Marriage and Mayhem
Marriage and Mayhem
A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 7
Jeanne Glidewell
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Contents
From the Desk of Jeanne Glidewell
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Before You Go…
A Rip Roaring Good Time
Purchase A Rip Roaring Good Time
Also by Jeanne Glidewell
Acknowledgments
About the Author
In the midst of writing this seventh Lexie Starr mystery (not including The Spirit of the Season, a holiday novella) my husband and I moved to Rockport, Texas, into a full-time waterfront home on the coastal bend, having lost our winter home there to Hurricane Harvey the previous August. With a picture-perfect view of the sun rising over Salt Lake from our back deck, to the breathtaking sight of the sun setting over Copano Bay from our rooftop deck, I feel blessed to have such an idyllic place to write, even though it meant leaving a lot of family and friends behind in Kansas.On the very day I completed Marriage and Mayhem, my new great-niece, Everly Rose Goodman, made her entrance into the world. Everly arrived on my sister, Sarah Goodman’s, sixty-second birthday. I think it’s awesome that Everly and her Grandma GiGi will always share this special day. My sister, and only sibling, who retired just a few weeks prior to Everly’s birth, has always been my most ardent supporter when it comes to my writing, and my most loyal ally when it came to growing up in what wasn’t always the easiest childhood. I’d like to dedicate this novel to her and wish her a happy retirement and many wonderful years of sharing, and celebrating, September 25th with her new little birthday buddy.
From the Desk of Jeanne Glidewell
Dear readers,
Although I intended to end the Lexie Starr series with Cozy Camping, I received numerous messages from readers requesting another installment. It seems that after Wendy Starr and Andy Van Patten became engaged at the end of A Rip Roaring Good Time (my first Ripple Effect mystery), many of my readers wanted to see these two love birds get married. Not wanting to disappoint my loyal readers or leave a stone unturned, I wrote Marriage and Mayhem, the story behind Wendy and Andy’s wedding.
As you may imagine, the wedding does not go exactly as planned, and absolute mayhem erupts at the drop of a pin. Or in this case, the drop of a very large best man.
I hope you enjoy this latest adventure as much as I did writing it.
Happy reading,
Jeanne
P.S. As usual, I apologize in advance for any words I have made up for lack of having a better, dictionary-sanctioned, word at my disposal. It’s a bad habit that I have no intention of kicking. I’m hoping if I use the word often enough, I’ll bring Funk and Wagnall around to my way of thinking.
Prologue
Wedding Day - August 25, 2018
“Nine-one-one. Do you have an emergency?”
“Yes, ma’am.” My voice quivered uncontrollably. “We need an ambulance. Right away!”
“What is your name and the nature of your emergency?”
“My name is Lexie Starr. In the middle of my daughter’s wedding, one of the groomsmen collapsed to the ground.”
“Is he breathing, ma’am?”
I glanced over to watch Raven Kostaki perform chest compressions on Bubba Slippknott. “Someone’s doing CPR, but he doesn’t seem to be responding.”
“What is your address? I’ll dispatch assistance immediately. Continue administering CPR until help arrives. Does he have a pulse?” The operator’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact. Doesn’t she realize this was a life-or-death situation?
“I’m not sure.” I recited the address and implored her to ask the ambulance driver to hurry. “We need them here A.S.A.P.”
“Help is on the way, ma’am.”
I swear I could actually hear the woman’s eyes roll over the phone. But I realized she couldn’t allow herself to become overly distressed every time she took an emergency call, or she’d soon develop severe hypertension.
Moments earlier, Reverend Bob Zimmerman, minister of the local Methodist Church, had asked if anyone had any objections to the union of Andy Van Patten, my husband’s nephew, and Wendy, my thirty-one-year-old daughter.
“Erg, I, uh―” The six-foot-eight best man tried to speak, then took a step back and keeled over like a tree toppled by a chainsaw.
“Well, that was a rather dramatic objection,” Reverend Bob, as the cleric preferred to be called, said with a chuckle.
At first everyone laughed, thinking Bubba had either fainted from the exhilaration of the moment, or was acting out a rather tasteless prank for everyone’s amusement. However, it soon became apparent it was no joke, nor had Bubba merely passed out.
I studied the scene in front of me. Some wedding guests ran around like squirrels looking for nuts to bury. Others looked as if they’d been dipped in a vat of nitrogen and were frozen in time. The groom wore an expression of disbelief. He’d clearly anticipated he’d be kissing his new bride right about now instead of looking down at his best man’s lifeless body.
Wyatt Johnston, our good friend and one of Rockdale’s finest detectives for sixteen years, stepped around Gunnar Wilde to tend to Bubba, who lay motionless on the ground. Kneeling down, he checked his fellow groomsman for a pulse and respirations. He looked up at me
and shook his head.
One
Four weeks prior to the wedding
Andy Van Patten, Wendy’s fiancé, delivered her to the inn on his way to a farm auction early in the morning. I woke up to the sound of their voices talking and laughing in the kitchen. The auction was scheduled to begin at six. Who goes shopping at that time of day unless it’s Black Friday? I had to wonder. Apparently, like farmers, farm auction attendees liked to get up with the chickens while the rest of us still lounged around in bed, as I’m certain God had intended us to do.
Andy had forty minutes to spare and he and Wendy had decided to spend that time together at the inn. When he’d relocated to the Midwest from the east coast over a year ago to be closer to his Uncle Stone, Andy had purchased a cattle ranch near Atchison, Kansas, which was less than an hour’s drive from Rockdale. He was now hoping to get a good deal on a newer model John Deere tractor to be auctioned off at the estate sale.
As we chatted at the kitchen table, I downed cup after cup of strong Columbian brewed coffee until I could literally hear my own heart pounding in a rapid staccato. It reminded me of the sound of Tony Montana’s “little friend”, an M16 automatic assault rifle, that he used to spray hundreds of bullets at the Columbian drug cartel’s henchmen toward the end of the movie Scarface. I really did need to cut back on the caffeine a bit, as my primary doctor had gently suggested at my last checkup. In fact, I couldn’t recall an appointment when she hadn’t suggested it.
Andy and Wendy sipped their coffee and discussed their upcoming nuptials while I looked online for a chicken enchilada recipe I planned to serve that evening to the Clevengers from Arizona, and the Masseys from Texas, who’d be checking in that afternoon. The Alexandria Inn went above and beyond the duty expected from most B&B owners, serving not only breakfast to our guests, but dinner as well. There were days I wished I’d never started that tradition. Setting the bar so high during the inn’s inception had only added pressure on Stone and me not to fall short of meeting those standards in all the days that followed. This was one of those days I regretted our desire to be as accommodating as conceivably possible.
I enjoyed cooking, but that doesn’t mean I was good at it. In fact, not long ago I’d almost killed a man with an undercooked chicken. On another recent occasion, I’d made a commendable attempt at burning down the inn with a nuked-to-death baked potato that had ignited inside the microwave oven. Fortunately, Stone had put the fire out before it could spread. If nothing else, when it came to meal preparation I deserved a “C-” for effort.
I had poured the rest of my coffee down the drain after I noticed my fingers were trembling like an aspen leaf in a gale-force wind. I then checked to ensure I had shredded cheddar cheese in the fridge. While I gathered the ingredients I was going to need later on, I’d listened in on Wendy and Andy’s conversation.
From the very beginning, Andy had balked at the idea of being intricately involved with planning the wedding. He told Wendy the very thought of spending three hours choosing between green napkins with a white imprint or white napkins with a green imprint made his blood run cold. I could relate, as my blood had already cooled to room temperature just thinking about it.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Andy had said. “But the entire process of planning a wedding is way more than I can handle. It’s your day, and I want everything to be exactly the way you want it. So I’m fine with whatever decisions you make. It makes no difference to me if the napkins are pink with an orange imprint or green with purple polka-dots. In fact, I’d be okay with just passing around a roll of paper towels. And the refreshments at the reception could consist of nothing but beer nuts, cold pizza, and shots of tequila for all I care.”
Naturally, the soon-to-be groom had to back-track after spouting those last several comments, but he was eventually able to bring Wendy around to his way of thinking.
“You’re right, Andy. The intricate details of planning our wedding would drive you crazy. You’d be nuttier than grandma’s fruitcake before I got you to the altar. I may end up being that nutty myself by the time this wedding is over and done with.”
“‘Over and done with?’” Andy asked with a grin. After chuckling good-naturedly, he added, “Baby, you make marrying me sound so incredibly romantic.”
“You know what I mean, you big goofball,” Wendy replied as she touched up her cherry red lipstick. She then planted a big kiss on his cheek, leaving a perfect imprint of her lips.
With the enchilada ingredients lined up on the counter like little soldiers, I sat back down with the kids at the kitchen table and laughed at Wendy’s antics. It was heart-warming to see my daughter so over the moon about marrying the love of her life. I may be a bit biased, but I didn’t think she could have found a better man than Andy, who’d not only inherited the Van Pattens’ good looks, but also their kind hearts and thoughtfulness.
I tuned back in to their discussion in time to hear Andy say, “Besides, I know your mom is dying to help you with the wedding. Every bride’s mother wants to be involved in the planning, and I don’t want to take that enjoyment away from her.”
If Wendy had not been sitting across from me, with a smile plastered across her face, I’d have clocked my future son-in-law in the noggin with the frozen chicken I’d just removed from the freezer to thaw out for supper.
Two
“Really, Mom? You think I look like a ‘skinny snowman’ in this wedding dress?” The expression on Wendy’s face was that of a woman who’d just been told she was too unattractive to risk producing offspring, lest she pass that hideous “ugly” gene down to her children. Perhaps honesty wasn’t always the best policy, but I didn’t want to lie and let her buy a wedding dress that didn’t do justice to her beautiful figure.
“It was the best comparison to something white I could come up with at a moment’s notice. I’m sorry, but you did ask me to be brutally honest.”
Wendy stared at me in horror. Evidently, I’d taken the “brutal” part of her request a little too seriously. My mind raced for a way to escape from the hole I’d dug for myself. The result found me even deeper in the crevice. “I meant to say you looked like a well-rounded snowman, not a skinny one.”
A lone tear ran down Wendy’s cheek. “I don’t want to look like any kind of snowman, Mom. I want to look like a beautiful bride. I’ve tried on over a dozen dresses, and you haven’t liked the way I looked in any of them.”
“Not true, sweetheart. Even though it’s too expensive, I thought you looked lovely in the cashmere silk dress with the pearl-studded neckline.”
“Yeah, right.”
“How many times have I told you I’d kill to have your figure?” I asked. Standing four inches shorter than Wendy’s five-foot-seven, and with quite a bit more posterior padding, my height, shape, and curly mop of blond-highlighted brown hair were in sharp contrast to her slender build and long, straight auburn tresses. Lucky for her, she’d taken after her father. Wendy had always been thin, so I was happy she’d recently put some much-needed meat on her bones.
“Thanks, Mom.” Her response sounded neither appreciative nor sincere.
“I’m just saying I don’t think you should invest half-a-year’s salary in a dress you’ll likely wear only once.”
Wendy glanced at the price tag on the gown she wore. “I know this is over my budget, but I haven’t found a reasonably priced wedding gown I look good in.”
“There are other bridal shops offering beautiful wedding gowns for far less money. You’d surely get a better price if you shopped in a less ritzy neighborhood.”
We were at a designer bridal shop on the County Club Plaza, a fifteen-block section along Brush Creek in Kansas City, Missouri. The affluent shopping district was known for its beautiful Spanish architecture and numerous fountains. During the holidays, every building was outlined with Christmas lights, horse-drawn carriages click-clacked down the streets, and the air held the scent of cranberries and pine needles, with just a hint of horse manur
e. It was truly a magical place where many of the wealthier locals shopped.
But the holidays were still four months away, and I wasn’t feeling the magic. It was a typical mid-July day; hot and sticky. What I felt at the moment was a bead of sweat rolling down my spine. The dampness from perspiration making my shorts stick to my thighs like a sand burr was making me cranky. The fact Wendy was having trouble accepting that we just weren’t in the right tax bracket to shop on the lovely Plaza wasn’t helping any.
With pouty lips, Wendy’s voice had a woe-be-gone inflection to it as she spoke. “Yeah, there’s nothing like wearing a cheap ugly dress on the biggest day of your life. Should we try the dollar store next?”
“Don’t be so melodramatic, Wendy. You’ve been awfully moody recently. Are you sure you aren’t pregnant?”
“For the umpteenth time, Mother, I’m not pregnant. You know I’m on the pill.”
Wendy’s indignant voice and snippy attitude were obvious signs I should back off and let the subject drop. Unfortunately, my mouth failed to get the memo. “That doesn’t mean anything, honey. I was on the pill when I got pregnant with you.”