Murder Wears White

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  “Tents?! This is worse than I expected.” She rubbed the back of her neck as if it pained her.

  “Arf!” Bruce strained at his leash as a squirrel bounded up a tree, and Charity nearly jumped out of her black leggings.

  “I knew something fishy was going on, but I never dreamed it was of this magnitude. I’m sorry, I have to go meditate.” She marched back to her Prius.

  “Uh-oh.” I watched her reverse down the drive, her face pale and drawn.

  “Uh-oh is right.” Rachel sighed heavily, and her arms dropped to her sides. “She’s been letting me take her classes for free. What if she reneges?”

  I started to laugh. “I think that’s the least of our troubles with Charity. What if she finds out there’s still a chance for us to be denied a rezone? I need to talk to the landscapers about adding more trees to soundproof.” I pinched my temples and wondered how to address this new wrinkle.

  Does anyone want my new business venture to succeed?

  “She’s just mad we’re harshing her Zen.” Rachel blinked after Charity. “She’s super into concentration and quiet. She’s the calmest person I’ve ever met, until she catches you chitchatting during yoga.” Rachel flinched as if she’d been on the receiving end of one of Charity’s tongue-lashings.

  “Good fences make good neighbors. I’ll see what I can do for Charity.”

  * * *

  The weather the next day mirrored my mood as I drove to the Port Quincy Historical Society. What had been clear warm weather was now increasingly gray and murky. After a short trip through town, I parked outside the Historical Society. I needed to vent, and Rachel was busy catching Hunter up on the history of the house and giving him yet another personal tour. And I didn’t want to discuss my troubles with Mom, who seemed to be in her own mental hot water over her reunion with Jesse.

  As I stepped out of the station wagon, a fat, cold drop of rain hit my nose. The sky opened as I rushed up the stairs of the old home that housed the Historical Society.

  “I’ll be . . . ,” I muttered.

  This morning Delilah had revved her scooter up behind me and waved an umbrella beneath my nose. “It’s going to rain, Mallory. Take this.”

  “But the forecast online predicts a clear day.” I’d swung the front door open and motioned to the flinty but dry sky.

  Delilah shook the umbrella a little more forcefully. “Mark my words!” Her silver bracelets jingled and pinged with her rattling movements.

  “It’s just your arthritis acting up,” Rachel called over her shoulder as she shimmied past us with Hunter to check out the carriage house with the EMF meter. “We’re not afraid of getting wet!”

  I’d thought Delilah’s shtick was a load of hooey, but now that it was coursing rain, I was a little more open to the idea. But my personal jury was still out on whether ghosts existed or not.

  I hoped Tabitha could give me some information on Vanessa Scanlon’s murder.

  “Come in!” Tabitha ushered me into her office and offered me a plate of shortbread cookies. With her flame-red hair and magenta tweed jacket over a tawny yellow dress, she looked like an exotic bird of paradise.

  “Tell me about Vanessa Scanlon,” I pleaded before I nibbled on a cookie.

  Tabitha leaned back in her chair and rested her hands in her lap. “Well, it’s the most famous murder here in Port Quincy. I was about thirteen when Mrs. Scanlon disappeared. She was a pretty woman, so it made the national news.” She whirled her swivel chair around to her computer and brought up the website for the Port Quincy Eagle Herald newspaper. “They’ve archived their old issues online, so we can read the stories from when Vanessa disappeared.” Her manicured fingers flew over the keys, and she turned the monitor around so I’d have a better look.

  I gasped. MISSING read the jarring headline in three-inch print. “She looks just like Whitney.” There in black and white was a giant picture of a beautiful woman with delicate facial features and a poufy, feathery nineties perm. “Well, except for the hair.”

  Tabitha skimmed the article. “It was a crummy time. Port Quincy was kind of innocent before that. Bad things happened, but no one expected to have a family member snatched off the street. My parents stopped letting me walk unaccompanied to my friends’ houses.”

  “Why didn’t people just think she left Porter?”

  “Some people did.” Tabitha cocked her head in thought. “But what kind of woman would run away and leave her child behind?” I thought of Summer’s mother and how she left her daughter with Garrett but didn’t remind Tabitha. “And some people thought Porter murdered his wife and hid the body.”

  “So where does the man who was convicted fit into all this?” Garrett’s client Eugene Newton had been convicted of Vanessa’s murder, but it didn’t sound like he was a suspect at first.

  Tabitha skimmed the article for a moment. “The prosecution relied a lot on Whitney’s memory of the event. The day her mother disappeared, Whitney heard Vanessa arguing with a man in the living room. She hid in the closet while the voices were loud, then crept out when they stopped. She saw a man in white leading her mother down the driveway.”

  I shuddered.

  “And appearances aren’t everything, because it turns out Vanessa and Porter did have a rocky marriage. Vanessa was having an affair with Eugene.” She stopped to skim another article. “He painted their house that summer. Eugene wore a white painter’s uniform while working on the Scanlons’ house. Vanessa’s body was found in the woods behind his property ten years after she disappeared, and that’s when he admitted the affair.” Tabitha typed in a new search and brought up an article from the mid two thousands. VANESSA SCANLON’S BODY FOUND, this headline screamed, with a picture of woods behind a tidy cabin.

  “Why are you interested? Because of Whitney?” Tabitha gave me a level gaze and turned her computer monitor back around.

  “I guess . . .” I didn’t want to seem morbid. I wanted to tell Tabitha about the letters Whit had received, but I’d promised not to. “And because Garrett is still so remorseful about how his case defending Eugene ended up.”

  I decided to switch the subject. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but I think Lois tried to get me to entertain a bribe in exchange for rezoning the B and B, right before she was murdered.”

  Tabitha dropped her cookie, and it broke on top of her keyboard. “Ugh, crumbs!” She picked it up and shook cookie dust out of the keys. “No way. You must have imagined it.”

  “Maybe.” Doubt crept into my voice, and I tentatively glanced up through the curls forming on my forehead from being out in the rain. “But I don’t think so. Maybe that’s why she was murdered. Do you think her death could be connected to Vanessa’s somehow, even though twenty years have passed?”

  Tabitha guffawed and reached for another cookie. “Lois wasn’t murdered; it was a horrible accident.” She took in my frown and softened her tone. “Lots of people couldn’t stand Lois Scanlon. She worked in human resources at the Senator Hotel in town. She had a reputation for being pretty hard on the employees, just like her sister, Angela, is at Pellegrino’s. But she wasn’t murdered,” she reiterated gently.

  “It hasn’t made the papers yet, but it turns out she was murdered.” I filled Tabitha in on the mints laced with Bloody Mary mix, and she gasped.

  “At least you’re off the hook now. But who would want to murder Lois?”

  “Now that she’s dead, I’m even more sure she offered me a bribe.” And some denizen of Port Quincy hadn’t taken her propositions lightly.

  Tabitha’s eyes widened. “I’ll keep my ear to the ground.” She blew out a breath that raised the bright red hair off her brow. “And I hate to say it, but now that’s the least of your problems. Your mother stopped by to see me today.”

  “My mother?” I squeaked.

  “Yup. You asked her to consult with me about redecorating the B and B. Well, her ideas of historically accurate are a bit different from yours and mine.”

  I hid m
y face in my hands and shook my head.

  “She wants to go with a more . . . modern theme.”

  “Spill it.” Keith and Becca’s cubist monstrosity flashed before my eyes.

  “Picture Miami Vice meets Lilly Pulitzer. Lots of tropical colors and whimsical fabrics. Flamingoes and mangoes and that kind of thing.”

  I started to laugh. “This is a joke, right?” So my mother was serious. I thought back to Whitney’s plum and harvest theme. Not many weddings would fit with my mother’s proposed redecoration.

  “We’ll just have to convince her otherwise.” Tabitha offered me a weak smile that let me know she thought my mother was a formidable character and it would be nearly impossible to convince her of anything.

  I closed my eyes with trepidation and tried to picture my mom’s vision for the B and B. I didn’t relish telling her a tropical vacation theme wouldn’t work for a late-nineteenth-century Italianate mansion in western Pennsylvania. Ever since her retirement, her heart had been with the Emerald Coast, and it seemed like her creative inspiration was there too.

  I switched subjects to something else that had been bothering me. “You told me Evelyn McGavitt used to knit in the tower bedroom.” I suppressed a shiver even though Tabitha’s office was cozy and warm.

  Tabitha arched an eyebrow.

  I reminded her about the strange noises I’d heard, and her eyes lit up. “The ghost of Mrs. McGavitt is in your bedroom!” she said, wide-eyed and suppressing a smile.

  “Let’s not be hasty. It could have been the house settling, or an animal in the walls or something.” I didn’t sound convincing even to myself. “There was one other odd thing, too. I smelled lilacs, but the bush outside has been dead for weeks.”

  Tabitha’s mouth dropped open, and her hand flew to her chest. “She was known for her lilac perfume!” She stood, and her chair knocked into the bookcase behind her desk. She bit her lip and ran her hands over the books. “Check this out.”

  It was a catalog of antique glass, and Tabitha’s finger flew down an index and flipped to a specific page.

  “An ‘Evelyn’ model glass lilac perfume decanter, McGavitt Glass Company, 1927,” I read the entry aloud. “What does this mean?”

  “Lilacs were her favorite scent. The McGavitt Glass Company had these purple lilac perfume decanters made in her honor, and they were some of their best sellers. There are thousands of these decanters scattered in antique stores all over the country. You know what this means.”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “You have a real, bona fide ghost!” Tabitha paced in front of her window, a slow smile softening her sharp features. “Mrs. McGavitt returning to haunt you now would make sense. She supposedly liked her house just so. Sylvia kept it like a museum in homage to her mother. The ghost of Evelyn McGavitt must be mad you’re renovating and changing her beloved Thistle Park.”

  “Ghosts can’t get mad because they don’t exist,” I said with a firm shake of my head. “And possible hauntings aren’t the only thing on my mind.” I fiddled with the small citrine pendant at my neck.

  “Let’s see.” Tabitha ticked items off on her slender fingers. “House trouble, permit trouble, ghost trouble. That leaves . . . man trouble?”

  I nodded and polished off the last piece of shortbread. “How long did Garrett and Natalie date?”

  Tabitha scowled at the mention of Natalie’s name. “For about a year.” She cocked her head and seemed to consider going on. “She pressured him for a ring.”

  I mulled this information over carefully. “A ring?” I hadn’t been able to discern this history between Garrett and Natalie, just that she was still way into him.

  Tabitha shook her head. “That’s just it, though. There was no ring. You can’t pressure Garrett, especially when it comes to dating. He’s not Port Quincy’s most eligible bachelor for nothing. He hasn’t been truly serious for a long time.” She smiled. “Until you.”

  “We haven’t even been on a single proper date!” I wailed. I stood and peered out the side window, where the rain danced down in buckets, soaking the fallen leaves and leaving passersby with sodden jackets and shoes.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, Mallory,” Tabitha soothed. “I know Garrett, and things between you two are progressing just fine.” She sent me off with a giant smile, and I gratefully huddled under Delilah’s umbrella.

  * * *

  “I quit! I never want to set foot in this creepy castle again.” The master tiler who’d restored all eleven decorative fireplaces knocked into me on the way out the door and didn’t stop to apologize.

  Jesse bounded after him, muttering about contracts and ghosts. He chased him halfway down the driveway, sputtering and begging and pleading. His size-sixteen shoes connected with each puddle and stream of water and sent up splashing geysers. Finally he gave up and bent over, heaving for air.

  I turned around to the hallway. “What’s going on?”

  Rachel and Hunter sprang down the stairs, holding fast to the newly replaced bannister. My sister looked wild, exhilarated, and beautiful.

  Uh oh.

  It was her falling-in-love face. Hunter mirrored her syrupy gaze.

  “That was freaking awesome!” Rachel bounced on the balls of her feet and clasped Hunter’s arm.

  Hunter rubbed his hands together and nodded at his video camera. “I caught it all, too.” He sheepishly looked at me and tried to push the camera behind his back a second too late.

  Why does he want to film so badly?

  “I haven’t decided whether to sign the film release or not.” I paused for a moment. “What happened?”

  “We were in the rose bedroom—,” Rachel began breathlessly.

  “And we heard a genuine spirit!” Hunter grinned and patted his camera. “All on tape.” He waggled his eyebrows. “That is, if you’ll let me keep it.”

  “I’ll sign the release.”

  If he was going to film anyway.

  Hunter whooped and put his dimples on full display. Rachel batted her eyelashes at him and placed her hand possessively on his arm.

  “Let me guess: the tiler was in the room.” The ghost hunters’ mission was already proving more trouble than it was worth if it lost us the best decorative tiler this side of the Alleghenies.

  “Mallory, you’re not listening!” Rachel squawked. “I heard it! A real, live ghost! It whispered, ‘Help!’”

  “Well, not a live one, Rach, because, you know—”

  “Stop being so analytical! There are ghosts in the house!” She turned in the thrill of the moment and planted a giant pucker on Hunter’s lips.

  He got over his initial shock and returned my sister’s kiss.

  A horrible buzzing noise grated through the stillness and forced the lovebirds apart.

  “What the . . .” Hunter stared at the ceiling and cocked his head.

  I cupped my ear. “It’s coming from the library.”

  Hunter, Rachel, and I rushed into the room. The noise got louder and louder. A soft dusting of plaster shook itself off the wreaths and vines carved into the ceiling and coated our heads like the finest snow. Above our heads, the blade of a circular saw suddenly broke through, the sound now deafening. It churned and whirred through the decorative plaster ceiling like a hot knife through buttercream frosting.

  “Get out of the way!” I heaved my sister to the left and landed on top of her with a clatter. The saw finished slicing through the layers of floor and ceiling above us. A whole patch of plaster surrounding the cut gave way, and the saw crashed through to the carpet, still plugged in to a bright orange extension cord and spinning its large silver teeth.

  “Turn it off, turn it off!” Rachel jumped back and screamed.

  Hunter gallantly approached the saw as if it were a grizzly bear and switched it off in one deft movement. A delicate dusting of plaster coated his thick chestnut hair, and he solemnly peered up through the ceiling at his brother, Ezra. Hunter was shaking and breathing in sharp, wheezy gusts of
air.

  “It was turned off when I left the room! I swear! This place . . .” He peered down through the hole in the ceiling at Rachel, who was now nestled in Hunter’s arms.

  Hunter stroked my sister’s hair and planted a kiss on top of her head.

  “I’m going to be sick.” Ezra stepped away from the hole in the ceiling.

  I couldn’t tell what had rattled him more—that a buzz saw turned itself on and sawed through a perfectly good ceiling or that his crush was canoodling with his brother. His footsteps retreated.

  My mother entered the library and looked stricken.

  But she wasn’t looking at the mysterious hole in the ceiling. She gazed in lovesick agony at Jesse, who’d just come in the library door. Rain poured off his hat and squished from his shoes with each step he took. He stopped when he saw my mother and mutely stared at her, the misery meter on his face falling another few notches. He was equally stricken. My mother turned and fled from the room and up the stairs.

  * * *

  The rain continued, and the next day dawned cold and gray. Fall had truly arrived, with a chilly mist that seemed to permeate the house with clammy moisture. The red leaves from the maples stood against the sky like flames, and the leaves from the sycamore trees popped like golden coins against the leaden clouds. The driveway was slick with matted fallen leaves. I minced down the path and dodged puddles to return with the sodden mail. At the bottom of the pile was a slim envelope from the Planning Commission.

  “What’s that?” Rachel peered over my shoulder.

  A wave of optimism crested, despite the gloomy day. “Maybe they mysteriously found my first application.” I unfurled the sheet of paper within and scrunched up my nose.

  “Good news or bad?”

  I read the letter as I walked through the hall to the breakfast room. “A little good, a lot bad. They acknowledge they received my original application to make this a B and B. But now they want more documentation above and beyond my business plan, financials, and building permits.”

  “Let me see that.” Rachel squinted at the tiny print enumerating the bajillion other documents I would have to scrounge up for the Planning Commission, some rather personal.