The bride-to-be, looking most unromantic in faded jeans and an Edinburgh T-shirt, was sitting on the chintz sofa with her legs tucked up behind her, leafing through a back issue of Bride’s.
“Let’s just make sure that we have everything straight now,” said Aunt Amanda, peering at Elizabeth over the top of her reading glasses.
Elizabeth put down the magazine and searched through the papers on the coffee table for her own copy of the list marked Wedding-To Do. “All right. I found it.”
“The invitations are addressed and mailed?”
“Check. Some time ago.”
“The minister has been asked.” Amanda put a star beside that item on her list. “I did that by telephone. He said that he would drop by to meet the two of you when Cameron arrives. When is that, by the way?”
“The middle of next week. They’re flying in to Atlanta. Uncle Robert is picking them up.”
“Good. I was afraid you’d want to go along, but it’s out of the question. We have very little time as it is. Let’s see. What’s next. Ah! The caterers have been notified?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “I spoke to Earthling, but is there anyone else we could get to do the reception?”
“Whatever is the matter? Can’t they manage a simple wedding reception?” Aunt Amanda looked stern. “You didn’t ask for haggis, did you?”
Elizabeth explained about Rogan Josh and his politically inspired menu. “I just didn’t think I could cope with him. If I argued with him, I’d feel like a social oppressor and if I didn’t, I’d feel that I’d been bullied by a crank. I don’t know what to do.”
Amanda Chandler’s expression changed from bewilderment to annoyance. “Leave them to me!” Her eyes flashed.
“Gladly. I went to the florist yesterday-the one you recommended.”
“Oh, yes. Lucy in Chandler Grove. I’ve always been pleased with her work. She did the-” Amanda’s voice faltered. “You know, the funerals.”
Elizabeth reddened, babbling on to cover the awkwardness. “We had quite a nice talk. I ended up telling her all about forensic anthropology, and she told me that a florist leads a more interesting life than you’d think. Apparently, the sheriff had consulted her about something that day.”
“You haven’t time to stand about gossiping with shopkeepers. Did you happen to choose the flowers?”
“Oh, she was very helpful. I think I have all the planning taken care of for the decorations. She’s doing baskets of spring flowers for the house-I told her I didn’t care what was in those. I expect she knows best about arrangements. And for the bouquet we compromised.”
“How so?”
“I wanted white roses and white heather, but she says heather is out of the question. She thinks she can get thistles, though. They grow wild in the mountains at this time of year.”
“Be careful how you carry it then,” Amanda advised. “Thistles and roses. That’s a lot of thorns. Aren’t you worried about the symbolism?”
“The thistle is the symbol of Scotland, so I thought I was all right on that score. Besides, you can go crazy if you worry too much about symbolism.”
“Which brings us to something old, something new…”
“I’ll worry about that later!”
“But do you have a sixpence? That’s the last line you know: And a sixpence in her shoe.”
“I’ll call Cameron. They don’t use them anymore, of course, since Britain went off the lovely monetary system they used to have for a boring old decimal system. I expect he can find one, though. What’s next?”
“Flowers for the bridesmaids, boutonniere for the groom and ushers, corsages for the mothers.”
“All done. Cameron is getting one white rosebud and a thistle for his boutonniere.”
“And your attendants?”
“Red roses, white baby’s breath, and thistles, with tartan ribbon.”
Amanda nodded her approval. “That brings us to the wedding gown. I cannot believe that you have left it this late.”
Elizabeth sucked in her stomach. “I was waiting until the last possible pound,” she admitted.
“Well, have you any idea what you want?”
Elizabeth nodded. “I thought I’d buy a pattern and material and have it made. You do have a seamstress around here, don’t you? Because otherwise: malls of Atlanta, here I come.”
“We have a seamstress, if she is not already too busy. This is bride season, you know. Fortunately prom time is past. Her name is Miss Geneva Grey. She and her sister Aurelia used to do quite a bit of fine sewing. Their father was a country doctor here years ago, even before your Uncle Robert went into practice. Old Dr. Grey was one of the founders of the county hospital. His daughters never married. They kept that big old house all by themselves and they do sewing as much to keep busy as for the money. Though I suppose in these days of taxation, everyone could use more money.”
“Probably so,” said Elizabeth, whose thoughts were elsewhere.
“The sisters were very different, though. Geneva was the shy one, but Aurelia had spunk. We were all quite surprised that she should be the first to go. Passed away on a trip to Florida.”
Elizabeth was more concerned with her wedding gown than with local gossip. “But the surviving sister still does sewing?” she persisted.
“Of course. Miss Geneva tries to accommodate everyone who needs sewing done.”
“I’ll call her right now,” Elizabeth promised. “I’ll need to get Jenny in for a fitting, too.”
Before they arrived at the next order of business, the door chimes sounded. “I’ll get it,” said Elizabeth. “It’s probably the UPS truck bringing more wedding presents.”
Aunt Amanda drew aside the curtain and peered down at the driveway. “I don’t think so. There’s a sheriffs car parked on the circle.”
“I’ll go anyway,” said Elizabeth. “I wonder what he wants.”
In Edinburgh it was seven P.M., still broad daylight in this land near the midnight sun, but time for dinner, anyhow. Cameron Dawson and his mother and younger brother were sitting in the small dining room, eating the first course of their meaclass="underline" homemade cucumber soup. Traveller the cat, while too proud to beg, was lying under the sideboard in readiness, just in case anything should fall from the table.
“No mail today, then?” asked Cameron, tilting his bowl away from him to get the last bit of soup.
“No,” said Margaret Dawson. “Only some bits of advertising.”
“What were you expecting?” asked Ian. “Wedding presents?”
“Actually, I thought we might be due for another postcard,” his brother replied. “That gnome is certainly getting around, isn’t he?”
They glanced out the window at the sunny garden, where a bare patch of earth under a bush was the only trace of the missing garden ornament.
Ian nodded. “He’s been to Alaska, Italy, and Ibiza. There seems to be no pattern to it. I wonder where he’ll turn up next. Hong Kong, perhaps? He seems about due for Asia.”
“Melbourne,” Cameron suggested.
“Have you any idea who is doing this?” asked Margaret. “It seems to me a very odd sort of joke.”
Ian shook his head. “I have asked every lunatic I know,” he said. “Honestly. I even rang up the ones in Aberdeen and Glasgow. They all swear they didn’t do it-but they wish they’d thought of it!”
“Now you’ve done it!” his mother remarked cheerfully. “There’ll be a rash of gnome thefts in Scotland! Anyhow, that’s one set of friends accounted for. What about yours, Cameron?”
“Mine?” cried young Dr. Dawson, with an expression of wounded dignity. “None of my friends would stoop to such a thing. You might as well ask the minister if he did it!”
“Cameron has a point,” said Ian, reaching for the bread. “None of his friends has the nerve to pull it off, much less the imagination. You don’t suppose it was the minister?” he added hopefully.