Page 5 of The Bridesmaid
The young policeman visibly bristled, standing a little taller.Likely he’d already seen my father on a ‘Most Wealthy’ list and formed an opinion of him. Men do one of two things when confronted with the legendary Leopold Kensington: fight or fawn. The policeman looked like he was going for fight. It wouldn’t last long.
‘Excuse me, sir —’ he began, in a bored kind of drawl, adopting an alpha-male, shoulders back stance.
‘You don’t excuse me sir,nothing,’ interjected my father. ‘I grew up on the Lower East Side, watching you clowns take pay-backs from mobsters who put bricks through our windows. I got absolutely no time for New York cops. Or any kind of cops for that matter.’
The officer was stunned into momentary silence. My father often has this effect. When I was a little girl, he used to let me sit in on the board meetings for his nightclub empire. I’ve literally seen him make grown men cry. Dad changed his name from Kolowski to Kensington when he married my mom, alienating his Polish father in the process. A lot of people are shocked at how much second-generation immigrant grit he retains beneath the glamorous retitling.
‘Mr Kensington,’ the female officer tried. ‘We’re examining a very brutal … verystrangemurder.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know, Columbo. I’ve seen the goddamn pictures. What I want to know is what you’re doing to stop the press getting ahold of this, less than a week before my daughter’s wedding?’
The police lady’s mouth opened and shut. ‘You have … pictures … of the crime scene?’ She was looking around, trying to fit this with the reality of having only just arrived on the scene herself.
‘Sure I do. My daughter, Adrianna, has a problem, she calls me. I told her, send pictures. And from what I saw, we have a serious problem keeping this out of the media.’
‘I’m afraid it’s your daughter who has a problem,’ The policeman had regrouped, but wasn’t restored to his former bravado. ‘From the remains. The way they were … arranged in a bridal dress. It looks as though someone means your daughter harm. A stalker, or …’
‘Call the newspapers!’ yelled Dad, making everyone except me jump. ‘Howdy-Doodie here has solved the case. We allknowAdrianna has a deranged stalker, genius. You knuckleheads in the NYPD have been failing to catch him for three years.’
My phone beeps, interrupting my thoughts. A message lands. From Mark:
Got held up. Choose without me. See you for dinner.
My initial gut response is hot fury. Howdarehe stand me up by text, when we’re choosing our wedding cake? Then I remember. Mark is busy finding someone to investigate the crime scene who isn’t NYPD. Like my dad says, you want the best, you pay for it.
I scroll through my image files, selecting a few choice snaps I had taken of myself by a very specialist photographer last week. I zero in on two, where the silk underwear reveals more than it should. I text an accompanying message:
Did you get an independent opinion on the crime scene?
Then attach two of the more risqué pictures and press send.
He texts back in seconds. Two smiling faces.
Yes.
I hate his use of emojis, but I have our whole married life to cure him of it. The important thing, right now, is the wedding is going ahead.
Chapter Four
HOLLY
The New York traffic sounds are starting up in the nearby streets as I stare at the invitation.
Rather than a flat paper or card, the wedding invitation is a small rectangular black box, the size of a slim novel.
The front is a thick flap edged in deep foil filigree, like a greetings card on steroids. As I lift it, a tinkling classical music score begins. Beneath is a clear acetate panel, and underneath, top left, is a tiny golden carriage. The kind Cinderella might have. It looks slightly eerie set against the deep black card. As I watch, the carriage starts to slowly roll across the top of the invitation, revealing a trail of words under the clear acetate as it goes.
‘Leopold Kensington’, it scribes. The carriage backs up. Begins a new line.
‘Invites Holly Stone to the wedding of his daughter, Adrianna Kensington, to Mark Li.’
Mark is the CEO of a highly successful tech company, so I’m guessing this is a little showboating for him. But it still doesn’t explain the mystery of why I’m getting an invitation.
Unless … It occurs to me this could be from my former boss, Simone. She’s a close friend of Leopold’s. Maybe she thinks an invitation to the world’s most famous wedding will smooth things over between us.
I shake my head. ‘Seriously, Simone?’ I mutter. ‘I quit over your obsession with Adrianna Kensington’s stalker case. Do you honestly think an invitation to her wedding will fix things?’
An image of Simone’s unhappy face flashes in my mind. Despite her tiny frame, pixie haircut and large round eyes, she is a straight-talking, no-nonsense type. Just like me. Last time we spoke, I accused her of putting TV ratings ahead of justice. The memory prickles me with discomfort.
