Murder Wears White

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  “Thanks, Delilah.” I tried to be polite. I didn’t want to encourage her. I had my own mother to razz me about dressing too much like a tomboy.

  Delilah scooted off in a huff and left me to giggle in her patchouli-infused wake.

  Jesse’s broad shoulders relaxed, and he turned back to me. He’d stopped apologizing for her weeks ago. “Things were on track before I found the rotting subfloor this morning in your apartment while you met with the bride. She must be crazy or desperate to want to get married here in four weeks.”

  The latest gulp of hot coffee went down the wrong pipe, and I sputtered and set the cup aside. The floor had always felt a little squishy.

  “The third-story floor will add another week, easy. Your brand-new water heater doesn’t work, and it’ll be days before they send a replacement. The existing radiators are too small to heat the bedrooms, just as I suspected, so we’ll need to convert the wood-burning fireplaces to direct-vent gas ones or electric inserts. The three muralists I contacted about the parlor ceiling? None of them are free until spring. I can finish the basics in time for the December wedding, but for this new one? No way.”

  I became light-headed and steadied myself against a railing.

  “But I thought we were running ahead!” I motioned around me. “And Whitney’s wedding takes priority over the third floor.” Renovations to the outside of the house were finished weeks ago. Jesse had restored the house to its original, heavy-cream parchment color. There was enough gingerbread trim to outfit a Bavarian bakery, and Jesse had the intricate swirls and curlicues painted verdigris, butter yellow, and slate blue, changing the wrought iron and wood into delicate, colorful lace. The place was transformed from a peeling dump into a warm, inviting house that looked like a wrapped present. And Jesse was a genius, designing on the fly, in addition to making the place shipshape and up to code. He’d surprised me with a thistle weathervane atop the widow’s walk on the tallest mansard tower, a nod to the house’s official name, Thistle Park. He’d added smaller weathervanes to the greenhouse and carriage house, and those structures, together with the mansion, reminded me of the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria majestically floating atop the wide green lawn. He’d said the place would be finished within the month, and I’d believed him.

  “You can’t plan for the unexpected, Mallory. And this house . . .” He scratched his scalp, where his hair had worn away. “It’s full of surprises.”

  “Like what?”

  Jesse dropped his voice and looked over his shoulder for his mother. “Sometimes I feel something funny’s going on. We’ve had our share of little accidents, things we can’t quite explain, like power tools going on after they’ve been shut off. Not to mention all the missing equipment. Things keep breaking, and I know my guys. They wouldn’t sabotage a job.”

  “Oh, c’mon. What are you saying? The place is haunted?” Garrett laughed, but his mirth died.

  I was glad Delilah had scooted off. She was obsessed with the occult and would seize on Jesse’s pronouncement that there might be spirits hanging around Thistle Park.

  “Not exactly. It’s hard to explain.” Jesse blushed, and his face began to match the loud red Hawaiian shirt he wore. “Forget I said anything. I can probably hire an extra crew of guys, and we’ll try to finish by the end of October. There’s more than one way to skin a potato.”

  I smothered a grin at one of Jesse’s malaprops.

  “You’re my hero.” I flashed my most grateful look at the contractor.

  “I thought I was your hero,” Garrett teased, looking fake put-out.

  “You’re both my heroes.”

  “It’s going to cost you, though.” Jesse showed all his teeth when he smiled, like the big bad wolf.

  Cash register sounds clanged in my head as I pictured my bank account further drained. My inheritance from the artwork I’d found in the house was quickly evaporating.

  From inside the doorway, Delilah called out with her spookiest affectation, “The four of coins! This renovation is going to be more costly than anything you’ve imagined, and I don’t mean money.”

  “That’s the story of my life.” I picked up my sandwich. What did she mean?

  A piercing scream ripped through the air.

  Ohmigod, Rachel.

  Garrett, Jesse, and I raced inside, our sandwiches forgotten. My sister stood at the top of the stairs, on the precipice of the balcony. She held onto the carved bannister, which wobbled and swayed over the hallway a good twenty feet below.

  “Don’t jump!” Delilah scooted into the room, and Jesse stopped her from going any farther. Ezra, Jesse’s right-hand man, hovered under Rachel, as if to catch her. His face had turned a scary shade of split-pea-soup green, and he looked like he was going to lose his lunch.

  “I’m not jumping, you old bat!”

  Rachel swung backward and landed in a pile at the top of the stairs, with her limbs all akimbo, not a moment too soon. The gleaming cherry bannister, installed that morning, teetered, rocked, and finally fell free, clipping the edge of the antique crystal chandelier. The bannister crashed to the floor and became a shiny pile of kindling. The chandelier swung once, twice—

  “Oh no—”

  —and crashed to the ground, where it smashed into thousands of glittery slivers, destroyed in a deafening crunch. I tore my hands from my face, where they’d flown of their own accord to protect my eyes from the raining chips of crystal. Tiny shards nicked my hands and calves. The broken prisms sparkled and winked, even in the low light, like the aftermath of a biblical plague of hail.

  “See what I mean?” Jesse let out a shaky breath and headed up the stairs to console my sister.

  Chapter Two

  That night Rachel and I moved our essentials from our third-floor aerie perch of an apartment to bedrooms on the second floor. The rotting attic floor threatened to crash down through the second-floor ceiling, and work was to begin immediately.

  “I can’t believe we have to relocate.” My sister pulled two voluminous zebra-print suitcases down the stairs. Each piece of luggage punctuated her steps with a loud bang. The suitcases were big enough to double as body bags. How long would we reside on the second floor?

  “I can’t believe you almost fell off the landing.” I wasn’t thrilled about moving down a story while the contractors replaced the floor in our apartment, but my mind was on my sister’s near fall.

  “Ezra needs to be more careful.” Rachel made light of the incident of the crashing bannister, yet, judging by the quiver in her voice, I could tell she was still rattled.

  “That’s the thing. He’s so thorough. He said the bannister was securely installed, and I believed him.”

  “He’s a sweetie,” Rachel conceded, “but everyone makes mistakes.”

  From the moment he’d laid eyes on my sister, Ezra was a goner. He followed her around the house like a little lost puppy dog and tried to engage her in conversation. Before today I’d wondered if she knew he existed.

  “I hope we don’t have any more mistakes that could end in someone losing their life.” I hauled my belongings down the last few stairs.

  Rachel claimed the regal red bedroom and wheeled in her luggage with a huff. The second-floor bedrooms had been the first ones renovated and were nearly ready for guests. I was grateful we had a place to stay since we were banned from our apartment.

  “G’night, Mallory.” Rachel collapsed on the bed and leaned over to shut the door.

  I headed one door down with Whiskey, the calico, and Soda, the orange kitten, as they padded softly behind me. I selected the yellow bedroom, a small chamber located in the front tower. It was the smallest bedroom but the most charming, with an explosion of sunny fabrics and prints. Photographs of the yellow flowers that had bloomed over the summer on the grounds decorated the walls, from black-eyed Susans to daylilies to tiny buttercups. I settled into the poufy canopy bed, and the cats followed suit, curling into fluffy balls of fur. I reveled nestling into the downy mattress and
breathed in the smell of fresh paint. I was out in minutes.

  Snick. Snack.

  I sat up in bed and glanced at the bedside alarm clock. Three in the morning.

  Snick, snack. I heard a gentle but unmistakable sound emanating from somewhere in the room.

  Whiskey opened one golden eye at the end of the bed and stretched. Soda remained sleeping, her paws twitching in kitty dreamland.

  “Did you hear that?”

  Whiskey stared at me and was about to lay her little black, white, and orange mottled head back down when the sound resumed.

  Snick, snack. Snick, snack. The staccato rhythm paused.

  The calico growled low in her throat and jumped to the floor, moving across it on her belly.

  My stomach did a graceless flip-flop, and I tried to swallow the sour taste in my mouth.

  Snick, snack, snick, snack.

  Whiskey stopped her travel across the room and lifted her head.

  Where is that sound coming from?

  “Rachel?” I called out. It would be just like my sister to play a little prank, especially after Jesse’s talk about ghosts. But no one answered.

  I ignored the crushing weight on my chest and counted to three in my head. I threw back the heavy yellow comforter and swung my leaden legs off the side of the bed.

  Snick, snack. My ears strained to figure out where the sound was coming from. I tiptoed over to the radiator, sure the sound was coming from that ancient apparatus. I pressed my ear to the lukewarm metal, but it was silent. The noise was coming from somewhere above. Do mice make such precise movements?

  I roamed the room in the dark, trying to find the source of the sound.

  “Okay, kitty, I’m as spooked as you.” I made it to the light switch.

  Snick, snack.

  I flicked it on, and the room was bathed in safety, the chandelier illuminating every nook and cranny of the room.

  The sound stopped.

  “Well, time to go to bed!” I sang out cheerfully, begging whatever it was to stop the strange noise. I turned to go back to the bed when a waft of air hit my nose. I breathed in the heady, lush, unmistakable scent of lilacs.

  Impossible. An enormous lilac bush threatened to take over the front porch, but the first frost had finished off the last few blooms weeks ago. Great, I was having olfactory hallucinations in addition to auditory ones.

  Someone is gaslighting me.

  I left the light on and crawled back into bed, and was almost asleep when the soft clicking sound returned, keeping its rhythm like a ghostly metronome. I flinched and drew the kitties near me on the comforter. I was exhausted and spooked by the mystery noises and smell, not to mention Jesse’s little speech about rogue power tools and missing items, and the carved bannister that nearly took out my sister on its way to destroying the chandelier. I thought about what he’d said for another hour. The wind teased out odd rattles in my tower roost and didn’t help to soothe my overactive imagination. When it abated, it was well past four. I fell into a fitful sleep, and I woke up whenever Whiskey and Soda stirred on the comforter.

  I awoke the next day to the sun streaming through the sheer curtains, competing with the overhead light. The room was still and quiet.

  * * *

  “You want me to call Ghostbusters?”

  I blinked back surprise and waited for Ezra to start laughing and clue me in on the joke. But he was as serious as a grave.

  We were conversing in the octagonal breakfast room. The guests would eat in the dining room when the B and B was finished, and this room would remain private. Jesse and Ezra had cleverly disguised a commercial overhaul in the adjoining kitchen. We’d be able to cater large weddings, but the appliances were hidden behind wooden cabinet fronts so the room still seemed homey and fit with the old-fashioned grandeur of the house. I loved to retreat to the kitchen during the renovation because it was finished. It was the calm, Viking-outfitted eye of the money-pit storm.

  “The contractors would feel better. We almost lost Rachel.” Ezra’s wide gray eyes filled with concern as he mentioned my sister. He had a crush on her wider than the Monongahela River. He was a sweetheart, and someone I’d be glad to see my sister with, so, of course, she didn’t give him a single shred of reciprocal attention. He was quiet and boyish and serious, with a shock of thick copper hair and a wiry build. He graced my sister with lattes and compliments and shy smiles, and she barely knew he existed.

  “I lost five years off my life watching Rachel on that landing. And I’m counting my lucky stars she’s safe. But isn’t there a logical explanation for the bannister detaching? It was just put in earlier that day. Why do you think it’s ghosts?” It wasn’t that I didn’t think ghosts existed, I just didn’t have any reason to believe they did. Just call me a ghost agnostic. Besides, the weekend had passed without incident, and I hadn’t heard any more strange noises.

  “I installed it myself.” Ezra pressed his lips together, and his face tightened. “It was as sturdy as a slab of granite that morning. Whatever is going on in this house is ratcheting up, and it’s time to call in professionals before it gets worse.”

  Professionals? Professional charlatans is more like it.

  “Like who?” This wasn’t the movies. I wasn’t sure where we’d find Ghostbusters on an emergency basis.

  “The Port Quincy Paranormal Society.” I spun around to face my friend and historian, Tabitha Battles, who had dropped by to chat and try out my newest recipe. She closed the back door behind her and pulled up a chair. “Hi, Ezra.”

  Ezra nodded hello to Tabitha and took a seat. “My brother is the head of the Paranormal Society. Whether you believe in ghosts or not, they’re the ones to call.”

  “And besides your current problems, this house is the perfect candidate for the ghost hunters to examine.” Tabitha helped herself to a Chinese five-spice apple tart.

  “But this place isn’t haunted!” I thought back to all of the creaks and moans the house let out at night, the barely perceptible sighs one heard when it settled. In the cool light of day, it was easy to discount my feelings and observations from the yellow bedroom. “It’s just old.” But I sounded a little uncertain, even to myself.

  “Believe it or not, it would be an honor if they want to examine Thistle Park. They’re usually booked to the hilt in October, and they have a crazy busy schedule. Sylvia contacted them before she died. She was sure this house was haunted.” Tabitha mentioned the woman who had left me the house as she swept her preternaturally red bangs off her forehead and took a delicate sip of tea.

  “It isn’t the best time to entertain ghost hunters, even to solve why strange things are happening. I moved up a wedding that was due to take place next summer, and it’s going to be held the day after Halloween. If we finish this place on time.” I took a viscous bite of my tart to assuage my worry. Its sweet, gooey, and spicy deliciousness helped, but not much.

  Tabitha’s gimlet eyes went wide. “You’re going to hold the first wedding here in less than a month?”

  “Yup. That’s right.”

  “Well, of course you can pull it off,” Tabitha sputtered, two dots of color on her cheeks turning as red as her hair.

  “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have agreed to do it without consulting you,” I turned to Ezra, “or Jesse. It turns out it’ll be a miracle if this place is ready in time. I’m not sure if I can take on ghost hunters too. They might get in the way of renovations.”

  “My brother won’t get in the way.” Ezra’s eyes pleaded with mine.

  “Who’s the bride? Anyone I know?” Tabitha deftly changed the subject as she delicately cut into her tart with a knife and popped another bite into her mouth. “This is delicious.” She closed her eyes and sighed with contentedness.

  “Thank you.” I relaxed a bit, pleased with how the tarts had turned out. “The bride is Whitney Scanlon.” My little beggar calico cat, Whiskey, mewed softly at my feet, then pawed at my jeans and sat with her two front paws in the air, doing h
er Oliver Twist routine. I made sure Tabitha wasn’t looking down and fed her a tiny morsel of tart. Soda shot Whiskey a disapproving look from her bowl of food across the room. Soda had been an inside cat since her early days of kittenhood and eschewed begging for people food.

  Tabitha opened her eyes wide for the second time in five minutes, and she dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter. “Not the daughter of Vanessa Scanlon? Port Quincy’s most famous missing person case?”

  “The very one.” I regretted spilling my woes. Garrett was probably right. Whitney escaped Port Quincy so she could have her own identity, and not be known just as the infamous daughter of a missing and murdered woman.

  “What’s this about ghost hunters?” My sister blew into the cozy octagonal room like a hurricane. She knocked into the back of my head with her giant aqua canvas bag as she reached for a tart, and her sweet perfume, redolent of jasmine and cupcakes, tickled my nose. She wore her wavy caramel tresses in a side ponytail, her long legs encased in tight black leggings and purple leg warmers and her gravity-defying chest bound by a lime-green sports bra. A minuscule purple hoodie offered a bit of coverage. Soft feather earrings swished to her shoulders. Soda abandoned her kitty food and alighted on a chair, stretching to bat an earring. Rachel’s eye makeup matched her outfit, and if time machines existed, she looked like she could sing backup for Pat Benatar. My sister always looked amazing, despite her outrageous style. She turned a lot of heads in Port Quincy. If I tried to pull off this look in October, people would assume I was wearing a Halloween costume. My sister narrowed her eyes at Tabitha, but she gently freed her earring from the orange kitten’s paw and primly sat with her tart. She gave Ezra an easy smile. He couldn’t even return it, he was so agog over her getup. He finally croaked out a throaty hello.

  “After ninety minutes of hot yoga, I deserve at least two of these.” Rachel licked a swath of cinnamon and sugar from her sparkly silver acrylics and sighed. I’d have to ask her how she managed to bake and do yoga and keep her hands looking nice, when mine looked like they’d been through a meat grinder.