Jennifer Crusie - Agnes and the Hitman

The woman turned to him and smiled. “Sure.” She pulled one off and held it out for him.

Shane took it. “Thanks.” He took the camera and zoomed in on the yacht. Wilson was on the bridge with another old man Shane recognized from intelligence briefings: the head of the mob in New York City. Another of Wilson’s puppets, Shane thought. Come to see the coronation of the successor in New Jersey. He handed the camera back to her.

“Appreciate it,” he said.

“No sweat.” She went back to the guests, and Shane walked over to Carpenter at the edge of the gazebo.

“You do what you had to?” Carpenter asked.

“Joey and Frankie handled it,” Shane said. “There’ve been some changes in the plan. Let’s find Casey Dean first.” He pulled out the pink cell phone he’d taken from Abigail’s bag the night before and hit number 1 on the speed-dial.

Shane stiffened as a woman’s voice answered: “Where are you, sis?”

He was still processing that when Carpenter nudged him and pointed. “Over there.”

Shane looked across the cluster of guests. The photographer had a cell phone in her hand, and she tossed her hair away from it as she listened in a way Shane remembered.

“Princess,” Shane said into the phone. “What’s your sign?”

He saw the photographer turn her head and stare right back at him.

“Where’s Abigail?” she said into the phone

“I’ve got her,” Shane said. “Casey Dean, I presume? We met before. In a bar in Savannah.”

“What do you want?” Casey Dean asked, glaring at Shane. “The Don’s dead, so your contract is, how should I say, defunct.” Shane could see her go rigid. “Bullshit.”

“You see Don Fortunato or his consigliere anywhere around?”

There was silence. Shane continued. “When the grandfather of the bride escorts her down the aisle, you’ll know I’m telling the truth. You do anything, I’ll have your ass.”

There were several seconds of silence; then Casey Dean spoke. “Where’s my sister?”

“We have her, along with the five million.”

“What do you want?”

“For now, the wedding to go off without ahitch. Are you clear on that?”

“Yes.” The word was a hiss. “But you’re fucking up, big-time.”

“Make sure to take some good pictures.” Shane hit the offbutton, but paused, thinking about what Casey Dean had just said. He looked at the pink phone, then hit 2 on the speed-dial and listened as the phone was answered.

“Yes?” Wilson said.

Shane turned the phone off, cold all over, and looked at Carpenter. “That thing we’ve been missing?”

“Yes?”

“I just found it.”

Fifteen minutes earlier, Agnes had met Lisa Livia in the kitchen and found her wearing not only the Bon Ton pink-hearts dress, but also the pink-heart necklace that had started the whole mess as Rhett’s collar.

“You’re kidding,” she said, and started to laugh.

“My daddy gave it to me,” Lisa Livia said, holding it out with one finger. “He said he’d had it appraised and it was worth about ten grand and he wanted me to have it”

“Ten grand?” Agnes said doubtfully.

“He’s wrong,” Lisa Livia said. “It’s worth at least thirty. The big hearts are pink quartz, but the spacers are pink diamonds. Good ones, too. He probably went to some fence in Savannah who low-balled him.”

“Oh, my God,” Agnes said. “And he put it on Rhett.”

“Here,” Lisa Livia said, and held out her hand, and when Agnes put out her palm, Lisa Livia dropped a pink ribbon onto it. “It’s one of the hearts and a couple of the diamonds. It’s not much, probably only five grand, but it’s a thank-you and a souvenir. In case you ever forget Maria’s wedding. Or need some quick cash.”

Agnes held up the ribbon to see the heart sparkle in the sunlight, the diamonds sparkling brighter. It was godawful ugly. “I’ll never give it up,” she said truthfully.

“We gotta wear them,” Lisa Livia said, and helped her tie it on. Then she stood back and smiled happily. “Brenda’s going to have a heart attack.”

They made their way down to the gazebo with Rhett, the flamingos honking in the background because that idiot Butch had not shown up, and they both stopped, stunned, when they saw Evie, dressed in the same cherry dress and wearing a pink jacket and a pink straw hat with a giant pink daisy on it, looking cute as all hell, sitting beside her husband, Jefferson, in all his grayed Dynasty dignity.

“I don’t believe it,” Agnes said as they sat down in the front row, Rhett collapsing at their feet. “Evie wore the dress.”

“She cheated,” Lisa Livia said. “She’s wearing a jacket.”

“Yes, but it matches,” Agnes said, impressed. “I bet she had that made. I bet it cost ten times what the dress did. And the hat is killer.”

“She’s gonna outshine Brenda,” Lisa Livia said. “I just love Evie Keyes.”

Garth was sitting right behind them with a pretty girl in her Sunday best named Tara, who was looking around wide-eyed at everybody. He looked serious, sitting straight in a very nice suit jacket that Palmer had helped him pick out and then paid for, and Agnes thought, Good for Palmer. She turned around and whispered, “You’ve done a great job here, Garth. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”

The girl looked at Garth with awe. Garth blushed brighter than Cerise.

Agnes turned around and grinned.

Palmer and Downer took their places next to Reverend Miller, a big man who looked extremely unhappy to be there. Downer, on the other hand, looked ecstatic, which meant he probably had something horrible up his sleeve. And Palmer looked like death, or at least hung-over to the point of death, staring off into the distance with that If I Don’t Move, My Head Won’t Fall Off look in his eyes.

The reverend nodded to the band, which immediately struck up very fast Latin dance music that spooked Cerise and Hot Pink into wild honking.

“What the hell?” Palmer said, turning on Downer, who was laughing his ass off.

“Don’t you get it?” Downer said, holding on to Palmer now, he was laughing so hard. “It’s flamingo music.”

“What?” Palmer said, completely confused.

“Flamenco music,” Agnes said grimly, but at that point the entire assembly was looking the other direction, and even the band slowed and then stopped playing as the musicians gaped.

Brenda had arrived.

She’d probably been expecting the wedding march and intended to slide in front of Maria, so the flamenco music took her by surprise, but she carried on anyway, walking down the aisle in a black lace dress, holding a black lace handkerchief to her lips at intervals and nodding to anyone who murmured their sympathy to the widow as she glided to the front. By responding only to those who said something, she stayed just this side of good taste, but Brenda in black lace was always going to be hot, and the black lace mantilla she had added had an unfortunate Bride of Dracula effect that threatened to topple the whole thing over into comedy, except that Taylor was really dead.

“Morticia Addams does Seville?” Lisa Livia whispered.

“She’s a widow,” Agnes whispered back. “Show some respect.”

“She ain’t as much of a widow as she thinks she is,” Lisa Livia said.

Brenda reached the gazebo and gave a sad smile to the groom’s family in the front row and then turned to her side of the aisle to take her seat.

Lisa Livia waved to her.

Brenda saw the necklace and went rigid. Then she saw Agnes and went berserk. “We can’t have this wedding,” she said loudly, and pointed to Agnes. “That woman is a murderer. Detective Xavier, I saw you back there, why isn’t this woman in jail?”