Terror in Taffeta by Marla Cooper Page B

constitutes an emergency in some people’s minds. While I was trying to decide how to approach a groomsman about the murder of a bridesmaid, I got a call from one of my clients who was having a full-blown panic attack over her “ruined” wedding programs.
    Tamara Richardson’s wedding was two weeks away, and the bride-to-be had opened the box for a sneak peek and discovered a misprint on page 3. I wished I could explain the relative gravity of having a bridesmaid sitting in a Mexican prison versus the last stanza missing from her favorite love poem, but that would have required getting a word in edgewise.
    â€œYes, Tamara, I’ll try to—”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œI’m sure they didn’t mean—”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œNo, I don’t think Rumi would—”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œI agree, I think they can—”
    â€œAll right. I’ll take care of it.”
    Brody laughed at my one-sided conversation as I covered the receiver and mouthed the word “sorry” to him.
    â€œWhew,” I said, hanging up the phone and sinking back into my chair. I was used to multitasking, but this was ridiculous. “Real detectives have no idea how easy they have it. All they have to do is question suspects and frisk people occasionally. I’d like to see them try to juggle a few brides while they’re at it.”
    â€œThey’d crack under the pressure,” said Brody.
    Nodding in agreement, I grabbed his fork and attacked what was left on his plate, realizing I hadn’t eaten anything in way too long. You’d think I’d be too stressed to eat, but I usually have quite the opposite reaction.
    â€œHelp yourself,” he said, a little bit of sarcasm creeping into his voice.
    â€œWhat? You were done.”
    â€œNo, I wasn’t. Some people pause in between bites to chew their food. You should try it sometime.”
    â€œToo bad. You shouldn’t have set your fork down.”
    He slid the plate toward me, dodging my fork as I aimed for the tamale. “Fine,” he said. “You owe me a street taco.”
    Smart man. You should never argue with a hungry girl holding a pointy metal implement.
    â€œBy the way,” he said, “when you’re done eating my lunch, you should call Evan. Not to add to your to-do list, but he stopped by earlier when you were visiting Zoe in the pokey.”
    Oh, yeah—Evan . I hadn’t had time to think about it, but I did kind of owe him a call after last night’s datus interruptus .
    â€œThanks for the message,” I said, reaching for the phone. “Now, please hold all my calls for the rest of the day. I have a wedding to plan and a murder to investigate.”
    Brody got up from the table, scooped up his empty plate, and gave me a wave. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”
    I licked the remaining chile sauce off my fingers before dialing Evan’s number, but he caught me crunching on a stray piece of jicama when he answered.
    â€œBueno?”
    I swallowed quickly. “Evan, hi! It’s me.”
    â€œHi, yourself!” he answered. “That was quite a date last night. I would’ve loved to have seen how it ended.”
    My stomach felt kind of funny, and my ears blushed a little.
    â€œYeah, sorry about that. We had a family emergency.”
    â€œSo I heard. Everything okay?”
    â€œNot really, but thanks for asking. Looks like I’ll be sticking around for a few days.”
    â€œThat’s great news!” he said. I was glad he thought so. I had so many reasons to hurry back, but at least getting to spend some time with Evan was a little bit of a silver lining.
    â€œSo when can I see you?” he asked.
    â€œUnfortunately, I’m going to be busy trying to get Zoe out of jail, but hopefully I can find a little downtime.”
    â€œAnything I can do to help?” Evan asked.
    Help? I hadn’t really