Cry Uncle by Judith Arnold Page A

never thought of her
own wedding that way. A wedding ought to be a solemn occasion.
Relinquishing one’s freedom shouldn’t be taken lightly.
    Of course, Pamela had relinquished her
freedom the moment she’d telephoned the police and announced that
she’d witnessed a murder. Compared to that, marrying Jonas Brenner
was hardly significant.
    “ You did say he cleaned up
the Shipwreck,” she half-asked.
    “ We all did—Lois, Brick, me
and a few others. You’re not going to recognize the place.” She
marched Pamela into the bedroom, deftly navigating through the
clutter, and lifted two bouquets from her unmade bed. Gardenias,
Pamela noted wryly. Not exactly the sort of blossom she associated
with weddings. When she thought of gardenias she thought of sultry
Southern weather and fading Southern belles, and...
    Sex. Gardenias implied eroticism, something
hot and steamy and private.
    With a weak smile, she accepted her bouquet
from Kitty and followed her out of the flat. The late-afternoon air
was sweltering. Pamela felt as if she were wading through sludge as
she descended the stairs to the parking lot. By the time she
reached Kitty’s ancient VW Beetle, she was drenched with sweat.
    She settled onto the passenger seat and
cranked down the window. Her palms were soaked, and she let the
bouquet rest in her lap so she wouldn’t accidentally drop it onto
the floor, which was littered with fast-food wrappers, bent straws
and sand.
    “ Nuptial jitters,” Kitty
said sympathetically as she coaxed the engine to life. “I had them
before my first and third weddings. Don’t worry—a couple of beers
and you’ll be feeling fine.”
    Pamela eyed Kitty warily. “Jonas promised
he’d have champagne.”
    “ Oh, yeah, sure—if you like
that stuff. Me, I find it gives me a roaring headache. Plus, it’s
too sweet. Tastes like soda-pop.”
    Pamela considered explaining
vintages to Kitty, and the difference between sec and brut , but decided it wasn’t worth the
effort. No doubt the champagne Joe would serve at a place like the
Shipwreck would be just what Kitty predicted—sweet and guaranteed
to cause a crippling hangover.
    The drive took only five minutes. Emerging
from the car, Pamela heard a cacophony of voices through the
Shipwreck’s screened front door, on which was hung a sign that read
“Closed for private party.” Judging by the noise, Pamela doubted
the party was all that private. It sounded as if Joe had invited
the island’s entire population to this shindig.
    Before she could either march bravely into
the bar or else come to her senses and flee, Kitty grabbed her arm
and ushered her around the building, up an alley and into the small
back lot where Jonas had offered his hand in marriage less than a
week ago. “You can’t go in the front door,” Kitty reminded her. “No
one can see the bride before the wedding.”
    “ What are we going to do?
Stand out here roasting in the sun?”
    Kitty ignored the exasperation in Pamela’s
tone. “I’ll sneak you into Joe’s office. Hang on.” She opened the
back door a crack, releasing a blast of boisterous voices. It
sounded as if the party was already well under way.
    Pamela glanced at her watch. Four
forty-seven. The ceremony was supposed to start at five o’clock.
Jonas had taken charge of the invitations, and Pamela had no idea
what time he’d told people to arrive. In Seattle, wedding guests
generally came at the hour the service was scheduled to begin—and
early arrivals were not served liquor.
    Who cares? she muttered inwardly as, baking in the merciless
heat, she waited for Kitty to sneak her into the office. Who cared
if her wedding guests were three sheets to the wind? Who cared if
she was getting married in a seedy bar, surrounded by
strangers?
    To her surprise, Pamela
realized that she cared. If she’d resolved to get married, she should have
asserted herself a bit on the particulars: a chapel, not a bar. A
morning service followed by a brunch for a