“Was he here last night when the florist stopped by for one final chat? Did he show up this afternoon when I talked to the soloist about the songs for church?” She didn’t wait for me to say anything, but then, she didn’t need an answer and I wasn’t about to interrupt. That old saying about hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? A woman scorned doesn’t hold a candle to a bride whose wedding day is breathing down her neck.
“I know he’s been distracted, what with Marjorie’s death and everything,” Bernadine said, doing her best to be understanding. “And I know he’s nervous, too. His tummy’s been acting up and he’s not usually the high-strung type. That tells me he cares and knowing that . . .” She fueled her thoughts with another sip of whiskey and apparently her brief tiptoe into the land of the sensible was over. Her voice rose to a screech. “Has Nick done one damned thing to help me these past few days?” she asked no one in particular. “I’ll tell you what, no, he hasn’t! Does he think a bride can do all these things by herself? I mean, really. Is it fair to expect me to go to the tanning salon, try out nail lacquer colors, do a run-through on hair and makeup, and count out those little bags of pink and red M&Ms with
I had once been engaged myself; I could empathize, if not with the Black Velvet, at least with the stress levels. Rather than get into it, I tried to keep her on task at the same time I struggled to make sense of everything she said. “Has Nick disappeared?” I asked. “Has something happened to him?”
“Happened?” Her laugh was maniacal. It echoed back at us from the high ceiling and bounced its way over the stainless steel stove, the matching dishwasher, and the glass-fronted wine chiller built in below the countertop. “Nick’s lost his mind. That’s what’s happened to him. And it’s all
Oh yeah, just the way she said that
“Aunt Marjorie.” Bernadine threw her hands in the air. She was still holding her glass of Black Velvet and it sloshed out and rained down on the white ceramic tile floor. She didn’t bother to clean it up. “For years and years, Marjorie Klinker has ruined my life,” she wailed. “Every holiday. Every birthday. Every vacation. Marjorie was always there with those little . . .” She wiggled her fingers over her head, and I got the message.
“Head scarves,” I said.
“Those head scarves. Yeah. Those hideous head scarves! She was always there wearing those things and acting like God’s gift to the whole wide world. And talking about family history.” Her moan was worthy of a ghost in a horror movie. “Oh, how I hated listening to her talk about family history. I put up with it,” she added, one hand out and her palm flat. “I tolerated her. I welcomed her into my home. I couldn’t stand the woman, but I managed to swallow my pride and tell myself I was doing it for the sake of family.”
“You didn’t kill her, did you?”
Hey, I figured it was worth a try. Bernadine was so worked up, she just might be in the mood to confess.
No such luck. But then, I don’t think she even heard me.
“And now . . .” She hiccuped. “Now, even after she’s dead, Marjorie’s ruining my wedding!”
There was a table nearby and I sat down. Just as I’d hoped, Bernadine did, too. It gave me the opportunity to look her right in the eye. The way I would if she was a dog and I was trying to get her attention.
“You’re going to need to start from the beginning,” I said. “Because I can’t help you if I don’t know exactly what’s going on.”
She tapped one bare foot against the floor. “It all started Monday. After the funeral.”
I nodded, waiting for more.
She leaped out of her chair to refill her glass. “He never cared about any of it before,” she said at the same time she took a long swallow. Her words were liquor-soaked. “Marjorie, she carried on about it all, constantly. Oh lord, how I was tired of hearing about it!”
I might be confused, but I was not insensible. I knew exactly what she was talking about. “James A. Garfield.”
“You got that right.” She returned to the table, slammed down her glass, and plopped back into the chair. “You knew her, right? You must have if you were at the funeral. It was the only thing she ever talked about, the only thing she ever cared about. Garfield this, and Garfield that, and how she was related and wasn’t that just so special.” Bernadine’s top lip curled. “I was sick to death of hearing about it. If I wasn’t so crazy about Nick . . .”
I was grateful she’d brought up his name. I needed to get her back on track. “So after the funeral on Monday, what happened to Nick?”
