A Veiled Deception

by Annette Blair

  “I’m sorry,” I said when she brought Eve’s tea, “but I don’t remember your name from the other night.”

  She straightened. “The other—oh, that’s where I met the two of you, at the murder house.”

  I reeled at the statement and bit my tongue on the two-word answer that came quickly to mind. “Well, it’s my house, I mean my father’s, but I grew up there, and since that was our first murder, we’ve decided to keep calling it the Cutler house.”

  “Of course,” she said. Either she had a poker face or she was dumb as a doorknob. I couldn’t tell if she’d caught my irritation or not. “We’ve met,” I repeated, “but I don’t remember your name. I’m Maddie Cutler and this is my friend Eve Meyers.”

  “Everybody knows me as the cake lady.” She held out her hand. “Amber. Amber Delgado. Nice to meet you both. I’ll be right back with your lunch.”

  “She seems nice,” I said.

  Eve held her throat and reserved judgment.

  Amber returned quickly with our food.

  “Amber, can I ask you a question about the other night?” I asked, digging in to the pastries with gusto.

  “Sure.”

  “While you were serving the cakes, did you notice anyone leave the party or go into another part of the house?”

  “Only Mrs. Vancortland. She went into the bathroom, and when she came out, she went toward the back of the house. Nobody else that I can think of, besides you and your family. I could see that was a reunion, of sorts, though Mrs. Vancortland wasn’t with you.”

  Wow, same answer every time. Deborah? Nah.

  “Too bad, isn’t it,” Amber added, “about the murder and the Vancortland brides?”

  “What about the Vancortland brides?”

  “They certainly seem doomed to getting married pregnant or dying that way.”

  “What?”

  “Well, everybody knows that Mrs. Vancortland was pregnant when she got married and now her son’s bride—”

  Involuntarily, my fists closed and my shoulders straightened. “No, I think you’re wrong about her son’s bride.” No matter how fast the gossip mill ground, I knew Sherry would tell me first. Well, after she told Justin, that is.

  “No,” Amber said. “I’m sure I heard that Jasmine was pregnant.”

  Eve sat forward. “Jasmine wasn’t the—”

  I’d kicked her under the table.

  Eve’s jaw snapped shut and she gave me a look that promised retribution.

  “How did you hear about Mrs. Vancortland?” I asked Amber. “She works really hard to keep that bit of history quiet.” So hard that I’d never heard it. Sherry didn’t know about Deborah’s pre-wedding pregnancy, either, or I would. Justin might not even know. “Mrs. Vancortland hates to be talked about,” I said.

  “Tunney the butcher told me,” Amber said, bringing Eve another cup of tea. “He says that gossip is good for business.” She shrugged. “I suppose, being new in town, I should get to know the locals, like Tunney suggested. But I like keeping to myself. I don’t even get the newspaper. Who needs more bad news? Maddie, would you like some tea or coffee?”

  First, I would like to go home and grill Sherry; then I wanted to roast Tunney on a spit over an open fire for spreading that rumor about Deborah. “No, thanks. Amber, you met Mrs. Vancortland and her son’s intended when they came in to look at wedding cakes, didn’t you?”

  Eve opened her mouth and shut it again.

  “Yes,” Amber said. “Hard to believe the poor girl’s dead.” The cell phone in her apron pocket rang and she glanced at it to identify her caller. “Excuse me. It’s my nanny. My daughter’s, I mean; she’s the center of my little world. No wonder I’d rather not step out of it.”

  Eve waited for Amber to disappear into the back room before she kicked me. “Now can I talk?”

  I pushed a mini meat pie around my plate. “She has a little girl,” I whispered.

  “Why is she so confused? And why couldn’t I straighten her out?”

  Aware of how far away Amber’s voice had gotten, I spoke in low tones. “There’s been a murder and I don’t think we should share information. She thinks Jasmine was supposed to marry Justin,” I said, “because Deborah and Jasmine, the stitches, didn’t bring Sherry with them to look at wedding cakes.”

  “Well,” Eve said, “she’ll figure it out when somebody orders a Vancortland cake.”

  “Sure, when Deborah does.”

  “Hey, that’s retro about her being preggers before the wedding. I mean she acts like she’s made of twenty-four-karat gold, instead of flesh and blood like the rest of us. What did you say about Deborah and the cake?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way to the butcher shop.”

  “You can’t still be hungry?”

  I rolled my eyes and pulled Eve from her seat by the shoulder of her Hells Angels jacket.

  “Hey, watch the finery.” She dusted herself off.

  “I do wish you’d wear a color, any color, other than black for a change.” I remembered my father once describing Eve in Jonathan Swift’s words: “She wears her clothes as if they were thrown on with a pitchfork.” He’d been joking, of course, but he hadn’t been able to keep from sharing a quote that so perfectly suited her.

  “You always look like you’re in mourning,” I said. “Or ready for a street fight.”

  “I color my hair. That’s enough for me, and the black clothes haven’t exactly been a detriment,” she added, a grin blooming as she focused on the door.

  My brother Alex’s hockey jock buddy, Ted Macri, came in, ignored me, and kissed Eve with a great deal of enthusiasm.

  I couldn’t get over how fast she could reel a man in.

  Reluctant, Ted pulled from the kiss. “When I saw you, I thought maybe I could catch you for lunch.” He slipped an arm around her. “Looks like I’m too late. Hi, Mad.”

  “Ted.” I looked from one of them to the other. “Did I miss something? Were you two an item before we came home from New York?”

  “Nope,” Eve said. “We had our first date after we left Sherry’s party.”

  Ted gave her a speaking wink. “An evening sail. What’s the matter with your voice?” He knuckled Eve’s throat. “Sore?”

  She crushed his shirt front with a fist and pulled him breath-teasing close. “I’ll tell you . . . tonight.”

  Turn your back one minute and your BFF has a new guy and a new twinkle in her eye. Though I shouldn’t be surprised. Eve was a man magnet.

  Ted ran a hand through his short, shaggy hair. “Forgive me for running, hot stuff,” he said, giving her a quick kiss. “Since lunch with my girl is out, I have a date with a Zamboni, paperwork I was trying to avoid, then a hockey-camp peewee game.” He kissed Eve again before he left.

  I sat down and waited for him to shut the door. “’Scuse me, Mizz Meyers,” I said, snooty as could be. “But aren’t you a fast worker?”

  “So’s Ted, but he’s slow when it counts.”

  I nearly choked. “Whoa, TMI.”

  Eve grinned. “You’re jealous.”

  “I know I am. I need a life! Let’s go castrate the butcher.” I stomped out of the cake lady’s shop.

  Eve followed, chuckling. “Aren’t you and Nick on-again yet?”

  Nick wasn’t the problem. I was. “He hasn’t gotten me the info I need, so can you surf the Net for me, you computer genius you?”

  “Cut the crap. I just ate. You’ll make me spew. You know I will.”

  “Thanks. Find out what you can about Amber Delgado aka the cake lady. She might not be a gossip at heart, but she took some satisfaction in spreading that piece of information about Deborah.”

  Eve snorted. “Probably can’t stand her any more than the rest of us can.”

  I had to give her that. “Check out Jasmine and Mildred Updike—daughter and mother. Oh, and I can’t forget Pearl.”

  Eve stopped. “Who’s Pearl?”

  “Vancortland’s ex-fiancée.”

  �
��Oh, ho. Being home is like living in a soap opera.”

  “Tell me about it. Also, run a query on Deborah Knight and Mildred Saunders together. Those are maiden names for Vancortland and Updike, by the way. I suspect that they might have gone to the same school. As for Pearl, her mother came from New Orleans and was Cort’s nanny.” Remind me, I’ll bring you a copy of the sketch I’m doing of her.”

  “Where are you going with all this?” Eve asked. “I need details.”

  “I have no idea,” I admitted, “but anything you find could help give me a direction.”

  “I told you to think about putting yourself in the driver’s seat,” Eve said, “but I didn’t mean you should drive yourself crazy. What are you going to do with your life, chase down clues, sell vintage clothes, or go back to New York?”

  “Damned if I know, but we haven’t been home a week yet. Don’t you think that’s fast to make such a big decision, even for me?” I was faking. I pretty much knew what I was going to do, if I could afford to.

  Together, we entered the best butcher shop this side of the Mystic River. You could buy more groceries at a truck stop, but that didn’t matter. The draw here was meat, the spices to go with it, and a handsome butcher to flirt with.

  You could find the finest cuts for the discerning palate or buy the cheapest cuts and learn how to make them taste like the best. Tunney not only cut the meat, he told you how to cook it so it tasted divine. On the side, he knew everything about everybody, mostly because he charmed the hell out of them.

  “Mad, Eve!” Tunney said, wiping his hands on his white, bloodstained apron. “Good to have you two patronizing and annoying the locals again.” He winked.

  We’d grown up living for Tunney’s winks. “We’re glad to be here. But we’re not buying today. We came to find out if you noticed anyone disappear from Sherry’s party the other night?”

  “I don’t keep track of people.”

  He so did.

  “Come on, give.”

  Tunney packaged the man-sized rib eye he’d just cut. “That Jasmine girl, poor thing, and your Sherry’s Justin. Sherry, too, come to think of it.”

  “Nobody else?”

  “You all went into your father’s den. Everybody knew that.”

  Guess we weren’t very good hosts, I thought. Everybody had mentioned it. Maybe if we’d paid better attention to our guests—No, not even a good host quizzes guests who want to leave the room. Where are you going?

  To the powder room.

  What are you going to do there?

  Besides, there’s no containing guests when you’ve got as many rooms on the main floor as we have. Nope, regret and hindsight never solved anything. Not even a murder. “Okay, Tunney, thanks. Now, what’s the scoop on Deborah Vancortland being preggers when she married Cort? Sounds like old news to me.”

  “Old cat out of a new bag,” he said. “I heard the info came from an old family friend.”

  The family friend’s timing stunk like a dead herring. I needed to know where it came from, though Tunney rarely revealed his sources. “And the family friend’s name? Please.”

  “Not this time, cupcake, because I don’t know who the old friend was.”

  “Here’s one question you should be able to answer,” I said. “When did the cake lady open her shop?”

  “About six weeks ago.”

  “Has she lived in Mystic long?”

  “No, she’s a transplant from New York. Kind of like you, but in reverse. We’re all glad you’re home to stay.”

  “Who said I was staying?”

  “We just assumed, with you buying Dolly Sweet’s building. ’Bout time it got a face-lift.”

  “I don’t know if I’m buying it yet. Gimme a break and try to squash that rumor. I’m sunk if Dad hears I looked at it before talking to him.”

  Apology filled the meat cutter’s expression.

  “Dad knows?” I turned to Eve. “My father knows.”

  Tunney raised his hands, as if to say, “that’s life.” “The good news is that your father bought a rib roast for supper. The bad news is that he came in right after Ethel Sweet.”

  “That’s it. I’m in the soup.”

  “Throw some squash and cinnamon in. You’ll go down better.”

  “Mystic River is what I’m going down, without a paddle.”

  Twenty-one

  History is the key to everything: politics, religion, even fashion.—EVA HERZIGOVA

  I knocked on Aunt Fiona’s door without having called ahead, but she was happy to see me. She led me into the parlor . . . my father uneasily ensconced in one of her easy chairs.

  “Madeira!” he said, jumping up, as if I’d just caught him climbing down the getaway tree. “What are you doing here?”

  I raised a brow. “I might ask the same question.”

  “He’s worried about his daughters; both of them,” Fiona said.

  Dad ignored her and kept his focus on me. “And I might ask what you’re doing changing careers and buying run-down shacks on a whim,” he snapped, turning the tables. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times to think before you act. ‘A hasty judgment is a first step to recantation.’”

  “What great writer said that?”

  “Publilius Syrus.”

  “Dad, you’re making that up.”

  “No, he was a Latin writer of maxims and a famous improviser in the first century.”

  “An improviser? Hah. Which means that he made his living using hasty judgment.” I wrote in the air. “Madeira, one. Dad, zero.”

  With a quick hand to her mouth, Fiona muffled her chuckle.

  My father shot her a look.

  “You find some weird quotes, Dad.”

  “Years ago, that quote made me think of you. I knew when you were a child that hasty judgment would one day be your downfall. That day has arrived.”

  I led him to Aunt Fiona’s kitchen table and sat across from him, my elbows on my knees, my hands prayerful—as in: praying for him to understand my weird obsession with a . . . well . . . shack.

  “Dad, I’ve been fascinated by that place since I was a kid. We always stood just there to watch parades, remember? It’s strange really how it always seemed to whisper my name, but that’s not the point. I’ve been unhappy in my job—not my work, or craft, or the clothing industry—but in my present position with Faline.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but—”

  “Here me out, Dad. There’s a lot about New York I’d miss if I came home, but every new beginning must have some kind of an end. Mine would be bittersweet, it’s true, but something shifted in me when it was time to bring Eve home. I didn’t want her to go. While she shared my apartment with me over the last couple of years, she made it easier for me to put up with my job. She knows I need to make a change.”

  I moved my chair closer to his. “I love the Underhill carriage house . . . though by no means have I made an offer . . . yet.”

  Dad opened his mouth—to protest, I’m sure—but I covered his hand and he firmed his lips.

  “As long as I’m confessing, you should know that I’ve been collecting vintage clothes for years. A friend’s been keeping them for me.”

  “I’ve been keeping them for her,” Fiona said, coming up beside me and drawing my father’s ire her way, “in the apartment above my garage.”

  “I might have known.” Dad rose in judgment.

  “Harry Cutler. I picked up a ten-year-old child to help her take her mother’s clothes to a thrift shop, and she sobbed all the way. She didn’t want to give them up. She wanted to wear them when she grew up, so I turned the car around and we brought them here. So sue me.”

  My father’s eyes filled. He excused himself and went to the sliding doors to gaze toward the woods and beyond. After a minute, he took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes under the pretense of needing to wipe his nose.

  Aunt Fiona held her hand over her heart as she watched.

  I went to la
y my head on his shoulder. “I compounded matters, Dad, by buying vintage whenever I found a stunner. I’ve sent Aunt Fiona some awesome clothes over the years for my . . . I don’t know . . . nest egg or . . . collection.”

  He put an arm around me. “You can wear your mother’s things anytime you want, Madeira. She’d be pleased.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I don’t know what Mrs. Sweet wants for the building, or if I can afford it, but I’m . . . thinking . . . of opening a vintage dress shop there. Thinking,” I repeated.

  Fiona applauded. “Brava. I wondered when you’d figure that out.”

  “Fiona, please,” my dad said. “Madeira, nobody buys old clothes.”

  “You’re a great English lit professor, Dad, but you know nothing about fashion. Enough people collect vintage for me to make a living, because I know what I’m doing. I know where to advertise and I’ve been compiling a database mailing list of collectors for years. Vintage is big in New York. I’d get the collectors coming up here. Greenwich, Connecticut, and Newport, Rhode Island, are full of wealthy collectors. Dad, I’ve been working in the heart of the fashion industry. I’ve learned a lot, not only about design and making clothes but about style, marketing, and customer relations.”

  My dad cupped his neck; he always did when a debate wasn’t going his way. “Show me the building.”

  We piled into my car, Dad in the front seat, Fiona in the back, because I invited her.

  “Where’s your car?” I asked my father.

  “I walked over.”

  I gave him a double take. “Do you do that often?”

  “Only when one of my daughters is suspected of murder and the other is about to commit career suicide.”

  In other words, never . . . until today.

  To say they were impressed with the Underhill carriage house would be a blatant lie. They hated it at first sight. Then I opened the front door and turned on the lights.

  “Oh, my; the outside is a total fake out,” Fiona said, running her hand over the fine wood molding. “I’ve only ever seen carriage houses this beautiful at the Newport mansions.”

  My father went over to the hearse. “I don’t know about vintage clothes, but I believe there are people who collect these.”