In-Laws & Outlaws (3 page)

A
s was her custom
, Stacy greeted the bride and groom when they arrived for the rehearsal and escorted them to a small office near her assistant’s desk. She would send the minister in momentarily, after giving the happy couple a few moments to themselves to let the reality of it all sink in. By this time the following day, they would be married, and that was usually a breathtaking feeling for most couples.

Next, the families would arrive, and would usually be seated somewhere pleasant where they could chat, visit, and snack on the delicate hors d’oeuvres and heartier finger foods that the groom’s family provided while they counted down the moments until their two families were joined together.

Instead, Stacy ordered the relatives from the Lancasters and Hardys to be escorted from the room where she’d attempted to talk some sense into them. They were brought to the large gathering hall in the rear of the building, the one specially built for indoor events, and lined up against the two walls. She had already ordered the groom’s family’s covered dishes to be divided up and placed on two separate tables, one for each clan, so there would be no need to mingle.

The music started and everyone took their seats. All conversation ceased and all eyes turned to the back of the room where the bride entered on her father’s arm. Priscilla had only taken one step towards the front when a wrinkled old hag on her side of the would-be church leapt to her feet in a rush. All eyes turned to her as she threw her hands to her throat and clawed at her own neck for a moment before collapsing, falling in the aisle and almost completely blocking it. The bride continued to walk, unfazed by the woman’s dramatic display, and coldly stepped over the writhing old woman in order to reach Porter.

“Great Granny always said this wedding would happen over her dead body. I’m glad to see she’s a woman of her word,” Priscilla said loudly, with a sardonic smile. She continued walking towards the altar, her eyes and smile fixed on Porter. He looked around her nervously once or twice as various members of the old woman’s family crowded around her body and began to shout.

“This isn’t a game! There’s something wrong! Somebody, call an ambulance!”

Stacy fidgeted nervously for a moment, her natural instincts towards crisis management and flawless organization fighting to override her decision to put these crazies in their respective places. She exchanged glances with Porter, who shook his head no. She looked to Priscilla for reassurance, but the bride simply refused to be swayed. The wedding rehearsal was a go, even if the old lady on the floor was not.

As people continued to climb over the chairs to get to the woman, Priscilla and Porter looked at each other lovingly before telling the minister to continue. He eyed the fray happening behind them, but nervously began his explanation of how the ceremony would come about.

Finally, Stacy could stand it no longer. She waved in the few members of her security detail and told them to handle the crowd, most of whom did not appreciate being physically lifted and hoisted away, although Stacy noticed that a few of the women didn’t seem to mind being carried considering who it was doing all the lifting. But as they hauled off the troublemakers, Mr. Giudice, the head of security, signaled to Stacy that something was seriously wrong.

“I don’t think this is another trick, Miss East,” he explained when Stacy finally came closer. “She’s not lookin’ so good, and I swear to ya I don’t mean that like some kind of old lady joke. Look at her.”

Stacy bent closer, and sure enough, the woman was starting to turn gray. She nodded to the head of the security detail to call for help, instructing him to make sure his guys kept a close eye on the various guests just in case. Then she waved to Tori to take the bride and groom back to their waiting room in case this was another trick.

The ambulance arrived in minutes, the police were hot on their heels. The assembled crowd turned ugly, especially once it was discovered that the finger foods on hand to be nibbled before the rehearsal got underway—provided by the groom’s family, of course, as was the traditional rehearsal dinner arrangement—were not peanut-free as stipulated in all the wedding contracts and planning. Great Granny, better known as Sammy to those who knew her, was deathly allergic to peanuts, as she had oh-so-dramatically managed to prove only moments before.

“I swear them sandwiches didn’t have no peanuts!” the groom’s mother wailed. “I made ‘em myself this morning!”

“Well, somebody came along and poisoned my granny!” the bride’s father screamed back, spit flying from his mouth as he yelled in a rage. “I knew not one of you was to be trusted, and now you’ve gone and committed murder!”

“I’m telling’ ya, we didn’t have nothing to do with it!” she fired back, lobbing a vase at the man’s head. Stacy wondered about the wisdom behind convincing someone you didn’t try to kill his grandmother by trying to kill him with a floral arrangement, but decided to let it go.

“Miss East, the police are here,” her assistant said softly, standing close enough to her elbow to whisper but still using her boss’ formal name since clients were present. Stacy turned and thanked Mandy, feeling a sudden surge of relief that her good friend Detective Rod Sims would sweep in any second and get things under control. He’d saved the day on previous mishaps that had occurred at some of their events, and knowing they were all in his capable hands took much of the pressure off of her.

Instead, a scrappy-looking woman who looked to be in her early thirties, wearing a badly fitting suit—complete with matching pants and blazer like a character on a TV crime drama—barged into the room, flashed her badge, and began issuing orders.

“All right! I want everyone lined up in these chairs,” she barked, pointing to the child-sized furniture that still lined the walls. “On the double people!”

“Where’s Rod?” Stacy asked her assistant, but Mandy only shrugged.

“Hey! You there! Cuties! I said to take a seat!” the detective snapped, pointing for Stacy and Mandy to join the others. Stacy smiled politely and stepped forward.

“There’s a misunderstanding here. I’m Anastacia East, the director of Events by Design,” she said, offering her hand. The detective eyed her up and down with a sneer, ignoring the offer of a friendly handshake.

“And I’m Detective McFadden, and I’m here to figure out which one of you is my perp. Now get in line!” she roared. Stacy blinked in surprise.

“Detective, I can make your job a whole lot easier,” she said sweetly. Stacy pointed to the entire room, sweeping her arm in a broad stroke that encompassed all of the onlookers. “They’re all guilty. Every one of them.”

I
t was only
an hour after the police had hauled off the entire crowd of attendees, all of them howling loudly in protest, and they’d finished cleaning up from the practice rehearsal that the sound of approaching sirens pulling up outside Stacy’s window alerted her to the fact that something was wrong. She looked up from the paperwork she was currently drafting to see multiple squad cars coming up the winding drive to the old house, screeching to a stop at jagged angles all over the yard. It was odd and probably a little on the deranged side that her first thought wasn’t about a possible crime or any kind of danger, given the amount of police presence, but instead that they’d better not damage the landscaping since there were fourteen events on the premises in the coming month.

“What’s going on?” she asked her assistant, Mandy, who was busy at her own desk just outside Stacy’s office. Mandy just shook her head and joined her boss at the window. Together they peeked out carefully, half expecting to see a deranged knife-wielding man in a clown suit being chased by the Keystone Cops. Instead, it was quiet… too quiet.

“Should we open the door, or wait for them to break it down?” Mandy stage-whispered to Stacy. They continued to peer around the drapes, but couldn’t see anything that told them something was wrong. There was definite movement from the police officers in their vehicles, and a few cars were already empty, which indicated some of the officers had disappeared to parts of the grounds that they couldn’t see from their vantage point.

Suddenly, the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass near where they stood caused both women to scream and dive for cover behind an antique divan. Gruff shouting quickly followed the explosive noise, along with the echoes of heavy boots stomping across the hardwood floors of the entryway. More yelling came from different rooms throughout the building as the officers located people going about their work.

Stacy and Mandy watched from beneath the heavy furniture as more feet trampled past, leaving clear evidence of her distraught landscaping on the antique hallway runner. As loud shouts and the occasional sickening crash came from farther parts of the building, Stacy thought it might be safe to sit up and get a better look. Instead, an audible sound near her ear made her blood turn to ice in her veins, her heart slowing to the point she thought she might pass out. She risked a slight turn of her head and saw the open end of a police revolver pointed at her head.

“Put your hands up and stand up slowly!” the officer barked. “Keep those hands where I can see them! Tell your friend to get off the floor, too.”

Stacy did as she was told, keeping her hands close to her face as she motioned for Mandy to stand up. Her assistant’s dark-skinned and carefully manicured fingertips appeared at the wooden edge of the seat first, followed by her mop of gorgeously unruly hair.

In what only took about five minutes but seemed to drag on so much longer, the entire workforce of Events by Design found themselves handcuffed with zip ties and kneeling in the front yard of the building, nearly all of them thanking the good lord above for the dense covering of trees surrounding the old property. It was the only thing that kept bystanders from watching the humiliation. Stacy managed to make a mental note to have a word with the reporter who was clicking away with a camera, hoping she could get to him before anything was uploaded or went to print.

“Mandy, quick! Get that reporter’s attention, tell him you’re gonna spill the whole story to him as soon as you’re free to go!” Stacy urged in a whisper, jerking her head towards the skinny man with acne scars, a couple of cameras strapped to his body.

“Are you high? I don’t have the foggiest clue what’s going on!” Mandy shot back. “How am I supposed to give him the scoop?”

“Well I don’t know what this is all about either, but someone has to stop him from printing any old thing he wants to. I’ll talk to him as soon as this whole mess is cleaned up, just get his attention and promise him the whole story!”

Stacy watched in pain as Mandy tried her best to beguilingly get the reporter’s attention without drawing notice from the police. Her “come hither” look was something like a cross between a Vegas stripper and a nun with palsy.

“No wonder you’re still single! Do you make that face at guys in bars? And you haven’t been banned for life from most establishments for being a predator?” she asked, seething now that the reality of the situation was sinking in.

“Excuse me, your highness, but that look happens to work quite well, thank you! And I don’t see a ring on your finger, either, not that anyone could see one with our hands bound behind our backs! What the hell is going on? Is there some kind of fraud or money laundering or embezzlement that I don’t know about? ‘Cause I’ll have you know, I’ve kept spotless books and I’ve got copies of everything going back to six months before I was hired!”

“Of course not! How could you even ask me such a thing? I don’t have any more idea than you do about this!”

Fortunately, there was no need to wait too much longer for an explanation. A booming voice from inside the large mansion declared it to be “clean” of people, and the officers outside all seemed to visibly relax. To Stacy’s utter dismay, Detective McFadden appeared again, seemingly in charge of the investigation. She almost smiled, looking at the group of wedding planners, florists, and caterers—complete with a chef in a white button-up coat and tall hat—before she addressed the group.

“I’m gonna ask this once, and I expect an honest answer. Any attempts to engage in a cover up will only result in additional charges for conspiracy. Right now, I want to know where to find this Miss Stacy East I spoke with earlier,” the detective began in a kind but firm and formal voice. Stacy looked up and flinched, but quickly composed herself. Even while possibly under arrest, Abigail would expect her to remain poised and speak with very clear diction.

“I’m over here,” she called out, avoiding the confounded looks from her team members down the line on either side of her, then waited for the officer to speak again. The detective must have been unused to such a calm demeanor from her suspects, because she blinked and waited for Stacy to become hysterical. Instead, the two women regarded each other coolly, despite the fact that only one of them was ready to pee herself in fear.

“Oh, well then. During the course of trying to figure out what’s going on with the hordes of rednecks currently sitting in our holding cells, we were informed about your little operation.” Stacy looked confused, so the detective clarified. “We were told about a contraband package on this property. If you can tell us where it is, we won’t have to ransack the place. If you don’t wish to cooperate, that is your right, but I have to warn you… we’re going to find that package. We can look behind the furniture—or inside of it. It’s your call.”

She waited for Stacy to answer, and watched as the range of emotions playing across Stacy’s face went from disbelief to quiet resignation.

“Officer, I am quite happy to cooperate. I can assure you if there is contraband of any kind on the premises it does not belong to me or any of my staff, and we would like it removed immediately. If you’ll describe this package, I’ll be happy to help in any way I can.”

The detective reached into an interior pocket in her blazer—strange for a woman’s garment, Stacy thought, then decided the entire outfit might be the result of an unfortunate tailoring job from a cheap menswear outlet—and retrieved her small notebook. She flipped through the pages until she found the right source.