Zoe And The Best Man. Carole Buck
was a tenant in the Prytania Street mansion cum apartment house Luc Devereaux had purchased with a portion of the profits from his bestselling novels.
He was also the self-appointed coordinator of the day’s festivities, and from what Zoe had observed thus far, he was carrying out his job with great panache. The way he’d maneuvered her into “volunteering” to maintain a vigil for the best man had been particularly deft.
He’d nailed her about twenty minutes ago as she’d walked into the church’s flower-garlanded vestibule with the recently wed Annie and Matt Powell. Annie—the former Hannah Elaine Martin of Atlanta—had been one of two women with whom she’d shared a dorm suite in college. The other had been Peachy’s older sister, Eden, who just happened to be married to Matt Powell’s older brother, Rick. Approximately six months pregnant with her first child, Eden was serving as Peachy’s matron of honor.
“Zoe, honey, I need your help,” Terry had said after he’d eased her away from Annie and Matt. “The best man—Luc’s bonded-through-battle buddy, Gabriel Flynn—is still among the missing. But there’s word he’s been spotted at a private airstrip on the other side of the river. He supposedly rappeled out of a helicopter with his hands tied behind his back. Or parachuted from a plane without a crash helmet. I’m a little vague about the macho details. In any case, he’s allegedly on the ground, more or less in one piece and headed in this direction. Would you mind waiting outside until he shows up?”
“Would I?” she’d echoed, appalled by the request. The anxiety that had been building within her ever since she’d learned the identity of Luc’s best man escalated into something perilously close to panic.
“Somebody has to make certain Flynn gets where he’s supposed to go, wearing what he’s supposed to wear, once he finally arrives,” Terry had explained, seemingly unaware of her plight. “I’d do it myself, but I’m up to my eyebrows in last-minute details. I’m appealing to you because, well, I have the distinct impression that underneath that Princess Grace cool of yours—I love the ice blue dress, by the way. Calvin Klein, am I right? Of course I’m right. The color’s fabulous on you. And the French twist? To die for. I’ll bet you didn’t use one of those hairstyle helpers they sell on late-night TV, either. Are those things tacky or what? I mean—”
“Terry,” she’d interrupted.
“Sorry.” The apology had been accompanied by a quick, contrite smile. “Sometimes a tide of fashion enthusiasm just sweeps me away. Such a failing. But, back to the business at hand. My intuition tells me you’re a girl who’s capable of kicking butt and taking names. And it might come to that, depending on Flynn’s condition.” He’d waited a beat, then moved in for the kill. “So…what do you say?”
Reeling, she’d said the only thing she could say. Which was yes.
Zoe supposed there were some who might consider Terry Bellehurst an outrageous or even offensive character. He was, after all, a retired Super Bowl champion who’d abandoned a highly successful sportscasting career to embrace a new identity as Terree—accent on the second syllable—LaBelle, emcee of what was reputed to be the French Quarter’s classiest drag show. Despite his undeniable eccentricities, she found him quite endearing.
If truth be told, she liked all of Peachy’s neighbors. She particularly admired Dr. Laila Martigny, a regal-looking psychologist who’d put herself through school working as a housekeeper and who allegedly was descended from New Orleans’s legendary witch queen, Maria Laveau. The fiftyish Dr. Martigny was engaged to the newest member of the Prytania Street manage, Francis Sebastian Gilmore Smythe.
An elegant, erudite Englishman in his early sixties, Mr. Smythe had been introduced to Zoe at the previous night’s rehearsal dinner. He’d described himself as a semiretired dealer in objets d’art who was deeply privileged to have a longstanding acquaintanceship with her employer, Arietta Martel von Helsing Flynn Ogden.
Zoe had subsequently been told that although this characterization was accurate, it was less than complete. Yes, Francis Sebastian Gilmore Smythe was the well-connected connoisseur he claimed to be. But he was also a former spymaster for MI5, the British intelligence service.
This highly confidential information about Dr. Martigny’s urbane fiance had been supplied in excited whispers by Peachy’s next-door neighbors and bridesmaids, Mayrielle and Winona-Jolene Barnes. Collectively referred to by their fellow Prytania Street residents as “the MayWinnies,” the Misses Barnes were identical twins. Although they presented themselves as the epitome of white-gloved propriety, gossip claimed these spritely septuagenarians had once been considered among the best of the good times to be had in New Orleansassuming, of course, one was willing to meet their price.
While her time in Washington had taught Zoe to be extremely skeptical about not-for-attribution innuendo, she was inclined to think that this was one case where the rumors were right on target. For all their garden-party primness, the MayWinnies exuded the same born-to-beguile aura as her thrice-married and at-least-as-many-times mistressed employer. And that Arietta Martel von Helsing Flynn Ogden had been hot stuff in her heyday was a matter of public record. In point of fact, it was Zoe’s considered opinion that the reigning doyenne of D.C. society was still abundantly capable of charming the, er, socks off of just about any man she chose.
“The bride-to-be is beginning to get a little bit crazed,” Terry reported, consulting his clipboard with a slightly frazzled expression. “Ditto, the MayWinnies. The matron of honor seems all right, although I wish she’d sit down and keep her feet up until it’s time for the ceremony. I mean, my ankles are starting to balloon just from looking at her and that’s hell when you’re wearing heels. As for the groom, well, it’s hard to tell with him. He’s either very, very calm or entering the first stage of catatonia.”
Zoe nodded, mentally replaying part of a conversation she’d overheard during the rehearsal dinner. Peachy had been questioning her husband-to-be about the whereabouts of his best man. There’d been an unnerving reference to medical quarantines. And something about demilitarized zones.
“He’ll be here, cher,” Luc had said, very simply, very certainly. “He gave me his word.”
A breeze, heavy with humidity and redolent of the lush scent of late-summer flowers and foliage, sent a tendril of blond hair fluttering across Zoe’s left cheek. She brushed it back into place with an automatic gesture, experiencing a sudden flash of guilt about the hopes she’d been entertaining.
“Is there a backup plan?” she asked after a moment.
“You mean if…?” Terry gestured, plainly reluctant to put the possibility into words.
Zoe’s sense of guilt intensified. While she didn’t believe her wishes about Flynn had any real force, she knew she was going to feel at least partially responsible if he failed to fulfill the pledge he’d made to Luc Devereaux. And if Peachy’s wedding day was marred because her bridegroom’s best man didn’t get himself to the church on time…
“Yes,” she affirmed.
“Mr. Smythe’s on standby.”
“Would he be…all right?” Peachy had told her that Luc, who’d lost both his parents in an automobile accident at age nineteen, held the older man in very high esteem.
“Flynn would be better,” Terry said frankly, then glanced at his watch again. He gasped in dismay. “Oh, my God. It’s three minutes before the hour. I’ve got to get inside and tell the organist to stall. Maybe he can take requests from the congregation or something.” He gave Zoe an imploring look. “Will you stay out here a teensy-weensy while longer? Please?”
“No problem, Terry,” she acquiesced, summoning up what she hoped was a tranquil smile. “Just don’t start the ceremony without me.”
“Perish the thought, sweetie,” the former gridiron champion responded feelingly, then pirouetted on one foot and reentered the church.
Squaring her slim shoulders, Zoe turned back toward the street. She was getting all worked up