The Mystery Megapack

of thieves, that you have done this thing?”
    The man stared at her in pop-eyed astonishment. That a fair-haired young lady of the Occident should speak idiomatic Hindustani, even to a liberal use of the intimate insults without which no unfriendly conversation is complete in that tongue, astonished him almost as much as the girl’s deft handling of her kris had done a few minutes before.
    “It is true,” he acknowledged, with a fatalistic writhing of his shoulders. “Of what avail to lie to one who possesses the beauty of the moonflower and the wisdom of the serpent? It is even as you have said.”
    Rosalie preened herself like a satisfied bird. “You do well to call me moonflower, who was known by that name for many years,” she announced.
    “Uncle Harvey,” she resumed her rather shaky English as she addressed the Professor, though she was perfectly aware he spoke Hindustani as well as she did, “I think they will make no mistake when they hang this fellow. He is one dam’ bad egg.”

WEDDING KNIFE, by Elaine Viets
    The bride stood at the altar, a vision of white lace and billowing silk skirts. Suddenly, she collapsed at Father McLauren’s feet, the white silk skirts spreading across the floor like spilled cream.
    “Gail!” I said, rushing over to her, but the priest and the groom were already there, trying to revive her.
    “Stand back,” said Father McLauren, with the authority of a man who had had twenty years’ experience with skittish brides. “Give her some air.”
    The wedding party, five bridesmaids and five groomsmen, all stepped back. As maid of honor, I hovered a fraction closer than the others. It was my duty to attend to the bride.
    Slowly, Gail revived, her face as white as her wedding dress, and not nearly as pretty. She sat up. “Where am I?” she said, in a dazed voice.
    “You’re at St. Philomena’s, getting married,” Father McLauren said, smiling gently.
    “Shit!” said the bride, loud enough so the first pews heard her. I could hear her mother gasp. It was Gail’s mother who had pushed for this wedding to Harold Humphrey IV. It was Gail’s mother who was hot for Handsome Harry’s social connections, not to mention his money. Gail went along with it because she was twenty-nine, it was “time to get married,” and if she had to get married it was better to marry a rich man than a poor one.
    And Gail had to get married. She was four months’ gone, and way too Catholic to even consider abortion. That was probably why she’d fainted. She was pregnant, too sick to eat anything but soda crackers and 7-Up, and Gail’s mother had laced her into the dress so tightly she could hardly breathe. But Gail’s mother didn’t want any ugly rumors. She would try to pass off the baby as “premature,” not that anyone but her would care.
    The groom went along with the wedding plans because he was thirty-five and it was time he started producing the fifth Harold Humphrey. He was getting family pressure, the kind that resulted in his allowance being cut off. But nobody, except maybe his bride, expected Handsome Harry to be faithful. The man had a roving eye and a wicked little curl that hung down on his forehead. Men who looked like that were meant to stray.
    The priest gave the bride a sharp look, and I wondered if he was going to tell her it wasn’t too late to call off the wedding. But Gail spoke up quickly. “I’m sorry, Father,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that in church. I was embarrassed because I’d made a fool of myself by fainting. I should have eaten breakfast. I apologize for my language. I’m ready to get married now.”
    It was the priest who helped Gail up, not the groom. I came forward and straightened Gail’s dress and ten-foot seed pearl train. Her Alençon lace veil slid to one side, so I righted that, too. Through the white lace over her face, I thought I caught the faint tracks of tears, sliding down her hundred-dollar makeup job.
    I would have felt pity for her, but I couldn’t forgive her for what she’d done to me. Gail had made me a laughing stock in this despicable dress. The other bridesmaids were little blonde Barbie dolls. I was tall and dramatically brunette. Put me in a dark dress with long, clean lines and I looked sleek and sophisticated. But this getup was pink—pink, like a frigging prom dress. It had ruffles all over, and to make it worse, it had a tiny white lace jacket that ended under the armpits. The little blonde