Murder on the Bride’s Side

“I’d love to, sir,” said Colin, “but I’d better be getting back to the hotel.”

“I’m going to walk him out. Be back in a minute,” Bridget said, as the two practically ran from the room.

Avery’s face fell at their departure, but, spying Peter and me, he rallied. “Elizabeth! I insist you join us, although it’s strange to be offering you a drink. It seems only yesterday that you, Bridget, and Harry were youngsters bent on bedeviling Elsie.” Avery turned to his mother with an inviting smile. “Remember the year that you hosted the local marksman tournament, and Harry threw a rubber chicken out his window and it landed at the feet of the club’s president?” Elsie nodded her head slightly but did not answer. Avery pressed on, a note of desperation in his voice. “And what about the time the three of them snuck out of the house by crawling out onto the roof? Didn’t one of them fall and sprain an ankle?”

Again Elsie’s frozen expression gave no sign that she was going to answer, so I jumped in. “That was me,” I said. “I had a fun time explaining that one to my mom. But since Harry’s not here to defend himself, I have no qualms about blaming the entire incident on him.” The whole thing had been Harry’s fault, too. He convinced Bridget and me not only to sneak out, but to go out by way of the roof. Harry could climb like a cat, but my skills were far less nimble. I skidded off the roof, managed to grab hold of the gutter, and hung for a moment suspended in space before falling into an ungainly heap in the laurel bushes below. In a flash, Harry jumped down to my side—unhurt, of course. He carried me inside and was so overcome with guilt at my injury that he waited on me hand and foot for the rest of my visit and carried me wherever we went. It was quite a heady experience for an impressionable twelve-year-old girl and effectively cemented my crush on him.

Avery smiled. “I’ve no doubt of that. My son has a talent for finding trouble. But still, you three always had fun together.”

Bridget returned to the room in time to hear these last words. “Who had fun?” she asked.

“You, Elizabeth, and Harry,” Avery answered, “when you were kids.”

“I had a terrible childhood,” Roni suddenly announced, pausing for effect. We all dutifully turned her way. Bridget caught my eye and quickly placed her right pinkie on the corner of her mouth in a dead-on imitation of Mike Meyers’s Dr. Evil. I knew exactly what she was thinking—Dr. Evil’s hysterical recital of his personal history during the therapy session: “My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low-grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen-year-old French prostitute named Chloe, with webbed feet.” It took all of my self-control not to burst out laughing. Idly tracing the rim of her wineglass with her finger, Roni continued, “My father left when I was only six and my mother had to work two jobs to support us. We had no money and had to wear secondhand clothes. When I grew up, I swore I’d never let that happen to me. But, of course, it did anyway. Megan’s father walked out on me just like my dad did.”

From the folds of the couch, David mumbled something. I couldn’t hear him, but Claire blushed and shushed him.

Roni stared at him a moment before shrugging her shoulders and continuing. “I never even had a proper vacation until I was twenty-three.”

“How positively Dickensian,” Elsie muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Roni asked, her eyes narrow with suspicion. No doubt Roni fancied Elsie to be satirical, perhaps, I amended, without knowing what it was to be satirical.

“Bridget, would you be a dear,” said Elsie, changing the subject, “and play something for us?” She nodded toward the piano. “Nobody plays unless you’re here.”

Bridget smiled. “Sure, Elsie. I’d be happy to.” Bridget was a very accomplished pianist, having studied the instrument for more than ten years. In college, she even made some extra money working in nightclubs. She settled herself on the padded bench and commenced with a jazzy rendition of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” Elsie sat back with a smile.

As soon as Bridget began playing, Roni announced to no one in particular how much she enjoyed listening to the piano. “Of course, I never had the opportunity to learn. My mother could not afford such luxuries. It was the bare minimum in my house.”

Purely for my own amusement, I mentally added, “But if I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient.”

Leaning over, Avery patted Roni’s hand. “Those days are gone, sweetie.”

“Gone. Just like the business,” David muttered. “Just like my job.” This time Claire did not attempt to shush her husband. She stared at her lap, her face flushed.

“Now, look,” snapped Avery angrily, slapping the arm of his wheelchair. “I did not say I was selling. I only said I was considering an offer.”

“A very generous offer,” Roni interjected.

The muscles in Avery’s long face pinched. He briefly closed his eyes before continuing. “The point is, no decision has been made. And I don’t want this to ruin the weekend. We can all talk later. In the meantime, can we please just drop it?”

“I agree,” said Roni. Turning to Bridget, who had just finished the piece, she said, “Bridget, why don’t you play something, you know, ‘weddingy.’ ”

Bridget stared at her half a beat but made no answer. Bridget never had much toleration for those she found insufferable—even if she was related to them. Without another word, she launched into “Lydia the Tattooed Lady,” complete with lyrics. She’d just gotten to, “On her back is the Battle of Waterloo. Beside it, the Wreck of the Hesperus, too,” when Avery’s nurse, Millicent “Millie” McDaniel, strode briskly into the room. An imposing woman in her mid- to late fifties, she wore her straw-colored hair scraped off her face in a severe bun, and her heavily starched white uniform practically cracked as she walked. A slash of red across her thin lips was her only concession to feminine vanity. Her overall shape was that of an inverted triangle, with impossibly tiny ankles and calves supporting an enormous torso. She looked as if she’d put on a girdle and, starting at her ankles, pulled every ounce of fat upward toward her neck.

“Excuse me, Mr. Matthews,” she said in a low masculine voice, “it’s time for your medication.” Although maintaining her professional demeanor, Millie was clearly displeased that her patient was still up at this late hour. Her lips were pressed so tightly together that they were reduced to the barest sliver of red.

“Thank you, Millie. I’ll be right there.” Avery turned back to the rest of us. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d better call it a night.”

Roni jumped to her feet and positioned herself behind Avery’s chair. “Here, honey, let me get this. Good night, everyone,” she called over her shoulder as she pushed the chair around. “Lead the way, Millie.”

As Roni sashayed past Millie, the nurse’s professional mask slipped briefly. A quick twist of Millie’s mouth made it clear she held the same low opinion of Roni as the rest of us.

With their exit, some of the tension subsided. Elsie sniffed loudly. “Oh, what I would love to say to that little trollop. The way she eyes everything in this house like she’s appraising it, wondering how much she can sell it for after I’m dead. But for Avery’s sake I am biting my tongue. So much so that I’m going to need stitches.”

“Yes, Mother,” said Graham dryly. “You’ve been a model of restraint. Remind me to play poker with you sometime.” Beside him, Blythe smothered a smile.

“Oh, shut up,” Elsie retorted calmly. “Rather than fight with each other, we need to work out a way to convince Avery not to sell the Garden.”

Blythe glanced uneasily at her mother-in-law. “I understand how important the Garden is to the family, Elsie,” she began tentatively, “but really, isn’t this Avery’s decision? After all, he’s been running the place and he is the majority stockholder. He’s a workaholic and he’s had a stroke, for goodness’ sake.”

“It’s not just the fact that he’s thinking of selling the business that my father built that upsets me,” said Elsie, “although I admit that this is part of it. Mainly, it’s the fact that she’s pushing him to do it. When it comes to her , he shows absolutely no common sense. That’s what makes me so furious. He can’t think straight with her around. I know my son. Avery loves that business. It’s a part of him and he will be lost without it.” She paused and traced the blue-and-cream swirls of the carpet with her the gold tip of her cane. “If I believed for one minute that he’d be happier or healthier living a life of ease and not running the Garden, then I’d sell the place in a New York minute. But he won’t be either. Within two months he’ll be bored out of his mind. And, if I’m not mistaken, within a year he’ll not only be without a business, but he’ll be without his money and his wife, too.”

David’s face bunched in an angry scowl. “You can coun’ on me, Elsie,” he said, turning bleary eyes in her direction. “Lil’ bitch.” His brief effort at speech proved too taxing for what was left of his mind. The cushions