A Veiled Deception

by Annette Blair

  “But besides you,” Nick said. “Who buys vintage, honestly?”

  “Vintage is hot. All the rage in New York. Old is new again. Remember that old Mark Twain quote? ‘Clothes make the man’ (or woman). ‘Naked people have little or no influence on society.’”

  “Naked people? Oh, I don’t know about that,” Nick said. “I like naked people . . . of the female persuasion.”

  Lytton looked thoughtful for a minute and shook his head. “Nope. Nope, I think you’re wrong. Naked women within my society definitely influence me. I’d like to be influenced more often, as a matter of fact.”

  “Pervert.”

  “Go for it; I’ve been called worse.” He wiped his eyes once more, the sympathy hound.

  “What did you want to talk to Aunt Fiona about?” I asked Werner. “I could give her a message.”

  He shook his head. “I was in the area talking to your neighbors, so I thought I’d stop in, rather than call. I’ll call her later.”

  “If it’s about my sister, you can tell me.”

  “No, I can only discuss Fiona’s client with Fiona.”

  I shivered. “It’s bad news, isn’t it?”

  Eleven

  Fashion anticipates, and elegance is a state of mind . . . a mirror of the time in which we live, a translation of the future, and should never be static.—OLEG CASSINI

  By accident on purpose, or so it seemed, both men followed me into Fiona’s house. Frankly—and this is weird because of this new sixth sense I’m trying on for size—I think neither of them wanted to leave the other alone with me.

  Now maybe I’m full of myself. I often am. But I was feeling a major pissing contest coming on, and I had no intention of getting downwind of either of them.

  It was only a hunch, mind you, but men were such easy reads. Not too many brain cells to muck up the works.

  I turned on them. “Why are you following me?”

  Werner stopped and Nick inched around him. “We’re protecting you,” Nick said. “We’re law enforcement officers.”

  “Oh, so you know that you’re both on the same side?”

  They pretended they didn’t catch my “tone” and followed me to the box with the litter of kittens, where they visibly relaxed.

  “What?” I said. “You think you can take them?”

  Okay, so I couldn’t help myself. I’d worked in an industry ruled by men and a rare few big female cats. The rest of us were perceived as Barbies: right shape but nothing between the ears. I could be a formidable biotch for fun, sport, or sheer survival.

  I’d won the gold in a particularly “cutting” triathlon once. Earned me a place with the cats. My signature talent: ball blasting, gonad gutting, cojon clipping; you get the picture. Sure, I’d toned it down for Mystic, but I got the power, baby.

  I handed Nick the kitten and squeaked the mouse.

  Chakra screamed.

  The house shook.

  Nick dropped her.

  Werner caught her.

  “Lytton! My hero!”

  “Uh, you wanna go back to third grade and say that?”

  I took my baby from the Wiener’s arms. “Poor little Chakra Citrine, you scared Mommy.”

  Having lost the pissing contest, Nick frowned. “She’s got vocal cords that exceed the sound barrier.”

  “It’s not like she clawed you. You could have held on.”

  Werner scratched Chakra behind an ear. “Did she sound like she might have screamed ‘Maddie’?” he asked.

  Nick scoffed.

  “Yes! You heard it, too. Isn’t it wild? She can say my name. She’s gonna be our guard cat and sleep on my bed.” I gave Nick a pointed look, since, at the moment, he wasn’t allowed on that piece of furniture.

  Werner caught the exchange and turned his chuckle into a cough.

  Before they could come to blows, I locked Aunt Fiona’s house, and we each got into our separate cars. The dopes followed me until I turned into Mrs. Sweet’s driveway. I parked and called Nick’s cell.

  “Jaconetti here.”

  “Jaconetti, you have info on the autopsy?”

  “Yes and no. It’s not finished. Something about a tox screen, but the Fed ME is going to let me know when he gets the report.”

  “A tox screen? Does that mean they suspect poisoning?”

  “Could be.”

  “Poisoning and strangling? Why bother?” I asked. “Dead is dead.”

  “The tox screen may be routine, then again, maybe there were two attempts and only one success. It’s also conceivable,” Nick continued, “that if something toxic skewed or slowed Jasmine’s instincts, she might not have been able to fight her strangler. Seems as if Jasmine ticked off half the town. Last night, they wanted to lynch her.”

  “Nick, that was like Sherry saying she wanted to kill her, a figure of speech.”

  “Jasmine was a raptor, who cut at least one local way deeper than the rest. Listen, I’m giving you her home address, almost against my better judgment, but I know you. I know that you have to be working on fixing this for your sister, under controlled conditions, or you’ll run amuck.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, well, my ego’s still a little bruised from your recent gentle handling. Anyway, I’d rather set you on a safe course than let you hurt an innocent bystander.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but I’d be stupid to further alienate my personal information system.

  Nick appeared to expect me to blow, because he sighed, as if with relief, after a minute. “Remember that this is a murder investigation, as in somebody died. Dead is forever, ladybug. Screw the word games. I want you safe. Hell, I just want you. Always have, Mad. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Oy, he was Madeira-mocking and I was getting the warm fuzzies over it, darned close to flipping that relationship switch to on-again.

  He cleared his throat. “I ran the Updikes through the system. No red flags, so go see what you can find. I know that’s what you want to do. But, Mad, any other jaunts you feel like taking for the cause, you pass by me. Not for permission,” he quickly added, “for backup. Got it?”

  “Got it. And, Nick, thanks for watching my back.”

  “Well . . . I watch your front a lot, too.” Husky voice, evocative tone, filled with tingly implications.

  Seduction via cell phone. Who knew I’d be susceptible. Focus, Madeira, I told myself. “The address?”

  “It’s Two-two-seven Updike Circle, Wickford, Rhode Island.”

  I wrote it on the back of the guest list. “The Updikes live on Updike Circle?”

  “Wickford used to be called Updike’s Newtown. I’m guessing they’re descendants.”

  “You’d think she would have been wearing real couture.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Werner probably got the address from Deborah and gave Jasmine’s family the news last night. I might go take a look around, offer my condolences.”

  “Mad, don’t forget what I said.”

  “Which part?”

  “All of it. Stay out of trouble.”

  “Some good-bye,” I said, putting my phone away. With any luck, Wickford was as small and gossipy as Mystick Falls. Maybe I’d be better off pretending I didn’t know Jasmine was dead. What would be the harm?

  Scrap! If the police suspected two attempts on Jasmine’s life, they wouldn’t let Sherry off the hook, even if they did find another suspect.

  I sighed and realized I was still sitting in the Sweets’ driveway. I took a few calming breaths before I got out of the car.

  The Sweet house, two doors down from ours, had been handed down for generations; the current owners, however, had an unfortunate taste in colors. While Day-Glo orange looked great on a sixties playsuit, it did not suit a Victorian Lady.

  Lucky for the neighborhood, old Oscar at the hardware store told young Mrs. Sweet that they were out of teal for the trim that day, and she settled on the pale peach he’d “just” put on sale. It toned down the shock
factor and made the viewer only slightly queasy.

  There are two Mrs. Sweets. Young Mrs. Sweet, only eighty, attended our party the other night. She rarely says an unkind word, except for that unfortunate incident at the funeral parlor when she’d publicly berated Mr. Sweet—comfortably ensconced in his brass casket—for leaving her to care for his ornery old mother, alone.

  Old Mrs. Sweet, her mother-in-law, usually managed to hide her control-freak crunchy middle beneath a layer of I-only-want-to-please-you marshmallow cream. Either way, as a child I’d once imagined whacking the old lady with a broom. My guilt had passed at her son’s funeral, however, because I understood her daughter-in-law’s rage so well.

  Both Mrs. Sweets had been extremely kind to us when Mom died. They cooked, baked, and showed up at most of our school plays and sports games, not to mention graduations, every one. If you multiply that by the four Cutler children, the sum is a hefty time investment.

  It was nice to know that someone had been cheering or applauding when my father was off earning a living for us, and my mother was across the river in Elm Grove Cemetery.

  Today, like many childhood days, I heard the two of them arguing before I rang the doorbell.

  Young Mrs. Sweet answered. “Lordy me, Madeira, but Dolly’s in a snit. Her hundred and third birthday party this afternoon with the governor, no less, and she refuses to wear her best dress.”

  I followed the daughter-in-law into old Mrs. Sweet’s room. “Happy birthday, Dolly, dear. Why won’t you wear your best dress?”

  The centenarian pouted. “Madeira, you design clothes, so you’ll understand about favorite dresses. I’m saving it for a special occasion.”

  The younger indicated the older behind her back with a jerky, exhibit-A, palm-out motion that roughly translated to: “Dead idiot walking.”

  At a hundred and three, Dolly must realize that her next special occasion would probably be her funeral, I thought, but wouldn’t say. “I’ll tell you what, dear. Wear your best dress today, and tomorrow I’ll come back and measure you for a Madeira Cutler designer original. I’ll make you a new best dress and you can pick whatever design you want. I’ll even take you to select the fabric.”

  “Ethel,” Dolly Sweet said. “Give me my best dress.”

  “Well, hurry, Momma. We have to leave in three minutes.”

  That’s my work done for the day. I’d laid the groundwork for gossip over measurements and dress designs. “Tomorrow morning, then?” I confirmed.

  “Come early, Madeira,” young Mrs. Sweet suggested,

  “and we’ll have tea first, like the old days.”

  “And cherry pie,” old Mrs. Sweet added. She’d made us hundreds when we were growing up.

  “Sherry thought you named the pies after her, you know.”

  Sweet the older winked. “Well, of course she did, dear, because I told her so.”

  I kissed them each on the cheek. “Oh, before I go, Ethel. Did you notice anyone else go missing from the party last night, besides Sherry and Jasmine?”

  “I saw Deborah go to the powder room, and you, Nick, your father, and Eve disappeared for a while, of course.”

  “Family reunion in the taproom,” I said, wishing Sherry had been with us. “Thanks.”

  “Did you know?” old Mrs. Sweet said as I turned to go. “They think that girl might have been poisoned, too.”

  “I heard. How did you?”

  “Tunney the butcher told me.”

  Son of a stitch. Clearly I’d gone to the wrong source.

  Old Mrs. Sweet firmed her jaw. “And they say . . . she was in the family way.”

  “Pregnant? Jasmine was pregnant?” My stomach roiled.

  Who was the father?

  And what the holy Harrods had Sherry told Justin to keep secret?

  Twelve

  In order to be irreplaceable one must always be different.

  —COCO CHANEL

  I drove the back roads from Mystic to Rhode Island and on to Wickford. Wildflower borders, old cottages with wedding-cake trim, manicured yards, and a farm with a colt nuzzling its mother all served to ease my anxiety and help me think straight.

  All I could do for my sister was search for clues in the form of secrets, means, motives, or missing links to any of them, and to do that, I needed to keep a level head.

  In Wickford, after a short stint on a secondary highway, I found number two-two-seven.

  In a cul-de-sac, Wickford Cove surrounding it, Jasmine’s home, a large architectural masterpiece, shed its paint in curls, grew its lawn to the knees, its shrubs like flailing aliens, and held its crooked shutters by disappearing hinges.

  I turned in the cul-de-sac and parked in front of the house next door, where a woman knelt weeding the highly colorful flower bed along the wire fence separating her property from the Updikes’.

  When I got out of the car, she stopped, straightened, and looked at me expectantly.

  “Hello,” I said. “Could you help me? I think I’m lost.”

  She stood and removed her gardening gloves. “If I can.”

  “I’m looking for the Updikes, Jasmine in particular.”

  No expression revealed any knowledge of Jasmine’s fate. In fact, the woman smiled. “You’re not as lost as you think. The Updikes live next door. Descended from the founding family, though not so uppity as I hear they used to be. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met them.”

  Jasmine’s very old money must have run out, which accounted for her fake couture. “Thank you, I’ll just go see if she’s home.”

  My informant nodded and watched me take the sidewalk to the Updikes’ porch steps, the giant man-eating shrubs impeding her view after that.

  I rang the doorbell and realized how awkward this could be. What would I say? As usual, I’d acted first and now I thought, What the Hermès am I doing here?

  A shabby-chic nurse answered the door, though her uniform tended more toward the desperate. Polyester double knit, a ridiculed retro. Very hard times.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m in town for business and I’m looking for Jasmine; she’s an old college friend.” Of Justin’s, I finished in my mind, justifying the half-truth.

  The nurse stepped back with no sign of sadness or surprise. “Do come in.”

  She led me to a small personal sitting room, while she held her uniform together at its side zipper. “I’m afraid you’ve missed her. She’s off on another of her jaunts. I’m Mildred Updike, Jasmine’s mother.”

  “I’m sorry to hear she’s not here,” I said, taken by surprise. She didn’t know her daughter was dead, never mind that she’d been murdered. “Do you have any idea where she went?” I asked, feeling like a fool.

  “She’s off to see a college boyfriend, an old flame.”

  A flame? “I’m sorry I missed her. Will she be long? Can I wait?”

  “She’s on holiday, actually, and I have to leave for work soon, if I can ever get this zipper to cooperate.”

  “Let me see if I can help. I’m a seamstress,” or I was, once, sort of. I tugged with no luck. “No, sorry. That’s a vintage metal zipper and when those teeth are bent, they’re gone, unless you have a hammer, and even that’s dicey. I can give you a temporary fix if you get me a needle and white thread.” I wanted a minute to check out the pictures scattered about the room.

  As Jasmine’s mother ran upstairs, I scanned the faces in the photographs hoping to find one of Jasmine and Justin—fat chance—but, lookee here, I did find one of Mildred Updike and Deborah Vancortland—major surprise. Friends arm in arm at a garden party in their late teens or early twenties.

  Hmm. If Jasmine and Justin met in college, it might not have been by accident. It could have been planned by their matchmaking mothers, or by Mildred, herself, so Jasmine could catch herself a rich fix for the family fortune.

  And why had no one told her yet about Jasmine’s death? Surely Deborah had given Werner this address. Or better yet, why hadn’t De
borah called Jasmine’s mother herself if they were once such good friends?

  Mildred Updike returned with a needle and thread so I could sew her into her uniform. “I’d say this skirt has served you well.”

  “Does it show? It’s lasted forever. I’m behind on my laundry, but I figure the old lady I’m taking care of today won’t know the difference.”

  “Fabrics are my business. Nobody else would notice. Raise your arm so I can have some room to work. Thanks.”

  I slipped a hand beneath her skirt at the waist to get a grip on the zipper opening and hold the fabric together from the inside while I stitched it closed.

  White spots danced before my eyes and when I opened them, Mildred had changed location and age.

  A younger Mildred, wearing the same outfit, but new, with pricier shoes, crossed a luxurious sitting room to enter a gilded bedroom.

  Deborah Vancortland, thirty years younger herself, lay tucked up like a queen in satin bedclothes, her face bright and excited. “Did you get it?”

  Mildred tossed a sheet of paper on the bed. “I could lose my job for signing that.”

  Deborah grabbed the sheet, read it, and grinned. “Perfect.”

  A man shouted Deborah’s name—Cort, out of breath, his footsteps on the stairs coming closer. At the sound of his voice, Deborah wilted, and moaned, and burst into tears, which is how Cort found her, Mildred’s document pressed to a heart that suddenly seemed broken.

  A doorbell brought me swirling back, and I found myself focused on Mildred Updike in the present, in her sitting room.

  Poor woman didn’t know I’d zoned. Another vision I couldn’t decipher, but at least I’d recognized the players this time. I had goose bumps but quickly finished fixing Mildred’s zipper.

  “Excuse me while I get the door,” she said. “I never have company.”

  When she disappeared, I slipped the picture of her and Deborah from its frame and turned it over. Scrawled on the back was “Deborah Knight and Mildred Saunders”—must be their maiden names—and “Day before coming-out ball.”

  I heard voices, put the picture back in its frame, and had time to turn and face Werner—oy!—as Mrs. Updike ushered him in. She introduced me as a family friend, and Werner and I both pretended we didn’t know each other.