Cloaked in Malice

by Annette Blair

  And none of that made her think of Dolly Sweet, even now? Maybe she’d stepped into her dumb zone, an emotional knee-jerk form of self-protection. Her need would be strong after waking up alone in a strange car, in the roaring, wave-breaking belly of a ferry.

  “Okay, Alex, what do the names ‘Scar,’ ‘Tuna,’ ‘Smoots,’ ‘Teets,’ and ‘Momo’ mean to you? Quick, off the top of your head.”

  “Sushi.”

  “Eve? Dare I ask?”

  “Rock stars.”

  “Well, that was an interesting exercise,” I said. Really makes me look forward to the forensics report. “But, great quote, Dad.”

  “One of your best, Harry,” Fee added.

  “Yep,” Alex agreed. “A quote for the road.”

  “Wait, Paisley’s bag. We need that. Alex, can you take it out of your backpack and give it to Dad?”

  “You took something from the crime sc—farm, and sneaked it out in my backpack?”

  “Nothing you can’t see anytime you want. Nick’s already examined and noted the contents.”

  “And he approved?”

  “He called them mementos. And that’s a quote.”

  “If you say so, but I’ll be checking with him.” Alex lifted his hiker’s backpack, searched for, and took out the fine leather garment bag folded into what looked like a designer handbag. He shook his head.

  My father accepted it but tried to hand it to me.

  I put my hands behind my back and turned to check out the activity on the dock.

  “Give it to Paisley,” Aunt Fiona said.

  My relief made me giddy as Paisley took the bag. I mean, I couldn’t read bags, I didn’t think, except that this was a “garment” bag. And I did not want to zone out in front of my father, again, not that he didn’t suspect something at this moment.

  I could tell by his look of speculation.

  I covered my guilt with a smile and turned to my brother. “Alex, give my love to Trish, and kiss Kelsey and the belly, from Auntie Mad, when you get home.”

  “And ask Kelsey what she would name a bunch of piglets, if she had any,” Paisley said. “She’s two, right?”

  In the driver’s seat of his SUV, Alex chuckled, waved, and drove away.

  Now, I thought, how would I get the Oleg Cassini gown to Vintage Magic for Dante to see, without touching it or making Paisley or my father suspicious?

  Thirty-two

  Have you ever stopped to think that the serious subject of woman’s progress and the frivolous subject of woman’s clothes are very closely connected?

  —WOMAN’S HOME COMPANION, 1914

  Back at my father’s house, we all got out of the car to go inside, and I saw that Paisley left her garment bag–handbag of mementos in Dad’s backseat.

  I bit the inside of my lip on my knee-jerk reaction to call her back. I’d leave it for fate to decide my course.

  If Paisley came out for the bag, I was not meant to bring it to Dante.

  If it was still in the car when I came out…fate, aka the universe, was leading the way.

  Aunt Fiona naturally mothered the girl—listened to her story, commiserated with her—which Paisley ate up like one starved, so I didn’t want to disturb them. But I really wanted to bring that Cassini gown to show Dante, because he’d had a past life experience with it.

  Not the kind of experience I liked to remember so vividly, but I figured that as par for the psychometric course.

  In a way, I also looked forward to embarrassing Dante with my knowledge, though I seriously needed to know how much he knew about the gown, like where Dolly got it and why she would give it away.

  Had the woman she gave it to been important? And why?

  I also wanted to bring the little white mink-trimmed cloak, so I could read it again, Prada help me. But how?

  Maybe I could slip the contraband—the garment bag–handbag with gown, and the cloak—into one of my own big old purses without touching it, and without bringing attention to myself on the way out…

  Hey, I wasn’t stealing any of it. I just wanted the scoop on the dress, and I had several questions I needed answered, on Paisley’s behalf, and on behalf of her dead parents, now that I’d been to that creepshow of an island.

  Paisley was either amazingly well adjusted and resilient, or she was the psycho who killed them all. Except for her parents…in revenge for the death of her parents?

  I had a shivery frightened whine building in me but I refused to give in to it.

  FBI forensics would tell us a lot about who was who, from the Dogpatch Cemetery and Mam’s and Paps’s graves, how they died, man or beast, and even ballpark a date as to when the dirty deed happened. Sure, I supposed one or two of them could have died of natural causes, but I wasn’t betting the ATM on it.

  No, the Feds weren’t going to give me, via Nick, everything I needed. I feared that the secrets to Paisley’s past rested a great deal in her clothes. All of them. I mean, I hadn’t even checked her luggage yet.

  For instance, I was no longer certain she’d worn that cloak to a wedding. I thought maybe a December party in the church hall—they had been walking up the stairs when my vision began. It could have been anybody’s special day, though there were the bouquets, weren’t there? Or did I remember those from Paisley’s picture and not my vision? Maybe they were centerpieces.

  Now that I’d seen the hidden nursery, I wondered if it might not have been a christening.

  Didn’t the mob like to strike at a large gathering? I had to let go of this determination of mine to blame the mob when it could have been…Smurfs.

  Maybe I should ask Paisley about the nursery, but I had no reason. Yet.

  Damn, I wished I could call Dolly. Where did she fit into all of this? Something else I was hoping Dante could tell me.

  While Fiona fussed over Paisley in my father’s kitchen, making her a healthy supper, with Paisley’s help, and listening to her naïve version of our day, I ran upstairs.

  I went to my dressing room—yes, an entire room off my bedroom just for my clothes—and saw myself in the mirror. A camouflage reject. “Don’t let me die now.” I slipped into a shapely fifties Chanel little black dress, cute, svelte, and feminine, to help me get over my day, and for Nick. Later.

  I’d look good in this for eternity as well, not that I wanted to go there, but how could you have the day I had and not think that way?

  Now to find my famously oversized, plum-colored Michael Kors “massive egg-shaped” tote, my signature good luck charm.

  Hoping for some of that luck tonight, I threw my purse in the bottom of the infamous plum tote—I’d look dumb carrying two. Then, its jaws open, I slid the massive tote over the white silk cloak, which it swallowed whole. To wear to work at the shop tomorrow, I added a gently folded outfit and shoes.

  I felt like Santa with all that over my shoulder, but fortunately, I didn’t have to say good-bye to my dad. He’d fallen asleep reading his paper in his tweed and leather den, lulled by the scent of the cherry pipe tobacco in his humidor.

  The kitchen stood empty, though aromas mingled, sage and yeast for some kind of savory, not to mention rosemary and roast pork. I sighed for what I’d miss, and I looked for the cooks.

  Through the Ladies Parlor window, I spotted Aunt Fee and Paisley in the backyard picking herbs, so I left a note. “Meeting Nick for a late night. See you at the shop in the morning.” They could take that to mean I’d see one or both of them. I wouldn’t mind the help.

  In the backseat of Dad’s car, I shark-jawed Paisley’s vintage garment bag cum handbag into my massive tote. Then I hopped into my matching Element and practically laid rubber getting the Hermès out of there.

  Not that I could go undetected anywhere—I had my shop sign painted on the Element’s door—but I still felt as if I’d achieved a certain freedom.

  Even if Paisley noticed that the handbag and cloak were missing, she’d have Aunt Fee call me, and I’d tell the truth, up to a point.

 
Part of me thought I should buy Paisley at least a throwaway phone, and bring her into the new century, but for the moment, until I was sure of her complete innocence in this, I thought that keeping her out of the loop seemed smarter.

  Dante opened the door from the inside before I reached it, his grin reminding me how he’d managed to bring Dolly, and even a little bit of me, to my knees in that satinwood art nouveau bedroom of his. “Promise me you don’t open my door to just anybody,” I said, turning my thoughts for my own protection.

  “I open it to you, and only you, my lady.” He bowed.

  I shook my head. “How much energy do you have left from the day?” He needed to recharge regularly.

  “It so happens, you had a lot of customers today so I gathered plenty of new energy; I’m up to about anything. What would you like me to do?” he asked, his voice running smooth as honey.

  “While it’s true that you can still turn a girl’s head, Mr. Top Hat and Tails, I’m off limits, got that?”

  “You’re dressed like you want attention, just for the record,” he said, and tipped said hat. “Your wish is my command.”

  “Good, then after I unbuckle this leather travel case, it’s going to turn into a garment bag, beneath which is a gown that I do not, at this moment, want to handle.”

  “For obvious reasons,” he said, aware of my ability.

  I turned the handbag into a garment bag and unzipped it with a pair of pliers—that’s how much care I took not to touch the designer beauty inside.

  “Your turn,” I said, stepping back.

  In little more than a year, Dante had acquired, and learned to control energy with quite a bit of talent. He made all the right moves, and though he might be appearing to lift the gown, as if from the bag, I noticed that, like me, he never made contact with the dress. It was all focused energy doing the work on his part, energy he’d been garnering from my happy, enthusiastic customers since I moved the shop into this place he could not seem to leave.

  He laid the colorful Cassini on the fainting couch, stood back, scraped his nonexistent beard, and eyed the designer gown, as if searching for some type of answer from the universe.

  “Art nouveau bedroom,” I said. “Tiffany stained glass window behind your satinwood four-poster. Dolly on the bed wearing—”

  “That?” Dante’s voice cracked as he stepped back and regarded me. “You touched that dress? You read it, didn’t you? How far did your vision go?”

  “I got out just in time to keep my ability to look you in the eyes and not blush every time you show up.”

  Dante fairly wilted. Then he perked up. “Wait, you were inside Dolly’s skin, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Was she pregnant?”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. Men really do have one-track minds…which they took with them into eternity. “Let me see if I can remember what it was like being in her skin. It seemed to me that she was concentrating on you. Certainly she was joyful.”

  A chair got pulled out for me to sit on. McShadow didn’t even make a pretense of using anything but his energy to complete the task.

  He knelt before me as if I were in the family way. “It’s important that I know if she wanted me or ‘us,’ because if she wanted ‘us,’ then there’s a chance there was a—” He growled.

  I’d never heard him that frustrated before.

  “I hate that I had to leave her at a time like that.”

  I lowered my gaze to catch his. “Dante, you really wanted to have a family with Dolly, didn’t you? If she did have your child, it’s really breaking you that you missed it, isn’t it?”

  He gathered himself together and looked sheepish. “What can I say? Death mellows a guy.”

  “Listen,” I said. “This peek at your vulnerability has helped me get a bit back into her skin, and I’m telling you, she wasn’t worried that she was expecting.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Because I’m inside a wearers head and heart when I get a vision, I pretty much have to go where they went, feel what they did, and if they left something undone, or unsaid, I’m the messenger.”

  “And you have no message for me?”

  “Our Doll, she delivers her own messages, especially to you.”

  He sighed. “You’re in their skin?” he said, standing.

  Obviously he’d released his guilt, if not his paternal inclinations.

  “So you were in Dolly’s skin while I made love to her—or near enough.”

  “Too near,” I added.

  Dante angled his top hat so it rested lower down on his brow. “Bet you were pretty turned on, hey?”

  His paternal inclinations had left the building.

  I rose and moved from the chair he’d brought me. “You know what, Dolly was pregnant, and she decided to give up your child for adoption just before you set her on that bed.”

  Dante paled. He trembled. He turned a sickly pale mauve—quite a trick if you don’t have blood in your system. Maybe it was a trick of the light, or his skills as a dramatic ghost. Still, if he hadn’t already died of a heart attack, I thought he might now.

  Guilt shot through me.

  I wanted to hug him but couldn’t. Didn’t dare. “That was so ruddy mean of me,” I said. “And it was an outright lie.”

  “Mean, yes,” he said. “Swear it was a lie.”

  “I tried to be as inappropriate as I felt you were just now, but I took it too far. Here’s the thing,” I said, relenting. “I did lie about a pregnancy. I’m sorry. New rules. You don’t screw with me, and I won’t screw with you.”

  “Well, there’s screwing and there’s—”

  “Going too far for a friendship to survive, Dante.”

  Never having seen the serious side of Madeira Cutler before, my nearly ex-friend nodded. “My apologies,” he said in all sincerity. No bow. No sass. He was the Dante, his nerves rubbed raw, who showed his vulnerable side, this time without request. “What else would you like to know, Madeira?”

  That’s better. “Tell me what Dolly did with the dress she was wearing that night.”

  “You know,” he said. “She could really have gotten pregnant that night.”

  “Enough already! Look at this dress, McShadow. It’s an original Oleg Cassini, and it’s worth a fortune.”

  “I’m looking. I’m listening.”

  “Why? Why did Dolly give it away, and to whom?”

  My cell phone rang, and it was Werner, so I picked up, though this wasn’t the best of times. “Answers, I hope, Lytton.” Oops, I let my frustration show. “Sorry, didn’t mean to bark.”

  “I’m every bit as frustrated. I can only offer more questions, Mad,” Werner said, back to using my nickname.

  “Hit me with ’em.”

  “Dolly made a call to the State Department the night before she left. It was promptly returned. There had been other calls back and forth to and from that number sporadically over the years. The why is sealed, classified information. It’ll take longer to learn.”

  “And? I can tell there’s more.”

  “Her financials. She’s made several large deposits to a Parisian account, almost always coinciding with the calls.”

  “And that account belongs to?”

  “A minimum-security prison. I’ve got a call in to the warden now.”

  Thirty-three

  Over the years I have learned that what is important in a dress is the woman who is wearing it.

  —YVES SAINT LAURENT

  Dante paced as if he needed a minute to get his thoughts together to answer my question.

  As for me, I needed oxygen. What did Dolly have to do with a prison? A warden, a guard, or a prisoner?

  Dante stopped in front of me. “That girl, Paisley, she showed you a baby picture, remember?”

  I nodded. “I think the toddler in that picture was Paisley herself, possibly the night her parents were killed, but I can’t be certain, yet. That picture is what brought her to Mystic. You said Dolly’s
brother owned the Mystic Photography Studio, right? But you were pouting and disappeared without elaborating.”

  Dante winced. “Again, I apologize.”

  “Accepted.”

  “His name was Grover. Grover Wylde. Imagine, Dolly used to be Dolly Wylde, and she sure lived up to her name.”

  I lowered myself to the foot of the fainting couch. “Her brother’s name was Grover?”

  “Does that matter?”

  “On so many levels, go on.”

  “She was sixteen years older than him, so she became a sort of surrogate mother, like you did. Maybe she gave him too much, like everything he wanted, money included. Then he fell for that woman, Rose, I think her name was, from France. Sexy accent, nefarious motives. Anyway, she enticed him into taking pictures of the sub base, which I thought might get him into trouble. To Dolly, he could do no wrong, so when he wanted to get married, she gave that greedy French woman her favorite dress to marry Grover in.”

  “When did they get married?”

  “Dolly and I, we got all dressed up to go to their wedding at Saint Patrick’s Church. The pews were full, but the bride and groom never showed.”

  “Not being at her adored brother’s wedding must have broken Dolly’s heart. I already knew that they took the pricey designer dress with them when they left town. That must also have hurt.”

  “Aha,” Dante said, watching me closely. “Did you get more than one vision from that dress? You saw Rose wearing it, too, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “Yes, Dolly’s heart was broken, never over the dress, but over the loss of her relationship with her brother. Oh, she got a few early postcards, from all over the world, and then all communication ended—until my death, at least.”

  “Dolly’s gone, Dante. I haven’t seen you to tell you.”

  “You don’t mean she passed? Because if she did, she’d be here with me.”

  I smiled at the attitude he must have carried his whole life. He epitomized the word “stud,” and everyone who knew him must have known it. Even in death, he was so certain of Dolly, and she of him, which made them maybe the luckiest pair going, dead or alive.