What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(86)

“Why don’t you ask Mrs. Verona Di Luca what I want?” Kellen snapped. She wasn’t bitter, not really. Having Verona be so sure of each decision had made the planning onslaught easier to bear. The only matter in which they had clashed, and Kellen held firm, was—

“Mr. Federico Di Luca says he must have a decision on which wedding gown you will wear,” Arthur said.

Rae whimpered.

He transferred his attention to Rae. “He also wishes to know the real color of the little maid of honor’s gown.”

“I am not wearing any of the frothy frilly lace-ridden gowns he brought on Verona’s command.” Kellen took a deep breath and finished her pronouncement. “Rae is wearing purple. Not lavender. Not blue with a hint of lavender. Purple. Purple, purple, purple!”

“Yeah!” Rae said. “Can my dress be lace-ridden, Mommy?”

“Of course it can.” Kellen kissed her head and turned back to Arthur. “If Zio Federico can’t manage that, Rae and I will run away from home, go to Portland, find a couple of dresses at Goodwill and wear those.”

“Yeah!” Rae said again.

“As I thought.” Arthur pulled out a small leather notebook held together with a single tiny silver ballpoint pen. He opened it and scribbled a note. “Two days ago, while out of Verona’s hearing, I spoke with Mr. Federico Di Luca, explained the situation and asked that he acquire gowns more fitting to two females of, shall we say, superhero powers.” He shared a smile with Rae. “His rush order has arrived from Milan. He’s ready to do your fittings. Having viewed the gowns, I believe you’ll both find these more to your satisfaction.”

Kellen felt a marvelously warm thrill across her nerves, a thrill contrary to her declared lack of interest in this wedding. “Thank you, Arthur. I appreciate your assistance. But what will Verona say?”

“I spoke to her, Miss Adams. I believe you’ll find no further opposition to your desires in this matter.” Arthur’s phone chirped. He looked at the text, typed a few words.

Kellen heard a rustle of bushes coming from beyond Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur scooted forward. “Dan Matyasovitch has submitted a list of suggested music for the ceremony and the reception afterward.” He gestured to the right, and the musician was crawling toward her.

With his jeans and collarless button-up shirt and jacket, he looked more at home down here beneath the bushes than Arthur. But really? He was crawling and perspiring so much his sunglasses were sliding down his nose, and sweat dropped off his mustache, his goatee, and circled around his upswept eyebrows. All he needed was a cigar to look like Freud stuck in a sauna.

Kellen slapped at a beetle that crawled up her arm. “Do I have to care?”

Dan worked his way around the trunks of the azaleas to sit next to Kellen’s left knee. “You’ll find leaving the matter in the hands of your mother-in-law will result in an arcane selection of late seventies and early eighties pop rock.”

“I like pop rocks,” Rae said.

Arthur, Dan and Kellen looked at each other over the top of Rae’s head. “Do they still have those?” Arthur asked.

“Apparently.” Kellen made some decisions she didn’t know she’d even considered. She quickly listed her choices, closing with “‘At Last,’ Etta James.”

“Good. I can springboard off those for the rest of the playlist. I’ve hired a talented bass player and a guitarist and am negotiating with a trumpet player. If I can’t get him, I may try for a clarinet. The instrument gives the music a ’40s vibe, but in this case, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Dan Matyasovitch turned and crawled back the way he came.

“Dan is a talented actor and musician. You can trust him with this list. When he’s done, you’ll have a reception to remember.” Arthur checked his phone, pushed buttons, made his next pronouncement. “Now, about the food for the reception—”

Kellen began to feel as if she’d been ambushed. “On that, Verona can have her way.” From across the lawn, she heard the thump of footsteps running.

Pearly Perry slid under the shrubbery like a baseball player going in to third base. She was slender to a fault, short and dressed in chef’s clothes so loose they hung on her. She beamed at Rae, glanced nervously at Kellen, looked to Arthur for guidance.

Arthur came through for her. “Pearly, Miss Adams says she wants Mrs. Di Luca to have her way about the food at the reception.”

Pearly’s dark eyes widened in horror. “Yes, Miss Adams, she knows food very well. But her baking leaves much to be desired, and the wedding cake! You must have what you want for your wedding cake!”

“You want to speak to the bakery on my behalf?” Kellen asked.

“I want to make it. I studied for years under a master baker!” Pearly took Kellen’s hands and clutched them earnestly. “I will make you a cake that will be the talk of your friends for years to come.”

“My friends?” Kellen chuckled as she thought about the men and women she had served with in the military overseas and at home. They were coming, all of them arriving the day before, except Birdie who would be here tomorrow for fittings and female bonding. “As long as it’s eatable, my friends will be happy.”

“What about your enemies?” Arthur asked. “What do you want them saying about your cake?”