The Wicked Wife (Murder in Marin Book 2) (17 page)

Rob was pleased because the story that Sylvia—and now, her sidekick, his production manager, Holly—had an inside track in covering the one county story that was attracting enough media attention to have two helicopters buzzing over Belvedere.
 

The day of the wedding was picture perfect: cloudless sapphire-blue skies, mid-seventies, with a gentle breeze.

Before the ceremony began, William and Willow’s guests sipped and savored Krug champagne that came at a per bottle price that even the newlyweds considered excessive.

Holly, who had been pleased to crash the “get to know Willow party,” months earlier, was vastly more impressed with the display of opulence provided by an army of wedding planners, orchestrated by San Francisco’s premier party czar, Stanlee Gatti.

The welcoming reception and the ceremony was staged on the gracious and perfectly manicured green lawn in the back of the estate. Later, a sit-down dinner was to be served on the home’s expansive third-story deck.

William told nearly everyone he chatted with that he was, “About to marry the woman who reinvigorated my life.” His tone was calm and confident. He had the sophisticated demeanor of an aging Hollywood film star. He waited for his bride in a perfectly tailored Armani suit under an arbor draped with white roses that had been brought in that morning just for the occasion. The ceremony itself was placed on the lawn that separated the side of the home from the edge of the property from which attendees had a clear view of a sparkling afternoon on the bay framed by the iconic Golden Gate Bridge.
 

At precisely four o’clock, a string quartet made up of a cellist, a base player, and two violinists hired from the San Francisco Symphony began an expertly rendered interpretation of Felix Mendelssohn's "Wedding March."
 

The assembled guests rose to greet the bride as she was escorted down a gold carpet that was soon to be covered with white rose petals thrown before her by the wedding party’s youngest members, two perfectly attired flower girls.
 

Willow was a vision in a couture gown designed especially for her by Henri LeBon. It had one hundred and twenty feet of platinum silk fabric, stitched together with platinum silk thread. At first, LeBon insisted that the gown be his wedding gift to his muse. But eventually, she convinced him to accept a payment of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars—exactly half of his creation’s retail cost.
 

At first, Willow considered wearing a dress designed by Renee Strauss and Martin Katz. The silk bodice was laced with over one hundred and sixty carats of diamonds. It wasn’t the fact that Le Bon would have been livid watching her walk down the aisle in someone else’s creation, but the realization that William might find its twelve million dollar price tag too excessive, even for his perfect little flower. She was tempted to point out that the diamonds could be sold to LeBon’s lover, Jacques Allard, the great Parisian jewelry designer, for a tidy sum, but then thought better of it. Why give William any hint of her true frugal self?

James, who had served as his partner’s best man at his first wedding, was once again at his side. William’s brothers, Benjamin and Andrew, and Fran’s brother, Michael, were his groomsmen.
 

In spite of the fact that she had virtually no female friends, Willow realized it would be odd not to have any bridesmaids, so she chose Fran’s sister, Kate, her longtime agent, Adele, and her personal assistant, Andrea. The latter two knew each other well from many years of having of working closely in coordinating Willow’s endless list of public commitments.

During their fitting, Andrea shared her surprise at having been selected. “Granted, in the past, I’ve had to juggle a lot of passing boyfriends for her, but never girlfriends. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever taken a call from any woman claiming to be Willow’s friend.”

Adele expressed similar surprise. “Over the last few years, I’ve spoken to you far more than Willow. She’s been mostly professional, and always in a hurry to end any of our conversations. I didn’t think I’d be invited to the wedding, no less serve as a bridesmaid.”
 

Willow could tell that her father, Oscar Bukowski, felt uncomfortable escorting her down the aisle. Frankly, she would have preferred a number of other men in her life for this honor, but that would have invited yet another unpleasant topic to discuss with William. Like so many other aspects of her complicated life, it was one more conversation that could wait until after the wedding.
 

As for her relationship with her parents, nothing had changed: they were always proud of her success, but greatly disappointed by all their shared suffering as a result of Willow’s difficult adolescence.

Gloria often spoke of her concerns with colleagues at the school where she taught and at Saint Patrick’s second hand shop where she volunteered. Nearly all had suggested counseling, but Oscar was adamantly opposed to the idea. “Between work and outside the office meetings, I have little enough time for myself!” He once again explained his view that none of the unpleasantness between them was the fault of anyone but their one child. The idea was never spoken of again.
 

But today of all days, hearing Oscar bemoan the deep chasm that existed between child and parents was not acceptable.

“It’s Willow’s day,” Gloria reminded him, “All we can do is be here for her. I wish we had the chance to meet William over these past months, but from everything I’ve read about him, he sounds like a lovely person.”

Oscar nodded, but he couldn’t dismiss the question that had plagued him since Willow entered her teen years:
 

Why had she become such a difficult person to live with?
 

With William making their threesome a foursome, all of the Bukowskis posed and smiled for wedding day photos.
 

Gloria was greatly pleased that her daughter was certainly set for life and quietly saddened by the thought that it might be several years before she would have another opportunity to see her famous daughter.
 

 
Just as the afternoon sun hit the peak of the Marin Headlands on the opposite side of Richmond Bay, William kissed his new bride, and once again, the string quartet returned to “The Wedding March.”

As per Stanlee’s instructions, the newly betrothed couple walked off to a room in the back of the home for a few minutes of much needed privacy. The wedding party moved upstairs for a champagne reception, which was to be followed by a four-course dinner.
 

Finally, alone for just a few fleeting moments, William embraced Willow. “I can’t believe you are mine forever.”

“For eternity, my dear sweet William,” she reminded him.

James was jealous of William, and livid with Willow for persistently failing to respond to his calls. He focused steadily, however, on hiding every bit of his anger.
 

None of this would have happened without me, he thought. And that cold bitch treats me like I was a complete stranger!

To step out of his rising sense of indignation, James busied himself with the other guests. His mantra was pointed, if not obvious: how shocked he was that Willow and William had formed themselves into such a happy couple.
 

“I thought he needed to have a little fun,” James explained to one circle of friends. “He was so isolated after Fran died so tragically and so suddenly. Willow seemed like the perfect distraction for his gloom. I’ve never played Cupid, but this time I’m glad that I did.”

When, finally, the happy couple emerged from their cocoon, their guests surrounded them to toast their future happiness.

LeBon was the most flamboyant of them all. After clinking one of the many gold rings he wore on his finger against his Waterford crystal champagne flute, he declared, “I’ve read and watched and heard the news about this fabulous couple’s pending nuptials, so I decided that I had to come from Paris to see for myself. Well, for once, all these news people were right! They are a
fabulous
couple! Mr. William Adams, you can have her for today, and for a romantic honeymoon”—the crowd chuckled at that—“but afterward, I expect her back at work! Christmas is coming, and we have perfume to sell. We poor working class people have to get up every morning and go to work, you know,” he said, looking directly at William and winked knowingly. “Here’s to a most happy life to the woman so many women, and a few men, would love to be—
my darling Willow Wisp
!”

Despite straining to understand his heavily accented English, everyone raised their glasses and drank to the newlyweds’ good health.

Holding down one of the far corners of the patio were Sylvia, Jack, Karin, Rob, and Holly, who kept looking around in amazement.
 

“I wonder what the combined worth is of all the people on this patio?” Holly said

“You mean morally, or financially?” Rob asked.

“Oh, honey,” Karin sighed. She tugged on his sleeve in the hope that he’d be able to behave himself. Up until now, he had.

Jack was the only one who took him seriously. “Well, morally, I have no idea. But I’d say financially, if Adams represents one hundred percent, maybe everyone else combined adds another five percent, although probably not that much.”

“Really?” Sylvia said, as she continued to be amazed by the size of William’s fortune.

“Of course, I have no idea what that French fruitcake, LeBon is worth—” Now it was Sylvia who tugged on her husband’s sleeve in the hope that he would behave himself.

“The Bothertons, the Hassies, the Greens, and so on are worth a few scattered millions,” he continued. “Likely, most of that is in the value of the homes they own. But all that is just pennies next to Adams.”
 

“You and your numbers,” Sylvia muttered, hoping for a change of topic. She looked around, fearful that her sweet, but socially challenged, husband might be overheard.

“I can’t speak for the rest of you, but I’ll settle for a million of my own,” Holly said.

“I would too,” Karin, added. “No complaints.”

“What you’re seeing is the one percent at play,” Rob chimed in.