The Perfect Crime

Chapter 30: EPILOGUE

Margaret Mc Garret's backyard was a mess of sequined gowns, well pressed scratchy tuxedos (some with the tags still on), shiny dress shoes and sharp high heels that dug into the green well trimmed lawn. All this, however, seemed mundane in comparison to the plethora of well strewn multicolored flowers and lights that streaked the fence, the gazebo that would serve as an altar, and formed a sort of white-purple carpet in the middle of two groups of meticulously arranged red fold-up chairs. Margaret had done one hell of a fine job in getting everything together. Everything except the bride.

Emilia watched from an upstairs window as more guests flocked Margaret's yard, her heart beating a fairly irregular rhythm in her chest. She wondered now if she'd made a mistake six months ago in accepted Archer's proposal. He'd been so happy that day because his divorce with Rosalia had been finalized. He'd come to her house with a chocolate cake —the cake that had brought them together and after they'd eaten the cake, he'd slipped the ring —a simple gold band with their initials inscribed on the underside— onto her finger. He'd gotten down perfunctorily on one knee and had popped the question. Emilia was not ashamed to confess that she'd cried that day. And for many days after that, she had been weepy. She would be in her office working and tears would just roll down her cheeks unbidden. She was surprised that her co-workers had not referred her to a competent mental asylum.

Margaret had almost pissed her pants the day they'd told her about their wedding. She'd been the first person they had told. They didn't have to tell anyone else. Margaret had literally held a news broadcast to inform everyone else: friends and foes inclusive. In addition to that, she had politely compelled them to have the wedding in her backyard. All expenses catered for. Archer had tried to refuse, his manly need for independence prompting the rejection. But Margaret had been adamant and Archer had finally aquiesced to her request. It was a dream wedding of sorts except that Emilia was feeling strangely ominous.

Many people would say that what she was feeling now was normal. They would be quick to call it the wedding jitters. But these were not your typical wedding jitters. Wedding jitters were founded basing on imaginary fears, on what ifs. What if he doesn't show up? What if he backs out at the last minute? What if the marriage does not work out? Those kinds of things. Emilia's fears, on the other hand, stemmed from thinly veiled threats. Threats that were very real, threats that could materialize, threats from a deranged woman who had once teamed up with a criminal to have her killed, threats from Archer's ex-wife. She knew she shouldn't be giving them much thought. Archer had told her so countless times. But every time her mind was unoccupied, Rosalia's words just found a way to pop in like an unwelcome visitor at a birthday party.

Even now, Rosalia's words reverberated through her mind. Emilia felt regret of the most visceral kind when she thought about her unceremonious visit to Rosalia in prison. She shouldn't have done that. Now, she was filled with all these qualms that she did not know how to assuage. She sighed and leaned her head against the cold, clean window. God, she was a mess.

Margaret entered then, balancing parcels of what was most definitely jewelry precariously in her hands like a skilled waiter. Her eyes settled on Emilia, then the wedding dress which lay like a peaceful corpse on the bed and then Emilia again, her smile leaving her made up face.

"Uh uh girl you are thinking about that bitch again."

Emilia was mildly startled. She'd never heard Margaret swear before. Margaret puffed out her cheeks like a very frustrated school teacher. She sat on the bed, careful not to mess up Emilia's dress and gave her the look. It had always made her squirm and even today she felt like she was going to unravel and spill all her secrets.

"Sit." It wasn't exactly a command but it felt like one. Emilia sat on the edge of the bed.

"I had an ex once. Long ago. Gosh a really, really long time ago." Margaret blushed. "We broke up over a mutual agreement —at least I thought it was mutual. He even told me that I could move on and eventually, I did. He moved on as well. He fell in love with alcohol, became vicious. He was a mean drunk."