Killer Bridal Party (Firefly Junction Cozy Mystery Book 2)

by London Lovett

  "With the exception of actually flying in a plane. And then there are hang gliders and helicopters . . ."

  He handed off the last chunk of apple to Butterscotch and turned to face me. "I've seen those strange metal birds in the sky many times. Can you feel the wind in your face on an airplane?"

  "If you can, then you're in big, big trouble." I whistled for the dogs. They came bounding out from the back of the house. "Are you guys up for a visit to the farm?" The word farm was their cue to head off toward Emily's house. They loved getting there ahead of me to sneak up on the chickens.

  I hopped down the steps. "Well, I better walk Miss Butterscotch back home, and I've got some baby goats to visit."

  "Goats," Edward scoffed. "Why would anyone require a goat visit? I once took my frock coat off to play a game of lawn tennis at a neighboring estate. By the time the game ended, there was a hole as big as my face in the back of the coat. The goat still had black threads of fabric dangling from its mouth."

  "And that's why they are so much fun. What other animal can provide great excitement to a dull game of lawn tennis?"

  I clucked my tongue, which was all that was usually needed to coax Butterscotch to follow me. But the mare's big head stayed right where it was, staring over the porch railing like a horse looking over its stable door. I clucked again but louder, making it sound less like a cluck and more like a forced strangled sound. Butterscotch's massive feet stood in place.

  I stopped and put my hands on my hips. "She thinks you've got another apple. I think you need to do your 'poof gone from sight thing', otherwise I won't be able to get her back home."

  "Poof?"

  "Oh boy, here we go again."

  "I don't poof. I glide. I vanish. I walk through solids. But I don't poof."

  I waved him toward the house. "Then glide and vanish right through that solid wall, so I can get the horse to follow."

  Without any more argument, rare for Edward, his image disappeared. Butterscotch's ears shot forward. It seemed she could still sense his presence. She neighed softly toward the house.

  "You have to leave the porch altogether," I called into the air. "She knows you're still there, and this explains all those times when the dogs were staring expectantly into an empty room."

  I decided to start walking, assuming the horse would catch up once she realized there were no more apples or charming British gentlemen to flatter her in dulcet tones.

  My prediction came true. About halfway along the path to Emily and Nick's farm, Butterscotch's wide hooves beat a clippity clop rhythm on the packed dirt behind me. She decided to just keep going and left me with a nice cloud of dust as she continued on to the farm.

  The distant sound of agitated clucking assured me my dogs had arrived safely at the farm.

  Nick was mending a wire fence at the far end of the chicken yard. Emily and Nick had built colorful, whimsical coops to house their flock of egg layers. Nick pulled his hand from the fence, still holding his wire cutters, and waved.

  Once the chickens had been sent into frantic chaos, my dogs quickly lost interest. They loped toward the house and up the back steps. Redford stuck his paw against the back door screen to let Emily know we'd arrived. Both dogs nearly pitched backward off the porch steps when the friendly paw was met with a loud bleat on the opposite side. Cuddlebug's cute muzzle pushed against the screen.

  "My babies!" I chirruped as I ran up the steps. Both baby goats were trotting around Emily's kitchen, slip-sliding on the tile floor as they hopped and danced in anticipation of their milk bottles.

  "You're just in time, Auntie Sunni." Emily turned around from the sink holding two baby bottles.

  The squeaky noises in the kitchen grew so loud, both dogs darted back outside without even waiting for a dog treat.

  "I guess I can check goat and sheep herding off their list of possible occupations. Which, considering it's what Border Collies are bred for, leaves them with few options."

  I pulled up the squat wooden stool to sit down for the goat feeding. Emily handed me both bottles. By the time I positioned myself, four tiny front hooves rested against my thighs. The goats latched on and pulled and tugged and made the cutest sounds ever as they emptied the bottles.

  "I really needed this after the terrible morning."

  Emily poured herself a cup of tea and leaned against the kitchen counter to watch. "Lana told me that one of the bridesmaids was murdered. Still can't believe it. What kind of monster would kill someone in the middle of a bridal shower?" She laughed dryly. "I guess the same kind of monster who would kill someone, period. I suppose if you're planning to commit murder you don't really think much about the time or place. What happened exactly? Lana didn't give many details, only that it was a horrendously long morning."

  "From the bits and pieces I gathered from Detective Jackson, it happened sometime in the middle of the night after the campers had gone to their respective tents. Tory, the maid of honor and victim, was in her own tent, so no one knows exactly what time she left it. I actually got to stand next to the body while the detective was inspecting it. I was there when he discovered the perfectly round wound on her head indicating that it was homicide and not just a tragic fall down an embankment."

  Emily's nose crinkled. "You're brave. I don't think I'd want to get within a hundred feet of a grisly scene like that."

  "Then I guess it's a good thing you went into chicken farming instead of investigative journalism."

  "Couldn't agree more. Do they have any idea who killed her? It's awful to think someone in the bridal party did it. Lana said there seemed to be some tension between a few of the women."

  "It seemed two best friends had been vying for the maid of honor position, and the one who got it ended up dead. There were definitely some bitter feelings floating around the campsite. But I don't think Detective Jackson narrowed anyone down yet. They couldn't find the murder weapon. He said something about searching the small lake at the base of the hillside."

  "Sounds like it could be a long investigation."

  Tinkerbell and Cuddlebug finished their bottles just seconds apart, but they weren't going to give up on the idea that the bottles would magically refill if they just tugged at the nursing nipples enough.

  Emily set down her tea. "Here, let me take those bottles before they destroy yet another set of nipples." She took the bottles from me and I commenced with the snuggling, whether the goats were up for it or not.

  "Don't squeeze them too hard," Emily quipped. "They're stuffed full of milk."

  "That's right." I released my tight hold on a squirming Cuddlebug for a second, then gave her one more squeeze before letting her trot off with Tinkerbell.

  "That's enough house time, girls." Emily shooed them both out the door. "Now that you're done being nursemaid, would you like some hot tea? It's raspberry and lemon."

  "Hmm, yes please." I walked to the sink to wash my hands and noticed a plate of chocolate dipped shortbread sitting on the counter. "Is this delicious looking batch of cookies for anyone special? And by special, I mean a loving sister who brought your wayward horse home again."

  "It just so happens I made it for my special sister, even before I knew she brought my horse home again." Emily put the kettle back on the stove and carried the cup of tea over. "That Butterscotch. I sometimes think she likes it better at the inn than here on the farm."

  I was so deep into the rich deliciousness of the cookie, I wasn't thinking clearly. I just blurted the first thought in my head. "Well, with Edward tossing her chunks of apple from—" I froze mid-sentence. I knew I was wearing a wild-eyed expression, but I couldn't stop myself.

  Emily's dark blonde eyebrows knitted together. "Who is Edward?"

  "What? Who? No. There's no Edward." I waved my hand and produced a ridiculous fake laugh. "Edward who?" I laughed again and tried hard to make it sound more genuine. I could tell by the still puzzled look on Emily's face it wasn't working. "I don't even know where that name came from. I meant Redf
ord." I took a sip of tea and drank it too fast. "Ouch, hot. Anyway, that's what I meant. Guess I was just up on that mountain too long today. And then with the murdered bodies. I mean body. There was just the one." I held up my finger for a visual of the number one.

  Emily nodded like she understood. I breathed a sigh of relief. She went to the stove to turn off the kettle. "So Redford has learned how to toss apples to my horse?" She looked back at me with questioning blue eyes.

  "Uh yes, he's quite clever, my boy Redford." I picked up another cookie and shoved it into my mouth. "Tho gud," I mumbled over my mouthful. I was prepared to eat the entire plate if it kept me from opening up my big mouth again.

  Chapter 18

  The sun was long gone and a warm, gentle breeze coasted over the long tips of the grasses surrounding the house. The nearly moonless sky cast a shadowy blanket over the landscape, creating the perfect backdrop for the nightly firefly carnival in the front yard.

  I sat on the top step, hugging my knees as I watched the twinkly display of nature's most whimsical exhibit. They were truly astounding little beetles, creating what seemed like a well-choreographed dazzling light show, glittering gold stars that seemed to have fallen from the sky right into the fields surrounding the inn.

  Redford scratched at the screen door, signaling he'd had enough of nature. I stood up, brushed the dust from my jeans and headed inside to my computer. The long, strange day had left me with little time for researching my next article, but the long, sleepy summer night would give me the perfect chance to sit down and do a little reading about the Colonial Bridge project.

  Emily had sent me home with more of the chocolate dipped shortbread and a mason jar filled with her homemade berry lemonade. I decided to forgo the cookies for the evening since I'd already eaten an obscene amount, but I poured myself a glass of lemonade. Emily had mashed a delicious mixture of blackberries and raspberries into a simple syrup before dropping the whole glorious concoction into her homemade lemonade. Before I left the farm, I told her to write down the exact directions so I could add the recipe to a box of food ideas I was keeping for the future bed and breakfast. If only the Cider Ridge Inn was ready to open as a true bed and breakfast, then I wouldn't have to spend my Saturday night researching dull bridge building projects.

  I set my laptop up in the kitchen and sat down with my lemonade. I'd grown a sort of sixth sense when it came to Edward. I always knew when he was lurking about, even before he revealed himself. I wasn't sure if I would have that same extra sensory perception with any other members of the spirit world or if it was limited to just my particular house guest. I hoped it was the latter. The last thing I needed was to start seeing and talking to all the ghosts I passed in my daily life. Edward Beckett was about all I could handle.

  "I know you're looking over my shoulder, so you might as well just appear. No sense in hiding."

  "I wasn't hiding. I was just feeling lazy. Didn't feel like making an appearance."

  "Lazy? How can someone who doesn't need to eat or sleep and who defies gravity be lazy?"

  As I spoke, Edward drifted past me and sat up on the kitchen counter, one of his favorite perches. "What are you doing on that blasted metal box this time?"

  "Work. Since I'm not a ghost with free lodging and few living expenses, I need to keep my job. I can't afford to be lazy. And before you correct me, I know you don't have any living expenses. I was just using the phrase to make a point."

  "I wasn't going to say a word. I don't even understand the concept of living expenses."

  I typed Colonial Bridge and Firefly Junction into the search bar and rested my hands. While I waited for the topic to come up, I launched into one of my daily Edward lessons. "Living expenses are food, shelter, clothing, all the things that keep me from living in a cardboard box on the side of the road."

  "Oh, those. I had no living expenses. I was given a monthly allowance to spend how I saw fit. I lived on the family estate and food was provided by a robust cooking staff. Clothing came by way of Irving Young, the family tailor, and transportation arrived at my door whenever I ordered the carriage to swing round."

  "Yes but the cooks weren't actually providing the food. They just cooked it and the tailor—you know what, never mind. You obviously lived in a much different time and under much different circumstances. And I've got some research to do." The first few entries were about the bridge's history and a few other boring blog posts. Farther down were some minutes from the Firefly Junction town council. I clicked on the link. Apparently, the Junction Council had met with the city managers of the Birch Highlands and Smithville, the two towns connected to Firefly Junction by the Colonial Bridge. The meeting agenda was a year old. The minutes showed that the three towns had agreed to secure private funds to supplement the city funds for the bridge's upgrade. There was a long engineer's report attached to the minutes. I would eventually open the report, but I was sure it was going to be full of technical jargon that was beyond my knowledge base.

  "Have you found what you're looking for?" Edward asked.

  "To be honest, I can't answer that because I don't know exactly what it is I'm looking for. Parker, the newspaper editor, gave me an assignment about refurbishing a local bridge, but the more I read, the duller this story sounds."

  I clicked on another entry for subsequent minutes that included reference to the Colonial Bridge project.

  "I suppose bridges only make interesting stories when they collapse," Edward noted.

  I nodded in agreement. "As morose as that sounds, I'm afraid you're right. And from what I can tell, as I read through the town minutes, the only reason for the delay in renovation has been weather and the hired contractor's busy schedule." I slumped back against the seat. "I was hoping there was at least some misused fund scandal or something nefarious behind the delay."

  "Perhaps you'll get lucky and the bridge will collapse before your deadline."

  "No, I don't want that. Obviously. My gosh your ghostly mind sure has some dark corners in it."

  "Well, I am dead. It's not as if I have a string of cheery thoughts running through it."

  As I reached up to close the laptop, my eyes drifted down the screen and landed on the words Stockton Tools. According to the minutes, the company was one of the major funders for the project. "Hmm, I wonder," I said to myself.

  "Wonder what?"

  I closed my laptop. "Just thinking aloud. The murder I was telling you about earlier, the woman who died was working for Stockton Tools. Stockton Tools is funding the bridge project."

  "Do you think there's a connection?"

  I considered his question. "Maybe not between the murder and the bridge but since I'm working on the bridge article, I have every reason to go to Stockton Tools and ask some questions about the project. And while I'm there, I can find out a little more about the murder victim. I can snoop around to find out what kind of relationships she had with her coworkers." I slapped the table. "That's it. I've been trying to figure out how I can get close to the murder investigation without stepping on Detective Jackson's toes and this is it." After narrating the entire plan, I stood up. "Thanks for that."

  "Thanks for what?" Edward drifted over to the brick hearth where Newman and Redford had curled up on their pillows. He ruffled Newman's ear with his transparent fingers and the dog twitched in his sleep.

  "Thanks for helping me see a connection. I'm going to use my assignment to uncover evidence to solve Tory's murder."

  "You're welcome, I suppose. And who is this Detective Jackson with the oversized toes?"

  I laughed as a quick vision of Jackson wearing long clown shoes dashed through my head. "His toes aren't actually oversized. Although, I've never seen him without shoes so anything's possible. Anyhow, he's the lead detective on the murder case. I met him on the last case, where, even without all the perks of working for the police, I managed to solve the murder of the local high school custodian." My momentary metaphorical victory lap was cut short by the somewhat for
lorn expression on Edward's face. He was still teasing the dog in his sleep and didn't realize I'd turned to face him. It astounded me how much emotion I could read on a man who was purely vapor, along with whatever other matter existed in an incorporeal being. Edward wore a somewhat conceited, indifferent expression most of the time, an expression that went well with his symmetrical features and aristocratic personality. But occasionally, when he didn't realize I was looking, his face crumpled into a weary, sad frown. It was hard to imagine how difficult and frustrating it would be to have been left in a world where you no longer belonged, with no apparent relief in sight.

  "Did you love her a great deal?" I realized I'd never asked the question. I'd made a vague promise to help Edward find the cause of his delay in this world, but I hadn't followed through on it.

  "Who?" Edward decided Newman had had enough. His image floated up to the hearth, where he perched with his legs crossed. His tall boots looked as black as the burnt brick in the century old hearth.

  "Bonnie? The woman you fought the duel for, which I guess answers my original question. You must have loved her if you were willing to die for her."

  "No, that's not necessarily true. Back in the day, when this manor was still a glittering gem, one did not say no to a duel. Honor was far more important than love."

  "So you didn't love her? Then I suppose we can cross broken heart off the list of reasons for you not moving on."

  "Love was different then too." He stared down at the tips of his boots and the earlier sadness returned. "I used dear sweet Bonnie badly. I suppose my father was right. He once told me, in one of his many stern, angry lectures, that I was not capable of love."