Cloaked in Malice

by Annette Blair

  People who came in because they were curious about the excitement noticed my Sale signs and gravitated toward my stock, while they took in the latest gossip.

  Paisley chafed Ethel’s hands, the sweet thing. “I hope this isn’t because Dolly thinks I look like her.”

  Behind her, I saw Dante miming, “There you go. See? I told you so,” spreading his arms and doing his “I was right” dance with attitude.

  Werner had a set of questions to go with Paisley’s resemblance to Dolly, and when he got to the bottom of the innocent comment, I had to credit him with not laughing at what would be a poor reason to “run away from home.”

  “Detective,” I asked, aware it was too soon, and not yet twenty-four hours, “can you put out a missing per-sons bulletin on Dolly? She can’t be hard to find at her age.”

  “How long has Dolly been missing?” he asked Ethel.

  “Twenty-four hours,” I lied in a be-my-friend way.

  Werner shook his head, like he was embarrassed to be such a soft touch. “I’ll check your basement, Mrs. Sweet, then I’ll call it in.”

  Ethel kissed his hand. I was tempted to do the same, an inclination that did not go unnoticed by the detective, who once described a kiss of ours as thermonuclear.

  No surprise, my customers were on their phones to friends, who started to arrive while the police were still there. Better than taking out an ad: Get a bargain and witness the latest; spread the gossip firsthand. Primary sources were always so treasured in these cases.

  Werner left, Ethel got up off the gurney under her own steam, slapping Ted Macri’s hand when he tried to help her, and she insisted that if she didn’t work today, she’d go balmy. She barely stopped to rest as the day progressed rapidly and nonstop. Not sure if I made more sales or answered more questions, but I counted the day a success and put up the Closed sign three minutes early, shut the door, and turned the lock.

  “Whew!” I leaned against the door and closed my eyes.

  When I opened them again, the world had not disappeared. Nick, Ethel, Paisley, Eve, and Eve’s mother all stared at me. “Thanks, everyone, for staying to help. Who knew I’d have such a great sale just because Dolly took a jaunt?”

  Oops, probably shouldn’t have brought it up. “Ethel, how are you feeling? Listen, she’ll be back before bedtime, or she’ll be waiting with lemon squares when you get up tomorrow. Just watch.”

  The shop phone rang and Nick got it. “Are you sure?” he asked. “International? Which terminal?” He hung up, kind of dumbstruck, as if he’d taken a bullet, but couldn’t keel over or figure out why.

  I helped Ethel to a chair, maybe too fast for her peace of mind, and I widened my eyes at Nick. “Well?” I snapped.

  “Someone matching Dolly’s description—not necessarily Dolly herself—was seen at John F. Kennedy Airport today.”

  “New York?” I fell back against the door. “Which terminal?”

  Nick looked at my phone’s receiver, still in his hand, as if to confirm what he’d heard. “Air France.”

  Ethel’s wail made me wonder if I should call the medics again.

  Ten

  The shoe that fits one person pinches another; there is no recipe for living that suits all cases.

  —CARL JUNG

  “France? Why? This is bad,” Nick said.

  “Don’t be gentle on my account.” Ethel looked like he’d poked her in the eye.

  “It’s bad in a lot of ways,” I amended. “So, Nick, in what particular way are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking if I don’t get the New York Feds to Kennedy ten minutes ago,” he said, hitting speed dial, “that as soon as that plane hits international waters, we’ve lost our jurisdiction, and finding Dolly will be up to the French authorities.”

  “The poor things,” I muttered.

  Ethel’s wail was losing steam and sounding breathy. I had to give her something to hang on to.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “You don’t really think that was our Dolly Sweet at Kennedy Airport, do you? That’s ridiculous. Impossible.”

  “Sweet?” Paisley said, her chin coming up, her brow puckered. “Sweet,” she repeated, lowering her head, concentrating, and slipping that thumbnail to her teeth.

  Dante appeared beside me, out of nowhere, for the second time in two days, surprising me so I jumped, while everyone else looked behind them to see why I jumped.

  “Sorry, guess I’m a bit skittish,” I said, though Nick looked like he knew there must be a different explanation.

  Eve didn’t know about Dante, and she never would. Scrap silk, she practically pissed her pants when I got a psychometric reading in her vicinity. If I told her my shop had a ghost, she’d never step foot in the place.

  “Mad,” Nick said. “Road trip tomorrow?”

  He’d thought this through. I’d seen his mind working. “Mrs. Meyers, Ethel, do you think you can watch the shop tomorrow? We’d like to do a little sleuthing on Dolly’s behalf.” Maybe. “And, Ethel, I think it would be good for you to keep busy, don’t you?”

  Olga patted Ethel’s shoulder. “It would be good for you to keep busy, and I’d be here for you to talk to. You wouldn’t have to wait for news alone at home, imagining all sorts of things.”

  “Thanks, Olga. You’re right. Sure, Mad,” Ethel said. “I’ll work tomorrow.”

  “Eve?” I asked. “What about you? Are you busy to-morrow?”

  “I’m teaching in the morning, but I’ll arrange for those auditing classes while I’m there, then I’ll come here to help Mom and Ethel.”

  “Thank you. I owe you,” I told my BFF.

  Nick nodded his thanks. Heaven forbid he should be nice to our savior. “That’ll give us a full day,” he said. “I’d like to get an early start. You, too, Paisley.”

  “Where to?” she asked, and curiosity won the day as everyone waited for Nick’s answer, a plausible one that I could see him search his mind for.

  I cleared my throat. “Nick and I have to consult the FBI database at his house tonight before we map our strategy.”

  Nick breathed again and picked up the beat. “Absolutely.” He checked his watch. “We should get going, so we can get our approach all worked out tonight.”

  Eve left with her mother and Ethel while Paisley went out to my car.

  Dante appeared behind us near the door. “Where are you going to look for Dolly?” he asked.

  “What do you think, Nick?” I asked. “What’s on your mind?”

  “A little boat trip to Paisley’s island,” he said, urging me toward the door so we could leave, but the lights went back on. All of them.

  “Madeira,” Dante said standing right behind me. “How is going to that island going to help find Dolly?”

  “Nick, you want to turn off the lights upstairs?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “We’d be looking for clues to Paisley’s past,” I whispered. “You’re the one who pointed out how Dolly and Paisley resembled each other, and therefore seem connected. I was just trying to calm Ethel when I said it was for Dolly.”

  “It should be for Dolly, damn it.”

  “All set upstairs. Ready to go?” Nick asked.

  We locked up and Nick got behind the wheel of my Element in the parking lot.

  “Madeira,” Paisley said, looking back at the shop. “Your lights are going on and off.”

  “I have a test sensor.” A ghost having a temper tantrum. “They’ll go off in a minute.”

  Nick gave me a double take, but said nothing. We headed toward his fairly new home on a road parallel to mine. Previous to that, he’d lived closer to the New Haven FBI headquarters and to my brother, Alex, but he’d moved to Mystick Falls some months ago.

  “Wow, Nick.” Paisley craned her neck to see his beautifully landscaped villa. “You have an awesome house. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “That’s because you’ve never been to Florida or California,” I said. “The only missing elements are th
e palm trees.”

  “I love it,” she said.

  “Me, too,” I admitted. “I especially love his palette of colors, the shades of teals and blues and bright greens, just like the water in the Florida Keys.” Nick knew that because we’d vacationed there more than once.

  Nick barked a laugh. “Maddie loves the colors because she picked them.”

  “But Nick picked the Native American theme to go with them,” I said. “And I think the place is gorgeous.”

  “Good job, both of you.” Paisley stopped at the entry to Nick’s computer room. “I feel like I’ve stepped into the future.”

  “No, you’ve come from the past,” I countered.

  “Never tell anyone that you saw this room,” Nick whispered.

  She put a hand to her heart. “Why? Is it, like, an FBI secret?”

  I elbowed him. “Don’t mind him, Paisley. He thinks he’s funny. Just answer his questions, so he can map our strategy.”

  “Why should I answer his questions?”

  “Because we need to look into your past.” To find out who killed your father, and maybe your mother. “To find your future,” I admitted. “And I have a sense, because of the way Dolly told me to take care of you, that helping you will help us find her. She reacted strongly to meeting you, and she’s usually pretty mellow.”

  Nick clicked the keys on his laptop at a mighty pace, while we watched what he did on the huge flat screen on his wall.

  Nick looked up from the computer keys to focus on Paisley. “You told Madeira that you hailed a fisherman to get you off your island.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you remember the name of the boat?”

  “The Concertina. I asked him why he named it that, and he said that his father and grandfather used to play one. That’s when I knew I could trust him.”

  Nick clicked a few more keys. “Did you ask him his name?”

  “We only used first names. He knew me as Paisley and he said to call him Stew.”

  “A last name would have helped.” Nick clicked a few more keys, more, then more, and after half a dozen tries, a picture came up on the flat screen.

  “I think that’s him.” Paisley said. “Stewart McCreadie, fisherman, it says. That fits.”

  A few more clicks of the computer keys and Nick printed a sheet of paper, which he folded and put in his inside jacket pocket.

  “Lucky for us, you took time off between cases, Nick. Oh, Paisley, you don’t know this, but Nick is my brother Alex’s FBI partner, and my brother and his wife, Tricia, are expecting a baby. They wanted some quality time with their toddler, Kelsey, before her sibling arrived. So Nick took the same vacation as Alex. Otherwise, he might be off in Alaska or worse, and unable to help us.”

  “You go undercover, Nick?” Paisley asked. “I feel so ‘in the know’ just standing beside you. I feel safe, too.”

  “Glad to hear it. Let me get another search going,” he said as he worked those keys like a pro, “so my computer can work while we’re gone, then I’ll buy you two beauties some dinner. We need an early night, since we have to go fishing for a fisherman tomorrow.”

  Paisley stilled. “Why?”

  “Because I need directions to your island, that’s why, from the man who picked you up there.”

  She paled. “I don’t want to go back there.”

  I hooked my arm through hers. “Don’t be afraid. We’ll have an ace marksman with us, a lawman. Nothing can go wrong.”

  “I’m not afraid, it’s just that I…escaped, and…returning is like stepping back into a trap that I know will break my leg and keep me there forever.”

  I jiggled her arm. “We’ll be with you.”

  “I’ll protect you,” Nick said, and he showed her the outline of the shoulder holster beneath his jacket.

  Weird, he didn’t usually trust strangers with that knowledge, unless he mistrusted her, as I was tempted to, and he’d used his weapon as bait.

  She took a step back. “Guns don’t make me feel better.”

  Relief visibly washed over Nick as he urged us out the door and toward my car. “Maybe that’s something we should discuss—your fear of guns,” I suggested. “Do you remember more than you’ve told us?”

  “No. I don’t know.” She buckled her seat belt. “I’m afraid to get stuck there for another lifetime, but if you promise not to leave me there, I’ll go with you. You’ll need somebody to lead you to the house. Why, again, did you say we’re going there?”

  “For clues to your past,” Nick said, taking a road I recognized as the way to one of our favorite restau-rants.

  “Do you think Dolly is a clue to my past?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I do know, for certain, that the universe has a way of leading us around by our darning balls, without telling us why.”

  Eleven

  I adore the challenge of creating truly modern clothes, where a woman’s personality and sense of self are revealed. I want people to see the dress, but focus on the woman.

  —VERA WANG

  “I’m not sure I want to know about my past,” Paisley said later that night, after a wonderful seafood dinner, as we pulled into the driveway of my father’s house. “Maybe I’d rather forget the past and just have a future.”

  “Pardon me for sounding philosophical,” I said as we went into the house together, “but, Paisley, I’m not sure you can have a future without making peace with your past. Especially if…”

  “If what?” she asked at my hesitation.

  Nick raised a finger, like he wanted to field that question. “If there’s an honest to Teddy Roosevelt reason why you’re afraid of guns,” Nick said.

  I nodded. “And a reason you’re nervous about being safe. I mean everybody worries, but you were afraid of this house, even after you got the local police detective’s approval of me, before and after you agreed to come home with me.”

  “I’m going overboard? Is that not normal? How would I know from normal? Why Teddy Roosevelt?”

  “He started the FBI so he’s somewhat of a hero to me,” Nick admitted. “You were smart to talk to Detective Werner before agreeing to stay at the home of someone you didn’t know. Smarter than most. However, I believe that you need to look into your past to find out what your normal is and why.”

  Paisley sighed heavily. “That makes sense, but don’t expect me to sleep tonight,” she said at the doorway to her room.

  I squeezed her arm. “The way you were forced to work today, I think you’ll sleep just fine. Take a hot bath first, and don’t spare the bubbles.”

  “Good idea,” she said, turning on one foot, already bubbly, even before the bath. “Thanks.”

  Nick cupped my shoulder and pulled me along. “Very good idea,” he whispered, but we fell into bed still dressed, and the alarm rang ten minutes later, or so it seemed. I tried to throw the clock across the room, but Nick stopped me. “Up, up, right now. Stewart McCreadie is an early riser.”

  “How do you know that?” I rolled over and pulled my pillow over my head.

  Nick removed it. “McCreadie’s a guide. You know, he takes out sport fishermen. I read the posted list of departure and return times on his website. The Concertina leaves the dock at five A.M.”

  “The damn fool.”

  Nick chuckled. “Nothing designer today.” He opened my door, stood in my doorway, and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Paisley, can you hear me? Wear ratty clothes. Nothing designer today.”

  “I hear you!” she called back. “Maddie’s father can hear you four houses up.”

  Paisley stepped into the hall, arms crossed, a long blonde curl hanging above one eye.

  Nick chuckled. “Good, both of you wear clothes that can get muddy, wet, dirty, spiderwebby, and cellar dusty.”

  “Ugh. Cut it out, or we’ll barf before breakfast.” I poked him in the chest.

  “Oh, it’s worse than that, Mad,” Paisley said from her end of the hall.

&nb
sp; I peeked around Nick. “How much worse?” I asked.

  “You’ll have to walk through a farmyard with chicken, turkey, and duck poo everywhere.”

  “No dead animals, though, right? I mean, you didn’t just leave the sheep, cows, and chickens there, did you?”

  “Of course not. When Pap knew he was sick, he butchered and dressed everything, so Mam and I would have provisions. The animals are all smoked, canned, pickled, or frozen.”

  “But the chicken poop is still there?” I asked.

  “’Fraid so. It makes great fertilizer, though, so I’m guessing the grass is tall and green, and full of snakes.”

  “I think I’ll stay home,” I said, passing her to head for the stairs in yesterday’s outfit, but Nick took me by the shoulders and turned me back toward my room.

  “We’ll be ready in ten minutes, Paisley,” he said. “Jeans and boots and slickers or trench coats, against the sea spray,” he said, shutting my door.

  “What about breakfast?” I asked him as he prodded me into my bathroom.

  “We’ll catch some at a drive-through.” He turned on the shower.

  I crossed my arms. “We don’t have time for one of those kinds of showers.”

  “Too bad,” he whispered, nuzzling my neck until he got to my ear. “I looked up Paisley on the computer yesterday,” he whispered. “There is no such person as Paisley Skye on record. No birth certificate, no social security number.”

  “So her name is fake. Even she suspects as much. What? You don’t think it’s an alias, do you?”

  “No, her legitimate birth might never have been recorded, if she was born in the backwoods somewhere, but I thought you should know. Keep up your guard.”

  I saluted, kissed him a good one, then left him to the shower while I went to my dressing room.

  When we met in the hall, Paisley and I compared outfits—jeans, T-shirts, and hoodies against the sea air. Cowboy boots for me, gun boots for her. And then there were the trench coats. Hers was a savvy, rust-colored swing coat. Mine, a black Burberry military trench. We admired each other verbally, even in our worst outfits, though we’d both chosen well in the trench coat department.