Murder Wears White

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  “Is this the new tart recipe? It’s a keeper.”

  “Thanks!” I lit up inside. Praise from my pastry-chef-in-training sister was always welcome, and it took my mind off my troubles for a split second.

  “Ezra and I are trying to convince your sister to allow the Port Quincy Paranormal Society to examine the house.” Tabitha shot my sister a cautious look, no doubt wondering if she would be amenable to any friendly overtures.

  It was odd to see them even deigning to sit next to each other. Rachel was still tetchy that she and Tabitha had once been interested in the same man. Whenever she and Tabitha met, they circled each other warily, like aloof cats sniffing each other out.

  But today Rachel seemed willing to set aside her grudge momentarily. “Ooh, that sounds like so much fun! And it could help us drum up business!” She set down her treat and rubbed her hands together, dreaming up plans before I’d even formally agreed to let the ghost hunters examine the house.

  “And you could make the B and B a stop on the official Port Quincy Haunted House Tour,” Tabitha chimed in, giving my sister an appraising look. “Once this place gets a reputation as being haunted, you can schedule special ghost events, and it probably won’t be too spooky to alienate regular guests. You could tie in the history of the town. There’s an uptick of business throughout October to take advantage of the Port Quincy Fall Fest, hayrides, and corn mazes.” Tabitha reveled in fall, and her appearance reflected it. She was dressed in a rust-colored corduroy jacket and a hunter-green wool skirt, with burgundy Mary Jane heels. Her vivid red hair was pinned with bobby pins in chunky waves.

  Rachel nodded at her, still seeming a little cagey, but willing to make a rare alliance to get what she wanted.

  Whatever that is. My sister antennae were alert and twitching.

  Ezra frowned and bit into his pastry. “This is serious business, not just a ploy to book more guests.” He blinked when Rachel shot him a disapproving look. “The other contractors are spooked, and the Paranormal Society can prove whether there are ghosts.”

  Rachel served herself another tart. “You’ll barely notice they’re here.”

  “Whoa! Hold the phone! Rach, I was just telling Tabitha there hasn’t been any paranormal activity here.” Not verified, anyway. I buried thoughts of the odd clicking noise in my room.

  “C’mon, Mall, I almost bit it when the railing fell away! That wasn’t a prank. And people did see lights on when no one was living here.” Rachel started in on her second tart.

  “But those were trespassers, not ghosts,” I reminded her. Some lovers had used the third floor for clandestine dalliances before I inherited the house.

  “Well, what about the night Shane Hartley was murdered?” Rachel’s pretty green eyes gleamed as she presented her ace card. “You had that crazy dream about a woman screaming in a fire, and you didn’t even know the history of this place.”

  Tabitha perked up and slid her chair closer to the scarred oak table. “You had a dream about someone who lived and died here eighty years ago?”

  I shivered, remembering that dream and how I’d woken up to a dead man on the front lawn. A prickle of uncertainty danced up my spine. There were other odd things about this house, but I’d blocked them out. I’d misplaced a bunch of things and blamed them on my sister. When it came to my stuff, my sis was a kleptomaniac—whether it was perfume or a handbag or a shirt that was too small—the only possessions safe from her sticky fingers were shoes, since we wore different sizes.

  “It was just a dream! Besides, I have more pressing issues. The house isn’t even rezoned to commercial yet, so it can’t legally operate as a B and B or wedding venue, and I don’t know what’s holding up my application with the Planning Commission.” There. I’d let my current commitments speak for me and get me out of these ghost-hunting shenanigans.

  Tabitha let out a low whistle. “Good luck with that. They’re notorious for holding things up, just because they can. They treat the Planning Commission as their own little fiefdom, and they jerk people around just for the fun of it. It’s sadistic. Do you know anyone who could put in a good word for you? A little nepotism wouldn’t hurt.”

  I shook my head slowly. “I don’t know anyone. And I have a little too much on my plate. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to pass.” My voice was gentle yet firm, and I thought I’d put the matter to rest.

  Ezra let out a gust of air and frowned at me.

  Rachel blinked in disbelief, then carefully avoided my gaze. She fidgeted with the zipper on her hoody and finally stole a glance at me, looking up through her thick lashes.

  “Spill it, Rach.” I glowered at my little sister and collected our plates.

  “Um. I spoke with the Paranormal Society today when they called the landline. I sort of promised they could examine the house during October.”

  I dropped the pretty blue and violet forget-me-knot platter on the way to the sink, and it smashed neatly into three pieces.

  “Ezra and I thought you’d agree to it, so I saved you the trouble of discussing it with them. You’re so busy!” Rachel bit one of her sparkly nails, then moved to pick up the pieces of the platter. “It was before I knew you’d moved up Whitney’s wedding.”

  Rachel should have consulted with me before she promised the Paranormal Society access, but I should have consulted with Jesse and Rachel before I moved up Whitney’s wedding. We’d have to make it work.

  I accepted the broken platter from my sister and started to laugh at the preposterousness of this month. “What’s done is done. We’ll welcome the ghost hunters with open arms. At least I don’t think anything else can go wrong.”

  Tabitha clapped her hands. “You won’t regret it!”

  “My brother will get to the bottom of this.” Ezra instantly looked relieved, as if he were certain the Paranormal Society could solve the mystery of the odd happenings around Thistle Park.

  I smiled at my friends and my sister and moved to wash dishes. The visage in the dark glass window startled me for a second before I realized it was just me. I took a deep breath.

  “Tabitha, you know more about this house than anyone. What was the littlest bedroom on the second floor used for? The one in the middle, in the tower, that we painted yellow.”

  Tabitha cocked her head in thought. “I’m not sure. Why?”

  I turned around and leaned on the sink.

  “I heard some noises Friday night before I fell asleep.”

  Ezra’s eyes went wide and he stopped staring at my sister. “What noises?”

  “A kind of soft snick, snack.” I shut my eyes and reimagined the persistent, regular rhythm that had stopped as soon as I tried to investigate. “I thought it was the radiator or a branch hitting the window, but I ruled those out. It seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere.” Little hairs stood up on my arms as I described the phantom noise, and I tugged down my sweater sleeves. “It was almost like chopsticks.”

  Rachel had been listening with rapt attention, and she now sagged, her feather earrings falling to her shoulders. “We’re okay, then. I doubt ghosts are noshing on Thai food from the great beyond.”

  Tabitha’s pale skin turned an even lighter shade, and she gripped the table. “I remember what that room was used for. I think that was Mrs. McGavitt’s sewing room. Yes, that’s it. But she was known for being a knitter.”

  Snick, snack. Snick, snack. That was it. The sound I’d heard Friday night was the gentle cadence of knitting needles hitting each other. Mrs. McGavitt had been dead for more than eighty years. I shuddered and turned around to avoid everyone’s stunned gazes and went back to the dishes.

  * * *

  The next day, I decided to tackle my problems from most to least pressing. That meant finding out what was going on with the rezoning of my property to include commercial use. The corners of my mouth curved in a smile as I drove my boat of a station wagon down the steep hill from Thistle Park into a valley flanked with houses, then crested another hill to reach down
town. Port Quincy had gone all out for the month of October, and the fall spirit was infectious. Pumpkins of all sizes leered with cheerful, gap-toothed smiles from front porches, and gangly scarecrows stood at attention next to mailboxes. Cotton-batting cobwebs stretched across windows, and fake bats with red eyes hung from eaves. Some yards sported headstones etched with silly names, and mums of every hue exploded along walkways in lush bunches.

  The Planning Commission office was located in City Hall, across the street from the courthouse. If the courthouse was Cinderella at the ball, resplendent with pink marble and stained glass, City Hall was the ugly stepsister. The building was a squat, gray brutalist structure, with a kitschy, life-sized concrete statue of the town founder, Ebenezer Quincy, standing in front. Little brown sparrows perched on his tricorn hat, and he gave passersby a dopey smile with flat cement eyes. Some helpful citizen had drawn in irises with a purple ballpoint pen so it looked like he was crossing his eyes. His boots had been inked with permanent marker to resemble Converse All Stars, and little curlicues of chest hair drawn in red ink sprung from his concrete collar. I walked into the building with a spring in my step. I couldn’t wait to straighten everything out and move on with my plans.

  I found the Planning Commission office in the basement of the building and composed myself before entering. The sole person in the office had his back turned to me, facing his computer. The harsh fluorescent lights gleamed off the top of his head, and he ignored the little bell I rang at the counter.

  I urged myself to keep an open mind and gently cleared my throat. “Sorry to interrupt you. I’m here to check on the status of my application to rezone my property from strictly residential to include a commercial business.”

  The man wheeled around and sat up straighter, making his round head seem to emerge from his green turtleneck sweater. He gave me a bored gaze, his eyes disproportionately large and impassive behind thick round frames. He said nothing but cocked his head to the left. Finally, Turtle Man sighed and wheeled back to face an ancient computer when his inertia didn’t scare me away.

  “Name and address?”

  “Mallory Shepard, one twenty-seven Sycamore Street.” I willed my leg to stop tapping and tried to appear serene and pleasant.

  He stretched, and his neck moved out of the deep collar like an accordion. “I don’t have any record of an application. You can start a new one. They’re in that pile.” He pointed to a stack of papers on the counter and lazily steered his chair back to his station, where a game of computer solitaire awaited.

  I plastered on a smile. “I mailed the application over a month ago. I have the certified mail slip showing that it was signed for by a Mr. Troy Phelan. Is he around?” The name had been vaguely familiar to me, but I couldn’t quite place it.

  Turtle Man blushed and coughed. “I’m Troy.” He abandoned his game and reluctantly returned to the counter, his mouth puckered as if he’d just eaten a Sour Patch Kid. “Let me see that.”

  I held the slip of paper high enough for him to see but wouldn’t let him grab it, not that I stopped him from trying. He settled back into his chair with a thud. “Be that as it may, we still don’t have your application. You’ll have to reapply, as I said, and then you can get a hearing next month.”

  “Next month!” My voice was so loud a woman from the Fish and Game Commission across the hall poked her head out the door. “But your website said all applications were given a hearing that month if they were turned in by the first. I should have a hearing this month.”

  He shrugged and took a sip from a can of Tab.

  Tab? Where did he get that? I felt like I’d stepped into a time warp in more ways than one.

  “Are you new around here?” He straightened up and puffed out his chest. “Everyone knows you shoulda dropped it off. We’re not responsible for lost mail.”

  His question about my status as a resident of Port Quincy hurt. I was new, but that didn’t mean I should have divined that I needed to bring the application over in person.

  “But it wasn’t lost! You signed for it. And the website doesn’t say to drop off the application in person. It says to send it via certified mail.” Back in my days as an attorney, I’d followed procedural rules to a T. That didn’t seem to be the way things were done in Port Quincy.

  “Ma’am, if you don’t calm down, I’m going to ask you to leave.” He raised his eyebrow as if daring me to flip out.

  “I have a wedding to put on in less than a month. This wouldn’t be a problem if you’d managed to keep track of your mail! I’ll just have to carry on without rezoning.” I collected my bag.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Turtle Man rolled back and smugly crossed his arms across his chest. “I’ll flag your account, and we’ll follow up. If the Planning Commission finds out you took money for a business venture and held it on your residential property, you’ll never get your permit approved. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for lunch.” He patted the counter next to him and frowned. “Where did I put my . . .”

  “Troy, angel, you forgot your lunch!” A sprightly woman in a Halloween sweater vest, featuring a black cat with an arched back and a hand-stitched, leering Dracula, minced into the room on orange foam clogs, waving a brown paper bag. “Bologna sandwich, Twinkies, and pickles.” She brushed past me and placed the bag into Troy’s outstretched hand. “Honestly, how can I tend to my guests if you’re always forgetting your lunch?” Her scolding was loving and warm, and she bustled around the counter.

  “Thanks, dear. What would I do without you?” Troy leaned over, and his wife placed a prim peck on his cheek.

  “Having trouble with your permits, Mallory?” The woman tossed her head, and her mousy brown hair swished over her shoulder.

  I tried to place her. “As a matter of fact, I am having a bit of trouble.” I flicked my eyes at the odious Troy and held up my chin. “A temporary bit of trouble.”

  The woman dug into the lunch bag and pulled out identical pink meat sandwiches, crustless and oozing with mayonnaise and mustard. “That’s not what I hear. I don’t think this town needs two bed-and-breakfasts, do you?”

  My eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. Was this a challenge? “Who in the devil are you?”

  “I’m Ingrid Phelan.” She straightened up in her swivel chair and edged closer to her husband.

  Turtle Man gave me a sly, smarmy smile and bit into his sandwich.

  Aha. That was why I’d recognized the surname Phelan. Ingrid was the owner of the only other bed-and-breakfast in town. The Mountain Laurel Inn was housed in a small pastel Victorian overlooking the river, and it put the shabby in shabby chic, from the looks of the outdated photos on its website. It had once been a pretty, fusty, and florid bed-and-breakfast. But the reviews of the inn showed its service and décor had been slipping over the last decade. I hadn’t worried too much about butting heads with the Mountain Laurel as we were soliciting different customers for different experiences and price points. Still, it gave me pause that the husband of the owner was delaying my rezoning.

  “You’re married to the owner of the Mountain Laurel Inn?”

  Troy gave me a smug little nod, his neck retracting in his turtleneck.

  “The best and only B and B in town,” Ingrid reminded me, with a haughty jut of her chin. “If we have anything to do with it.”

  My eyes widened. “Your loss of my application is beginning to look like a dirty business tactic. It’s unethical for you to stand in the way.” My neck began to feel warm.

  Troy placed his hand on his sweater in mock alarm. “You’re not accusing me of bias, are you?”

  Beside him, Ingrid’s chest heaved, and she stood like a tiny pugilist. “That’s your interpretation, Ms. Shepard. My husband is an honorable man.” She leaned over the counter, and I took a step back.

  Troy whipped out a second bologna sandwich and flicked the glass partition closed in my surprised face, and he resumed his game of solitaire.

  I arrived
back at my car more determined than ever to find a way to finish the renovation on time and get the place rezoned, all while peacefully coexisting with ghost hunters underfoot. I wouldn’t let the loathsome Ingrid and Troy Phelan and the dirty Planning Commission stand in my way. I headed to the east side of town and Pellegrino’s restaurant to pick up Whitney. We were meeting to nail down specifics about her wedding. She hadn’t been spooked enough by seeing Garrett to jettison her plans of getting married at Thistle Park.

  Whitney’s aunt Angela, Pellegrino’s owner, met me at the maître d’ stand. Rachel and I had taken a cooking class taught by Angela last month, and she had recommended the B and B to her niece for her wedding. Angela was a tall, big-boned woman, exquisitely dressed with finds from her various international travels. She always dressed beautifully, even when cooking. Today she wore a royal-blue silk shantung dress under a perfectly tailored inky-black velvet jacket. Her jet hair, with a smattering of silver strands, was scraped back in her usual severe bun. She was pleasant, but she missed nothing, and cooking in class had made me nervous. When she thought her students were underperforming, she could go from patient guide to Gordon Ramsey in a heartbeat. Angela had helped raise Whitney after her mother disappeared, and I felt a little bad since she’d had to grow up under her exacting standards. Still, Angela was an amazing teacher and had opened my eyes to new culinary vistas. Rachel and I had put her lessons to work and created our wedding menus based on her expert guidance. My sister considered Angela to be her mentor and wanted to impress her.

  “Whitney will be just a few minutes. Let me get you a glass of wine.”

  We threaded our way through the dining room, back to the bar. Pellegrino’s was the fanciest restaurant in Port Quincy, whose denizens liked prosaic but delicious standards like fettuccine alfredo and chicken scaloppine. The restaurant was hardly an epicenter of haute cuisine, and Angela catered to her customers. But she managed to slip in one daring dish each evening as the special. Tonight was no exception. The menu on the chalkboard featured steamed saffron and thyme mussels paired with pomegranate risotto. The dining room was subtly decorated for fall, with squat, square glass vases bursting with cranberries and tiny pumpkin-colored votives clustered on the tops of the intimate free-standing tables and within the deep wooden booths. The bar was similarly decorated, but with dimmer lighting and more hushed voices. I settled into a seat at the end of the row, which afforded a view of the dining room but partly concealed me behind a potted tree. It was the perfect place to people-watch the movers and shakers of Port Quincy settling down to their dinners and conversations.