Murder Wears White

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  “Excuse me, will you be filming?” I blinked at the camera, not sure if I wanted the mess of renovations to be captured on film.

  “Oh! I forgot. I have a release for you to sign. I just need your John Hancock right here.” Hunter reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a single sheet of paper, a release contract printed on one side in tiny letters. He’d highlighted the signature line in neon yellow and expectantly handed it and a pen over to me.

  “I’d like to look at this first, before I sign it. Could you give me a day?”

  Hunter frowned then shrugged. “That’s reasonable. But no one ever really reads that thing. No filming until then, I guess.” He dejectedly lowered the camera from his shoulder, and it hung limply at his side.

  Rachel rolled her eyes at me behind his head.

  “Is all of this equipment for filming?”

  Hunter brightened and motioned his fellow ghost hunters forward. “This here is our EMF meter. It measures electromagnetic fields, which spike when there’s a spectral presence. We’ll take readings all over the house and the grounds.”

  I took the yellow instrument from him. It looked like an oversized remote control with a digital screen. I just managed to suppress a dubious eye roll.

  “Won’t this be set off by all the contractors’ equipment?” I turned the EMF over in my hands. Could it shed some light on the odd clicking in my bedroom?

  “That’s why we’ll be here at night.” Hunter replied to me, but his eyes never left Rachel.

  “This is our EVP recorder.” A slim, towheaded girl showed me a digital recorder that reminded me of the ones the older attorneys I once worked with used for dictation.

  “What’s an EVP?” I tried to keep the skeptical note out of my voice. I wanted the ghost hunters to feel welcome, even though I didn’t really believe in their hobby.

  “An electronic voice phenomenon. We’ll be able to pick up any sounds made by ghosts.”

  The other ghost hunters showed us their infrared goggles and cameras, motion detectors, and complicated thermometers that looked like guns. I shivered as they described paranormal activity they’d picked up with their instruments at other sites. They seemed sincere about ghosts, and their enthusiasm was starting to rub off on me. I didn’t want to accompany them on their nighttime wanderings of the house, but Rachel gladly volunteered to play host.

  “Is that the Hunter Heyward?” Delilah’s gravelly voice ricocheted down the hall and announced her presence before her scooter.

  “Why is she meddling? Doesn’t she have some tarot cards to read?” Rachel dropped Hunter’s arm and whipped around.

  Delilah motored over, stopping an inch from Hunter’s knee.

  “I can’t believe my eyes!” Delilah fanned herself with her hand and blinked coquettishly.

  Delilah was an incorrigible flirt, but she upped the ante for Hunter. The starstruck grin never left her face. She was more excited than my middle-school BFF Lindsay Watts, who peed her pants when we saw NSYNC in concert.

  “I’m your biggest admirer.” Delilah seemed surprisingly girly in her ardor, shedding several decades of age.

  Was that a giggle?

  “I’d love to be here when you hunt for spirits at night.” She fluffed her gray curls and gave Hunter a toothy smile. “I’m sure Jesse can—”

  “Thank you so much, Delilah.” My sister gently removed Delilah’s grasping hand from Hunter’s arm and nudged him back a degree. “We really need to get going.”

  Delilah shot Rachel an acid glare, and Hunter seemed to stifle a chuckle with a well-timed sneeze.

  “One more thing, Mallory.” Hunter turned his infectious smile from my sister to me, and I relaxed. He was as friendly and assured as his brother, Ezra, just in a more gregarious way. I didn’t quite believe in what he was doing, but if he and the other ghost hunters set the contractors’ minds at ease, I was all for it.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “We’ll need Wi-Fi access to upload our findings to the cloud.”

  “Sure thing. The network is the Thistle Park B and B and the password is ‘Sylvia.’”

  “We’ll get out of your hair now,” Hunter promised.

  He and the other ghost hunters moved toward the wide main stairs. I overheard Rachel explain about the falling bannister and shattered chandelier.

  “My brother moves fast, doesn’t he.” Ezra materialized at my side and stared bleakly at his brother’s arm, linked cozily and firmly with Rachel’s.

  “Not nearly as fast as Rachel,” I mused and chucked him on the arm.

  Ezra’s head looked like it was about to explode. Somehow, I don’t think he’d contemplated his brother whisking his crush away in five minutes flat. Ezra excused himself and stalked off, muttering about helping Jesse.

  The other ghost hunters followed my sister with bemused expressions on their faces as she led them through the construction detritus. Rachel and I had agreed she would run interference with the ghost hunters, since she’d promised they could examine the B and B, and I would handle the bulk of Whitney’s wedding tasting. Rachel disappeared up the main stairs with the ghost hunters in tow, not a moment too soon, as the doorbell rang.

  It was Whitney and her entourage. They were a motley crew. Whitney introduced me to her father, Porter, a tall, thin, ailing man with a wan and gentle but strained smile. He had the same strawberry-blond hair as his daughter, but interwoven with strands of white. His skin hung on his frame, and you could tell he had been a beefy man when he was in good health. His fine gray suit was now several sizes too large. He shuffled in as if in pain, but seemed determined to put on a brave and joyful face. Angela, from Pellegrino’s, gave me a nod in greeting and stepped aside, placing a steadying hand on her ill brother’s arm.

  “I can’t thank you enough for moving my daughter’s wedding up,” Porter said in a near whisper. “It means a lot to me.”

  “It means a lot to me too, Mr. Scanlon.” I quickly escorted him to the back porch, where we’d be having the tasting, so he could sit. It was a beautiful Indian summer day, warm and mild and pleasant. Porter’s sister, Angela, helped him, and Whitney brought up the rear. Whitney and I circled back to the front porch to wait for our last guest.

  “We’re missing my aunt Lois. She said she’d be on time.” She glanced at her delicate watch and let out a nervous gust of air.

  “Hellooo! Hello, my darling!” Just then a tall woman swept onto the porch, her resemblance to her sister, Angela, clear, except for the extra fifty pounds clinging to her bones. Her black hair was woven around her head in a heavy braid. She wore a thick, marled-cream cowl-neck sweater, a brown and navy tweed skirt, and army-green wellies more suited to stalking pheasants in the Hebrides than taking part in a wedding tasting in Port Quincy. Three small dogs danced around her legs and anxiously barked.

  “You must be Mallory. I’m charmed. I’m Whit’s aunt Lois.” She grabbed my shoulders and pulled me in. She applied two forceful air kisses to my cheeks, leaving me dumbfounded. She smelled of heather, lavender, and Earl Grey tea. Whitney was so petite in contrast to her father, Porter, and her aunts, Angela and Lois. She must favor her mother’s side of the family. I followed Lois as she swept through the hallway to join her siblings on the back porch.

  “And these are my loves.” She pointed to the trio of lively, white West Highland terriers. “This is Miss Maisie.” The small white dog yipped and seemed to grin when she heard her name. “And this is my Bruce.” She patted a grumpy-looking Westie with impressive Wilford Brimley eyebrows and mustache. “And this is Fiona, their mother.” The third white dog sat primly and sniffed the air with her little black nose. She seemed a bit more sedate than her two doggie progeny. Lois reached into her leather fanny pack and extracted three dog treats, which she threw in the air, causing a frenzy. The dogs leaped up in unison to catch the treats and promptly snarfed them down. Lois doted on her pups as if they were children. They were adorable, and I was amused that Lois had brought them t
o the tasting, until Bruce grabbed the tablecloth and began to pull.

  “Bruce, stop that, you naughty fellow!” Whitney distracted the little dog, and he happily gave up the tablecloth to bound over to her. She knelt down in the grass in her khaki dress and scruffed him behind his tall, perky ears.

  “Pleased to meet you, Lois,” I mumbled, trying to walk without getting caught in the churning, zigzagging path of short doggie legs as Maisie bounded after her sibling to get some attention from Whitney too. Fiona maintained her perch on the porch and sent the other dogs what looked like a disapproving glance.

  “Are those dogs wearing Burberry?” Rachel stuck her head out of the back door with a whisper and craned her neck to see Lois’s pups.

  “It would appear to be so.” I giggled, taking in the doggies’ iconic plaid scarves tied just so around their necks. Bruce wore one in signature tan, and Maisie and Fiona were in pink and red, their scarves tied in jaunty bows.

  “Those are three very spoiled dogs.” Rachel’s voice dripped with poorly concealed envy.

  I sat Lois between her brother, Porter, and sister, Angela, and gave Whitney the seat of honor. The dogs continued to motor about, threatening to trip me as I served Whitney’s family water and a deep claret wine.

  Rachel rejoined me, and we served four courses: a spinach, beet, and cranberry salad with a shaving of dark chocolate in a curl on top; pumpkin soup with a heart-shaped dusting of cocoa; rosemary-crusted lamb and smoked salmon with capers and chervil accompanied by a side of root veggies; and portobello mushrooms and couscous with vegan soy cheese for vegetarian Whitney. I’d found a fussy, elaborate brown toile china set in the butler’s pantry and mixed the antique plates with chocolate Fiestaware. It made for an intricate and modern tableau. I didn’t interrupt the appreciative murmurs and cleared their plates in nervous and hopeful silence. Rachel wheeled out an impressive silver tea set with coffee and chocolate mint tea and three miniature cakes, each labeled with a discreet sign disclosing allergens: gluten-free, flourless red velvet torte; coconut spice cake with chocolate frosting; and key-lime white-chocolate pie.

  Everyone tucked in, and I tried not to hover, straining my ears between serving each dish. They cleaned their plates, all except Porter, who picked at his food with disinterest and smiled at his daughter. He was visibly ill, with ashen, papery skin, but when Whitney was enjoying herself, his face lit up.

  The Westies yapped and barked at Lois’s knees, and she fawned and doted on them like Queen Elizabeth with her corgis. I frowned when she tossed small pieces of lamb onto the lawn for the dogs to eat. The dogs deftly leaped into the air to claim their morsels, and I remembered how I liked to sneak Whiskey food from the table and relaxed.

  Lois caught me watching her and crossed the porch when the meal was finished. “Bruce here is my troublemaker, but he’s also a natural guard dog. Fiona is the matriarch. And Maisie is the princess.” She spoke of her pups with pride and love.

  “They’re beautiful.” I bent down to pet Maisie behind the ears.

  Lois cleared her throat and leaned closer. “Whitney tells me you need Thistle Park rezoned from residential to mixed commercial by the day of the wedding.”

  I tensed and nodded, not wanting to push the issue. I gave Maisie a final pat and straightened up. I smoothed the gauzy print dress and dared to look Lois in the eye.

  “I am the most senior member of the Planning Commission, and I could be of help with that.” Lois opened her prodigious black-watch-plaid pocketbook and extracted an Altoids tin. She slipped a mint in her mouth, grimaced, and seemed to settle back to take in my reaction.

  I blushed and nodded before I cautiously returned her piercing gaze. “That would be fantastic. Anything you can do will be appreciated at this point. I turned in my application over a month ago and thought there would be a hearing by now. I hate to suspect anything, but the Phelans own the only other B and B in town, and they might—”

  Lois held up her fleshy hand with a smile. “Say no more, Mallory. I assume this house can be rezoned as a B and B. It can be . . . arranged.” She paused and leaned closer, her breath sharp and cool with icy mints. Her voice dropped to the softest of whispers. “Provided you make it worth my while.” She raised her gray eyebrows expectantly, with a cunning smile, then whirled around, her wellies squeaking on the wood of the back porch. She returned to her chair and took a final sip of tea, her hand shaking almost imperceptibly. She set the fussy toile cup on the table, where it lolled to the side and spilled fragrant chocolate mint tea.

  “Oh, dear.” Lois’s voice was raspy and wheezy and raw. She set the cup upright, and her hands fluttered to her face, then her throat. She let out a string of hoarse coughs and a trio of wheezes.

  Whitney set down her cup and broke off conversation with her father. “Are you alright, Aunt Lois?” Concern deepened her delicate features, and she stood to help her aunt.

  Lois rose unsteadily to her feet and made for the back door. She called over her shoulder as she entered the house, “I’m just going to go powder my nose.” She seemed fine again and had stopped coughing. Whitney relaxed and sank into her seat.

  I stood, stunned, at my post on the edge of the porch, more alarmed by what she’d just said than her coughing and wheezing fit.

  Did she just suggest a quid pro quo?

  I couldn’t pay Lois a bribe to get my permit approved. It would be entirely unethical, and even I wasn’t that desperate.

  That’s what she just proposed, isn’t it?

  She was the picture of propriety, so maybe I’d just imagined it or misinterpreted what she said.

  “Mallory!” Whitney’s cry cut through my miserable thoughts, and she came bounding over to me. “Everything was absolutely delicious.”

  I glowed, Lois’s shakedown momentarily forgotten.

  “We’d like to go ahead with this exact menu. I can’t believe you and Rachel put this together so quickly.”

  “We’re glad you like it.” My sister caught the tail end of Whitney’s pronouncement as she walked around the side of the house. “The ghost hunters just left,” she whispered.

  I sighed with relief.

  The dogs started to go nuts, keening and pawing at the door to the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong, little fella?” Whitney crouched down to calm Bruce.

  I peered over her shoulder into the kitchen, where Lois’s boots lay sideways on the ground, her panty-hose-clad legs sticking out at an odd angle.

  “Oh my God.” I pushed open the door, and Rachel followed.

  “Oh, no!” Rachel hurried over to Lois, who was lying on the floor, her legs and arms askew. Her eyes were closed, and her chest rose and fell in time with raspy, labored breaths.

  “Aunt Lois!” Whitney ran into the room, Angela on her heels, and Porter followed a few seconds behind, gasping and grabbing the chair railing.

  Delilah scooted in and stopped just before she drove over Lois. “I knew it! I knew it! I drew the death card this morning.” Her eyes roved wildly, and she stared in openmouthed shock at Bruce, who was barking and nudging his owner, his bushy doggy eyebrows dancing in alarm. “That creature! A white hound! He portends death!”

  “Shut up! He’s just a harmless little Westie!” Rachel gave Delilah’s scooter a push while I started CPR on Lois.

  As I felt for Lois’s missing pulse, all I could think was, “Not again.”

  Chapter Four

  “This house isn’t haunted; it’s cursed.” It was hard for the chief of police to grill you when you were sort of dating his son and regularly met him over Friday pot roast dinner, but Truman Davies usually did his best. Except today, he seemed to be letting me off the hook.

  “This wasn’t your fault.” Truman clapped his large hand on my back and shook his head somberly. “Accidents happen.”

  “It wasn’t an accident. Healthy people don’t just keel over.” I handed Whitney a cold cup of chocolate mint tea.

  She bawled into the purple tablecloth on th
e porch.

  “The coroner just called me. We can’t be sure just yet, but she thinks it was an anaphylactic reaction to an allergen.” Truman patted Whitney’s back with one hand and gave me a shrug with the other.

  “It must have been shellfish of some kind! Why didn’t she have her EpiPen?” Whitney dabbed at twin rivulets of mascara.

  In the ensuing madness that had followed our discovery of Lois, Whitney had rushed in with her aunt’s plaid purse and upended it on the kitchen floor, screaming about a missing EpiPen.

  “She never, ever travels without it,” Whitney insisted between jagged hiccups.

  Angela joined Truman in patting her shoulder and murmured an ineffectual, “There, there.” I’m sure she meant to be comforting, but she couldn’t slip out of her cool, collected demeanor. But her hands shook, and her voice betrayed her discomfort.

  Porter held his daughter’s hand and slumped back in his chair, his eyes far away, stunned and glassy.

  “It wouldn’t take a lot,” he muttered dejectedly. “Lois was highly allergic.”

  “Look, you’re new at this. You probably didn’t realize you had an allergen somewhere in the kitchen.” Truman moved closer and delivered his opinion in a low voice.

  “I was scrupulously clean! Fanatical, even! No way did any allergens touch her lips.” I toned down my voice out of respect for Whitney’s family.

  “It’s okay, Mallory. Don’t beat yourself up about this. It could’ve happened to anyone.”

  “She said we didn’t cook with Lois’s allergen.” Rachel glowered at Truman from her chair.

  “We don’t have a single bit of crab, lobster, or shrimp in this house,” I insisted, trying to not seem like I was just deflecting. “No clams or mussels or anything.”

  Whitney shook her head. “It could have just been a trace. This isn’t your fault.” Her eyes told a different story. “She should have had the EpiPen with her. I can’t imagine why she didn’t.” She burst into a new gale of tears.