Free Murder on the Bride's Side by Tracy Kiely Page A

French doors. There were three sets of these double French doors in all: one in the dining room, one in the living room, and one in the study. Each led to the stone terrace that ran along the back of the house.
    After finishing my coffee, I stepped out onto the terrace. It was still early but the sun was already blazing. The weathermen had predicted that we were going to have an Indian summer today and apparently they hadn’t been kidding. It was going to be a scorcher, I thought, cupping my hand over my eyes to block out the sun’s glare. Below me the lawn swarmed with the staff from the catering agency. Clad in bright blue T-shirtsemblazoned with the logo ELEGANT EVENTS , they appeared to be everywhere at once. One group was transforming the normally lush green lawn into a sea of circular tables to seat tonight’s three hundred guests. To my right and left, another group was raising crisp white tents that would serve as the food and drink stations. At the base of the terrace, still more were hammering down an enormous parquet dance floor. A canopy of tiny white lights hovered above. In the midst of the organized chaos, Chloe patrolled the grounds. A dark tailored business suit clung to her lithe form and her white-blond ponytail snaked down her back in a long shiny coil. As she surveyed the crew’s progress, she methodically checked off items on her clipboard and barked orders into a walkie-talkie.
    I spotted Graham and Peter huddled over by one of the tents. Graham gestured animatedly while Peter nodded thoughtfully. Spotting Chloe, Graham called her over. She briskly strode in their direction and then, strangely, faltered. Over the last few months, I’d never seen Chloe do anything that wasn’t deliberate and organized. She seemed more machine than human. After the misstep, Chloe righted herself and made her way to Graham and Peter. She quickly spoke to Graham, and then she laid her hand on Peter’s arm. She kept it there a good eight seconds longer than necessary (by my count, anyway). My stomach tilted. Chloe was an inhuman tyrant, but she was also exceedingly pretty. Sophisticated, chic, and worst of all, thin, Chloe had an air about her that made me feel as if my ancestors had only recently started walking upright. Graham said something and Chloe was forced to remove her talons from Peter’s arm so she could take notes. Graham’s gestures intensified and Chloescribbled on her clipboard and spoke rapidly into her walkie-talkie. Peter’s shoulders shifted uneasily and he shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced around. I recognized that stance; he wanted out of the conversation. I wanted him out of it, too, for that matter. Women like Chloe had been ruining my love life as far back as I could remember. Jutting out my chin in an imitation of my boss when she asks me to pick up her dry cleaning, I walked along the terrace, intent on rescuing Peter. As I passed the French doors leading to the study, a low voice inside caught my attention. The syrupy floral scent told me it was Roni. I peeked around the door frame. Her back was to me and she was talking to someone on her cell phone.
    “I know, sweetie. I miss you, too,” she purred, “but I have to stay here this weekend.” I froze. My brain shouted at me to keep walking, but somehow my feet didn’t have the same moral integrity. “Yes,” she continued, “I think he’s going to sell. What? No. Don’t come here. It isn’t safe. Just trust me, okay?” She paused. Her voice rose petulantly. “I’m not going to double-cross you, honey! Look, I’ll see you Monday, okay? Just calm down—it’ll be fine. Wait, I think I hear somebody coming. I have to go.” With a soft click, she snapped the phone shut. Just as she turned to move toward the terrace, I ducked through the doors leading into the living room. Hidden behind the heavy curtains, I watched Roni walk out onto the terrace. Pausing, she reached inside her purse and pulled out a cigarette. With