Still, I’d stayed the Hermès out of his way for the better part of my life.
Werner eyed me. “Still a glamazon, I see,” he noted with scrutiny, resurrecting the ‘hot button’ that had caused his downfall. But from the near side of thirty, having been a grammar school glamazon sounded pretty damned, well, glamorous.
“I hear you make your living taking in sewing,” he said, pen and notebook in hand.
From glam to glum in twelve seconds. “I’m a designer, Lytton. In New York. With Faline.”
“Who’s that? Your cat?”
Four
Disgraceful I know but I can’t help choosing my underwear with a view to it being seen.—BARBARA PYM, 1934
In the midst of my scissor dance with the Wiener, Nick rubbed the side of his nose and cleared his throat.
“Right, the investigation,” I said, understanding his amused reminder. But I still felt as if I was about to be strip-searched. Thank God for the designer label on my padded underwire and lucky panties.
Lucky? Hah. I had now officially lost faith in pots of gold and “the pluck of the Irish.” “Sergeant Werner, you remember my father?”
He nodded and shook my father’s hand. “I took one of your English classes. You failed me.”
Wooly knobby knits! We wouldn’t catch a break if we kissed the Wiener on his toasted buns and welcomed him to the family. “And this is Fiona Sullivan,” I added, revealing none of my angst.
Werner raised a brow, his expression filled with speculation. “Already decided you need a lawyer, did you?” He added to his notes. “One of the best . . . they say.”
“No. No!” I said. “Aunt Fiona’s a family friend. She’s here because she hadn’t left the party, yet.”
“She’s a friend but you call her ‘aunt’?”
I sighed at the non-relevance but knew that my impatience would only make matters worse. “She was my mother’s best friend. We’ve always called her ‘aunt’, because she was there for us after Mom died.”
“So the murder took place during a party,” Werner said, ignoring my explanation as if I’d asked the dumb question, “and nobody heard a scream? A scuffle? Anything?”
All I could think about was the fact that we’d all heard Sherry’s threat.
Everyone shook their heads, except for Nick. “Well,” he said, “I heard Maddie scream Jasmine’s name when she was trying to rouse her, but only because I was on my way up to find her.”
“To find Jasmine, or Maddie?” Werner asked.
“Maddie, of course.”
“Of course.” Werner looked me in the eye. “So you found the body?”
Why did he seem almost . . . entertained . . . by that? Payback?
“Unfortunately,” I said.
He hadn’t blinked since his gaze caught mine and held it captive. “I got the official FBI version,” he said, “now give me yours.”
I told him everything that happened from the time I went into Brandy’s room.
He asked who’d attended the party and we all answered at once with different names. He held up a hand. “Just give me the guest list.”
We all looked at each other.
“No guest list?” Werner said. “That’s convenient.”
“It’s not convenient,” I snapped. “It’s small-town, last-minute, word-of-mouth informal: ‘Come and bring your brother’s girlfriend’s sister.’”
“Funny,” Werner said to himself, head down, scribbling. “I didn’t get an invite, directly or indirectly.”
I rolled my eyes.
Werner raised his head in time to catch me. “Attorney Sullivan,” he said, not taking his gaze from me, “start a guest list. Put down everybody you remember, then pass it around so you can each add names that might have been missed. Bring it to the station in the morning when you come to give your official statements.”
“Then what?” I asked.
“Then I’ll bring in your party guests for questioning.”
Scare tactics. He couldn’t question them in their own homes.
A uniformed team came downstairs and spread through the house like fire ants at a picnic. I felt a hot sting at every door, drawer, or box they opened. They snooped into every corner, one going so far as to open my father’s humidor and smell his pipe tobacco.
“She wasn’t smoked to death,” I snapped. “You knew that was tobacco. Smelling it was just rude.”
My father wanted me to shut up, but Werner gave the officer a look that said the man would hear more about it later.
Hmm. Maybe Werner did have some redeeming qualities. Well, one.
Aunt Fiona, Nick, Alex, and my father stood back, while I kept track of the officers, and Werner kept track of me. In the kitchen, they checked the leftovers and took samples, spooning a bit from each dish into small clear-plastic zip bags. They also dusted the kitchen for fingerprints.
“Good grief, she wasn’t poisoned,” I said. “She was strangled.”
“With a bridal veil bearing your fingerprints.” Werner spoke so close to me, he startled me and nearly smiled when I jumped. “Another statement like that and I’ll assume you know what you’re talking about.” He made a few more notes. “Tell me again why your fingerprints are all over the possible murder weapon.”
“Jasmine couldn’t breathe!” I snapped.
“So she was struggling?”
“No.”
“Twitching?”
I released a breath and shivered. “No.”
“Not even a little finger?”
“Wait a minute, people pass out cold all the time and they’re roused.”
“So you gave her mouth-to-mouth?”
“No, damn it. I panicked, untied the veil to allow air into her lungs, and sat her up so she could breathe easier. I wish I had thought to give her mouth-to-mouth.”
“Panic,” Werner repeated. “Do you always panic, as if you’re personally responsible, when somebody’s hurt? Did you panic at every body you saw on the New York streets?”
I tamped down the precise fury that had driven me to mock this man when he was a boy.
I’d panicked because my sister would likely be blamed, damn him. “This is our home,” I said. “Jasmine Updike was a guest here. Of course I felt responsible.”
“Good enough.” Werner removed his sharp, assessing gaze from my expression, and walked around the main floor, poking into the buttery, chimney cupboards, kitchen cabinets, fireplaces, hutches, jars, and canisters, before making his way back to the den.
“Stairs,” he said. “How many sets of stairs in this house?”
My father cleared his throat. “Five.”
“Five?” Werner frowned and looked at me for an explanation.
I ticked them off on one hand. “Front stairs, back stairs, keeping-room stairs, cellar stairs, and attic stairs.”
“Well, that explains how a killer could slip away so easily in a house full of people. The wedding dress upstairs,” he said, changing tack. “Who does that belong to?”
I shook my head. “I’ve never seen it before.”
His gaze slid from me to Nick and back. “I would have expected it to belong to you.”
“Me and Nick? No way.”
Nick winced.
My father sighed. “It’s the Vancortland family wedding gown, the surprise Deborah was going to give Sherry.”
“Dad, how could you let Deborah do that?”
Clueless, my father furrowed his brows. “What? Why not?”
“You should have told Deborah that I planned to design Sherry’s wedding gown. We’ve only talked about it all our lives.”
My father cupped his neck and stood to stare out the window, probably wishing again that my mother were here.
Nick cleared his throat. “Mad, I moved the gown as soon as Sergeant Werner gave me the okay. It’s in your closet like you asked, so Sherry wouldn’t connect it to the murder, in the event she ended up wearing it.”
I questioned Werner with my look. “So y
ou knew from Nick that it was probably Sherry’s?”
Werner shrugged as if he could care less what I thought.
My father straightened and tilted his head my way. “You knew it was likely Sherry’s, as well.”
“It’s a wedding gown, Dad, and Sherry’s about to get married. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to make the leap. Sure, I’d like a vintage wedding dress, if the time ever comes, a gown I’d prefer to choose myself—but Sherry isn’t me. And Deborah isn’t Sherry’s favorite person.”
My father shook his head. “And you expected me to think like you and make sense of all that emotional and preferential information?”
“Dad, it’s okay. Now that I think about it, Deborah probably wanted to make a scene of presenting the gown, so she’d look gracious and generous. In company, Sherry wouldn’t have been able to say no without looking like an ungrateful brat. Then again, maybe that’s what Deborah wanted, a public rift, so Justin would have to choose between them.”
Werner raised a brow. “Suspicious, aren’t you?”
“And you aren’t?”
“Suspicion is my job.”
“I’m the closest to a mother Sherry has, so it’s my job to protect her.”
“Why do you think she needs protecting?”
“Have you ever met Deborah Vancortland, her soon-to-be mother-in-law?”
Werner coughed. “Enough said, but it’s only your job to protect your sister to a point. Wait, isn’t she your baby sister? And she’s the bride?”
Score one for the Wiener.
Sherry came rushing in, breathing hard, as if she’d been running. “Mrs. Sweet said there’d been an ambulance here. And what’s with the cop cars? Did somebody get sick? Was it the cake? I’ll bet it was the cake.”
“Why would you think it was the cake?” Werner asked without introducing himself.
“Because the cake lady gave it away. Who gives away free cake? Hey, aren’t you—”
“Detective Sergeant Werner,” I said, giving her a heads-up, trying to cut off the word “Wiener” at the pass.
“Oh, right. What’s up?”
“How well did you know Jasmine Updike?”
“Not very. She hasn’t been in Mystic for long. All I know is that she was once my fiancé’s study partner.”
Werner looked up at her. “And your fiancé is?”
“Justin Vancortland.”
“Right. Maddie told me that. Son of Justin Vancortland the Fourth.” Werner whistled. “Your future mother-in-law isn’t going to like the publicity this is going to cause. She’ll be the talk of the country club and not in a good way.”
No kidding, I thought, seeing Sherry’s confusion. “What publicity?” she asked. “Why? What did Jasmine do, steal the silver?”
Werner regarded Sherry with a cryptic expression. “I take it you don’t think much of Jasmine Updike.”
“I think she’s a conniving bitch, and I wish she’d stop trying to steal my fiancé, if you wanna know the truth.”
Werner nodded. “The truth would be helpful in this situation.”
Sherry folded her arms and huffed. “What situation?”
Though I’d been trying not to beat my head against the wall as my sister dug herself deeper, I stepped her way and took her hands. “Sweetie, Jasmine was . . . is . . . she’s—”
“Dead,” Werner said. “Someone strangled her upstairs with a bridal veil during your party.”
Sherry paled as only a blonde could. “I don’t believe it.”
“Do you own a bridal veil, Miss Cutler?”
Five
I am blessed or cursed, depending on how you look at it, with an incurably restless spirit and the ability to work hard.—SALVATORE FERRAGAMO
“Don’t try to pin this on Sherry,” I snapped. “I’ll prove she didn’t do it.”
Werner accepted the challenge with the light of victory in his eyes. “I’ll pin it on her,” he said, “to borrow your cop-show cliché, if after the autopsy, and my investigation, your sister is still my prime suspect.” He dismissed me with a hand flick and turned to Aunt Fiona. “Who should I notify of Ms. Updike’s untimely end?”
“Why would Aunt Fiona know?” I asked.
“I apologize,” Werner said. “Attorney Sullivan seems always to have such an . . . eclectic . . . store of information.”
To give Sherry credit, she had remained stoic at being told she was a suspect, but now, at the mention of notifying Jasmine’s family, her eyes welled up and she began to tremble. Touching a finger to her lips, she composed herself. “Jasmine was staying with the Vancortlands,” she said. “Deborah would most likely have her home address.”
Werner closed his notebook. “I think we’re done here for now. I want you all down at the station around ten tomorrow, to give your formal statements. Agents Jaconetti and Cutler, no need to come down. Access the paperwork and fax it over.”
He eyed them cryptically. “Which doesn’t rule you out for questioning at a later date, you understand? And, by the way, this is my case.” He eyed Nick and Alex like a poker player watching for their “tells.”
The FBI versus the Podunk PD.
Taller than Nick and damned good-looking for a Wiener, the detective still had a Napoleon complex where the Feds were concerned. I’d have to keep that in mind.
“We understand,” Alex said.
“Of course you do.” Werner dismissed them. “Attorney Sullivan, please bring the guest list with you when you accompany the Cutlers to the station in the morning.” He placed his notebook in his breast pocket. “List caterers, rental company employees, and whoever else worked the party,” he added, as if she were his secretary.
From Aunt Fiona’s expression, and in light of our earlier conversation, I half expected her to turn him into a slug. I wished I could. Not sure she could, either. Guess I had a few questions about the whole witch thing. As soon as I got up the nerve to bring up the subject again, I just might ask them.
Werner turned to leave and, with his back to us, raised an arm in a half wave.
Hail to the poker player who held all the cards . . . so far.
When the front door clicked shut, Sherry fell into Dad’s chair. “Aunt Fiona,” she said, her voice faint. “I think I need a lawyer.”
“You have one, dear,” Fiona said, coming over to stroke Sherry’s hair.
“This is preposterous,” my father snapped, about as angry as he ever got.
Fiona squeezed Sherry’s shoulder and focused on Dad. “Blustering never got you anywhere, Harry. Action is what we need, and information. Did you mean what you said, Maddie, about proving your sister’s innocence?”
“I always mean what I say.”
My father scoffed. “How can you tell, Madeira, when you say it before you think it through? You practically pronounced Sherry guilty by vowing to prove she wasn’t.”
“I did not. She’d already told him how she felt about Jasmine, and he knew she was getting married. Of course the veil was hers. I just skipped ahead a few beats.”
“Well . . . see that you don’t rush Sherry into a jail sentence.”
I didn’t know who was more appalled at his words, me or my father.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m—”
Fiona touched his arm. “Scared out of your mind for your daughter’s safety?”
Dad looked up at her in surprise because she, his nemesis, of all people, understood. “Which doesn’t give me the right to attack Madeira,” he said.
I sat on the edge of his chair and nudged his shoulder. “It’s okay, Dad. I understand. I’m as frustrated as you are.”
The kitchen phone rang and I ran to answer it.
When I completed the call, I pulled the phone plug.
As soon as word of Jasmine’s murder got out, half of Mystick Falls would be calling. They’d rally around us and smother-hen the lot of us the way they did when Mom died, which was wonderful . . . except that one of them has to be the killer.
; “That was Deborah on the phone,” I said, rejoining the family in the den. “She wanted to know if Jasmine was still here, and I told her that I didn’t know where she was.” Surprise registered in their expressions. “Well, I don’t,” I said, my voice cracking.
“On a slab in the medical examiner’s office,” Alex said. “I understand why you couldn’t have said that, Sis. You did fine.”
Nick put a strong supportive arm around my waist, and I appreciated the subtle statement that he’d be there for me, for all of us. “Deborah invited us, well, ordered us, to her place for dinner tomorrow night. I’m supposed to bring the surprise to her beforehand without telling Sherry.”
Sherry came out of her fog. “What?”
“You may as well know sooner rather than later and with all of us to support you, sweetie, that Jasmine tried to distract you so that Deborah could prepare her surprise for you—the family wedding gown that generations of Vancortland brides have worn.”
Sherry sighed. “Oh, goody.”
“Sherry, I—”
“It’s okay, Mad. I can’t think of anything but Jasmine’s death and Werner’s determination to prove I’m her killer.”
“Listen,” Alex said. “I hate to bail in the middle of a storm, but I’ve gotta get on the road. Tricia’s been alone with the baby and her mother all day. She must need a break by now.”
I touched my brother’s arm. “Will you run Jasmine’s name through the system tomorrow? See if you can find out anything about her?”
“I’m on my way to D.C. at dawn, Sis. Nick, can you take care of that?”
Nick squeezed my waist. “Will do.”
Alex kissed us all good-bye, but he raised Sherry from her chair and hugged her. “It’ll be okay, kitten. We’ve got your back. If you need distracting, go see Tricia and the baby while I’m gone.”
Sherry’s chuckle landed low on the laugh-o-meter. “I’m plenty distracted, thanks. But I will give her a call.”
“Thanks. Bye, Dad.” They shook hands, and Alex left.
A Veiled Deception Page 4