Death Takes a Honeymoon by DEBORAH DONNELLY Page A
Authors: DEBORAH DONNELLY
Tags: Fiction
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the lobby cut Cissy short. All the conversations around us halted as all eyes turned to view Domaso Duarte dashing out among the tables, swearing and shouting, with Shara Mortimer hot on his heels. He looked flustered enough, but she was soaked to the skin and apparently homicidal.
Be very
afraid.
“What on
earth
?” squeaked Cissy.
I was just as astounded as she was, until the object of the pursuit appeared right under my nose. Gorka, his tail beating the air triumphantly, flung his front paws onto our table and lovingly placed Shara Mortimer’s dripping wet briefcase onto my lap.
Chapter Nine
“YOU LAUGHED, I SAW YOU. YOU WERE LAUGHING ALONG with the rest of them. You call yourself a professional?”
Shara Mortimer was beautiful when she was angry, and just now she was spitting mad. She stalked around the luxurious suite, spreading the contents of her briefcase to dry on every available surface and snarling at me. With her black hair swinging loose around her shoulders and her slim, tanned legs flashing beneath a white terry-cloth robe, she truly looked like one of Beau’s Girls.
“I couldn’t help it,” I said meekly, peeling apart yet another vendor contract. “But you have to admit—”
“I don’t have to admit anything. Hand me my cell phone. It’s probably ruined.”
I complied in silence. I had already apologized once, as a courtesy, and I was damned if I’d do so again. Domaso Duarte had been profuse in his regrets, and Gorka, unrepentant, had been banished from the premises. He was probably lolling in Domaso’s front seat, having a little doggy chuckle over his delightful game of tug-of-war, which had ended with Shara toppling into the swimming pool, and Gorka plunging in after her to retrieve the briefcase and leave its owner floundering.
I secretly wished I’d been there to see it. If Shara didn’t simmer down soon, I might just banish myself from this wedding altogether.
Except that I already signed the damn contract, and if I broke it, Beau Paliere would probably sue me—
A bold knocking sounded from the corridor. Shara waved at me to answer it and whisked into the bedroom, pulling the double doors shut behind her.
“Hey, Red! Look at you, girl, pretty as ever!”
Sam Kane, father of the bride, shambled into the suite with his Stetson in his hand and a big grin on his homely old face. Sam was a cartoonist’s dream, a walking caricature, all bulbous nose and flapping ears and oversized hands and feet, with long scrawny limbs in between. He’d lost some hair since I’d seen him last, just like his son Danny, and gained a bit of a paunch, but he still wore his trademark brown suede sports coat with the elbow patches and an enormous brass belt buckle with his initials on it. There was nothing small, subdued, or modest about Sam Kane.
“But what am I saying?” He gave me a long, fatherly hug. “My deepest sympathies, truly, on the loss of your cousin.”
“Good to see you, Sam,” I said. I was tired of explaining my nonrelationship with Brian, so I didn’t. “Congratulations about Tracy.”
It really was good to see him. I had fond memories of Sam teasing the Muffies about their boyfriends that summer, flirting with us himself with clumsy gallantry, and taking us out for the occasional sumptuous dinner. Tracy had plenty of spending money back then, but B.J. and I were counting pennies, and Sam always picked up the whole tab on the pretext of treating his darling daughter. Everybody in the Wood River Valley liked Sam, even his business rivals, and I was no exception.
“Thank you kindly, Red. I don’t know which one of ’em’s luckier, her or Jack.” He glanced around the sitting room at the papers that lay curling on desk, chairs, and coffee table, and shook his head. “Cissy told me what happened. I swear, that New York girl has been nothing but trouble.”
I was about to counter this unfair assessment when Shara appeared. She had repaired her makeup, put on a
Be very
afraid.
“What on
earth
?” squeaked Cissy.
I was just as astounded as she was, until the object of the pursuit appeared right under my nose. Gorka, his tail beating the air triumphantly, flung his front paws onto our table and lovingly placed Shara Mortimer’s dripping wet briefcase onto my lap.
Chapter Nine
“YOU LAUGHED, I SAW YOU. YOU WERE LAUGHING ALONG with the rest of them. You call yourself a professional?”
Shara Mortimer was beautiful when she was angry, and just now she was spitting mad. She stalked around the luxurious suite, spreading the contents of her briefcase to dry on every available surface and snarling at me. With her black hair swinging loose around her shoulders and her slim, tanned legs flashing beneath a white terry-cloth robe, she truly looked like one of Beau’s Girls.
“I couldn’t help it,” I said meekly, peeling apart yet another vendor contract. “But you have to admit—”
“I don’t have to admit anything. Hand me my cell phone. It’s probably ruined.”
I complied in silence. I had already apologized once, as a courtesy, and I was damned if I’d do so again. Domaso Duarte had been profuse in his regrets, and Gorka, unrepentant, had been banished from the premises. He was probably lolling in Domaso’s front seat, having a little doggy chuckle over his delightful game of tug-of-war, which had ended with Shara toppling into the swimming pool, and Gorka plunging in after her to retrieve the briefcase and leave its owner floundering.
I secretly wished I’d been there to see it. If Shara didn’t simmer down soon, I might just banish myself from this wedding altogether.
Except that I already signed the damn contract, and if I broke it, Beau Paliere would probably sue me—
A bold knocking sounded from the corridor. Shara waved at me to answer it and whisked into the bedroom, pulling the double doors shut behind her.
“Hey, Red! Look at you, girl, pretty as ever!”
Sam Kane, father of the bride, shambled into the suite with his Stetson in his hand and a big grin on his homely old face. Sam was a cartoonist’s dream, a walking caricature, all bulbous nose and flapping ears and oversized hands and feet, with long scrawny limbs in between. He’d lost some hair since I’d seen him last, just like his son Danny, and gained a bit of a paunch, but he still wore his trademark brown suede sports coat with the elbow patches and an enormous brass belt buckle with his initials on it. There was nothing small, subdued, or modest about Sam Kane.
“But what am I saying?” He gave me a long, fatherly hug. “My deepest sympathies, truly, on the loss of your cousin.”
“Good to see you, Sam,” I said. I was tired of explaining my nonrelationship with Brian, so I didn’t. “Congratulations about Tracy.”
It really was good to see him. I had fond memories of Sam teasing the Muffies about their boyfriends that summer, flirting with us himself with clumsy gallantry, and taking us out for the occasional sumptuous dinner. Tracy had plenty of spending money back then, but B.J. and I were counting pennies, and Sam always picked up the whole tab on the pretext of treating his darling daughter. Everybody in the Wood River Valley liked Sam, even his business rivals, and I was no exception.
“Thank you kindly, Red. I don’t know which one of ’em’s luckier, her or Jack.” He glanced around the sitting room at the papers that lay curling on desk, chairs, and coffee table, and shook his head. “Cissy told me what happened. I swear, that New York girl has been nothing but trouble.”
I was about to counter this unfair assessment when Shara appeared. She had repaired her makeup, put on a
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