Murder Wears White

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  “Leave it all to me, Mallory. You’re going to love this.”

  The task before us at Thistle Park would require an especially deft hand and needed to be completed in record time, no less. There were 1950s chrome appliances, late 1800s photographs, and modern amenities like the large flat screen in the library. My mother needed to meld it all together. It would take a special touch to make it not look like an eclectic estate sale.

  “I’m so excited to show you girls.” She took a deep breath, shifting into pitch mode. “Picture this—a study in contrasts. Heavy and light, mahogany and sherbet, historical and whimsical.” She whipped the white sheet off and unveiled the design board.

  My eyes swept over the display. It was early Golden Girls with a touch of Versailles. My vision swam as I took in wicker, rattan, and cane furniture reupholstered with lime-green stripes. Silk melon plaids mixed with heavy Louis Quatorze–style furniture. I squinted at particular elements. There were turquoise chevron ottomans and a fainting couch redone in fist-sized canary polka dots. Live, twenty-foot-high palm trees would grace the entrance hall. Holy tamale! Maybe this was where Rachel got her sense of style. It was perfect for an opulent B and B located on the Emerald Coast, but rural western Pennsylvania?

  “What do you think?” My mother flashed a smile and waited for me to understand how awesome it would be.

  “It’s stunning,” I began. Then, at a loss for words, I added, “Simply stunning.”

  My mom nodded, her new hairdo sending strands flying into her eyes, which she impatiently brushed out of the way.

  “And I’d love to live in a house designed like this,” I continued cautiously. “But see,” I rushed on, “I was thinking of something more neutral. Something that would go with any kind of wedding.” I tried to imagine Whitney’s plum, gold, and chocolate theme nestled next to this tropical paradise.

  “That’s so worn and dated, Mallory dear. This is fresh and breezy, like a vacation down in the Caribbean.” Mom touched a fabric swatch with a loving hand. “This is cozy and sophisticated and delightful, just like you wanted, and it incorporates each existing piece of furniture, bringing in the historical elements you mentioned.”

  “Um, how is it historical?” I offered my question with a small smile.

  “Like if Malibu Barbie redesigned Buckingham Palace?” Rachel arched her eyebrows, staring at the design with frank confusion.

  “You don’t understand the genius of it. It will be simply marvelous.” My mom snatched up her presentation board, snapped it shut, and huffed up the back stairs.

  Rachel and I were charitable and counted ten seconds before we grabbed our bellies and howled into the cushions on the breakfast room chairs.

  “Great. I think she’s more upset with our reaction to her decorating scheme than she was about us probing her former romantic tryst with Jesse.”

  “It would be funny if we had a few more months,” I moaned. “But we really do need to decorate within two weeks.” My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I answered with relief when I saw who was calling.

  “Thank God.” It was Tabitha.

  “How did your mom’s presentation go? She told me she was showing you tonight.” Tabitha’s voice was both hesitant and sprinkled with mirth.

  “Did you see the presentation board?”

  “Um . . . yes. Yes, I did.”

  “So then you know.”

  Tabitha sighed. “It would be a great idea for a B and B a thousand miles south of here, perhaps on the water. But, yeah. It’s a no-go.”

  “You have to help me figure out a way to convince her to design something more historically accurate. If we had more time . . .” I felt awful. Mom had put her everything into the design, and it was gorgeous, but it just didn’t fit with the house and the region.

  We were silent for a moment.

  “What if we sweetened the deal?” Tabitha’s voice was pensive.

  “There is no deal. Mom is doing this out of the goodness of her heart.” I felt a stab of pain and vowed to chase after Mom and apologize. It was a stunning design, and she had put a lot of hard work into it.

  “No, I mean like an extra incentive? A contest!”

  “Hmm.” I paced around the breakfast room and knitted my eyebrows together. “A contest for the most accurate renovation?”

  “You don’t want it to be completely accurate,” Tabitha reminded me. “That would lead to antimacassars on horsehair couches. You want it warm and inviting, not fusty and frumpy. What about a contest for the most successful combination of historically accurate and cozy amenities?” I could hear her smile over the phone. “An unofficial contest, that is.”

  “Tabitha, I think you just saved the day.”

  “I’ll whip up some contest rules. It’s worth a shot.”

  “I owe you big-time.” A beep cut through our conversation. “I have to go. I have another call.”

  Tabitha and I bade each other good-bye, and I answered the other call with a grin. It was Garrett, and we had our first real, official, out-to-a-restaurant date scheduled for tonight.

  “I can’t make it.” His voice was tight and clipped and funny-sounding. “Something has happened.”

  * * *

  I took the steps two at a time when I reached Garrett’s office building. The rain had picked up and slanted nearly sideways against the crumbling art deco building. The days had grown shorter, and it was completely dark. It might as well have been midnight.

  “You can’t come in here, ma’am.” I nearly collided with the young cop standing in the doorway to the waiting room. He puffed out his chest and took a step toward me to block the entrance. “This is a crime scene.”

  “It’s okay.” Truman motioned me in, to the surprise of the young man, and gestured toward the corner. “Just don’t touch anything, Mallory.”

  I nodded and craned my head down the hall for any sign of Garrett. He emerged a second later and hurried over to give me a quick hug.

  “Sorry about our date.” His shoulders were hunched up, and his eyes held no small amount of shock.

  “You had a good reason for calling it off. What happened?” I looked around the small waiting room, which appeared untouched. There were piles of popular magazines and a chair and small couch for clients. Everything appeared in superficial order.

  “This way.” He gently steered me down the hall to his office. It was an utter disaster. Papers and files littered the floor like oversized pieces of confetti. A filing cabinet was upended, belching accordion files and manila folders over the carpet. His computer lay on its side on the floor, and someone had tried to break in the side of his desk with a hammer or other heavy object—there were golf-ball-sized indentations all along the metal frame, but the assailant hadn’t been successful.

  “What did they want?”

  “All of my files on Eugene Newton’s case.” Garrett motioned to the tipped-over filing cabinet with the scattered contents. “Three drawers worth, every scrap of information. I have most of it scanned electronically, thank goodness, but someone wanted the information badly. The funny thing,” Garrett rubbed the back of his neck, “is the odd timing. Yesterday I received an anonymous letter stating that Eugene is innocent and that I should revive the case to prove it.”

  A shallow wave of dread doused my nerves. I would have to tell him about Whitney’s identical letters, even though I’d promised to stay mum.

  “I still believe he’s innocent, but I exhausted his appeals years ago. Who would want to revisit his case? Why now, when Whitney’s in town? And how does it relate to someone trashing my office and stealing the files?”

  “Or Lois’s death?” I was about to continue when I was interrupted.

  “Someone should have locked all of their file cabinets.” Truman appeared in the doorway and jutted his chin out defiantly in the direction of his son.

  Garrett crossed his arms over his chest. I couldn’t believe they still weren’t talking, what with Garrett’s office being tossed.
<
br />   “Tell my father the front door to the building was locked, as was the door to the ante-office and my inner office. If someone wanted the information badly enough, a small filing-cabinet lock wouldn’t have stopped them. The locks to the office doors were picked, and probably not by an amateur.” Garrett’s eyes flashed, and he threw a glare at his father, even though he technically hadn’t been addressing him.

  “Humph.” Truman spun on his heel and stalked out.

  I let out a sigh and hoped he would pursue this crime as vigilantly as he would if he weren’t sparring with his only son.

  Garrett’s face was weary and pale from the ordeal and arguing with his father. “The cops said it would take a while to check for fingerprints. I’d ask my dad if they could speed up the process, but under the circumstances, forget it.” His handsome face was suddenly lined and exhausted. He ran a hand from the top of his forehead to the bottom of his chin.

  “You need to end your feud. It’s ridiculous to argue over a case from a decade ago.”

  “If I hadn’t gotten the call from Whitney, I wouldn’t have come back to the office to even discover this mess until tomorrow.”

  “Whitney?” I frowned and rubbed my arms. It was warm in the office, but the crime gave me the chills. Garrett’s office had been worked over, and not delicately. If the person who stole the files about Vanessa’s convicted murderer had picked the locks to get into the office, they didn’t need to break everything in sight. They had sent a message.

  “I’m the executor for Lois’s will, and Whitney wanted to meet first thing tomorrow to discuss it. I wanted to look it over tonight.”

  “Did she pull a Leona Helmsley?” I pictured the Westies outfitted in more than just designer scarves. Perhaps they’d have the run of Lois’s house or spend the rest of their doggy days traveling in the lap of luxury.

  A small smile ticked up the corners of Garrett’s mouth. “She left the bulk of her estate to Whitney, including the dogs, except for a small donation to Westie Rescue USA. Her estate was quite a bit larger than expected.” He frowned. “Lois was thrifty, except for the dogs and her annual trip to Scotland. She was an inveterate penny-pincher. And even though she spoiled the dogs like children, I never would have guessed at the fortune she amassed.”

  “Is that a problem?” A chill skipped down my spine as I remembered Lois’s hint about greasing the wheels of the Planning Commission if only I’d grease her palm in return.

  “I don’t know where she got the money. It worries me.” Garrett’s gaze was intense.

  I blushed and turned to tell Garrett about Lois’s offer, but I was cut off before I could confess.

  Truman burst into the room, his jaw tight and his eyes fuming. “I have another crime to investigate,” he announced with frigid importance, just as my phone rang. It was Whitney, and she was so hysterical I couldn’t understand her.

  Chapter Eight

  “It’ll be alright, sweetie.” I patted Whitney on the back and blinked in disbelief. It would not be alright, but I couldn’t tell her that. She’d just gotten off the phone with her fiancé, Ian, describing for him the scene I now took in.

  Her room in Keith and Becca’s house resembled Garrett’s office, but the perpetrator for this crime had used a knife instead of a blunt object. Everything was slashed. Whitney’s black luggage, the pillows, and the curtains had jagged rips running down their lengths. It had been decorated like a shiny peach bordello turned into a set for a slasher film. The downy apricot bedspread spewed feathers from a wide gash in the middle, as if a flock of geese had duked it out in this room.

  But the worst of it was reserved for her wedding dress. The garment bag that had carefully preserved the gown she was to be married in was ripped diagonally from one shoulder to the ground, leaving the bag and the gown within it in tatters. I couldn’t touch the gown, but I could see it hanging open in front, a strip torn through the middle, right where Whitney’s stomach would have been had she been wearing it. The delicate stark white sheath, covered in silver beads and seed pearls, was beyond repair. And sticking out above the dress, where the wearer’s head would be, was a note cleaved to the door by a butcher’s knife. It was printed with the message:

  GO BACK TO BALTIMORE

  An icy trickle ran down my back, and I turned from the sight. “Thank goodness the dogs are back at the B and B. And that you weren’t here, either.”

  “I was visiting my dad.” Whitney trembled. “I headed back to look over paperwork for a meeting with Garrett tomorrow to talk about Aunt Lois’s will. If I’d gotten here earlier . . .” She took in the scene again.

  Did she know she was now the heiress of a considerable fortune?

  Whitney burst into fresh sobs and backed away from the room. “I want to go home. I thought Port Quincy was my home, but I made a mistake. I’d be safer in Baltimore.”

  “Safer? Why not completely safe?” Truman’s ears perked up, and he strode over to Whitney.

  Faith Hendricks, his young police partner, stopped taking pictures of the slashed items and put down her camera. Her dark blond ponytail bounced off her shoulders as she looked back and forth between Whitney and Truman with interest.

  “Tell him about the letters,” I urged, giving Whitney’s shoulder a soft squeeze, effectively announcing their existence.

  “What letters?” Truman turned to me with a laser-beam focus, and I felt my features melting under his strict gaze. “Has someone been threatening you, Whitney?” His tone softened considerably, and the jowls on his face relaxed. He gave me an “I’ll deal with you later” look.

  “They started to arrive six months ago. They were sent to the hotel where I work in Baltimore. You can figure out my place of employment online. I guess they didn’t know my home address.”

  “Can I see them?” Truman was the picture of patience, as he probably didn’t want to disturb Whitney any more than necessary in her agitated state.

  “May I touch that?” She gingerly pointed to a small tan valise on a dresser, and Faith handed it to her. It appeared intact and untouched by the slashing knife. Whitney riffled through the contents once, twice, and a third time, her features growing more agitated with each search.

  “Th-they’re gone!” Whitney dropped the small bag. She walked away from the room, and Truman and I quickly followed her down the cutaway exposed staircase to the peach great room below.

  Truman picked up the pace to keep up as she told him what she’d told me: the letters were anonymous, appeared to have been typed on a typewriter, and claimed Eugene Newton hadn’t murdered her mother twenty years ago.

  “Garrett also received letters about Eugene,” I offered to Truman as I jogged to keep up.

  “What?” He paused on the stairs, and I ran into him with a thunk. “He didn’t tell me that. He’s purposely concealing information from my investigation.” Dark thunderclouds gathered in his eyes to mirror the weather outside.

  “Give me a break! If you’d deign to talk to him, maybe he’d tell you.”

  Truman deftly ignored me and continued down the stairs to talk to Whitney.

  “Our wedding rings were stolen too.” Whitney rubbed her bleary eyes. “Ian wants me to leave Port Quincy immediately. He’s coming here tomorrow, and we’ll leave for Baltimore later in the day.”

  I squeezed Whitney’s hand and nodded. I didn’t blame her for calling off the wedding this time.

  “Then we’ll be back to get married.”

  My mouth dropped open for a moment.

  Whitney sniffed and turned to me. “I’m not canceling the wedding. If anything, this drives home how delicate everything is. I’m getting married, and my dad will see it, and we are full steam ahead.”

  I tried to hide my shock. Keith and Becca ran into the room, clad in their work clothes. The red and blue lights from Truman’s police car streamed in the door behind them. Becca swept Whitney up in a hug, and Keith paced the room, talking animatedly on his phone.

  “May I have a word, M
allory?” Truman motioned me over to the sliding glass doors.

  The sun was long gone, and the wet black sky met the solid dark wall of the tree line beyond the modernist rock garden. I braced myself for a mini lecture and thought that if things had gone as planned, I’d be on my first official date with Truman’s son, rather than discussing secret letters with him in my ex-fiancé’s living room.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Whitney has been receiving letters about her mother’s murder?”

  I stood my ground and turned from the view. I went with the most simple explanation. “It wasn’t my information to tell.”

  Truman sighed and ran a tired hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. He didn’t ream me out. “I’m worried.” His face fell, and he dropped his voice so only the two of us could hear. “The Vanessa Scanlon case was bad business. We didn’t get a lot of murders in Port Quincy back then. That is, until you came to town.” He smirked. “We weren’t equipped to handle a kidnapping turned missing person and eventually a murder case. Garrett is right.”

  He stopped and cringed, as if it hurt him to admit it and drop the façade of his tiff with his son. Seeing his office ransacked tonight must have shaken him. Truman shook his head and went on. “From the way it was investigated, to the amount of time between Vanessa Scanlon’s disappearance and the discovery of her body, all of it was a bit of a mess. And now it’s resurfacing.”

  I stood in shock.

  Truman hated to admit he was wrong. It must be worse than I thought.

  “Sweetie beans, we can’t stay here.” Becca’s shrill voice cut through Truman’s musings. She stood with one hand on Whitney’s shoulder, the other on her cocked hip. “Keith, be a doll and find us a hotel. Preferably one with an in-house dry cleaner, room service, and a gym.”