Murder Wears White

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  It was utterly arresting, but not my style. All of this could have been mine, if I’d gone through with my marriage to Keith. I breathed a sigh of relief and was glad this wasn’t my alternate reality.

  “Arf!” Bruce let out a gruff bark, and I nodded at him. “I’m alarmed too, buddy.”

  I must have stalled too long, my mouth agape, because someone tapped at my window.

  “Eeek!” I whipped my head left and scared Whitney. She laughed weakly when she saw that I was okay and motioned for me to roll down my window. Since my car was from the 1970s, I actually did roll it down.

  “I’m sorry! You were sitting here so long, I wondered if you were okay.”

  “I was just taking in the house. It’s very . . . eye-catching.”

  Whitney motioned for me to follow her, and I reluctantly left the cocoon of the station wagon, the little dogs churning their legs to keep up.

  “I’m so glad you brought the dogs. I can’t believe we left them at Thistle Park. We were in shock.” Whitney stopped at the front door and bent to pet the pups.

  They stood on their hind legs and tried to give her doggie kisses.

  “I’m sorry about your aunt Lois.” I gave Whitney a swift hug, which she returned with surprising force.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she assured me. “It could have been anything, and it wasn’t like her to not have her EpiPen. She was the best aunt a girl could have.” Whitney dabbed at her swollen eyes with a worn tissue. “My fiancé, Ian, my dad, and I talked about whether we should go on with the wedding. We decided life is so short. My dad’s health is getting worse”—her voice caught in her throat—“so we’ll carry on and get married while he’s still here. Lois and my dad were so close; she would’ve wanted that.”

  Not to mention the fact it wasn’t the meal Rachel and I cooked that killed her. I handed Whit a packet of tissues from my purse.

  “Thanks. I’m all out.” She sheepishly accepted the tissues and opened the red lacquered front door for me. She smiled at the dogs and shooed them inside. They dutifully trailed in behind her and followed her around like a small school of furry white minnows.

  I carried a sample board of fabrics and flowers for Whitney to approve. I stepped over the threshold and would have been less surprised to find myself in Oz with the munchkins. A massive open floor plan revealed peach tile, peach pillars, poufy peach window treatments, and a peach ceiling. Bridesmaid-sea-foam green and gold accents were woven throughout the room, from the rugs in the living room area to the wallpaper border that hugged the walls. Impractical cream furniture was scattered through the house. Everything was frothy and shiny and stiff with yards and yards of chintz and silk and brocade. If the outside looked like it had been designed by Pablo Picasso, the inside was mid-1980s bridal boutique chic. It was like being teleported into Helene Pierce’s living room. The outside juxtaposed with the inside showed this house was suffering from a serious case of multiple personality disorder. The dogs loped around the pastel room and sniffed each piece of furniture with glee. Whitney got them a dish of water and some kibble, and they happily settled in the kitchen.

  Whitney wrinkled her nose. “My cousin Becca designed the outside of the house. Isn’t it daring?” She sat on a shiny, vanilla-colored couch embroidered with seashells and starfish and poured me a cup of coffee with shaking hands.

  “It’s something!” I said with an even tone.

  “Becca’s my only cousin on my mom’s side. She’s a little outrageous but a lot of fun. And her future mother-in-law, Helene, decorated the inside. She’s so pushy.”

  Better Becca than me. I settled into a peach damask wing-backed chair.

  “They just got engaged this week. Isn’t it exciting?” Whitney picked up a picture from the coffee table of Keith and Becca together in the snow holding skis. “That’s why I was late the other day. I had to help her fiancé plant the ring in a miniature pumpkin.”

  Keith and I had broken off our engagement in July, and he’d obviously been skiing with Becca all winter. I thought back to the many weekends during ski season when he’d claimed to be out of town.

  Whitney dropped her voice conspiratorially. “Becca’s fiancé was involved with someone else, so she kept her relationship hush-hush. She wouldn’t let any of us meet Keith.”

  “How scandalous,” I said dryly.

  “I’m so glad they’re out in the open now and getting married!”

  “You don’t say. I made a mockup of your color scheme and some fabric and floral choices.” I changed the subject before I got mired irrevocably in the past. Plus, I wanted to wrap up our meeting and skedaddle before Keith and Becca arrived. “The linens vendor can do deep plum tablecloths with chocolate overlays, and I’m sure the florist can handle an explosion of mums, since it’s October.” I unfolded the triptych poster board with swatches of fabric for the tables and a photograph of a representative table I’d set up with mums flowing down the center in a lush, curving river. Chunky pillar candles in cranberry, evergreen, and plum rested on brass candlesticks of various heights.

  “Mums are probably the only flowers the florist can pull off this late in the game. But we can make a wide swath of flowers marching down each banquet table, and it’ll look full and lovely.”

  Whitney ran her fingers over the luxe fabrics and squealed with delight. “This will honor my mom and look perfect for fall. I think this will turn out better than the wedding planned for June. I just wish Lois could be there too. And my mom. But Dad being there makes it all worth it.”

  “It’s beautiful that you’re including your mom in other ways,” I said gently.

  Whitney’s electric smile faltered, and I swear she shivered as she stood and crossed the long room to the giant glass doors facing a red deck and rock garden. “I’m not the only one who still thinks about my mom. I’ve been getting letters about her.” She wheeled around and wrung her small hands together.

  “From whom? About what?”

  “I don’t know who’s sending them. I got two in Baltimore before I came here. They upset me so much Ian wrote ‘Return to sender’ and dumped them back in the mail. But whoever’s sending them knows I’m in Port Quincy now.”

  I abandoned the fabric samples and crossed the room to where she stood, clutching a slim white envelope. “Did they send that here?”

  “No, this one was addressed to me care of my aunt’s restaurant.” She placed the envelope in my hand. I opened it and read the letter.

  Eugene Newton is innocent. Your mother’s killer is still free.

  The note looked like it had been composed on a typewriter, as the letters were lightly embossed on the page. The paper was generic white notepaper, college-ruled and with three holes for a binder. A frisson of dread ran through me. I’d probably already marred it with my fingerprints.

  “You have to give this to the police. We shouldn’t even be handling it.” I tentatively held the paper by the edges.

  Whitney snatched the paper as if I were going to abscond with it and tucked it under a pile of junk mail on a white wicker table. “No police!” Her voice was high and reedy and frantic. “I don’t trust them.” She slowed her breathing. “I just want to get married. I don’t want any more problems.” Her face was white. “And I don’t want to upset my dad when he has so little time left. Our time together is one of the most important things in the world to me. I took a leave of absence at my job to spend this month with Dad, and I don’t want it to be stressful.”

  I frowned but grudgingly agreed. “Okay. But let me know if you get any more letters.”

  A flood of relief rushed over Whitney’s pale face, and she sat in a chair and stared at her engagement ring.

  “The timing is so odd,” she mused, daring to look up. “First the letters arrived, and now Lois is dead.”

  “You think they’re connected?” I picked my head up sharply.

  “My mother was murdered twenty years ago, and her killer was put away a decade ago. Why did these letters
show up now, postmarked Port Quincy, right before Aunt Lois was killed with clam juice in a Bloody Mary mix? It can’t be a coincidence.”

  I opened my mouth to agree.

  A key rustled in the door, and we both swiveled our heads.

  I didn’t leave soon enough.

  Becca and Keith scampered into the house, holding hands like two coeds. They didn’t see me at first, since I was seated behind a giant peach pillar, but I could see them.

  “How’re you holding up, Whit?” Becca paused at the doorway to slip off her shoes. I did a double take. When she was a new associate and Keith mentored her, she wore sky-high heels with her dresses and suits. Today she wore flats. She was about one inch taller than Keith, and she probably didn’t wear heels anymore to avoid upstaging him.

  “Mallory, what a pleasant surprise.” A reptilian smile crept over Keith’s face, and he wrapped his arm around Becca, pulling her in close.

  “So nice to see you,” Becca simpered, looking like a cat that had caught a coveted mouse. A paunchy, balding, jerky mouse, whom I used to be in love with. She looked fantastic in a slim black skirt suit and vivid pink silk shirt. Her boulder of a ring winked merrily from her left hand as she ran her fingers through her blond hair. The stripe of her dark part stood out against her gleaming blond tresses like a skunk in reverse. I wondered for a moment what had happened to the engagement ring I’d tossed down the street in July.

  “It is wonderful.” I beamed and moved to fold up my table sample board.

  “You know each other?” Whitney blinked in surprise and took the board from me, unfolding it to show to Keith and Becca. “Isn’t this amazing? Mallory is pulling this all together in record time.”

  Becca’s eyes flicked toward the samples and then back to Keith.

  “It’s very nice.” Becca didn’t look at the board and dismissed my hard work. She turned to Keith. “Honey, we need to convince your mother that a winter wedding in Barbados will be just the thing.” She held her hand out and gazed at the sparkling diamond.

  “We’ll have a lot to celebrate.” Keith stared adoringly at his fiancée. “Our marriage and your successful passing of the bar. You should get the results any day now.”

  “I’ve had a wonderful teacher,” she cooed.

  “I think I’ll be going now.” I sidestepped the lovebirds and mustered up a tight smile for Whitney. “I’ll call you to set up a time to see the florist. I’m sorry about Lois.”

  “Wait.” Keith doled out a smug smile. His new fiancée and Whitney were exclaiming over the fabric swatches and out of earshot. “I heard you were having some trouble with the Planning Commission and rezoning my grandmother’s house to commercial.”

  I stiffened and cursed the gossip mill in this small town.

  “It’ll be approved in time,” I replied, though I was anything but sure.

  “It’s a shame Lois isn’t here to help you with that.” His smile spread from ear to ear.

  Just then Maisie streaked down the stairs, a very expensive Italian leather shoe dangling from her quivering white jaws. Bruce scampered after her, nipping at her heels, in doggie chase heaven. Fiona woke up from her nap in the kitchen and decided to join in the fun, frolicking and barking around the living room.

  “What the . . . ,” Keith’s face darkened, and he made a move to lunge for the Westie. “She has my shoe! That’s a Salvatore Ferragamo, not a chew toy!”

  Becca squeaked as if the dogs were rats instead of cute little terriers. Maisie skidded to a stop and dropped the shoe at my feet, the front end of the buttery mahogany leather torn to shreds and dripping with saliva.

  I chuckled and picked up the Westie. “Is that a present for me, sweetheart?”

  Keith nearly collided with me, quaking with rage. “Get these mutts out of my house!”

  “They aren’t mutts!” Whitney sidled up next to me and picked up Fiona.

  “It’s okay, Whitney. Why don’t I just take them back to Thistle Park with me? Keith isn’t a fan of pets.”

  A flash of recognition swept across Whitney’s face, and she toggled her surprised look between me and my ex-fiancé.

  “Th-that would be an excellent idea,” she stammered.

  “Yes, I want them out now.” Keith delivered this pronouncement through clenched teeth, his words dripping with acid.

  Bruce glared up at Keith and lifted his hind leg.

  “Oh no!” Whitney divined what was going to happen before I did and reached down for Bruce, but it was too late. The Westie peed all over Keith’s trouser leg, then executed a neat little hop over to my feet.

  “You little—” Keith was rendered speechless for once and stared at his sodden, dripping cuff. His face contorted with disgust, and he started to strip off his pants right then and there. I took that as my cue to leave.

  “Talk to you soon, Whit!” I cried out gaily.

  Whitney was shaking with suppressed laughter at Keith. I retrieved the dogs’ leashes from my purse and stalked out of Keith’s house with Fiona, Bruce, and Maisie leading the way.

  Chapter Six

  The dogs settled into the back bench seat, and I drove out of Keith’s development in a daze. All of the fall decorations blurred together in a haze of orange and black, and the station wagon seemed to steer itself. I turned out of Windsor Meadows and right toward town, and before I knew it, I was back at Thistle Park, a cacophony of hammering cascading out the open window of the front room that was to be my and Rachel’s office. I felt the stress of seeing Becca and Keith roll off my shoulders and mustered up a smile for the Westies. “Looks like we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other, pups.”

  A green Prius pulled in behind me with a raven-haired woman at the wheel and my sister in the passenger seat. They both got out of the car in yoga gear, and I realized the driver was the most fit woman I’d ever seen. She was built like a gymnast, short and sinewy, yet she walked with a gazelle-like grace, each step toward the front porch languid and precise.

  “Mallory, this is Charity Jones. She teaches my yoga class.” Rachel took the dogs’ leashes, and I shook hands with the young woman. She had pretty black Irish looks, her blue forget-me-not eyes contrasting with her blue-black hair. Tiny smile lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes, which danced with mirth. She gripped my hand with some force and cracked a dazzling smile. She was a stunner.

  “I’m also your neighbor, as it happens.” She tilted her head to the right, where I could barely see the peaked roof of the old stone cottage through the copse of deciduous and evergreen trees. “I moved in at the end of the summer.”

  “Welcome to the neighborhood. What brought you to Port Quincy?”

  “I grew up here but left for college. I was with Cirque du Soleil in Las Vegas, and then an injury ended my career. I took up yoga as therapy and fell in love, and I decided to open a new studio back home.” So that explained her chiseled yet graceful physique. “You should stop by some time.”

  Rachel nodded, her feather earrings beating against her shoulders like little wrens. “It’s amazing, Mallory! All of the stress of this house just melts away after one of Charity’s classes.”

  Charity gave my sister a grateful look and glanced at her green wristwatch.

  “It was nice to meet you, Mallory. I’ve got to get going.” She shook my hand vigorously again and nodded at my sister. “I’ll see you in class, Rachel.”

  A loud bang emanated from the office, and Jesse swore. Charity cringed as if she were in the room.

  “I’m sorry this renovation is so loud.” I cocked my head toward the window. “Thankfully it will be over soon, within a fortnight.” At least I pray it will.

  “About that . . .” Charity’s luminescent countenance dimmed a degree. “It’s been awfully loud. I’m not home much during the day, since I have the studio to run, but when I’ve been back, it has been hard to relax.” Her pretty face was burdened with regret, and I guessed it was hard for her to bring it up.

  “I’ll ask the contract
ors to close the windows so the noise is contained.”

  “You must be planning something big with all of these upgrades.”

  “As a matter of fact, the house will open as a bed-and-breakfast starting next month!” Rachel gushed.

  “And we’ll be holding weddings here as well.” I smiled and gestured to the wide green lawn and acres behind the house.

  Charity’s brows furrowed and a deep line formed between her eyes. “Outdoor weddings?”

  Uh-oh.

  “Some,” I admitted. “But others will be completely indoors.”

  “How many people will be descending on Sycamore Street?” Her eyes swept to the quiet end of our road, which dead-ended in front of Thistle Park.

  “Er, we can accommodate weddings with two hundred guests,” Rachel mumbled, studying the dogs as they sniffed a rake leaning up against the front porch.

  “What about traffic?” Charity was positively alarmed. She plucked at the sleeves of her pink warm-up jacket, her movements erratic and agitated, like a bird captured under a bell jar.

  “I had a traffic study done as part of the process to rezone the property.” I didn’t bother to tell Charity it was still in limbo. “The street can handle it, and parking will be located right on the side yard.”

  “The yard adjoining my property?” Charity’s voice wavered, and she actually flinched when I gave her a weak nod.

  “We can plant more trees between our yards.” My promise was laced with desperation. “And set up the tents for summer weddings on the southern side of the house, away from you.”