Diva (The Flappers) - By Jillian Larkin Page 0,82
rose from her chair. “My sister lives in New Orleans—she told me all about it. The town was scared half to death when they couldn’t catch that madwoman.”
The crowd gasped again, and the word madwoman echoed around the room. “Yes, thank you, ma’am!” Clara called to the woman. She looked back at Deirdre with more confidence. “Then you changed your game. You fell off the radar, went through about a dozen aliases, and focused on trying to get rich the old-fashioned way—by marrying the money rather than stealing it.”
Deirde turned to Marcus. “Sacre bleu! She eez lying!”
“One of your schemes almost worked, Deirdre,” Clara said. “Once you figured out that a boy fresh from a recent heartbreak would be less likely to question you. But the lies and deceit end now. So how about you drop the act and get away from the man I love, before Benji here starts telling some stories of his own.”
Marcus stared at Deirdre now, withdrawing his wrists from her grip. “Is this true? Do you know that man with the strange mustache?”
“Of course not!” Deirdre exclaimed. “Obviously your ex-girlfriend eez just jealous of me.” She pointed at Clara, scowling. “And she has mistaken me for zis Deirdre person! She must be very good-lookeeng. But I never—”
A look of dawning realization spread across Marcus’s face. He put up a hand to stop her. “You know what? It doesn’t matter.”
Deirdre stopped cold. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t care whether you’re this Deirdre person or Anastasia or the Yellow Kid,” Marcus replied. He glanced at Clara and gave her a smile that made her heart lighter than it had been in months. “What Clara’s saying is true: I don’t love you. I love her. And I’ve just been using you to get over my broken heart. For that I really am sorry.”
Clara had no time to relish the fact that Marcus still loved her: Deirdre let out a high-pitched shriek. She raised her skirt, jumped off the platform, and turned her fierce glare on Clara. “You can’t do this to me!” she exclaimed without a trace of a French accent. Her voice had also dropped about an octave. “I—I’ll sue!”
Lorraine burst into laughter. “Oh, please. You’ve duped so many men, I’m sure one or the other of them will press charges once they learn where you’ve ended up. Clara’s got more than a few names in that file of hers.”
Clara nodded. “You’re right, Raine, I do.”
Deirdre’s eyes widened in white-hot fury and she lunged at Clara, who moved out of the way, knocking into an elderly man with a monocle seated on the edge of the aisle. A few women in the row raced from their chairs and left the room, not wanting to get caught up in the commotion. Meanwhile, two little boys a few rows behind rose up on their knees in their chairs and shook their fists, chanting, “Fight, fight, fight!”
Gloria rushed from the platform to help Lorraine and Clara, while Marcus approached his parents in the front row. Mr. Eastman was standing in the front row with a sobbing Mrs. Eastman on his arm.
“Marcus, explain this!” Mr. Eastman yelled.
“Sorry, Dad, I really don’t think I can …,” Marcus replied.
The rest of the wedding party remained on the platform, rooted to their places with shock.
Gloria caught Lorraine’s arm just as she was about to punch Deirdre in the face. Deirdre moved to attack Lorraine and Gloria yanked her out of the way. Deirdre dove straight onto the linen cloth that covered the aisle, while Parker’s photographer called, “Smile!”
Clara laughed as Deirdre pulled herself to her feet. “Thanks for that, Deirdre,” Clara said. “You can look for that photo in next week’s issue of the Manhattanite.”
“I won’t be in this country by next week,” Deirdre growled.
She chucked the bouquet of calla lilies she’d been holding right at Clara’s head—Clara ducked, and Lorraine caught the bouquet easily. “I’ve always wanted to do that!” she exclaimed, holding the bouquet in the air as a trophy and yelling out into the crowd. “Guess all those years of softball at Laurelton Prep really paid off!”
Deirdre raised her skirt and went running straight down the aisle.
“Stop her!” Mr. Eastman yelled. “Someone stop that woman! ”
Mrs. Eastman had stopped crying, and now her arm was around Marcus. She wiped the last of the tears from under her eyes. Her expression was pure venom. “No one hurts my Marcus and gets away with it!”
Clara reminded herself to step lightly around Marcus’s mother