A Veiled Deception

by Annette Blair

  The click of the front door snapped me into fix-it mode. “Sherry? Where the Hermès were you? You need an alibi and I hope it’s airtight and comes with plenty of witnesses.”

  Looking from me to my father—who’d stood to pace but stopped to wait for her answer—Sherry covered her face and released a sob. “I need to call Justin,” she wailed, and ran. The back door’s familiar squeal and bounce announced her departure.

  “The suspect has left the building.” I sighed. “The good news is that Werner won’t know what she said about Jasmine at the party unless somebody tells him.”

  My father paled and reclaimed the chair Sherry had vacated. “I forgot about that. I don’t remember her exact words,” he said, imploring each of us in turn, “but please tell me that she didn’t publicly threaten to strangle Jasmine.”

  Aunt Fiona shook her head. “Sherry threatened to kill someone, but she didn’t mention names, just feminine pronouns. What can I say, I’m a lawyer; I caught the loophole in the statement on the spot. Some might have suspected who she was talking about, but that doesn’t matter. Sherry’s words could be construed as a lead, perhaps, but not evidence. It’s also such an overused cliché, it’s lost its bite.”

  I couldn’t sit still, so I got up to pace, wondering how to start proving Sherry’s innocence. Learning more about Jasmine seemed like a good start, but then what? I guess I needed a copy of the guest list Fiona was going to compile before she gave it to Werner. Then I’d go house to house, if I had to, and find out what the neighbors knew.

  I picked up on the heavy silence that had fallen at the same time as I passed an open window in the ladies’ parlor and heard Sherry on her cell phone. “No, Justin,” she said. “We can never tell.”

  Six

  What I do is about now. It’s about the lives we lead.

  —HELMUT LANG

  Early the next morning, I dressed in tan slacks with a yellow sleeveless summer sweater and camel leather flats. I disliked the world before dawn, and I couldn’t face it in a bathrobe.

  I stepped from my bedroom and stopped dead. “Crime-scene tape across Brandy’s bedroom door.” I looked at Nick. “Can you stand it? How weird can life get?”

  Wearing yesterday’s clothes, suit jacket over an arm, a sock in each pocket; tie hanging loose, Nick gave me a one-armed hug. “Weird is normal in my line of work. It’s just never hit this close to home before.”

  I sighed and tiptoed down the hall.

  With Nick bringing up the rear, I sneaked him down the front stairs, shoes in hand, trying to get him out the front door before anyone else got up.

  Unfortunately, my father was working guard duty. The back stairs would have been a better choice, but they’re so squeaky.

  We stood frozen as my father, sitting at the old oak breakfast keeping-room table, glanced at us over his wire-rimmed glasses, set down his coffee mug, and methodically refolded his morning paper, dangling us from his hook like squirming bait.

  One of Nick’s shoes hit the floor with a thud, startling a squeak out of me.

  “What’s the matter, Nick?” Dad asked. “You didn’t want to cross the crime-scene tape to climb out Brandy’s window? Or are you getting too old for that?”

  Oy. “Dad, I—”

  “Sir—”

  “Coffee?” My father raised my mother’s daffodil octagon coffeepot, postponing his verdict on Nick’s predawn presence and making me want to scream.

  Nick released his breath, dropped his second shoe, nodded, and toed them on.

  I got us each a mug from the kitchen across the hall from the keeping room, though at one time its huge fireplace had been used for cooking.

  So the bait sat down to eat with the shark, where plates and cutlery had been set . . . for five?

  Beside a basket of sugared blueberry muffins sat a daffodil butter dish and a porcelain beehive honey pot. I reached for a muffin, losing my appetite, however, when my father cleared his throat and placed his glasses by his plate.

  Uh-oh.

  “Madeira, you’re a big girl,” he said. “And, Nick, I like you. I’d simply like to know who’s living in my house and who isn’t.”

  “I’m not living here, Mr. Cutler,” Nick said. “Last night was an exception.”

  My father raised a speaking brow.

  “Another exception,” Nick said, backpedaling. “It’s just that Maddie was upset, and—”

  “Justin, Sherry,” my dad called out, obviously foiling another getaway. “Come in, join us for breakfast. I went out early and got enough muffins for everybody.”

  As usual, Sherry failed to hide her blush. Coming down the back stairs hadn’t done them any good at all. My father could apparently see through walls.

  “Don’t mind if we do.” Justin slapped Nick on the back as he went to the kitchen for mugs, very much at home and not at all intimidated by my father. That engagement ring on Sherry’s finger must be worth its weight in courage.

  “You’re a cool one, Mr. Cutler,” Justin said, returning.

  The pot calling the kettle cavalier, I thought.

  My father chuckled, and the circulation returned to my legs.

  My father wore pride like a badge. “I’ve taught highly libidinous college students all my life,” he said. “You think I’m not hip?”

  Nick hid his amusement by sipping his coffee.

  My father snapped his fingers. “Rad! That’s what it’s called now, right? I’m rad,” he said. “Or am I the bomb? Anyway, my girls are all grown up.”

  “And they grew so well,” Justin said, eating Sherry up with his bedroom eyes.

  My father’s cup stopped halfway to his lips. Even Harry Cutler, the hip, rad bomb, had his limits.

  We all breathed again when Dad’s cup finished its journey and Dad took a sip. “I don’t think any of you could have committed a crime,” he said. “You’re too noisy when you’re sneaking around. ‘Take off your shoes on the stairs, Nick. You’ll wake my father.’ You call that a whisper, Madeira? Besides, even whispers echo in this place. Sorry I never told you that.”

  He watched us over the rim of his mug, put it down, split his muffin, and buttered it with great attention to every crumb. “Justin, my boy, kindly refrain from making my baby girl giggle until you’re behind closed doors. Not that I don’t appreciate your efforts . . . last night in particular. Sherry needed cheering up and her laughter’s infectious. I liked hearing it, though I would have been happier if it had come from a five-year-old playing with her dolls.”

  Dad raised his coffee mug our way. “Time marches on, whether we want it to or not.”

  I stood and kissed his brow. “You’re an old softy.”

  “I hear it’s in bad form, Madeira, to call a man a softy these days.”

  I gasped, Sherry giggled, Nick choked on his muffin, and Justin slapped Nick on the back.

  My father checked his watch. “Don’t the men in this family—who are not on summer break—have jobs to get to . . . showered and wearing fresh clothes, one presumes?”

  Justin and Nick checked the regulator clock on the wall between the front windows.

  Justin, a VP in his father’s conglomerate, jumped up first and booked it for the door, mug in hand. Sherry kissed him as he opened it. “Nick,” Justin called before he left. “Come with the rest of the family to supper at my parents’ tonight.”

  “Will do.” Nick slipped into his jacket. Then he stuffed the rest of his buttered muffin into a pocket with a dirty sock.

  His attempt to kiss me good-bye coincided with my amusement. He pulled back. “Geez, think you could be serious for a minute?”

  “With you? Never. See you at the Vancortlands’ tonight.”

  “Count on it.”

  Alone with Dad, Sherry and I looked at each other, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and I wasn’t thinking about Nick’s.

  Aware that he held the advantage, my father raised a hand . . . and slammed it on the table.

  Sherry and I both jumped
. Son of a stitch; even when you’re expecting it, you’re never really ready. A shock like that can stop your heart.

  “We have a wedding to plan!” Dad shouted. “Sherry, try on that wedding gown and don’t forget that Deborah’s holding the remote. Let your sister show you how beautiful she can make it. Practice loving it for tonight when Deborah makes a high ceremony out of presenting it to you. It’ll make that boy happy. He loves you.” My father grinned. “Think of your gracious acceptance as removing the batteries from Deborah’s remote and pissing the hell out of her just for fun.”

  “When Dad’s right, he’s right,” I said. “Let’s go, Sis. My room. Bridal gown fitting.”

  Sherry hugged my father before we headed for the front stairs, the most direct route to Sherry’s room.

  “Sherry,” my father called after us. “Before you hate the dress, remember the words of George Bernard Shaw: ‘The novelties of one generation are only the resuscitated fashions of the generation before last.’”

  Sherry leaned close. “I’ll bet he looked that up last night just for me,” she whispered, and we smothered our giggles.

  “Oh,” Dad added. “Don’t forget that Fiona will be here at ten to go to the police station with us.”

  Our amusement came to a halt and so did we. Sherry leaned against the wall. “Hard to be a blushing bride when there’s a murder charge hanging over your head.”

  “You haven’t been charged,” I said.

  She sighed. “Yet.”

  I pulled her forward and we resumed our climb. “Since you didn’t do it, I don’t see how the Wiener can prove you did.”

  “You can say that after all the TV shows we’ve seen where innocent people go to jail every day? And don’t tell me that’s fiction.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “Real life is stranger than fiction, anyway. Don’t worry; I’ll talk to the neighbors later to see what I can find out about life since Jasmine arrived. “They had strong opinions about her last night, so they must know something.”

  Sherry sighed. “For the first time in my life, I’m glad that everyone in Mystick Falls butts into everyone else’s business.”

  I felt the same way. “My first stop will be Aunt Fiona’s.”

  “Good,” Sherry said. “Maybe she can whip out her crystal ball and see if I’m gonna fry.”

  Seven

  I see myself as a true modernist. Even when I do a traditional gown, I give it a modern twist. I go to the past for research. I need to know what came before so I can break the rules.

  —VERA WANG

  There were perks to being the firstborn Cutler. Each of us started life in the small room off our parents’ corner suite near the front stairs. When we were old enough, we picked the bedroom we wanted.

  I still claimed the best, the corner suite at the back of the second floor. As big as the front-facing master suite, it boasted a view of Mystic River, a dressing room, and its own bathroom. The only thing I lacked was a getaway tree.

  In addition to my art deco bedroom set, I had three antique sewing machines, a Singer, a Remington, and a Wheeler and Wilson. Each had unique talents and comforting sounds. Sometimes I moved from one to the other to get an outfit just right.

  Unlike Sherry’s chintz, my room celebrated the craftsmanship of fine fabrics. Pleats, but no ruffles. Embroidered or woven textiles; no prints. I liked to feel the nap and weave, weft and warp on each piece of my hand-quilted spread. I’d textured my walls and used a jumbo knitting needle to draw hanging wisteria vines into the wet compound, then roller painted the walls mauve, leaving the design outlined in white. My antique button collection, sorted by color and kind, filled clear antique glass containers—swans, cats, ducks, boats, and apothecary jars. They dotted the room; a splash of red buttons here, blue there, yellow, green, brass, bone, and flowered china.

  I loved my personal space.

  Right now, Sherry didn’t love it so much.

  With trembling focus, she approached the garment bag hiding Deborah’s gown as if it might rise in a coil and strike.

  “It won’t bite,” I promised. “It exudes positive vibes.”

  She looked at me through the corner of one eye. “Since when do you get vibes?”

  I sifted through a carved sewing machine drawer of supplies. “Clothes and I, we’ve always had an understanding.”

  She unzipped the gray bag in slow motion as if she couldn’t bear more than a peek. The lower the zipper, the more her shoulders relaxed.

  “It’s a find,” I said, “if it’s in mint condition.” I pulled the bag all the way off the gown and found its cathedral train. “Wow. This could go for two, maybe three grand in New York.”

  “You’re patronizing me.”

  “I’m not. I’d pay that much for it, if I was getting married.”

  “You’d buy that gown for yourself?”

  “I would. I love it.”

  “Which proves two things,” Sherry said. “You’ve lived in New York too long, and it isn’t my style. It’s yours.”

  Good point, but I didn’t say so. “It’s everybody’s style,” I said. “Look at this. Custom made with the talent of a Parisian couture, French seams, hand-stitched silk peau-de-soie lining, extraordinary workmanship, and yards of handwork, inside and out.”

  “You really think it’s nice?”

  “I think it’s awesome. Listen, Cherry Pie; forget that it came from Deborah, or that she probably has an ulterior motive for giving it to you. Just look at these classic lines.”

  I laid it out on the bed and stuffed tissue in the bodice, but not in the pouf at the shoulders. Hopefully, Sherry would be willing to surrender the pouf. I’d rather pleat it at the shoulders or better still set it smooth into the cap. “Kiddo, this is imported ivory silk satin brocade aged to a papyrus undertone that collectors covet but can’t buy. I love the simple barely-there swirls in the weave. It doesn’t need the matching peau-de-soie slip, so if it’s warm, you won’t have to wear it. The trim at the neck and wrist is tulle, but the veil is a yellowed wreck.” I balled it up and tossed it in my wastebasket. “I’ll make you a new one.”

  Sherry surprised me with a choke hold.

  I chuckled. “Wait, where’s the vintage veil you said you bought?”

  She paled. “I laid it out on Brandy’s bed so I could show you.”

  “Of course. The one trimmed in pearls.” Scrap.

  Sherry fell against the wall. “Yeah, that one.”

  “Focus on the gown.”

  She nodded, eyes full.

  Determined to stay upbeat, I denied my instinct to take her in my arms and cry with her. “This is a lot like today’s designer gowns,” I said, “because we’re in a fashion cycle where old is new again. Ready to try it on?”

  She nodded, the barest hint of anticipation rising to replace her negative emotions of a moment before.

  I grabbed a bolt of dotted Swiss from the top of my closet and unrolled it, inside out, spreading two lengths side by side on the floor for a clean, wide workspace.

  Sherry stripped to her bra and panties and stepped out of her shoes to stand facing my three-way mirror in the center of the fabric stage I’d set for her.

  For my part, I slipped twenty-six center-front, self-covered buttons from their loops and took the gown carefully in my arms to slip over Sherry’s head. The sheer amount of fabric overwhelmed me until I nearly got lost in it. I must look like Mrs. Frosty, I thought, realizing that all this frill was more Sherry’s style than my own after all.

  “Raise your arms,” I said, “but don’t move. I’ll do all the work so we don’t damage the dress.”

  Leaving my shoes behind, I slipped the incredible gown over Sherry’s head, and it covered her like a scattering of fairy dust, each glistening particle draped in all the right places. It would need a bit of work for a perfect couture fit, but not much.

  The sight of her wearing it felt magical, or haunting; I couldn’t make up my mind which. Either way, an unnamed emotion press
ed in on me, making it hard for me to breathe for a minute. “It fits . . . like the sisterhood of the freaking traveling wedding gown.”

  Backing up, I took in the sight as a whole . . . and burst into tears.

  Sherry’s eyes filled. “Is it that bad?”

  Her joke eased the ache of loss in my heart. “Mom would be so proud. You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe my baby sister is getting married.”

  “Are you sure you’re not crying because I look like Dumpster bait at a meringue factory?”

  I touched her chin and turned her gaze away from the mirror and toward me. “Sherry, you don’t already have a gown picked out, do you? I never thought to ask.”

  “Of course not. I was waiting for you to come home to design and make me one.”

  So was I. “Hon, this gown is classy, austere, and timeless. An hourglass silhouette to the hip is so today. But gathers from the hip, not so much.”

  I touched my chin as my designing mind went into overdrive. “Aha! I can turn the gathers into a flare from the hip, cut higher in the front. I’ve got plenty of fabric to work with.”

  While sliding my hands beneath the gathers to gauge the yardage, my chest tightened again and dizziness overtook me, white spots dotting my vision.

  When the malaise passed, I saw a different bride wearing the same gown.

  In Sherry’s place stood a gorgeous woman with porcelain skin, black-magic eyes, and raven hair, whose stance revealed humility . . . And unease? Unable to stand still, the illusory bride glanced about, as if she might get caught.

  Doing what? Playing dress up?

  Opening and closing her fists, she habitually grasped the fabric and dropped it, unable to stand still, awkward, not only in the dress, but in her own skin . . . or in her role, real or imagined, as the bride.

  Apprehension, fear; that was what I read on her face.

  Twice, she tried to hide her work-ravaged hands from a seamstress whose body language spoke of grudging servitude and whose clothes belonged in a rag bag from any era, but whose style hailed from the seventies.

  The illusory bride wobbled like Cinderella on her high white heels as if she’d never worn a pair before.