Weddings Can Be Murder Read Online Free
Author: Christie Craig
Tabitha barked.
Truth be told, Katie wasn’t a pushover. She faced disgruntled artists, dissatisfied art dealers, and idiot art critics at her job on a regular basis. She could hold her own pretty darn well. But some people scared her. And right now, Tabitha Jones was one of those people.
“I got it.” Katie tapped her notebook with her pen.
A ringing doorbell interrupted the tense silence and Tabitha’s white-suited body rose from her white leather chair. The woman liked white.
“It’s probably…my next appointment. Give me a sec, sweetie,” Tabitha said.
Sweetie? Had she said “sweetie”? Yup. And now the Nazi wedding planner from hell was patting Katie on the arm.
“Just relax.” Tabitha’s words once again oozed out rather than being barked. “Weddings can be murder, but we have to stay calm.” She started to the door. “I’ll have him wait in my second office.”
Wanting to get out of there ASAP—before Tabitha’s bipolar personality did more morphing—Katie pulled out her checkbook and wrote Tabitha a check for the agreed-upon amount. Which, all of a sudden, seemed to be a lot more than Tabitha was worth. Not that it mattered. Katie had hired her, and paying her now was only fair. Well, maybe not really fair, but it went back to the fear factor, and more importantly to Tabitha being a regular gallery patron. Ticking her off wouldn’t be good for business.
Katie signed her last name on the check and paused when she realized it would probably be one of the last times she wrote Katie Ray , because she’d soon become Katie Lyon .
“Katie Lyon.” She said the name aloud and…bam! Her stomach went from okay to sour in zero flat. Her gaze shot around for a trash can. None.
“Oh, fudge.” Cupping her hand over her mouth, she realized she couldn’t give up her last name any more than she could puke on Tabitha’s new white carpet. The Rayname was one of the last ties she had to her family. Instant tears clouded her vision. Why did her family have to die, leaving her all alone?
She was still fighting the nausea and cloudy vision when she heard a scream. And not just any scream, but an oh-shit-I’m-screwed kind of scream. And not the good kind of screwed, either.
Jumping up, Katie shot to the door and peeped through the open slit. She could see the screaming Tabitha, but not the person being screamed at.
While eavesdropping on private screaming matches wasn’t Katie’s thing, she couldn’t help but try to make sense of the jumble of words.
“You! Brides. Can’t do this. Psycho freak. Murderer!”
All of a sudden, the words weren’t important. Not when the loud pop sounded. And once again, it wasn’t a good kind of pop.
With her nose poked through the small opening of the door, Katie watched Tabitha Jones, bipolar wedding planner extraordinaire, fall to the floor. Something bright red flowed out the front of Tabitha’s white dress and trickled down onto her brand-new, white—startling white, hurts-to-look-at-it-too-long white—carpet.
“Fudge.” Oh, hell . Les was right. This deserved the real word. “Fuck!” Then, unable to help herself, she barfed.
Staring at the mess—which looked like a bad abstract painting in shades of mauve against the white carpet—Katie lost her ability for rational thought. Time seemed to stand still. She vaguely recalled looking for a phone to dial 911 and not finding one. The next thing she knew, she had her bag, which held her cake samples, her keys, and her checkbook, and was hotfooting it down the hall.
Down the hall.
Away from the front door.
Away from a bleeding Tabitha.
Away from the person who had made Tabitha bleed.
And deeper into the house that looked way too much like a prison.
She’d only made it a couple feet when she heard them: footsteps. She screamed and took off at a dead run.
Chapter Four
Carl parked behind a silver Honda that was parked in front of a white elephant of a house.
He let his motor continue to run
Truth be told, Katie wasn’t a pushover. She faced disgruntled artists, dissatisfied art dealers, and idiot art critics at her job on a regular basis. She could hold her own pretty darn well. But some people scared her. And right now, Tabitha Jones was one of those people.
“I got it.” Katie tapped her notebook with her pen.
A ringing doorbell interrupted the tense silence and Tabitha’s white-suited body rose from her white leather chair. The woman liked white.
“It’s probably…my next appointment. Give me a sec, sweetie,” Tabitha said.
Sweetie? Had she said “sweetie”? Yup. And now the Nazi wedding planner from hell was patting Katie on the arm.
“Just relax.” Tabitha’s words once again oozed out rather than being barked. “Weddings can be murder, but we have to stay calm.” She started to the door. “I’ll have him wait in my second office.”
Wanting to get out of there ASAP—before Tabitha’s bipolar personality did more morphing—Katie pulled out her checkbook and wrote Tabitha a check for the agreed-upon amount. Which, all of a sudden, seemed to be a lot more than Tabitha was worth. Not that it mattered. Katie had hired her, and paying her now was only fair. Well, maybe not really fair, but it went back to the fear factor, and more importantly to Tabitha being a regular gallery patron. Ticking her off wouldn’t be good for business.
Katie signed her last name on the check and paused when she realized it would probably be one of the last times she wrote Katie Ray , because she’d soon become Katie Lyon .
“Katie Lyon.” She said the name aloud and…bam! Her stomach went from okay to sour in zero flat. Her gaze shot around for a trash can. None.
“Oh, fudge.” Cupping her hand over her mouth, she realized she couldn’t give up her last name any more than she could puke on Tabitha’s new white carpet. The Rayname was one of the last ties she had to her family. Instant tears clouded her vision. Why did her family have to die, leaving her all alone?
She was still fighting the nausea and cloudy vision when she heard a scream. And not just any scream, but an oh-shit-I’m-screwed kind of scream. And not the good kind of screwed, either.
Jumping up, Katie shot to the door and peeped through the open slit. She could see the screaming Tabitha, but not the person being screamed at.
While eavesdropping on private screaming matches wasn’t Katie’s thing, she couldn’t help but try to make sense of the jumble of words.
“You! Brides. Can’t do this. Psycho freak. Murderer!”
All of a sudden, the words weren’t important. Not when the loud pop sounded. And once again, it wasn’t a good kind of pop.
With her nose poked through the small opening of the door, Katie watched Tabitha Jones, bipolar wedding planner extraordinaire, fall to the floor. Something bright red flowed out the front of Tabitha’s white dress and trickled down onto her brand-new, white—startling white, hurts-to-look-at-it-too-long white—carpet.
“Fudge.” Oh, hell . Les was right. This deserved the real word. “Fuck!” Then, unable to help herself, she barfed.
Staring at the mess—which looked like a bad abstract painting in shades of mauve against the white carpet—Katie lost her ability for rational thought. Time seemed to stand still. She vaguely recalled looking for a phone to dial 911 and not finding one. The next thing she knew, she had her bag, which held her cake samples, her keys, and her checkbook, and was hotfooting it down the hall.
Down the hall.
Away from the front door.
Away from a bleeding Tabitha.
Away from the person who had made Tabitha bleed.
And deeper into the house that looked way too much like a prison.
She’d only made it a couple feet when she heard them: footsteps. She screamed and took off at a dead run.
Chapter Four
Carl parked behind a silver Honda that was parked in front of a white elephant of a house.
He let his motor continue to run
Readers choose
Robin Wasserman
Nicola May
Carol A. Guy
Michael Richan
Catherine Fisher
Margaret Bingley
Brian Pinkerton
Patrick Flores-Scott