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me.”
    To the deputy, I would bet anyone over thirty was ancient.
    â€œTim was the youngest brother,” O’Shea continued. “After all of his older brothers got married, he was feeling the pressure to follow in their footsteps. So he got engaged to a girl he didn’t love. Respectable, but, well, you know.” O’Shea grimaced. “Sometime before the big date, he decided to quit farming and buy the bar. I guess he forgot to tell his intended. On the morning of the wedding, she called it off. She didn’t want to have anything to do with someone who supplied liquor to people.”
    â€œWho was she?”
    â€œMaggie something.”
    â€œDoes she still live in town?”
    â€œNo. She moved away about a year later. Tim told me she never married. He swears he ruined her for everyone. Some couples aren’t meant to be, I guess.”
    I wondered how Tim tolerated Tyanne’s career as the town’s premier wedding party planner. Tyanne had never mentioned his loathing for celebrations.
    O’Shea knocked a third time. His boot drilled the porch while he waited. “C’mon, open up,” he grumbled.
    â€œTry the knob. It’s not breaking and entering.”
    He did. It was unlocked. He pushed the door open. “Uncle Tim?”
    Jordan’s home was very male, filled with leather and wood furniture. The aroma of beer and ribs drowned out the normal aroma of pine and musk. The party appeared to be made up of about fifteen males. A couple of them were playing darts. A few others were seated at tables playing cards. I don’t know what I had expected Jordan’s bachelor party to be, but this wasn’t it. The word
tame
came to mind.
    I didn’t spy Tim among the group, but I caught sight of Jordan, who was standing with his back to the door chatting up another farm owner. Despite the tension of the moment, my insides did a happy dance. In three days, I would be his bride. But that wasn’t why we were here. “Jordan!” I yelled.
    Jordan pivoted. His mouth turned up in a quick grin. He set down his glass of beer and strode toward us, rolling up the sleeves of his work shirt as he approached. Call me nuts, but whenever I saw him saunter toward me, I thought of hunky cowboys in romantic movies. He grasped my elbow and leaned in for a kiss. “Hello, my love. What a nice surprise, but you know you’re not supposed to be here.” In an exaggerated way, he glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder and back at me. “You might see something you don’t want to.”
    â€œA stripper perhaps?”
    â€œAlas. None to be found,” he teased. His jocular mood quickly disappeared when he took in Deputy O’Shea. “What’s up?”
    â€œIs my uncle here?” O’Shea asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHis truck is.” He pointed.
    Jordan peered beyond us. “Huh. The devil.” He swung around and surveyed the room. “Tim!” he bellowed.
    Tim didn’t emerge from the pack.
    Jordan yelled to the crowd, “Has anyone seen Timothy O’Shea?”
    Like a big bear, Umberto Urso, our chief of police, muscled his way through the group, a can of beer in his hand. He and Jordan had the same dark hair and the same lover-of-the-outdoors tanned skin, but that was where the match ended. Urso stood a good four inches taller than Jordan and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. “Deputy, why are you here?”
    â€œI think my uncle came looking for you. He called me. Did he call you?”
    â€œNo.” Urso withdrew his cell phone from his pocket and scanned the readout. “I see a missed call. No message, though.” He pocketed the phone. “What’s this about?”
    I had known Urso since we were kids. He was an expert at separating business from pleasure. He urged the four of us to move to the porch, and he closed the door.
    â€œTim called me. He sounded upset.”