Engaged in Death (A Wedding Planner Mystery) Read Free Page B

revealed. After Keith crossed the room, he made a grab for them. I spilled the pile in a glossy fan at his feet. He picked up the photos, then recoiled and dropped them as if they’d burned him when he got a closer look.
    “Mallory, it’s not true. I don’t know who sent these, but—”
    “Save it, you jerk!” I pushed him away and ran to the bedroom closet, stuffing as much of my life as I could into the large suitcases that had been purchased for our honeymoon in Paris. My hands trembled so hard it was a wonder I packed anything. My wedding dress hung on the closet door, a giant, poufy confection of a ball gown, bulging against the garment bag encasing it. I wanted to tear it to pieces as if I were starring in a slasher film.
    Keith stood open-mouthed in the doorway. “You can’t go. You just can’t. We have the wedding. It has to go on. We’ll work things out. Just listen to reason!”
    I charged toward him with the two suitcases, and he jumped out of the bedroom doorway when it was clear I was going to run him over.
    “Don’t talk to me. Don’t touch me. I don’t ever want to see you as long as I live,” I hissed out in a single breath.
    I bent to retrieve the photos. They might be useful someday. I crammed them into the brown envelope, bending some in the process.
    “Mallory—”
    “I can’t believe I almost married you. Someone”—I waved the envelope—“just saved me from making the biggest mistake of my life. And if I knew who they were, I’d personally thank them.”
    With that, I flounced out, Keith hot on my heels. I pushed the elevator button, and he got in, cornering me.
    “Just come to your senses and let me explain.”
    I grabbed the suitcases and whipped out of the elevator, leaving him trapped as the brass doors clanged shut. It was just the head start I needed. I banged down four flights of stairs to the basement, twisting my ankle in the process, and hopped out the back exit of the apartment building to crouch behind the Dumpster.
    I was feeling pretty triumphant, with my adrenaline pumping, like a scorned Charlie’s Angel. Then I realized I didn’t have a getaway car. Keith and I rode downtown together each morning in his car. Until now, I hadn’t needed a vehicle. I funneled every extra dime I made into paying off my law school loans, and I’d barely made a dent.
    Swearing, I called a cab service and directed them to pick me up by the Dumpster.
    “Just take me to a motel, any motel, out by the airport,” I begged my cabby when he arrived half an hour later. I didn’t want to run into Keith downtown or give him any clues as to my whereabouts.
    So, here I was, two days later, licking my wounds in the cocoon of my rented room. The partners I worked for at the firm weren’t happy I’d taken off Monday and today, fake contagious disease or not. News traveled fast around the legal world. I was sure Keith had gone in to work at his firm and his colleagues had ferreted out the news. Not to mention all of my coworkers whom my mother and Olivia had called, performing the grim task of disinviting them from the wedding.
    The phone by the bed rang, and I sat up too quickly, hitting my forehead on the bedside lampshade. It was 11 AM .
    “Pull it together, Mallory,” I muttered as I picked up the receiver.
    “I’m downstairs. Come help me bring up my stuff.”
    Sweet baby Jesus. It was my little sister.
    “Rachel? What are you doing here?” My voice came out as a squeak.
    “Mom told me everything. I was going to come to Pittsburgh and help you out before the wedding anyway. . . .”
    My heart contracted at the W word.
    “. . . and the plane ticket was nonrefundable, so here I am. Come downstairs.” She hung up, and I sank back into the pillows, stunned.
    My quiet little refuge was over. Thanks, Rachel.
    Two minutes later, I was awkwardly hugging my sister in the lobby. I hadn’t made any special effort, so she and the desk clerk got to see me in my crusty, going-on-three-days