Got Your Number ((a humorous romantic mystery)) Read online

  She had nearly burst out laughing. Roxann, a lesbian? Her cousin had taught her how to give a blowjob on a tube of toothpaste. Roxann could recite verbatim entire chapters from How to Make Love to a Man, and had been working her way through the positions illustrated in The Joy of Sex. When Angora had been forced to leave the dorm, Roxann and her poet grad-student boyfriend were up to “the Figure Eight.” She always wondered how that one had turned out.

  “Mother, what makes you think Roxann is a lesbian?” she’d asked.

  “She’s so odd. Besides, she’s not married.”

  “I’m not married.”

  Dee had made an impatient noise. “It’s not the same thing. Roxann has always worn her hair short.”

  She’d dropped the dead-end conversation with Dee, but she’d asked the calligrapher for one blank invitation and addressed it using the post office box she’d wangled from Uncle Walt last Christmas.

  She’d even started a couple of letters to Roxann several months ago, but the words had seemed forced and boring. With the exception of her engagement, her life was much the same as it had been ten years ago. Same people, same parties, same gossip. In comparison, the details she’d gleaned from Uncle Walt about Roxann’s life were beyond exciting—her exotic cousin was living on the fringe of the law as some sort of top-secret bodyguard. Uncle Walt had been evasive and a little bewildered, but button-busting proud. Angora would have given her second-favorite pair of diamond stud earrings if she thought she could make her parents proud.

  Not that she actually expected Roxann to come to the wedding—she couldn’t be sure, but to an outlaw, country club events were probably a bit passé . Besides, Uncle Walt said Roxann had to keep moving around, so she might not even have received the invitation. She cringed when she realized if the invitation was returned, Dee would know she’d sent it.

  “Darling, why are you frowning?”

  She rearranged her face and bugged her eyes at the lens.

  “Got it!” the photographer said.

  Oh, well, she would consider it payback for Dee insisting that she invite Darma Walker Lowe, Trenton’s former girlfriend. Her mother practically fell to her knees any time one of the Walkers entered a room—their real estate empire and influence were far-reaching. Trenton and Darma had dated years ago, but she’d left him for a man higher up the food chain, a plastic surgeon. They’d been ill-suited anyway, Trenton had assured her. She believed him, because no two people could be more suited than she and Trenton. They liked the same restaurants, listened to the same music, drove the same model of BMW. They understood each other.

  “Okay, just the bride and her parents.”

  The bridesmaids squeezed her hand and wished her luck. She squeezed back and kept an eye on her train to make sure it wasn’t trampled. The twelve feet of crystal beads and iridescent sequins had doubled the cost of the white silk dress, but she was marrying a doctor, after all.

  “You look beautiful, sweetie,” her father said, touching her tiara—the most stunning of her crowns, Miss Northwestern Baton Rouge, 1987. She only got the chance to wear it two, three times a year at the most, so her wedding was the perfect occasion to remove it from her crown case.

  “Stand up straight, dear,” Dee said. “And hold in your stomach.”

  Angora tilted her head to accommodate her mother’s hat, an enormous fuchsia creation designed by a famous gay clothier in New Orleans. Her mother didn’t mind exploiting the talents of gays, she just didn’t want them in attendance at the wedding. Of course, she didn’t know about Mr. Fenton and Mr. Johnston, the “widowers.”

  Her engagement ring glittered from this morning’s ultrasonic cleaning. One-and-a-half-carat solitaire diamond, emerald cut, platinum setting. Dee stressed that Angora let Trenton know from the start that she expected a quality lifestyle. In fact, one of Dee’s shower gifts to the couple had been a subscription to the DuPont Registry, which listed only the most expensive estates in the country.

  “Not for your first home, of course,” her mother had told Trenton, “but certainly the next.”

  “On three, everyone.”

  Angora thrust back her shoulders and sucked in her stomach to the point of pain. She’d existed on carrots and popcorn for six weeks to get into this gown, but it’d been worth it. As a bonus, the carotene had put a nice ginger cast on her skin.

  “The bride keeps closing her eyes,” the photographer whined.

  Dee poked her in the ribs, causing her to exhale abruptly. “For heaven’s sake, Angora, keep your eyes open. How lazy can you be?”

  “The girl is probably tired, Dixie,” her father said, which elicited a glare from her mother. She hated to be called “Dixie.”

  “On three,” the photographer yelled.

  “Watch the laugh lines,” Dee murmured in her ear.

  She inhaled, arched her back, diluted her smile, and bugged her eyes.

  “Got it!”

  “Looks like rain,” her father said, nodding to the charcoal-colored clouds rolling in from the west.

  “Shush, Jackson, it simply can’t rain today.”

  “If you say so, dear.” He winked at Angora.

  She grinned back, laugh lines or no. Her father was a saint to put up with her mother.

  “Now just the bride and the father.”

  Her dad stepped in and put his arm around her shoulder. “I’m proud of you, honey, for turning out to be such a good person.”

  She wasn’t such a good person, but she was relieved her father thought so. Relieved and a little guilty.

  “I hope you and Trenton will be as happy as”—he shot a glance toward her mother, then cleared his throat—“will be happy.”

  “We will be, Daddy.”

  “Now the bride and the mother.”

  Dee hummed with disapproval. “Really, Angora, you have the most confused look on your face.”

  “How would you like for me to look, Mother?”

  “Don’t be snide, young lady. For another hour, you still answer to your father and me. Stand up straight.”

  Angora bit her tongue so hard that tears clouded her eyes.

  “Okay, that’s it,” the photographer said. “I’ll see everyone at the front of the church after the ceremony.”

  Which couldn’t come soon enough. But she had to endure another layer of hair lacquer and a makeup touch-up under Dee’s supervision, all the while standing because the gown could not look creased. Her feet ached, her stomach churned, and she was light-headed with anticipation. This must be how a prisoner felt just before being paroled—the incarceration was at its most suffocating moments before freedom.

  Her mother sighed. “I’m not sure the chignon was a good choice, but it’s too late now. You look a little puffy, dear, did you use Preparation H under your eyes like I suggested?”

  She nodded, realizing it was the remnants of the anti-inflammatory cream that were making her blink. She’d probably go blind during the ceremony.

  “I took the liberty of having Dr. Henry prepare a little care package for your trip, dear. You’ll find it in your purse.”

  Dr. Henry, her gynecologist? “What kind of care package?”

  “Oh, you know, precautionary implements. I know you and Trenton will be having children, but it’s considered gauche these days to become pregnant on your honeymoon.” She sniffed, then walked away.

  Angora blinked. Her mother had never talked about birth control before, or even sex for that matter. At age nine when she’d asked for specifics, Dee had declared sex a messy business that Angora was better off not knowing about. “Your husband will take care of everything,” she’d promised. “Just keep a towel handy.”

  Her wedding gift to Trenton was her virginity, and she couldn’t wait to part with it. Dee had been holding it over her head since her first period. There had only been one man who had tempted her to thwart her mother’s orders, but Carl hadn’t wanted her…

  “Places, everyone,” the wedding director announced, clapping h
er hands.

  Thank God. Dee reappeared to give the gown one more pat, then marched out of the dressing room. No words of wisdom, no sentiment, no nothing.

  The bridesmaids filed out next, atwitter about which one of the groomsmen was escorting them, which everyone knew was the greatest perk of being a bridesmaid. She’d met Trenton five years ago when they were both in the Wilcott-Stanton wedding party. Beth Stanton had had only eighteen bridesmaids, poor dear.

  “And now the bride,” the director said with a sweeping gesture toward the door where her father stood, his hand extended.

  She glided toward him, then tucked her arm in his.

  “This is it, baby. Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  And when she reached the back of the chapel and saw Trenton standing at the altar, she’d never been more sure of anything in her life. Tall, blond, handsome. Everyone said they looked like Ken and Barbie. The years ahead unfolded in her mind: a spacious home, tow-headed children, a weekend home, successful careers, Little Miss beauty contests, a chalet, anniversaries, grandchildren, a yacht. Just an aisle’s walk away.

  The church was brimming, and the guests were on their feet, staring at her expectantly. She knew if she tripped, Dee would sprint down the white aisle runner and strangle her with it, so she stepped carefully. On the last pew, a slash of bright orange caught her eye. When she connected with the person’s face, she grinned. Roxann! Her cousin wiggled her fingers in a little wave. Warmth flooded Angora’s chest—Roxann would see how well she’d done, the man who’d chosen her, the life she was about to embark on. She was getting a late start, but after today she’d make up for lost time. Maybe they would get a chance to catch up at the reception, before she and Trenton left to catch their overnight flight to Maui.

  She moved on down the aisle, making eye contact with friends of her parents, coworkers from the gallery, and extended family from her father’s side. She caught sight of Darma Walker Lowe, now a redhead and dressed in Givenchy black—fabulous frock, but an odd choice for an afternoon wedding. To her great relief, the woman didn’t make eye contact. Angora turned her attention to her destination.

  The bridesmaids in pink, and the groomsmen in dark gray fanned out from the altar like the petals of an enormous flower waiting for the center to arrive. Reverberating organ music, white satin curtains draped over the altar, dozens of candles ablaze—it was almost too much to take in. This was her day, the first time in her life when she was in the spotlight instead of playing second fiddle to Dee. If she never did anything else in her life to garner fame, she would always have this lily-scented day.

  And speaking of Dee, she actually looked happy as they passed by her pew. Happy and relieved. As if her job was done, and now she could concentrate her energies elsewhere, such as redecorating Angora’s old room.

  At last Angora focused on Trenton, her beloved. Dear, sweet, handsome Trenton, who had picked her among all the still-eligible Baton Rouge belles. He would declare his love for her before this enormous crowd. He would vow to cherish her until death parted them. Her heart swelled at the sight of his shining blue eyes.

  The priest was bent and elderly, with a monotonous voice. Both sets of parents had insisted on a full mass, so the ceremony became an exercise in stooping, kneeling, and standing again. When she had envisioned her wedding, she imagined she would be riveted on each holy word, savoring its meaning before tucking it away in her heart. Instead, her senses were so hyper-stimulated, the words flew by her. Before she knew it, she was saying, “I do.” Then the priest was delivering to Trenton his charge as a husband. Her skin tingled in anticipation.

  “I… can’t.”

  For a full ten seconds, she didn’t comprehend Trenton’s answer. Behind them, someone guffawed into the stunned silence, and the organist leaned on the keyboard, blasting them with a cacophony of sick notes.

  “Excuse me?” the priest said, cupping a hand behind his big veiny ear.

  Trenton shrugged. “I’m sorry, Angora, I can’t go through with this.”

  Her jaw loosened, and her mouth moved, but no words came out. She was paralyzed. A murmur surged through the guests like a swarm of bees.

  Dee’s best fake laugh rang out. “Everyone, this is just a little misunderstanding. The children are under a great deal of stress.” Angora didn’t turn around, but she knew her mother was on her feet, directing.

  “Yes,” the priest said, recovering. “Perhaps we should take a little break.”

  Angora began to shake violently. The single most important day of her life was being shattered because Trenton was stricken with a lousy bout of cold feet? “Why are you doing this to me?” she managed to squeak in his direction.

  “I’m in love with someone else.”

  She swallowed hard. Oh, Gawd. “Who?”

  “It doesn’t matter—”

  “Who?”

  He sighed. “Darma. When I saw her walk into the church, I knew I couldn’t marry you, Angora.”

  No one had ever accused her of being smart, but some things were obvious even to her. “Trenton, Darma’s already married.”

  He shook his head. “Her husband died two weeks ago. Cut himself with a scalpel and gangrene set in.”

  Ergo the black dress. Damn, if fate didn’t have a fiendish sense of timing. “What are you saying, Trenton?”

  “The wedding is off,” he said, his voice loud enough to carry. Silence burst around them. “But feel free to hock the ring.”

  Chapter 5

  Thanks to the microphones suspended around the altar, Roxann heard the groom’s declaration just as clearly as Angora probably had. Feel free to hock the ring? Someone needed to rearrange the man’s wedding tackle.

  Old feelings of protectiveness roused in her chest. Despite Angora’s silver-spoon upbringing—or maybe because of it—she seemed to always have an emotional bull’s-eye painted between her wide baby-blues. During the drive to Baton Rouge, Roxann had divided her time between looking over her shoulder, and wondering how much her cousin had changed over the past decade. But as soon as Angora glided into the church sporting the crown and a nerve rash, Roxann realized Angora was still the insecure daughter of Dreadful Dee. And Roxann’s hopes that Angora was marrying a kind, sensitive man with a good bedside manner now seemed far-fetched at best.

  Everyone stood rooted to the spot, as if waiting to be told how to diplomatically dismantle a wedding party. Run, she urged her cousin silently. Get out before the vultures descend.

  But Angora stood frozen, her pink mouth slightly ajar. Sensing that pandemonium was about to erupt, Roxann stood and sidled to the end of the pew, compromising a slew of expensive shoes along the way. Then she dashed up the aisle and grabbed Angora’s hand, a cold limp thing, with a strange orangish cast to the fingers.

  “Angora? It’s me, Roxann.”

  Her cousin turned toward her, but her eyes were so full of tears, Roxann doubted she saw her.

  “Come on, I’m getting you out of here.”

  Angora nodded dumbly.

  “Hey, who are you?” the groom had the nerve to ask.

  “The black sheep of the family,” Roxann said, and made a snap decision, no matter how unfair, that pretty Dr. Trenton would bear the brunt of her pent-up male-directed frustration. “How do you do?” Forgoing a round-off kick in deference to her skirt, she balled up her fist and popped him square in the nose. He reeled backward like a windup toy, blood spurting, and fell off the altar. The wedding party scattered and the guests lunged to their feet for a view.

  Roxann shook her stinging hand while she yanked Angora forward. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait just a minute,” screeched a voice she recognized as her aunt’s. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Roxann turned and the sight of her father’s sister put a crimp on her intestines. “Hey, Dixie, what’s shakin’? Besides your chin, I see.”

  Dee gaped and the fuchsia monstrosity on her head bobbed. “What are you doing here?”r />
  “Rescuing Angora.”

  “Take your hands off her, you, you, you… dyke.”

  Gasps chorused around them. Roxann lifted an eyebrow. “Dyke? Did you say dyke?”

  Dee took a step backward. “Y-yes.”

  “You got a gay radar under that sombrero?”

  Her aunt pulled herself up, her face mottled. “Get out!”

  She saluted. “Gladly.” She tugged on Angora, who seemed to be in shock, staring straight ahead, her bouquet hanging from her arm by an elastic strap. Roxann sighed, then gathered the absurdly long train, threw it over her shoulder, and herded Angora toward the exit The climate outside the church looked even less promising than inside. Clouds rolled overhead, and thunder boomed, drowning out Dee’s screeching behind them.

  Roxann urged Angora to hurry, but they were only halfway across the parking lot when lightning slashed and the sky unleashed sheets of rain. At least the dousing seemed to revive Angora—she needed only a little shove to tumble into Goldie’s passenger seat. Getting the train in was another matter.

  When Roxann finally slammed the door, two feet of beaded and sequined fabric hung out, but it couldn’t be helped. She ran around to the driver’s side and threw herself into the Naugahyde seat, slammed the door twice before it caught, and heaved a sigh of relief. Her hastily tossed-together outfit—black skirt and orange pullover—were glued to her skin. She looked over at Angora slumped down in the seat, then gave in to the inappropriate laughter welling in her throat.

  Angora pivoted her head. “What could possibly be funny?”

  “You look like the casualty of a carnival dunking booth.”

  “Thanks a million.”

  “Hey, I’m kidding.”

  Angora’s bottom lip trembled. “This is the worst day of my entire life.”

  When dealing with traumatized women, Roxann had learned to forgo “enabling” small talk. “You escaped marrying a bum. I’d say it’s the luckiest day of your entire life.”

  “I suppose.” Angora sniffled. “Thanks for punching him.”