What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(91)

Kellen smiled at him with all her joy and amusement.

“What?”

“You really are the best man I ever met.”

He dropped his shoe back in the wine bucket. “Take off your clothes. This time I’m going to show you how much I love you.”



50


The day of the wedding dawned bright and hot. Parliman’s security men guarded the closed winery’s gate, turned away tourists and welcomed wedding guests by checking their IDs and directing them toward the parking lots. Parking attendants waved the cars into place, then directed the company toward the new circus-size blue canopy. Hired bartenders stood behind the bars, pouring selected Di Luca wines, waters, juices and soft drinks. New servers circulated with hors d’oeuvres created by Pearly Perry and her staff. Claude McKeith supervised and directed every movement, and Takashi Tibodo and Mateo Courtemanche worked and watched and handled each crisis before it happened. At one point, a whole line of bicyclists rode in and were welcomed with screams of ecstasy from that loudmouthed little Di Luca girl.

As the killer stood on the front lawn, he thought it was like watching generals direct a battlefield, not realizing how futile their preparations would be, for the enemy was among them.

Beyond the blue canopy, the farmhouse and the winery with its bed-and-breakfast were stuffed with relatives and close family friends, preparing for the big event by shouting at each other to get out of the bathroom and taking turns at the mirrors.

The winery staff was everywhere, moving between kitchen to bed-and-breakfast to wedding venue, directing guests to the small buildings that had been randomly set up among the tall cherry trees and assuring them these were not so much portable potties as luxury temporary restrooms.

On the broad lawn behind the winery, a white canopy lifted its peaks toward the sky. Chairs sat in lines, a length of stiff white cloth defined the aisle, and an altar had been constructed at the front and decorated in exquisite silks, heavy laces and lofty white candles.

Meanwhile, where the vines began and the winery ended, workers picked the grapes, working hard to get them in before the heat grew intense and lowered the Brix. The crushing shed roared and gnashed, the resulting grape juice slid into stainless steel containers, the wine master, Freeman Townsend, and his apprentice, Jessie Glomen, tasted, urged, thanked, and most of all, they rushed.

Wedding or not, this was a working winery and the harvest was on.

Not far away, Kellen Adams paced the front porch, using her extraordinary powers of observation to inspect the new arrivals, to find anyone who showed surreptitious signs of being a killer.

He waved.

She waved back.

His disguise and his manner were perfect; she barely noticed him.

Her friends drove up, two men he recognized from the guest list. She’d served with them in the Army. She ran out to meet them. They all embraced, and laughed, and the men patted their suit jackets over the spot where a holster might hold a pistol.

What a clever girl she thought she was! She’d brought in extra personal security.

Good to know. He would have to handle that.

Ah, Kellen. She was no match for his guile. Wedding or not, today he would finish this job.



51


Bisnonna Benedetta stuck her crooked finger in Kellen’s face and in a pronounced Italian accent, said, “It is good luck to be married as the first grapes of a new year are harvested.”

Zia Giorgia said, “It portends a fertile union.”

Zio Salvatore said, “They already have proved that they’re fertile!”

The cluster of elderly Italian relatives seated around the kitchen table fell all over themselves cackling.

Sarah Di Luca from California sighed. “Salvatore. Hush. You’ll embarrass her.”

Kellen wasn’t exactly embarrassed. Or at least not embarrassed for the reasons the relatives thought. Verona had stuck her in here until Max had been hustled to his room in the bed-and-breakfast, knowing full well the elderly relatives would keep them apart. As she’d been told multiple times today, it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride on the day of the wedding. To which she had finally said, “Then we should have been married in the morning and avoided all these machinations.”

All she got for that were blank stares. The relatives were greatly enjoying themselves.

“They can have more children.” Bisnonna Benedetta took Kellen’s hand, turned it palm up and traced her fingers over the skin. “Look at her lines!”

“Show them to Bisnonna Debora,” Leo said. “You know she reads palms better than anyone.”

“Leo!” Annie turned her wheelchair toward him. “What is wrong with you?”

“What? Just because you don’t believe doesn’t mean I don’t.” Leo waved his hands at Kellen. “Go on. Let’s see what Bisnonna Debora says.”

“Verona won’t like it,” Annie warned, but she moved closer.

At age seventy-two, Bisnonna Debora wasn’t the oldest here, not by a long shot, but when she was three she’d fallen ill of polio, leaving her with a twisted spine and a limp. Recently, as her overstrained breathing muscles had rebelled, she’d had to go on oxygen, and now it seemed as if her vitality was fading. But the life spark still glowed in her eyes and everyone in the family accorded her a special place of honor at the head of the table. Now, as Kellen presented her hands, she took them and smiled into the palms. “What a life! You’re right-handed?”