Just Murdered by Elaine Viets

it carefully, so Desiree wouldn’t get scratched. The bride already had a long, thin scab on her arm.
    “Did the dress do that when you tried it on at the store?” Helen said.
    “No, the cook’s cat got me,” Desiree said.
    Helen started on the one hundred slippery satin buttons, each the size of an aspirin.
    Desiree, who’d been inert most of the morning, began fidgeting.
    “Hold still or I’ll never finish by ten o’clock,” Helen said.
    “I hate this dress,” Desiree said.
    “You don’t have to wear it. You have a beautiful wedding dress in the closet. Let’s put it on.” Helen was in a rebellious mood. She headed for the closet to get out the cobweb dress. She was prepared to battle the dreaded rose dress to get Desiree what she wanted.
    “No!” the bride shouted over the shrieking hair dryers. Heads turned. Eight bridesmaids stared like startled gazelles. Desiree had turned pale under her makeup. Was she that afraid of her mother?
    “I only have to put up with this dress for an hour or two, and then I can wear what I want. I don’t want to have to deal with Mother.”
    Helen understood, but said nothing. She still had eighty-one buttons to go. Where was Mommy Dearest? She should be here by now.
    The room resumed its dull roar. It was nine thirty when the last button was done and the ten-foot cathedral train was arranged. Helen’s fingers ached and she’d torn a nail.
    “There. That’s it. Now I can pin on the veil,” Helen said.
    “Hold it! The mother should be here for that,” the videographer said. He’d been buzzing around all morning like an irritating gnat.
    “I don’t want my mother putting on my veil,” Desiree said. “She wouldn’t anyway. It would mess up her manicure.”
    “The pictures won’t look right without your mother,” the still photographer added.
    “I don’t care.” Desiree stamped her foot. Tears trembled at the edge of her eyes. The makeup artist hovered with powder and a foam wedge. Bridal tears could undo her work.
    “Honey, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” her friend Emily soothed. At least, Helen thought it was Emily. Her hair was done up in a fashionable twist and she was wearing an elegant plum-colored Vera Wang. “But Kiki’s late. I’ll go look for her.”
    When the young woman ran from the room to begin her search, Helen knew for sure it was Emily. She made her Vera Wang flap. Helen liked that.
    “Put my veil on,” the bride commanded Helen.
    “We can always stage it with the mother later,” the still photographer said.
    “It won’t look the same,” the videographer said. He was an auteur.
    Helen pinned on the trailing veil.
    “Ouch,” the bride said.
    “Sorry. I have to anchor it in your hair. There. You look beautiful.” Helen patted Desiree on her shoulder. This was such a sad moment. Those words should have been said by the bride’s mother, pronounced with love, pride, and teary eyes. Helen wanted to hug the forlorn little creature, but she didn’t dare. With that dress, it would be like clutching glass shards to her bosom.
    The bride studied herself in the full-length mirror. “I don’t look as bad as I expected.”
    “You look lovely,” Helen said.
    Desiree smiled and almost seemed to believe her.
    This is so sad, Helen thought. I’m bought and paid for—or maybe not. Helen wondered if Millicent had collected her money last night, but didn’t have the nerve to ask.
    “I’m glad it’s you and not that awful Millicent,” Desiree said. “She called my mother last night and said the most shocking things. She wanted her money right then, at the rehearsal dinner.”
    Imagine that, Helen thought. A merchant who wanted to be paid.
    “Did she get it?” Helen said.
    “Of course not. Mother said she’d give it to you today. I’ll make sure she writes the check as soon as she shows up,” the bride said.
    Helen decided debt collection was Millicent’s problem. She had enough to worry about. Helen