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.
“We are always very elegant,” the florist murmured in her smooth voice, as though they both didn’t know that with enough money, the definition of elegant could be stretched tighter than spandex on a cheap hooker.
“Bridesmaids?”
“They’ll carry three calla lilies.”
“Class all the way.” Barry clicked off the recorder and winked at her.
He saw a theme here. The bride was, indeed, distancing herself from her wilder days. Was this the groom’s doing? Or had Mama and Papa—very nice folks; he’d met them—laid down the law? And if so, why now?
Which brought Barry back to the groom—who exactly was this guy? Ersatz royalty?
It was a mystery and Barry did love a mystery. He wanted to get his hands on a guest list. He knew there was one floating around. There always was at a wedding like this.
Usually, the security detail had a list to prevent crashers. Barry looked outside the church, saw the limos, but no large, serious-looking men with short necks and well-cut suits.
However, he did see Paula, the wedding coordinator, consulting with a slope-shouldered woman who looked both harried and important. A social secretary if he ever saw one.
Pasting on a third-degree smile—teeth showing with a hint of dimple—he approached her. “Hi there. You look like you’re in charge. I’m Barry Sutton with the Dallas Press.” He handed her a card. With some people, you got out the ID. With others, you gave them a business card.
“I know who you are.” She took his card anyway. “I’ll send you copy for your write-up.”
As she turned back to Paula, Barry touched her on the arm. If a third-degree smile didn’t work, physical contact usually did. “I write my own copy. I’m looking for a guest list.”
“That’s confidential.”
“Hmm.” Barry looked at her consideringly. “How can I put this…”
“Give him the guest list,” Paula interrupted. “The more important the guests, the more column inches his editor will reserve. Unless you aren’t interested in a premium write-up with mentions in the About Town and Fashion Sightings columns.”
The secretary fingered the papers in one of her folders. “I…”
“What?” Barry spoke and heard Paula echo him.
“I’m not certain that is our mission.”
What the— “I understand getting hitched is the ‘mission.’” Barry used finger quotes. She deserved it. “Coming up with a story is my ‘mission.’ With a guest