Engaged in Trouble (Enchanted Events Book 1)

by Jenny B. Jones

  Braking the car, I stopped right in the middle of the street. “No, you did not tell me that.”

  She pressed her lips to blot on a tissue. “I guess it slipped my mind.”

  “You still remember classified nuclear codes from the sixties. It did not slip your mind.”

  “An agent never gives away all her information at once.”

  I didn’t know whether to kiss my grandmother or toss her out the car.

  I’d swung by and grabbed Sylvie on my way to visit Zoey Chandler, having chickened out on dropping in on either of Sasha’s parents. It just didn’t seem appropriate to barrage them with questions yet. Especially if they thought I killed their daughter.

  I checked my directions and pulled into a small driveway. “Is this right?”

  “This is it,” Sylvie said. “Didn’t you get the aerial photos of her house I texted you?”

  “It’s so . . . small.” We parked the car in front of a brick duplex with a tidy yard and black shutters in need of a coat of paint. “Not where I expected the daughter of a wealthy construction company owner to live.”

  Sylvie reached for her purse. “My sources at church and at A&M say Zoey’s pretty different from her family. Lives very modestly. She’s finishing out her second senior year, and supports herself from what I’ve heard. She and Sasha have nothing in common.”

  “Well, here goes.” I checked my own reflection in the mirror and patted down some flyaway hair. “Let our first interrogation begin.”

  “Let’s review our safe phrase in case we need to exit this mission.”

  “I’m not shouting ‘Lady Liberty isn’t wearing undies.’”

  We walked up a meandering sidewalk to the front step. I pressed my finger to the doorbell and inspected a pot of red geraniums blooming from a nearby planter. I could hear voices inside, as well as feet moving, but it was a full minute and two more ring-a-lings before the door finally opened.

  “Yeah?” A college-aged guy eyed Sylvie and me with all the enthusiasm given to traveling vacuum salesmen.

  “Hello. I’m Paisley Sutton. Um, I’m from Enchanted Events. This is my assistant, Sylvie.” I looked past him into the house. “Is Zoey home?”

  “For what?” He glanced behind him before answering. “She’s not receiving guests.”

  “And you are . . . ?”

  “Max. Her boyfriend.”

  Max looked like a guy who chugged a lot of protein shakes when he wasn’t lifting weights. “I know this is probably a bad time, but if we could just chat with Zoey, we promise to make it quick.”

  He frowned. “Didn’t I see your picture in the paper?”

  I needed a business card to pass out that said I solemnly swear I did not kill anyone. “I have something to return to the Chandler family. I was hoping I could talk to your girlfriend.”

  “She’s busy.”

  Sylvie stepped up to the plate. “And I’m with the Sugar Creek Community Church. On

  behalf of the congregation, I’d like to extend my sympathies. I have a little gift from our Sunday school class.” She dug into her purse and produced a beautifully wrapped loaf of some baked good. “It’s banana bread. Homemade with love.”

  “That’s very nice of you, but we don’t eat carbs.”

  Sylvie’s gentle smile hardened.

  “Another reason we stopped by,” I said, “is to deliver Sasha’s wedding planner and—”

  “You have the book?” Zoey suddenly appeared beside her boyfriend. “I didn’t know where it was.” She grabbed the binder from my arms and hugged it to her chest, closing her eyes for a moment as if being reunited with a friend she thought she’d never see again. “The book is actually mine.”

  “Yours?” Surely she was mistaken. “It’s a very thorough plan for a wedding. Very detailed.” And I’d inspected every page for any bit of information I could glean about Sasha.

  “Yeah, they’re my details.”

  “The artwork and photography are amazing,” Sylvie said.

  “Hello, Mrs. Sutton,” Zoey said. “Nice of you to visit. We’re kind of busy right now though, so—”

  “Could I use your bathroom?” Sylvie chuckled. “Old age and weak bladders, right?”

  “Not now.” I nudged my grandma with a sharp elbow. “Zoey, I . . . I wanted to tell you I’m very sorry about the terrible loss of your sister.”

  “Stepsister,” Zoey corrected again.

  “Oh.” Right. “Well, Enchanted Events is committed to getting to the bottom of what happened in our shop. I know her death must’ve come as a shock to you and your whole family.”

  Zoey’s face was bland as oatmeal. “Yes. I understand the police have spoken to you at length.”

  “They’ve spoken to everyone who was there at the time of the incident,” Sylvie said. “I assure you, as one Sunday school sister to another, my granddaughter did not hurt Sasha.” She patted my back like a dear, old granny with nothing up her sleeve. “Paisley’s a rock star, you know. Between her music career and inheriting Enchanted Events, she couldn’t possibly have time to kill anyone.”

  Zoey didn’t look impressed as she considered me. “I don’t think I’ve heard of you.”

  “It’s been awhile since I’ve been on the radio.”

  “My grandmother and I are . . . trying to help the police a bit.” I hoped that sounded believable. “If you don’t mind my asking, had Sasha been in an argument with anyone lately?” Someone besides me.

  “Had she talked to any communists, religious extremists, cult leaders, or ex-boyfriends?” My grandmother was as smooth as sandpaper.

  “I don’t know,” Zoey said.

  Sylvie placed the banana bread offering in Zoey’s hands. “Can you think of anyone she’d ticked anyone off lately?”

  “Had you even met Sasha?” Max laughed mirthlessly. “She ticked people off on a daily basis.”

  “That’s enough,” Zoey warned.

  “No, I’m through being quiet about this. Sasha was a monster to Zoey. Had been since they were little girls. So do we know people who might’ve disliked Sasha? Pretty much everyone below the Mason-Dixon Line.”

  “This is not a discussion for my front porch.” Zoey sighed as she held the door open. “Come on inside.”

  We followed them through a small, sunny foyer and into a cozy living room. Walking to the fireplace, I studied the painting over the mantel. “Wow, this is beautiful.” It was a watercolor rendering of an Arkansas cotton field in a storm. I thought of the fabulous art from my own collection, which I’d had to sell off in the last few years. “Is this a local artist?”

  “Yes.” Zoey sat on the gray tufted couch next to her boyfriend. “It’s by Carson Fielding. He’s an art professor at Arkansas A&M. His paintings sell like wildfire in galleries around here. They can’t even keep them in stock. I think he might even have one on display at Crystal Bridges Museum.”

  “Impressive.” I settled into a black leather chair, letting the zebra-striped pillow press into my aching back.

  “So you’re helping the police?” Zoey pulled her legs beneath her.

  Sylvie placed a stilling hand on my arm. “Yes,” she said. “The town simply isn’t equipped to deal with a case of this size. I am retired from the CIA, you know.”

  “Yes,” Zoey said. “I recall the time you filled in at Bible study and brought in real weapons to teach on spiritual warfare. Quite memorable.”

  “The bazooka might’ve been a bit extreme. And illegal.” Sylvie avoided looking my way. “Now, hon, if you’re up for it, we’d like to ask you a few questions. It would really help with the . . . investigation.”

  Zoey glanced at her boyfriend. “I guess it’s okay.”

  “What was Sasha’s behavior like in the last week or so?” I asked.

  “Normal, I’d say.” Zoey reached for a throw pillow. “What you saw at Sugar Creek Formals is pretty much how she always was.”

  “I couldn’t help but notice your sister was a bit demanding that day
at the shop,” I said. “I’d hoped her unkindness toward you was just bridal nerves.”

  “It wasn’t.” Zoey’s laugh was brittle as a November maple leaf. “Sasha’s mom and my dad got married when I was six.” Zoey’s eyes wandered as if she were seeing those days gone by. “I remember being so excited, thinking I had won the sister lottery. Finally some happiness after losing my mother. She was two years older than I, beautiful, and she came with a lot of toys. I was this quiet, shy thing and didn’t have a lot of friends. When Sasha became my sister, I knew I’d have a friend for life. It wasn’t long before that fairy tale shattered.”

  I knew all about shattering fairy tales. It was the only kind I’d read lately.

  “Sasha was mean and manipulative,” Zoey said. “She’d steal money from her mother or break something in the house, then find a way to blame it on me. She stole my boyfriends, my clothes, even my wedding plans.” She nodded toward the book. “I’d been planning my wedding since preschool—the music, the dress, the decor. When she suddenly got engaged, I was honored she chose me to be her maid of honor. But as the wedding plans unfolded, I realized they were my wedding plans. Right down to the last detail.” She held up the book. “These are my sketches, my photos, and my ideas. Last week I found her wearing my mother’s pearl earrings. She said it was her ‘something borrowed.’”

  “More like her something stolen,” Max said.

  “The detective has talked to me too. I don’t know if he thinks I’m a suspect because Sasha and I didn’t get along, but I didn’t kill her,” Zoey said. “I didn’t withstand sixteen years of being her doormat just to suddenly do her in before her wedding. Did I hate the way she’s always treated me? Yes. Have I fantasized about getting back at her a million times? Absolutely. Would I ever truly hurt her? Definitely not.” Zoey reached for her boyfriend’s hand. “My new fantasy was that she would marry Evan, he’d make his way to the US Senate, they’d move to DC, and I’d only have to see her at Christmas.”

  “So about that bathroom, dear,” Sylvie interrupted. “Mind if I use yours? I had a huge slushie on the way here.”

  “You can wait ’til we get home,” I said through clenched teeth.

  Zoey pointed over her shoulder. “Down the hall and to the left.”

  Sylvie removed my hand clamped to her knee and flounced away.

  I just hoped she didn’t blow up anything in there. “So . . . your dad and stepmom must be very torn up.”

  “Martha is. My dad’s a pretty stoic guy.”

  “It’s probably like losing a daughter to him, I would imagine.”

  Zoey said nothing.

  “I mean, nothing like the pain of losing you would be.” I kept talking, hoping Zoey would jump in at any time. “But I’m sure he has years of happy memories with you and Sasha. He was her father figure, right?”

  “He did what he had to do.”

  What did that mean? “So they weren’t close?”

  Max threw an arm around Zoey. “Nobody’s close to Sasha. Just her adoring mother.”

  “Were you and Sasha treated differently?”

  “Yeah, but I got used to it.”

  By the angry flush on Zoey’s cheeks, I rather doubted that statement. “How is Mrs. Chandler holding up?”

  “I haven’t talked to her since the funeral.” Zoey’s lips quivered, and tears pooled in her blue eyes. “My stepmother says the maid of honor should’ve been at the cake tasting with Sasha. That maybe if I had been there, I could’ve saved her. Apparently Sasha was left alone for a long time.”

  Now I was turning pink. “It was very busy at Enchanted Events that day.” Moving on . . . “What about the other bridesmaids?”

  With tears still falling, Zoey swiped at her cheeks. “What about them?”

  “Did they have hard feelings toward Sasha as well?”

  “Paisley, my stepsister was unkind to pretty much everyone she met, and that included the ones she considered her closest friends. I don’t know Raven and Phoebe well, but they’d be worth talking to, I suppose.”

  “Any bitter ex-boyfriends in her closet?” I asked, just as Sylvie reappeared.

  Zoey opened her mouth to answer, but her phone began to ring. “It’s my dad,” she said, reading the display. “I should take this. Thank you for rescuing my wedding planning book. Good luck to you.”

  Max showed us to the door, holding it open with an arm as large as a tree trunk. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Again, I want to extend my condolences on behalf of Enchanted Events,” I said. “Zoey and her family are in our thoughts and prayers and—”

  The door shut, cutting off the rest of my heartfelt sentiments, my kind encouragement, and most importantly, my question about where Max was the morning of the murder.

  “Well?” I followed Sylvie to the car and got in. “Did you find anything in the bathroom?”

  “She has excellent taste in moisturizer.” My grandmother buckled her seatbelt. “Though her window is a security hazard, and her prescription bottles are just crying for identity theft. Oh, and Max lives there. His stuff was everywhere.”

  “I meant anything useful?”

  “No. Unfortunately not. I searched her medicine cabinet, sink plumbing, and the air ducts in the ceiling. Did you glean anything else?”

  “Not really.”

  “Use your Sutton intuition. Do you think Zoey has motive to kill Sasha?” Sylvie asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “But she doesn’t strike me as the type.”

  “We certainly can’t count her out yet.”

  “No.” The car jerked into reverse, and I slipped on my sunglasses. “I’d never underestimate the consequences of an annoying family member.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Disgraced Backup Singer Suspect in Murder.”

  I sat at my desk Friday morning waiting for a vendor as Henry read the front page headline of the Sugar Creek Gazette. “I wasn’t a backup singer,” I mumbled. “I was an equal member of a girl band that rocked its way to pop stardom.”

  “When your lead singer is on par with Beyoncé, you’re bound to play second fiddle,” Henry said. “Or third.” He held up the paper. “Nice of them to include an action shot to accompany the article.”

  The photo, the only thing in color on the page, showed me standing on the sidewalk, finger pointed at Evan, my face twisted in anger. The caption included my threat that had been “witnessed by a handful of concerned Sugar Creek citizens.” I missed the anonymity of my life in Los Angeles. Unless you were an A-list celebrity committing a major crime, nobody cared. In small towns, you couldn’t scratch your nose without someone spinning it into gossip.

  “Henry?” Alice stepped into the office. “Bailey from Bailey’s Blooms is here to see you.”

  “Did you offer her some coffee?”

  “Yes.” Alice shot me a worried glance. “But she said she doesn’t want to eat or drink anything we serve.”

  “Escort her back here.” Henry folded up the newspaper and stuck it in the top drawer of his desk. “Oh, and Alice?”

  “Yes?”

  “You have a stain on your shirt.” He pulled up a file on his iPad. “Please take care of it.”

  Her eyes dropped to her chest, and her shoulders slumped. “Yes, sir.”

  “She’s a single mom, you know,” I said as Alice departed.

  “So?”

  “So every morning she’s getting two kids ready for school all by herself.”

  “And that leaves her no time to look in the mirror?”

  “That means, Mr. Insensitive, that mornings are chaos, and with three kids under seven, Alice is doing good to make it out the door with her sanity, much less a clean shirt. Accidents happen.”

  He looked up from his work. “Is this one of those things I’m supposed to be tolerant about?”

  Whew, boy. “I’ve really got my work cut out for me.”

  “You do?” Henry stood and straightened his paisley tie. “My trainee’s accused
of Murder One.”

  Before I could respond, a woman hesitantly walked inside. “Good morning, Mr. Cole.”

  “Bailey, hello.” Henry’s cheeks lifted as he smiled and crossed the room to take her hands in his. The petite blonde blushed prettily. The man could certainly turn on the charm when he wanted to. “And you know our new owner, Paisley Sutton?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes darted my way before she lowered her voice. “I had hoped to speak to just you, Mr. Cole. About a business matter.”

  Henry swooped a hand toward me. “Paisley’s now my boss, so all business matters include her, of course.”

  The three of us stood in the midst of a long, smothering pause, as if a foul fourth person had joined us and we didn’t know how to send him away.

  Bailey clasped and unclasped her hands. “I . . . I wanted to tell you that next Saturday will be our last wedding to work with Enchanted Events.”

  Henry’s brow furrowed, and alarm pierced his words. “We’re booked with you through December.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry this doesn’t leave you much time to find another florist.”

  “What’s going on here, Bailey?” Henry asked. “We’ve brought you a lot of business in the last year and a half.”

  “And I’m grateful,” the woman said. “But I think right now is not a good time to align our name with Enchanted Events.”

  “Because of me.” I walked toward the florist and watched her take two steps back as if I were brandishing a cleaver. “Because people think I might have killed Sasha Chandler?”

  “I’m just getting my little flower shop off the ground, and I don’t need bad publicity.”

  Well, neither did I, but it was all I could seem to attract.

  “Tell you what.” Calm and cool Henry had returned, and he gave Bailey his most reassuring smile. “You take a few days to think about it. Don’t make a hasty decision right now. You know we have a mutually profitable partnership, and it’s just going to continue to expand. Take the weekend to really consider it before pulling the plug.”

  Bailey swallowed and gave a sad shake of her head. “I’m sorry, but I’m done.” Her eyes flitted to me. “Good luck to you, Miss Sutton. Maybe when this all gets straightened out, we can work together again.” She walked out, her sundress swishing around her fast-moving legs.