The Wedding Planner's Dilemma

Word Count: 2298





         'Never again!' Marion thought, sinking, exhausted, into a dressing table chair.  'Lord, I look like a raccoon'.  In twenty years of planning weddings, she'd never been asked to have a murder mystery themed wedding and if anyone even hinted at another, she'd run the other way, screaming. 

         After several futile dabs at the mascara rings beneath her eyes, she gave up, took her handkerchief from her bag, spit on it and rubbed.  'Well, that just added another year of under-eye wrinkles,' she rued; but at least she was presentable again. 

         Footsteps echoed along the hall outside the Ladies Room.  Still in no mood to deal with anyone at the moment, Marion dived into the handicap stall, locked the door and lifted up her feet.  Then she remained very still.

         "I told you there was a sofa in here!" A female squealed.

         "You most certainly did."  The hair on Marion's arms stood up at the sound of the deep, masculine voice that answered.  'Could this be any worse?' she asked herself. Apparently, it could; because the man gave out a low, growl, adding, "Come over here, you vixen."

         The woman giggled; there was the sound of the door being locked and a zipper being undone.  Marion peeped through the space between panels of the stall.  Her worst fears were realized.  She'd recognized the maid of honor's trademark squeal, the man's voice was soft and low; and she couldn't see his face. 

         But, with eyebrows lifted in astonishment, she knew she'd never forget his penis.  It was like a toddler's forearm!  She watched - mesmerized by the python sticking out through his pants fly; it's purple head glistening with pre-cum and blue veins throbbing, as the girl used both hands to encircle his enormous girth near the shaft base.  Yes, that was a picture burned into her brain!

         'Please God, she prayed, let him come really fast and not be interested in returning the favor.  So they'll leave and I can escape.  Please.' 

         But, there was no answer to her prayer.  Marion was getting more and more uncomfortable – on several different fronts.  Her body was cramping from her awkward position.  And, she realized—even if they didn't—that at any moment, someone could try to enter the bathroom, find it locked and go for a custodian with a master key.  Lastly, she really needed to pee.  If all that wasn't bad enough, she hadn't been on so much as a date in three years, and the moans and groans were getting to her.

         Struggling to control her constricting muscles, she tried to draw a silent breath and do nothing to catch the copulating couple's attention.  Finally, things seemed to be coming to a crescendo.  She peeped out again, to see the bride's maid's face contort as her swain thrust into her in his own orgasmic throes. 

         They separated.  As the maid of honor daintily stuffed some paper towels between her legs and checked her lipstick, Goliath stepped into the stall beside Marion.  She wouldn't have believed anyone could urinate for that length of time.  She was really afraid she was going to wet herself if they didn't leave—now!

         The adjacent toilet flushed and she watched as the man stepped up behind the woman, leaned in and kissed his paramour's neck.  It also seemed to Marion that he was looking around.  As soon as he swung away again, she pulled back – hoping that if she couldn't see him—he couldn't see her.  There was another little giggle, and she was terrified they were about to go for a second round, when she heard a rather loud kiss, coupled with a disturbing crack and a low, evil chuckle.  Then she heard the rustling of bride's maid taffeta, the door open and close again.           

         She took advantage of her privacy, and took a wicked whiz.  Then, with a sigh of physical and mental relief, she opened the stall and peered out.  The Maid of Honor was stretched out on the couch, with her hands crossed over her breasts and a man's handkerchief covering her face.  The flushing toilet or opening door hadn't disturbed her.  'No wonder,' Marion thought, 'after that workout.'

         She turned her back on the sleeping woman, as she washed and dried her hands. Then she slipped out in silence and returned to her duties.  Once outside, the venue manager dragged her off the kitchen, where several of the groom's friends were 'questioning' the kitchen staff. 

         It took her a while before she was able to usher them out, allowing her to scurry back to the banquet room.  She was just in time to find another male guest staggering around the dance floor, the hilt of a rubber knife held under his arm.  The bride's father, a ratty trench coat covering his tux, strutted about the room, asking questions and jotting things in a tiny notebook. 

         The groom, a vivid blob of ketchup marring his own tux, slumped in his chair, doing his best to keep still.  Meanwhile, the bride looked around, frowning.  'Crap!' Marion thought, 'Now what?', as she hurried behind the head table and approached the bride.

         Boots (for that was the bride's name—Marion had insisted on seeing the birth certificate) gave her a pout and simpered, "Where's Muffy?  She's supposed to make a toast before we cut the cake, and John insists he won't 'break character' until then."  She gave him a glower worthy of a twenty year marriage and turned back to Marion.  "What can we do?"

         "Ah, well . . ." Marion began, "I have an idea where she might have gotten to—"

         Boots cut her off, eyed her and said, "She didn't go off with some man she just met, did she?"  Scowling, she added, "She's my best friend and I love her, but she's such a slut."

         "No," Marion soothed, "I think . . . I think she had second thoughts about her toast and wanted to go somewhere quiet to polish it.  I'll go find her."

         Placated, the bride answered, "Thank you.  But before you do that, make the band play better music."

         "I'll see what I can do."

         Boots eyes narrowed as she responded, "Just do it.  After all, isn't that what we're paying you for?"

Marion started to lean in and remind Boots that her father had selected the band.  He had, in fact, over-ridden all their objections and insisted the 'since he was paying for it, he could have the kind of music he wanted' – but she thought better of it; instead withdrawing to think of how she could be recompensed for Boots' ill-temper and bad-manners. 

         She scanned the dining room and dance floor, hoping that the MIA Maid of Honor had roused herself from her post-coital nap and resumed her BFF duties.  'No such luck', she sighed to herself.  She girded her loins and marched back to the Ladies Room.

         Just as her palm touched the door, there's was an ear-splitting scream and someone came bursting through the door with such force, they nearly knocked her down.  Sure that the commotion would awaken 'Sleeping Beauty', she went to see what the uproar was about. 

         A rather large, florid woman was near hysterics.  Someone handed her a glass of clear liquid, which she gulped down.  However, it must have been vodka – not water, for she now screamed even more.  After another glass of 'whatever', someone thrust her in a chair and patted her shoulder, asking, "Now, Mary Jane, what's wrong?"

         "She's dead!" Mary Jane sobbed, and then gestured for more vodka.  After another toot, she added, "There, in the bathroom.  She's lying there dead!"

         "Aunt Mary Jane, we've told you, it's a murder party.  Look, Roger is pretending to be stabbed and the groom is slumped in his chair.  It's part of the wedding reception."

         "She looked mighty dead to me."

         "Brenda," the helpful vodka distributor said, "go tell them to come out here."  Then they turned to the huffing woman adding, "You'll see.  It's just make believe."

         Marion rubbed her aching head as she watched the obliging Brenda do as she'd been told.  Then, even though screams and yells filled the room, everything else seemed to be running in slow-motion.  Aunt Mary Jane's screams morphed to sobs, the mother of the bride fainted and Boots expression became even more unpleasant.  Things were going to hell in a handcart, and Marion just knew she was going to be held accountable.

         The city-mandated security guard—an off-duty policeman—took charge of the situation.  Paramedics were called; but more for the swooning guests than poor Muffy.  The Medical Examiner and a squad of detectives were also brought onboard. 

         At some point, a brave (or possibly foolish) soul explained to Boots that her BFF was no longer among the living and that the reception was pretty much a bust.  The bride wailed in response, but Marion wasn't sure if that was for her friend or her party; but she had an idea.

         She did her best to soothe wedding guests in an uproar at the discovery that they were now involved in a real, live murder investigation.  To help defuse the situation, Boots' dad had agreed to pay to keep the bar open for another three hours.  Although, Marion had to admit that the police hadn't seemed too happy over that.           Apparently, they didn't think alcohol would make their questioning hundreds of tired people easier.

Marion went to the bar, barked for a bottle of 'good' Scotch and a glass, and retired to the dimmest corner of the dining room.  Her plan was to choose a new profession as she drank herself under the table.  The longer the police took to get around to her, the less likely it was she would be conscious.

         She scanned the dining room as she swigged her Scotch.  It wasn't a pretty sight.  Pristine dresses were rumpled; most of the women had shed their heels and wandered aimlessly in runny stockings; the men – their jackets and ties discarded, shirttails out and buttons undone.  The women looked haggard because of smudged make-up and tumbled up-dos, now hanging in limp bands.  The wedding remnants: the icing on the uncut cake melting; and flower arrangements wilted, dropping petals and useless favors littered the tables. 

         The detectives worked in some organized manner not evident to the ordinary man; because over time people were shuttled from one side of the room to the other.  At last a tall, handsome detective approached Marion.  Her time had come.

         She'd managed about half her bottle of Scotch, and was definitely not particularly coherent; but she did her best to rake her hair into place and smooth her dress.  'If I just answer with simple answers, he'll never know.'

         "I'm Detective Jacobsen, ma'am.  Let's start with your name?"

         "My name is Marion Russell.  I'm not sure how much help I can be.  I'm the wedding planner, so except for the bride's family, the groom and a few of the wedding party, these people are all strangers to me."

"So I understand, but SOP does require I question you.  So, what can you tell me?"

         "Not much.  I was needed in the kitchen and when I returned I went looking for the  . . . the murdered girl."

         "Why?"

         "Boots," she said, pointing towards the bride, "asked me to find her.  The Maid of Honor was supposed to make a toast before the cake cutting.  She was anxious to get through that.  They needed to finish up here, change clothes and then get to the airport."  Marion stopped, thought a moment and then continued, "I suppose they aren't going to be able to go on their honeymoon, will they?"

         "Well, we're seeing about clearing them, but probably not, no."

         She groaned, "I'm sure they'll blame me for that too."

         "Have there been problems between you and the wedding party?"

         "No, it's just that Boots . . ."  She stopped, stared at him and asked, "Just what are you implying?"

         "Nothing," he responded, "except that you seem to be admitting that you have had some difficulties with the wedding party and the victim—a member of the wedding party—was murdered in the ladies room."

         "Excuse me?"  She snapped.  She felt her face flush in anger.

         Detective Jacobsen seemed amused by her discomfort and flashed her a brilliant smile.  He reached out and patted her hand, adding, "Calm down.  I did a quick check into your background, and unless something turns up to show us a motive, I can't imagine why a perfectly respectable wedding planner would suddenly go rogue."

         "Well . . ."

         "Besides," he continued, "if you did go postal, you'd probably used a more violent method and killed more people."

         "I'm not sure that's making me feel much better," she said in a low voice.

         "Well," the policeman told her, "maybe later we can work on that when we're finished here."  His face took on a sly, wicked grin that made Marion blush even more.

         "I don't think there's anything I can help you wit.  I was dealing with some unruly guests that found their way into the kitchens.  I came out here, spoke to Boots and then went to look for Muffy.  That's all I know."

         "All right then.  I have your address and phone number," he said.  Then he winked at her, adding, "And I hope you won't mind me calling you."

         It's been a long time since anyone had flirted with her, and she smiled and answered, "No, not at all."

*    *    *    *    *

         Weeks passed with no apparent results.  One of the janitors had been 'a person of interest' for a few days, but that led to nothing.  The general scuttlebutt was that some vagrant had slipped into the venue to use the bathroom and maybe get some food, Muffy had confronted them and they'd killed her.  While it didn't sound very probable, it was still possible.

         Detective Jacobsen (whose first name was David) had, indeed, called Marion.  Initially, he been so busy with the case they could only talk on the phone.  But, she was kind of happy about that.  It gave them a chance to get to know each other without too much stress. 

         Even after the case had been shoved aside by newer crimes, they continued the phone calls – spending hours talking and giggling like teenagers. Eventually, they decided to go out on a real date.  David suggested a day at the local Indian casino, to continue on to dinner and a show and whatever . . .  But she'd nixed that, opting instead just for dinner.

         Marion had lots of dressy clothes – after all, she went to at least three weddings a month – but she shopped for a new dress for the upcoming date.  She went all out and bought sexy matching lingerie; and had her hair and nails done. 

         She stood before her living room window, watching for David with an excitement she hadn't felt for years.  She looked good and knew it.  If things should progress, the house was tidy and there were clean sheets on the bed, fresh towels in the bathroom and the fridge well supplied with wine, mixers, and breakfast supplies.  And the best part was he was a cop.  Her own mother couldn't object to him.

         Dinner was unbelievable! He obviously had gone to a lot of trouble.  The Maitre de' greeted him by name before showing them to a wonderful table, where a single red rose awaited her.  They had cocktails while they perused the menu, a different bottle of wine with their appetizers, entrees and dessert, and then sipped on brandy after dinner. 

         In fact, they'd had so much to drink; they left his car at the restaurant and took a cab back to Marion's.  She spent a lot of time at wedding receptions, so she could handle her liquor, but even she was feeling a bit unsteady. 

         "I think I should make some coffee," she said with a giggle, as they stepped into her apartment.

         But David caught hold of her hand and pulled her over to the couch.  He fell into the cushions, pulling her along with him.  He was a great kisser.  Marion was in seventh heaven.

         They kissed for a long time, with each subsequent kiss getting longer and more passionate.  Ardent embraces led to more intimate touches.  Marion was about to lead him towards the bedroom when he let out a low chuckle.  For the teensiest moment, the hair on the back of her neck tingled and she froze; but the moment passed and she relaxed. 

         David stepped into the bathroom while Marion lit candles and pulled down the bedspread.  He was still dressed when he returned, so she left him to undress in privacy when she changed into a gorgeous black lace negligee. 

         He was in bed, propped up on pillows when she re-emerged from the bathroom, with another pillow in his lap.  From his smile, she knew he approved of how she looked.  With a coy smile, she slipped in beside him and allowed him to embrace her again.  She leaned back against her own pillows and let him press himself against her, urging her to touch him. 

         As he sucked on one of her now-erect nipples, she slithered her hand down his chest, over his flat abdomen and downward.  She buried her face in his chest, to hide her horror, for she had recognized the tree trunk without even seeing it.  There couldn't be more than one person – at least in their modest town – hung like an elephant. 

         She realized now why the hairs on her arms and neck had raised in fear.  It was that chuckle.  She'd heard that before – and seen his colossal member from her vantage point in the handicap stall.  It had been David in the Ladies Room with Muffy. 

         He was her gigantic swain . . . and her murderer.