Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [79]
Jackson sent us to a friend of his in the travel business. In all the rush we had neglected to discuss a honeymoon. Now, with Ralph’s plane schedule in hand, we decided on a wedding trip to Victoria on Monday morning. I had plenty of vacation time available, and I figured Powell wouldn’t squawk too loud if I used some of it. Through a fluke, a split-level suite with a fireplace was available in the Empress Hotel. We booked it on the spot for Monday and Tuesday nights. We also got a reservation for Monday afternoon’s ritual High Tea.
Anne and I gave ourselves a shower that morning and afternoon, not the rubadubdub variety, but the bridal kind. We went from one department store to another, splurging on new sheets, towels, kitchen linens. Anne, long a nomad, had seldom purchased household items. She did it beautifully, her choices impeccable, but also with a childlike wonder and glee that made it seem a springtime Christmas shopping spree. Sometimes I paid, and sometimes she did, but there was no point in quibbling over money. Obviously, we weren’t in a position that we would have to worry about the bills.
We dragged our last load of purchases to the car, laughing and cutting up like a couple of kids. The trunk was full and the backseat was rapidly disappearing. “What now?” I asked.
“I’d like you to choose my dress,” she said.
For some reason, that touched me, put a lump in my throat. “All right, but you do so at your own risk. I know what I like. I don’t know anything about fashion.”
“Whatever you like will be fine.”
We hopscotched from store to store, with Anne gamely trying on first one dress and then another. Spring dictated pastels, which looked washed out and pale against her strikingly dark hair and tawny complexion. I was going to give it up and marry her in her red jogging suit when a saleswoman brought out a vivid turquoise suit. There was a hint of the Far East in the cut, and the material was a burnished silk. I knew it was right before she ever put it on.
The clerk, pleased to be making some progress, located a delicately feminine blouse and a suitable pair of shoes. When Anne came out of the dressing room, she had fastened her hair on top of her head, with a few tendrils dangling here and there. She was breathtakingly beautiful, and she was mine.
To give the store time to press it, we made arrangements to pick the dress up in an hour. Then we went in search of flowers. I can see how planning for a wedding can take a lifetime. We made decisions together, quickly, and in perfect agreement.
Last but not least, I too was decked out in a new outfit—a suit plucked right off the rack with a matching shirt and tie. It was late afternoon before we finished shopping and staggered back to the apartment. We unloaded the car and left again, this time in search of groceries. Anne had decided to cook a prewedding supper to be served after Ralph’s late-evening arrival.
Anne bustled happily in the kitchen while I refrigerated her corsage and two boutonnieres—one for Ames and one for me. By the time I unpacked the rest of our purchases, my linen closet bulged with new additions, and I bagged excess castoffs to take to the Children’s Orthopedic Thrift Store on Third Avenue. Already the apartment was showing signs of Anne’s presence, her blues and greens softening and diluting the masculine “statement” my decorator had undeniably achieved.
By seven my part of the job was under control. I sat in the living room waiting until it was time to go to the airport. It was then I remembered Andrew Carstogi for the first time that day. He had been so far from my thoughts that his jail cell might have been in Timbuktu. I had been too full of my own plans and concerns to give his problems any consideration.
He came to mind, and I felt a twinge of guilt. It was his pain that was directly responsible for my newfound happiness. I was sorry he was locked up. Our investigation had found nothing that would justify holding