Something Wicked by Carolyn G. Hart Page A

that doesn’t have quite the right ring. Perhaps”—a pause for thought, then a triumphant pronouncement—“Oh, yes, I have it. Love Forevermore.”
    Annie strove for patience and forbearance, those saintly qualities. “This is a mystery store, Laurel.”
    “But love
is
a mystery, my dear.”
    Annie knew just how Doc Cummings often felt in the Asey Mayo books: speechless.
    Laurel burbled ahead. “Max tells me you are adamant about the red wedding gown.” There was the tiniest upward inflection to wedding gown.
    “Yes. Yes. Definitely yes.” Then Annie wondered wildly if she should have been shouting
No.
    “Your dressmaker—did I tell you I’ve been talking to her? Dear Mrs. Crabtree.
She
thinks red might be an enchanting theme color. We could special-order those glorious tulips from Holland. Of course, there’s always the difficulty of season, but in hothouses—”
    “Not red.”
    “How succinct you are, darling. It must come from all your reading. Oh, well”—Laurel was never one to beat a dead horse—“there are so many ways we can proclaim our love for mankind while we prepare for the ceremony. There is so much
unity
to be achieved. And I want you to take very good care of yourself.”
    Was it a non sequitur?
    “Yes, we definitely want to pamper you as much as we can.”
    Annie waited with growing apprehension.
    “Every society has its customs.”
    Here it comes. Annie’s knuckles whitened on the receiver.
    “In Morocco, the bride enjoys a ceremonial bath five days before the ceremony. Her friends adorn her with makeup and jewels”—a pause, then in a hopeful flood—“and help her paint henna swirls on her hands and feet.”
    “Laurel, I know you mean well.” The words almost stuck in her throat, but Annie forced them out. “I mean, I really know you do. But I’m not going to—”
    “They wouldn’t show,” Laurel said plaintively.
    The front doorbell jangled. Annie would have welcomed Count Dracula. However, her eyes widened as she saw her visitor.
    “A customer, Laurel. Sorry. Have to go. A customer.” She banged the receiver down.
    A remarkable vision stood before her: flyaway white hair,a shapeless quilted brown raincoat (she must be sweltering), and a quite astounding bird’s-nest hat. Yes, that hat could easily hold eight forged passports.
    “It’s definitely an inside job.” Henny Brawley’s version of a New Jersey accent was interesting. “I’ve interviewed the caterer and three of his assistants. No one could have tampered with the champagne. Now, the ginger ale is another matter entirely.”
    Annie couldn’t resist teasing just a little bit. “What’s an inside job?” she asked blankly.
    “Annie.” Patient forbearance. “I
assumed
you kept abreast of events. It was
ipecac
in the punch, of course.”
    This startled Annie into an exclamation. “No kidding!”
    Henny ignored this sleuthing gaucherie. “It was
obvious
to me right from the moment. Of course, I confirmed it with Chief Saulter this morning. Now,” and her voice dropped, “here’s the important point. The only persons who could have tampered with the champagne, fruit juices, and lime sherbet were the caterer and his two assistants.
They
have no motive. However, the ginger ale was taken from a store in the pantry. Therefore, the ipecac was in the ginger ale. Now, the Petree house is well-equipped with burglar alarms, there is a live-in butler, and there is no indication that anyone other than a member of the household had access to the pantry. You see,” she said chirpily, “where
that
inescapably leads.” A brisk throat-clearing. “There’s no doubt about it—that punch was poisoned by either Sheridan or Shane. And,” Henny concluded inelegantly, “I’ll put
my
money on Shane.”
    She might be masquerading as Emily Pollifax today, but she was still Henny Brawley with a bee in her bonnet.
    “Well,” Annie temporized, “there must have been more than three hundred people there last