Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
Alexandru
We’ve spent what feels like the entire morning being shepherded through Whitney’s wedding planning studio.
There is even an entire room dedicated to collage and fabric-based art she calls “wedding vision boards.” Another room holds a table set for one, with no evidence of food anywhere. A third has shelves of glassware.
Now we sit in what Whitney calls her “office,” though I can’t help but notice that it’s decorated like the parlor of a brothel. The lights seem unnaturally bright, though it could be the effects of hunger.
Ms. Renfield extracted a promise from me before coming here that I would keep silent about the missing photograph. She will ask the questions about it.
I agreed against my better judgment, distracted, perhaps, by her injuries. Humans do take a long time to heal, and she is my Renfield now; it wouldn’t do to have her incapacitated in any way.
Though, as it turns out, her injuries are not so bad. She walks with a slight limp, and her scraped palm shows no sign of infection.
It was foolish of me not to go after the gunman and drain him. He would have the punishment he deserves, and I would no longer be hungry.
And Ms. Renfield is hardly helpless. She could have waited there for me. But something about the thought sits ill.
She speaks to Whitney with her bright, determined energy, a smile touching her red lips now and then. She’s taking a long time to get to the point of asking Whitney why she asked the bride to remove the exploding sparkler wedding picture from her “Facebook,” whatever that is.
Whitney has launched into a tedious monologue about “bridal experience flow.” She’s focused on Ms. Renfield, but her gaze flicks to me now and then, as if vaguely aware she should be careful around me.
“So I understand that you did the planning for the Bamberg-Greyhorse wedding where the sparklers exploded,” Ms. Renfield says finally.
“You can’t have it,” Whitney announces bluntly.
“Excuse me?”
“Can’t have it.” Whitney smiles. “Sorry.”
“Can’t have what?”
“You can’t have a wedding reception with exploding sparklers.
I’ve had countless brides ask me to engineer something like that, and the answer is always no.
It broke several city ordinances, and yes, the bride loved it.
Yes, it was notorious. But it was some sort of mischief that should never have happened, and if I were to be party to planning anything like that, Maverick Cooper would haul me down to the station so fast. Now, I can certainly help you come up with other elements to create unexpected thrills. ”
Ms. Renfield smiles. “Roy told me that you got a lot of interest from the picture the bride posted on Facebook.”
“Yes. Very unexpected!”
“If you don’t mind my asking, then, why did you message her last week and ask her to take the picture down?”
“What?” Whitney stiffens. “I messaged the bride? No! I haven’t interacted with her for months. I don’t understand—”
“Are you sure?” Ms. Renfield leans forward. “She said you messaged her requesting that she remove it.”
Whitney stares at Ms. Renfield like she’s sprouted horns. “She said this to you?”
“A mutual friend.”
“Well, it’s not true. Why on God’s green earth would I ask her to remove that photo?”
“So it wasn’t you?”
“Absolutely not.”
Well, this is interesting.
Ms. Renfield glances at me with a question in her eyes. Do I think Whitney is telling the truth?
“It sounds,” I offer slowly, “like someone may have been impersonating you, Whitney.”
Whitney’s mouth falls open. “You’re telling me that someone reached out to Vera Greyhorse pretending to be me and asked her to remove a photo of her own wedding from her own Facebook page?”
Ms. Renfield leans in. “That’s what Vera told a mutual friend.”
“I need to call Vera. She needs to know it wasn’t me.”
“You’re sure...”
“Of course I’m sure!” Whitney frowns, thinking now.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Her mother-in-law hated that picture being up there. Said it was unflattering to the family. Could it have been her? But honestly, I just don’t see it.”
I exchange another look with Ms. Renfield. We need to get that photograph.
“I understand there were several interesting photos from that wedding,” I say. “We tried to get the photos from Richardson Photography, but their firewalls have been breached. Hacked.”
Whitney laughs. “You wanted to start poking around in their archives, and they told you they got hacked?”
“You don’t believe it?” I say.
She shrugs theatrically.
“Whitney,” Ms. Renfield says. “Do you have thoughts?”
Whitney raises her brows. “I don’t want to tell tales…”
Whitney very badly wants to tell tales; this could not be more evident. “Whitney,” I say. “We told you the tale of somebody impersonating you, did we not? I believe you owe us a tale.”
Whitney gives me a sly look. “You have a point.”
I cross my legs and wait.
“Well, just between us…” Whitney taps her nose three times. “Let’s just say a certain someone has a very specific interest in women’s feet.”
Ms. Renfield straightens. “I don’t understand. Are you talking about Bo?”
“No, I’m talking about his employee, Roy LaRue.
” Whitney lowers her voice. “Roy takes the foot shots. But Bo’s a digital hoarder—keeps everything.
Which means there are a lot of foot pictures all through those archives that nobody wants to talk about.
The photographers get cagey about the archive because it’s all very inappropriate.
I won’t name names, but one of the other photographers, let’s just say, she is not happy.
It’s like an emperor’s new clothes thing—everyone pretends not to notice.
Well, Bo doesn’t seem to care. Bo just refuses to clean it up. He’s so jaded.”
“Foot worship,” I say. “There was a monk in Avignon who whipped himself with rosemary switches at the sight of bare toes.”
Whitney blinks. “Huh. Okay.”
Ms. Renfield clears her throat. “Bo does seem a bit jaded.”
“A bit? There’s an understatement,” Whitney says. “He photographs weddings purely for the money these days, and it shows. I don’t recommend him anymore. Valerie is quite good, though.”
“Whitney,” Ms. Renfield says, “do you remember if Kip Kidderson worked the wedding with the sparklers?”
“Let’s check.” Whitney gets up and goes over to her desk.
“If Kip worked it, he’s in here. I keep it all in my book.
” She flips through the pages. “A-ha. It was Twist Mixology working that wedding, but a young woman named Jane Dawber was the lead, and the staffers were Ruby Gallagher and Verne Lee. Nope, it looks like Kip wasn’t there. ”
“You’re quite sure he wasn’t there?”
“Quite sure,” Whitney says. “If he were there, he’d be in my book.
When Kip works a wedding, it’s a Kip show.
Though it’s odd that he wasn’t there. It was a somewhat high-profile wedding…
” She pulls out her phone and taps it a few times.
“That explains it. That was the weekend of the big motorcycle rally in Kentucky. He goes to it every year and makes much ado about it. And by much ado, I mean, he will not stop talking about it.”