From Dead to Worse

pictures. She’s on her way to the hospital.”
    It was an hour before the wedding, and the photographer had been trying to get a number of group shots out of the way. The bridesmaids and the groomsmen were already togged out. Halleigh should have been getting into her wedding finery, but instead here she was in jeans and curlers, no makeup, and a tear-streaked face.
    Who could resist that?
    “You’re the right size,” she said. “And Tiffany is probably just about to have her appendix out. So, can you try on the dress?”
    I glanced at Sam, my boss.
    Sam smiled at me and nodded. “Go on, Sook. We don’t officially open for business until after the wedding.”
    So I followed Halleigh into Belle Rive, the Bellefleur mansion, recently restored to something like its antebellum glory. The wooden floors gleamed, the harp by the stairs shone with gilt, the silverware displayed on the big sideboard in the dining room glowed with polishing. There were servers in white coats buzzing around everywhere, the E(E)E logo on their tunics done in an elaborate black script. Extreme(ly Elegant) Events had become the premier upscale caterer in the United States. I felt a stab in my heart when I noticed the logo, because my missing guy worked for the supernatural branch of E(E)E. I didn’t have long to feel the ache, though, because Halleigh was dragging me up the stairs at a relentless pace.
    The first bedroom at the top was full of youngish women in gold-colored dresses, all fussing around Halleigh’s soon-to-be sister-in-law, Portia Bellefleur. Halleigh zoomed past that door to enter the second room on the left. It was equally full of younger women, but these were in midnight blue chiffon. The room was in chaos, with the bridesmaids’ civilian clothes piled here and there. There was a makeup and hair station over by the west wall, staffed by a stoic woman in a pink smock, curling rod in her hand.
    Halleigh tossed introductions through the air like paper pellets. “Gals, this is Sookie Stackhouse. Sookie, this is my sister Fay, my cousin Kelly, my best friend Sarah, my other best friend Dana. And here’s the dress. It’s an eight.”
    I was amazed that Halleigh had had the presence of mind to divest Tiffany of the bridesmaid dress before her departure for the hospital. Brides are ruthless. In a matter of minutes, I was stripped down to the essentials. I was glad I’d worn nice underwear, since there wasn’t any time for modesty. How embarrassing it would have been to be in granny panties with holes! The dress was lined, so I didn’t need a slip, another stroke of luck. There was a spare pair of thigh-highs, which I pulled on, and then the dress went over my head. Sometimes I wear a ten—in fact, most of the time—so I was holding my breath while Fay zipped it up.
    If I didn’t breathe a lot, it would be okay.
    “Super!” one of the other women (Dana?) said with great happiness. “Now the shoes.”
    “Oh, God,” I said when I saw them. They were very high heels dyed to match the midnight blue dress, and I slid my feet into them, anticipating pain. Kelly (maybe) buckled the straps, and I stood up. All of us held our breath as I took a step, then another. They were about half a size too small. It was an important half.
    “I can get through the wedding,” I said, and they all clapped.
    "Over here then,” said Pink Smock, and I sat in her chair and had more makeup reapplied over my own and my hair redone while the real bridesmaids and Halleigh’s mother assisted Halleigh into her dress. Pink Smock had a lot of hair to work with. I’ve only had light trims in the past three years, I guess, and it’s way down past my shoulder blades now. My roommate, Amelia, had put some highlights in, and that had turned out real good. I was blonder than ever.
    I examined myself in the full-length mirror, and it seemed impossible I could have been so transformed in twenty minutes. From working barmaid in a white ruffled tux shirt and black trousers to bridesmaid in a midnight blue dress—and three inches taller, to boot.
    Hey, I looked great. The dress was a super color for me, the skirt was gently A-line, the short sleeves weren’t too tight, and it wasn’t low cut enough to look slutty. With my boobs, the slut factor kicks in if I’m not careful.
    I was yanked out of self-admiration by the practical Dana, who said, “Listen, here’s the drill.” From that moment on, I listened and nodded. I examined a little diagram. I