BLUE WEDDING (Melody The Librarian Mysteries Book 3) by Leslie Leigh Page A

tiled dance area near the band. Blue lanterns were strung overhead. I was curious to see how it would look after the sun set.
    A blonde woman in a powder blue dress suit came prancing through grounds. “They’re coming!” she exclaimed. “They’re coming!”
    The break was over, as Gary signaled us to take up our positions. Gary had laid out a series of innocuous, mid-tempo pieces to serve as background during the reception line. I could see Tiffany and Charlie greeting the guests. Charlie had dark hair, possibly dyed, and a pronounced widow’s peak, which went well with his neatly groomed goatee. If Central Casting had sent out a call for someone to play Satan, Charlie would be a shoo-in.
    Once the reception line was finished, the schedule called for an hour of cocktails. We kept the music light, but were able to incorporate a little jazz into the proceedings. Don Carlos had a deft touch with the brushes and Tommy mostly played chords, using a subdued tone, without much treble. A few of the guests wandered in front of the gazebo to check us out, but mostly the gathering was focused on conversation, and we didn’t want to distract from that.
    From my vantage point on stage, I was able to spy some of the well-wishers as they approached the bride and groom. Nathan Cooke and his wife, Charlene, paid their respects, and Nathan huddled with Charlie for a short time. I wasn’t sure that the two were acquainted, but evidently their affluence formed a bond of mutual respect.
    Other familiar, local faces included Lake Hare’s mayor, George Lowell, recently appointed library board member Marlene Simmons, accompanied by someone I assumed was her husband and Nathan Cook’s brother, Nick, and Pastor Don Paul, who performed the ceremony at the church. Gus Whitehead was there, cocktail in hand, smiling and managing to maneuver through the crowd to engage, it seemed, nearly every young woman present in conversation. And there, catching all of the hobnobbing on digital media was Bergman, the photographer I’d first encountered in the company of Peter Proctor, ace reporter for the Crawford Caller. I’d seen his van pull up near our vehicles, sporting a stick-on panel sign, Portraits by Bergman. He was accompanied by a young, tomboyish woman manning a video camera.
    But the most interesting interaction I observed was when Gavin – my ‘ex’ – seized his opportunity to corner the newlyweds. I could tell he was pulling out all the stops, with animated facial expressions and gestures, his smile switched on high-beam mode as he turned on the charm for his prospective client. Even more interesting was the handsome young man in tow, blond and tanned, who didn’t seem to be contributing much to the conversation, focused as he was on staring unblinkingly at the bride, and she seemed to be similarly enthralled. I doubt they even heard the conversation taking place around them, or the music, or much of anything, so enrapt were they in each other’s presence.
    During the cocktail hour, I saw Charlie catch passing waitresses at least three times to replace his drink. A ruddy glow penetrated his deeply tanned face, and his voice carried over the murmured conversations and music as the hour wore on. Tiffany wore a frozen smile as Charlie grew increasingly boisterous. She intertwined her arm in his and, no doubt, was jabbing his ribs in order to rein him in.
    Finally, the band was allowed to take a break when the luncheon was served, and we huddled at a small side table – not unlike a kiddies’ table, it seemed – joined by Tim and Fiona. Tim didn’t say much the entire time, just chewed his food slowly while casting a dour eye upon the guests and, I thought, the band. Perhaps he thought musicians were a frivolous lot, not quite as essential as one who tends the grounds, the shrubs, and the apple orchard. That was just speculation on my part, but his disdainful demeanor was all too real.
    Fiona, on the other hand, was quite sociable