Veiled Threats

284 Pages·2002·1.51 MB·English

by  Deborah Donnelly

I closed the oak door firmly behind me before sprinting down the corridor toward the
bride's dressing room. The door was slightly ajar, and a sickly hospital smell reached me
as I tried to shove it open. An obstruction behind the door gave way slowly, and then
held. I shoved harder and squeezed through.
The obstruction was Dorothy Fenner. She was tumbled across the rug like a rag doll,
her permed silver hair askew, her breathing hoarse and wet. Beyond her was an old
overstuffed chair, one of several in the faded, mismatched furnishings, piled high today
with the bridesmaids’ street clothes, their hairbrushes and lipstick cases and crumpled
tissues. But this one chair had nothing on it except a satin shoe. One of Nickie's. Inside
the shoe was a piece of lined white paper, a rough penciled note printed on it. Dazed, in
slow motion, I picked it up. We'll tell you what to do, it read. No police or you get her
fingers in the mail.

I'd like to thank my agent, Jim Frenkel, who defines the word “perseverance,” and
Diane Hall-Harris, true artist and true friend. Thanks also to Anne Bohner, an editor
with an excellent eye. Last, but never least, heartfelt thanks to Frederick K. Dezendorf,
patron of the arts.
W ? A , WHY I offer to help them do the
HY ON EARTH DO PEOPLE GET MARRIED ND WHY DO
deed? Why do I promise “Elegant Weddings With An Original Flair,” as
it says on my business card, when I know damn well how many things
can go wrong at once? “Made in Heaven Wedding Design, Carnegie
Kincaid, Proprietor.” Tonight, the proprietor was ready to resign.
So far, on this rainy Sunday night in June, the florist's truck had had a
flat, the groom's grandmother had had a fit, I was missing one waiter for
the reception, and the four-year-old ring bearer had hidden the ring in
her underpants. Twice. And now, moments before their procession down
the aisle, one of the bridesmaids was sneezing. Explosive, rapid-fire,
high-decibel sneezes. The other bridesmaids were smothering hysterical
giggles while Diane, the bride, was developing a deer-caught-in-
headlights stare. We were approaching meltdown.
The bride, the bridesmaids, the ring bearer and I were clustered
outside the ballroom of Sercombe House, one of Seattle's Victorian
mansions-for-rent. The mahogany doorway ahead of us framed a festive
and expectant scene, with fluttering candle flames and masses of pale
pink English roses, delivered dangerously late but lovely all the same.
The string quartet played Haydnloudly, thank God. The judge winked at
the groom. The guests beamed in anticipation. And Susie, a plump little
blonde gone very red in the face, kept on sneezing.
“I'm so sorry,” she gasped. “I don't know what … aaahhh—”
“Here!” I shoved another handkerchief at her. “It must be your
bouquet. Are you allergic to flowers? Don't try to talk, just give it to me.
Quick!”
I examined the offending bouquet. English roses, stargazer lilies,
stephanotis. No telling what was setting Susie off. I yanked the pink
satin ribbon from around the stems, held back a spray of lilies, and
pitched the rest of the bouquet in a nearby wastebasket. “Nickie, take
the ring away from Tiffany and give it to me.”
Nickie Parry, the maid of honor and my next bride-to-be client, gave
me the gleaming gold-and-black enamel band so that I could thread the
ribbon through it and tie a big loopy bow.
“Susie, you are now the ring bearer.” I handed her the ring and bow,
and we waited. Two more small sneezes … a couple of sniffles … blessed
silence.
“Excellent!” I stooped to present the lilies to Tiffany. “Here you go,
Tiff, now you're the flower girl. It's a very special job. And Michelle,
change places with Susie so she ends up close to the bride, OK?”
“Whatever.” Michelle rolled her eyes and I imagined, not for the first
time, strangling her with the bride's garter. She was a cousin of Diane's,
in from New York, cadaverously thin and heavily sardonic. She'd made it
clear that weddings, especially hick Seattle weddings, were a ridiculous
bore, especially when it was suggested that she take out her nose ring for
the occasion. Her boyfriend, a densely pierced and tattooed youth,
obviously shared her opinions. As far as I was concerned, they deserved
each other.
Michelle belched abruptly, and I guessed from the fumes that the
bottle of champagne I'd brought to their dressing room earlier must have
gone mostly down Miss Sophisticate's throat. I felt my back teeth
grinding.
“OK, everybody line up. Susie, are you all right now? Great. Yo u all
look fabulous.”
They did, too. Diane loathed what she called “those pastel jobs with
bows on the butts,” and I agreedbaby-blue chiffon is best seen on babies.
So I'd had long-skirted evening suits made up in black damask, with
pearly white blouses underneath the peplum jackets. In effect, a lady's
tuxedo. Every man ever born looks good in a tux, and so does every
woman, if she gets the chance.
The Haydn wound up, and the processional, the Bach Cantata BWV
140, began. I sent little Tiffany and then the first two bridesmaids down
the aisle, then the glassy-eyed Michelle, then Susie, still flushed but no
longer erupting, and holding the ring-and-ribbon with formal care, as if
we'd planned it. Then the maid of honor, then the bride stepped forward
… accompanied by a hideous ripping sound, so loud that the entire back
row of guests craned around to look. She hastily sidestepped away from
their line of sight. Another rrrrip. The beaded hem of her gown had
snagged on a nailhead and torn free from the fragile silk of the skirt,
leaving a two-foot length trailing along the floor.
“Do something!” Diane's already pale face had gone even paler.
“I'm doing it.” I was already on my knees behind her, whipping out
my pocket sewing kit. Had I replaced the straight pins since the last time
I'd used it? I had. I was pinning frantically when I heard a soft, kindly,
sickeningly familiar voice.
“Oh, dear. Yet another little problem. Can I help?”
I looked up and forced myself to smile at Dorothy Fenner. Dear silver-
haired Dorothy, the best-known wedding consultant in the Northwest. So
aristocratic and yet so maternal. So well versed in etiquette, so well
connected to the rich and famous. So very similar in appearance to
Meryl Streep. And for three years now, so very successful at acing me
out of potential clients. Nickie Parry's would be my first really big
society wedding, and dear Dorothy had only missed landing the contract
for it because she'd been on a Mediterranean cruise for the last month.
She was strictly a guest here tonight, her husband being a colleague of
the groom's father, but she kept popping up and pointedly offering help
as one thing after another went awry.
“There's no problem, Dorothy,” I said gaily. “OK, Diane, all set.”
“But it's crooked!”
I stood up and glared. “All eyes will be focused on your radiant face.
Now go.”
She went, but Dorothy didn't.
“Carnegie. I thought you should know.” Dorothy always pronounced
my name as if it had quote marks around it. (My late father was a big
fan of Andrew Carnegie, having educated himself in the public libraries
funded by the old robber baron. As a kid, I'd hated my weird name, but
now I figured, why should a skinny five-foot-eleven redhead even try to
be inconspicuous?) “Carnegie, that Mary woman managed to get in.”
“Oh, hell.”
Crazy Mary was a tiny, silent, bug-eyed old woman, dressed in charity
clothes and lugging a shopping bag, who wandered the streets of
downtown Seattle. Some people said she was secretly rich, and others
that she was homeless, but everybody knew Mary's hobby: attending
fancy weddings. She never said a word or caused a problem. She just
appeared and disappeared, like a little bird seen from the corner of your
eye.
“Well, she won't hurt anything, and she'll probably leave soon. Please
sit down, Dorothy.”
As she did, I checked the crowd for Crazy Mary. Sure enough, she was
there near the back, hunched in her chair, the shoulders of her shabby
jacket dark with rain. Who knew what weddings meant to her, or what
memories lay behind those unblinking eyes? Dorothy Fenner had twice,
to my knowledge, had Crazy Mary thrown out of weddings she was
managing. I couldn't bring myself to do it, and I was sure Diane wouldn't
mind her presence. As if she'd heard my thought, Mary turned, cocked
her head at me, and smiled softly. I smiled back, nodding, and in unison
we turned our gazes back to Diane, who had just reached the head of the
aisle.
I love this moment. Young and trembling or calm and not-so-young,
seed pearls or tie-dye, intimate ceremony or extravaganza, this first
public appearance of the bride always makes me misty. There's all the
romance that Western culture can bestow: the idea of the fairy princess,
Cinderella, the one and only true love. Not to mention the sheer theater
of making a solo entrance in a knockout costume. But it was the courage
that caught at my never-married heart. To publicly say, He's the one; I
pledge my life to his life. All the divorce statistics in the world can't
tarnish that moment. That's the real reason why I help people get
married. I'm a sucker for romance.
So I lingered while Diane, bright as a sunrise, took her place beside
her chosen man. The candlelight gleamed on her gown and in her eyes,
and Jeffrey looked, as all bridegrooms should, like the luckiest fellow on
earth. I sighed, dabbed at a tear, and slipped back through the fine old
oak-floored dining room into the mansion's kitchen. I had to track down
a pair of antique crystal goblets sent over by the groom's grandmother
this morning, thus setting off the old lady's tantrum. And I had to ask