The Case Of The Vainshed Groom

“ITHINK I’M GOING to be sick to my stomach,” Dawn said. She gazed haplessly at Connie. Her friend knelt, scrubbing at a tiny spot marring the scalloped hem of Dawn’s wedding dress.

Connie Haxman lifted her eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

“I shouldn’t be getting married. It’s a mistake.” She stared at the clock radio next to the bed. In one hour she and Quentin would exchange their vows in the Sweet Pines Chapel. “Quentin doesn’t know me well enough. What do I have to offer? I don’t even know any jokes!”

Connie rose to her feet and tugged at her pale fawn jacket. “You’re the nicest girl I know.” She grinned saucily. “Kind of neurotic, but perfectly nice.”

Feelings ruffled, Dawn sniffed. “I am not neurotic.”

Connie glanced at the small tape recorder lying on the bed. “You’re the only person in the entire world who actually uses one of those things to make memos. And don’t forget, I’ve seen your Daytimer. You could singlehandedly organize an entire country.”

Dawn peered with worry at the tape recorder. Making verbal notes to oneself made perfect sense. She could reuse the cassette tapes countless times, helping the environment by cutting down on the use of paper. “That makes me neurotic?”

“In a nice way.” Connie laughed. “Chin up, my darling, you’re a gorgeous bride. This is nothing but jitters. Even I feel the jitters when I get married, and I’ve had plenty of experience.”

Dawn managed a small smile, but debated how much to tell Connie. They’d been friends since the day Dawn began volunteering for the Children’s Betterment Society, which Connie had founded. Mother had always dismissed the socialite by saying, “One can drape a hound in jewels and even take it to the ball, but it remains a hound.”

Despite Mother’s opinion, Dawn loved Connie. She laughed too loud, drank too much and wore vulgar clothing, but she had tremendous energy and a generous heart.

Dawn twisted her engagement ring. “I’m not—I mean—I don’t know. I’m not sure if I love him.”

Connie folded her arms, pressing her impressive bosom higher. “This is moving kind of fast. You met him at the Valentine’s Day ball, so that makes it what, four months?”

“It’s not that fast,” Dawn said hesitantly. Quentin swore love at first sight and had proposed three weeks after they met. “I am thirty, and I want children. I don’t have time to waste on a long engagement.”

“Are you asking my advice, opinion, what?”

Knowing only that she didn’t know what she wanted, Dawn considered. “Assurance?”

“All right. Quentin is good-looking and obscenely wealthy. He can charm the socks off a brass statue. He’s funny, bright, and I think your father would have approved.”

“Really?”

Connie chuckled. “One shark always approves of another.”

Not understanding the joke, Dawn peered closely at Connie’s face.

“Oh, please, my darling. Your father was a Great White. He didn’t get where he did by being sweet.” She held up a hand, displaying an impressive number of diamond, sapphire and emerald rings. “Do not get me started on your parents. We’ll both be sorry. We’re discussing Quentin.”

Dawn hung her head. Connie had disliked the Lovells as much they had disliked her. Occasionally she indulged in tirades, calling Edward Lovell a bully with ice in his blood and a stock-market ticker for a brain. Worse, she called Deborah Lovell a stuck-up, snobbish, bluenosed twit without an ounce of compassion. Worst of all, Dawn sometimes secretly agreed.

“Quentin has a lot of energy. He’ll force you to come out of your shell.” She held her hands wide in a gesture of welcome. “Maybe he’ll succeed where I’ve failed and draw you out into the open where you belong. You’ll make beautiful children, to whom I give permission in advance to call me Auntie.”

“Oh, Connie.”

“Oh, my darling, forget these silly jitters.” She sniffed and lifted her chin. “Unless you’d care to postpone this ridiculous wedding in the sticks and let me throw a proper bash for you? I still can’t believe, you’re not inviting anybody. Not even one reporter!”

Dawn sheepishly shrugged. “I have too invited people. Important people.” Her short guest roster included those people who had been especially close to her parents. She and Quentin had argued about including any guests at all, and about having a reception. He claimed anything other than a small, private ceremony would turn into a media circus. She argued that her parents’ friends would be irreparably offended if she failed to hold some kind of celebration. They’d compromised by holding the wedding out of town and keeping the guest list under thirty. “Quentin doesn’t like publicity. I don’t care much for it myself. Besides, considering my age, a huge wedding seems rather—”

“Watch it. I’m a year or two past thirty myself.”

Dawn hid a smile by lowering her face. “The wedding itself doesn’t bother me at all. I find it all very romantic.” Screwing up her courage, she admitted, “It’s another man.”

Connie gasped. When Dawn looked up, she realized it was a delighted gasp.

“I don’t mean it that way! You see, Quentin’s best friend has been my companion this week. He’s been…wonderful.”

Connie tapped her lower lip with a talonlike fingernail.

“We’ve gone hiking and horseback riding. I don’t know how many games of tennis we’ve played. We’ve gone swimming and had picnics. We’ve watched movies. I was reluctant to take this vacation, but now I’m glad I did. I’ve never had so much fun in my life.”

“You haven’t.you know?”

“Oh, no! Nothing like that. He’s been a proper gentleman. He’s Quentin’s best friend, after all. I don’t know why he wasn’t at dinner last night, but you’ll meet him at the wedding and I’m sure you’ll agree, he’s very nice.”

“You’re attracted to him.”

She nodded miserably. “I shouldn’t be. He hasn’t a serious thought in his head. Even his own family apologizes for his behavior. We haven’t talked about anything personal, but I gather he doesn’t hold an honest job. I think he’s a professional gambler. He’s rude to his own father. He teases his mother and sisters unmercifully. He has no ambition. He tells outrageous lies, then laughs when he’s caught in them. Altogether an inappropriate man.”

“But you fell in love with him anyway.”

“No!” Dawn closed her eyes. “It’s just that.around Ross I feel, I feel—”

“Pretty? Special?”

“Yes,” Dawn whispered in a sigh. “I feel so guilty and disloyal. What am I to do? I can’t marry Quentin under false pretenses.”

Connie laughed. She grasped Dawn by the shoulders and made her turn around to face a mirror. “Latebreaking news bulletin, my darling, you are both pretty and special.”

Dawn stared wide-eyed at the vision in the mirror. Appliqués of white roses and twining leaves overlaid the sleeveless, fitted bodice. Matching appliques covered the tea-length, scalloped hem, and a pair of embroidered roses fastened the narrow sash. Her hair was upswept into a French twist held by combs festooned with tiny rosebuds; a single strand of pearls encircled her neck. Cosmetics expertly applied by Connie made her eyes large and luminous.

“I think you’re beautiful,” Connie said softly. Her eyes glistened with tears. “My little mouse has blossomed. I wish you were my own daughter.” She snatched a tissue from a box and dabbed at her eyes.

Dawn wondered if Ross saw her this way when he stared so intently at her. She prayed Quentin saw her this way, too.

“Don’t worry about being attracted to another man. Despite your mother’s best efforts, you’re a perfectly normal young woman. It’s only natural to get the hots over a hunky man.”

Dawn frowned at Connie’s reflection in the mirror.

A soft knock on the door caused both women to turn. Dawn steadied herself with a deep breath. “The car must be here. I’m ready.”

Moving toward the door, Connie asked, “Are you sure? There’s still time to back out.”

Dawn clasped her trembling hands over her fluttering stomach. “Marrying Quentin is the right thing.”

“Good.” She opened the door.

Hands in his pockets, his tuxedo jacket hanging open, Ross Duke stood in the doorway. “Hi.” He extended a hand. “You must be Mrs. Haxman.”

Connie exchanged a glance with Dawn. Then she straightened her shoulders to better show off her bosom, cocked a hip, and laid her hand against Ross’s. “And you must be Ross.”

He kissed the back of her hand. Connie giggled like a girl.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make the rehearsal dinner last night. We could have gotten properly acquainted.”

“You can’t possibly be sorrier than I am.” Connie dreamily rubbed the back of her hand.

“What are you doing here, Ross?” Dawn asked. “Shouldn’t you be with Quentin at the chapel?”

“May I speak to you for a moment?”

He looked serious, even solemn, without a trace of his usual teasing sunniness. She just knew he’d come to tell her Quentin wanted to call off the wedding.

Connie looked between them. “I’ll go check on the car.”

Before Dawn could protest, Connie was gone. Ross glanced at the hallway behind him before slipping into the room and softly closing the door.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Her heart shouldn’t be pounding and she shouldn’t be thinking how devastatingly gorgeous he looked in a tuxedo, either. The summer-weight fabric draped gracefully over his broad shoulders and the stark white shirt set off his tan to perfection.

“Are you sure about all this?”

She focused on her restless feet, willing them to stay still. She didn’t dare look at Ross. The bells she longed to hear belonged to Quentin, not to this rascally playboy. “Sure about what?”

He lifted his shoulders in a quick shrug, then shifted his weight from foot to foot and smoothed a hand across the side of his head. He stared at the floor. “Marriage.” The word emerged in a rush, as if it pained him to speak. “It’s a major commitment.”

“I know about commitments,” she said coldly. “Is something wrong with Quentin?”

He looked up sharply. “You can do better than Quent.”

Dawn gasped.

Ross’s eyes widened and he clamped his hands on his hips. The action pushed back his jacket, revealing a cummerbund snug about his narrow waist. “That didn’t come out right.”

“I should say not.” The fear of Quentin deserting her faded away as she realized she’d heard about this kind of thing before. Ross must be one of those determined bachelors who considered marriage something akin to a prison sentence. Ross hated the idea of his friend falling into such a miserable fate.

“You’re not at all what Quent led me to believe. Maybe he isn’t the right guy for you.”

Emotion swelled in her throat and burned her eyes. She suddenly hated Ross for daring to speak what she felt. She especially hated him for being so attractive, for making her feel attractive, and for making her uncertain about the man she loved.

“Leave, please.”

“This is the rest of your life, Dawn.” He held out a hand and his fingertips twitched, beckoning. “You’re special. You deserve the best.”

What he possibly hoped to gain from this confrontation was beyond her comprehension. “I love Quentin, and he loves me. If you’d listen to your mother instead of fooling around all the time, you might understand what that means. Now, leave.”

His thick eyebrows lowered and his eyes narrowed. A dark flush rose on his cheeks. He turned for the door. “Guess I stepped out of line.”

She gazed upon his broad shoulders and lowered head, and suffered a pain so deep it threatened to double her over. She pressed an arm to her aching stomach. “Let’s not argue. Please. You’ve been very kind to me this week and I appreciate it more than you can know. I’d like us to be friends.”

He turned his head enough to see her over his shoulder. “Kind? You’re either stupid or completely clueless.” Shaking his head, he left the room.

He called her stupid? What did she expect from the likes of him? He’d spent the entire week undermining her confidence in Quentin. An experienced, worldly man such as he must have recognized her lack of experience with men. He was one of those predators she’d always been warned about, amusing himself at her expense—at Quentin’s expense.

She grabbed a tissue from the box and carefully dabbed at her burning eyes. She didn’t cry; she never cried. She certainly wasn’t going to start because of a man like Ross Duke.

Chapter Two

“Surprise!” Connie Haxman hooted a laugh as she tugged the arm of a tiny woman.

Seated at the head table in the reception hall, Dawn tensed. She stared at the newcomer’s emerald-green satin suit and the marabou-festooned hat perched at an angle on her carroty hair. Desdemona Hunter, society reporter and author of the biweekly “Party Patter” column, was one of Connie’s dearest friends. Desdemona—called Dizzy by her friends—graced every guest list that mattered in southern Colorado. None of Connie’s countless charity balls, dinners or holiday celebrations could proceed without Desdemona’s reporting.

Next to Dawn, Quentin choked on the champagne he was in the midst of swallowing. Desdemona’s photographer snapped pictures. The popping flash blinded Dawn, and red spots danced in the air before her eyes. Quentin coughed into a napkin.

Dawn thrust a hand toward the photographer. “Please! No more photographs. Please.”

“It’s my gift to you, my darling. The wedding of Dawn Lovell-Bayliss is front-page news.” Connie looped an arm around Desdemona’s shoulders. “Don’t you agree, Dizzy?”

“Or at least, worthy of an entire column. My, my, my, just look at all these lovely people! Is that Judge Gideon? It is him! Ooh, and Elizabeth Masterson. Whatever is your connection to her?” Desdemona nodded vigorously, making her marabou feathers jiggle and bob. “Your dress is exquisite, Dawn. Is that a Karan, dear?”

“Uh, no, it’s an Angelo. It’s not an original, though, I didn’t have time to order a custom—”

Quentin pressed his mouth against Dawn’s ear. “Get rid of that idiot right now!”

Dawn recoiled from Quentin’s red face and glittering eyes. As she stared in horror at the purple splotches spreading across his cheeks and the vein pulsing in his forehead, she realized she had much to learn about her new husband.

The wedding ceremony in Sweet Pines Chapel had been accomplished without a hitch. Two dozen of Dawn’s friends had come from Colorado Springs, and the small gathering had nearly filled the tiny chapel. The only low spot had been Ross Duke. He’d performed his bestman duties exactly as he was supposed to, but he’d been grim-faced throughout the ceremony. Now everyone gathered at the Elk River lodge where Elise Duke and her daughters had arranged a sit-down reception dinner worthy of royalty. Everyone except Ross; he’d disappeared.

Despite Ross’s peculiarities, the evening reception had unfolded with the watercolored loveliness of a sweet dream. The tables were laid with snowy cloths and silver service, and draped with garlands of silk roses. Dawn had giggled throughout toasts to the happy couple. She and Quentin had fed each other wedding cake. They’d danced. They’d eaten a dinner of venison medallions and chanterelles prepared by a master chef. They drank champagne and gazed into each other’s eyes.

Now Connie had turned the dream into a nightmare by bringing in a reporter. To make matters worse, Dizzy Hunter and her photographer acted like a magnet, drawing the wedding guests near. They were the cream of Colorado Springs society: judges, high-powered attorneys, doctors and CEOs. Dainty purses unsnapped as women checked their lipstick and hair; men straightened ties and smoothed jackets. Dawn feared the quiet, dignified celebration she’d promised Quentin was about to turn into the media circus he had feared.

Dawn did not understand Quentin’s aversion to media attention, but she did realize he was serious about it. She stood abruptly, waving both hands at Connie and Desdemona.

“Stop taking photographs right now!”

Glaring suspiciously at Dawn, Desdemona made a curt hand signal. The photographer lowered his camera. People hushed, watching Dawn. Some appeared offended by her outburst, but most looked surprised.

“Excuse me.” Quentin leapt off his chair. Holding the napkin close to his face, he hurried toward the men’s room. With his hunched shoulders, shuffling walk and the napkin pressed to his face, he gave the impression of a man about to be sick.

Desdemona clamped her fists on her hips. “Well!”

“Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry.” Connie hurried to Dawn’s side. “I didn’t mean to make him angry. What did I do?”

“I—I’m not sure. Oh, Ms. Hunter, I’m so embarrassed. I had no idea Quentin would.” Dawn stared helplessly in the direction her husband had gone. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to apologize for what had happened, or even if an apology were required. “I believe my husband has a phobia.”

“This is my fault, Dizzy,” Connie said. “Dawn told me not to invite reporters.”

“A phobia about reporters.” Desdemona’s face was skewed by a skeptical grimace. “Oh, right.”

The photographer turned his camera over in his hands. “Maybe it’s the flash, Dizzy. He could be a war vet or something. You know, having flashbacks about mortar rounds.”

The Colonel appeared. Wearing a somber black tuxedo, with his silver hair cropped short and his back as erect as if he wore a brace, he cut an imposing figure. He glared down his nose at the photographer. The young man quailed under the Colonel’s fearsome gaze.

“Is there a problem, Mrs. Bayliss?”

It took a few seconds for Dawn to realize the Colonel was addressing her. She glanced at her guests. She sensed pity mixed with censure, for Quentin Bayliss was not one of them and his actions now highlighted his not belonging in their society. She imagined the gossip that would soon be rippling along golf courses and through country clubs, and deeply regretted not following Quentin’s advice in forgoing a reception. She forced a smile to assure her guests all was well. “Uh, no, sir, Colonel, sir. No problem.”

Desdemona pressed forward. “Colonel Horace Duke! Sir, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.” She grabbed his right hand in both of hers and pumped it. “Desdemona Hunter. Surely you follow my column. I adore what you’ve done with the lodge. Ralphie Beerson let it go to pot, and it was a crying shame. I’d love to see this place make a comeback as the place to party.”

Connie drew Dawn away from the table. “I’m so sorry, my darling. I only meant to give a gift you could keep in your scrapbook. Can you ever forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I’m certain Quentin is finding the humor in this by now.” She eyed the Colonel, whose crispness was fading fast under the onslaught of Desdemona’s rapid-fire compliments. A smile appeared on his craggy face.

The smile reminded her of Ross, who, in height and build, resembled his father. Ross had disappeared from the reception soon after the toasts had ended and before the dancing began. He hadn’t spoken a word to her since the confrontation in her room.

“Dawn?” Connie’s voice was low with concern.

She shook away thoughts of Ross. “I don’t think anybody approves of Quentin. Look at them whispering.”

“Don’t be silly. Everyone thinks he’s charming. They’re concerned for you, that’s all.”

Feeling pity for me, more likely, Dawn thought. She hated being the target of pity, and avoided the countryclub-golfing circuit because she knew people pitied her. Mousy, awkward and unfashionable, she’d never lived up to her mother’s beauty and flair, or her father’s intelligence and ambition. Now they probably thought she had married beneath her. They did not understand Quentin loved her for herself. “Do you think it’s too early for Quentin and me to retire to our cabin?”

“That’s a marvelous idea. I’ll ask someone to go in after Quentin and make certain he’s okay.” She smiled broadly. “I bet his nerves finally caught up to him. I have never in my life seen such a coolheaded groom. Ha! I knew it had to be an act.”

When Connie left her, Dawn looked around the hall for any sign of Ross. As people tried to catch her eye, she regretted even more deeply inviting them to her wedding. She’d done so out of obligation, because if her parents were alive they would have invited these people. Their jostling around Dizzy Hunter in the hope of a photo opportunity proved Dawn’s wedding was merely another chance to be seen in the company of the right people. Unlike Ross, who had never seemed to care a whit about her breeding or who she knew or the size of her stock portfolio. She hated herself for wanting one last glimpse of him, for wanting to hear his rich, good-humored voice one more time. She especially hated how much his coldness hurt her feelings.

She lowered her gaze to her wedding ring, a simple gold band nestled against the gaudy engagement diamond. She was Mrs. Quentin Bayliss until death do them part. From this day forward only her husband deserved her love, attention or concern.

Ross Duke was nothing but a memory.

“MRS. BAYLISS,” Quentin said. He held Dawn’s hand and squeezed her fingers. He gestured at the front door of the Honeymoon Hideaway cabin.

“Mr. Bayliss,” she replied. Enchanted, excited and a little bit afraid, she squeezed his hand in return. “It’s so pretty.”

“I knew you’d like it. Those sensible clothes of yours hide a romantic streak as deep as the Grand Canyon.”

Discomfited he’d noticed and pleased he had, she giggled. “I can’t imagine anything more romantic than this.”

Tiny white lights draped in the bushes and trees lighted the gravel path leading from the lodge to the cabins. The four Honeymoon Hideaway cabins were angled and landscaped so each had a private entryway. Spotlights illuminated a central pond where triple fountains gleamed like quicksilver.

He unlocked the door, then bowed to her. “Might I have the honor of carrying my lovely bride over the threshold?”

Her knees wobbled, and her heart pounded so hard that she felt positive it might beat its way free of her body. “Please.”

He pushed open the door, then scooped Dawn into his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Laughing, he carried her into the cabin, and set her carefully on her feet. For a moment she thought he was going to embrace and kiss her, but he turned toward the bar where champagne was chilling in a silver bucket.

Disappointment filled her. Quentin was always a perfect gentleman and never pressed her sexually. She considered his restraint one of his best qualities. Predators wanted either sex or money from a woman, and Quentin was no predator. Still, she’d hoped marriage would make him more affectionate.

She wandered slowly, fearing to blink lest this beautiful room disappear. Her shoes sank luxuriously into the velvety carpet. She eyed a low table with a pickled finish that gave the wood a rosy glow. The entire room seemed to glow. She edged closer to the bed.

Bed seemed far too mundane a noun to describe the plush wonder of the king-size mattress covered with a confection of pink satin and ecru lace, piled high with pillows. It seemed to invite her to jump into its plumpness.

“Would you like me to start a fire, darling?” Quentin asked.

“It would be pretty, but much too warm. I think not.” She enjoyed his handsome smile. Despite a tendency to fat, he presented a solid, masculine figure. She loved his thick, black hair and couldn’t wait to run her fingers through it. He held out a flute of champagne and a silver tray piled high with chocolate truffles.

At his urging, she selected a truffle. “No more champagne, thank you. I’ve already imbibed enough.”

His eyebrows raised and the corners of his mouth turned down. “A private toast.”

“You’re the true romantic, not me.” She accepted the champagne. Behind her the bed seemed to whisper her name and she tingled with anticipation. “To what shall we drink?”