Terror in Taffeta (2 page)

But first, we had to get through the ceremony. Luckily, the Pepto-Bismol had started doing its job and the bridal party was beginning to perk up a bit.

“You ready?” I asked Nicole.

“Ready,” she replied.

I guided her and the three bridesmaids toward the arched doorways at the back of the chapel, where Mr. Abernathy stood waiting for his daughter.

He smiled proudly and kissed her on the cheek. “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”

“Kelsey,” Dana said, interrupting the moment. “I have to use the bathroom.”

“I'm sorry, Dana, but can't it wait until after the service?” I'd already given the nod to one of the groomsmen to seat Mrs. Abernathy, and the quartet was waiting for my cue to start the processional.

“I don't think it can,” Dana said as she tossed me her bouquet and bolted down the hall.

I'd told them all to use the facilities before they got into their Spanx. Why hadn't she listened?

Zoe stared after the bridesmaid, incredulous. “That girl—”

The thought was interrupted by the slam of the bathroom door and the muffled sound of someone being sick coming from down the hall.

Okay, so she really
couldn't
have waited.

“Should one of us go check on her?” asked the third bridesmaid, whom I'd decided was definitely named Kristen.

“That's okay, Claire,” Nicole said. (
Claire! That was it!
) “They can't start without me, right?”

“That's right,” I said, as I tried to distract her with some unnecessary, last-minute adjustments to her veil.

Dana returned a minute or two later, her face blotchy red and droplets of water spattered across her shoes. No matter—all eyes would be on the bride.

Okay,
whew.
Now that we had everyone accounted for, the wedding could finally begin. I fluffed Nicole's gown around her, adjusted her veil one last time, and handed her the luscious bouquet of orchids and roses we'd picked out.

She was perfect.

“Okay,” I said, “let's do this.” I opened the chapel door, gave the nod to the musicians, and ducked back out. The sound of trumpets pierced the quiet of the church; then a violin, a guitar, and a
vihuela
joined in, signaling the start of the bridal procession.

Dana glanced back toward the bathroom, but I spun her around and gave her a little shove toward the center aisle. She tottered at first, then fell into the slow rhythm of the processional march.

Claire came next, followed by Zoe, both smiling gamely for the throng of guests who twisted in their seats, eager to catch a glimpse of the girl in the white dress.

“Okay, Nicole,” I said, “remember to keep your bouquet low so you don't cover up that gorgeous gown, and don't forget to breathe.”

She smiled and nodded, took her father's arm, and stepped into the chapel, entering to a collective murmur of admiration.

Vince stood waiting near the altar, looking absolutely smitten. I could see why Nicole had fallen for him. Dark hair, dark eyes, muscular build—he could have a bright future as a tuxedo model if the whole media rep thing didn't work out.

After Nicole's father had gotten her halfway down the aisle, I collapsed in the back pew and kicked off my strappy sandals. Everything was out of my hands, at least for the next fifteen minutes.

I pulled my hair up off my neck and fanned myself with a wedding program, wishing I could have a do-over with the hairstylist. She'd generously offered to style my chestnut mop into an elegant updo—although I was pretty sure it had been at Mrs. Abernathy's urging—but I'd known it wouldn't last twenty minutes with all the running around I had to do, and I'd told her not to bother.

Whew.
It was nice to have this little break in the chaos.

As Father Villarreal spoke about the bonds of marriage, I went through my mental checklist of reception to-dos. Food? Check. I had stopped by earlier and seen the caterer busily preparing the hors d'oeuvres. Music? Ready to go. The couple had opted for a DJ, and he was all set up. Flowers? We'd practically smothered the courtyard of the former-convent-turned-art-school with roses, lilies, and other colorful blossoms. I couldn't wait for Nicole and Vince to see the finished product.

I relaxed a bit and listened to Father Villarreal's deep, mellifluous voice. What a find he'd been. I'd never worked with him before—he was a last-minute replacement priest who agreed to fill in—but he brought just the right amount of gravitas to the proceedings. I allowed my mind to wander as he spoke. I hadn't talked to my assistant, Laurel, since the day before, and I made a mental note to call her later to make sure everything was going okay back at the office.

“If anyone sees any reason why these two should not be wed,” Father Villarreal said, “let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”

I stifled a laugh. No one used that line in wedding ceremonies anymore. I looked around to see if there were any objections, other than my own to his antiquated question.

My break came to an end all too soon. Father Villarreal pronounced them husband and wife and told Vince he could kiss the bride. I stretched my legs and wiggled my toes. Time to put my shoes back on. As I bent down to fish them out from under the pew, I heard a gasp.

Uh-oh. Gasps are never good news.

I shot out of my seat in time to see Dana lurch forward, holding her stomach. She looked like—no. Really? She looked like she was going to barf again, right there on the altar.

Dana tried to steady herself by grabbing a tall bouquet of orchids, but to no avail. She pulled the vase down with her, causing a loud crash as they both hit the stone floor.

“No, no, no, no, no,” I whispered. “This cannot be happening.”

I signaled to the mariachi quartet to start playing again as I rushed to the front of the church, ready to do whatever I could to minimize the damage.

By the time I reached the front, Zoe and Nicole were crouched down next to Dana.

“Come on, get
up,
” Zoe demanded, shaking the bridesmaid's limp body.

“It's okay,” I whispered. “Go back to your spots.”

A panicky feeling rose up in my chest. Dana must have been sicker than I'd realized. I had to think fast. Addressing the congregation, I announced in my most confident voice, “She's fine, everyone.” I fanned her with a wedding program, which I hoped would make her magically spring back to her feet. “She just fainted.”

Reading the pleading look in my eyes, Father Villarreal raised his hands, and his voice boomed across the sanctuary: “I now present to you Mr. and Mrs. Moreno.”

On cue, the mariachis began playing the recessional, prompting Vince and Nicole to begin their uncertain walk back down the aisle, followed by two pairs of attendants. The remaining usher stood awkwardly, unsure what his role was now that he was devoid of anyone to ush. I shooed him down the aisle as I mouthed, “Go! Go!”

The guests filed out, glancing back to see me hovering over Dana while trying my best to look upbeat. Once they were all safely outside, I felt Dana's wrist. I couldn't find anything, but then again, I wasn't an experienced pulse taker.

This could not be happening. I frantically felt up and down her forearm, but all I could feel was my own heart thudding in my chest.

“Dana, come on, wake up,” I said, shaking her slightly. She didn't move.

I lifted one of her eyelids, not sure what I was looking for, and was greeted with an empty gaze.

Father Villarreal returned from closing the church doors with a questioning look on his face.
“Enferma?”

Stunned, I shook my head as I sank down onto the floor.

“No, I—I think she's dead.”

 

CHAPTER 2

When it comes to weddings, there are emergencies, and then there are emergencies. Having a trio show up when you were expecting a quartet? Unfortunate, but salvageable. Finding out the bakery accidentally sent a Styrofoam dummy cake to the reception? Pretty disappointing, but still not an emergency. Wedding dress catching fire? Okay, I suppose that would be an emergency—but still nothing compared to what I was dealing with now.

Because this was more than just an emergency. This was without a doubt the worst thing I'd ever had happen at a wedding. I mean, I'd thought through some pretty dire scenarios and figured out what I'd do—like if the bride got cold feet and bolted in the middle of the ceremony—but I could never have anticipated a tragedy like this.

Father Villarreal had called the paramedics, and they'd arrived quickly. They worked at trying to revive Dana, but after several minutes of performing CPR, one of them looked up at Father Villarreal and shook his head, the universal sign for “I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do.”

I stood there frozen as Father Villarreal knelt over Dana's lifeless body. He made the sign of the cross, then whispered a prayer in Spanish.

The room was silent as the paramedics packed away their equipment.

“What happened?” I whispered.

Father Villarreal spoke to the paramedics, then turned back to me. “They don't know. Is there a family member we should contact?”

I wrapped my arms around myself and shuddered. “I'm not sure. I'll have to ask Nicole.”

Nicole
. She didn't know yet, and I was going to have to tell her. I dreaded having to ruin the party with this awful news, but there was no way around it. I watched numbly as the paramedics strapped Dana onto the stretcher and wheeled her down the aisle.

After they left, I retreated to the back of the church and collected my belongings as well as a few things the bridesmaids had left behind. I was loaded up like a packhorse and already way too exhausted to think, but the guests would be arriving at the reception, and I needed to break the bad news.

By the time I got to the Instituto Allende, the party was in full swing. Nicole and Vince were posing for family photos with the Morenos, including Vince's parents, his sister, and two rambunctious toddlers who couldn't stop squirming long enough for Brody to get a shot. Not wanting to interrupt, I waited patiently for them to finish so I could talk to the bride and groom.

“
There
you are,” said Mrs. Abernathy, swooping in out of nowhere and steering me away from the crowd. “Now, I've made a few last-minute changes to the seating arrangements and—”

“Mrs. Abernathy,” I interrupted. “That's not important. I—”

“Well,”
she huffed. “I would think you'd want to make sure your guest of honor is happy.” I had a feeling she meant herself rather than Nicole.

“Jeanette,
listen
to me.” That did the trick. Mrs. Abernathy looked as shocked as if I'd tossed a glass of sangria onto her meticulously tailored mother-of-the-bride dress—a champagne-colored designer gown that, by the way, would have looked perfectly at home at a society gala.

“Mrs. Abernathy, I've got some bad news.”

“Is it about the caterers? I
knew
they weren't up for the job.”

“No.” I jumped in before she could build up another head of steam. “It's about Dana.”

“Oh,
her
. Listen, darling, there's simply not room at the head table, and she was a last-minute addition. Surely she'll understand.”

“Mrs. Abernathy, she's not going to be sitting at the head table.”

“That's right. I've got a nice little spot for her right over—”

“She's not going to be sitting at
any
table. Dana's dead.”

“Dead? Why, whatever for?”

I stared at her while the message sunk in.

“You mean
dead
dead?”

I nodded.

“Oh, dear. That's unfortunate,” she said, rubbing the bridge of her nose while she processed the information. “Well, okay, that means there's an extra space at table twelve.”

Was she serious? A bridesmaid was dead and all she cared about was the seating chart?

“I'm sorry, Kelsey, not to be callous, but I haven't seen the girl in ten years. And standing here yapping about it isn't going to make her any more alive, is it? We've got hungry guests!”

There it was, then. She'd spent quite a chunk of money on this event, and she wasn't going to let the small matter of a death put a damper on things.

“Okay, well, do you want to tell Nicole, or should I?”
Please say you'll do it, please say you'll do it.

She stared at me, puzzled. “I don't see any reason either of us should tell her, at least not right this minute.”

“We have to tell her!” I exclaimed. “I mean, don't we?” I didn't want to do it any more than she did, but it seemed wrong to withhold the information.

“It will just ruin her night. Besides, that girl will still be dead tomorrow, right? And it's not like they were best friends or anything. You need to just let it be.” And with that, she turned back to her guests, beaming, and began air-kissing a stream of well-wishers who had come over to offer their congratulations.

I looked around for Brody. He'd know what to do.

Brody Marx was an amazing wedding photographer and one of my best friends in San Francisco. We'd worked together for several years, and I always tried to get him hired when I could. Not that it was difficult. Good, reliable photographers are hard to come by, and you really don't want to try to track down photos in another country after you've flown back home to your own. Most brides agreed that it was worth the small extra expense to fly him in, and it was always nice to have a familiar face among all the chaos.

Thanks to his height—he's just north of six feet tall—I was able to pick him out easily in the crowd. He spotted me as I made my way over to him, and his face broke out into a big, broad grin. “Kelsey! There you are. Hey, is Dana feeling better? We wanted to get some group shots.”