Engaged in Trouble (Enchanted Events Book 1)

by Jenny B. Jones

  Like a deflating balloon, I slowly descended into my desk chair. “We lost two more weddings yesterday afternoon and now this. I’m ruining Enchanted Events, Henry.”

  He paused, as if editing his thoughts. “She said she’d reconsider when this all got straightened out.”

  Despair was as bitter as the cold coffee in the mug next to my hand. “She means when I’m in prison and you’re the new owner.”

  A few hours later, I had yet to sidestep the cloud of gloom hanging over my head. I sat next to Henry in a plush chair and took furious notes while he helped a bride-to-be with her venue decisions. The bride’s mother had barely let her daughter get a word in.

  Henry consulted his client’s list of preferred locations. “Grace Cathedral is a great pick.”

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Alyssa Compton, the young bride, gushed. “My fiancé and I both love that one.”

  “It’s much too small and much too country,” her mother said. “I’ll not have my daughter getting married on a farm.” Her laugh struck an annoying octave. “Next you’ll be wanting attendees to sit on hay bales.”

  “I think it’s quaint and comfortable,” Alyssa said, head down and eyes toward her shoes.

  “Comfortable is not the word people will use for my daughter’s wedding.”

  Alyssa sniffed and dug in her bag for a tissue. “But it’s what I want.”

  “All of her venue picks are completely unacceptable.” Mrs. Compton handed Henry a list of her own. “I’d like you to check the availability of these instead.”

  Tears welled in Alyssa’s green eyes.

  “Mrs. Compton, how about you and I go to my office so I can show you some photos of our weddings.” Henry helped Mrs. Compton to her feet. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised how our team can transform any location.”

  The two walked away, with Mrs. Compton complaining loudly about her poor daughter’s wedding choices. I pretended not to hear and smiled at our bride. “If anyone can convince your mother, it’s Henry,” I said. “He’s designed some stunning weddings.”

  Alyssa sagged into her chair. “Can I be honest with you?”

  Foreboding tapped me on the shoulder. “Um, yes, of course.”

  “Tyler and I just want to run to Vegas.”

  “Oh.” My brain scanned for the right thing to say. “You don’t want to do that. Think of the memories you’ll make with a beautiful local wedding. I’m telling you, Enchanted Events is going to bring you a fairy tale.”

  She scrunched her nose. “I don’t want a fairy tale.”

  I looked around for someone to step in and help me, but everyone was busy. “What is it you want?”

  “Elvis.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I want Elvis to marry us in the tackiest chapel we can find on the Strip.”

  “I don’t think your mother would care for that.”

  Alyssa lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “She has terrible taste.”

  “But she wants the best for you, I’m sure.”

  “No, what she wants is a fancy wedding because my dad is a big deal attorney in Fayetteville, and she wants to show off for all her snobby society friends. But this isn’t her wedding, is it?” Alyssa waited for a response to what I assumed was a rhetorical question.

  “It is your wedding, but—”

  “Exactly.” Alyssa sipped from her Enchanted Events water bottle, a service we were now providing in lieu of champagne. “I knew you’d understand. Seeing how your wedding got horrifically ruined and all.” She leaned my way. “I read about you in the tabloids for months. Juicy stuff.”

  I unclenched my teeth. “What I understand is that your mother cares for you, and she wants you to have a top-notch experience, which is what we provide.”

  Alyssa sat straighter, as if a new energy pulsed through her veins. “An experience is exactly what I want for my wedding. A memory. A fun, zany memory.”

  “We can do zany.” My voice rose on a desperate note. “In fact, we’re currently running a special on zany. Ten percent off.” Oh, my gosh. This session was going down the toilet.

  Alyssa clasped my hand as if we were partners in bridal hijinks. “You only get to do your wedding once, right?”

  “Well, maybe not if you’re from Hollywood or—”

  “This should be my wedding and not my mother’s.”

  “And it can be. Henry is a pro at balancing your family’s expectations with your own list of wants.”

  “What I want is Vegas.”

  I swallowed hard. “No. No you don’t.” I could not lose this wedding. Why did everything I touch crumble into ruin? “Lots of feathers and cleavage. Mobsters, rigged slot machines, and watery booze.”

  “Exactly!” She clapped her hands in glee, her engagement ring flashing like a warning beacon. “It sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?”

  “No! No, it does not!”

  Alyssa jumped up and pulled me into a spastic hug. “Oh, thank you! Thank you, Paisley. I knew you’d understand.”

  “Alyssa, no. I don’t—”

  The bride-to-be lifted her hands to heaven. “The big wedding is off!” Her declaration rang out like a call for human rights. Like she had been to the mountaintop . . . and pushed me right off of it. “Cancel everything!”

  My lips wobbled into a plastic smile, hoping to reassure our room full of onlookers they weren’t witnessing a total implosion. “Let’s just take a deep breath.” I patted Alyssa on the back. “Would you like more water?” A Valium? A mute button? A tranquilizer gun?

  “No, no time.” She squashed me in another quick hug, then picked up her purse. “I have plans to make! Oh, Paisley. Thank you for making me see the light.”

  “What light?”

  We both turned to find Henry and Mrs. Compton behind us, the two sporting matching frowns.

  “Ah . . . ” My brain remained frozen in neutral. “Alyssa seems to be a little confused about her wedding details. Probably just the nerves talking.”

  Alyssa giggled. “Or my independence! Mother—”

  Oh, no. Here it came.

  “I’m canceling the wedding.”

  If looks could kill, both mom and Henry would have me speared to the wall.

  “No, you’re not.” Mrs. Compton’s eyes went as wide as the Botox would let them. “I left you two alone for ten minutes.” Mrs. Compton turned that fire-breathing face on me. “What did you say to my daughter?”

  “It was all her decision,” I said. “Truly, I had nothing to do with this. I—”

  “Paisley has inspired me to go my own way. Make this wedding what I want it to be. Goodbye, church! Goodbye, caterer! Goodbye, puffy dress I don’t even like!”

  I watched in horror as Alyssa Compton skipped out of the shop, singing “Viva Las Vegas” and high-fiving everyone she passed.

  “You.” Mrs. Compton pivoted like a firing cannon and pointed her finger at me. “You’ve ruined everything!”

  I said a prayer to just disappear. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You will be.” Mrs. Compton lifted her chin, her voice resolute. “By the time I tell everyone I know about this, you won’t have a customer left. You haven’t begun to be sorry!”

  She left in a blaze of tears and more threats.

  As the door slammed, a heavy hush hung over the room like a fog.

  Henry rubbed a hand over his face, as if trying to erase his dire thoughts.

  “Henry, I—”

  “Go home, Paisley.” He sighed heavily, his voice hollowed with defeat.

  “I didn’t tell her to elope.”

  “Take the rest of the day off.” His gaze barely met mine. “We’ll handle things here.”

  “But we have to get ready for Saturday’s wedding.”

  “We’ll see you Monday.”

  “But—”

  “We’ve got it,” Henry said. “Just get some rest.”

  The employees stood like mannequins, their heads angled my direction, unmov
ing in a frozen scene. Humiliation burned through me and unshed tears stung my eyes.

  I grabbed my purse and escaped out the back door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I took the long way home, driving through bumpy back roads dotted with the former homes of childhood friends who had moved on to mature, productive lives. Lives that didn’t involve ruining businesses by mere association or becoming a murder suspect. The sun shone golden and proud, oblivious to any broken people beneath it. Though it was only noon, I stopped and got a chocolate shake at Dixie Dairy, not returning to my house ’til I had emptied the cup of every last frozen calorie.

  When I pulled into my driveway, I spied Beau standing on a ladder beneath our porch, working on my outside light. Dressed in his usual jeans and T-shirt, he still inspired a moment of pause for appreciation. His every move flexed a muscle I couldn’t name, but enjoyed, nonetheless. His brown hair had always lightened in the summer, just as his skin had tanned, and time hadn’t changed that. But it had changed other things about him. Softened him in some ways and certainly hardened him in others.

  Beau stopped what he was doing as I approached, leaned an elbow on his ladder, and regarded me. “You get sent home from school?”

  “Something like that.”

  He nodded toward the light above him. “Just fixing this before I head back out to Fox Falls. If Sylvie knew you were without a porch light, she’d chew me out something good.”

  “I can change my own lightbulbs, Beau.”

  “You could, but that’s what Sylvie pays me the big bucks for.” Something behind me caught his attention. “You expecting company?”

  I turned to see Detective Ballantine’s car easing in right beside mine. I knew it was too much to hope that he was personally delivering me great tidings of my proven innocence.

  “Detective Ballantine.” Beau climbed down from his ladder. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “Hey, Beau. Heard Miss Sutton was home, and I wanted a word with her.”

  Beau stepped closer to me, his light cologne both familiar and a comfort.

  “Miss Sutton, we have the autopsy back.” The detective stood in front of me, his body rigid, as if he was prepared for me to bolt. I wondered if the man was going to arrest me, and if I’d regret my outfit choice for the mug shot. If my parents would even take the time from their speaking tour to visit me in prison.

  “That was a fast turnaround,” I said. Sylvie had told me it could take weeks, but Evan had also said his money and influence could speed things along.

  He watched me with unmasked scrutiny. “Sasha Chandler died of blunt force trauma to the head.”

  Just as we had suspected. “That’s truly awful.”

  He stepped closer. “How much alcohol did you give Sasha to drink?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, how many glasses of champagne did you give her?”

  “A few.” I would’ve done anything to shut the woman up.

  “Her blood-alcohol level was pretty high.” Ballantine watched me like a hawk ready to swoop down on its prey. “Sasha must’ve drunk a lot prior to her death.” He paused, letting his words build suspense. “It’s probably easier to hit a drunk person over the head with a bottle than a sober one. Especially if you want to catch her unaware.”

  The porch spun like a rickety Tilt-a-Whirl. “I did not hit Sasha with a bottle, and I certainly didn’t intentionally get her intoxicated.”

  “It certainly looks that way,” Ballantine said.

  “I would never hurt her. I didn’t even know her. Maybe somebody slipped something in her cupcakes. Did you test every one of them? That icing looked a little off to me.”

  “We tested the remaining cupcakes.”

  “You can’t trust bakers! Some of them are on a constant sugar high.” I threw out rambling words as if I was no longer tethered to reason. “The insulin spikes probably alter their brains. Raging ketones. Impaired judgment. And don’t even get me started on the Jekyll effects of high-fructose corn syrup.”

  “The baked goods have no bearing on this case, Miss Sutton.” Ballantine rocked on the back of his heels. “Did you or did you not allow the victim to drink more than one glass of champagne?”

  “Paisley.” A forgotten Beau flanked my side. “Don’t say anything more.”

  “After she drained her second glass, Sasha Chandler demanded I leave the bottle.” My voice wobbled pitifully. “I have no idea how much of it she drank. What I’d like to know is if you’re pursuing other suspects, Detective Ballantine. There are people out there with motives to kill Sasha.”

  “Yours is especially interesting.” He held up a copy of the newspaper, his fat pointer finger right on my face. “Broken hearts and humiliation do funny things to people.”

  “I’d never even met Sasha before that week. When I threatened Evan, I didn’t even know she was his fiancée.”

  “Right.”

  “I came back to Sugar Creek because I inherited Zelda’s business. If it tanks and I can’t sell the building, I gain nothing. Nothing. Why would I interfere with that and murder someone? Plus, I have an alibi. I was at Enchanted Events—running my tail off.”

  “Your employees verified you were alone for a long stretch of time. You had plenty of time to let Sasha get liquored up, then hit her.”

  “I think that’s enough for today.” Beau’s voice lost all hospitality. “She has nothing more to say without her attorney.”

  But the detective wasn’t done. “Miss Sutton, your prints are on the champagne bottle, as well as the glass.”

  “I served her. Of course they would be. And the person who actually hit Sasha wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave prints.” Geez, I’d watched enough CSI reruns to know that.

  “It had to hurt—Evan standing you up at the altar.” Ballantine angled his head and regarded me with faux concern. “Embarrassing, I’d imagine.”

  In my mind, I yelled at the old shame to stay back, rebuked it for the demon it was. But that dark tormentor overrode my thoughts and flooded my heart until my skin prickled and I tasted its bitter defeat on my tongue. “Evan walking away from our wedding was the best thing he ever did for me.” It was a line I’d settled on and repeated at least once a week. “If anything, I owe him gratitude.”

  “He maligned your character. Dragged your name through the mud.”

  “I’m in the entertainment business.” I struggled for a light, airy tone. “We’re used to people believing the Enquirer version of our lives.”

  “He said you were unstable.” The detective’s eyes bored into mine. “A washed-up musician unable to cope.”

  Tears clogged my throat and made words impossible. Lies. Most of that was lies, but some days I had trouble remembering which was the truth.

  Beau slipped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me in as if I were his to protect. “I said that’s enough, Detective. You can talk to her lawyer if you want any more information.”

  But Ballantine didn’t seem in a rush to leave. “Did you visit the residence of Zoey Chandler?”

  My brain instantly cramped. “No. Maybe. I mean, yes. Yes, I did.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To offer my condolences and return something Sasha had left at Enchanted Events.”

  “I’d advise you to stay away from the Chandler family. And let me warn you now: You and your grandmother had best keep your noses out of this investigation. Am I clear?”

  I met his intimidating glare. “Are you arresting me today?”

  His lips pinched, as if he tasted regret. “No.”

  My knees nearly buckled with relief.

  “But my handcuffs and I might be back tomorrow.” Ballantine tipped an imaginary hat. “Beau, let me know when the catfish are biting.”

  * * *

  All of life’s questions could be answered at the library. At least that’s what my eleventh grade English teacher Mrs. Comiskey had told me years ago. She’d also believed in unicorns a
nd an imminent alien invasion, so sometimes it was hard to filter the wheat from the chaff when she’d doled out advice. But since I had precious little data left on my cell phone, time to kill, and a furious, nervous energy, I settled in front of a computer at the Sugar Creek Library to see what information I could unearth on Sasha and the people in her life. Ballantine’s threat to carry me off in handcuffs cycled through my mind until I was nearly sick with it.

  As a little investigative warm-up, I first conducted a quick search of my own name to see if news of my assumed guilt had reached the outside world. It was always humbling to type in your own name. Immediately new photos and headlines popped up, none of them flattering. “Former Pop Star a Murderer?” “Will Paisley Sutton Be Singing the Jailhouse Blues?” “Where is She Now? Possibly in Prison!”

  Good heavens.

  I barely refrained from responding to a few of the incendiary comments, and instead pulled out my list of murder suspects and typed in the first name: Zoey Chandler.

  My search pulled up a photo from college (annoyingly good), an article about her work with the Junior League (very altruistic), and a series of family Christmas cards her father had posted annually on his company website.

  I clicked on a news article from last December. “Daughter of Prominent Businessman in One Car Crash.”

  Apparently Zoey had been booked on a DUI after wrecking her car, but I found no other strikes against her, no more red flags, or skeletons leaping from her online closet.

  But what if Zoey have a drinking problem? Maybe she’d been in a drunken rage last week and attacked her sister?

  I typed in Phoebe Chen’s name next.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  I minimized my screen with lightning speed as a woman carrying a stack of large-print hardbacks appeared beside me.

  Her library name tag read Anna Grace. “Weren’t you in Electric Femmes?” she asked, smiling.

  “Yes, I was.” I glanced around, hoping this admission didn’t send anyone scurrying away in fear for their life. “I’m Paisley—”