Engaged in Death (A Wedding Planner Mystery) by Stephanie Blackmoore Page A

Garrett walking off into the sunset with Jeeves.
    “What are you grinning about? You look like you’ve got a secret.”
    “No secrets. I’m finally settling into Sylvia’s house. I’m actually glad Rachel’s here. And the people in Port Quincy are all right. I don’t think I’ll be murdered in my sleep.”
    Olivia blew her thick black bangs off her forehead, eyeing me. She didn’t press me about it.
    “And, I’m starting to feel okay about what happened with Keith. Lucky, even. I’m better off without him.”
    “That’s the spirit.” Olivia held up her hand for a high five.
    “Now I just need to find a bride and revise my wedding.”
    Before Olivia arrived at my office I’d checked my personal email. I’d had a surprising ten inquiries about my “free wedding” giveaway. But none of the requests would work. Several brides desperately wanted a wedding at the country club, but wouldn’t be able to use the space on the appointed date. They wanted to know if I’d had any success negotiating using the country club space at a later date. The Port Quincy Dalmatian Rescue League was interested in taking over the event for a fundraiser, and they wanted to feature their pooches. A quick call to Mr. Haines, the country club manager, nixed that idea.
    “There can be no animals on the premises, Miss Shepard. Good luck finding a group to take over your reception.” I could hear the condescension in his voice, and could picture his sneer curving around his blinding dentures. I hung up before I said something I regretted. I filled Olivia in on my phone call with Mr. Haines, and all of the requests to use the reception that wouldn’t quite work.
    “You know,” Olivia said cautiously, “it might be time to haul out the big guns. This would make a great story.”
    “Like for the newspaper?” I squeaked, dropping my purse in alarm.
    “I guess you’re not ready for that.”
    The two of us made our way out of my office. I didn’t want to broadcast my failure of a wedding so publicly, but I was bound and determined to find a bride to take over the reception. I just had to find that bride without humiliating myself any further.
    The elevator stopped its smooth descent and we crossed the marble lobby and exited revolving doors into the humid day. We headed for our favorite restaurant, a hole-in-the-wall that served delicious Indian food, a safe block away. A rivulet of sweat traced my spine, gluing my silk shirt to my back. I hid behind my sunglasses, glancing around for any signs of Keith or Becca.
    A woman exited the identical chrome and glass skyscraper next door. She looked right then left and tentatively ventured out. She spotted me at the edge of her vision, dropping the bag she was carrying. Papers flew out of the overstuffed satchel, and she froze. Her eyes darted over as she finally scrambled to retrieve her documents. As she leaned over, her dark roots contrasted with shining blond hair, Heather Locklear–style, circa Melrose Place .
    “Becca Cunningham,” spat out Olivia.
    “I’m not hungry anymore.” My legs turned to jelly, and bile rose in my throat. I stood rooted to the ground, my feet useless as I clung to Olivia’s arm.
    “Wait, Mallory!” Becca stuffed sheaves of paper into her cranberry shoulder bag. It was identical to the one I carried. Keith had given me the soft leather attaché for Christmas. My head spun. Had he gifted her the very same present? Keith was nothing if not efficient. Becca advanced toward us, abandoning the rest of her papers to the sidewalk, where they were picked up in the slight breeze before wafting into traffic like giant, rectangular snowflakes. “Please, I need to talk to you. I want to tell you—”
    She didn’t get to tell me what was so pressing, because Olivia grabbed me by the elbow and wrenched me around in an about-face.
    I left my stomach on the sidewalk, along with my dignity, as we power walked back to our building and zoomed up in the elevator. I