Newlywed Dead (3 page)

“Is it someone who's here that's causing it?” I asked. “Or a smell, maybe? Maybe it's the dance floor lighting.”

Ashley merely winced, clearly preoccupied with whatever was going on in her head. A young guy and a girl made their way to the bar and I stepped back to let them order
their drinks. I slipped two dollars into Ashley's tip jar. She seemed to really need the cash.

The guy was really young, but very wealthy. I noticed he had a preppy haircut and was wearing a Valentino tux. His shoes were highly polished soft leather, surely from Italy. If I knew anything, I knew my designers. I sighed at the fact that someone so young could dress so well. Clearly they came from Warren's side of the family.

“I'll take a martini,” he said with a snicker. His blue gaze was rowdy, his mouth pulling into a sneer. “Shaken, not stirred.”

“Stop it, Clark,” the girl with him said, and frowned. “He wants a Coke.”

“No, I want a martini.” He ran his hands down his lapels. “I'm wearing a tux. I should get to drink a martini.”

“You know I can't serve you,” Ashley said. “You aren't old enough to drink, so stop coming over here and pretending that I should serve you.”

“Aw, come on, one martini is not going to hurt me,” Clark said.

“It can hurt you,” Ashley said sternly. “It kills brain cells.”

“It kills brain cells,” Clark mocked. He turned to Ashley and narrowed his eyes. “I'm going to tell my mother that you talked back to me and refused to serve me. She's a Fulcrum. Everyone knows you don't mess with a Fulcrum. You're going to find your butt out the door faster than you can down a shot of whiskey.” Clark stormed off.

The girl stayed. “Don't mind him,” she said. “I'll take that Coke.”

Ashley poured cola over ice and the girl sipped it from a straw, chatting with Ashley. The music had turned from a slow waltz to a fast swing beat, and I couldn't really tell what they were talking about, but it seemed like Ashley knew the girl and the boy who had stomped off.

I perused the room, but saw that there was no opportunity to mingle. I checked my phone but Gage hadn't answered my text. Sighing, I pulled my attention back to Ashley. The young girl had left and we were alone again. “I thought you said you hadn't served here before,” I shouted over the loud music. “But you seemed to know those two.” I nodded my head in the direction of the table where Clark had flung himself into a chair next to a woman who looked like she was in her early fifties.

“Oh, yeah, no,” Ashley said. “This is my first time here. I met Samantha Lyn and Clark when I was bartending Clark's cousin's wedding in October.” Ashley grabbed a bar towel and wiped down the bar. “Samantha Lyn was bored and came over for a cola then and we struck up a conversation—sort of how you and I are talking now. I have a sense for people, and Samantha Lyn has her head on straight. She's a nice kid.”

“Oh,” I said, and sipped my drink. “Funny how you saw them at two weddings in a few months' span.”

“It's a small world,” Ashley said. “With a country club scene this expensive, it's a little inbred, if you know what I mean.”

“No,” I said, and shook my head. “I don't understand.”

“There are only so many people in the area who can
afford the fees. That means that whenever you attend one of these functions you tend to see the same people over and over again. It's sort of like attending a small college. After a while everyone knows everyone else.”

“Huh,” I said. “Sounds like you attended a small college.”

“I did,” she said, “but before you ask, I didn't graduate.” She pointed to her head. “Graduating sort of got blown away.” She tried to make light of her injury but she failed and could tell I saw through her. “Really,” Ashley said. “Bartending weddings brings in good money, and the people aren't all bad. Take Samantha Lyn—” She pointed toward the dance floor where the young girl was dancing with a reluctant Clark. “It's too bad that she's mixed up with Clark. He's trouble—a real momma's boy. I don't know what she's doing with him. If you ask me, she's out of his league.” Ashley shrugged.

Ashley took the half-f glass out of my hand and mixed me another drink. “This is called a Moscow Mule. It was created in the 1950s and uses vodka, lime juice, ginger beer, and a few drops of bitters. Try it.”

I took a sip and it was good. “I like the ginger,” I said. “But there's no way I can drink all this on top of the last drink you made me.”

She winked and poured half of my drink into a glass of her own.

“Wait, should you be drinking?” I asked.

“Don't worry. No one here notices. To us,” she said, and raised her glass and clinked hers to mine. “May we both find what we're looking for.”

That was something I agreed with, so I lifted my glass and said, “To us.”

Ashley tossed down the half a drink and then pressed her fingers to her head again and bit her lips. “Ugh. Excuse me for a minute,” she said, and headed toward a nearby door. As if on cue, the second bartender with a name tag that said Tracy came out of the hallway and took her place near the bar.

“Hi,” Tracy said. “Do you need anything?”

“No, I'm fine, thanks,” I said, and turned to watch the dancers. My cousin Bethany, Aunt Sarah's girl, came up to me.

“Come on, wallflower,” Bethany said, and took my hand. “You won't get anywhere holding up the wall.”

“I wasn't holding up the wall,” I protested.

“No, you were holding up the bar,” Bethany said. “I was being nice. Come on, the maid of honor should spend the night dancing.”

“Oh, right,” I said, and let her drag me toward the dance floor. After all, the night was young and my sister had just married one of the richest men in the country. I should dance to that, right?

“Okay, so I'm really drunk.” A tall blond girl came up to me and dragged her equally soused boyfriend with her. “But you're like that proposal planner, right?”

“Yes,” I said. It was nearly the end of the reception and I sat two tables back from the dance floor where only a few die-hards slow danced.

“Cool,” the blonde said, and grabbed a chair to sit extremely close to me. “This is Brad Hurst and I'm Jennifer McCutchen.”

“Hi, Brad,” I said with a small wave. I wasn't about to mention how weird it was for a couple to be Jennifer and Brad given a certain celebrity couple who had broken up while I was in junior high.

“Hi,” Brad said, and grinned down at me. He had a highball glass in his hand. His tux was undone. His suit coat was on a chair somewhere, I imagined. The shirtsleeves were rolled up, and his bow tie was untied and wrapped causally around his neck. He had brown eyes and well-styled shoulder-length hair. He flashed perfectly straight white teeth.

“So, Brad wants to use your services,” Jennifer said, and leaned tipsily toward me. Her breath was a cloud of alcohol vapor.

“He does?” I asked, and crossed my arms.

“I do,” Brad said, and gave a short nod. “Jen says so.” He waved at the blonde.

“Okay,” I said, and looked confused. “Why do you say so, Jennifer? Does he want to propose to a friend of yours?”

“Oh, no, silly,” Jennifer said, and slapped my knee. Her martini glass with pink liquid sloshed and threatened to spill on my dress. I moved a few inches back. “He wants to propose to me, but I keep ruining it. I always find out, you see. Isn't that right, sweetie?”

Brad merely motioned with a dip of his head and a swirl of his hand that she was right. He sipped his drink and I sighed.

“Okay, so how is engaging my services going to help not ruin the surprise?” I had to ask. The whole thing was a bit crazy. Especially with the state Jennifer was in.

“Oh, that's the great part. If anyone can surprise me, it's you,” she said, and tossed down the remains of her drink. “You see, I want a really grand proposal with all the bells
and whistles. Isn't that right, Brad?” She looked at Brad who just nodded. “I heard you were like the best at this engagement planning thing.”

“You did?” I asked. “That's nice. Who referred you?”

“Well, you set up Warren and Felicity, right?”

“Yes, I did.”

“They were engaged on a jet, right? There were lots of mementos and great decorations and such. Then you did that sparkly mermaid one, right?” Jennifer wobbled a little. “Now you're going to do something completely over the top for me. Right? And you can make it a complete surprise. Right?”

“Certainly,” I said, and shook my head because I knew I was most likely lying. She was drunk and probably wouldn't even remember talking to me in the morning.

“Good. Brad, give the lady your card.” Jennifer motioned for Brad to hurry up.

The gentleman dug a wallet out of his back pocket and pulled out a beautiful linen embossed card and handed it to me. “Call me on Tuesday.”

“Okay,” I said, and took the card, trying not to read it. I slipped it into my clutch. “Anything I should know to start planning?”

“Oh, yes,” Jennifer said, and leaned toward me. “I want Brad to propose in the most romantic way with all sorts of bells and whistles. I want it to be over the top.” She leaned back and waved her arm over her head. “And I want the entire thing videotaped. I want to be a YouTube sensation and the envy of all my friends. I want tears in my eyes.”

“Okay,” I said, and tried not to shake my head. “What sorts of things do you find romantic?”

“The normal stuff, you know, like candles and roses and playing our song on a big boom box and ice skating . . . yes, ice skating like in that movie, with flowers raining down on us.”

“Um, okay,” I said, and glanced at Brad, who merely grinned at me and winked.

“Here's the thing, though,” Jennifer said. “I have to be completely surprised. I can't suspect in the least what you are about to do.”

“What?”

“Yes, I have to be completely surprised or the whole thing is off.” Jennifer sat back and flopped her left hand on her lap and waved her right hand holding the empty martini glass. “If I'm not surprised, the whole thing is off.”

“What?”

“Brad has tried four times? Was it four or five?” she asked him.

“Six, actually,” he said, and leaned against the chair. “She figured me out each time.”

“That's why we need you,” Jennifer said, and turned toward me. “I want to be surprised and Brad hasn't been able to pull that off. It's my biggest wish—to be surprised. So, no surprise, no engagement.” She tilted her head and studied me. “Understood?”

“Okay,” I said, and looked from one to the other. They were completely serious. “You have to be surprised even
though you are hiring me to plan your proposal and will be watching every moment waiting for it to happen.”

“Yes,” Jennifer said, with a nod and a smile. “If I figure it out, I'll tell you to try again.” She crossed her arms. “And you will.”

“I don't know . . .”

“I'll pay you double,” Brad said. “Come on. Think of the word of mouth you can get for your business if you can pull this off.”

I scratched my head. “Okay.”

“Perfect.” Jennifer held out her hand toward Brad. “Come on, dear, I'm tired. It's time we went home.”

“Yes, dear,” Brad said, and took her hand, helping her up. They left their drinks on the table beside me. “Call me on Tuesday.”

“I will,” I said. I watched them walk out to get their coats and noticed there were a few die-hards still dancing. I glanced over to see Ashley back at the bar and went over to talk to her some more.

“Hello, there, my proposal-planning friend,” she said with a wane smile. “You and I seem to be the only two non–country club types left. Does that make us social heavies and not socialites?” She laughed, her chuckle deep and thick like a heavy smoker.

I looked around. “Huh, I think you're right. We are the only two women left who might actually work for a living. Does that happen often?”

“Yes, actually,” she replied, suddenly sober. “When you have to work you usually go to bed earlier and try to get
some rest. Socialites stay at parties because that's how they work. Networking for family and friends. For them it's all about who they know, not what they do.”

“That's an interesting observation,” I said, and put my elbows on the bar. “Lucky for me tomorrow is my day off.”

“Cool,” she said. “Do you want me to mix you up another exotic cocktail?”

“Sure,” I said. “I can't promise I'll drink it all.”

“The drinks are already paid for,” she explained. “You might as well use the free booze to expand your cocktail knowledge. You like the fifties, right?”

“Yes, I'm thinking it might be a cute theme for a proposal, especially with all the midcentury modern architecture in the area.”

“Well, then, let me make you a classic martini.” She poured gin and vermouth into a shaker and added ice. Then she shook it and poured it through a drink strainer into a martini glass. “This is a gin martini. Classically served with olives or cocktail onions.” She pushed the drink toward me.

I took a sip. “Strong,” I said.

She chuckled. “Lounge music and cocktail hour became popular in the fifties as a way to relax. The world had just come out of the war and a strong drink in hand was thought to be cool.”

“
Cool
meaning
drunk
?” I teased.

She took the drink from where I put it on the bar and tossed down a good half. I made a sound in protest and she shrugged. “Night's almost over. Don't worry, I'm taking the bus home. I don't own a car. Now, also popular in the
1950s and something great to serve at a proposal party is the champagne cocktail.” She pulled out a champagne glass. “You take a sugar cube and drop some bitters on it.” She held the cube between her fingers and carefully placed four drops of bitters on top. “Then you put it in the bottom of a champagne glass like so.” She dropped the cube into the glass. “Then you cover that with cognac.”

“Oh, that's going to be very sweet,” I observed.

“That's why you include the bitters,” she said, and winked at me. She poured the cognac until it covered the sugar cube and put the liquor bottle down. “Finish it off with champagne.” She pulled out an open bottle and looked at the label. “This is a very good year,” she teased, and then poured the champagne into the glass so carefully that the cognac didn't mix, but remained in the bottom of the glass. “And there you have it.” She put the champagne bottle down and pushed the glass toward me. “Go on, try it.”

“Cheers,” I said, and toasted her with the glass before I took a long swig. I got mostly champagne with a touch of cognac. The sugar cube had just started to dissolve at the bottom as I set the glass down. “I think that's more for show than for drinking.”

“It's clearly a dessert,” she said.

I noticed that she was weaving a bit and clung to the bar for a moment.

“Are you all right?” I asked. “Is it your headache? Maybe you shouldn't be drinking.”

“I haven't had that much,” she said. “It's this darn headache. I can't shake it.”

“Thank you for teaching me about cocktails,” I said. “I really appreciate it. Especially since you aren't feeling well.”

She waved off my comment. “I consider you a friend now. Anytime you want more information, just give me a call.” We exchange cards so that we had each other's names and phone numbers. “I'm always up for work. I could use the money.”

“Got it,” I said, and put the card in my purse. “Maybe you should have some coffee. The caffeine is good for a headache.”

“You're right,” she said. “Can I pour you a cup?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “I'm going to make a trip to the ladies' room.” I stepped away and then turned back. Ashley was pouring coffee into a white mug. “Listen . . .”

She looked up.

“I feel like we really bonded. Do you want to meet for lunch or dinner sometime? On me? One hardworking woman to another?”

Her smile was genuine. “I'd like that.”

“Okay,” I said. “I've got your number. Don't forget, my name is—”

“Pepper,” she said. “I never forget a friend. Besides, you gave me your card, remember?”

“Oh, right.” I felt a blush rush over my face. “Sorry if I'm a little heavy-handed on the networking.”

“No worries,” she said and sipped her coffee. “You're doing all right.”

“Thanks. You are, too.” I walked to the ladies' room thinking what a great night it had been. Felicity looked so happy when she and Warren left, I'd seen some relatives I
hadn't talked to in years, and I'd made a new friend. It didn't get much better than that. My phone buzzed and I looked down. Gage texted me back sending love and warm thoughts. I smiled.

As I stepped out of the restroom, the lights went up and the DJ turned off the last song.

“Hey, Pepper, we're going into town to do some club hopping. Want to come?” Whitney asked. She and Kelli came over to where I sat. I noticed that the guys had gone to get their coats.

“No, I think I've had enough partying for tonight,” I said with a smile and stood. “You go without me.”

“But we were your ride,” Kelli said with a faint scowl.

“No worries, I'll catch a cab,” I said. “Besides, you guys live in the city. I live in the suburbs. It's best I get a cab anyway.”

“Are you sure?” George asked as he helped Kelli into her coat.

“I'm sure,” I said.

Someone screamed. We all turned to the sound as one of the waitresses stumbled out from the back kitchen. She looked very pale and her expression was one of horror. Before I knew what I was doing, I was running toward her. “What's wrong?” I asked, and touched her. She didn't really see me. I think she was in shock.

“It's that bartender . . .” the waitress said, and pointed.

That's when I saw Ashley in the hall leading to the back kitchen, crumpled on the floor. I raced to her. She was too pale. I felt for a pulse and didn't find one. Leaning down,
I listened for breathing. She wasn't. “Someone call 911,” I shouted. I hit her chest and started CPR. Thankfully I was certified a few months earlier. When your adrenaline is going and you're actually working on a real person, it's very different than the dummy. I tried to remember to hinge from the hips and use the heels of my hands. I was so worried I was breaking her ribs. She was so small and so thin. But the voice of my instructor kept ringing through my head. Push hard!

Ashley remained pale. People gathered around. George pushed through the crowd with a plastic kit in his hands. He knelt down and felt for a pulse.