Free The Marriage at the Rue Morgue (A Rue and Lakeland Mystery) by Jessie Bishop Powell

dress form that actually had been a decent stand-in while Mama removed the skirt so she could raise the hemline and shorten the waist.
    “Isn’t it bad luck to have your wedding dress fitted too many times?” Lance asked. He parked behind my mother’s car and we got out.
    “Of course not,” I told him. “It’s very
good
luck, because it’s less likely to fall off you walking down the aisle.” I would have thought that Lance would be happier about my re-refitting. Waiting around one more time while Mama went over me with a pincushion looking for flaws put off the trip to find centerpieces. He started to grumble something else, and I added, “Anyway, it delays the trip to the craft store.”
    “There is that.”
    “After lunch, you get to tell my dad we’ll be back later to stay the night.” I walked in ahead of him, denying him the chance to retort.
    As I had expected, our lunch conversation centered around Mama’s last-minute concerns. She was worried about the cake, because we had declined to go for a tasting sometime last month and had left the flavor entirely up to the baker.
    “You didn’t at least tell them marble or yellow?” she demanded.
    “Or chocolate,” Daddy added, sipping his coffee. “You might have ordered chocolate.”
    “I’m sure Ironweed Confections knows your favorite flavors and mine,” I told them. “We’ve been getting Saturday cupcakes there I think since I was born.” And I had so told them a flavor; they wouldn’t take the order without it. But I wasn’t releasing that detail for public consumption and debate.
    Mama wasn’t sure about the plastic tablecloths currently sitting in her basement. “Why don’t we look at getting decent replacements today?” she wanted to know. “You got those other ones at some chain back in March.”
    “And at bargain basement prices,” I added.
    “Exactly. You have no idea what might be wrong with them. Every one already has a hole for all we know.”
    “They’re fine,” I said. “It’s quite enough that we have to have centerpieces,” a detail I considered frivolous. “We can put any holes under those.”
    And that brought the conversation back to its origin, and Mama’s real fussing point today. She was deciding between a central candle surrounded by ivy and a simple bowl with floating votives for each table. She wanted Lance and me to agree on one or the other. I didn’t like either, but found the votives less kitschy. Lance wasn’t much help. He sat with his arms crossed over his chest once he finished his sandwich. Then, whenever Mama asked a question, he waited for me to answer and agreed with me using monosyllables.
    Mama said, “I’m sure the bowls should be clear glass, but they would need to be opaque to be sure we could hide holes in the tablecloths.”
    “Mama, there won’t be holes.”
    “How can you be sure?”
    Lance ventured, “Opaque bowls will look fine.”
    And Daddy backed him up, saying, “Exactly!” He was even more of a conscript than Lance and I at these festivities.
    Everyone but Mama was finished eating by that time, and Lance and I started putting away the bread and condiments. “Go on upstairs, Noel,” Mama said.
    “Oh, leave them alone, Lenore,” Daddy said. He got up. “I’m going back to my garden.” We would be getting married in that garden tomorrow. He was far more concerned with making the roses beautiful. The back door banged behind him, and I heard a chorus of barking from my parents’ dogs, who had been banned from the kitchen for the meal.
    Lance and I got as far as taking the dishes to the sink before Mama finished her own meal. She waved to us and dusted some crumbs off her chin. “I’ll get that later,” she said. Then my Nana banged into the kitchen. “There you are!” Mama exclaimed. “I was worried something had happened to you.”
    “Please, I’m only eighty. I don’t think we need to take away my car keys yet.”
    “Noel, get her a sandwich.” Mama