Drop Dead, Gorgeous! Page 2

  “One of the waiters did a jelly roll for his nephew, once. We’re trying to find him.”

  Oh, great. Just the perfect touch. Maybe he’ll stick a goddamned pony in the middle. Jenny sighed, and pushed up her sleeves. Pity. It was a great bridesmaid’s dress, as nice as the one she’d worn for Caitlyn’s big day. A cream-colored pattern with roses embroidered onto the fabric, puffed sleeves, and a scooped neckline that made her feel like a milkmaid but which everyone else informed her was charming. It looked dynamite on Caitlyn, too; but then again, what didn’t?

  You’ve got to get hold of this unreasonable, continuous jealousy. You’ve got to.

  “Hey, what’s the Russian guy doing wandering around back here?” the waitress whispered. “Is he, like, a former KGB agent?”

  “He’s Lithuanian,” she replied, picking up a bowl of frosting and a spatula, testing it for thickness. Mmmm…buttercream… “He’s on some mission or another from the bride.”

  “I’ve got a mission for him.”

  “Yes, too bad he’s married,” Jenny said sweetly, accidentally forking a large clot of frosting onto the woman’s spotless shoulder. “Oopsie.”

  Jenny stepped back from the cake, her back aching like someone had stuck a few spatulas in it, right between her kidneys. But the thing was done, anyway, even if she was covered in buttercream.

  From the increase in hustle around her, she figured the witching hour was near. Or, at least, the time on the invitations: 2:00 P.M.

  The door between the kitchen and one of the small dining rooms swung open.

  “She’s back here,” Caitlyn said, and then they all burst into the kitchen and, at the sight of an obviously tense bride, the entire waitstaff managed to disappear at once, leaving the makings of an omelet bar. Jenny was left to explain the cake.

  “Well,” she began, scraping frosting off her elbow, “the gal who decorates the cakes had to go home. And they didn’t have a substitute. And there was a migraine involved. So I sort of took it upon myself.”

  At the blank stares, she elaborated. “To do it, I mean. They had everything put together and all the frosting made— I just had to color some of it. I found a whole rainbow of food coloring in the pantry.”

  In the continually creepy silence, Jenny rushed ahead. “And I just—just thought—because of the dresses—and all that talk about your grandma’s garden and how you wished she could be here but she’s not—obviously she’s not, since she passed away last year—anyway, I thought you might like this.”

  “This” was the four-tiered cake, with snow-white frosting smoothed on, and lilacs and tulips piped onto the tiers from the bottom up, as if they were growing onto the cake. The lilacs were the faintest shade of lavender, the tulips were dark pink, and the leaves and stems were the shimmery green of a spring forest on the first really hot day.

  She had destroyed her own bouquet (purple tulips, pink and yellow alstroemeria lilies) to create a small crown of real flowers for the top tier.

  They stared at the cake.

  They stared at her.

  They stared some more.

  Nuts, Jenny thought in despair. Fucked up. Why had she believed this would be a good idea?

  Stacy started to cry, and moved to attack—no, hug—her, but Jenny held her at arm’s length. “I’m head to toe frosting,” she pointed out. “You’ll ruin your dress.”

  “Like I care?” she said, crying and laughing at the same time. Since she couldn’t hug Jenny, she jumped up and down. “Oh, Jenn, you genius! You saved my reception!”

  “Well.” She coughed modestly, feeling the blood rush up to her eyebrows. She scanned the kitchen desperately for a corner to hide in. “It wasn’t all that much…”

  Caitlyn was circling the cake admiringly. “I didn’t even know you could do this. Did you take a class?”

  “No. My mother did this for a living.”

  Caitlyn shot her a quick glance, but Stacy bubbled on, and thankfully, the moment was lost. “It’s wonderful! It’s just what I wanted. Thank you, thank you so much.” Ignoring Jenny’s wrigglings to keep away, Stacy wrung her hand until it was sore. And then it dawned on her…

  “Hey! You’re dressed.”

  “And a damn fine-looking woman I am, too,” Stacy replied, preening. She spun for Jenny’s benefit, showing the deeply scooped back and the almost as deeply scooped front. Stacy liked any gown to display all cleavage.

  “That’s a very…” She eyed the enormous meringue skirt. “Big dress.”

  “Oughta be, for what my honey paid for it.”

  Jenny had been wondering about that. A ceremony and reception at the Grand, a four-figure dress. Not cheap. And Stacy was a college student, pre-law. Her folks raised horses; fulfilling, but not much money involved.

  “If he’s going to suck you so deeply into his personal life,” Caitlyn muttered, “the least he can do is foot the bill for the wedding.”

  Jenny tried not to roll her eyes. “If you’re dressed, then everything’s ready.”

  Caitlyn was still prowling around the cake. “More than ready—God, that thing looks delicious.”

  “So…” Jenny paused, and when they didn’t seem to catch on right away, added, “Why are you all out here? I think you scared the waitstaff away. Possibly permanently.”

  “To come get you, of course,” Caitlyn said impatiently. “It’s not a wedding if one of the bridesmaids is missing.” She eyed the tattered remains of Jenny’s bouquet. “It’s not that important, but, hmm, I don’t suppose we have an extra bouquet lying around, do we?”

  “I think the florist is still here,” Stacy replied. “But I’d rather Jenny was empty-handed than have a naked cake.”

  “Don’t say naked,” Caitlyn commanded. “This day is going to be enough of a strain.”

  “Shut up, Jimmy.”

  “You shut up.”

  “You can’t tell the bride to shut up on her wedding day.”

  “Sure I can. And enough of the ‘it’s my special day, I get my way in everything’ crap. You’re more like Bridezilla than a blushing flower.”

  “Ladies,” Dmitri began, sounding hopeless.

  Jenny followed the chattering group, hoping they wouldn’t notice she was still blushing. She wasn’t sure how it had happened, but in the last two years Caitlyn had gone from boss to friend, and that meant Jenny had been included in all their circles, and had seen some very odd things.

  Being a member of the wedding party today, of all days— well, there was no way around it. It really—she hated to even think it—took the cake.

  Chapter 3

  The Grand Hotel ballroom, where both the ceremony and reception would take place, looked like Jenny expected: breathtaking.

  Masses of flowers, candles, silk tablecloths, white-jacketed waiters hurrying about, guests settling in their chairs…it was really kind of funny. A stranger to the wedding party could still easily see where to sit. All the staid, sober men and women in dark suits were on the groom’s side, and all the cool, funky-looking people were on Stacy’s side.

  She stood with Caitlyn, who had a fixed smile on her face—Caitlyn really didn’t like The Boss, for reasons Jenny had never quite been able to figure out. She assumed the guy gave lousy benefits or was stingy with vacation time. Not that Caitlyn ever had to work for him—she had Mag, the hottest salon in St. Paul.

  Whatever the situation, it wasn’t Jenny’s business; Mag was Mag, and whatever Caitlyn did for The Boss was Caitlyn’s business. Mostly she tried to keep her head down. Because when she didn’t, fairly awful things happened. Well…the cake thing had turned out nicely. Still, the center of attention was no place for her. And this was no day for an awful thing.

  The music droned on (she hated orchestral music…all that incessant violin screeching gave her a headache) as Stacy practically pranced down the aisle. She’d abandoned the colored contacts last year, and now her big, dark eyes sparkled. Her high cheekbones gave her the look of Egyptian royalty, and the low ne
ckline gave her the look of royalty who was open to a good time.

  Across the aisle, Dmitri was standing with The Boss, and that was a miracle. Dmitri hated The Boss, if possible, even more than Caitlyn did. And yet there he was, the best man! Oh, the things Stacy could do when she put her mind to it. Jenny was glad the bride was a friend, not an enemy.

  Dmitri looked positively luscious, as usual; but The Boss was almost normal-looking, human even. He was short, but still had a couple of inches on Stacy. Not to mention a couple of years—he was in his forties. His most outstanding feature was his stature: his shoulders were powerfully built (Stacy had confided he needed all his suits custom-made).

  In fact, The Boss always dressed well, usually in dark suits that were made so well you almost didn’t notice them. Jenny reflected that he might be even better at blending into the background than she was. Did he not enjoy being the center of attention either, then?

  His black hair was smoothed back—slicked back, really— so that his scalp resembled that of a seal. His eyebrows were pale, almost white. His eyes were the color of dirty ice. He was sleekly unobtrusive in a black suit and white dress shirt.

  Caitlyn always said he looked like a mean egg, and Jenny had to agree. She certainly didn’t know what had possessed Stacy to begin an affair with a much older, much scarier man, and then agree to marry him. Especially since Stacy had, as Caitlyn so exquisitely put it, “gone through more men than a cat through litter.”

  Love was weird.

  And what did she call him during intimate moments? Surely not The Boss. Could it be? Maybe just an affectionate “Bossy.” Or a reverent “Sir.” If Stacy knew The Boss’s real name, she wasn’t telling. “Bossy”? Surely not.

  Jenny suppressed a shudder. Another mystery for the ages. She tried desperately to get the mental image of their intimate moments out of her head. Caitlyn had the right idea.

  She distracted herself by wondering, again, about the odd wedding group. Yes, she had seen a great many odd things in the last two years, not least of which was the fact that Caitlyn and Dmitri were very different from everyone else. The Boss (what could his real name be? Pete? Dave? Mark? John? Fred?) seemed to know all about it. Stacy, too. Jenny tried not to resent being kept in the dark, especially when it appeared to be cases involving government security, and, in fact, had found out a great deal on her own, but—

  She wrenched her train of thought back to current events. The Boss’s side was full of stiff men and women in suits; the family pew was conspicuously empty. Did The Boss have no family, then? She could relate.

  On the other side, Stacy’s folks were waving at her from the front row; as an old-school feminist, Stacy had not allowed her father to “give” her to The Boss, and had walked down the aisle alone. Jenny couldn’t blame her. Fathers weren’t much good to anybody. Fathers—

  “Good afternoon,” the minister began as Stacy and The Boss faced him. Then he coughed, or something coughed, in rapid succession, and then someone began to scream—maybe Stacy’s mom—as The Boss toppled over into his bride, knocking her sprawling and getting blood all over her meringue wedding gown.

  Chapter 4

  “Ambulances are on the way,” Dmitri said.

  “And your parents are helping the guests leave, hopefully without a stampede,” Jenny added. Aside from a few screams, the filing-out had been relatively civilized. Rapid, but civilized.

  “Move over, Stacy, I need to assess the damage,” Dmitri ordered.

  “You’re speaking Russian, hon. Nobody can understand a word. Except me,” Caitlyn added modestly. “Now you move, so I can assess.”

  Stacy looked up from where she was applying pressure and glared at both of them. “How could this have happened? Again? Weren’t you scanning? Didn’t you see?”

  “Yes,” Caitlyn grunted, trying to tug her friend away.

  “And no,” Dmitri said, ripping open The Boss’s coat and vest.

  “If you tickle me, Dmitri Novatur, I swear on your mother’s shiny Baltic head I’ll have you killed.”

  “My mother does not have a shiny head. He seems fine,” Dmitri observed, and then he and Stacy glanced at Caitlyn.

  She threw her hands up in a warding-off gesture. “I didn’t do it!” she practically screamed. “I swear I hate his fucking guts, but I didn’t do this.”

  “Not her style,” The Boss grunted. “Too subtle.”

  Shot? Too subtle? Jenny didn’t comment, but had her doubts.

  “I believe you; it’s not your style, girlfriend. Ugh, someone help me get this thing off him. Oh, honey, how bad does it hurt? Did you crack a rib again?”

  “Are you all right?” The Boss asked anxiously.

  “I’m fine—and you still shouldn’t have pushed me into the flower arrangements. Look at my hair!”

  “Excuse me, can we get back to the freak at hand? Now that we’ve established you’re not going to bleed out on the steps, I’ve gotta ask. Who wears a bulletproof vest on their wedding day?” Caitlyn snarked, though the answer seemed obvious enough to Jenny.

  She wriggled in close—difficult, given all the people around him—and said, “Sir, shouldn’t you be siccing the count and countess on the bad guys? It’s only been about twenty-three seconds or so.”

  The Boss’s gaze shifted to her and she shivered; it was like he could see all her secrets, and would keep them—for a price. “At least one of you is thinking.”

  “Blooow meee,” Caitlyn sang.

  “Mirage, Wolf, go bring me the bad guys. Any bad guys, really. Stacy, I’m fine, stop that annoying fussing. Jennifer, bring me the minister; I believe he’s cowering someplace small—try the rest rooms. This wedding will resume in short order.”

  “Don’t want to lose any of the deposits, huh, big guy?” Caitlyn asked sweetly.

  “No, I’m determined to plough your best friend tonight as her husband, not her lover.” Over Caitlyn’s gags, The Boss added, “And somebody get this thing off me, it weighs a ton.”

  “Excuse me, Your Grace…Your Grace…”

  “They’re talking to you guys,” Jenny said, because Caitlyn kept forgetting she was a countess. How did the EMTs know? Obviously, she answered her own question—they were in-house paras, workers for The Boss. Standing by? Was The Boss so meticulously detailed he made sure they were in the vicinity when he got married? That was a sobering thought. Meanwhile, the EMTs were fighting to get into the inner circle.

  “Let’s go,” Caitlyn said, “before they keep going with the ‘Your Grace’ stuff.”

  “Well,” Dmitri said reasonably, following her out the door at what looked like a brisk trot, but was really much faster, “you did marry a count.”

  Over the protests of the medics, and in compliance with The Boss’s terse orders, Stacy helped him out of the vest, which was several ounces heavier with the lead acquisition, and he sat up with a gasp. Several gasps, actually; he was pale with pain.

  “Once again, death whispers in my ear.” He was speaking with difficulty, his pupils the size of pinpricks from shock. “And once again, you chase him away.”

  “Spare me. I’m just glad you’re okay. Can’t we even get married without scary shit like this happening?” Stacy wept a little and Jenny backed away, figuring it was as good a time as any to find the minister.

  “We will get married today, Stacy. And stay married for a long time. I promised you the night we got engaged.”

  “But if something happens to you—”

  “Something is always happening to me. That’s the business we’re in. You should know, darling—you’re pre-law. Some day you’ll have more enemies than I.”

  She buried her face in her hands and he patted her gently, soothingly. “You’re an asshole,” she sobbed.

  “You’re a tart. Help me up.”

  “Not ’til the minister comes back. You can rest until then, at the very least.”

  Hurrying away to do her duty, Jenny was conflicted. She was a little afraid of The Boss, and t
hought Stacy was too loud, with all her emotions…out there. But right now, she was quite jealous of both of them.

  Chapter 5

  She found the minister in the men’s room. He was trying to talk the bad guy into giving up his gun. Their voices were bouncing off the tile, and Jenny had just enough time to wish she’d knocked, but then it was too late, and she was standing under bright fluorescents and thinking, This is the cleanest men’s room I’ve ever seen. Also, the third men’s room I’ve ever seen.

  “Don’t you think you should have planned this better?” she asked because, honestly, it was the first thought that popped into her head.

  Not: Help!

  Not: Oh my God, he’s got a gun!

  The bad guy grinned at her. He was dressed, to her disappointment, like most bad guys: neck to ankles in black fatigues, and fairly bristling with guns and knives and armor. His hair was cut brutally short—no more than a dark brown fuzz covered his skull. His dark eyes almost disappeared into laugh lines while he smiled at her, but she could see they were tipped at the ends, not quite almond-shaped, giving him an exotic look. It was a little like being in the men’s room with a panther. Though without a firmer frame of reference, she probably couldn’t be sure.

  “I planned things just fine, sweetie,” he informed her in a North Carolina accent. Ah planned things jest fahn, sweetie. “Is he dead?”

  To add the final touch of weirdness to the day, the bad guy pulled out a spork from nowhere and nibbled on the end.

  A spork? But the nearest KFC was—

  She wrenched her thoughts back to a logical track. Sporks be damned. Time to focus. Caitlyn and Dmitri were somewhere else in the building. The Boss was probably in an ambulance by now. Stacy was a civilian. The minister probably wasn’t armed. All the urinals were empty. It was up to her.

  “Hmm mmm hmm hmm,” she replied.

  “What?” he said, taking a step toward her, putting the spork back into his bad-guy Bat belt.