Wedded Bliss: A Cornwall & Redfern Mystery, #3.5

By Gloria Ferris

It's happening, and you're invited!

 

After three mystery stories crammed with blackmail, poisonings, graveyard theft, arms dealing, gunfights, and more than a few suspicious deaths, Bliss Moonbeam Cornwall and Police Chief Neil Redfern have given up the struggle of denying their love. On this steamy, summer day, they're tying the knot.

 

Like the preceding novels, WEDDED BLISS provides plenty of laughs, including a drunken cousin, a foul-mouthed parrot, missing underwear, and a suspicious platter of devilled eggs. Not to mention something is off about the shrimp. Since this is Bliss we're talking about, an old cemetery plays a crucial part.

 

While Bliss is encasing herself in a too-tight wedding gown, Neil is alone in a motel room across town eyeballing his braid-covered dress uniform and wondering if he'll pass out from the heat. Both are minutes away from facing dark echoes of the past that threaten to prevent their happy future.

 

Readers of the Cornwall & Redfern Mysteries will recognize the guests who gather to ensure the wedding is special for Bliss and Neil. Old friends and old enemies – it's a day Bliss and Neil will never forget. Please join them.

 

A Short Read Novelette

 

The Cornwall & Redfern Mysteries:

• Corpse Flower, Book 1
• Shroud of Roses, Book 2
• Skull Garden, Book 3
• Wedded Bliss, Book 3.5 (Novelette)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gloria Ferris
• Release date: Dec 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781775339243

Gloria Ferris

Gloria Ferris is a former technical writer who now writes mysteries, both paranormal and humorous. Her first novel in the Cornwall and Redfern series, Corpse Flower, won the Unhanged Arthur Ellis Award in 2010, and her first novel, Cheat the Hangman, won the 2012 Bony Blithe Award. Gloria lives in Guelph, Ontario.

Book preview

Dedication

FOR THOSE WHO HAVE read and enjoyed the first three Cornwall & Redfern Mysteries, I hope you like this novelette.

If you haven’t yet experienced Bliss’s world through the first three novels — Corpse Flower, Shroud of Roses, and Skull Garden — perhaps Wedded Bliss will entice you to find out what led to this momentous day!

CHAPTER ONE

I NEEDED UNDERPANTS, fast. My butt crack might not show through the white silk of my wedding dress, but what if I tripped on the steps leading to the raised gazebo in Glory’s garden? Not a picture I wanted my future children and grandchildren to pass back and forth on their iPhone 413s.

Today, I, Bliss Moonbeam Cornwall, will marry my tall, blond and broody hunk of sexy snack food, Neil Philip Redfern. Neil is the police chief of Lockport, a small town on the southeastern shore of Lake Huron. He’s the youngest police chief since, well, ever, and as a result, takes himself quite seriously. That’s only one of his endearing traits.

Anyway, enough about him. Back to me. Underpants were required for the I do’s, optional for the three-hour ride north for our honeymoon at an exclusive resort near Huntsville. That was Redfern’s choice, but he promised me a ten-day Jamaican vacation in February so I figured I could cope for a week with fishing, and moose-sighting, and log walls with spiders lurking in the corners. As long as there was a bar, I was good.

Through the floor to ceiling windows of Glory’s formal dining room, I spotted guests arriving, choosing seats from the rows of white fabric-covered chairs, or filling wine glasses with complimentary punch from a long table covered with white tablecloths. There were a lot of white things scattered everywhere today, including my dress which was a laugh since both Redfern and I had been married before and had been living together for over eight months. Mind you, I’d kicked him out a couple of times because I was insecure and he was acting like a dick, but all was well now and I had allowed him to persuade me into the ultimate challenge – marriage. Actually, you may recall I asked him first but only because I wanted to beat him to it.

Okay, about the white wedding gown.

I’d told Glory that I looked better in off-white, but she ignored me, booked me a spray tan, and hired her stylist to come to the house — her house — to arrange my hair and layer extra makeup on my face. Therefore, the white crap was over the top but at least my dress was trimmed with black along the edges, and I was wearing a black sparkly tiara inserted into my up-do and black shoes to complement Redfern’s uniform. Hopefully, my efforts would be enough to save the guests from snow-blindness in August. And, before anyone mentions it, yes, I and my betrothed call each other by our last names. We tried the first-name basis thing and it just doesn’t work for us. You might say we’re not on a first-name basis. That’s a joke.

I poured myself another flute-full of champagne from the silver ice bucket placed centre-square on a Regency side table. The cork had been a bitch to remove and a tiny amount of champagne may have splashed onto the vintage Persian rug, but the pattern was so busy, no one would notice.

Glory’s sole live-in staff, Pan, scurried into the room bearing a tray of frozen shrimp. The idea was for the frozen appetizers to thaw inside before offering them to guests outside after the ceremony in 32 degree Celsius temperatures. That’s 89.6 for you intrepid Fahrenheiters.

Pan jumped a foot when I addressed him. One errant shrimp shot from the platter and pinged off a window pane.

He retrieved the shrimp from the sill and tucked it back in place with its kin. What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be holed up in the Queen Victoria bedroom getting ready.

I am ready. I took a dainty sip from the flute. Except for underpants. Can you please get me one of Her Royal Ass’s?

His glance darted to my mid-section. Why aren’t you ...?

Long story. Just get me something in a French-cut or bikini style, if you don’t mind. No thong. Light beige, ivory in a pinch.

I can’t — I don’t. He swallowed and put the tray down on the substantial dining table covered with — you’re getting it now — a white linen cloth. I don’t know where Her Lordship keeps her intimate things.

Her Lordship. That was a funny one. Pan and I competed to come up with descriptive names for Glory. I giggled into the glass, and when the bubbles tickled my nose, I giggled again.

No one over 18 should giggle and I was well past that. I cut myself off and set the flute aside. "Bull crap, Pan. You do her laundry. If there’s new-in-package, great, but