replied. “It’s a feed bag fit for a king.”

“Freddy told me he planned to spare no expense on his little girl’s wedding. I guess he meant it.” As soon as Harley was seated, another phalanx of waiters bearing goodies descended upon him.

“I guess so.” A crash of cymbals suddenly brought the background music to Conner’s attention. “Who’s playing the mood music?”

Harley spoke while shoveling in bites of filet mignon. “I believe that would be the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra.”

Conner nearly choked on his salmon. “The Atlanta Symphony is the wedding band?”

“One of three, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Criminy.” Conner sampled the filet steak. A bit underdone for his taste, but he’d probably manage to devour it just the same. “Seems like they’d be better off just getting a record player and some old Jerry Lee Lewis LPs.”

“Not our Freddy’s style, I think. Might be yours, though.”

Conner was distracted by the sudden whooping and gales of laughter from the center table. “Who are all those people?” Conner asked, pointing. “They’re awfully chummy.”

“I believe that would be the wedding party,” Harley explained.

“The wedding party. I thought we were the wedding party.”

“You know what I mean. Bridesmaids and groomsmen.”

Conner did a quick scan of the table, from one distant end to the other. “Are you kidding? There must be eighty of them!”

“True. I understand Dillard’s had to hold a special seminar just to coordinate everyone’s wedding outfits. The bride kept all her bridesmaids informed of the wedding’s progress by putting out a newsletter.”

Conner wiped his eyes. “Am I the only one who thinks this is a little… extreme?”

Harley shrugged. “Like my daddy used to say, ‘Folks do things differently in the South.’ ”

Conner grinned. “With the budget for this wedding, they could probably feed a third-world nation.”

Conner returned his attention to his plate, managing to finish off his first serving and a magically appearing round of seconds as well. By the time he reached the bottom of the bottle, he had decided this Bollinger’s stuff wasn’t half bad, either.

“Well,” Conner said at last, dropping his napkin on the table, “if you’ll excuse me.”

Harley cast him a sidewards glance. “You’re leaving? Now?”

“Yeah. Is there a problem?”

“You’ll miss the fireworks display!”

O’Brien helped herself to another plate of deviled eggs and a glass of champagne. She supposed she should be abstaining; technically she was still on duty. Then again, this was essentially an undercover operation, and to successfully remain undercover, it was necessary to blend in with the crowd.