Veil of Night: A Novel

Chapter Nineteen

SOME MARRIAGES YOU JUST KNEW WEREN’T GOING TO last.

Jaclyn took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, trying to keep her expression as neutral as possible. Photos of this particular event would never make it into the pamphlets all of them at Premier sometimes used to sell their services to potential clients. Never. In fact, she hoped with all her heart that no one ever knew they were involved.

This wasn’t the sort of event that usually called for an event planner, but the groom’s mother, horrified by the bride’s plans, had hired Premier in a last-ditch attempt to salvage some dignity for the occasion. Jaclyn realized now that she shouldn’t have taken it on, not when they were already so busy, but the poor woman had been desperate—and with good reason. The awful truth was, Jaclyn didn’t think there was anything she could do that would really help, so the woman was out the money and the wedding was still going to be a disaster, which was only fitting in a bad-karma kind of way, because she’d bet everything she owned that the marriage would be just as bad.

There were two weddings and another rehearsal taking place tonight. Tonight was the crescendo of their frantic pace, and if they could get through this then tomorrow would be fractionally easier, with two weddings and just one rehearsal. Sunday, thank God, was the last of the six weddings, and after that they would be back on a more sane—or was it merely less insane—schedule, and if Madelyn ever, ever again booked this many weddings this close together, Jaclyn promised herself she was going on vacation and not coming back until they were all over with.

Normally Jaclyn would have been at one of the weddings while Peach and Diedra handled the rehearsals. Instead, she was here because she was the only one at Premier who could face the bride’s family without either losing her temper or laughing out loud. This rehearsal and tomorrow’s wedding were all hers, like it or not. Thank goodness the family had agreed to hold their rehearsal at a slightly earlier hour than usual, so Jaclyn could go straight from here to the Bulldog wedding, where Diedra was already hard at work. Between them, Madelyn and Peach were handling the other rehearsal—the one they had started calling “Family Drama”—and the Pink wedding in much the same way.

This wedding was pretty much a lost cause, but Jaclyn had managed to talk the bride out of a wedding cake with a NASCAR theme. That was one point for their side, though even now the bride kept insisting how cute it would be to have the little bride and groom figures climbing out of a decal-covered model car, which she insisted was just like Dale Junior’s. Jaclyn wasn’t a race fan, but at least she knew who Dale Junior was, and she was pretty sure his car wasn’t bright blue. Evidently it was the decals that counted.

She’d also convinced the bride’s mother that using her multicolored Christmas lights (“But they flash!”) to decorate the barn where the wedding would be held tomorrow wasn’t entirely appropriate. She’d rearranged some of the music, so at least the bride would walk down the “aisle” to the wedding march instead of Willie Nelson or Brad Paisley. Willie and Brad would still make their appearances, just not during the bride’s walk to glory. Tomorrow there would be real flowers, not the plastic ones the bride had originally planned to use because she said they’d never die and she could use them in her new home—either that or use them to make the flower arrangements for Decoration Day at the cemetery where her daddy was buried. The flowers hadn’t even been decent silk flowers; they were literally plastic, and came in all colors—few of which had ever graced an actual living bloom.

If she hadn’t been shell-shocked, Jaclyn thought a little hysterically, she would have seen right away what a perfect match the plastic flowers had been for the blinking Christmas lights. It wasn’t as if she had anything against Christmas lights; she actually loved them … at Christmas. She didn’t love plastic flowers any time.

Fortunately there was no proper lighting at the barn for the rehearsal to take place there so late in the afternoon, so the rehearsal and reception were being held at a restaurant/bar that was owned by the “minister.” Unfortunately, that restaurant was Porky’s BBQ, and there were signs scattered about that bragged about the food. Most prominent was the proud claim: “You’ll love our butts.” Second place went to “Best butts in town.”

She wasn’t certain the minister was really a minister, but at this point that was the least of her worries. It would be a blessing in disguise for the groom if the marriage wasn’t legal, so she kept her mouth shut about the minister.

A makeshift altar had been set up under a neon Budweiser sign, which had been glowing brightly until Jaclyn had insisted that it be turned off. If she could have come up with a way to take it down she’d have done so, but like the “butts” signs, it was attached to the rough plank paneling. Multicolored plastic flowers—almost certainly the ones Jaclyn had banned from the wedding—had been used to decorate the table beneath the now-dark neon sign. The flowers clashed horribly with the plastic red-and-white-checkered tablecloths that covered the tables. Some of the tables were round, some of them were square, but all of the tablecloths were square.

The tablecloths, plastic or not, weren’t that bad. It was a theme she could have worked with, given the time, money, and, most important, permission. White daisies, red and white plates and glasses, and she’d have had an elegant picnic theme. Instead, the best she could do was, whenever possible, stave off disaster.

Unfortunately, she didn’t think it was possible.

The groom’s mother, a middle-aged widow, was very pale, but she did her best to smile. It was a wavering, uncertain smile, and Jaclyn was almost certain the poor woman’s teeth were clenched. She could sympathize. She’d never seen so many mullets in one room. The dress for this event was supercasual—only Jaclyn and the groom’s mother and sisters were dressed in a way that she would consider appropriate, which basically meant they weren’t wearing jeans and T-shirts with slogans on them. And the minister—she was almost certain he’d come by the title via the Internet—well, all she could do was hope that tomorrow he’d clean himself up a little, maybe even put on a tie. He was a big man with a handlebar mustache and a red bandanna tied over his bald head, and tonight he wore faded jeans and a Harley tee with the sleeves ripped out, which revealed his colorful tattoos from shoulder to wrist, on both arms.

On the other hand, if she could ever say with absolute certainty that her services were needed, that time was now and the place was here. No one knew who was supposed to stand where, or what the proper progression of events should be. Maybe the bride’s mother would be seated to a Brad Paisley song about checking you for ticks, but she would, by golly, be seated at the right time, and in the right place.

That was if everything went as planned tomorrow. If neither the bride nor her mother got arrested tonight. If the minister wasn’t killed by a rival motorcycle gang.

That was a lot of ifs, and she thought their chances of making it through were low.

First, she had to get through tonight.

The Christmas lights Jaclyn had gently banned from the wedding ceremony had been broken out for tonight. They hung everywhere, cheerful and random and occasionally tangled, and completely wrong. At least she’d been able to dissuade the bride’s friends from outlining everything in sight, from the beer spigot behind the bar to the loaf of bread sitting on the long counter, with the twinkling, brightly colored lights.

The disastrous rehearsal was bizarre enough to take her mind off Carrie Edwards and Eric Wilder for a while. Well, to be honest, she didn’t think about Carrie as much as she did Eric, and that was kind of sad. It wasn’t sad enough to make her dwell on the woman, though.

But Eric … he was the most maddening man she’d ever met. The more she tried not to think about him, the more stubbornly he lodged himself front and center in her brain. Because of him she’d made a spectacle of herself, and how she’d face the minister tonight at the Bulldog wedding, she had no idea. Maybe she’d pretend she’d been in a fugue state, and didn’t remember anything that had happened.

But she was able to banish Eric while she oversaw the rehearsal, which was much like corralling wild pigs and putting bows on their tails. The bows didn’t help, and the pigs were fractious. The rehearsal went relatively well; a touch of color began creeping back into the groom’s mother’s face—until the minister let out a whoop and directed everyone to the bar for hot wings and beer, to be followed by banana pudding and brownies.

All of the color immediately left the woman’s face again. Jaclyn had seen the spread earlier, and had noted with horror the cans of icing sitting by the brownies and the brightly colored sprinkles on both desserts. Her client had tried—she’d tried very hard—to put together a proper rehearsal dinner. That should’ve been the one aspect of the wedding where she had some control. But the happy couple had insisted that it didn’t make any sense to go elsewhere when there was great food right here, and they already had the place to themselves for the night. Basically, the groom’s mother had been bulldozed.

Jaclyn even heard her whisper to one of her daughters that maybe her son had been switched with someone else’s baby at the hospital, because she could not have given birth to a man who would do this to her.

The bride’s mulleted brother sidled up next to Jaclyn, gave her a come-on smile and a nod of his head. With a knowing look he said, “I can’t believe a pretty thing like you is here all alone. A woman like you should never be without a date.”

“I’m working,” Jaclyn said coolly.

The kid, and he couldn’t be more than twenty-one or twenty-two, didn’t take the hint. He moved in closer, invading her personal space with the smell of fresh beer and stale breath. Oh, good lord, she just caught a flash of rotten teeth. He shouldn’t smile. He really shouldn’t smile. Jaclyn took a step away. Swear to God, if he touched her she’d flatten him. She’d had just about all she could take in the past two days, and if he was the one who pushed her over the edge she wouldn’t hesitate to push back, not this time.

Yeah, that would look good, when she was suspected of murdering Carrie Edwards. Some things, though, were just worth the price you had to pay.

“Let me give you a ride home, sweet thing.”

She gave the mullet-head a quick but decisive “not interested,” and turned away.

Her job here was done, thank God. If she could just make it to her car unmolested, she still had the Bulldog wedding—which would probably come complete with the ring-bearer wearing a football helmet, thanks to Eric—to get through, but Diedra would be there to help. Tomorrow was going to be a very long day, and eventually she needed to get home, to lie down in her bed and pull the cover over her head. Just as she was about to say good-bye to the woman who’d hired her, the door to the restaurant opened. The bride’s mother snapped in her grating smoker’s voice, “This is a private party. Can’t you read the ‘closed’ sign, moron?”

Everyone turned, and Jaclyn’s eyes widened with horror as she recognized the tall, muscled man whose piercing gaze swept the interior of the barbecue joint. Eric gave the mother of the bride an icy stare as he flashed his badge. “That’s Detective Moron.”

The entire room went silent. For the first time all night, you could’ve heard a pin drop. Then the bride’s mother said, in a resigned voice. “Sorry about the moron bit. Come on in.” The “I guess” was unspoken.

A couple of the guests looked truly alarmed, and Jaclyn wondered how many of them thought the cop was here for them. Probably on just about any other night, they’d have been right, but tonight they were safe. Detective Wilder had come for her.

She stalked toward him, chin high, eyes flashing. This was twice he’d interrupted her while she was working. Once was one time too many, and twice was enraging.

“I have a couple more questions,” he said as she came close. Behind her the party resumed, though the guests were more subdued than before and several pairs of eyes were focused on the newcomer. That was a two-way street. Eric didn’t look directly at her, but kept his gaze on the room behind her.

“It can’t wait?” she asked in a tight voice only he could hear.

“No, I need to talk to you tonight.” He glanced around the room, smirked, and said, “Nice work, by the way. I particularly like the Christmas lights. Jazzes things up.”

“Bite me.”

His gaze switched to her face, narrowed with sharp focus. “Any time, sweetheart,” he said. “Anywhere.”

She went white and fell back a step. No. After switching himself off like a lightbulb when all she’d needed had been a quiet reassurance that he believed her, he wasn’t switching himself on again and expecting her to do a moth act. “You don’t get to say things like that to me,” she said coldly. “Not now. Not anymore.” Though she had started it by telling him to bite her, and now she had to apologize to him yet again. This was becoming such a habit she was going to start running in the opposite direction as soon as she saw him—either that or write up a blanket apology, print out a bunch of copies, and simply give him one every time she put her foot in her mouth.

Before she could get the words out, though, his gaze dropped to her mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

Her mind went blank, and her lips parted but nothing came out. Before she could recover he smirked again, and nodded in the direction of the minister. “Why aren’t you wearing your special wedding planner do-rag?”

The urge to apologize was swamped by the urge to dump the remains of a big tray of banana pudding on his head. After humiliating herself with her own lack of control the night before, she clamped down on the vivid thought with every ounce of willpower she had. She refused, absolutely refused, to let him drive her insane. She’d be sane if it killed her. “I’m saving it for tomorrow,” Jaclyn ground out. Excuses and explanations crowded her throat as if they had actual, physical presence. She wanted to tell him how much worse this wedding would have been if she hadn’t been hired, she wanted to run through the whole horrible litany about the barn and the plastic flowers and Brad Paisley’s tick song, but no way in hell was she going to explain anything to Eric Wilder.

She pulled her shoulders back and gave him a flat, unwavering stare. “Ask your questions, and make it snappy. I have another appointment, and I have to be there within the hour. What do you want to know?”

“I thought we could go over Wednesday afternoon again, see if you remember anything else about the man you saw or if you remembered anything Carrie might’ve said that—”

“Give it up, Detective,” she said curtly. “I’ve told you everything I remember. How many times are we going to go through this?”

“As many as it takes.” He looked at her hard, without any sign of the humor he’d displayed a moment earlier.

“Can’t this wait until—”

“Officer,” the minister called, and they both turned to the massive, mustachioed man who stood behind the bar. “How about a beer and some hot wings?”

Eric didn’t correct the minister, didn’t tell him that he was a detective and not an officer, to this crowd that wouldn’t make any difference: a cop was a cop. “No beer, thanks, but I’d love some wings and maybe a tall glass of sweet tea.” He moved past Jaclyn, heading toward the bar.

“You got it,” the big man said. “We’ve got brownies, too. If you’d been a little earlier you coulda had some banana pudding, but it’s about all gone.”

There went her plan to brain him with the banana pudding. Jaclyn spun around and followed Eric to the bar. She was so indignant she felt as if she were caught in some Victorian melodrama. She wanted to point at him and demand How dare you! in her most outraged voice. What in hell was he doing? This was her world, her job, her life, and he was following her around as if he expected to catch her in the middle of some terrorist act. This wasn’t good for business. Once could be explained away as an aberration, but twice? What if he showed up again tomorrow? Word would get around that something weird was going on at Premier, and people to whom that mattered would start looking at other event-planning businesses.

As soon as he was away from the door, a couple who weren’t anywhere close to being finished with their large plates of food whispered a quick good-bye to the others at their table and slipped out the door as surreptitiously as possible, given that they were the first to leave. Another guy quietly got up and left. Mullet-head wasn’t far behind them; he couldn’t get out of Porky’s fast enough. She’d known these people were different from her usual clientele, but what on earth had she gotten herself into?

“How many left?” Eric asked as soon as she appeared beside him.

“Four.”

He grunted. “I was expecting it to be five.”

She knew she shouldn’t be drawn in. She knew she should answer his questions and leave as fast as she could. But curiosity got the better of her and she asked, “Who’s the fifth one?”

Casually he looked over his shoulder, located the person he was talking about. “The woman with her tits hanging out of the red halter.”

Oh, good God. It was the bride.

She hadn’t recovered from that shock when he patted the stool next to him. “Come on, sit with me and we’ll talk.”

Abruptly she’d had enough. She had to get out of here, and if he didn’t like it, then tough. She pointed to a sign behind the bar that proudly read:

Kiss my butt.

Jaclyn turned her back on him and walked to a table where the only three women in the room who hadn’t gone out of their way to show off their boobs sat, huddled together as if they were surrounded by aliens who might attack at any moment. The older woman looked so completely miserable Eric could only conclude her son was the groom. Looking around, he could even spot the guy, who was half-looped but still lacked that doper look he’d recognize in his sleep.

Lucky for them he wasn’t working vice. He didn’t care who was carrying pot or who had outstanding warrants. He’d have to act if one of them had a rolling meth lab sitting in the parking lot—in fact, he’d carefully sniffed the air before coming in—but other than that he’d give them a pass. They weren’t his target tonight.

No, his target stood out like a diamond sitting in a bowl of rocks. Jaclyn had class, beauty, and balls. Other women might’ve cried or fallen apart, but she’d kept her cool. Sort of. Her walk killed him: sexy and slow and enticing. That sharp navy blue business suit clung in the right places, nipping in at the waist to show her trim figure, while the skirt ended just above the knee and gave him a good look at those legs. The glare she sent his way cut through him, but not in the way she intended.

After saying a few words to the three horrified ladies, she smiled at them and left the restaurant without looking back. Eric slid off his stool and followed her; no one was sorry to see him go, and no one noted aloud that he’d only taken two bites of a wing and one sip of tea. His feelings were almost hurt because no one said good-bye.

In the parking lot, he easily caught up with Jaclyn; her legs were long, but the snug skirt and high heels kept her from walking as fast as she’d like.

“I really do need to talk to you,” he said as she reached her Jag.

“If you want to question me again, call my lawyer.”

“Dammit, Jaclyn, listen to me,” he said sharply, irritation flashing to life.

“That’s Ms. Wilde to you,” she snapped as she opened her car door and tossed her purse into the passenger seat. She got in the car, but before she had a chance to close the door he grabbed the top of it, held it.

“The man you saw, the gray-haired one,” he began. “Do you—”

She gave him a disbelieving look that he could read even in the not-very-well-lit parking lot. “What do I have to say to get this through your head?” she asked incredulously. “I didn’t pay attention to his face, and I can’t identify his car beyond saying it was a silver sedan. I’m not a car person. I can tell you for sure it wasn’t a truck or an SUV, and that’s about it. The color might’ve been more of a champagne but I’m pretty sure it was just silver. Beyond that, I don’t know. When I left Carrie—alive—I was flustered, I was angry, and I wasn’t trying to memorize strangers in the parking lot. Are we through now? I have a job I’m trying to do, if you’ll just get out of my way!” She jerked the car door closed, and he had to move his hand or get it crushed.

Without glancing at him again, she started the engine and almost, but not quite, spun her wheels on the gravel as she sped out of the parking lot. Probably she’d wanted to.

Well, that conversation had gone pretty much as he’d imagined it would. But even though he hadn’t found out anything useful, he had taken the first step back to an intimate footing with her. Pissed her off, too. The connection was still there, though. Even when she was mad as hell, even though she fought not to show it, the connection was there.

He watched her taillights until they were out of sight, wondering if he should follow her to the wedding, but what was the point? A wedding wasn’t like this circus of a rehearsal dinner; she’d be busy, and very unhappy to see him yet again. Better to give her a little bit of space tonight, let her cool down and do some thinking. He wasn’t just using the man she’d seen as an excuse; sometimes people remembered more than they thought they did, they just needed to think about it, let the details surface. She had to have seen more than she’d just said.

Tomorrow was plenty of time to make contact again. Maybe by then she wouldn’t look as if she wanted to take a swing at him.