heydays so there was considerable resentment when he’d drawn her wedding and the rehearsal assignment.
Yes, his life had sunk to this: professional jealousy over writing about lace, flowers and cake.
Hang the self-respect, he had to get his old job back before he lost all his contacts. It had taken him years to slide into a world where informants would trust him enough to talk. Now, instead of spending his nights buying rounds of the hard stuff in bars, he drank warm leftover champagne and tried to think up fresh ways to describe wedding cake and white dresses.
As he drove through Dallas, he gripped the steering wheel and allowed himself a moment of regret for the days of not so long ago, when a Saturday morning would find him finishing a story of murder and mayhem from the night before, and then heading home to sleep. Sure, some Friday wedding parties ran late, but stories about bacon-wrapped shrimp and “extravagantly massed nosegays of buff roses” didn’t have the same urgency, even if he did file them while wearing a tux.
Tonight’s Friday mayhem was nothing more than a bachelor party. But he would get back to reporting crime for the Press after this time-out in the penalty box. Usually reporters were honored for breaking a story. Barry’s only problem was breaking it before the police did. He’d made a lucky guess involving a congressman, but the Press was making an example of him—an example that had gone on way too long, in Barry’s opinion—but it was either suck it up, or quit.
The amount people spent on weddings was a crime in itself and in this case, the bride’s family was loaded. The groom’s, unknown. Barry could have some fun with that. He’d ask a few pointed questions and watch the spin over the groom’s background.
Yeah, whatever. He pulled up in front of good old St. Andrew’s. What was this, the twelfth wedding he’d been to here? And all in the daytime. From March until early June, the sun shone directly through the huge stained-glass windows. Apparently the architect had built it that way on purpose so that there could be some truly glorious Easter mornings. A number of brides chose daytime weddings to take advantage of the same effect.
Barry pulled into a parking place near the kitchen entrance. It made for a quick getaway if he needed one. Call it a holdover habit from his crime reporting days. Just because he’d been assigned to the society section—Lifestyle section—didn’t mean he couldn’t keep his skills sharp.
He turned off the ignition and swiped a stray pollen smear—pesky blooming trees—from the dash of his fully restored 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1 351W. He needed wheels that blended in with the rich and famous. And since he couldn’t afford rich, he went for famous, or in this case a classic car. It was a good excuse to buy something he wanted to buy anyway. Auto therapy. After last fall’s public spanking, he’d needed a pick-me-up.
As Barry got out of his car, taking a moment to admire the blue finish gleaming in the midday light, a white Cadillac Escalade with custom peach, cream, and gold leather interior squealed into the parking spot next to his.
Paula Perry, wedding coordinator to the rich, exited the car.
He leaned over the top of his Mustang and made a show of checking his watch. “Rehearsal is scheduled for noon. Running late, are we?”
Her back to him, Paula dangled a pair of white satin pumps in the air. “Bride forgot her shoes. Can’t practice walking down the aisle without these.”
“Wouldn’t retrieving them be the maid of honor’s job?” he called, but Paula had already disappeared inside the church.
Barry slipped into the kitchen entrance just as a florist’s van pulled in. It was silver with a calla lily tastefully framing a discreetly worded Whitfield Floral.
Ooh, boy. This could be good. Whitfield meant understated and just this side of stodgy. Barry grinned to himself. The bride was trying to leave her inelegant past behind.
Maybe, just maybe, he thought as he made his way through the kitchen, the bride and her bridesmaids were going to wear Vera Wang. He oughta send fan mail to Vera Wang. Nobody highlighted boobs as tastefully as she did. Sexy-elegant. His favorite look.
Still grinning, he headed for the sanctuary. If Paula verified Vera Wang, then he was bribing the custodian to turn up the air-conditioning. Cold women and silk charmeuse. Another favorite look.
Barry stepped in the side entrance and checked out the bridesmaids. They stood in a clutch, watching as the bride put on her shoes. They all wore the uniform of the sexy, young, urban single with the exception of one who had a kind of country-cousin look going.
Ah, the pity bridesmaid. The one asked as a favor to someone. She had potential, though. He wouldn’t mind seeing her in a sexy bridesmaid’s dress.
As he walked toward the back, Barry looked up to the balcony for the photographer and saw a man in black slacks, turtleneck and silver hair tied in a ponytail. Adolph Gunnerson in his I’m-really-a-serious-artiste getup. Barry let out a low whistle. The man, himself, was setting up tripods. He must think he had a good chance for pictures in W or Town and Country.
He waved. “Hey, Adolph.” It never sounded right. Adolph wasn’t a casual “hey” sort of name.
“Barrett.”
Barry didn’t even know how the man had found out his given name. He rarely used it.
Leaning forward, Adolph gripped the railing. “I am the exclusive photographer and videographer for the Shipley wedding and associated events.”
“Congratulations. I’ve heard they tip well.”
Adolph glared down at him. “You will not need a press photographer. You will not need that.” He pointed to the digital camera in Barry’s pocket. “I will provide you with approved images for your paper.”
“You know, Adolph, in this country we have a little thing called freedom of the press.”
“Tell me again why you now report weddings?”
Adolph didn’t like him. Barry tried not to take it personally because Adolph didn’t like anybody. “Two o'clock deadline for the Sunday paper or we run with what I’ve shot.”
Talk about surly. The guy probably needed carbs. In Barry’s opinion, the world was a nicer place when people ate carbs. Carbs pillowed the hard edges.
He continued to the back where he could see activity in the narthex. The Whitfield florist and her assistants were assembling all sorts of white wrought-iron frames, ribbons, greenery and bows. The usual wedding glop. He pushed open the door. Might as well get the descriptions now.
“Barry Sutton, Dallas Press.” He flashed an oversize press card he’d made himself. People always responded better after having ID shoved at them.
“What flowers will you be using for the Shipley wedding?” As he spoke, he smoothly pocketed his ID and removed a small tape recorder. Sometimes he took notes, sometimes he didn’t. More often than not, he both recorded and took notes. There was a time when flowers wouldn’t have merited either.
“Ms. Shipley has selected a white-on-white floral theme. She will carry bridal roses, gardenia, tulips, stephanotis, and our signature miniature calla lilies in a clutch bouquet.”
“Very elegant.” He was beginning to recognize the favorite combos florists used. This couldn’t be good.
