For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (A Bridal Bouquet Shop Mystery) Read online

  Mayor Watkins, dressed in his conservative designer suit and tie, reached out and shook Gary’s hand, then gave Gigi a brief hug.

  Then I found myself oomp-ing when nobody was pah-ing. Liv must have cut the band when I wasn’t paying attention, giving me an awkward solo. I avoided her eyes and rested my tuba on the floor.

  The mayor held up his hands to mute the applause Gary and Gigi seemed to revel in. He then tapped the microphone.

  “Please be seated,” he said to the crowd, amid a pulse of feedback.

  He paused while the townsfolk lowered themselves into their squeaky and creaky lawn chairs.

  “As mayor, it gives me great pleasure to award, this day, the key to the Town of Ramble to our most distinguished guests, Gigi Welch and Gary Davoll, hosts of the reality television show Fix My Wedding.” He handed the wood key to Gary and a small bouquet Liv had made for the occasion to Gigi. White lilies (purity and sweetness), pink roses (secret love), and alstroemeria. Some say the flower, also known as the Peruvian lily, symbolizes friendship and devotion. Others insist it’s a symbol of prosperity and good fortune. In either case, the bouquet was stunning. The photographer from the Ramble On, the town’s local paper, flashed a picture of Gigi holding it.

  While the audience applauded, Gigi grabbed hold of the other end of the key and Gary took possession of the flowers, hoisting them up like the Statue of Liberty bearing her torch. The audience laughed and the photographer snapped another picture.

  When the applause died down again, Gigi and Gary stepped to the microphone.

  “Hey, y’all,” Gigi said. “We’ve been so looking forward to this visit.” Although her back was turned to me, I could hear the broad smile in her voice. “My thanks to all the citizens . . . here. We’re looking forward to some good ole Southern hospitality. And hopefully some fried chicken and cornbread.”

  Yeah, like that body ever actually consumed fried chicken. And I wasn’t sure they’d find it on the menu at the Ashbury, which boasted gourmet fare featuring locally grown organic produce, lamb and veal from local farms, and wine bottled by monks at a monastery in the surrounding hills.

  I wasn’t sure if, even if this were fifty or sixty years ago, Ramble was ever the Hicksville they’d apparently expected to find. With the cultivation and grace the area derived from founding fathers such as Jefferson and Washington, and the influx of a more cosmopolitan influence from the DC transplants who built second homes and sprawling estates among the hills of the area, I can assure you that we all had indoor plumbing, wore shoes, kept most of our own teeth well into our thirties, never married our cousins, and didn’t subsist on possum, squirrel, or polecat.

  A long, uncomfortable pause ensued, perhaps as the two scanned the audience and saw no sign of Ma and Pa Kettle or cows and horses loping down Main Street. Gigi looked to Gary.

  “Anyway . . . ” Gary cleared his throat and fingered his bolo tie. “We look forward to spending time in Ramble while we film and getting to know you folks better. Thanks for watching the show.” He blew the crowd a few kisses, sending loud smacking sounds into the microphone.

  For this we’d sweated for hours in the sun?

  Liv raised her baton to start another march when tires squealed on Main Street.

  “He’s a fraud!” A familiar-looking, buxom blonde hopped out of the driver’s seat of a decrepit van, then three other young women piled out of the same vehicle.

  “Fraud, fraud, fraud,” they chanted while hoisting crumpled poster-board signs. At first I thought the signs read “Gigi and Gary fixed my wedding.” Only they’d crossed out “fixed” and substituted another word—one Grandma Mae had told us should never leave a lady’s mouth, or a gentleman’s, either.

  Chief Bixby made his way over to the disrupting interlopers, followed by Ken Lafferty, Ramble’s youngest and most inexperienced officer. The rookie’s eyes were wide and he looked panicked.

  He should be. I recognized the blonde. She’d been one of the first brides to have her wedding “fixed” on the reality show, and it had been a humdinger. The episode was still my favorite. As I recalled, the bride’s name was Jackie. Gigi had dubbed her “Tacky Jackie,” which was also the name of the episode. And she’d been a nervous wreck. Gigi and Gary “calmed her” with dinner and drinks, a spa day and drinks, cocktail testing, a quick belt after her fitting, followed by a wine-tasting with more drinks after. Jackie had spent most of the episode, including the wedding, sloshed out of her gourd.

  The final scene of the show was generally reserved for couples gushing about the wonderful job Gigi and Gary had done. Instead, Jackie had taken a wild swing at Gary with a champagne bottle. He’d ducked and the bottle connected with the groom’s head instead. As the credits rolled, EMTs were trying to bring the groom back to consciousness while Jackie, her face a blob of mucus, was being restrained by the police. That one episode made Fix My Wedding an overnight sensation. I know it found a permanent place on my DVR.

  While Chief Bixby worked at quieting the four women, another cluster of unfamiliar people carrying signs had made their way from the street to the perimeter of the gathering. What they lacked in numbers, they made up for with noise. One of them, a rather rotund young man in gray sweatpants and a sweat-soaked blue T-shirt, carried a bullhorn.

  “We love Gigi. We love Gary,” he started, and his small group parroted his chant.

  The two groups continued their contrary shouting, while the amused residents of Ramble looked back and forth between the two as if they were watching a tennis match.

  The mayor whispered something to Liv, and she raised her baton. We quickly turned our eyes to the next march in the book. Coincidentally, it was “The Victors,” the march Sousa had acclaimed as the greatest fight song ever written.

  I was grateful the music was so familiar. While we played, I was able to follow the action. A private security team marched up, dressed in black and wearing reflective sunglasses. They held their arms out as if ready to take a bullet as they escorted Gary and Gigi back into their RV. As they drove off, the police led Jackie and her cohorts back to their double-parked van and sent them on their way. The fan with the bullhorn set it down, and he and his crew took to swaying and clapping to the beat of the march, as if they were in some college pep rally.

  Liv then led us in two more marches while the crowd settled and dispersed back to their homes and businesses.

  I packed away my tuba before peeling off the sticky hat and fluffing my damp hair. “How bad is it?” I asked Liv.

  “Not too bad. Kind of like you just stepped out of the shower. With everything else going on, I doubt anyone will even notice your hair.”

  “Plenty for Ramble folks to yammer about. I don’t know what will get more attention: those outlandish hootenanny outfits or Jackie’s appearance.”

  “Jackie?”

  I had forgotten Liv didn’t watch the show. She was currently addicted to A Baby Story, but I wasn’t sure if it was easing her fears about her upcoming delivery or fueling them.

  “Tacky Jackie was one of the first brides on Fix My Wedding,” I said. “The episode has a cult following.”

  “And that blonde was Jackie? Who were the women with her?”

  “Bridesmaids, I think.” I peeled off the leather overlay and shimmied out of the jacket, draping it over the back of my chair. The uniform would need a good airing out. I’m sure it didn’t look pretty, but at least my sweat-drenched tee felt cool by comparison. “We’d better get over to the food truck to pay for that lemonade you promised.”

  “Nick will give me credit, I think. I have an in with him. He’s dating my cousin.” She paused and fixed me with her most penetrating gaze. Sometimes I think Liv has superpowers that allow her to follow which synapses are firing deep inside a person’s frontal lobe. “He still is dating my cousin, right? You don’t have any plans to reconcile with a former boyfriend or anything,
do you? With Brad Simmons back in town . . .”

  “No, but I did promise to meet Brad for dinner, just to clear the air. But only dinner.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  “No, nothing more,” I said, with perhaps a bit too much force. “Things ended so badly. I figured it would be a good idea to meet again, to part on a friendlier basis. Don’t you agree?”

  “Maybe. As long as that’s what Brad has in mind, too, I guess it couldn’t hurt. Especially since you’re going to be working together. But make sure you get the scoop on Jackie. I imagine her presence here is going to make the filming more difficult.”

  “It’s a reality show. I’m sure they’ll spin whatever happens into more ratings. It seems to me the controversy could only help them. But yes, I’ll get the scoop.”

  We’d just stepped down from the gazebo when Brad’s mother waddled over from the small group of Ramblers still seated around the gazebo, probably talking about the recent excitement.

  “Oh, Audrey . . .” Mrs. Simmons dropped her lawn chair, reached up, and planted her hands on my cheeks. “I told you he would come home. It will be so good to have you in the house again tonight.”

  “I thought Brad was taking me out to eat.” I bent down to pick up her fallen chair for her.

  “And I told him that was stuff and nonsense. Why go out when I can cook a perfectly good meal for both of you? Put a little meat on those bones. But don’t you worry. Right after supper I can sneak out. I know when two young folks want to be alone.” She winked at me.

  “Mrs. Simmons, I—”

  “Now, none of that, my dear. You know what I like to be called.”

  “But it hardly seems appropriate to call you ‘Mom’ under the circumstances.”

  “Circumstances change, hon. You’ll see. We eat at six. Oh, it’ll be so nice to see the both of you across the table. We’re having roast beef.”

  I think she sang that last part about the beef. Then Mrs. Simmons pinched my cheek and practically floated away.

  “Well, if Brad thinks this is just a friendly dinner,” Liv said, putting her arm around my shoulder and leading me toward the food truck, “he didn’t clue his mother in.”

  The line was short by the time we arrived at the converted bakery truck. Nick stood behind the counter. He had draped a white apron over his baker’s whites, and sweat beaded on his face. A bandana tied around his forehead was damp. At least I wasn’t going to be the only one walking around with hat hair.

  “Lemonade for two?” Nick said.

  “Yes, and I need to settle my bill,” Liv said. “I hope you’ve been keeping track of the band members I sent over for lemonade.”

  “No need.” Nick slid two frosty plastic glasses to the front of the counter, each with a twist of lemon on the side and a straw. “I’ll consider it my donation in the spirit of community service. I might even be able to deduct it.”

  I took a sip. The sweet citrus washed away the vestiges of tuba-mouth. Before I knew it, I’d gulped half of the glass.

  “Easy there,” Nick said. “And I saved you each a cupcake, too. Last ones. Key lime.”

  “My favorite,” I said.

  “They’re all your favorite.” Liv quickly peeled back the paper wrapper on hers.

  “You should talk.”

  I immediately regretted needling her. Liv had been exceptionally hungry since the beginning of her pregnancy. The weight was starting to stack up on her petite frame, and I suspected the post-pregnancy weight loss was going to be difficult.

  “Hey, Audrey,” Nick said. “Now that the rally is over, I think I can manage some time off. You up for dinner tonight?”

  “Tonight?” I searched my brain for an excuse. Nick and I had never discussed having an exclusive relationship, so it wasn’t like I had something to hide. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell him I was meeting my ex-boyfriend. “I’m sorry. I have . . . plans.”

  “Oh.” His sad eyes reminded me of a puppy dog some ogre had kicked in the belly.

  “I’ll have to take a rain check. It’s just that you’ve been so busy at the bakery that I didn’t expect . . .”

  “I understand.” He forced a smile.

  “I’m . . .”

  “No, really, I do. But I will take you up on that rain check.” He smiled, and his eyes twinkled, sending a shiver down my sweat-drenched back.

  Chapter 2

  “So how are we going to do this?” Amber Lee asked. Amber Lee was the first employee Liv and I had taken on at the Rose in Bloom. A retired schoolteacher and lifelong resident of Ramble, she was our connection to the town’s current gossip. Technically, she was my assistant, but her skill and dedication had proven she was ready for more responsibility. She had become our girl Friday and had made huge inroads into Monday, Thursday, and Saturday as well.

  “The designated florist—that’s us,” I said, “shows the bride three possible bridal bouquets.”

  “And she picks one.” Liv crossed her arms and leaned against one of the worktables in the back room of the shop. The space was cluttered, but in a cheerful and familiar way, each wall lined with shelves that exploded with colorful ribbon, vases, and every accessory needed to help the town of Ramble celebrate births and birthdays, young love, weddings, and anniversaries. And, unfortunately, to cheer sickbeds and honor the recently departed. But such was the flower business.

  Shelby, one of our part-time employees, snickered. “The bride never gets a choice,” he said. “Gary always picks the bridal bouquets.”

  “I see I’m not the only one hooked on the show,” I said. “That will come in handy.”

  “Then how do they decide on the rest of the flowers?” Liv asked.

  “They never get into that on the show,” Shelby said.

  “But it was all covered in the paperwork Brad sent.” I plopped a large manila folder onto the work table. “Basically, after Gary picks the bridal bouquet, we construct coordinating sample bridesmaid bouquets, church flowers, and reception centerpieces, and Gary and Gigi will either okay or nix them. Hopefully they won’t nix them.”

  “But that means we can’t nail down the designs until he picks the bride’s bouquet,” Amber Lee said. “How will we get the flowers delivered on time when we don’t know what we need?”

  “That was the tricky part,” Liv said. “But I basically ordered everything we might need. Twice over.”

  Amber Lee whistled. “That must have cost a pretty penny.”

  Liv turned almost ashen, then she swung panicked eyes in my direction.

  “Brad did say the show had deep pockets,” I assured her. “I’m holding him to that.”

  “Anyway,” Liv said, “I ordered every flower that I could think of that resembled a bell and made sure we were well-stocked with roses, lilies, and all our staples.”

  “So I think”—I paced the back room with my hands clasped behind my back, feeling suddenly like a schoolteacher—“if we give them three very different bouquets to choose from, that should satisfy the camera. I thought I’d construct a very traditional, almost Victorian bouquet. Liv, could you do something clean and modern? And I thought maybe . . . Shelby.”

  Shelby’s eyes lit up at the mention of his name. The young man was a natural-born floral designer, even if he was still only partway through his horticulture studies at Nathaniel Bacon University.

  “Shelby’s designs are artistic and innovative,” I said to the rest of our staff, before turning to him. “I hoped you could come up with something novel and maybe a bit edgy.”

  “For the show? For real?” He clapped his hands gleefully.

  “I have to approve it first.” Shelby’s designs often teetered on the border of genius, but sometimes took a left turn at practicality. “But yes, for the show.” I couldn’t help a small sigh. I would never stand in the young man’s way, but he had a bright future
ahead of him—one that was sure to lead him away from Ramble.

  “And, Amber Lee,” I said, “you have a very important role to play as well.”

  “Let me guess. While all this other work is going on, you need me to run the shop.”

  I caught my breath. Would she feel like she was missing out on all the glamour of the TV show? I hadn’t meant to exclude her, but I felt that I’d picked the best people to make three distinctive bouquets. “Do you mind?” I watched her face for the answer.

  She smiled a broad smile. “I’m glad you have the faith in me. And I’m much happier behind the scenes. I may look like a diva, but I have no desire to play one on TV.” She fluffed her hair with one hand, pursed her lips, and struck a Hollywood glamour pose—almost an impossibility in the dowdy black Rose in Bloom aprons we all wore.

  “But there’s more I’d like you to do,” I said. “The nasty part of this filming business is that the privacy rules mean we’re not allowed to discuss our plans with any of the other wedding vendors.”

  Shelby raised his eyebrows about two feet. “Then how do we coordinate designs?”

  “We keep our eyes and ears open.” I gave a careful nod to Amber Lee. “There’s nothing in the rules about information we might happen to overhear . . .”

  She erupted into a full-throated laugh. “You’re making me a spy. You want me to exploit my connections in Ramble’s gossip network for the good of the company. Your grandmother would be . . .”

  I inhaled quickly. What would Grandma Mae think of the plan? She was sweet, but also savvy and coy.

  “Proud, I think,” Liv said. And in that instant, I knew it to be true.

  “I’ll be happy to listen for clues on the wedding,” Amber Lee said. “I don’t think Ramble is going to be talking about much else, anyway.”

  The bell above the front door jingled.