I’d allowed myself to be talked into attending the farce of a wedding, then reception. The dunce cap napkins said it all. Everyone knew Melinda’s marital pattern of marriage-to-millionaire followed by unfortunate-death-of-groom, then whirlwind-romance-leading-to-engagement-with-next-rich-dupe. She forgot what number Harold was: 4? 5?
Even my hard-boiled cynicism couldn’t ignore how Melinda and Harold looked at and held each other while dancing. Maybe this time my baby sister had found true love.
“Endless Love,” was on the DJ’s platter when they arrived; one detective and two uniformed officers.
Cuffing Harold, Detective Jones said, “You’re under arrest for murdering your wife, Jeri.”
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