Murder Wears White

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  “You have to see this.” Rachel grabbed my arm and pulled me out the door.

  “Wait!” I yelped. My foot was asleep. I tottered after my sister as she pulled me down the hallway, my feeling-less left foot catching on the carpet.

  “Rach!” I limped after my sister as she dragged me down the stairs.

  “Whoa—when did you . . .” I stared up and up and up. A new chandelier winked merrily from the top of the great hall ceiling. It was massive yet delicate, with ever larger rings of sparkly brown, blush, and yellow sparrows in flight, chasing each other around and around in concentric circles.

  “Is that made with McGavitt glass?” I recognized the birds. There had been hundreds of them scattered in the curios around the house. My mother stood beaming below. “I had it made since the original chandelier was destroyed.”

  I hopped around on my right foot and marveled at the light. It was historical and fresh, at the same time, and utterly beautiful. It embodied everything I’d wanted for the B and B renovation.

  “Mom, it’s amazing.” I followed her around from room to room, where she showed me the treasures she’d scrounged up at flea markets and in the house’s storage. The furniture was at once plush and comfortable, with lots of chocolate velvet, navy twill, yellow silk, cream cotton, and sage-green chintz. The palette she chose was colorful enough to provide interest, with a riot of patterns and textures, and it would hold up well to years of use as a B and B and wedding venue.

  The old scarred and faded lacquer furniture was renewed with slick finishes and bold paint. She’d decorated with glass and paintings that had already been in the house, but the modern creature comforts like the flat screen in the library were tastefully displayed, and there were new poufy ottomans that doubled as storage. The downstairs was a masterpiece.

  “Thank you, Mom. I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”

  “Nonsense, Mallory. This was the most fun I’ve had in years.” Her eyes twinkled merrily. “You and Tabitha didn’t even need to craft that fake contest. And there’s one more surprise, but you’ll just have to wait until after the wedding.”

  I grinned and gave her a crushing hug. I just hoped the surprise wasn’t a proposal from Jesse.

  * * *

  That night I settled into bed with a full heart. Whitney’s wedding was in less than forty-eight hours, and we might just pull off the renovation. My excitement dampened as my mind strayed to Lois’s murder. It seemed like Truman was no closer to finding the killer. I reached for my laptop and idly perused the Senator Hotel website, trying to imagine Lois’s enemies there. The photos were old and out of date.

  The Senator seemed to cater to gas industry muckety-mucks, and the online comments were the usual mixed bag of praise and complaints. I took mental notes and used the reviews as a hint to what I might deal with at the B and B. Customers protested about water pressure, lackluster breakfasts, and noise.

  “The Senator was once the grand dame of hotels in Port Quincy, but she’s past her prime,” Jeff from Cincinnati wrote.

  “Enjoyed the Virginia spots at dinner, but my asparagus was overcooked.” Judith from Clarksburg, West Virginia, opined.

  “MY CREDIT CARD HAS SHOWN HINKY CHARGES EVER SINCE I STAYED HERE,” Luther Bayliss’s review screamed out in all caps. Out of several dozen reviews, two more people complained of phantom charges. Below each review was a rebuttal, posted by a Senator employee.

  “We’re sorry to hear that, but we take the security and comfort of our guests very seriously. We are certain the charges you are experiencing are not due to your stay at the Senator. H. H.”

  Was H. H. Hunter Heyward? His responses didn’t do much to allay visitors’ fears, and I made a note to never argue back with customers when the B and B had reviews online. I drifted off to sleep with my laptop open next to me, trying to prepare for the Planning Commission hearing the next day. Helene’s contractors had almost saved the day, and I hoped for one more miracle.

  Chapter Twenty

  Halloween dawned cool and gray. The sun barely showed its face behind somber clouds, and a mist blew in from the west. Almost all of the leaves had fallen from the trees, and the wind clicked bare branches against the window. I threw back my comforter and strained to hear the floor buffer in the hall downstairs. It was music to my ears, the last key to the renovation before we could turn to preparing for Whitney’s wedding tomorrow. I quickly showered in the newly painted bathroom and suited up for battle. Today was my hearing before the Planning Commission. If they didn’t approve my application for rezoning, I wouldn’t be able to hold weddings at Thistle Park or run it as a B and B. My bequest from Sylvia, Keith’s grandmother, would turn into the ultimate white elephant gift.

  “You’ll be approved,” I admonished my reflection and smeared on some tinted lip gloss. “You have to be.”

  But even Helene hadn’t been confident about swaying the Planning Commission to my side, and she was the reigning dowager empress of all Port Quincy.

  I donned a black suit from my days as an attorney and added an orange scarf at my neck in a nod to the holiday.

  Rachel knocked, then peeked her head into the bathroom.

  “How do I look?”

  “Like you can kick ass and take names.” Rachel straightened my scarf and untangled a curl from a hoop earring. “Knock ’em dead.”

  We both winced at her choice of words. I knew she was thinking about Charity too.

  I drove the Butterscotch Monster into town, with shaking hands on the big steering wheel. Rachel rode in the back, and Mom rode shotgun, there for support. I nodded to the silly statue of the town founder, Ebenezer Quincy, on my way into the municipal building. I sent a little prayer skyward.

  The hearing took place in a medium-sized meeting room in the basement, across from the Planning Commission office. The board sat arrayed before me: Troy Phelan in a black turtleneck, Keith in a double-breasted suit, and three other people I didn’t recognize: an older woman, a man in his mid-forties, and a gentleman who had to be over eighty. Ingrid Phelan was seated in the back and blew a kiss to her husband.

  “This meeting is now called to order.” Troy pummeled a small mallet and gestured for me to stand with a flick of his hand.

  “Mallory Shepard has petitioned this board to rezone her property at one twenty-seven Sycamore Street from strictly residential to mixed use so she can reside there and also run a bed-and-breakfast and wedding venue.”

  The older man at the end of the row began to snore, his hairy chin rising and falling gently with each breath he took.

  “State your case, Ms. Shepard.” Troy shuffled papers in front of him with practiced, self-important movements.

  “My property consists of several acres and adequate space for parking and tents. The house itself, along with the greenhouse, can safely accommodate parties of two hundred per the fire code. The grounds are large enough to host weddings quietly, without disturbing other residents.” I thought of Charity and stifled a shiver. “The traffic study concluded Sycamore Street can handle the occasional traffic that a wedding or large event will bring. All of the renovations and construction permits were approved. I successfully completed online coursework to become a hotel operator, and you’ve found all of my papers to be in order.” I took a deep breath and stepped around the table to approach the board. “My request to have Thistle Park rezoned as mixed use, allowing me to operate my bed-and-breakfast and wedding-planning business should be approved and granted. Thank you.” I carefully paced back to the small table in front of them and gingerly sat down. The chair was extra low, and the small table was dwarfed by the high semicircle of the bench in front on me. The effect was to force the petitioner to stare up at the board in a beseeching manner.

  “Be that as it may, there might not be enough business in this town to support two B and Bs. Especially,” Troy smiled, “now that the Mountain Laurel will be hosting weddings.”

  “The subject at hand for this hearing is my property, I believe, n
ot speculation about business at another venue.” I tried to steer the conversation back to Thistle Park and approving my request for rezoning.

  “He’s right.” Keith stared down his nose at me. “This town doesn’t need two B and Bs.”

  “Ahem.” All of the board members turned left in surprise. The older gentleman on the end cleared his throat again and let out a phlegmy cough. He hadn’t been sleeping after all.

  “It seems to me,” he leaned forward, “that there is a need for another B and B. The gas company execs have told me there’s often no vacancy at the hotels here in Port Quincy, and that they have to board people in Pittsburgh and make the drive.”

  “And there aren’t many places around here to hold big weddings,” the middle-aged man mused, rubbing his chin. “Your B and B is awfully small, isn’t it, Ingrid? And it’s not like you’re currently hosting weddings.” He stared at Ingrid in the back of the room.

  Ingrid bristled and opened her mouth when the older woman piped up. “This isn’t really the matter at hand, as Ms. Shepard stated. Her concern is rezoning her property, and she seems to have put in the proper paperwork and proof.” She patted the nearly foot-high stack in front of her.

  “All in favor of rezoning one twenty-seven Sycamore Street as mixed use, to allow Ms. Shepard to run it as a B and B and hold weddings?”

  “Nay.” Keith and Troy bellowed their answers.

  “Aye.” The older man and woman and the middle-aged man were more measured in their assent, but it was clear. Three to two in favor of rezoning.

  “Whoo-hoo!” I jumped up in a very unladylike manner and did a mini fist pump in the air.

  A chorus of cheers sounded behind me. Mom, Rachel, and Garrett stood at the back of the room, clapping and grinning. Garrett winked, and my heart fluttered.

  “You may hold the wedding as planned tomorrow, Ms. Shepard. We’ll issue you a temporary emergency variance. Pick up your rezoning paperwork on Monday. This hearing is adjourned.” The older woman reached over Keith to grab Troy’s mallet and hit it with a resounding clang.

  “You did it! You did it!” Rachel hopped over the bannister and enveloped me in a hug.

  Keith frowned at us and stormed out of the room. He was closely followed by Ingrid and Troy Phelan, muttering about fixed votes.

  “I had a little help,” I admitted, thinking of Helene.

  I finally recognized the older woman. She was a member of the board at Dunlap Women’s Academy, just like Helene. She was regularly featured in the newspaper’s society page. Had I bought her vote by promising to throw the Winter Ball? A haze of regret clouded my head, and I began to think of all the strings attached to our deal, some ethical, some not. But I didn’t have time to stew over it.

  Thank you, Helene. I looked up for the pigs I was sure would be aloft, flapping their wings in V formation like autumn geese. I wouldn’t make a habit of being in Helene’s debt.

  “C’mon, sis.” I linked arms with Rachel, and we walked back to my mom and Garrett. “We have a wedding to put on.”

  My phone rang and rang as I left the municipal building. Garrett kissed my cheek and glanced at his watch.

  “I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you later tonight with Summer?” His eyes twinkled in anticipation of Halloween.

  I grinned in return. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I watched him amble away, with moony eyes. Rachel rolled hers.

  She glanced at my cell phone as I pulled it out of my purse. “Just let them leave a message. You don’t have time for calls.”

  I glanced at the screen and shook my head. “I’ve got to take this. It’s Jesse, and it must be pretty important if he can’t just wait until I get home.”

  “Mallory, we need to talk. I know you’re good for it, but, um, your last check? It bounced.” Panic seized my heart then dissipated. It had to be a mistake. I’d just checked the account I used to pay for construction this morning.

  “There must be some misunderstanding. Paying Helene’s contractors and the furniture restoration nearly wiped me out, but I have enough. Tell you what. I’ll check my account, and if there’s a problem, I’ll make it right with the bank,” I said.

  “That didn’t sound good.” Rachel gestured to my phone. “Are we having money problems?”

  “It’ll be super tight this month, and we have no wiggle room, and I really need Whit’s wedding to go off. But Jesse’s check couldn’t have bounced.” I punched in the numbers for my online banking account and felt the blood drain from my face and hit my stomach.

  * * *

  “Money doesn’t just walk out of bank accounts all on its own.”

  Rachel, my mom, and I sat in supplication before the bank manager at the Port Quincy Savings and Trust.

  “It didn’t walk out, Ms. Shepard.” Charlene Rigsby, bank manager, turned her monitor around and slid her finger down a line of transactions.

  “There. Three days ago, you logged in and transferred twenty-five thousand dollars to this account in Zurich.”

  “But I don’t know anyone in Switzerland!”

  Charlene shook her head. “You can fill out these forms, and we’ll get to the bottom of this. It could be identity theft.”

  “It could be? We need to call the police.”

  “We’ll be doing that, Ms. Shepard,” Charlene sniffed. “Are you positive you didn’t transfer these funds yourself? The bank can’t just reimburse you at your word.”

  My mother stared, incredulous. “If my daughter said she didn’t transfer these funds, she didn’t. There must be some explanation and a way to get the funds transferred back.”

  “We’ll leave that up to the authorities and assign our fraud team to this matter immediately.”

  “But when will the funds be returned?”

  Charlene gave me a level look. “I’m not sure. That depends on the results of the investigation.”

  The three of us left the bank swathed in a cloud of dread.

  “What am I going to do?” I wailed.

  “Jesse will believe you,” Rachel soothed.

  “I know he will. But he has a business to run, and he can’t wait months to get paid. Thank goodness all of the vendors are paid for Whitney’s wedding, and the food and drinks are purchased.”

  “Who could have broken into your account?” My mother fingered the mother of pearl buttons on today’s sweater set ensemble, black with a haunted house and Casper-like ghosts embroidered on the front.

  “No one! I change all of my passwords every few months. And this was an account that wasn’t tied to a debit card. I created it strictly for the renovations, and I meant it to be a slush fund, untouched. The checking account I wrote Jesse’s payments out of was tied to this account. There should be plenty left.”

  Rachel bit her lip. “We don’t have time to figure this out right now, Mall. We need to get Summer ready for trick or treating.”

  I willed my heart to stop beating like a hummingbird. We climbed into the Butterscotch Monster and dropped Mom off to work on Whitney’s decorations. Rachel and I headed over to quickly transform Summer into the prettiest, most horrific zombie princess Port Quincy had ever seen.

  * * *

  Summer paced nervously in her room, and I stood back in awe.

  “You’ve got to stop moving around, sweetie.” Rachel stood before Summer with blood-red lipstick and a fine makeup brush. “More gore on your left cheek?”

  “Yes!” Summer stared in the mirror as Rachel expertly painted on another dribble of red.

  “There. Whaddya think?” She spun Summer around, and I stared for a minute then burst out laughing.

  “It’s brilliant.”

  The Glinda the Good Witch dress, an airy, floaty, gauzy pink cupcake of a gown, was slashed and drenched in red paint. Summer’s arms were awash in ichor, and her face was a study in dark zombie eyes and bloodstains, thanks to my makeup-artist sister. Her short blond pixie was concealed under a ratty brown wig. She affected a zombie’s herky-jerky gait, her a
rms stretched out before her.

  “Wait, I have one more thing.” Rachel reached into her bag and extracted a tiara she’d artfully painted with something that resembled blood. Half of the pink rhinestones were painted rusty red, and bits of leaves and twigs had been glued onto the crown.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “I was Miss Pensacola Spring Break last year. I took first in the swimsuit contest.” Rachel beamed proudly and affixed her trophy to Summer’s wig. “Perfect.”

  “Let’s go show Dad and Grandma!” Summer tore open her bedroom door.

  “I don’t know how Lorraine is going to take our execution of this zombie princess idea.”

  “She’ll love it,” Rachel flicked her hand in dismissal. “Everybody wins. Lorraine gets a princess, Summer gets to be a zombie like her friends, and we get to destroy Natalie’s dress. Speak of the devil.” She nodded her head to the window, where I saw a yellow VW Bug pull into the drive.

  “I didn’t think Natalie would actually care what Summer did to her costume, since she said she didn’t want it back.”

  “Summer, you look awesome!” Garrett laughed and picked up his daughter’s hands. He stepped back to take in the full effect of her zombie-princess glory. “You’re the prettiest, scariest zombie in the history of Halloween.” He gave his daughter a hug and came away with fake blood on his cheek.

  “Thanks, Dad.” Summer grinned and did a twirl in her Glinda dress.

  “Let’s see this costume.” Lorraine bustled into the room carrying a plate of Halloween goodies: candied apples, black and orange thumbprints with sprinkles, and a pitcher of apple cider. She took in Summer and stopped in her tracks, then let out a wail like a banshee.

  “What have you done to my grandbaby!” She dropped the tray. The pitcher glanced off the coffee table, drenching her carpet in sticky sweet liquid.

  “Mom, it’s alright.” Garrett steadied his mother and sopped up the cider with a pile of leaf-pattern napkins.

  “I just thought I’d snap a few pics of Summer in my costume . . . you ruined my Glinda dress!” Natalie raced into the room and made a grab for Summer.