windows beside the front door. Two more sweeps removed most of the glass shards. She squeezed her hand in and unlocked the dead bolt. She got a long scratch on her arm, but it didn’t bleed much.
“I’m coming in with you,” Margery said.
“I need you to stand guard out here,” Helen said. “Yell if she comes back.”
Helen followed the cat yowls and parrot squawks to Pete.
His cage was in the guest room on a dresser spread with newspaper. The room was a riot of cabbage-rose wallpaper, cat hair, and bird feathers.
Pete sat unharmed in his cage, his eyes glittering with rage. A scowling Siamese cowered under the bed. Fear puffed its fur to twice its size. The cat hissed at Helen and started toward her, but Pete squawked again and the animal backed under the bed. Helen grabbed the cage, shut the door on the cat, and ran out of the room.
She could hear Margery talking as she approached the door. “I’m sorry that bird was making such a racket,” she said. “Melanie called and asked us to take it away.”
Really, Margery was the most incredible liar, Helen thought as she opened the door. Her landlady was standing in front of the broken window to hide as much damage as possible, and talking to a woman with gray permed hair and thick glasses. Helen hoped she couldn’t see the shattered glass.
“There you are, dear,” Margery said. “That bird’s racket has been disturbing the whole complex, Brenda says. My niece will take care of the bird while I’m at the wedding.
By the way, Brenda, can you direct me to the Tree of Life Baptist church from here? I’m a little flustered.”
Margery forgot she was wearing purple shorts, hardly proper attire for a church wedding. Brenda didn’t seem to notice. You got used to bizarre costumes in South Florida.
The woman gave Margery directions to the church, three blocks away. As they climbed back in the car, Helen said, “Take Pete home. I’m going to that wedding to make sure Melanie doesn’t get away. Call Detective Gil Gilbert and let him know what’s going on. I don’t know if a bird-napping is enough to get his interest, but tell him about the lock picking and the smothering scene in her book. Oh, and don’t forget the Cinderella shoes.”
“I’ll call him as soon as I get home,” Margery said.
“Then I’m calling a locksmith.”
At the church, Helen was glad she was wearing her bookstore clothes. She could pass as a wedding guest, if she picked the feathers out of her hair and took off her Page Turners name tag.
She looked around the church and saw no sign of Melanie. But she did see a choice spot in the back row on the groom’s side, between a huge man and a woman with a hat the size of a truck tire. Helen figured she could hide between the two and observe the other guests. The man must have come straight from work. He was wearing a security-guard uniform and looked like a minivan in a tie.
Helen squeezed in between the hat and the minivan and looked for Melanie. She didn’t see her. Helen was getting nervous. Did she have the right wedding? Did Melanie decide to bolt? No, she wouldn’t leave her cat.
When the processional music started, she finally saw Melanie. She was a bridesmaid. Her dress would have sent Scarlett O’Hara into a jealous fit. It was powder-blue chiffon, with a hoop skirt that stretched from pew to shining pew. Ruffles cascaded down her front and dripped off the sleeves. Her flowing blond hair was topped with an enormous picture hat. Dyed-to-match ankle-strap heels peeped out from under the swaying skirt. Her bouquet was big as a shrub. Melanie looked sublimely happy. For her, this was romance with a capital R. She did not notice Helen as she floated down the aisle in her blue chiffon dream.
Four more blond bridesmaids followed, skirts swaying like lamp shades in a hurricane.
The brunette bride came out in a simple white satin princess gown, her skirt about half the size of her bridesmaids’ dresses. Clever woman, Helen thought. She looked impossibly skinny and sophisticated in that sea of chiffon.
The groom and his men were up there somewhere, overwhelmed by yards of fabric.
Baptist weddings were conducted at breakneck speed compared to the Catholic ceremonies Helen knew. Within fifteen minutes, the minister was introducing the new Mr. and Mrs. Farley Ostrander to the congregation. Helen clapped dutifully along with everyone else.
The bride and groom left arm in arm. Then Melanie wobbled back down the aisle on the arm of a groomsman.
Helen edged closer to the hulking security guard, hoping to go unnoticed.
But Melanie saw Helen as she came down the aisle. Her face mirrored her panic. Melanie tossed her bouquet into the nearest pew and tried to cut through the pews on the bride’s side. Her huge skirt wouldn’t fit. She picked it up and held out it at an angle, exposing sheer-to-the-waist panty hose and unromantic white underwear. The church was speechless with shock as Melanie ran through the door at the end of the aisle.
Helen followed, stomping on the feet of a woman in a coral silk suit. Someone screamed. The other bridesmaids and groomsmen halted in the aisle.
“Stop that woman. She’s ruining my wedding,” shouted the bride, and the wedding party took off after Helen. A welter of skirts tried to squeeze after her. Helen heard the snap of a hoop and an “Ouch!” The other bridesmaids followed Melanie’s lead and tilted their skirts either forward or backward, displaying garments rarely seen in church.
Helen went through the door and then locked it. She could hear Melanie clattering down the steps. She followed and locked the door at the bottom of the steps, too. Now she was in a church reception area. At least, Helen thought that’s what it was. This wedding was very different from the lavish Catholic affairs she was used to.
The Baptist wedding reception had cake and punch and a pretty flower centerpiece. The punch was pale pink with something fizzy. An ice ring of strawberries floated in the massive cut-glass bowl. It was a classy little reception.
There were real china cups for the coffee. The caterers were setting out some nifty canapes on a silver tray. Helen’s stomach growled as she passed the mini-quesadillas. The sesame chicken skewers looked good, too.
Helen could hear the wedding party. It had broken through the first door and was pounding on the second. The hulking groomsmen would have it open soon. Helen looked for another way out, but didn’t see one. She did see Melanie. Her hoop skirt was back in its proper place.
Melanie was swaying with rage, and moving swiftly for someone in ankle-strap heels. She threw her picture hat on the floor, grabbed the ornamental cake knife, and went after Helen.
Slash. Slash. Ribbons and lilies of the valley ripped through the air, and left a long cut in Helen’s shirt. Helen had no idea those cake knives were so sharp.
Melanie was doubly dangerous. The ruffles didn’t hinder her furious thrusts and parries. Together with the wide hoop skirt, they served as protection. She would be hard to stop.
“You’ve ruined my life,” Melanie sobbed. “All I ever wanted was to write, and you’ve humiliated me.”
“It wasn’t me. It was Page Turner,” Helen said.
“Don’t say that vile name!” Melanie said. She lunged at Helen with the cake knife, and Helen dodged a nearly lethal swipe at her heart. She heard a ripping sound. There was another deep cut in her shirt.
Helen looked for a weapon to defend herself from the wild knife thrusts. She saw only coffee spoons, china cups and saucers. Helen picked up a coffee cup and hurled it at Melanie. It shattered.
“Hey!” yelled a caterer, but the woman backed away when she saw Melanie’s slashing knife.
“Call nine-one-one,” Helen shouted, and threw another cup. That one bounced harmlessly off the lurching skirt.
Chiffon was better than Kevlar. Helen reached for more ammunition from the coffee bar. The coffee urn wasn’t out yet, or she would have unleashed gallons of hot coffee. Instead, she grabbed a fistful of delicate china saucers. Two went wide of their mark. One bounced off Melanie’s arm. A cup hit a wad of ruffles and slid harmlessly away. Helen was desperate. Melanie and her knife were moving in for the kill.
Helen ducked behind the wedding cake for protection, but Melanie kept coming with the knife. She was a terrifying sight. Her blond hair looked like it had been electrified.
Her ruffles whipped back and forth. Her skirt swung crazily. She was the bridesmaid from hell.
“I’ll kill you,” she screamed. “I’ll kill you like I killed him.”
Helen knew the three-tiered cake would be no protection against Melanie’s jabbing, stabbing knife. That knife was designed to cut cake into little pieces.
