But that was hardly the end of this story…because the bride happens to be the younger sister of doughnut-magnet Spencer Martin, aka David Frieze, killer of our dearly departed Sonny Lavinski. Yes! He was there! And he didn’t disappoint!
For reasons known only to himself, Martin took to the dance floor and performed an astonishing solo number, which concluded with his taking flight and doing a full body slam on his sister’s massive wedding cake.
We would not have believed this story had it not been accompanied by many, many photos…photos we stared at for hours last night. Had the stress of murdering Saint Sonny finally broken him, we wondered? Had he grown tired of having other people throw food at him and simply decided to do it himself?
OUR SPECULATIONS WERE INTERRUPTED…by even more news of Martin. Our contact on the set of Crime and Punishment called to tell us that his name has mysteriously vanished from the call sheet and no one in charge is talking. What could possibly be going on?
We beg you to send in your tips. In the meantime, please enjoy our favorite photo of the wedding celebration. We have a selection of prizes for the best captions.
DAWN OF THE DESPERATE
Sunday was a murky day. A moody day. The sky was the color of the rinse water that Scarlett used to produce when playing with her watercolor paints when she was little, each dip of the brush leaving a milky touch of pigment until it was a thin, gray mess. Her dress from the night before lay deflated on Lola’s bed. Her own bed was littered with all things Biology—a desperate scramble of notes on papers and cards, notes on her computer, her textbook, a mess of handouts. Much of this information was in her head, but in pieces—pieces that didn’t connect together to make a picture.
And it was almost evening.
She could call Dakota. Dakota was at home studying as well, and Dakota knew what she was doing and had two Biology professors in her house. As Scarlett reached for the phone, she realized that if Dakota picked up, she was going to have to talk about last night. She would have to explain what she had done.
Aside from the possibility of her friends calling, which would obviously result in an immediate confession…there were other horrors. Mrs. Amberson would probably try to call her today about something. That was extremely likely. Or what if Chelsea chose today to call and tell her all about her wonderful new relationship with her good friend Eric? Or Eric. What if he tried to call again and get it all off his chest?
Or Max. What if Max called? That seemed least likely, but held the most terror. What if he wanted to discuss what went on out there on the terrace?
What did happen out there on the terrace?
Well, what happened was that she made out with Max behind a wall of topiary for about a half hour, that’s what happened. And the only reason they stopped is that they were interrupted by a girl with a tray, who was startled by them and screamed.
The more she thought about it, the more she realized that the phone was her enemy.
There was only one thing she could think to do. She picked up her phone and walked it down the hall to her parents’ room. On the wall just inside the door, there was a little chute that dropped five floors down to an opening in the basement ceiling. This is where they tossed sheets and towels; they fell into a wheeled bin that was usually positioned just under the chute. She opened the chute and tossed the phone inside, for a six-floor free fall. If someone had actually decided to wheel the bin over to the washing machine and do the wash, the phone was history. She stuck her head into the dank and stale void, but there was no sound, nothing to indicate that her phone had fragmented into a hundred pieces. It was probably alive down there somewhere. She hadn’t quite figured out what she would have done if it had broken.
Probably ask Lola to buy her a new one. Maybe that’s how things were done now.
As she walked back to her room, Spencer stepped out of the elevator. He also looked a bit lost.
“You didn’t take any deliveries, did you?” he asked.
“Deliveries?”
“My script. It’s not here yet. I called, and they keep saying it’s on its way. They won’t tell me what my call times are for this week.”
“No,” Scarlett said. “Sorry.”
He nodded absently.
“I just took my suit over to get it cleaned. Mrs. Foo got really excited when she saw it. She loves a challenge. What are you doing? You look spooked.”
“Studying,” she said. “I have a Biology exam tomorrow.”
He rubbed his unshaven chin, which was just starting to develop a shadow, and then poked a finger into his ear.
“Frosting got in there,” he said. “I can’t hear right.”
On that, he drifted off to his room, and she went to hers and sat on the bed again. She closed her eyes, just to see what appeared in her mind—where her brain wanted to go.
It wanted to go to Max. It wanted to replay the whole experience over and over again.
She opened her eyes with a jolt and grabbed her textbook as protection. She had to learn. There was no more time, no more room in her mind for anyone.