“Della Louise, if you don’t hold still, I swear I’m going to stick you,” I said, trying to pin the pink rose corsage on Della’s silver-colored silk suit.
Della giggled. “I probably couldn’t feel it if you did. For goodness sake, I’m not a starry-eyed bride, but I’m so jittery, just as giddy a teenager! Oh, Jennie, do you think I’m doing the right thing? Am I just being silly?”
Della and her doubts! Taking a deep breath, I told her for the millionth time, “If you feel it’s right for you and you and Newell are happy, go for it!”
She sniffed. “Well, of course we feel it’s the right thing. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t have gotten all the way to the church and very nearly to the altar, would we?”
Dixie Ann spoke before I could. “Della, you do beat all! Cut out those second thoughts. Either you’re going to march down the aisle in ten minutes or you’re going to walk out of the church. You’re driving us batty.”
I successfully got the pin through Della’s dress and took a deep breath. If she was having second thoughts, it wasn’t a good sign. This was her business and I had a practice of not interfering in affairs of the heart, but when a person’s vision is clouded by stars in her eyes and the intoxicating blur of a man’s cologne, well, there’s just no hope. It’s better to come to one’s senses before the final I do. Take it from me;I know.
Newell Abernathy, age somewhere well beyond sixty and recently arrived in our little town had, for some reason, zeroed in on a member of my Cozy Mystery group. I pushed aside any suspicion that Newell’s ardor might have been due to Rosie’s first husband’s wealth. Had her millionaire status fogged Newell’s glasses? There were times when I was glad I didn’t have the problem of wondering whether my wealth had attracted friendships.
Anyway, small, dapper Newell with the perfectly-combed salt and pepper hair, Edgar Allan Poe mustache, and loads of flowers and candy, had certainly appealed to my friend.
“Where is that usher?” Della said, going to the door of the Sunday school room and peeking out. “Shouldn’t he be here telling me Newell and his best man are ready at the front of the church?”
I glanced at my watch. Actually, it was past time. Squirt Everly, local druggist and long-suffering Della admirer, was supposed to walk her down the aisle. Dixie Ann and I were to be escorted on the arms of Rufe Jackson and Clay Poole, retired football pros and past students of Della’s.’
Newell’s best man would be Carl Taylor, one of our deacons in the church and a new friend of Newell’s.
Della was walking the floor, worrying out loud and I was about to resort to finding the pastor or someone who could tell us the reason for this delay. The appointed time for the ceremony was long past. Della had indulged her love of flowers by flooding the church with roses, baby’s breath, eucalyptus, and lilacs; in fact, the area around the altar looked like a florist’s shop. I could smell their heady fragrances vying with each other. They would soon lose their freshness and start to wilt, unless this wedding got under way. Beginning a marriage with a wealth of wilted flowers would not be good.
We all three jumped as someone knocked on the classroom door. Della got there first and flung it open. Pastor Drumwright, Carl Taylor, Squirt Everly, Rufe Jackson, and Clay Poole stood in the hallway. They just stood there, staring at us, their faces white.
“Well?” Della demanded, “what is it? Is something wrong? Where’s Newell?”
Pastor Drumwright cleared his throat. “Um, Della, ladies, may we come in?”
My usually confident pastor looked shaken. His voice trembled. Something was wrong. Definitely.
Della and Dixie Ann had evidently lost their voices, so I stepped forward. “Of course. Has something happened?”
The four men edged into the room and stood against the wall, staring at Della. At last, Pastor Drumwright stepped toward Della and grasped her hands. Still, nobody said a thing.
If somebody didn’t speak soon, I felt my composure was going to slip. Had they all suddenly become mute?
Clearly his throat again, Pastor Drumwright said, “Yes. Yes, I’m afraid something has happened. You’ve got to be brave, Della, because this is bad news. Why not sit down over there?”
He guided her to a folding metal chair. She sat and he sat in a chair beside her, still holding her hands.
“It’s Newell, Della,” he said. “I’m afraid that—ah—that there’ll be no wedding. Newell can’t make it.”
“What?” Della’s voice rose. “What do you mean? Is he sick? Has he been in an accident?”
The pastor nodded, seeming to grasp onto that word, accident.
Manos Mysteries
Continued Tomorrow.
What do you think? Should the title be Altared Murder or, a different spelling, Altered Wedding?
Ok. You must continue this story.
Thank you, Dawn. Second installment tomorrow. I was feeling particularly mysterious when I wrote this.