"There Goes The Bride" is an original murder mystery by Burlington romance writer Lynda Simmons. This is the first episode in a 10-part summer serialization.

"This is Carol Davis, behind the scenes at the fabulous Rosethorn Estate where Canada's wedding of the year is in full swing. Only moments ago, in the shade of an ancient chestnut tree, one of Toronto's oldest and wealthiest families was united with one of Calgary's oldest and most notorious -- a match that must have had the bride's ancestors rolling over in their Mount Forest mausoleum all day.

"But none of that underground rumbling has registered here on the island of Sark -- a tiny rock rising out of the English Channel and one of the last independent feudal states left in Europe.

"Here on Sark, the seigneur still rules, four-star restaurants abound and cars are strictly forbidden, which can make travelling in the rain a challenge. But fortunately, the moody skies of the past few days gave way to sunshine and a light breeze, putting a smile on every face as a steady stream of bicycles and horsedrawn carriages rolled into the courtyard earlier this afternoon."

"And have you noticed that every bloody one of them is still here?"

I jumped, stashing my tape recorder into my apron pocket as an old guy pushing a wheelbarrow peered into my hiding spot between the rhodedendrons and frowned.

"Here it is, the busiest time of our year," he went on, "and she's got every driver on the island sitting around with pagers, waiting to do her ladyship's bidding while the tourists hike to their hotels. With their luggage no less." The gardener shook a finger at the manor house on the hill. "I'll tell you frankly, I don't care who she is in Canada. That woman is a friggin' pain in the arse here."

"A pretentious one at that." A woman carrying a box of pink bows squinted at me over the bush. "I mean I ask you, who orders ice sculptures of herself for a wedding? Naked ones at that?"

"An artiste," the gardener said.

"An idiot," the woman countered.

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