reporting an axe murder. That would show Wesley.
Amanda Chandler downed the last of her grapefruit juice with an expression suggesting that she would refuse the offer of an antidote. Normally, she had orange juice, hot chocolate, and sweet rolls for breakfast, but an unhappy interview with her dressmaker the week before had changed her regimen. She would
not
wear an empire waist to “hide her tummy,” and that was that. Perhaps no one else at the wedding would know her dress size, but
she
would. A new note of austerity crept into the menus at Long Meadow Farm, prompting Geoffrey to inquire if this was the anniversary of the Bataan Death March. Amanda was not amused.
“I have to go and get my hair done this morning, Elizabeth,” she announced, frowning at her niece’s plate of bacon and eggs. “I have asked the caterer to stop by this morning, and I shall leave that detail of the wedding to you.” Her tone suggested that the mere discussion of petits fours and pound cake could be fattening.
Elizabeth took a swallow of black coffee. “All right, Aunt Amanda,” she said meekly. “Is there anything in particular that I should ask for?”
The words
melba toast
hovered on Amanda Chandler’s lips, but she said, “Draw up a list of thingsyou like, and ask if they can do them, and for how much. If that doesn’t work, see what they recommend. I will, of course, check with you when I return.”
And change everything to suit myself was
the unspoken message.
“Who are the caterers?” asked Elizabeth as an afterthought. “Anyone I know?”
“No. They are a new business. I haven’t used them before, either. They are called Earthling. Charles recommended them.”
As a reflex, Elizabeth looked around for her cousin, but Charles was gone, of course. With the wedding frenzy increasing exponentially by the hour, the Chandler men had taken to fleeing the house as early as possible each morning to avoid the day’s disruptions. Even Geoffrey, who normally kept bat’s hours, managed to wrest himself out of the house and down to the community playhouse before nine.
“I will be back in time for lunch,” said Amanda, who was changing from her reading glasses to her driving glasses. “Will you be here?”
“No. I promised Jenny Ramsay that I’d meet her for lunch.” Seeing her aunt’s look of stone-faced resignation, she added, “I’m having a salad.”
“Right. I’ll be off then. You might make a list of questions for the caterer while you wait. Goodbye.”
Elizabeth found a notepad beside the telephone. She wandered off into the parlor, muttering, “Carrot sticks … cheese cubes … onion dip …” The prospect of interviewing a caterer made her uneasy. The word conjured up visions of a heavyset older man with an Olivier accent with a rosebud in his lapel. And he would know what kind of rose it was. Elizabeth shuddered, knowing that she was not equal to the task of directing such a being.
Her list was going badly. She had changed theflavor of the wedding cake six times—mostly from chocolate to something else and back again—when she heard the doorbell chime. “Why am I so nervous?” said Elizabeth as she walked toward the door. “I’m sure he’ll be very polite—in a condescending sort of way.”
Summoning her brightest smile, she flung open the door. “Good morning!” she called out. “I am the bride.”
“Far out,” said the visitor.
Elizabeth stared at the apparition on Aunt Amanda’s personalized Orvis doormat. It was a gaunt, bearded man in his late thirties (or forties, or fifties). He was the type that made it difficult to tell. He reminded her of somebody—matted black hair, gaunt triangular face, and burning black eyes. A photograph from her world history book back in high school. She had it now! Idly, she wondered what he was doing on her doorstep in thongs and a Rainbow Sweat Lodge T-shirt.
“Er-uh?” said Elizabeth, trying to adjust to the fact that the Admirable
Amanda Chandler downed the last of her grapefruit juice with an expression suggesting that she would refuse the offer of an antidote. Normally, she had orange juice, hot chocolate, and sweet rolls for breakfast, but an unhappy interview with her dressmaker the week before had changed her regimen. She would
not
wear an empire waist to “hide her tummy,” and that was that. Perhaps no one else at the wedding would know her dress size, but
she
would. A new note of austerity crept into the menus at Long Meadow Farm, prompting Geoffrey to inquire if this was the anniversary of the Bataan Death March. Amanda was not amused.
“I have to go and get my hair done this morning, Elizabeth,” she announced, frowning at her niece’s plate of bacon and eggs. “I have asked the caterer to stop by this morning, and I shall leave that detail of the wedding to you.” Her tone suggested that the mere discussion of petits fours and pound cake could be fattening.
Elizabeth took a swallow of black coffee. “All right, Aunt Amanda,” she said meekly. “Is there anything in particular that I should ask for?”
The words
melba toast
hovered on Amanda Chandler’s lips, but she said, “Draw up a list of thingsyou like, and ask if they can do them, and for how much. If that doesn’t work, see what they recommend. I will, of course, check with you when I return.”
And change everything to suit myself was
the unspoken message.
“Who are the caterers?” asked Elizabeth as an afterthought. “Anyone I know?”
“No. They are a new business. I haven’t used them before, either. They are called Earthling. Charles recommended them.”
As a reflex, Elizabeth looked around for her cousin, but Charles was gone, of course. With the wedding frenzy increasing exponentially by the hour, the Chandler men had taken to fleeing the house as early as possible each morning to avoid the day’s disruptions. Even Geoffrey, who normally kept bat’s hours, managed to wrest himself out of the house and down to the community playhouse before nine.
“I will be back in time for lunch,” said Amanda, who was changing from her reading glasses to her driving glasses. “Will you be here?”
“No. I promised Jenny Ramsay that I’d meet her for lunch.” Seeing her aunt’s look of stone-faced resignation, she added, “I’m having a salad.”
“Right. I’ll be off then. You might make a list of questions for the caterer while you wait. Goodbye.”
Elizabeth found a notepad beside the telephone. She wandered off into the parlor, muttering, “Carrot sticks … cheese cubes … onion dip …” The prospect of interviewing a caterer made her uneasy. The word conjured up visions of a heavyset older man with an Olivier accent with a rosebud in his lapel. And he would know what kind of rose it was. Elizabeth shuddered, knowing that she was not equal to the task of directing such a being.
Her list was going badly. She had changed theflavor of the wedding cake six times—mostly from chocolate to something else and back again—when she heard the doorbell chime. “Why am I so nervous?” said Elizabeth as she walked toward the door. “I’m sure he’ll be very polite—in a condescending sort of way.”
Summoning her brightest smile, she flung open the door. “Good morning!” she called out. “I am the bride.”
“Far out,” said the visitor.
Elizabeth stared at the apparition on Aunt Amanda’s personalized Orvis doormat. It was a gaunt, bearded man in his late thirties (or forties, or fifties). He was the type that made it difficult to tell. He reminded her of somebody—matted black hair, gaunt triangular face, and burning black eyes. A photograph from her world history book back in high school. She had it now! Idly, she wondered what he was doing on her doorstep in thongs and a Rainbow Sweat Lodge T-shirt.
“Er-uh?” said Elizabeth, trying to adjust to the fact that the Admirable
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