Love Can Be Murder

over her head since her first period. There had only been one man who had tempted her to thwart her mother's orders, but Carl hadn't wanted her...
    "Places, everyone," the wedding director announced, clapping her hands.
    Thank God. Dee reappeared to give the gown one more pat, then marched out of the dressing room. No words of wisdom, no sentiment, no nothing.
    The bridesmaids filed out next, atwitter about which one of the groomsmen was escorting them, which everyone knew was the greatest perk of being a bridesmaid. She'd met Trenton five years ago when they were both in the Wilcott-Stanton wedding party. Beth Stanton had had only eighteen bridesmaids, poor dear.
    "And now the bride," the director said with a sweeping gesture toward the door where her father stood, his hand extended.
    She glided toward him, then tucked her arm in his.
    "This is it, baby. Are you sure?"
    "I'm sure."
    And when she reached the back of the chapel and saw Trenton standing at the altar, she'd never been more sure of anything in her life. Tall, blond, handsome. Everyone said they looked like Ken and Barbie. The years ahead unfolded in her mind: a spacious home, tow-headed children, a weekend home, successful careers, Little Miss beauty contests, a chalet, anniversaries, grandchildren, a yacht. Just an aisle's walk away.
    The church was brimming, and the guests were on their feet, staring at her expectantly. She knew if she tripped, Dee would sprint down the white aisle runner and strangle her with it, so she stepped carefully. On the last pew, a slash of bright orange caught her eye. When she connected with the person's face, she grinned. Roxann! Her cousin wiggled her fingers in a little wave. Warmth flooded Angora's chest—Roxann would see how well she'd done, the man who'd chosen her, the life she was about to embark on. She was getting a late start, but after today she'd make up for lost time. Maybe they would get a chance to catch up at the reception, before she and Trenton left to catch their overnight flight to Maui.
    She moved on down the aisle, making eye contact with friends of her parents, coworkers from the gallery, and extended family from her father's side. She caught sight of Darma Walker Lowe, now a redhead and dressed in Givenchy black—fabulous frock, but an odd choice for an afternoon wedding. To her great relief, the woman didn't make eye contact. Angora turned her attention to her destination.
    The bridesmaids in pink, and the groomsmen in dark gray fanned out from the altar like the petals of an enormous flower waiting for the center to arrive. Reverberating organ music, white satin curtains draped over the altar, dozens of candles ablaze—it was almost too much to take in. This was her day, the first time in her life when she was in the spotlight instead of playing second fiddle to Dee. If she never did anything else in her life to garner fame, she would always have this lily-scented day.
    And speaking of Dee, she actually looked happy as they passed by her pew. Happy and relieved. As if her job was done, and now she could concentrate her energies elsewhere, such as redecorating Angora's old room.
    At last Angora focused on Trenton, her beloved. Dear, sweet, handsome Trenton, who had picked her among all the still-eligible Baton Rouge belles. He would declare his love for her before this enormous crowd. He would vow to cherish her until death parted them. Her heart swelled at the sight of his shining blue eyes.
    The priest was bent and elderly, with a monotonous voice. Both sets of parents had insisted on a full mass, so the ceremony became an exercise in stooping, kneeling, and standing again. When she had envisioned her wedding, she imagined she would be riveted on each holy word, savoring its meaning before tucking it away in her heart. Instead, her senses were so hyper-stimulated, the words flew by her. Before she knew it, she was saying, "I do." Then the priest was delivering to Trenton his charge as a husband. Her skin tingled in anticipation.
    "I... can't."
    For a full ten seconds, she didn't comprehend Trenton's answer. Behind them, someone guffawed into the stunned silence, and the organist leaned on the keyboard, blasting them with a cacophony of sick notes.
    "Excuse me?" the priest said, cupping a hand behind his big veiny ear.
    Trenton shrugged. "I'm sorry, Angora, I can't go through with this."
    Her jaw loosened, and her mouth moved, but no words came out. She was paralyzed. A murmur surged through