Toys - James Patterson [85]
Maybe I only imagined that she was staring after us with her gaze suddenly gone steely—and that her hand had formed a make-believe pistol, aimed directly at our backs.
And that then, she pulled the trigger.
IT’S LINDSAY BOXER’S
WEDDING DAY—AND
THE WOMEN’S MURDER
CLUB RACES TO SAVE
A MISSING BABY.
FOR AN EXCERPT,
TURN THE PAGE.
THIS WAS THE day I was getting married.
Our suite at the Ritz in Half Moon Bay was in chaos. My best friends and I had stripped down to our underwear, and our street clothes had been flung over the furniture. Sorbet-colored dresses hung from the window moldings and door frames.
It all looked like a Degas painting of ballerinas preparing for the curtain to go up, or maybe a romanticized bordello in the Wild West. Jokes were cracked. Giddiness reigned. And then the door opened and my sister, Catherine, stepped in wearing her brave face: a tight smile, pain visible at the corners of her eyes.
“What’s wrong, Cat?” I asked.
“He’s not here.”
I blinked, trying to ignore the sharp pang of disappointment. I said, “Well, there’s a shock.”
Cat was talking about our father, Marty Boxer, who left home when we were kids and failed to show when my mom was dying. I’d only seen him twice in the last ten years and hadn’t missed him, but after he’d told Cat he’d come to my wedding, I’d had an expectation.
“He said he would be here. He promised,” Cat said.
I’m six years older than my sister and a century more jaded. I should have known better. I hugged her.
“Forget it,” I said. “He can’t hurt us. He’s nobody to us.”
Claire, my bosom buddy, sat up in bed, swung her legs over the side, and put her bare feet on the floor. She’s a large black woman—and funny, acidly so. If she weren’t a pathologist, she could’ve done stand-up comedy.
“I’ll give you away, Lindsay,” she said. “But I want you back.”
Cindy and I cracked up, and Yuki piped, “I know who can stand in for Marty, that jerk.” She stepped into her pink satin dress, pulled it up over her tiny little body, and zipped it herself. She said, “Be right back.”
Getting things done was Yuki’s specialty. Don’t get in her way when she’s in gear. Even if she’s in the wrong gear.
“Yuki, wait,” I called as she rushed out the door. I turned to Claire and saw that she was holding up what used to be called a foundation garment. It was bony and forbidding.
“I don’t mind wearing a dress that makes me look like a cupcake, but how in the hell am I supposed to get into this?”
“I love my dress,” said Cindy, fingering the peach silk organza. First bridesmaid in the world to express that sentiment, but Cindy was terminally lovesick. She turned her pretty face toward me and said dreamily, “You should get ready.”
Two yards of creamy satin slid out of the garment bag. I wriggled into the strapless Vera Wang confection, then stood with my sister in front the long, free-standing mirror: a pair of tall, brown-eyed blondes, looking so much like our dad.
“Grace Kelly never looked so good,” said Cat, her eyes welling up.
“Dip your head, gorgeous,” said Cindy.
She fastened her pearls around my neck.
I did a little pirouette, and Claire caught my hand and twirled me under her arm. She said, “Believe it, Linds? I’m going to dance at your wedding.”
She didn’t say finally, but she was right to think it, having watched me live through my roller-coaster long-distance romance with Joe, which was punctuated by his moving to San Francisco to be with me, my house burning down, a couple of near-death experiences, and a huge diamond engagement ring that I’d kept in a drawer for most of a year.
“Thanks for keeping the faith,” I said.
“I wouldn’t call it faith, darling,” Claire cracked. “I never expected to see a miracle, let alone be part of one.”
I gave her a playful jab to the arm. She ducked and feinted. The door opened and Yuki came in with my bouquet—a lavish bunch of peonies and roses tied with baby-blue streamers.
“This hankie belonged to my grandmother,” Cindy said, tucking a bit of lace into my cleavage, checking