Murder Wears White

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  “I’ll let Whit know you’re here.” Angela gave me a rare smile and passed me a glass of Riesling. I took a sip of the sharp, sweet wine and sighed contentedly. I’d sit in the quiet bar and pretend for a moment that everything was going swimmingly. I was doing just that when a voice from my nightmares carried over the dining room.

  “I’ll be just a moment, sweet pea.”

  Darnit. It was my ex-fiancé, Keith Pierce. I’d managed to avoid him for the past two months since he lived over an hour away in Pittsburgh and our paths had no reason to cross. A very blond woman with a stripe of dark hair at her center part gave him a sultry smile from the table then settled back to check out her appearance in a tiny handheld mirror. It was Becca Cunningham, the young associate I’d caught Keith cheating with a few weeks before our canceled wedding.

  Keith headed my way, and in a moment of panic, I shimmied sideways behind a potted ficus.

  “Arrgh!” My bar stool caught on the carpet, and I crashed to the floor, Riesling and all. The wineglass bounced and landed intact, but not before sloshing the sweet liquid over my jacket.

  “I have that effect on the ladies.” Keith smirked and stood over me.

  The bar patrons who had jumped up to help me sat down now that my ex-fiancé had arrived. He’d grown back the beard Becca had made him shave off this summer.

  “What brings you here, Mallory?”

  “I’m meeting with a client,” I smiled serenely from my spot on the floor.

  “Yes, I heard you were starting a little wedding-planning business at Sylvia’s home.” He reminded me that the house had been his grandmother’s once, before she’d disinherited him and left it to me.

  “I’ve got to run. I have a very important question to ask a very important lady.” He reached behind the bar, extracting a miniature pumpkin.

  Oh no, oh no, oh no, this cannot be happening.

  He stepped over me, strode purposefully through the dining room, and got down on one knee in front of Becca.

  “Oh, Keith!” Her voice slid up the scale to a higher register, alerting all of the diners who hadn’t yet taken in Keith’s proposal stance. She tossed the tiny mirror on the table and flung her left hand atop her knee and waggled her fingers. Keith held up the tiny pumpkin and whipped off the stem with a flourish. A preposterously large diamond ring swung on a string like a pendulum from the top of the pumpkin.

  “Will you make me the happiest man alive and be my wife?” Keith’s voice boomed around the dining room as if he were on a megaphone.

  My heart seized at the back of my throat. You never forget a proposal, and he’d said those exact words to me two years ago in the dining room of a little B and B in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” Becca leaped from her chair and embraced Keith, who swung her around in a bear hug. Keith seized Becca in a showman’s kiss, complete with a dip, and the dining room erupted into applause. A few men catcalled and cheered.

  Chapter Three

  I consumed two swift shots of Jack Daniels while I waited for Whitney. I was on the clock but couldn’t help myself. I chased them with Tic Tacs and hoped my breath didn’t reek. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

  Whitney sidled up ten minutes after Keith’s performance. “Thanks for waiting! I’m sorry I flipped out the other day. I hadn’t seen Garrett Davies since the day my mom’s murderer was sentenced.” She paused. “Quite frankly, I never thought I’d see him again. I’m sure you’ve heard all about it by now.” She wrinkled her eyebrows in concern and peered into my face. “Shall we stay here or go somewhere else?”

  “I’m great! Maybe we should meet somewhere else, where there’s brighter light and we can talk more loudly.” I stared at the exit sign, desperate to get out of Pellegrino’s. From the corner of my eye, I could see men patting Keith on the back and women exclaiming over Becca’s boulder of a ring, so big it could power a solar system.

  “How about the Greasy Spoon? I haven’t eaten there in years.” We left her aunt’s restaurant and crossed the street to Port Quincy’s twenty-four-hour diner, its chrome and black-and-yellow vinyl interior outfitted with cheery plastic pumpkins and witches’ hats and brooms suspended from the ceiling.

  Whitney continued her ruminations about Garrett as we settled into a squeaky booth, the old springs twanging and sighing. “Then again, Port Quincy is such a small place, I’m not surprised I ran into him.” Her gaze was far away.

  “Tell me about it. I’m constantly running into friends and foes alike.”

  Whitney let out a surprisingly rich peal of laughter for her small size. “Oh, c’mon, you don’t have any foes.”

  Between my ex, his tartlet, and the Phelans, I have more than I know what to do with at the moment.

  I smiled and changed the subject to her wedding, opting to tackle the tough stuff first.

  “The Port Quincy Paranormal Society would like to examine the B and B, and they have an opening in October.” I neglected to say we desperately needed their services. “They’ve promised to be discreet, and they’ll mainly be there at night, out of our hair. They should be finished with their . . . study of the house by the time of your rehearsal and wedding. Is that alright?”

  Whitney’s eyes lit up, and she leaned forward over the booth. “Ghost hunting?! It won’t be a problem.” Her face grew serious. “I’ve had my share of ghouls asking me questions about my mother. But this is the fun kind. October is my favorite month. You get to pretend to be someone else.” She seemed wistful as she focused on something out the window.

  The waiter arrived with our food: an open-faced turkey sandwich with cranberry sauce for me and sweet-potato casserole for Whitney. No matter what my troubles were, I could enjoy the tastes and savory smells of fall.

  I pressed on and bit my lip. “There’s also a small wrinkle with the zoning. The property hasn’t been rezoned yet for commercial business. I have complete faith it will be, but the Planning Commission is taking their time.” Okay, that was a small fib. “There’s a teeny-tiny possibility the house won’t be rezoned by the end of the month.” Would the commission be jerking me around if one of their members wasn’t married to my direct business competition?

  Whitney laid her fork next to her plate, her meal half gone. She could eat an impressive amount for such a small person.

  “The Planning Commission?” Her face relaxed. “Don’t worry about a thing! My aunt Lois is on the board. I can’t promise anything, but . . .” She blushed, two bright spots of pink dressing up her face. “I’ll see what I can do. It’s the least I can do in exchange for you moving up my wedding on such short notice.” She shrugged as if to say, we’ll see.

  “Oh my God, really?” I abandoned all professionalism and nearly shouted, dropping my fork. This was the best news I’d heard all month. “If you could just put in a good word, I mean, I’m not asking for special treatment, but I’m cutting it kind of close, and they claim to have lost my application . . .” My desperate prattle told Whit all she needed to know. Despite the warm welcome I’d gotten in my new hometown, I sometimes felt like an outsider. I still wasn’t sure how things worked around here, and it was a relief that Whitney would try to help me with the rezoning process.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, Mallory. I have a feeling your permit will be approved very soon.” She winked conspiratorially, and a weight lifted from my shoulders.

  With the two most pressing problems solved in a flash, the two of us got down to business planning her wedding. We’d covered a lot of ground when we met a month ago to discuss her nuptials next year, but I was sure much would change with the new wedding date.

  “You’d envisioned getting married in the greenhouse, with a reception for a hundred people in the garden, and your color scheme was robin’s-egg blue. We were going to serve picnic fare with a gourmet twist and cupcakes for dessert.”

  Whitney shook her head. “I don’t think any of that fits with fall. I was actually thinking about my mom, and her fav
orite color—purple. Could we design the wedding around that, in honor of her?”

  “That would be perfect for fall. Since time is of the essence, we need to let availability guide some of your choices. Like flowers, for instance. We can meet with the florist and choose flowers that are in season. I’m sure we can get something beautiful and purple.”

  We brainstormed and came up with a plan for a ceremony on the grand staircase, with Whitney and Ian marrying on the landing. Dinner and dancing would be in the front and back halls, and guests could mill about the house.

  “Now, on to food. We could do fall comfort foods to echo the picnic theme from the summer. How do you feel about a chocolate hazelnut cake? And creamy lobster and squash bisque?” Rachel and I had come up with several preliminary menus last night to pitch to Whitney.

  “Um, there’s a problem with both of those dishes.” Whitney looked nervous and extracted a bundle of papers from her purse. “There might be a problem with a lot of dishes. I’m a vegetarian. Dad is allergic to tree nuts and intolerant to gluten. My aunt Lois is allergic to shellfish. And my fiancé, Ian, is lactose intolerant. This is going to be hard.”

  My smile faltered, but I quickly composed myself.

  “There are some issues with certain spices, too. Here, I made you a list.” Whitney handed over a sheaf of papers stapled together. It was heavy and thick.

  “Is there anything you guys aren’t allergic to?” I blurted out, instantly regretting it.

  A slow smile etched across Whitney’s face. “Chocolate!”

  “We could organize a theme around chocolate dishes!” Ideas exploded in my head of a fall, chocolate-themed reception.

  Whitney clasped her hands together. “The first date Ian and I went on we had chocolate cake. I love it!”

  We put our heads together for the next hour and decided to organize the wedding around a sweet, spicy, and savory chocolate theme as a nod to Ian and Whitney’s first date, with a purple color scheme to honor Whitney’s mother. I pictured rich plum decorations with chocolate accents, balanced with green, gold, and burgundy. The florist would be able to work with that on short notice, and we could have chocolate woven into the food courses.

  Whitney scheduled a wedding tasting with her family in two days’ time, and back home, armed with a list of prohibited foods, Rachel and I rolled up our sleeves and got to work.

  * * *

  “Have you seen my new wrap dress?” I shimmied into Spanx fortified enough to hold back the Hoover dam and tore through the wardrobe in my temporary second-floor bedroom. I could have sworn I’d hung the dress up right after I’d bought it a few days ago. But it was missing. Just like the contractors’ tools. At least the sound of knitting needles hadn’t returned in several days.

  “Maybe the ghost took it?” I mused and pushed open the door to the bathroom shared with the adjoining red bedroom. Or maybe my klepto sister took it.

  Rachel had the good sense to put down her mascara wand and freeze. She left one set of eyelashes rimmed in sable war paint, one set bare. But instead of taking off my new dress she crossed her arms protectively across her front. “It looks so good on me!”

  I rolled my eyes and tried not to agree. The rose-colored dress draped to mid-calf on my frame, and I intended to wear a camisole underneath. On my sister it hit well above the knee, and her curvy figure stretched out the top to nearly bursting. A delicate carnelian bead necklace dipped down in the deep V-neck of the dress. She looked fantastic.

  “That’s my necklace, too!” This time I took a step toward my sister, who yelped and hurried around the claw-foot tub that took up the middle of the room.

  “I know, I know! Tell you what, let’s swap. I have the perfect dress for you.” She maneuvered past me, barely evading my grasp. A minute later she returned with a gauzy, billowy, green-and-blue geometric print dress. “Put this on.”

  “I’d rather wear the dress I got for this wedding tasting, thank you very much.” I was miffed at Rachel’s sticky fingers and running out of time to get ready.

  “C’mon. This will look better, I promise.” Rachel tapped her foot with impatience and held out her dress.

  “Fine.” I pulled the airy fabric over my head. This had better be good.

  Rachel studied me for a moment, then left the bathroom and quickly returned with a black patent-leather belt. She cinched the dress around the waist with the belt and handed me my knee-high black boots. “These will be perfect.” She removed giant silver hoop earrings from her ears and shoved them in my hands. “Put these in.” She undid my bun and fluffed out my curls.

  I pulled on the boots and fastened the earrings.

  Rachel spun me around to face the floor-length mirror on the back of the door. “Voilà!”

  I tried to frown, then started laughing. I looked better than I would have in the wrap dress, and Rachel knew it. “Nice save, little sis.”

  “So I can keep the dress?” She picked up her mascara wand and painted on another inky layer of lacquer.

  “Just for today.” I reached for a silver scarf hanging on the mirror and arranged it around my sister’s neck, preventing anyone from staring down her chest. I undid the dramatic genie ponytail atop her head, tied half of her hair back with a black cloisonné clip, and handed her my dangly carnelian earrings. “There.”

  We smiled at each other in the giant mirror.

  “What would I do without you?” she teased.

  “Let’s do this!”

  We high-fived like we did when we were kids and descended the back stairs to the kitchen. It was going to be a busy day. First, we’d be giving the Paranormal Society a tour of the house, then we’d hold the wedding tasting. And our mom was due to arrive from Florida after the tasting. Rachel and I had labored until the wee hours of the morning crafting a menu for Whitney and her family, and I couldn’t wait for them to try it. I knelt down and checked the oven, where the main dishes were warming. Rachel bustled over to the cakes on the counter and squinted at her handiwork.

  The doorbell rang, and I glanced at my watch. “That’ll be the Paranormal Society.” We were headed for the front door when Delilah apprehended us, revving her scooter at top speed down the front hall. The contractors were holding off on renovations until after the wedding tasting was finished, but Jesse, Delilah, and Ezra had arrived at their usual time. The little black flag with a skull mounted on the back of Delilah’s scooter waved in the motorized breeze.

  “I read your cards today, girls, and I must warn you—”

  “Save it, sister.” Rachel wheeled around on her boots and held her hand up like a stop sign. “We don’t want any of your heebie-jeebies predictions today, okay?”

  Delilah sniffed and threw her bony shoulders back. “You’d do better to listen to me every once in a while, missy! Who warned you last week to be careful in your travels?”

  Rachel dismissed Jesse’s mother with a flick of her wrist. Her silver bangles chimed and jingled and seemed to mock the old woman. “Big deal. That was just a coincidence.” But there was a harsh sliver of fear in Rachel’s green eyes.

  Eerie prickles danced up my vertebrae. I didn’t believe in Delilah’s pronouncements, but she had chased Rachel out the door, screeching about troubles with her short trip, and, sure enough, half an hour later Rachel was calling about the station wagon’s flat tire.

  “Fine,” she spat and stared at my sister with scorn in her deeply lined eyes. “I won’t bother with you.”

  Rachel gave her a mock curtsy and turned to go.

  “But—you should know—beware the Aquarian!”

  “We don’t have an aquarium,” I said gently. Was Delilah starting to lose it?

  She tsked. “Aquarian, you silly girl! One born under the sign of the water bearer.”

  “Like astrology?” What the heck was she talking about?

  “Come on.” Rachel pulled me to the front door, and Delilah wheeled around to the library, where I hoped she’d stay out of our hair.

  I
swung open the door to greet the ghost hunters, two men and two women carrying bulky black nylon cases of equipment.

  “I’m Hunter. The ghost hunter,” the man in front said, in his best James Bond impression. He held out his hand and enveloped mine in a pleasing, firm grip. He must be Ezra’s brother. I smiled at his goofy opening and turned to do a silent conference with my sister, but she was giggling like a madwoman. Oh no. She was giving Hunter her smitten look, and that was when I saw it. He had a prominent cleft chin, a chin-dimple or chimple, as Rachel called it, and chimples were like catnip for my sister. He was also my sister’s height, about five foot nine, with thick, boyish chestnut hair that flopped over his eyes in an endearing manner and a toned, compact soccer player’s build. His kind gray eyes were the same as Ezra’s, but other than that, the brothers couldn’t have been more different. He wore a white T-shirt with PQPS written on the front. When he knelt down to place a heavy canvas case on the floor, I saw the back emblazoned with the words “Port Quincy Paranormal Society” and a cartoon caricature of Ebenezer Quincy rising over a profile of the town, dripping chartreuse ectoplasm. Hunter caught me looking at him and flashed me a grin. His electric smile added two more dimples. He was quite handsome, and he seemed to know it.

  “Come in.” Rachel placed her hand on his arm. “Let me show you around.” She delicately undid the silver scarf and twirled it around her hand unconsciously, the better to lasso Hunter with.

  Hunter smiled at my sister and hefted an expensive-looking video camera higher on his shoulder. My amusement faltered as I felt a mini wave of panic.