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“I haven’t been there yet,” said Milton Bagdad, the last of the five newbies making up the table. “I love traveling around, even if it’s just from door to door.”

  “And in black tie, no less,” Wendy added with a wink as she eyed the handsome young man with the irresistible dimples and mop of curly blond hair.

  To be sure, he did cut quite a figure in his tux; but then, as Party Palooza’s jack-of-all-trades, it was among his duties to deliver signing telegrams all over Rosalie and the vicinity.

  Only when he was off the clock did he get to relax in shorts and sneakers in front of the TV like a regular guy, stretching his legs in his recliner while drinking beer and scrolling on his phone.

  Wendy amused herself with the image of Milton ringing doorbells to deliver those delirious telegrams and briefly reflected once again on her table of newbies. She could not possibly have assembled a quirkier group of people if she had summoned them from consulting a Ouija board. They would likely be a challenge to teach, but they also might turn out to be a lot of fun, and she was banking on the latter to help her through it all.

  Then she pointed once again to Vance Quimby. “You know what? Before I forget or get tied up with other people, why don’t I take you over to meet Merrie and Rex Boudreaux right this second, and the three of you can get started talking about party planning? Milton, you could go with us, too, since you know some of the ropes.”

  “That I do.”

  Wendy glanced quickly around the table. “Do any of the rest of you want to come? They really are the best at what they do.”

  There were no takers among the others, however. “Now, don’t any of you leave before we get back,” Wendy told the rest. “I insist you three ladies take home a piece of wedding cake to put under your pillows for good luck and sweet, romantic dreams. That’s how it’s done here in Rosalie, you know.”

  * * *

  Wendy thought Merrie and Rex Boudreaux just might be the cleverest couple of entrepreneurs in the world. Or at least in Rosalie. When it came to parties and receptions, they did it all. They could dress up as clowns, cartoon characters, historical figures, or famous actors. They worked wonders with makeup, balloons, party favors, and costumes to entertain children, and they weren’t half bad playing corny speaking or singing parts, even though they sometimes fell back on lip-synching to recordings when discretion was the better part of valor.

  When quiet, aristocratic elegance for adults was the goal, they pulled off that kind of celebration equally well, and their reputation had grown exponentially since they had come to Rosalie from the New Orleans French Quarter several years ago. The original Party Palooza was down there, too, and it was still being run by Rex’s maiden aunt, Mathilde Boudreaux.

  At one point, the short, graying, but thoroughly organized little dynamo had encouraged her nephew and his wife to branch out on their own. “I know it’s not comfort food like fried chicken or catfish with hush puppies or anything close to that you’ll be selling,” she had told them together in a pep talk for the ages. “Instead, you’ll be selling a different type of comfort that comes with celebrating the milestones of people’s lives, and I’ve proven there’s a huge market for it with both my parties and singing telegrams.”

  She had also done a substantial amount of research for them, suggesting that they move quickly into the vacuum left when Rosalie’s loopy grand dame of party planners, Fayette Marie LaFonda, had retired and moved to Arizona with its dry warmth to try to give her eternal asthma the old heave-ho.

  “She’d become the Queen of the Cough, as someone in Rosalie said,” Mathilde had explained as a footnote.

  Fayette Marie had also been socially reserved and all about letting people come to her with her many strings of pearls hanging down over her prominent bosom when they sought advice about their events; but Party Palooza had taken no prisoners with their aggressive advertising in the Citizen and on the local broadcast outlets. Thanks to Aunt Mathilde, they knew in advance that there were boatloads of money to be made in a storied old river port like Rosalie, and they had definitely been making the most of it.

  At the other end of the tent, where the crowd was far more sparse, Wendy began introducing Vance Quimby to Rex Boudreaux first. “Rex is the brawn behind Party Palooza,” she added as the two men shook hands vigorously.

  Rex was undoubtedly a hulking specimen of a man, standing six foot five with a forehead that overhung his deep-set, dark eyes like a cliff. He towered over everyone, including nearly all of the many police officers milling around, and his booming voice was always an immediate attention-grabber, if not even somewhat startling at times. His impressive set of even white teeth and full head of dark hair rounded out his mesmerizing appearance. There was even about him a believable echo of the Classic Hollywood leading man. Had he missed his calling?

  “We’re always happy to meet new clients,” Rex said, taking one of his cards out of his tuxedo pocket and handing it over to Vance. “As Wendy may have told you, if we can’t stage your party idea, it simply can’t be done.”

  Wendy continued her introductions, pointing to Merrie next, whose smile was as captivating as her husband’s was. “And our Merrie here is the raving beauty to Rex’s brawn.”

  Merrie waved her off but managed something close to a giggle. “You flatter me, Wendy.” Then she extended a bejeweled hand to Vance, and the two exchanged pleasantries.

  If anything, Wendy was reserved in her description. Merrie Boudreaux stood poised before the group in a breathtaking aqua gown—still a stunning woman in her early forties with a beauty mark beneath her right cheekbone and long, dark eyelashes that needed not a hint of mascara to dazzle. They set off the palest of blue eyes, complementing her ivory skin with its pleasing hint of a rosy blush. And then there was her voice—melodious, cultured, measured—it had a reassuring authority about it that drew customers in effortlessly. It seemed to be saying to them, “You can rely on my advice for a successful event. Trust me.”

  Merrie lost no time in pursuing Vance Quimby as the potential customer he was. “And just what type of party were you thinking of throwing?”

  Vance shrugged his shoulders but was hardly at a loss for words. “I have to be honest with you and say that I’m not quite there yet. You see, I’ve been in Rosalie the last couple of months to do research for this Southern novel I want to write. Haven’t even thought up a good title yet. And it won’t be the Margaret Mitchell kind of thing, you understand. Something more contemporary, less predictable. No cotton fields back home or anything like that. I’m thinking of trying my hand at something mysterious and Gothic. Meanwhile, I’ve been getting the lay of the land regarding dialect, the food people eat around here, the pace they prefer—all the little details that make the difference to a writer and the believable universe he has to create. I know next to nothing about the South, you see, since I’m from Omaha, Nebraska. But I do know that you can’t write what you don’t know anything about—unless you do the research. So, here I am paying my dues. Wendy’s even going to teach me some bridge so I can try to interact socially with some of you Rosalieans. Or at least that’s the plan.”

  “What an interesting approach,” Merrie said, and then turned to Wendy. “Well, I knew through the grapevine about your success with the Bridge Bunch out at the RCC, but I had no idea you were actually going to start teaching people, too. Maybe I’ll even think about taking up the game myself—that is, if I can ever find the time with the breakneck schedule Rex and I keep.”

  “You’ll never have the time for card games, honey,” Rex said, shaking his head but maintaining a smile. “We have all we can handle. We’re victims of our own success when it comes to leisure activities. I guess you could call us the party planners who never get to party themselves.”

  Then the kibitzing Milton Bagdad broke in. “They keep me plenty busy, too, Mr. Quimby. People can’t seem to get enough of my singing telegrams. A few’ll even use any old occasion or excuse for a return engagement for a relative or friend. I think everyone likes to collect the little miniature rag dolls in tuxes and top hats made out of cloth that I leave as a souvenir on every delivery. They’re really so cute.”

  Merrie laughed brightly and pointed toward her husband. “They’re the cutest little things ever. They were Rex’s aunt Mathilde’s idea a while back, and they’ve been a big winner for us. That, and Milton’s professional singing voice. When our previous singer unexpectedly quit on us a few months ago, we didn’t think we’d ever find someone who could do the job as well as he could. But our Milton here majored in theater arts down at LSU, and he took us up on this entry-level job. There could be more responsibility and money for him in the future, of course.”

  Milton closed one eye and managed a wry grin. “Hey, you gotta start somewhere. It’s not exactly Broadway or even regional theater, but at least I get to sing and do a little Fred Astaire routine with my cane. I think the element of surprise is what really blows people’s minds. I mean, no one ever expects a singing telegram to show up at their house or workplace.”

  “He’s perfectly charming with his moves,” Merrie said. “No one else could touch him during the auditions. It’s no wonder we sometimes have a repeat customer or two. That’s when you really know you’re doing things right.”

  “Maybe one of these days I’ll order one up for Ross down at the police station,” Wendy added with a wink. “When he least expects it.”

  * * *

  Bishop Gunn had played their last set, and the crowd had thinned out considerably in both tents. The event was essentially over, especially since there was no honeymoon getaway to stage with the traditional throwing of rice by a noisy, well-wishing crowd; nor any cans tied to the end of a bumper with tacky soap signs scribbled on the rear window for the bride and groom to endure as they sped away to their future.

  Wendy and Ross had been joined at one of the round tables by her father and Lyndell Slover, who had disdained her usual crisp business suit for a romantic, flowing gown in a shade that could best be described as “close to champagne.” She had never looked less like the no-nonsense editor she was and more like a woman in the midst of a promising relationship, particularly with the gardenia she had tucked behind her right ear. Billie Holiday could not have worn it better. Wendy had decided that she was fine with it all as long as it made her father happy. He had been a widower now for nearly a dozen long years of healing. Perhaps he really was ready to move on.

  “I think it all went well, daughter a’ mine,” Bax told Wendy as he nursed one last glass of champagne. “Were you pleased with everything?”

  “You know perfectly well I was, Daddy,” she said while sitting next to Ross, holding his hand.

  “You outdid yourself, Bax,” Ross added. “And who knew you had such wild moves on the dance floor once your jacket came off ?”

  Lyndell threw her head back and laughed. “He gave me quite a workout, I’ll tell you that.”

  “All your bridge pals seemed to have a good time, too,” Bax said. “I’m not talking about your newbies. They seemed a tad bit nervous, if you ask me. I meant Miz Deedah and her son, Hollis.”

  Wendy nodded enthusiastically. Deedah and Hollis Hornesby were the other two RCC Bridge members besides herself left from that original table, and both had been anything but restrained while enjoying the afternoon. The director of the RCC had forsaken her usual caftan getup for a simple black gown that had done wonders for her ample figure, while resident acrylic artist Hollis had realized he could not show up for Wendy’s wedding in one of his throwback, psychedelic ’70s outfits and had actually rented a tux—navy blue with a red cummerbund. Of course, no ordinary tux would do. Never mind that it had given the humorous impression of swallowing up his tall, slender body whole. Both Deedah and Hollis had managed to find a variety of dancing partners and let off some steam while gyrating to the rock music.

  “Wonder of wonders,” Wendy told Bax out of the side of her mouth. “I finally saw Hollis eating something in public for the first time ever. It seems he couldn’t resist a piece of my fantastic wedding cake.”

  “That was some righteous cake,” Ross said. “I hope there’s some left for us for later on.”

  Wendy gave him a playful nudge with her elbow. “Half the bottom tier. We can put it in the freezer to make it last longer. I predict you’ll get tired of it soon enough. That much sugar isn’t good for you.”

  Bax finished off his champagne and said, “By the way, who was that woman wearing the opera gloves and the tiara in her enormous hairdo? She spoke with a British accent. She’s not really from the UK, is she? She didn’t bother to introduce herself and shook my hand in the receiving line as if I was supposed to know who she was. So, do I actually know her?”

  Wendy had to restrain her laughter. “No, you don’t, Daddy. But you’ve heard of her. That was Miz Crystal Forrest of Old Concord Manor right here in Rosalie. And, no, she’s originally from Al-benn-y, Georgia, as she’s happy to pronounce correctly for everyone. It’s so ironic that she spends so much time on that while simultaneously trying to pretend to everyone that she’s seventh- or eighth-generation Rosaliean. She just tries way too hard. But she isn’t fooling anyone.”

  The recognition instantly spread across Bax’s face. “Ah! The one you call the Queen of the Social Climbers. The wealthy widow who gives a party at the drop of a hat to impress people.”

  “The very same. Our wonderful Merleece works full-time for her, cooking and cleaning, except for the one day she reserves to clean for us. What an angel she is.”

  That one day fell every Tuesday. In the mornings, Merleece Maxique cleaned for Wendy and Ross, and in the afternoons for Bax. Father and daughter had switched houses a month or so before the wedding—with Wendy and Ross moving into her childhood home on the hill and Bax taking up residence in the modest little bungalow out on Lower Kingston Road that he had helped Wendy buy as her college graduation present.

  “Merleece looked perfectly lovely today, I thought,” Wendy continued. “She was simple and elegant in that gold gown she was wearing, and those big gold earrings just set everything off perfectly. I’ll bet it was some sort of African motif. She was positively regal. Miz Crystal could take a few tips from her when it comes to presenting your best face to the world. But can you imagine that—Miz Crystal taking fashion tips from her servant? Rosalie will fall off its two-hundred-foot bluffs into the Mississippi River before that ever happens.”

  “How is Miz Crystal as a bridge player out at the RCC?” Lyndell asked. “I understand she made a huge donation to make sure she got to play, but I don’t want to sound like I’m gossiping.”

  Wendy’s expression was friendly but skeptical. “It wasn’t quite like that, though. The donation was to keep the RCC in the black after Brent Ogle was murdered. He’d made no provision in his will for the RCC, as it happens. But Miz Crystal would be a halfway decent player if she’d pay more attention to the cards. She’s always pumping people for gossip so she can keep up with the latest. She frequently forgets what trumps are and annoys her partners. Her heart really isn’t in the game. She’s just there for appearances and fitting in.”

  “I hope you haven’t bitten off more than you can chew with teaching these bridge lessons,” Lyndell continued. “It’s not the easiest game in the world to learn. I tried taking lessons once a long time ago, and I lasted about a week. You either get it and love it, or throw your hands up and run screaming from the table from what I’ve seen and heard.”

  Wendy paused briefly before finding the right words. “We’ll find out what they’re all made of this time next week when I start from scratch. But I think my bottom line will be that I will let no man or woman play bridge before their time. They will not end up embarrassing themselves or me on my watch. I figure it’ll take me about a month to make them presentable.” She then crossed her fingers. “I’m not suspicious, but just about all card games have an element of luck. I may need a little of it myself before this is over.”

  CHAPTER 2

  It had been Wendy’s intention to begin bridge lessons in the great room at the Rosalie Country Club, where the six-table Bridge Bunch met every other Saturday afternoon, enjoying hors d’oeuvres along with juleps and other cocktails prepared by Carlos Galbis, the talented barkeep of long-standing. But Aurelia Spangler—dressed in an exotic outfit similar to the one she had worn to the wedding—paid her a visit at the Citizen a few days before the first lesson was to take place.

  “You know I have this perfectly atmospheric old mansion that I’m renting and rattling around in on the High Bluff,” Aurelia began, as the two of them settled into a small interview room away from the maze of gray cubicles in the newsroom.

  “Ah, yes, Overview,” Wendy said, her brain flooded with unforgettable memories from childhood forward. “We were all told as little bitty things that it was haunted. That the builder had had some terrible accident just before moving in back in 1896, when it was finally completed. Supposedly, he was on a final inspection tour. It’s said his ghost wanders up and down the stairs still trying to finish that inspection. But then, I could swear every old Victorian in Rosalie has some sort of tragic or weird story connected to it. Just comes with the territory in this town. Have you tuned in to anything paranormal so far?”

  Aurelia seemed suddenly guarded. “I don’t know whether I should say anything, but . . . truthfully, I have. I was awakened one night by a strange noise out on the stairs. It was more like a muffled thud of some kind. Was a break-in in progress? So, I got my handgun, which I keep on the nightstand, and went out to the landing immediately, but there was no one there. Of course, my brain was working overtime at that point. Was it the sound in a dream I was having that woke me up, or was it real? Did it have something to do with the builder, J. Lindford Calmes? Is he up to unfinished business? Who knows? I may have a treasure trove of paranormal phenomena at my disposal. If so, it will be worth every penny I’ll be spending renting Overview.”