Someone's Mad at the Hatter

by Sandra Bretting

  “She did, did she? Then I guess it’s not a secret.” Suzi laughed, but it was brittle. “You know what they say about small towns: News around here travels at the speed of boredom.”

  “Yes, that’s what they say. But I was surprised everything happened so fast between you two. Charlotte only died a few days ago.”

  The color slowly drained from her face. “Well, I don’t know what the Whidbee girl was thinking. I can’t speak for her. And I happened to have some free time.”

  “Really?” Only this morning, Suzi claimed to be booked solid. Before I could question her, she suddenly reached for my wrist.

  “Can I ask you something? What do you think’s going on around here? Seems like the whole town is going crazy.” She had a remarkably strong grip for a woman her age. “You need to be careful. I have a feeling it’s not over yet.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Her words were odd, but it was her face that startled me. She looked haunted, as if she knew something I didn’t.

  “Look, Suzi. If you know what’s going on around here, you need to tell Lance LaPorte. He’s the one investigating Charlotte’s murder.”

  That snapped her out of her reverie, and she quickly dropped my wrist. “My goodness . . . what was I thinking? Don’t pay any attention to me. Of course I don’t know anything else about it. I’m just on edge. Guess I’ll see you later.”

  She rushed away before I could say more. In an instant, she’d moved past Ambrose’s studio and started up the path that would take her to the atrium. She never once glanced back.

  If that doesn’t beat all. Once she disappeared into the lobby, I massaged my wrist as I walked into Ambrose’s Allure Couture. Hallelujah, Bo was by the counter again.

  He grinned the minute I entered. “Hey, there.”

  “Thank goodness you’re here, Bo.”

  “Uh, Missy.” His smile quickly faded. “Did you forget something?”

  “What? I don’t think so.”

  “The breakfast burrito, remember? You were going to bring me something to eat. Don’t tell me you forgot all about it.”

  My heart sank. “Oh, shine! I did forget.” It was a wonder Bo didn’t disown me right then and there. Everything I did for him lately turned out wrong. “I’ll go back and get it for you. It won’t take me long.”

  I began to move, but he stopped me. “No, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I can hold out until lunch. Besides, you look like something’s bothering you.”

  Only Bo could read my mood in three seconds flat. At this point, I didn’t know whether that made me feel better, or worse.

  “I have a lot on my mind.” I reached into the pocket where I kept my cell. “Here. Read this.”

  His eyes flew over the screen once I handed him the phone. “When you did get this?”

  “Maybe ten minutes ago. It happened right after Lance and I ate breakfast at his mom’s place. Who do you think sent it?”

  He handed it back to me. “I have no idea. But that’s evidence. You need to show it to Lance. Maybe he can trace it.”

  “Maybe.” I carefully set the device on the counter, reluctant to handle it any more than necessary. “But it looks like they blocked the call.”

  “Yeah, but maybe someone in his department can still trace it. That’s an admission of guilt.”

  “What I can’t get over is the tone. Like they’re blaming Charlotte for her own death. That part creeps me out more than anything.”

  “I agree.” He draped his arm around my shoulders protectively. “That’s not something a sane person would write. Good thing we’re in the same rent house so I get to keep an eye on you at night.”

  My heart sank even more. I wouldn’t be home tonight for Ambrose to protect me. Tonight I’d be on a date with Grady. What a wonderful way to repay his concern. I burrowed my head into his chest, grateful for the camouflage.

  “I’ll tell you what.” Too soon, he pulled away. “Why don’t you give me your phone and I’ll take it to the police station for you. I lied when I said I could hold out until lunch. I’m starving.”

  “Really? You’d do that for me?”

  “Of course.”

  I reached for the phone, until I remembered something else. “I might have to use it first, though. Beatrice told me about another bride who wants to cancel her appointment. At this rate, I won’t have any clients left by the end of the week.”

  He scooped up the phone anyway. “That’s okay . . . you can use my landline. There’s no point in letting your business go down the drain. I’ll take this right over to the police station, and then I’ll stop at the doughnut store on my way back.”

  My heart finished its free fall. Not only did someone send me an eerie text, but now Ambrose and Grady would stand in the same room, at the same time, without me there to chaperone. This was on top of everything else, like the cryptic warning from Suzi Wan and the disappearing client. Forget about bad things happening in threes; in my case, they happened in fours and fives.

  “Don’t look so glum,” he said. “I won’t be gone that long.”

  “I know. Just promise you’ll hurry back.”

  Surprisingly, he smiled. “Are you gonna miss me or your cell phone?”

  “You, of course. And, by the way . . . what should I tell your clients if anyone comes looking for you?”

  “Just tell ’em I’ll be right back. My next appointment isn’t due for half an hour. That’ll give me plenty of time to get over to the police station and then stop at the doughnut store.”

  “All right.” Odds were good my voice sounded as shaky as I felt. “Hope it all works out.”

  “Don’t forget to lock the door behind me. I’ve got two phones on the landline: one in the workroom and one out here. You can take your pick.”

  He slid the cell into his pocket and then moved to the exit. The moment he stepped outside, my shoulders slumped. This isn’t going to end well. Maybe if I race after him—

  The ring of a telephone interrupted my thoughts. The noise was coming from the other side of the wall; the wall that separated my studio from Ambrose’s. Obviously, I’d forgotten to forward the studio’s calls to Beatrice’s apartment. One ring passed and then another, so I yelped and hotfooted it to the door. Once I stood in front of my studio again, I peeled back the plywood panel, just like Suzi had done, and inched through the opening. By now, two more rings had come and gone, so I barreled to the counter and lurched for the telephone.

  “Hello?” I panted the greeting.

  “Hey, Missy. It’s me.”

  Relief washed over me. “Beatrice . . . I’m so glad you called. You wouldn’t believe what’s been going on around here. By the way, how did you know I’d be in the studio?”

  She chuckled. “I didn’t, but I figured your cell would have a dead battery, anyway. And if you weren’t by this phone, you’d be next door at Mr. Jackson’s, so either way you’d hear it.”

  Smart girl. “You know me too well. And I got your message this morning. Do you have the bride’s number? You know, the girl who wants to cancel her appointment.”

  “That’s what I’m calling you about. She left a message, but I wanted to make sure you got it.”

  I grabbed a receipt by the cash register and Beatrice rattled off the number. “Got it. Anything else I need to know?”

  Before she could respond, a knock sounded on the plywood door. It was a gentle tap that quickly escalated to a smack when someone backhanded the wood.

  “Rats—I’ve gotta go. Someone’s here.” I said good-bye to Beatrice and dashed to the plywood door.

  Halfway there, a voice called out. “Are you open? Pllleeeaaassseee tell me you’re open.” The speaker sounded upset, as if the fate of the free world hung in the balance.

  “Yes, I’m open.” I pried the plywood back from the wall to give her a larger opening through which to enter. “C’mon in. Sorry about the mess.”

  She slid in sideways, dragging a clear garment bag behind her. “Halleluj
ah and pass the mustard!” She deposited the bag, which turned out to be a dress cover from Belle of the Ball Bridals, in my arms.

  “What’s all this?” I asked. Something gauzy lay under the plastic. “Is it a veil?”

  “Don’t you remember me?”

  “I’m sorry . . . not off the top of my head.” I carefully brought the veil to the counter and slid it out of the wrapping. “This looks like one of mine, though.”

  “It is one of yours. You made it about a year ago. My wedding’s this weekend and . . .” Her voice trailed off as we both eyed the pile of lace.

  A giant tear zigzagged across the front. My heart sank, since haphazard rips were the hardest kind to fix. “Oh, my. Whatever happened to it?” I spoke quietly, since there was no need to upset the girl even more.

  “It was my engagement ring.” Tears sprang to her eyes anyway. “It got caught on the fabric. I only wanted to show my roommate. Next thing I knew . . .” She blinked, hoping to stave off the waterworks.

  “There, there. It’s okay. It’s not your fault.” Although technically it was her fault, she didn’t need to hear that right now. “First things first. What’s your name?”

  “Amelia. Amelia Biggs.”

  “Well, here’s what we’re going to do, Amelia.” I gently led her away from the counter, so she wouldn’t have to face the ruined veil, and guided her to a sitting area in the middle of the shop. The space included a gilded coffee table between two armchairs slipcovered in white linen, and I gently deposited her in one chair, while I took the other. “I think I can fix it. When’s your wedding?”

  “That’s the thing. It’s Saturday . . . Saturday night.” Sure enough, a fat tear rolled down the girl’s cheek. “And I’ve made a mess of things. What am I going to do?”

  I discreetly nudged a Kleenex box on the table toward her. “I’ll tell you what we’re not gonna do. We’re not going to panic.” Normally, the Kleenex came in handy for a much different reason, since mothers tended to burst into tears when they saw their daughter in a wedding veil for the first time.

  “It happened last night. I thought I’d try everything on one more time, and I forgot to take off my ring.” She yanked out a tissue.

  “I see.” I casually glanced down. An enormous diamond sparkled on the girl’s left hand. It was a princess cut, about the size of a dime, and every bit as shiny. “You’d be surprised how many brides rip their veils. But it’s usually at the reception, when someone dances on it.”

  She sniffled once or twice. Since she was growing calmer by the minute, I decided to keep up the chitchat. “I’ll use fabric glue on the edges. The glue will bond the material back together again.”

  “But won’t that show up under the lights?”

  “Not at all. They make it with silicone now, which you can’t see.” I searched my memory for any other tidbit to share, since my chitchat seemed to take her mind off her mistake. “You know, the Romans used glue on their clothes back in ancient days. You’ve seen those wreaths they wore? Those were bay laurel leaves dipped in gold. Then they stuck ’em together with an egg paste.”

  She’d stopped sniffling, so I must have been doing something right. “Really?”

  “Yep. And then they gave ’em to their Olympic athletes. ’Course, the Greeks used glue too, but they made theirs with fish parts.”

  A tiny smile emerged at that. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m just thankful we’ve got synthetic adhesives now. Otherwise, I’d have to fix your veil with fish guts.”

  The smile spread. “And you promise no one will notice the rip?”

  “Not a soul. Now, what’s up with the rest of your wedding? Do you have everything else under control?”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, it’s been one thing after another. I had no idea it’d be this hard to plan a wedding.”

  Bless her heart. I could’ve told her it was like staging a military battle, and I wasn’t even married yet. “Sounds like you’ve spent a whole year on it. That’s a long time to wait for something.”

  “But it’s not just the veil.” She leaned closer, forgetting all about the tissue in her hand. “You won’t believe what else has gone wrong. Hell’s bells. Just last weekend, my piano player up and quit on me. She cut her hand. Can you believe it?”

  “You don’t say.” My mind swirled at the coincidence. “You don’t mean Prudence Fortenberry, do you?”

  Her eyes widened. “Yeah. How’d you know it was her?”

  “Simple. Only a few folks play at all the weddings around here. Did she tell you what happened to her hand?” Now that we’d staved off the waterworks, there was no harm in gleaning some information. Try as I might, I never could get Prudence to tell me how she injured herself.

  “She said she cut it on a sharp piece of wood. She sounded pretty shook up.”

  “I can imagine. But did she say what she was doing when it happened?” While I didn’t mean to pry—well, maybe I did—I’d wondered why Prudence wasn’t more careful, since those fingers were her livelihood.

  “No, she didn’t tell me that part. I got the feeling it had to do with sports, though, because she said something about settling a score. To be honest . . . I kinda didn’t care. I stopped listening when she said she couldn’t play at my wedding.”

  “I understand. So, what did you do? Did you get someone else to play for you?”

  “Hallelujah, yes. I found a guy in New Orleans. He’s plays in a jazz band, but he can do classical too. He’s charging me a thousand dollars. Can you believe it? ’Course, I didn’t have much choice.”

  “Well, I’m sure it’s all going to work out. I’ll fix your veil this afternoon, and then I’ll give you a call.” I rose from the chair and padded over to the counter, where I plucked up the receipt I’d used during my telephone call with Beatrice. Once I returned, paper in hand, I passed it to her, along with a Bic. “Here. I just need your cell number. And try not to worry about anything else. Somehow, these things have a way of working out.”

  She dashed off a number, and then passed it to me as she rose. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t here today.”

  “No problem. Can you do me a favor, though? If anyone compliments your veil, can you please tell them you got it at my studio? I could use some of the good publicity with everything that’s been going on around here.”

  Chapter 18

  Once Amelia Biggs disappeared around the plywood opening—a whole lot happier than when she first arrived—I brought her veil and a big bottle of Fabri-Tac with me back to Ambrose’s place.

  Gluing the girl’s veil back together would be simple enough, once I matched the edges up. Since fixing such a large a tear normally took the steady hands of a surgeon, not to mention the patience of a saint—neither of which I possessed—I decided to cheat and use Ambrose’s standing press, which he kept in a corner of his studio. The machine would hold the pieces together while the glue dried, especially if I disabled the steam function by pulling the plug from the wall.

  I crossed the room and rolled back the heavy lid. My fingers worked the tatters together bit by bit, and, after a while, Ambrose returned to the studio through the front door.

  “Hey, there.” He swung a white paper sack in his hand as he crossed the room.

  I palmed the lace to hold the edges in place. “Whatcha got there?”

  “Leftovers. Want one?”

  I shook my head, since the last thing I needed was a reminder of his visit to Grady’s doughnut shop. “No thanks. What did Lance say about my phone?”

  “There’s good news and bad news. Turns out whoever sent you that text used an outside website to deliver it. Which means the cops can trace it on the back end.”

  “That’s good. So, what’s the bad news?”

  “It’ll take some time and he needs to keep your phone this afternoon.”

  I frowned. “For how long?”

  “He’ll be done with it toni
ght. You can pick it up around six.”

  Ouch. “But I can’t make it then. I promised Grady I’d meet up with him tonight, remember?”

  Apparently, Ambrose hadn’t remembered, because his face darkened. “Yeah. About that. You’re still going to dinner with him?”

  “I kinda promised him I would.” I pretended to study the lace, so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

  “I see. I thought you would’ve changed your mind by now.” His tone was icy.

  “Look, Ambrose, there’s no use for us to beat around the bush. You never said I couldn’t date anyone else.”

  “But you didn’t tell me until yesterday.”

  “I didn’t even know until yesterday.” It was a wonder I didn’t burn another hole in the fabric with my staring, but I couldn’t eye him just yet.

  “So you’re gonna go through with it?”

  “I told you . . . I already said I would. Is there some reason I shouldn’t?” Finally, I glanced up.

  His jaw was tense, along with every other muscle in his neck and shoulders. It was typical Ambrose: He’d say one thing, while his whole body screamed something else.

  “If you want me to call him and cancel, I will. But you’d better give me a darn good reason.”

  His jaw twitched ever so tightly, as he clenched it even tighter. It’d serve him right if he couldn’t speak at all now.

  “Well, if that’s the case, maybe you should go,” he finally said. “Have fun. Make a night of it. Hope you two have a great time. A fantastic time.” He abruptly turned, his shoulders taut as a drum.

  “Please don’t be like that.” I wanted to reach for him, but my ego got in the way. What if he shrugged away from me? Or, worse yet, ignored the gesture . . . as if my feelings didn’t matter? “It’s no big deal. Seriously. It’s just a dinner between friends.”

  “I said I don’t care. Just don’t forget to lock the front door when you get home.” He jerked around the table, but he wasn’t paying attention, and his hip slammed into the left corner. He flinched, but it didn’t stop him from walking away.