Murder on the Bride’s Side

heavy curtains, I watched Roni walk out onto the terrace. Pausing, she reached inside her purse and pulled out a cigarette. With shaking hands, she lit it. Taking a deep drag, she moved forward and disappeared down the stairs. Before I could process what I’d heard, I became aware of rapidly retreating footsteps behind me. Turning in that direction, I peered across the living room but saw no one. The footsteps headed for the long hallway that led to the staircase, but by the time I got there, whoever it was, was gone. Walking back through the living room, I passed by the door to the study. It was slightly ajar.

Someone else had overheard Roni’s conversation. The question was, who?

Chapter 7

How was the wedding?

Brief, to the point, and not unduly musical.

—NOËL COWARD

At five o’clock sharp, we were standing in the vestibule of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. The richly detailed Greek Revival church dated back to 1845 and had been the Matthews family’s place of worship for almost as long. And although that worship was infrequent at best, it nevertheless was the chosen site for the Matthewses’ and other established Richmond families’ marriages, baptisms, and funerals. Especially funerals, according to Harry, who liked to say that St. Paul’s was “where those in Richmond go, when they go.”

In spite of Bridget’s dire premonitions, the wedding ceremony went off with only one minor mishap. Ashley, Bridget’s flower girl, took one look at the long church aisle, chucked her specially ordered rose-filled flower basket, and fled. Her parents spent the remaining part of the ceremony soothing her “shattered nerves” with copious amounts of candy and kisses. Not surprisingly, as soon as she’d consumed one piece of candy, she would burst into tears all over again until another was produced. After twenty minutes or so, it became mildly annoying, but given the intensity of Bridget’s fears, it was not the Greek tragedy I half expected.

Back at Barton Landing, the cocktail portion of the reception was now under way. From the main terrace the band played a sedate selection of classical compositions while below, waiters in starched white coats circulated with assorted trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne. The staff appeared passionately dedicated to their jobs. As soon as a shrimp puff or a glass of champagne was consumed, it was immediately replaced with another. At the current rate of consumption, I calculated the entire party would be full and/or drunk by the time dinner was served.

I stood on the side terrace with Bridget and Colin and the rest of their families, waiting to have our pictures taken. We were grouped in front of the enormous rose-covered wooden trellis that ran up the side of the house. The vibrant pink roses stood out full and lush, a glowing testament to Elsie’s green thumb.

I shifted uncomfortably. As predicted, the sun’s heat was intense and I stared longingly toward the refreshment tents, where there was the promise of shade and cold drinks. Chloe stood off to Bridget’s left, impatiently tapping a manicured fingernail against her ever-present clipboard. Even though she was wearing a black sheath dress—a color most Southern women avoid on hot, sunny days—she looked cool and professional. I, on the other hand, felt like an overdone strand of spaghetti in my yellow dress. I was pale, sticky, and limp.

Catching my eye, Chloe moved in my direction. “Goodness, but you look hot, Elizabeth,” she said sweetly.

I took that to mean that I looked like crap, but I nodded good-naturedly. “I am. I’m looking forward to getting under one of those tents and getting something cold to drink.”

“Can’t someone get you something? Where’s Peter?” She looked vaguely around before turning back to me. “I guess he’s wandered off. Same old Peter,” she added, giving me a knowing smile.

Same old Peter? I had assumed that Chloe had only met Peter this morning when he was outside with Graham, hardly enough time to start referencing him as “same old Peter.” Something about her smile coupled with the way she pronounced Peter’s name—slowly, intimately—sent a finger of unease sliding down my back.

“You know Peter?”

From the way her smile increased, I gathered she found the question amusing. The amusement was purely one-sided. For the first time, I noticed that her teeth were a brilliant white, a shade normally limited to toothpaste ads—or piranhas. The feeling of unease was gone. It had been replaced by a swelling panic. Please God, I begged, please don’t let this paragon of cool perfection be an ex-girlfriend of Peter’s. Please, let her be a cousin or, at the very least, an old friend. I amended the last part to an old friend who was a dedicated lesbian.

“You mean he didn’t tell you?” She let out a small giggle, the source of which was not readily apparent to me. I could forgive much, but not that giggle. “He can be so ridiculous sometimes with his old-fashioned ideas of discretion.” She fell silent for a moment as if lost in fond memories. “But, yes,” she said finally, “I do know Peter. We go way back. We were about to take our own stroll down the aisle ourselves, oh, I guess it was about five years ago. But I was so young. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for marriage and a family. We agreed that it made sense for each of us, me, especially, to experience life a bit—you know, date around.” She considered me with a complacent smirk, which I interpreted as satisfaction that Peter’s latest dating “experience” was a sticky, limp thing in a yellow dress. “Anyway,” she continued, “it’s been so great to catch up with him. I gather you two are old friends?”

Old friends? Catch up with him? When the hell had Peter been catching up with Chloe? And why the hell did she think Peter and I were just friends?

“Um... yes, I guess you could call us that,” I began. “But then actually—”

“Have you met his mother, Jane, yet?”

I longed to say that I had. I longed even more to say that not only had I met her and Peter’s father, but that they’d already told me all about Chloe. Then I’d duck my head as if embarrassed, and mumble how “they were very unkind—but I won’t say any of that to you. ”

But the sad fact remained that I had not met Peter’s parents. While Peter and I had known each other as kids, it was because we had both been staying with Aunt Winnie. Our own parents had been elsewhere. Since we had begun dating, I had spoken to Jane on the phone a few times, but both she and Peter’s father, Patrick, had been so busy with their business that a proper meeting had yet to happen. However, I was damned if I was going to mention this to Chloe. I struggled to answer in such a way as to not give this fact away. Apparently, I needn’t have bothered; my face did it for me.

“Oh, so you haven’t met her then!” cried Chloe in a voice that sounded suspiciously like crowing to my ears. “She is quite a character. And while I absolutely adore Jane, she is very particular when it comes to Peter. God, I watched her give so much hell to Peter’s girlfriends over the years.”

“But not to you, I expect,” I said, hoping my smile hid my sarcasm.

Chloe glanced down as if overcome with modesty. “Well, no, we’ve always gotten along just fine.”

Honestly. If it weren’t for the proximity of the wedding photographer, I really think I might have mashed my bouquet into her smug, perfect face. Inner poise, I sternly reminded myself, inner poise.

Ashley skipped up to us just then, singing loudly and pretending to casually swing her flower-girl basket in an overly cutesy manner. In reality, she was taking turns whacking us in the rear with it.

“What a cutie!” Chloe exclaimed after receiving her whack. Catching Bridget’s eye, she added, “Your cousin is adorable, Bridget!”

Bridget was silent. It was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the matter. The photographer called to her and she turned in his direction.

As soon as Bridget turned away, Ashley whacked Chloe again with the basket. Chloe’s smile dimmed, but she responded only by saying, “She’s certainly full of spirit today!”

“Ashely!” I said firmly. “Stop hitting people with your basket. It’s rude.”

“I’m not hitting people on purpose,” she replied with complete and utter insincerity.

“Ashley,” I began sternly. Hearing her daughter’s name uttered in a tone that indicated imminent reprimand,