Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes Read online

  Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes

  Christine Arness

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1999 by Lori Jean Ness

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition May 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-816-3

  Also by Christine Arness

  Rosemary for Remembrance

  This book is dedicated to all the members of my supportive family, especially my sisters, Linda & Karla, for making sure I’m not a starving writer.

  I also want to thank my friends for giving me joy in life, my writing cohorts, Denise, Kay & Mary, for their assistance and all of the wonderful folks at Landmark for just being wonderful.

  A grateful thanks to Steve Carlson for his introduction to the world of wedding photography.

  Chapter 1

  “A Yippee Ki Yi Yai to you, too, sir,” Keely murmured, dodging a man in a bola tie who was en route to the bar. The brim of a hat deep enough to hold ten gallons of Panhandle Punch shaded Alderman Gilbert’s well-known craggy features.

  He lurched to a stop, tipped back his hat. “Reba, honey! You gonna sing us a song? Saw you on TV in one of your videos the other night and you were wonnerful.”

  Reba? Gilbert had mistaken her for the famous country western singer. Looking into his sodden eyes, she decided not to take it as a compliment. He was in no state to recognize his own mother.

  “I’ll sing for you later, darling.” Keely gently disengaged his hand which had somehow managed to hone in on her waist.

  “’Kay. I’ll jush grab another lil’ drink.” Judging by the unsteadiness of the councilman’s gait as he wandered off, he’d already guzzled enough potent punch to make a steer stagger.

  A pix of him in this condition would make a great campaign poster for the opposition. Keely grinned, mentally captioning the picture “Your Local Government on the Go,” a grab shot worthy of any flash-popping member of the paparazzi.

  Although going against the migratory flow to the bar, she managed to reach the hallway unscathed just as the band struck up “Got My Heart Set on You.” She wondered what Flo Netherton, Lake Hope’s social arbitrator through her gossip-style newspaper column, would write about today’s affair. The straw bales stacked in the corners of the dance floor merited a caustic sentence or two, even if the bride was the mayor’s daughter.

  Pausing to flex toes pinched by her borrowed boots, Keely addressed the marble Cupid squatting in a nearby niche. “This is my first—and, hopefully, last—western gig, so you can wipe that smirk off your face!”

  She had a hunch, however, this was only the first of the marital round-ups; a decent fitting pair of boots might be a wise investment. Theme weddings were the current rage in Lake Hope and, as high society’s shutterbug of choice, Keely was expected to preserve the precious moments of each motif, no matter how kitsch.

  So far this year she’d photographed a Winter Wonderland with the attendants dressed as snowflakes, a Valentine’s Day ceremony predictably awash in satin hearts and crimson roses, and Deb Ralston’s flower-strewn extravaganza, “Springtime Ecstasy.” According to her calendar, she had “Georgia on my Mind,” “Swiss Bliss,” and “Love under the Sea” to look forward to.

  Eyeing the bandanna knotted around Cupid’s chubby throat, Keely decided Tricia had outclassed everyone in promoting her beloved western theme. A turquoise vase overflowing with Tropicanna roses, a spectacular version of the centerpieces, stood beside the marble god of love.

  Adjusting the strap of the power pack, Keely resumed her trek. The gift salon was dramatically secluded at the end of a corridor featuring plush carpeting and subdued lighting. In her private opinion, it resembled the viewing room at an expensive funeral home, but the rest of the building was spectacular.

  The Pavilion, built on prime lake frontage, had been designed especially to host receptions. Due to demand, the Greek Revival style structure had to be reserved two years in advance. The affluent suburb of Lake Hope and its upscale, exclusive service providers drew eager custom from both nearby suburbs and the City of Chicago. In Lake Hope, the “haves” heavily outnumbered and outspent the “just getting by on a paycheck” segment of the population.

  Back on the hardwood dance floor, Keely’s assistant videotaped the hilarity as an upper crust more familiar with ballroom dancing tried their hand at country line dancing.

  Keely’s feet shuffled to the distant melody and her hips swayed. Triple step. Military turn. Recalling her protests at her mother’s choice of country tunes on the car radio, Keely chuckled. Moira would be speechless at the sight of her daughter, that steadfast booster of rock and roll, prancing through the steps of the Tush Push.

  Keely paused with one boot in the air. She’d actually thought about her mother without experiencing a surge of resentment. I’m getting better, she reflected. Making progress!

  Even her equipment seemed lighter as she pranced down the hall. The Pavilion was honeycombed with similar corridors designed to give service providers quick access to the entire structure. The architect had even added a short passage near the gift salon which opened directly into a loading area. Gifts could be transferred to vehicles without having to be carried the length of the building. The kitchen featured a similar entrance to expedite food deliveries. Everyone agreed the Pavilion was a dream of a reception hall. The dance floor boasted both baby and colored spots, and tonight’s bridal couple had chosen to do their spotlight slow dance to “Love in the First Degree.”

  Tricia looked darling in her white satin cowgirl hat complete with a pouf veil. The guests had arrived attired in western wear in response to an invitation which spoke of “roping the right lifemate.” Amid the ruffled skirts and silver belt buckles, Flo Netherton’s mauve lace gown appeared as exotic as a lily in a flock of tumbleweeds. Keely, hoping to blend in, had borrowed boots and a hat from a neighbor who was a country line dance fanatic.

  Aided by generous cups of Panhandle Punch, the crowd at the reception quickly got into the spirit, whistling and stamping until the bride whipped off her skirt and cathedral train to reveal a white leather mini and matching boots. Each guest would be toting home a miniature version of the groom’s cake, a chocolate cowboy boot frosted in mocha mousse.

  After taking a few shots of the bride admiring the gift tables, Keely planned to return to the ballroom, where the festivities were winding down. She had come ahead to double-check the lighting while Tricia touched up her make-up.

  The honeymooners were booked for two weeks at a working dude ranch and Keely wouldn’t be surprised if Tricia, in the interests of authenticity, scorned the standard limousine for the ride to the airport. Grinning at the mental image of a pair of sturdy cow ponies pawing at the curb, Keely opened the salon door.

  The smile froze on her lips. For a split second, she thought she’d entered the wrong room. A cyclone had stripped the tables of their displays of silver, crystal, and china. Table skirts of torn silver netting served as a backdrop for forlorn turquoise and peach bows hanging askew. A crystal swan, the focal point of the display, lay shattered, only the graceful arch of its neck intact.
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  Keely gazed at the devastation, comparing the room to its orderly appearance during her earlier visit. Belatedly, she realized the husky security guard, ill-at-ease in his rented tuxedo, no longer stood at his post.

  Taking a tentative step forward, Keely stumbled over a brass candlestick lying just inside the doorway. Functioning on automatic, she picked it up before moving to gaze down at the shattered swan.

  Hearing a groan, Keely whirled. A woman lay huddled beside one of the ransacked tables. She recognized the rucked-up gray satin dress as the one worn by the bride’s grandmother, a strong minded woman with the mild appearance of a dove and the voice of a crow. Keely’s first thought was that Mrs. Westhaven must have walked in, seen the wreckage, and collapsed.

  “Help!” Shock had diminished the elderly lady’s raucous caw to a feeble cheep.

  Keely hurried to the fallen woman, whose eyes were closed, and knelt beside her. Raddled cheeks appeared pale under a heavy application of rouge. A purplish swelling marked her forehead. Keely’s stomach lurched—this was no victim of a maidenly swoon!

  Robbery. An elderly woman assaulted. With the mayor and half the City Council doing the Boot Scootin’ Boogie down the hall.

  Keely swallowed the lump of incredulity rising in her throat and shouted for help.

  “What happened?”

  Startled at the instant response to her cry, Keely pivoted on one knee to find a man crouching on jean-clad haunches beside her. Her photographer’s eye instantly registered the details of his appearance, including the red kerchief which added a southwestern flair to his blue silk shirt.

  “Gifts gone—guard missing—she’s hurt!”

  The newcomer seemed unperturbed by the disjointed phrases tumbling from Keely’s lips. “That’s quite a goose egg, but at least she’s breathing regularly.” He leaned forward, his fingers encircling the victim’s bony wrist. “Pulse is fairly strong.”

  “We need an ambulance—and the police!” Keely nodded at the tissue-wrapped box the man held in his left hand. “Someone’s stolen the other gifts and attacked Mrs. Westhaven!”

  In response to her name, the woman moaned and opened dazed eyes, slowly focusing on Keely and the man at her side.

  “Grandma!”

  The horrified cry wrenched Keely’s gaze away from the injured woman’s face to the doorway as the bride and her entourage spilled into the room.

  Her cowgirl hat tilted rakishly over one eye, Tricia demanded, “What happened to my grandmother? Is she ill?”

  Mrs. Westhaven struggled to raise her head. “Man…taking gifts. Tried…stop him…hit me with candlestick—” Amid a ragged chorus of shocked gasps, she slumped back to the floor and Keely became the focus of attention. Perplexed, she glanced down to discover that she held the weapon.

  She dropped it as if the brass burned her flesh.

  Chapter 2

  Keely’s temples throbbed with each stride down the station corridor. She placed each foot carefully to avoid unnecessary jarring to her head. Her skin, stretched too tightly across the bones of her face, prickled under the wash of cool air from an overhead vent.

  She felt as if she’d been confined in this inhospitable environment for days. The recycled air tasted stale. Even the stark furnishings had a hostile look, as though this island of bureaucracy hadn’t been designed to support civilian life forms.

  Her uniformed escort stopped. “Wait here. Someone’ll come get you when your statement’s ready to sign.”

  “How long will I have to wait?”

  “Shouldn’t be more than an hour or so.”

  An hour! Too drained to utter the protest forming on her lips, Keely studied her surroundings. “Here” was the dingy foyer serving the public entrance of the police station, its atmosphere redolent with stale tobacco and silent despair. The sole amenities were several battered vending machines and a bench occupied by two small girls. One child clutched a rag doll, the other sucked her thumb. Keely smiled encouragement, but they shrank together as if she’d made a threatening gesture.

  She wanted to put her arms around them and escape to the fresh air outside. Instead, she leaned against the wall and watched a woman—presumably the children’s mother—argue with a granite-faced officer secure behind a counter. A sign on the Plexiglas barricade read “Public Information and Complaints.”

  “But he wouldn’t rob a liquor store! I know some of his friends are pretty wild, but my David’s a good boy!”

  Keely looked away. The lines of pain carved into the woman’s face were freshly inflicted gashes over old scars, her frantic pleas a reminder of the steep price exacted by family. No matter how heinous or repeated the offense, you were supposed to piece the fragments of their life back together while your own dreams faded—

  “Howdy, ma’am.”

  Keely turned. The speaker was the man who’d answered her cry for help at the Pavilion. Still propping up the wall, she studied him with open curiosity—manners seemed absurd baggage in a place where emotions ran unchecked.

  He stood with thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. “Waiting for your statement to be typed?” At her nod, he drawled, “These lawmen are the slowest typists in the West.”

  He had such an open and pleasant face that, despite her exhaustion, Keely smiled back. “I hate to break a stranger’s heart, but that’s the worst imitation of Gary Cooper I’ve ever heard.”

  He was ten times better looking. Dark hair, bronzed skin, and classic features betrayed an Italian heritage, his eyes the translucent blue of the Mediterranean. Gazing at the well-shaped shoulders which topped the man’s muscular frame, Keely realized her own had a definite sag. She suddenly lacked the energy to sustain even this idle conversation.

  The stranger clapped his hands to his chest and staggered back. “Straight through the heart! I’m a goner! My last request is that you bury me six feet deep with my boots on.”

  Keely smiled. “You’ll survive—I heard tell that only the good die young.”

  Her companion made a miraculous recovery. “In that case, I guess I’ll be around for a few more years.”

  He sent a playful grin in the direction of the two little girls who stared in awe at the adults clowning like children. They offered shy smiles in return. Apparently Keely wasn’t the only female present who found this counterfeit cowboy engaging.

  The man ruffled his hair. “Since we seem to be stuck here for a spell, how ’bout a cup of java?”

  She hesitated. He flashed that disarming smile again. “My treat. Shall we mosey over to the vending machines?”

  Suspecting capitulation would be less tiring than resistance, Keely yielded.

  Her companion examined the dimpled dents in the machine’s side. “Looks like folks have been venting their frustrations. Maybe the cops should consider installing punching bags.”

  His vibrancy stimulated Keely’s own lethargic cells; she no longer felt in danger of slipping into a coma. “Not a bad idea. I’m in the mood to go a few rounds myself.”

  Coins jingled as the newcomer delved into his pocket. “Go ahead, choose your poison. Sky’s the limit.”

  They both selected coffee that steamed furiously in Styro-foam cups as they retraced their steps. The desk officer shuffled papers. The little girls and the distraught woman had vanished.

  Keely’s companion indicated the vacant bench. “Those poor tykes looked petrified. Some people don’t realize kids need security more than clothes or a bed.” He held out his free hand. “By the way, I’m Max Summers.”

  “Keely O’Brien.”

  By unspoken agreement, they sank down on the bench. Keely sighed as the pressure eased on her aching arches.

  Max inspected the murky looking liquid in his cup with a rueful frown. He looked much as she remembered, aside from having discarded his red neckerchief. She judged him to be in his mid-thirties. Summers had an air of self-assurance and an incandescent smile that would melt a harder heart than Keely possessed.

  Sipp
ing his coffee, Max stretched his legs and crossed his ankles. The legs ending in supple leather boots looked capable of dancing the Tush Push into the wee hours of the morning. Keely longed to shuck her own boots, but was afraid she’d never get them back on her swollen feet.

  “Keely.” Her name lingered on his tongue. “An unusual name.”

  “Irish Gaelic, meaning ‘beautiful.’” Keely dug her thumbnail into the yielding, pebbled surface of her cup. “My mother told me I was a beautiful baby.”

  Rising a notch in Keely’s estimation, Max didn’t jump in with a compliment. Gazing straight ahead, he murmured, “According to my maternal parent, God makes all babies beautiful. ‘So your poor mama would get attached before you turned into such a brat!’”

  From this angle, Keely could see the bump on the bridge of Max’s nose marring an otherwise clean profile. She was relieved to have found a flaw. Her companion was charming and possessed a healthy sense of humor; Keely instinctively distrusted someone who presented a perfect appearance.

  Max caught the direction of her gaze. “Broke my nose punching cows. Rascally critters started punchin’ back.” Unperturbed, he continued in a normal voice, “I knew today would be a total loss when my alarm clock shattered a perfect soufflé dream.”

  Keely found herself entering into the pretense that this was an ordinary encounter. “What’s a perfect soufflé dream? I’m familiar with dreams of falling and of being naked in church, but I’ve never heard of a perfect soufflé dream.”

  Although the bench had been designed to provide maximum discomfort, Max managed to achieve a comfortable slouch. “The perfect soufflé dream can be discussed only by those fortunate few initiated into the mystic culinary circle. A psychiatrist would probably theorize that the dream has something to do with male fantasies concerning the ideal woman.”