Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Vol. 110, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 673 & 674, September/October 1997

Wedding Blues by Marianne Strong

© 1997 by Marianne Strong

Marianne Strong now lives in Maryland but she draws the inspiration for her stories from her hometown of Wilkes-Barre, PA. She often visits there, researching its coal-mining past and roaming through its many ethnic neighborhoods. Her latest story focuses on one such ethnic community and a wedding that nearly goes off without a hitch.

Every wedding makes someone unhappy.

Stan Odysek, sheriff of Bloomsville, figured this one would make plenty of people unhappy. The bride was Polish; the groom, Irish. A prescription for trouble in Bloomsville, PA.

Still, Stan entered Pulaski Hall hoping for a good time. He needed one. He’d been keeping watch for the FBI on two rackets men who had come up from Harrisburg to Bloomsville four days ago, possibly, the authorities thought, to launder some money, possibly after someone who owed them drug money. The rackets men had visited a jewelry store, nosed around a few neighborhoods, spent half an hour in a bar with Stan’s own black-sheep cousin Walter, and left. They’d done nothing illegal as far as Stan could tell.

He pulled open the double glass doors of Pulaski Hall. Plenty of people had made it before him up to the hall from St. Casimir’s Church. They’d taken their places: the McGuires seated at the tables on the left side of the hall and the Korskis on the right. The scene reminded Stan of the basketball games in his high school days. St. Casimir kids lined up on the right bleachers yelling, “Polish, Polish,” and the St. Patrick kids lined up on the left yelling, “Irish, Irish.” Not one had any idea why they were supposed to hate each other. The days of the Irish foremen in the mines wielding what little power they had over the newly arrived Polish immigrants and the days of the Irish bishops in the Catholic churches blocking the appointment of Polish clergy had passed two generations ago. But the tensions remained. Today, they swirled around the head of the bride: Carolyn Korski, now Mrs. William McGuire.

Stan smiled with avuncular pride at Carolyn, seated in the middle of the main table behind a spread of gardenias, looking gorgeous with her delicate blond beauty. She also looked very nervous. Her fingers tugged at a blue brooch pinned to the bodice of her white gown. She had reason to be nervous. Her new mother-in-law looked as if her son were being shipped out to some remote military hotspot where the army’s acceptable loss rate was about seventy-five percent.

Stan walked toward table sixteen, his assigned place, and winced when Cousin Walter crossed his path. If anyone would confirm for Carolyn’s mother-in-law that her son had married into a horde of Eastern European barbarians, it would be Cousin Walter. Walter had had sticky fingers since the second grade, when he’d stolen five boxes of Necco Wafers from Uncle Larry’s penny-candy store. Later, continuing in his way, he’d indulged in some crude embezzlement and lost his job as school transportation director. Now, Walter was headed straight for the bridal table.

Stan’s right hand strayed to where his holster normally rested against his hip when he was on duty. “Hello, Walter,” he said. “Surprised to see you. Family affairs don’t usually hold much interest for you.”

“Well, this one does,” Walter said.

“Hope you didn’t bring along any of your Harrisburg buddies?” Stan hadn’t bothered questioning Walter about the rackets men. Stan would be lucky to get the time of day from Cousin Walter.

The left side of Walter’s mouth twitched. He tugged on the too-short sleeves of his tux, but they sprang back up over his skinny wrists. “Now look, Sheriff, I was on my way to remind the groom I’d bring his car up here for him tonight. Made the arrangements with him and Carolyn a few days ago.” Walter’s self-importance had moved into high gear. “You’re not going to spoil this nice affair by rattling on about parking violations and crap games, are you? You’re not wearing your sheriffs badge, are you?” Walter turned over Stan’s lapels.

Stan balled his fists. One good shot, a couple of teeth on the floor, a bloody lip. He stayed cool. “Nope. Promised Carolyn’s mother I’d ignore the lowlife she had to invite. She thinks anybody can be useful at a wedding.”

Walter adjusted his bow tie and rubbed his golfball nose, a habit that he’d had from the first grade and indulged in whenever he was nervous or angry. “I might be a little more useful than you think. I have my connections.”

“Yeah,” Stan said. Even as a teenager, Walter had had connections. He’d always waved around tickets to the harness-racing track. Half of Walter’s present connections were with State Senator Dan McGuire. Stan suspected Dan McGuire of having a hand in every racket game in the state of Pennsylvania, but neither he nor any other authority had been able to get anywhere near to a real piece of evidence. Dan covered his tracks well, and Walter’s too. For the life of him, Stan couldn’t see why the family should be so sensitive about Walter when the McGuires had Dan. But then, Dan was a crook with status. Walter was just a crook.

Stan looked round. “McGuire here?” he asked.

“Dan’s mighty sorry he couldn’t make it up from Harrisburg for the wedding,” Walter said.

“Missing his nephew’s wedding, is he? Even you couldn’t persuade him to come? Haven’t had a falling-out with Dan, have you?”

Walter stiffened. “You just try to enjoy yourself, Sheriff,” he said. “And stick to what you know best. If I see anyone double-parked outside, I’ll let you know so you can swing right into action and earn your money.” He turned and headed for the bridal table.

Uncle Larry hobbled over to Stan. “If anyone’s missing five of anything,” he said, staring at Walter’s back, “arrest him.” Uncle Larry was long on memory and short on forgiveness. “Know what the creep tried to do a couple of days ago?”

“At the candy store?” Uncle Larry, at age seventy-five, still ran the store, though it didn’t turn the profit it used to.

“Naw. He hasn’t been in for thirty years. Tried to borrow some money from Matilda.”

“She didn’t give any to him, did she?” Stan knew Larry’s wife had a soft heart, and Walter knew it, too.

“Gave him fifty. Could have been worse. He wanted three thousand. Matilda said he sounded pretty desperate. Must be behind on his car payments.” Uncle Larry chuckled. “Might have to sell that fancy new car he’s been sportin’ around in. Can’t figure where he got the money to buy it in the first place.”

Stan balled his fists again. He disapproved of preying on elderly relatives. But he wouldn’t do anything about it today. He just wanted to enjoy himself, even if he couldn’t expect the kind of wedding his sister had had twenty-five years ago, before the Polish-Americans had gone sophisticated with roast beef for the wedding dinners instead of kielbasa, and wine and mixed drinks instead of beer. But there would be a five band, not a deejay spinning rock records, and the band would play a few polkas. He and Aunt Matilda would spin around the hall until they were dizzy. He sat down at table sixteen to await dinner.

The roast beef turned out lean and rare, but lacked the pungent chewiness of the kielbasa Carolyn’s mother had insisted the caterers serve, much to Stan’s delight. Stan noticed that most of the McGuire plates had a curl of kielbasa left rather forlornly on the side, but then, he and his cousins had left the green mashed potatoes to dry into cakey masses.

Little Mike Korski was still making railroad tracks in his potatoes with his fork. “Mom,” he said, “they look like...”

His mother punched his shoulder.

“What?” he squealed, his eyes wide with the righteous protest of the unjustly punished.

“Behave yourself,” his mother said.

“I am,” Mike mumbled He looked to Uncle Stan for manly compassion against domineering women. “I carried that dumb pillow with the stupid pink bows. And I didn’t drop it again either.”

“Again?” Stan asked.

“Yeah. I dropped it at practice yesterday. Aunt Carolyn bawled all over the place, and it wasn’t even dirty.”

“Probably just her nerves, Mike, old boy. Brides get like that. You have to understand.”

“I don’t.” Stan’s mother, who was seated to Stan’s other side, leaned over to whisper in his ear. “She cried her eyes out. Took me twenty minutes to calm her. And did you notice her eyes at the ceremony this morning?”

“Can’t say I did,” Stan said.

“Red. She’d been crying again.”

“So? Brides are supposed to cry, right?”

“Not that much.”

“You saying maybe she’s pregnant and had to get married?”

Stan’s mother punched his shoulder.

Mike looked up at Stan. “What’d you say, Uncle Stan?”

Stan’s mother leaned across her son toward Mike. “He didn’t say anything worth repeating. Now, eat your potatoes.”

Mike hung his tongue out. Stan poked him and grinned. “I’m going to the bar. Can you use a Coke, old boy?”

“Yeah. Can I come with you, Uncle Stan?”

Stan nodded. They made their way past a few Korski tables, Mike skipping away from aunts and uncles who wanted to see how tall he’d grown. He went a little pale when he tripped over the outstretched foot of a McGuire man, but cheered up when the man solicited pity for their both having to wear bow ties.

When Mike decided his bladder couldn’t hold a Coke without some emptying out of the milk he’d been forced to drink, Stan steered toward the restrooms. They were about to cross in front of the door of the ladies’ room when it popped open and Carolyn came out. She started when she saw Mike and Stan.

“Hi, Aunt Carolyn. I didn’t drop it.”

Carolyn stared at him.

“I didn’t. I didn’t drop the pillow.”

“Oh, the pillow. No, Mikey. You did just fine.”

Stan tousled Mike’s hair. “I’m getting him his reward. A Coke.”

“Oh, yes,” Carolyn said. Her fingers closed tightly over the blue pin she wore at the V in the bodice of her gown.

“You holding up okay, Carolyn?” Stan asked.

“Just fine, thanks, Uncle Stan.”

“Looks like the band’s about ready. You’re probably needed.”

Carolyn looked over toward her groom. “Oh yes. Yes, I am.” She walked away.

Stan watched her until Mike pulled him toward the men’s room.

Two hours later, Mike, having gone beyond his quota of four Cokes, was nursing another glass of milk. Stan left him in the care of the sympathetic bow-tied McGuire and trotted out Aunt Matilda for their fifth polka. By that time, several McGuires had decided that the jig and the polka called for basically the same series of hops, and the floor rocked. The wedding was proceeding very nicely indeed. No McGuire had asked who the hell Pulaski was, and no Korski had mentioned the green potatoes. Only Carolyn still looked a little nervous, but then the bridal dance, the capping ceremony, was coming up. Carolyn would likely relax after it was over.

Stan took Aunt Matilda back to her seat and fiddled in his pocket, hoping he hadn’t forgotten the fifty-dollar bill, rather a generous donation, but then Carolyn was his favorite niece. The bill was there.

Walter was circling round, loudly urging people to clear the dance area. Carolyn walked to the center of the floor, and her maid of honor, Barbara, went to stand beside her.

From behind Stan, the voice of Carolyn’s mother-in-law, seated with several other McGuires, cut the air in a high pitch. “What’s going to happen now?”

Stan clenched the fifty-dollar bill. He didn’t think Mrs. McGuire was going to like this.

The maid of honor reached up and took off Carolyn’s veil.

Mrs. McGuire gasped.

Walter dragged out a chair and Barbara sat down in it, spreading the veil on her lap. Mrs. Korski walked over to her daughter. When she stepped back, Carolyn’s blond head was swathed in a white scarf. A babushka. The Korski women clapped, and the men began to line up where Walter directed them.

“What are they doing now?” Mrs. McGuire whined. “Oh, where’s William?”

Stan decided he’d better prepare Mrs. McGuire for what was to come. He pulled up a chair near her. She looked at him as if he were carrying bubonic plague.

“This is an old Polish custom, Mrs. McGuire. The babush — er, the scarf, symbolizes Carolyn’s status. She’s a married woman now. But she’ll have one last dance with all the men present. Each one will dance with her in turn. To help her get started with her new home, they’ll pay for the privilege of the dance. They’ll drop the money into the bridal veil the maid of honor is holding.”

Mrs. McGuire stared.

“You see, it’s an old custom.”

Mrs. McGuire stared.

“Eh, to help out the bride and groom.”

“William is a dentist. He does not need help.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure he doesn’t, Mrs. McGuire. But everyone will want to help anyway. It’s an old custom.”

“Payment to dance with the girl?”

“No, you see... well, okay, yes.” Stan lost patience. He stood up. “A last chance before the damned lucky groom claims the prize.”

Mrs. McGuire gasped.

Stan got in line, wondering if he could whirl Carolyn up the floor enough to step on Mrs. McGuire’s foot. No wonder the poor girl was so nervous.

His dance with Carolyn over, Stan sat, Mike leaning sleepily against his shoulder, and watched things begin to wind down. Mrs. McGuire had survived the disgrace of the bridal dance, and Carolyn had disappeared to change into street clothes before her final goodbye. Stan was beginning to slump sleepily when his mother poked his shoulder. “Take it easy, Mom,” Stan complained, then sat up when he saw the look on his mother’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s taken it, Stan, and you have to do something about this. But you’re not to make a fuss, do you hear? No one’s to know.”

“Including me?” Stan said, hopeful.

“This is nothing to joke about, Stan. I don’t know what’s happening, but I knew something was wrong. Carolyn has been so upset.”

“Someone’s taken the groom away? His mother?”

“Stan.”

Mike jumped.

“Your mother wants you, Mike,” Stan’s mother said. Mike threw a sympathetic look at Stan and scooted away.

Stan’s mother took Mike’s seat. “Now here’s what happened. Barbara, she’s the maid of honor, collected the bridal-dance money. She was supposed to take it upstairs and put it with Carolyn’s clothes. But she didn’t. I saw her put it into her purse. Stuff it in. All of it, and there must be quite a bit. I saw her do it because I’d gone to the kitchen to get your Aunt Matilda a glass of water. She’s still out of breath. Barbara went out the back way, past the kitchen, stuffing the money into her purse. She got into her car and she’s gone.” Mrs. Odysek leaned back, folding her hands in her lap. “Well?”

“Christ,” Stan said. “She’s Carolyn’s best friend. She and Carolyn must have made some arrangement.”

“Exactly,” Stan’s mother said.

Stan sat up straighter. “What the hell are you saying, Mom?”

“Swearing will not help. I’m saying that Carolyn is in trouble.”

“You mean, she’s arranging an abortion?”

Mrs. Odysek rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would she need an abortion now?”

“Then what?” Stan said.

“Keep your voice down. I don’t know what. That’s what you have to find out.”

“Okay,” Stan said, “I’ll ask her.”

“You can’t just go up and ask.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s her wedding day. And because she’s gone upstairs where she’ll change. She and William plan to leave at eight-thirty.”

Stan looked at his watch. It was seven twenty-five. “What time did you see Barbara leave with the money?”

“I don’t know exactly. About fifteen minutes ago. I had to get the water for Matilda, and I had to go to the bathroom. Then I looked around to see if Barbara had come back in. She hadn’t. What does the time matter?”

“Maybe Barbara is supposed to meet Carolyn and William somewhere with the money.”

“I doubt that.”

“Right, well, maybe she’s putting it into the bank for them.”

“But they could do that themselves.”

Stan grinned. “Maybe they’re in too much of a hurry.”

Stan’s mother stood, impressing all five feet of her will on her son. “Barbara was nervous, as Carolyn has been for two days. Now Barbara has left with the money. You are the sheriff. It is your job to do something.”

Stan stood, his head rising a foot and a half over his mother’s. “Okay, I’ll go arrest her. Is she armed?”

Stan’s mother gestured to a young man heading toward the bar. “That’s Edward O’Neill. He’s Barbara’s boyfriend. You could talk to him.”

“Right.” Stan strolled off toward Edward, knowing that his mother would not only watch, but would probably time the conversation. She guarded the family’s welfare as closely as the Janissaries had the sultan.

Stan leaned against the bar, ordered a Coke, and nodded to Edward, feeling like an ass and wondering if his mother would accept his resignation as sheriff. “Your, uh, partner around?” he asked.

Edward blinked. “You mean Barbara?”

“Uh, yeah. Carolyn’s looking for her.”

Edward looked vaguely around the hall at the remaining guests. “Yeah, she must be here somewhere. I thought maybe she’d gone upstairs with Carolyn.”

“She hasn’t left, has she?”

Edward blinked again. “Hell, no. Why would she leave?”

“No reason. No reason,” Stan reassured Edward. He felt more like an ass. “She’s probably upstairs, like you said.” But of course, she wasn’t. Stan began to feel a little anxious. Carrying his Coke with him, he circled round the hall, casually inquiring after Barbara of various relatives. He ferreted out only one piece of information.

Aunt Matilda, seated now with Stan’s mother, informed him that Barbara had had a quick conversation with Walter at about six.

Stan ignored his mother’s loud throat noises, but he gave in when she tugged heavily on his shirt sleeve. Lips and eyes in straight lines, she nodded an “I told you so” at him. Then her eyebrows rose enough to lift her grey curls an inch higher. Stan turned around to see what had startled her.

Barbara was in the hall and hurrying toward the stairs.

Stan looked at his watch. It was seven forty-five. She’d been gone about half an hour. But on what mission that required what was probably, at a rough estimate, about two thousand dollars of bridal-dance money at an average of thirty dollars from about sixty men? And what the hell did Walter have to do with it, if anything?

Stan looked around for Walter and spotted him at the bar. He was consulting his watch. He said something to the bartender, then turned, waved furiously at the groom across the hall, and headed out the front doors of Pulaski Hall.

Escaping from another tug at his sleeve, Stan headed toward the bar. “My cousin Walter,” he said to the bartender. “I need to talk with him. The guy with the golfball nose and the too-small tux. Did he say where he was headed?”

The bartender nodded. “Matter of fact, he did. Several times and loudly. Said he had the most important job here.”

“What was that?”

“Volunteered to drive back to the church to get the groom’s car and bring it here. I gather the groom left it there so his friends couldn’t get at it and soap it up. Your, uh, cousin seemed to think it was quite a joke: getting the car to, uh, allow the groom to get the bride to a motel.”

“Yeah,” Stan said, “that’s Cousin Walter.”

But why, Stan thought, draining his Coke, had Walter volunteered? Damn, the wedding was so close to coming off without a hitch. He watched the guests, some still dancing, most talking, a few McGuires now sitting with some Korskis. Everything looked normal. He spotted the groom and watched him come down the stairs and go over to his mother. They both looked normal, too, except that Mrs. McGuire grabbed onto her son’s arms as if he were headed for a death squad. Stan made up his mind.

He headed toward the stairs and the upper room where apparently Barbara and Carolyn were still ensconced. Before he got to the stairs, Barbara emerged from the door at the top, bounced down, and joined her boyfriend, smiling.

Stan climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. It flew open and Carolyn leapt out, bright and eager in a pink suit, then pulled back. “Oh, Uncle Stan,” she said.

“Yeah, sorry. William’s still with his mother.”

“Oh, is he? How does she look? I mean, is she crying or anything?” Carolyn looked nervous again.

“She looks tragic, but she’ll be fine.”

“Tragic?” Carolyn took a step back. “Oh my God.”

Stan pushed her gently into the room and closed the door. “Carolyn, tell me what the problem is. Maybe I can help.”

“Oh God, if she knows, nothing can help.”

“Knows what?”

“Oh, Uncle Stan. It’s been awful.”

“What? What?” Stan resisted the temptation to shake Carolyn.

“Mrs. McGuire’s sapphire. In the brooch I was wearing on my dress. You know, something blue. William insisted I wear it. I didn’t want to. I was brushing it the day before yesterday with jewelry cleaner, over the sink. It just popped out. And one of the side diamonds. The diamond went down the drain. I caught the sapphire. Oh God. She’ll hate me more than ever if she finds out.”

“How can she not find out?”

“I got the sapphire reset. John Casey did it for me. He’s the jeweler. He put the sapphire back in, and he put in a false diamond until I could get him some money for a real one.”

Stan nodded. “And Barbara paid him with the bridal money.”

“Oh my God, how did you know? Who else knows?”

“Never mind, Carolyn.” Stan took his niece into his arms and patted her back. “I know and my mother knows. That’s all.” Casey was the jeweler visited by the rackets men, but Stan thought it best not to let Carolyn in on that.

“I didn’t know what to do. I was desperate. I just wanted to get the hateful thing fixed by this evening. Barbara took the brooch down to the jeweler’s for the real diamond after the bridal dance. She just got it back to me, and I sent William down to Mrs. McGuire with it.”

“Does your husband know about this?”

“Oh good God, no. I’ll tell him, of course, but after the honeymoon. But you said Mrs. McGuire knew.” Carolyn sobbed again.

“No, I didn’t say that. She looked tragic because her son is going off with another woman.” Stan gave Carolyn his handkerchief. “You’d better dry up. I think your husband’s coming.”

Carolyn dabbed her eyes, and when William entered, explained that she and dear old Uncle Stan just couldn’t help crying.

Stan sniffled as best he could. “My favorite niece, you know.” He let it go at that. He was good at poker faces, but not teary sentiment.

Fifteen minutes later, Carolyn had thrown her bouquet, directly to Barbara. Stan gave the final toast, even managing to hold his temper when Walter insisted loudly on adding something about lots of little future McGuires. The bride and groom were off. It was eight-forty. Stan went to the bar for a beer.

He surveyed the scene. Mrs. McGuire looked brokenhearted, but not tragic anymore. She hadn’t guessed about the reset sapphire and the new diamond. Aunt Matilda and a McGuire woman were showing pictures to each other: grandchildren, no doubt. Even Walter was relatively harmlessly occupied, regaling two women with the story of how he’d driven his car back to the church, brought the groom’s car up, and arranged for Aunt Matilda’s son, Chester, to take him back to the church to pick up his own car. He sounded louder than usual, and he looked redder than usual, but then, he’d probably had several drinks.

Stan was about to finish his beer and head over to help Mike’s mother haul out her sleeping son, when the bartender tapped him on the shoulder. “You’re Sheriff Odysek, right?”

Stan nodded.

The bartender held out a phone to him.

“Odysek,” Stan said into the receiver.

“Stan, sorry to call at the wedding,” Deputy Sheriff Bell said. “But we got a homicide.”

The uneasiness Stan had felt for much of the evening hardened. “Who? and where?”

“Store merchant. Night watchman came on duty and saw a light he didn’t think should be on. He went in and found, uh...”

Stan heard papers rustle.

“He found the guy. Casey. John Casey’s the name. A jeweler.”

“Yeah,” Stan said, “I know.”

Deputy Sheriff Bell did not respond for a moment. “You knew he got murdered?”

“No, no. I knew he was a jeweler. How was he killed?”

“Night watchman says his head is bashed in. A cash register is open. No money in it. Looks like a robbery.”

Stan had a hard time imagining the maid of honor holding up her pink gown and bashing in the head of a jeweler. Besides, Barbara had gone to give Casey money, not to get it.

“Okay,” Stan said. “You still at the station?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll meet you at the Casey place. Call Wilkes Barre for the medical examiner. And ask for a photographer and some fingerprint people. We’re going to need help.”

He hung up and went over to tell his mother that she’d have to get a ride home from someone else.

Stan arrived at the hole-in-the-wall jewelry store in fifteen minutes.

The medical examiner told him that Casey had died sometime within the last two hours. Head bashed in with some metal instrument. Maybe a tire iron. Sometime between seven and nine.

Stan let Deputy Bell direct the photographer. He decided to check Casey’s files. He didn’t expect to find anything illuminating. It wouldn’t be that easy. But it would help pass time until the fingerprint men came and went.

The first two drawers of the green metal file cabinet proved empty, except for half a bag of Lay’s potato chips. The third drawer had one file folder in it. Stan pulled it out, considered eating the chips, rejected the idea, and sat at a wooden desk on which lay a calendar of classic cars and a dirty square of white marble that held down a photo of three men, the middle one, Casey, holding up a hefty trout. The man on the left was Walter Korski.

Stan tucked the photo into his jacket pocket and picked up the first of the pale pink sheets from the folder. On the top of the sheet was the address of a Philadelphia jeweler. Casey had purchased four diamonds: total value — eighty thousand dollars. A second sheet, from a different jeweler, in New York, listed three rubies, two sapphires, and a diamond, for a total value of thirty thousand. By the time he’d reached the fifth sheet, Stan had a pretty good idea of what Casey had been up to.

“Jim,” he said to his deputy, “take a look at these. What do you make of them?”

Jim studied several of the sheets. “Casey had a better business than I figured.”

“Think there’s enough people in Bloomsville who could afford these gems?”

“Not likely. So what do we have?”

“Money laundering. Drug money comes up here to Casey. He buys gems wholesale, takes a cut, resells, and returns clean money. Pretty common way for drug dealers to launder their money. Last summer at FBI headquarters in Washington, I saw a display of gems and jewelry confiscated by the FBI.”

“You think maybe those two rackets men the FBI asked about had something to do with this?”

“I think we can count on it.” Stan decided not to mention yet that his cousin Walter was mixed up in the mess somehow.

“Wait for the fingerprint men,” he told his deputy. “I have a couple of people I want to see.” He phoned Carolyn’s mother for an address and went over to Meade Street to talk to Barbara. She was now a potential witness.

“But that’s all I did,” Barbara sobbed, face scrubbed clear of its wedding makeup, and turning redder as she brushed away tears. “Carolyn gave me the brooch when she went upstairs. So I took it and the money. I gave him the money. He put in the real diamond in place of the fake. It only took five minutes. Then I left.”

“Did you see anyone else in the place? Or near it?”

Barbara shook her head. “I got...”

Stan waited while she blew her nose.

“I just got into my car and drove back as fast as I could. I just wanted to help Carolyn.”

“I know,” Stan said, “I know. You sure you didn’t notice any car approaching the place? As you left, maybe?”

Barbara shook her head again.

Stan felt unreasonably disappointed. Murderers, he knew, usually took care that they weren’t noticed. But he’d been hoping she’d spotted two men, or, better yet, a skinny guy, about six foot two, balding, rubbing a golfball nose, carrying a tire iron, and heading straight for the jeweler’s. Good old Walter, after all, was also a rackets man, if only two-bit, low-level management and not too bright. “Okay,” Stan said. “If you think of anything, call me. And don’t worry. I don’t really think you’re a murderer.”

Barbara brushed away more tears. “Okay. Can I make a phone call?”

“No need for a lawyer,” Stan said, smiling.

Barbara looked surprised. “I want to call Edward. My boyfriend.”

“Of course, of course. One more question, though. Who picked Casey to fix the brooch? You or Carolyn?”

“Carolyn. That is, her Uncle Walter. He was at her house when the sapphire came out a few days ago. He heard her crying on the phone to me and told her he knew a jeweler who could help right away. She was desperate.”

“So you took the brooch down the first time. To get the sapphire put back in?”

“No. Carolyn’s uncle took it down that evening and brought it back yesterday in time for the wedding ceremony. But he said the jeweler wouldn’t get a matching diamond from Philadelphia until the next day. The day of the wedding. I agreed to go down with the brooch and the money after the bridal dance. Her uncle didn’t want to do that. I don’t know why not, but I had to help Carolyn.”

“I understand,” Stan said. “Get some sleep.”

Back in his car, he sat for a minute, thinking about time. It had taken him fifteen minutes to get to the jeweler’s from Pulaski Hall. Walter had left the hall at about seven forty-five, announcing his departure to the bartender, and returned by eight-thirty or so, in time to add his two cents to the final toast to the bride and groom. So Walter could have murdered Casey, except that he supposedly drove to the church, left his car, and returned with the groom’s car — a forty-minute round trip. He couldn’t have done both. Unless he’d brought back the groom’s car earlier. But then, how had Walter’s car gotten down to the church? It had to be there, Walter had arranged for Aunt Matilda’s son to take him back to the church to get his car. Chester was annoyingly honest. He wouldn’t lie to save Aunt Matilda’s life, let alone to save Walter’s. Stan reminded himself that he had no proof, only wishful thinking. But he was beginning to understand. He needed to get the brooch to a reputable jeweler.

At the station the next morning, Stan argued with his deputy. “All you have to do,” Stan said, “is interrupt a couple on their honeymoon. Call the bride’s mother. She’ll tell you where they’re staying. Keep calling them until they answer. I want to know the exact time the groom gave Walter Korski those keys for the car.”

“Okay, okay,” Deputy Bell grumbled, pouring himself another cup of his fortifying coffee. He was young enough to be embarrassed by questioning people in awkward circumstances.

“I’ve got the hard part,” Stan grumbled back. “I’ve got to collect that sapphire brooch from the mother-in-law.”

Stan, brooch in hand, left his niece’s mother-in-law rocking back and forth on her blue-flowered sofa and moaning about “poor William.”

At Kartorowski’s, the best jeweler in town, and the one from whom Mr. McGuire had purchased the sapphire thirty years ago, Stan waited patiently while old Boleslaw Kartorowski, formal in grey suit and vest, squinted through a loupe at the sapphire brooch. His son Robert stood by. After about two minutes, Boleslaw set the brooch down on the counter. He shook his head slowly. “This stone is not Mrs. McGuire’s sapphire.” He shook his head again. “Very bad, maybe.”

“Glass?” Robert asked.

Boleslaw frowned at his son. “No. No. A child could tell just glass. This is maybe a doublet.”

Robert took the loupe and the brooch.

“The sapphire’s a phony?” Stan asked.

“No. The diamond,” Boleslaw said. “That’s a zircon. The sapphire is maybe a doublet. I will check.” He took the sapphire and disappeared into a back room.

“What’s he going to do?” Stan asked Robert.

“Check the stone with a spectroscope, probably.”

Two minutes later, old Kartorowski returned, looking sad. “It is as I thought. Real sapphire. But worth only very little. Slices of pale yellow sapphire on the top and the bottom. Real sapphire. Natural sapphire,” Boleslaw nodded his head. “Yes, real, but glued together with a blue glue. A dark blue glue. To make the slices of sapphire look more blue. Without a spectroscope, even a jeweler might be fooled. Who made this doublet?”

“Don’t know,” Stan said. “Would it take a good deal of skill?”

Kartorowski shrugged. “The real sapphire was emerald cut. Not so difficult. A good cutter might do this in...” He shrugged again. “... a few days. A cutter in New York or Philadelphia.”

“A few days,” Stan said to himself. Walter and Casey had had the brooch for a few days. “What was the real sapphire worth?”

Boleslaw’s eyes shone. “Ah, now that was a jewel. From Burma, it was. A beautiful emerald cut to show the color. Almost two carats. Such a deep blue. And such fire. I have not had a finer sapphire since. These days...ppfftt.” He held out his hands, palms up.

“Worth what?”

“Perhaps five thousand.” A five-thousand-dollar sapphire and two diamonds. Maybe seven thousand, all told, Stan thought. With whatever else Casey had had in his cash register. Hardly seemed worth killing for, unless one were desperate. Like, if one’s job was to run laundered money from Bloomsville to Harrisburg for the rackets people and maybe one had siphoned some to pay for a new car. Walter was just stupid enough to do that. And just tricky enough to see the opportunity to get Mrs. McGuire’s gem and Carolyn’s bridal money. And just mean enough to talk Casey into the scheme and then kill him for seven thousand to pay the rackets people and save his own skin.

A day later, Deputy Bell had tracked down the newlyweds. “They’re in Montreal,” he told Stan. “Frenchy place, but the hotel people spoke English. They put me through. I hated to interrupt...”

“Yeah,” Stan said. “I know. So what did you find out?”

“William McGuire, that’s the groom...”

“I know.”

“Oh, yeah. He said he gave Walter Korski the keys at about seven-thirty or so. He kept them until then because he wanted to make sure none of his friends talked Korski into letting them take the keys to trash the car. He said the car was ready and waiting about eight-thirty or so at the reception, just like he and Korski planned. Only problem was, one of the headlights was out. McGuire got stopped up in New York State.”

“Damn,” Stan said. Walter had an alibi, and he had made sure plenty of people knew it. In a way. No one actually saw him drive the car from the church to the reception, but he had delivered it on time.

“Oh,” Deputy Bell said, “I checked on something else. Walter Korski has a new car. A Lexus. Pretty expensive wheels.”

“Yeah,” Stan said. “Too expensive. Unless Walter did siphon off some racket money.”

“Maybe payback time had come. Maybe that’s why he needed the sapphire and the bride’s money. Maybe he did kill Casey.”

“Maybe,” Stan said.

Deputy Bell shrugged. “Times won’t work, though, because Father Kasmirski at the church said he noticed the Lexus out front at eight-thirty when he went out to give extreme unction to a parishioner at the hospital.” Deputy Bell shivered. “Hate thinking about that stuff. Anyway, Father can’t say when the car got there or how long it stayed there.”

“Damn,” Stan said. Walter had given himself a decent alibi. The family would have their albatross yet. Stan slumped in his chair, then straightened up. Unless luck was on their side. “Jim, get me the traffic citations for Saturday.”

“Traffic citations?”

“That’s what I said. According to Cousin Walter, we’re pretty efficient with traffic tickets around here. Maybe as efficient as the New York State Police.”

Jim gave Stan a “you’ve been working too hard” look, but got the citations.

Stan leafed through and pulled one out. “Jim, old buddy,” he said, eyes glowing, “the groom tell you what kind of car he has?”

“Yeah. Let’s see, uh, a Taurus. A grey Taurus.”

“Grey Taurus.” Stan slammed his palm on his desk. “License plate CFG455. One headlight out. We got him.”

Deputy Bell frowned. “Got who?”

“Officer Tarantino filled out this report. Saturday at eight-fifteen. Stopped a Taurus with a headlight out. Issued a warning. Driver, a Mister Ralph Garrity. Local juvenile delinquent. Speeds around in an old Mustang.” Stan grinned. “Wonder how much Walter paid him to drive his Lexus to the church and the Taurus to the hall. I think I know where Walter drove the Mustang while Garrity was busy. Think I’ll have a talk with Garrity.”

Two weeks later, Mrs. McGuire knew she would eventually get her real sapphire back. The sapphire was state’s evidence. Walter Korski had tried to pay off his debt to the mob with it. But he’d killed Casey for nothing. The mob found the payment inadequate. Walter ended up floating in the Schuylkill River with a bullet in his chest. Like Rasputin, he’d survived. He was ratting on everybody, including Dan McGuire, to save himself. He would have to go into the Federal Witness Protection Program. He’d end up living in some suburb of Seattle or Rapid City. The Korski family was thrilled.

Mrs. McGuire was not happy. The Korskis had only to endure the embarrassment of an exiled black-sheep murderer in the family. The papers hardly spent a day on Walter. Mrs. McGuire had to deal with the senator’s very public disgrace. She was very subdued.

Carolyn and William were ecstatic.