Veil of Night (25 page)

She did the whole methodical thing again, but when she reached the last one she shook her head. “Sorry. Nothing there.”

That had been a long shot anyway. Still, she’d pulled out a piece of information that might sway a judge. She hadn’t identified the senator, but she’d identified his car.

She picked up the head shots again, went back through them before finally shaking her head. “I don’t recognize anyone.”

Eric took the pictures back. “That’s okay. Thanks for coming in.”

She stood, gave him a quizzical look. “That’s it? You aren’t going to tell me if that hood doohickey means anything or not?”

He smiled. “It means a lot.” It also meant a lot that she was being cordial, that she was keeping her hostility firmly under wraps in front of Garvey.

“Good. I’d hate to waste a trip here when I have a million other things I have to be doing. I have to run now. Have a nice day.”

Everyone in the room watched her leave. Garvey heaved a sigh. “If it wasn’t for my blushing bride, I’d give you a run for your money with that one.”

Eric snorted. “Your blushing bride would cut your nuts off.”

“I know. That’s what I meant.”

Chapter Twenty-three

“I HAVE TO TAKE NOTES,” BISHOP DELANEY SAID GLEEFULLY
. “Forget notes; I have to take
pictures
, otherwise no one will ever believe it. I did the flowers for
Hee Haw
Hell.”

“Hush,” Jaclyn said in an undertone, casting a sharp look around. The last thing she needed was for anyone in the wedding party, or any of the guests, to hear him. But no one was close by; he’d had the good sense to wait until they were alone to share his observation. She wasn’t worried about hurting anyone’s feelings, but she was definitely worried that someone—like half the people there—would take umbrage and pull out their pocket knives. She didn’t have anything against pocket knives; she carried a teeny one in her purse herself, and it was forever coming in handy. But if she had to vote on the wedding party she considered most likely to be in a knife fight, this one would win hands down.

She and Bishop were sitting in the back row on the groom’s side, and since the venue, otherwise known as a barn, wasn’t filled to capacity, there was no one seated in the two rows of folding chairs in front of them. At that precise moment the groom’s mother, who remained silently horrified by her son’s choice of bride and everything to do with the wedding, was being seated—to Garth Brooks’s “Friends in Low Places”—by one of the ushers, though that term was a little glorified when applied to this particular usher, the bride’s mullet-headed brother. At least he was wearing a tie. No jacket, and his pants were khaki, but he had on a tie.

Jaclyn kept trying to put herself into a party spirit and have some fun, because most of the people there, barring the groom’s mother and two sisters, were having a blast. Fun didn’t have to be color-coordinated. Fun didn’t have to have a background of classical music. But what kept her from relaxing was the strong impression that this group’s idea of fun didn’t fit within the definition of “legal.” She frequently handled guests, and wedding party participants, who drank too much or breathed through a joint, but she was afraid this group leaned more toward crack, meth, and a variety of crimes that made the words “warrant for arrest” of importance to them.

This wedding teetered on the edge of disaster; she could feel it. So far everyone seemed to be on his or her best behavior, but “best” was subjective. To call this
Hee Haw
Hell was insulting to
Hee Haw
.

The wedding was being held in a barn located in the middle of a field a good forty-minute drive from Premier’s offices. The bride’s grandfather owned this land, and though it was no longer worked as a farm, it remained the home place, the family stomping grounds. To get to the barn, one had to leave the paved road. The directions had read:
Turn in PawPaw’s driveway, drive around the house, and follow the tractor road down the left side of the field until you get to the barn
. Maybe at one time the tractor road had looked like a real road, albeit a dirt one. Now it looked like a half-grown-up trail, with deep ruts that had threatened to rip the undercarriage of her rental car.

After driving down the dirt/grass road, everyone had to park on a grassy field, which made Jaclyn fervently thankful that the weather had cooperated. She was prepared to contact a vendor and order sturdy tents for the outdoor reception, if necessary, but she couldn’t do a damn thing about a muddy field of cars and ruined shoes.

The interior of the barn was lit by open windows and a multitude of white Christmas lights, as well as a number of off-white candles. Arrangements of white and off-white flowers, along with the lighting, made for an almost quaint setting—“almost” being the operative word. There was old straw on the floor, which the bride insisted was “authentic,” and while there were no animals present, the faint, lingering odor of past residents remained. The fans she’d arranged to be brought in were silent and effective, but maybe moving the air around so much wasn’t a good thing. On the other hand, without the fans everyone would be swimming in a sea of sweat. While this wasn’t the hottest day of the year, the temperature was still close to ninety.

Many of the guests on the bride’s side were in jeans and T-shirts; they hadn’t even bothered to brush off the dressy jeans or, heaven forbid, drag a dress or a suit out of the back of the closet. On the other hand, the running shoes most of them were wearing might come in handy.

The groom’s relatives had made an effort, and were dressed nicely. Jaclyn was wearing the lightest-weight business suit she owned. Bishop, of course, was immaculately dressed and, as always, fashionable and cool … seriously cool. Did the man have sweat glands?

“Why are you still here?” she whispered. The bouquets, corsages, and floral decorations, all paid for by the mother of the groom, had been delivered and set up to Bishop’s specifications. He rarely stuck around for the ceremony.

“Honey, you couldn’t pry me out of here with a crowbar and a quart of Vaseline,” he observed, his voice low.

In spite of the events of the past few days, Jaclyn smiled. She was here, and as long as no blood was shed she couldn’t deny the entertainment value before her. She might as well enjoy herself while she could. There was no telling what kind of challenges the reception might bring.

“It’s like the Beverly Hillbillies meet Boss Hogg, with poor June Cleaver thrown into the mix,” Bishop rhapsodized under his breath. “I’ve never seen anything like it. What the hell were you thinking when you took this job?”

She had thought that the groom’s mother had a point when she said no one in the bride’s family had any idea what they were doing; that she could help in some small way; that this bride and groom could use a little guidance. Unfortunately the bride and her mother had rejected most of Jaclyn’s ideas, though some had stuck.

It wasn’t necessary to have the bride’s family and friends on one side and the groom’s on the other to tell who belonged where. There was the inappropriate dress and abundance of mullets, shaved heads, and prison tattoos on the bride’s side, and most of the groom’s people looked shell-shocked. The groom’s poor mother looked like she might pass out at any moment, and his sisters and their families were all but in shock, except for one brother-in-law, who wasn’t trying very hard to hide his amusement.

“Imagine what this wedding would be like without us,” she said to Bishop.

“Hootenanny,” he whispered.

Someone entered the row from the far side and instead of sitting down at that end moved toward Jaclyn. Startled, she looked up as Eric took the folding chair next to hers, and instinctively she stiffened. She thought she had handled herself well when she’d gone to the police department that morning. She hadn’t betrayed any of the tension and angry confusion, the hurt, that she felt every time she simply thought of him; actually being in his presence was worse. But this was her territory, and his intrusion in it was jarring.

Bishop leaned around her and gave Eric an appraising look. “Well, well,” he drawled.
“Hee Haw
Heaven.” She had to admit, in his jeans and boots and lightweight jacket thrown on over a collarless shirt, Eric kind of blended with the crowd, though on him the look was sexy.

Eric draped his left arm around the back of her chair and leaned around her. “I’m with the wedding planner,” he said to Bishop.

“I got that,” Bishop said, and winked before sitting back. With a small sense of shock, she realized that they knew each other. Well, not
knew
, but, of course, Eric had interviewed all the vendors who’d witnessed her scene with Carrie.

“What are you doing here?” she asked Eric in a sharp whisper.

“Watching over you,” he whispered back.

Shock vibrated through her. Surely he didn’t think there was any danger here? No way would Madelyn—or Peach or Diedra, either—tell anyone where Jaclyn could be found, not after last night’s shooting. She was safe here. Well, as safe as one could be when at least half the people around her were armed with some manner of weapon.

She appreciated his concern, and his effort. Still, having him sit so close to her, his arm lying against her back, one long leg touching hers, was nerve-racking. She shifted her legs to the side, away from him and closer to Bishop. Why couldn’t Eric wait outside? Did he have to put himself right here?

She supposed she could insist that he leave, but she already knew how much her insisting would gain her, so she saved her breath. He was stubborn and probably didn’t give a rat’s ass what she wanted. Not only that, she wasn’t stupid. Like it or not she knew she was safe with him. She was afraid she might not be safe
from
him, but that was due to her own weakness, and that acknowledgment carried a sting.

The position of his arm meant she was almost in his embrace. For a brief moment their gazes met. He had on his cop expression, keeping all his thoughts to himself. Almost. He dropped his gaze, letting it slide down her body and linger too long here and there. She tensed again, because that look made her skin feel too hot and tight.

Then he turned his attention to the altar, and his shoulders heaved as he almost choked on laughter. The minister, the big bald guy who owned Porky’s BBQ, wore a faded Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt and a black do-rag with a white cross positioned in the center of his forehead, so everyone would know his role in the proceedings.

The groom, at least, was dressed appropriately. A tuxedo would be out of place in the barn, but he did have on a nice black suit. He had a baby face and a new haircut, and he looked incredibly nervous. Not like he was about to run, but still … nervous. If he had any brains at all, she thought, he’d rabbit.

Evidently he was brainless.

Normally at this point in the ceremony Jaclyn was with the wedding party, making certain that everyone entered the aisle at the appropriate time, that they walked at the proper pace and were spaced correctly. However, the bride’s aunt, who hadn’t been at all happy that the groom’s mother had hired Premier, had insisted that was her job, and she didn’t need any help. Wouldn’t accept any help was more like it. Still, it was Jaclyn’s job to do what she could and resign herself to gracefully accept what she couldn’t do. Some days that was easier than others.

Next, the bride’s mother was seated, to a Garth Brooks tune of her own choosing. Her dress was at least one size too small, and way too short. Spaghetti straps weren’t what Jaclyn would have chosen for the occasion.

Her entrance was followed by the tulle-draped red wagon in which rode the bride’s eleven-month-old daughter, who was dressed in flounces of white and had a baby blue bow taped to her almost-bald head. Who would have imagined that the something new and the something blue might come in the form of another man’s baby?

That’s not my concern, Jaclyn thought, and not for the first time. It wasn’t her job to fix the couple’s life, just their wedding ceremony.

The baby wasn’t happy. One of her cousins, a sullen six-year-old boy, pulled the wagon, jerking it along. The baby entered the barn crying, her wails getting louder and louder until the wagon reached the end of the “aisle” and she saw her grandmother. “Mamamamama,” she blubbered, holding out her chubby little arms. If the bride had thought the baby was going to placidly sit in the red wagon, looking cute, she was going to be disappointed. The baby wanted out of the wagon, and she wanted out now.

“Raquelle, hush,” said the grandmother, then, when it became as obvious to her as it was to everyone else in the barn that the baby wasn’t going to hush, she sighed and gave in, lifting the little girl out of the wagon, onto her lap.

The baby had a stripper name. At least, when she got older, she wouldn’t have to go online to find out what it was, Jaclyn thought.

Next came the parade of bridesmaids and groomsmen. Garth was replaced by Shania Twain. Originally the bride had wanted to have the attendants line dance down the aisle; she’d gotten the idea from YouTube. In Jaclyn’s experience, some things sounded good in theory, but rarely worked out as well as imagined. This was one of them, and thank goodness the bride had seen the wisdom of restraint in this case.

Except for a groomsman with a plug of tobacco in his cheek—Jaclyn wished she’d seen that earlier—and the occasional hip-wiggle aside, the procession went well.

The music stopped, then changed dramatically, swelling to fill the barn. Originally the bride had wanted her own country song, but Jaclyn had convinced her to walk down the aisle to Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” A touch of tradition in this very untraditional wedding was a very good thing.

Everyone stood and faced the aisle. The snow-white, ankle-length dress the bride wore was cut lower than Jaclyn would’ve suggested—the bride’s philosophy was
If you have it, flaunt it
—and was a size too small through the hips. Jaclyn’s sewing kit was in her purse. She prayed there wouldn’t be a need for it today, but there was a definite danger of split seams. The hair, another job for the aunt who wanted no help but needed it desperately, was big.
Big
big. Bimbo big. But thanks to a makeover Jaclyn had recommended, the bride’s makeup was tasteful, and the bouquet Bishop had fashioned was elegant and appropriate. The good helped to temper the bad, and Jaclyn supposed she had to be grateful for that.

After the bride was past them, Bishop leaned in and whispered, “They’re not cousins, are they?” She didn’t even dignify that with an answer. As they sat, Bishop added, “It must be true love.”

Or temporary insanity.

Eric’s shoulders were shaking from suppressed laughter.

The ceremony itself proceeded without incident. For her own peace of mind, Jaclyn spent the entire time leaning slightly away from Eric, trying not to touch him, but he was so blasted big he took up more than his allotted space.

Finally the unconventional minister said, “You can kiss her now,” and then, as the newlywed couple turned to face their guests, he added, in a booming voice, “Now, let’s eat! There’s plenty of good vittles waiting for us outside.”

“Vittles,”
Bishop repeated, his pronunciation precise and clipped. “Goody.”