MURDER at the ALTAR (The Wedding Planner Mysteries Book 3) (11 page)

              And he didn’t, which made for a resentful evening—Kitty washing up with the bathroom door cracked, changing into a nightgown in her bedroom in the same manner, keeping an eye on Sterling, who sat disgruntled on her couch, staring at the muted TV, refusing to let her lure him, but wanting her to all the same. She slept in her bed, he on the couch, but neither reached deep, restful sleep.

              In the morning they avoided one another, exercising the same brand of stubbornness. If Sterling spoke at all it was to complain that he didn’t like her cereal or that there wasn’t enough milk or that he smelled like potpourri thanks to her couch and the Chenille throw he had no choice but to sleep under. Kitty one-upped him by not responding whatsoever, which he tried to provoke by pulling cigarette after cigarette out of his soft pack of Camels. Each time she simply plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and held it in the kitchen sink faucet stream then tossed it in the trash without so much as a word.

              If this bizarre dynamic was killing Sterling, he didn’t let on. Kitty stole glances when she could, but never caught him eyeing her. Even when she got all dolled up in a flamboyant, sea foam green dress that hung low at the neckline and high on the thigh in just the way he preferred, it didn’t break him.

              And the long afternoon at the mansion rehearsing the wedding with Gretchen and David, the Downeys and the Cartwrights, and all the bridesmaids and groomsmen, while Christopher Marlowe grumbled his words and fumbled the rings, was no better. Sterling was on her like white on rice, but he never let up his dark, determined agenda of keeping her safe, while also punishing her, but for what she truly didn’t understand.

              “Where do you think you’re going?” Sterling had followed her down the corridor and grabbed her arm just before she reached the door.

              “I’m going to tinkle, Sterling.” she stated, enunciating each word as though he was a child hard of hearing. “I’m sure I can manage without you.”

              His face pinched into a grimace. He clearly didn’t appreciate her sarcasm, but she’d run out of patience last night. The problem wasn’t that he’d been following her around like a shadow. It was his dismissive attitude, the way he seemed to be able to shut off his attraction. It crushed her.

              Sterling banged the bathroom door open for her then shut it as soon as her black heels clicked over tiles. She didn’t hear his footsteps walking away. Good Lord, he was going to wait for her out there.

              Making matters worse was the fact that Sterling had refused to put on a suit that morning, claiming it was much too warm and his holster and gun wouldn’t sit right under a formal jacket. The man was about to attend the rehearsal dinner with the entire wedding party and he was dressed in a black tee and worn out jeans as always, gun at his ribs for the entire world to see. The only saving grace, if there was one, was that dinner would be served on the terrace behind the mansion and lit only by candles. It would be dim, romantic, and hopefully the guests wouldn’t take notice of him.

              Kitty ran the faucet, being sure to set a gentle, tinkling stream, and then rushed to the window, being sure to step on her tippy-toes so her heels wouldn’t click and give her away. She hoisted the glass pane upward and eyed the dark night outside—the stars in the sky and the soft grass that appeared to be only four feet below. It might be awkward slinking through, but it’d definitely be worth it. Anything to escape the likes of Sterling Slaughter.

              She landed with minimal impact and told herself Sterling couldn’t have heard the thud. When she straightened up she checked both her heels. Neither was bent or broken so she scurried off, heels shuffling over cushy grass, as she rounded the back of the mansion and came upon the grand, stone terrace. The guests were filtering through the French doors, like a slow-moving herd of cattle, and wandering through the tables, checking the names on each card to find their seats.

              Kitty took a moment to scan the faces, while at the same time keeping her eye on the French doors in case Sterling barreled through to seize her.

              Gretchen was on David’s arm and laughing it up with a few of her bridesmaids. When Kitty scanned further she saw Elizabeth and Kip Cartwright actively avoiding Roberta Downey, who perused the alcoholic beverages display on top of the bar, while the server on the other side waited for her to make a decision.

              As the crowd of guests thickened, Kitty kept glancing from face to face, but she couldn’t find Cliff anywhere. The server handed Roberta a glass of white wine, the very sight of which made Kitty’s taste buds tingle, then the bride’s mother wandered off to find her seat.

              Kitty was fast to approach.

              “Lovely night,” said Kitty, sidling up to Roberta. Kitty glanced at the stars and drew in a deep breath to really enhance the statement, but Roberta seemed more interested in her wine. “It’s supposed to be just as nice tomorrow for the wedding.”

              Roberta smiled, but it looked more than slightly pained. She sipped her wine.

              “I’ve never been married,” Kitty mused, hoping to warm Roberta up. The woman seemed cold as a salt-water salmon. “But I hope to one day. I really like Gretchen’s non-denominational theme. That’s how I’d do it. I’m not religious, though I do love the tradition of a church. The architecture alone adds so much atmosphere.”

              “Would you please stop talking?”

              Kitty blinked.

              “How rude of me,” Kitty laughed at herself, but had no intention of relenting. “Tell me, what was your marriage to Cliff like?”

              Roberta’s eyes glazed over. She shrugged then took another sip of her wine.

              “You both seem so in love,” Kitty pressed, knowing full well that Cliff and Roberta were the least affectionate couple she’d ever encountered.

              “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said, dryly, then snorted in delayed reaction to Kitty’s wildly mistaken observation. “We were never in love.”

              “You weren’t?”

              “Are you dense?”

              Kitty could see that Roberta was in a charming mood.

              “Why did you get married?” she pried.

              “We knew it would be mutually beneficial. You know, in terms of our careers.” Roberta’s eyes shifted, boasting, and Kitty could tell the woman would be proud to divulge.

              “How fascinating,” Kitty commented, breathy and intrigued and a little confused. “I don’t believe I’ve ever asked what you both do for a living.”

              “We run a website,” she said, vaguely.

              “Oh?”

              Kitty sensed the woman was giving her the stink eye, as she assessed Kitty’s potential for discretion. Then Roberta leaned close.

              “An escort service,” she confided. “Hot and Bothered,” she announced.

              It was a strange, remarkably creepy sounding company name.

              “It’s very popular,” Roberta went on. “We provide extremely good looking women
and
men to our clients.”

              “Interesting...” Kitty was sure to snap a smile on her face so as not to seem horrified.

              “In fact, the Cartwright Casino is one of our biggest clients.”

              “Really?” Kitty was genuinely hooked.

              “Oh yes. Kip likes to butter up the high rollers and offer them condolences when they lose big.”

              Marcus’ double life came to mind. He was a good-looking guy, young, stylish, and well mannered. Kitty wondered about the money he owed Roberta. Could it have been some kind of advance towards future shifts with Hot and Bothered?

              “You must have so many stories,” Kitty mused, angling toward the hard questions.

              “Ha! That could be true.”

              “So what did you and Cliff see in each other that made it clear this business venture would be worth entering into holy matrimony?”

              “Our inclinations,” Roberta said with a wink that made Kitty’s blood run cold. “Though I must say Cliff’s... appetite had a way of getting out of hand.”

              Suddenly a strong hand was grasping her upper arm.

              “Doll,” Sterling smiled through clenched teeth. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

              “Excuse me,” Kitty told Roberta, as Sterling dragged her away.

              When they reached the French doors, Kitty jerked her arm free.

              “What do you think you’re doing?” she snapped. “You really embarrassed me back there!”

              “What part of
never leave my sight
didn’t you understand?” he challenged.

              “Do you get that these people open up to me in ways they never would with you?”

              “Do you get that you’re typically ten steps behind me and constantly putting yourself in danger?”

              “How is Roberta dangerous?” she asked, nose in the air, and arms folded across her chest. She was forming an idea as to how the bride’s mother might be volatile—escort service very well could be a euphemism for
prostitute ring
and keeping a business like that under wraps could involve dark deeds, but Sterling didn’t know she knew any of that if he even knew about Hot and Bothered at all.

              “Why can’t you trust me?” he demanded.

              Kitty wasn’t sure if they were still talking about her sidling up to Roberta.

              “Why can’t you trust me?” she countered. “I know how to take care of myself.”

              Sterling released her arm, but took her by the hand and sighed.

              “When will this night be over?”

              “Why are you holding my hand?”

              “So you don’t run off again,” he snapped.

              She sulked at that, but squeezed him back, as the dinner got underway.

              They stood together holding hands, not eating, not moving, and not talking for the duration of all five courses. The string quartet played. The maid of honor gave her toast and then the best man took the microphone. Toward the end of the night, Gretchen and David stood at the French doors and thanked each guest for coming as they filtered out, making their way through the mansion to their parked cars out front.

              It wasn’t until the service staff began cleaning up that Kitty mentioned they could leave.

              “Finally,” he groaned, leading her through the mansion that was now empty aside from a few straggling guests and the cleaning staff.

              “Your turn on the couch,” he said, starting the engine and flipping on the Jeep’s headlights.

              “Aren’t you the comedian,” she said, dryly.

              “Laugh all you want,” he warned. “I’m sleeping in a bed tonight.”

              She huffed then ordered, “I need to see Trudy.”

              “Why?”

              “It’s tradition.”

              When she didn’t explain her statement Sterling snorted.

              “I see Trudy the night before every wedding so that’s where we’re going. End of discussion.”

              “Ah, Doll, have you noticed someone always gets killed at your weddings? Might be time to break tradition.”

              “How dare you!”

              He sighed, took her hand even though she refused to reciprocate, and asked, “What’s the address?”

              After she told him, she chided, “You’re wearing a suit tomorrow if I have to wrestle it on you myself.”

              He smiled, but Kitty knew it was for the wrong reason.

              “Hello, Ronald,” she scoffed with dry contempt.

              Sterling stood beside her and Ronald seemed preoccupied because of it. His brows rose, as he grinned at the detective he’d heard so much about, but had never met. “Is Trudy home?”

              “Yes, yes, of course, come in,” Ronald said, happily. “You must be Slaughter!”

              “You can call him Sterling,” Kitty offered. She barreled through to the living room then plopped on the couch. “Don’t make me ask, Ronald!”

              Sterling stared at her, appalled by this new side of her.

              “What? It’s tradition!”

              Trudy spilled in from the bathroom and Kitty felt immediately calm at the sight of her beehive.

              “Well, well, well,” she said. “It’s the night before the wedding already?” Trudy joined Ronald in the kitchen and grabbed four long-stemmed wine glasses so that her boyfriend would only have to deal with uncorking the bottle. “How’ve you been, Sterling?”

              He shrugged and told her
fine
, while looking around for an appropriate place to sit. Kitty was hogging the couch, arms and legs splayed like a starfish dying on a beach at low tide.