“Well, I wanted a change for the wedding.”
“All eyes should be on the bride,” Rossi agreed.
“Hey, dead guy,” Jean said. “Nice tux. Did Bertie tell you to wear it?”
“It adds to the mystery. Why would a refined man in his prime…”
Jean laughed, then clapped her hand over her mouth.
“…in hisprime,” Rossi repeated, “be found stabbed to death on a gymnasium floor?”
“Because he was talking when he was supposed to be dead?” I suggested.
Jean drew her hand away from her mouth. “Nice pitchfork, though. Looks real.”
He lifted his hand away from the tines of the pitchfork, which appeared to be the murder weapon, stuck into his stomach.
“I was hoping she’d go for something a little more dramatic than a knife or a bullet,” he said. “Still, it’s not the first time I’ve been pitchforked. This one time in Romania…”
“And this, of course,” Bertie called out, her voice projecting like she was either leading a tour group or trying to warn us not to miss our cues. “This is one of Ordinary’s large, historic meeting places. It used to be the gymnasium, but now we often gather here for all kind of events. Why today, we have a wedding rehearsal going on. Please keep your voices down and be respectful of the event.”
“Oh gods,” I groaned.
“Hey, it’s good,” Jean said. “Smile and pretend we’re talking.”
“We are talking.”
“See? It’s all working out.”
The doors opened, the loud mechanical bar releasing, and I snuck a quick look.
Bertie was swathed head to foot in peacock blue, her jacket and slacks pressed within an inch of their lives. She’d donned a ruby red fedora and set it at an angle so that it dipped over one eye just a bit. She didn’t look like the dame in one of those old detective movies so much as the investigator ready to tackle the crime and criminal on her own.
She stepped aside to let the crowd move into the room ahead of her.
“Where’s Ryder, anyway?” Jean asked.
“He got called out by Mithra. He texted.” I checked the phone clenched in my hand and read his text for the hundredth time. “He should be here in about five minutes.”
“Here’s your water,” Myra said. “Take a drink. Everything’s fine.”
“Oh, my god!” a woman called out. “They’re having their wedding in a gym?”
“Look!” a man said. “She killed her husband! With a pitchfork!”
The crowd made gasping sounds, and a few people chuckled. Most of them shuffled forward to get a closer look at Rossi, who, I had to admit, was doing a great job of looking dead.
Phones were in hands and several people snapped pictures. A couple jokers knelt next to Rossi and took selfies with him.
Other people fanned out and started inspecting the gym, looking, I assumed, for clues, and a few brave folk beelined to the table covered in cookies and pastries.
“Hold it,” Myra said, heading them off at the pass. “Those are for the wedding rehearsal.”
“Please stay on this half of the room,” Bertie said. “You can see the line right there dividing the space. As I said, we have a wedding rehearsal in progress.”
“Where’s the groom?” a man called out.
“He’ll be here shortly, I’m sure. Now, as I said,” she went on, “there appears to have been a murder.”
