Chapter Fifteen. The Body in The Wedding
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE BODY IN THE WEDDING
Our plan to visit Mervyn runs into an unexpected snag when our grandparents decide that we all need a rousing game of Killing Me Softly to lift our spirits.
“We’re getting back on the horse,” my grandmother declares at breakfast.
“The murder horse?”
“It’s the only horse in town.” She looks at me more closely. “I thought you’d be excited.”
“I am.” Sort of. “It just seems like maybe it’s a little soon?” This is easier than explaining that Felix and I want to talk to her lawyer in case our grandparents are ignoring a sinister threat to their entire way of life because they’re not great with details.
“You know how I feel about brooding. Unless it’s for purposes of revenge.”
I nod. It’s similar to how she feels about instant mashed potatoes and restaurants that don’t serve bread before the meal: What’s the point?
“Who am I playing?” I ask, surrendering to my fate.
The answer is complicated. On the surface, I’m the generic ingenue in a summer stock production of Evita, wearing a drop-waist dress with a bow at the neck and a fluttery chiffon skirt that cries out for the occasional twirl.
I use words like “jeepers” and clasp my hands in front of my chest because I’m just so gosh darn excited to be in my first show!
Who would ever suspect poor little me of harboring nefarious designs on the leading lady (aka Malia) whose part I’m hoping to steal?
Felix, for one. He’s playing the disgruntled stage manager who’s wise to my tricks—like hiding her wigs and replacing her shoes with a pair two sizes too small.
Too bad he won’t get a chance to confront me about my devious behavior.
By the time he catches up to me in the library, I’m elegantly sprawled across a lounge chair, having been strangled with my own headband.
A quick swipe with a cream blush completes the effect.
My eye sockets are starting to ache from the effort of not blinking when the director (played by my grandmother) drapes a fringed shawl over my face.
“What have you done?” she asks Malia, who is pacing like a tigress.
“I did what needed to be done. For my public. For my legacy. And for art! Never underestimate the ruthlessness of a woman backed into a corner!” She stabs a finger at the ceiling. “That’s why I’m a star! I’ll always be a star!”
I’m glad the shawl is semitransparent, so I’m not missing the grand finale. The phrase “chewing the scenery” is something I learned a long time ago at Castle Claude, but if anyone needed an illustration of the concept, Malia’s rant would do nicely.
“You can take the collagen from my body, but you will never kill my artistic soul!” she howls, before dropping to her knees. “Don’t cry for me, Schenectady! I gave you everything I had. And now the final curtain closes, but you will never forget meeeeeee!”
At that, she collapses into a heap. Her sobs sound like a wild animal’s cries—if it had a foot caught in a steel trap.
“Brava,” Felix says, doing that thing where you whistle with your fingers in your mouth before he starts clapping.
I have no idea if he’s applauding in character or as himself, but I totally get it. Although I keep that on the inside, since I’m still technically dead.
When Malia stands (with a little help from Felix and Mr. Namura) and beams at us, I decide it’s safe to sit up.
“Top-notch work everyone,” Grandma Lainey says with an extra smile for Malia, and another just for me. Maybe this wasn’t such a harebrained scheme after all. For a couple of hours there, I was completely distracted. It takes a lot of concentration to essentially play your own evil twin.
“It did go well, didn’t it?” Mrs. A says as we repair to the dining room for a post-show lunch.
“Especially compared to last time,” Malia agrees. It’s possible she’s not referring to the part where we found a dead body, but there’s a strained silence anyway.
“Are those empanadas?” Mrs. A says, hurrying to the buffet.
It’s an effective redirect, turning the conversation to food as we fill our plates.
“To Claude,” Mr. Namura says when we’re all seated. We raise our glasses in the direction of his portrait.
“It’s such a blessing having Virginia and Felix here this summer.
” Mrs. A slices into her empanada with a knife and fork.
“Obviously nothing can fill the void of Claude’s absence, but your youth and freshness bring such a thrilling sort of—” She circles a hand in front of her chest, searching for the right word.
“Energy?” I suggest, before she can say something that will make me want to walk into the sea. Also “smoothly functioning joints” would be rude.
“I was thinking more like ‘razzmatazz’!”
“Dibs on being the razz,” Felix says.
“I’d rather be the matazz anyway,” I tell him, in case he thinks he won.
Mrs. A turns to my grandmother. “We should give them one of those cute nicknames.”
“Like Sonny and Cher?” Grandma Lainey asks, straight-faced.
“No, you know the kind I’m talking about. Where they smash the two names together to make a new name.”
“A portmanteau,” Mr. Namura supplies. “Like Bennifer.”
Everyone nods their agreement. Even Felix gets in on the act, making sure I get a load of the suppressed amusement in his sparkling eyes and twitching lips.
“How about Virgix?” he suggests, giving it a hard G like the name of a particularly embarrassing prescription medicine.
“Let’s workshop it,” Mrs. A says, letting him down gently. “Hmmm. Vi-Fee isn’t quite right.” Her tone is thoughtful, like we’re naming something important. An infant, maybe. Or a new planet.
Felix clears his throat. “Fe-vir?”
Mrs. A covers her mouth with both hands, giving a little squeal before she recovers the ability to speak. “Isn’t that darling!”
“Fever,” Malia bellows. “In the morning. Fever all through the night.”
Mrs. A shimmies to the beat. Even my grandmother is bopping her head. Okay, fine. It’s clever. And I don’t have a better idea. Yet.
“You give me fever,” Malia continues, at a slightly less earsplitting volume.
Felix points at her, fully bringing the finger guns. “What a lovely way to burn.”
His voice really is excellent. I try to look unimpressed, but he must see the grudging admiration on my face because he leans closer. “We sang this in all-state chorus.”
“He has more layers than that clown you dated before,” Grandma Lainey says, when the musical interlude is over.
“Not a literal clown,” I tell Felix, who is looking too intrigued.
“That would have been more entertaining,” my grandmother quips. “At least clowns can juggle. Or ride a unicycle.”
“Who breaks up with someone at a wedding?” Mrs. A shakes her head for a second, then catches herself, shooting an apologetic look at my grandmother.
There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence.
It must sting, not being invited to your only daughter’s wedding.
Even though my mother wasn’t lying about the whole event being “quick and casual,” all three of us understood the part she didn’t say.
My grandmother is incapable of blending quietly into the background.
If she showed up, it would turn into a production.
“Sounds like there’s a story there,” Felix hints, clearly in search of dirt.
“It was very boring,” I tell him, though the words are just as much for my grandmother’s benefit.
“The boyfriend?” he asks. “Or the breakup?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “The wedding. We went to the courthouse and then to a restaurant. For lunch.” With my middle school gym teacher and her wife as witnesses. I see no reason to add that part. Making small talk about whether I’d “kept up my badminton game” was painful enough the first time.
“Well.” Mrs. A shifts uncomfortably. “I hope your mother picked out a fun dress for herself.”
“It was knee length. Three quarter sleeves. Not a lot of frills. Sort of a pinky-beige.”
“And the cake?” Mr. Namura asks.
“Banana bread,” I mumble.
Mrs. A tuts in sympathy. “No buttercream to soothe the pain of a broken heart?”
“Nobody’s heart was broken.” It comes out in a rush, like I’m dumping water on a smoking pan.
“You don’t have to be brave.” Felix gives me puppy-dog eyes. “We’re all family here. Talk to us.”
He probably expects me to tap out and change the subject, so of course I have to do the opposite.
“John didn’t technically break up with me at the wedding. That happened after.” What would I say if this was a murder mystery? It was John, in his driveway, with the garlic breath. I let the suspense build before going on. “I assume he wanted to get the free meal first. And a ride home.”
“No car?” Felix asks.
“No license,” I correct.
The official excuse was that John couldn’t take time away from his studies to learn how to drive. A more likely reason was that he enjoyed having his mother chauffeur him around town. It was almost like a limo service, with the chilled water and snacks she kept in a cooler for him.
I picture my sort-of date at the wedding lunch, inhaling far more than his share of garlic knots, the lower half of his face shiny with oil as he holds up his plastic tumbler for another Sprite refill, like a low-rent Roman emperor.
“So what was it?” Felix asks, like we’re girlfriends gossiping over bubble tea. “You grew apart? Or was there someone else?” He delivers the last part in a dramatic whisper, like he’s doing voiceover on a reality dating show.
“I guess you could call it a love triangle,” I admit.
Mrs. A obligingly gasps.
“It came down to a choice. Between me—and my stepfather.”
Felix swallows wrong and has to pound himself on the chest to catch his breath. “Your boyfriend was in love with your stepfather?”
I shrug like it’s no big deal, even though it sounds like the plot of one of our murder games. “More like hero worship.” And being a suck-up, but that might make me sound bitter. “Mr. Ghabbour—my stepfather—is moving to the high school next year. He’s the new AP Calc teacher.”
“Are you going to be in his class?” Felix asks, horrified all over again.
“No, because I’m not taking AP Calculus.
” I don’t love math (or hate myself) enough for that.
Bad enough Mom wants me to carpool with my teacher stepfather next year.
“John felt like he had to choose between me and Mr. Ghabbour. He decided it ‘didn’t feel right’ for the incoming president of Mu Alpha Theta to stay with someone who got a B in precalc. ”
“Wow.” Felix shakes his head. “So that’s the third thing.”
Mrs. A glances between us, clearly eager to know more.
“Skeletons in my closet,” I tell her.
“Everyone has them,” Malia says darkly, scraping more chimichurri onto her empanada with the side of her knife.
“Good riddance,” Grandma Lainey huffs. “Men like that are a wart on the backside of society. So much entitlement with so little effort. He was almost as bad as—” She catches herself, but it’s too late.
Unease spreads through the room like a bad smell as we realize who she’s talking about.
It’s a rare faux pas for my grandmother, who always seems to know exactly what to say.
Maybe she forgot for a second, caught up in the game—or was thrown off her stride by all the talk about Mom’s wedding, which I’m guessing bothers Grandma Lainey more than she lets on.
Felix clears his throat. “I was going to ask Virginia if she wanted to go out. With me.”
The temperature in the room warms by at least ten degrees. Everyone gazes at Felix with hearts in their eyes, like he’s holding a plate of just-baked chocolate chip cookies. Something nudges my foot under the table. From the way he’s deliberately not looking at me, I surmise that it’s Felix’s shoe.
He kicks me again, like I’m missing a cue, but how am I supposed to decipher his sneaker Morse code? Is he for real right now, or is this a ploy to get us out the door? I feel myself blushing, which will do nothing to silence the rumors of our burgeoning romance.
“For ice cream,” Felix says, dialing it down slightly.
Too late for that. They’ll be doing hand calligraphy on our wedding invitations the second our backs are turned.
“Why not?” I stand and push in my chair, beyond ready to get this show on the road. I’m sure Felix will catch up.
“Feeee-virrr,” Malia warbles, throwing her head back.
“Sorry about that,” Felix says once there’s a door between us and our fan club. “I couldn’t think how else to get you out of there.”
“You mean you’re not taking me out for an ice cream sundae?” I widen my eyes in pretend hurt, hoping the sarcasm covers the 10 percent of me that almost believed he was for real.
“We can get ice cream after we talk to Mervyn. Sofia’s picking us up in ten minutes.”
“You called her?” I don’t know why that bugs me. Probably because we’re supposed to be an investigative duo, not wander off on our own side quests.
“It would have been a long walk.”
“Right.” Of course he and Sofia aren’t secret lovers.
Not that it’s any of my business.