What a buncha’ buffons. Distractions. All around. There was so much intrusion. So much that the normally unflappable Inspector contemplated for a moment whether he should just pull out his service revolver and at the very least, threaten to fire it. The chaos was coming from so many sources that he could barely hold a thought with the intention of developing it, before it evaporated. Scanning past a multitude of bodies, the movement of waiters carrying things and loads of screaming being performed by various guests, his eyes eventually arrived at Mrs. Pall, who was on the main table smack in the centre of the reception area, holding a silver fork, one of many carefully selected items for the wedding, against the throat of a youngish, spiky haired fellow who was pinned to the table, his face and shiny vest covered in dollops of the pink and white wedding reception cake.
His squeal was sufficiently pitchy and had been ended abruptly when he felt the tines pressing against his trachea. Looking up, he saw a white haired, bespectacled, middle-aged woman leaning over him with savage eyes – Mrs Pall. She kept watch as if she was a hunter who’d cornered her quarry and was waiting for the elephants to arrive carrying men with shotguns to deliver the final blow.
When the bride and groom were placed side by side, there were audible gasps from the guests. The gasps sounded less sincere and more out of a need to be polite.
What a buncha buffons, the good Inspector Regalia thought again, finger still twitching next to the trigger of the weapon concealed in his left coat pocket, while standing on the last step of the stairs that led to the dining area, as the full meaning of the scene that greeted him became clear.
Eventually the post-screaming descended into silence and then became a soft murmur around the room with whispers here and there. After Mrs Pall had been restrained by two of the burliest guests (finding willing burly guests was easier than removing the lady) and the spiky haired youngish looking man placed on a chair on one end of the room, with a pair of uniformed policemen watching over him, they lugged the groom out and laid him flat on the floor, accompanied by audible gasps. Then they carried the bride, who wore a crinkled gown with flowing train, out and laid her next to him. Side by side. More gasps, which all sounded merely polite rather than sincere. The guests, still wearing their fashionable suits, dresses, gowns and jewelleries, stood around in a circle, at a respectable distance, as if they were afraid of contracting something infectious from the dead newlyweds.
The circle opened up long enough for the detective to walk past and closed behind him. Regalia scanned the bodies before him, bathed in warm sunlight that poured in from the transparent roof of the wedding tent (he couldn’t help noticing that). Bride and Groom had generous splotches of pink and red on their chests and faces. Inspector Regalia couldn’t tell whether they’d been shot or caked to death.
He was thinking. Why couldn’t he attend a wedding that did not include a crime? At least not the sort of crimes that would require his involvement.
To be continued….
photo from unsplash.com by Elise St. Clair