The low groaning was there again, along with faint coughing. It did not sound as if whoever-it-was was enjoying himself.
“Could it be Boyd?” I asked Julian fearfully. “Maybe he caught somebody smoking, and whoever it was hit him, or something.”
“I think Boyd can take care of himself.”
The moaning was there again, less distinct this time. But I was sure it was a man in pain.
“I want to find out who’s hurting,” I said firmly.
“We’ve got a lot of dishes still to do,” Julian warned as I set off in the direction of the newly landscaped area.
“They’ll keep!”
Julian cursed under his breath, but true to his promise, stuck close to me.
“Where are you?” I called into the night. “Boyd? Are you hurt?”
There was a kind of whimpering coming from the bushes. Oh, how I wished cheap old Victor Lane had installed some real perimeter lighting instead of relying on Christmas-in-summer strands of lights.
“Boyd!” I called again when the sounds stopped. “Where are you?”
“I’m right behind you,” Sergeant Boyd announced, and Julian and I almost jumped out of our epidermi.
“Did you find the pot smokers?” Julian asked.
“Nope.”
“Well, we heard somebody moaning and groaning and crying,” I said. “Somebody’s hurt.”
“More like somebody’s drunk or having sex,” Boyd said.
But it was neither. Beside the bushes, a body was sprawled at an unnatural angle. It looked like a man clad in dark colors. In the strings of lights, he was visible by his bright white shirt. Julian and I rushed over.
“Oh, Christ,” Julian said. Breathless, I fell to my knees beside the man.
“Gertie Girl,” Jack Carmichael managed to say before he lost consciousness.
BOYD WAS RIGHT behind us, and quickly took command of the scene. Thank God, he got a cell signal. He summoned an ambulance and law enforcement, while Julian judged Jack’s condition.
“His heart’s beating fine,” Julian said to me. I was still speechless, but I was vaguely aware of tears streaming down my cheeks. “It just looks as if he was knocked out or something. Oh, Christ,” he said again, as he reached around to the back of Jack’s head. When he pulled his hand back, he held it up to show me. His fingers were covered with blood.
I’d seen plenty of trauma in my day, but it was different when it was someone you loved. “Jack!” I called down to the inert form. “Please, Jack!”
“Move away, Goldy,” Boyd ordered. “You, too, Julian.”
“He’s been hit in the back of the head, and he’s bleeding,” Julian said. “I should hold on to the wound until the medics get here.”
Curious wedding guests were gathering outside to watch the drama before them.
“Dammit,” Boyd muttered when he saw the crowd. “All right, then, Julian, stay where you are. But do not move a muscle from that spot. Goldy, I’ve called Tom. We had a bad connection, but he’s coming. Now, I want you to move these people back inside. Get Yolanda to help you. Victor, too. Tell everyone…tell them Jack’s had an apparent heart attack and we need the guests to stay away until the ambo gets here. You got it?” he asked. “You going to be all right to do that? You’re not going to pass out on me, are you? Or throw up?”
I pressed my lips together and nodded. “I am fine,” I said evenly, “and I’ll do exactly what you want. But what the hell happened? Is he going to be all right?”
“He’s going to be fine as long as you can keep people out of here. Oh, and isn’t the groom a doctor? Get him out here. ASAP.”
“All right,” I acquiesced. “But,” I continued stubbornly, “why would someone do this?”
“Goddamn it, Goldy,” Boyd said angrily, “I don’t know. Isn’t your godfather wealthy? Maybe someone wanted his wallet.”
“His Rolex is gone,” Julian said. “Uh-oh, he’s conscious now. And he’s going to puke.”
“Roll him on his side,” Boyd commanded. Julian did as commanded, and I really did think I was going to pass out when my godfather began to throw up weakly into the grass. Boyd shouted, “Get the damn doctor, Goldy!”
I blinked, overcame my immobilization, and walked quickly over to where the crowd was gathered. “Please go back inside,” I begged them. “Someone is just sick, that’s all.”
“Serves him right,” a guest commented.
“I’m sure as hell not having any more of that punch.”
“Cake either!” Someone else cackled.
“Does anybody know where Dr. Miller is?” I asked, my voice suddenly high and imperious.
“Inside, I expect,” an anonymous voice from the crowd announced. “Which is where all of you should be.” The voice was Victor Lane’s. “Let’s go, everybody. The show’s over.”
Victor was better at directing people around than I was, perhaps because he’d had more practice.
I pushed through the crowd, future clients be damned. “I need Dr. Craig Miller,” I said urgently to Victor.
“He’s still inside, Goldy. At least, he was the last time I saw him.”
I sped through the dining hall doors and searched the hundred or so faces. Near me, Isabelle was listening uncomfortably to a lecture from Charlotte Attenborough. Out on the dance floor, Marla was swaying jovially from side to side, while Lucas Carmichael tried desperately to find the music’s rhythm. He seemed as ill at ease as Isabelle. I threaded my way through the tables and immediately was aware of people’s glares. Now what does she want? Isn’t the dinner over?
Finally, Billie’s loud laugh exploded from the far side of the dining room, and I made a beeline toward that noise. I realized I hadn’t yet seen her in the fancy cream wedding dress that, when you included all the fees for change orders, Marla reported had cost over two thousand bucks.
“Craig, you are so funny!” Billie announced loudly, and the doctor, obviously pleased with amusing his bride, broke into a wide smile. Father Pete, who sat with them, wore a perplexed expression, as if the joke had entirely eluded him.
“Excuse me, Dr. Miller,” I said, trying to sound as formal as possible. “One of the guests is sick, and we need you. Please. Sergeant Boyd thinks this guest may be having a heart attack—”
“Goldy!” Billie shrieked at me, her face ugly with rage. “Go find another doctor!”
And then, all the months of dealing with Billie Attenborough’s narcissism caught up with me, rising in my throat like so much bile.
“There isn’t another one! I need Dr. Miller,” I cried. “Please, Craig, Jack has been hurt. If you could just come out to the side entrance—”
Billie Attenborough sprang to her feet, and with her wide body encased in the cream dress, she blocked my view of her new husband. Unheeding, I peered around her to Craig Miller, who looked as if he’d swallowed half a dozen goldfish, live. “Dr. Miller,” I began again, “please—”
Before I knew what was happening, Billie Attenborough reared back and slapped me across the face.
Tears exploded in my eyes. Still, even though my cheek flamed with pain, I was so frantic about Jack’s condition, and so desperate to get Craig Miller’s help, that I ignored my own distress.
When Billie saw I wasn’t going to react to her, she began to sob.
“Dr. Miller!” I screamed over Billie’s blubbering. “We need you outside! Jack’s hurt!”
“Don’t go, Craig!” Billie wailed. “I need you!” With great drama, she fell to the ground.
“Goldy,” said Father Pete into my ear. “Tell me where this sick person is, and I’ll take Dr. Miller to him. Then I want you to go out to the kitchen, and stay there.”
“I am not going into the kitchen,” I said, my jaw firmly clenched. “I’ll take Craig out to Jack. You can tend to Billie Attenborough. Please,” I added, as tears stung the slap on my cheek.
“All right,” said Father Pete, resigned. He knelt next to Billie, who lifted herself slightly, then crumpled onto him.
“Let’s go,” Craig Miller said from beside me. He’d regained his composure, thank God. “Show me where this patient is.”
