A Veiled Deception

by Annette Blair

  “Right, except that the clues are all in your head.”

  “Shut up and listen. Suppose the killer thought Deborah loved Jasmine, and they wanted to hurt Deborah by killing Jasmine?”

  Nick shook his head. “A convoluted long shot, Mad, and Deborah’s hardly in mourning.”

  “Which you don’t find weird?” I asked as the flight attendant picked up our trash.

  Nick took a last sip of his coffee before giving it up. “You’re right. It is weird.”

  The seat belt sign went on as the flight crew prepared for landing. “Wow, that was fast,” I said.

  Nick tickled my ear with his whisper. “Don’t ever say that to me in bed.”

  Hardly likely. He knew how to take his time. “There’ll be no more of that, mister, if you keep calling me a nut.”

  “I didn’t. You did.”

  “You didn’t deny it.”

  He nibbled my ear. “There will be more, and you’ll love it.”

  “You’re such a . . . man.”

  He grinned with a cocky pride. “Did you check any suitcases?”

  “I’ve got everything right here.” I pulled my carry-on from beneath the seat.

  We took a limo to a pricey hotel of Nick’s choice. “Mr. and Mrs. Jaconetti,” Nick said, checking in. “We have reservations for a king suite.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but the man behind the counter shook his head. “No, your secretary called to fix that, Mr. Jaconetti. Ms. Meyers specifically asked me to tell you that she corrected the error.”

  I chuckled, and Nick gave me the evil eye.

  The desk clerk pulled our reservations up on the computer. “I have a single for Mr. Jaconetti on the seventh floor and a single for a Ms. Cutler on the first floor, both charged to Mr. Jaconetti’s credit card. Correct?”

  “Correct,” I said.

  “Eve,” Nick muttered, shaking his head as I signed in first.

  Yes, Eve, I thought, still protecting me from the worms and still sticking it to Nick.

  I kept quiet until we got on the elevator. “Mr. and Mrs. Jaconetti. Hah.”

  “I’m FBI and this is a murder investigation. I’m trying to protect your identity.”

  “I know your game. A room with a king for two.”

  “With a balcony overlooking Bourbon Street,” he said. “Now who’s sorry?”

  I hated that I found the skeptic so adorable. But I hardly believed in my visions, so why should he? In my room, I let him back me up to the bed. We liked playing games, the two of us. Nick’s anticipation and amusement reflected my own.

  I saw the kiss coming. Wanted it, dodged it.

  His heady ambergris scent, mixed with the jasmine, peach, and musk in my perfume turned us into a lethal and combustible combination. Nick clutched a gentle handful of my hair in one hand to hold my head still; the other cupped my face.

  A shiver shot through me.

  I liked giving him some control so I could find ways to thwart him, except when we wanted the same thing. My knees grew weak as I welcomed his mouth against mine, open and hungry . . . a waltz of tongues, a rise of awareness and appetite . . . until the phone rang and pulled us back to our surroundings.

  There was no sound quite as jolting as the ring on a hotel room phone.

  I answered and recognized Eve’s chuckle. “Just calling to make sure you got the right room.”

  Nick nibbled my free ear, his hand sliding down my spine.

  “You’re a sneaky but ineffective bodyguard, Mizz Meyers.”

  “Hey,” Eve said. “You behave yourself.”

  Nick took the phone from my hand. “Bye, Mizz Meyers.” He hung up on her and glanced at the bed. “A king would be better, but this will do.”

  “Nick.” I put the flat of my hands on his chest. “Sherry is counting on me.”

  Regret marred the carved angles of his features. “Of course she is.”

  “What my sister needs, more than we need a fire dance, is for us to take a quick cab to this address.” I pulled a slip of paper from my pocket.

  He read it and stepped away from me. “Stubborn, I can fight,” he said. “Admirable wins every time. I promise, ladybug, that we’re destined to be on-again any second now.”

  I sensed that. I might even be ready for it. Maybe.

  “You’re right, there’s a murderer on the loose. And he might be getting antsy as the police close in. Time is an issue.”

  “You mean you were thinking with the wrong brain?”

  “What can I say? I tend to favor it.”

  I scoffed. “Ya think?”

  In the center of the city, we found the address we were looking for, a garden apartment off a fountain-centered courtyard with a live oak draped in moss. A world away from Mystic.

  The apartment belonged to Antonio Morales, Pearl’s younger brother, or so Eve had believed when she gave me the information.

  I told Mr. Morales that we were from Mystic, Connecticut, and that we’d like to talk to him about Pearl Morales.

  He tried to shut the door in our faces, but Nick showed his badge.

  In the Morales living room, the man sat across from us shaking his head and refusing to answer each question until his anger got the best of him. “Pearl came home from Mystic broken,” he snapped. “Somebody there owes her. She brought home two things, a hatred that destroyed her mind, and a baby in her belly.”

  “Pearl has a child?”

  Morales nodded. “And a grandchild, so I hear.”

  “How is Pearl?” I asked.

  “Come,” he said, “I will bring you to her.”

  We left his home and walked several blocks in silence, the clicking heels of my Lagerfeld spectator pumps slowing me down a bit. The scents and sights of Bourbon Street and beyond called to me, lifting my spirits, until Morales entered a cemetery and wove his way through a maze of mausoleums.

  I knew then where we would find Pearl.

  Inside the Morales mausoleum, I froze as he ran his hand over her name carved in pink granite. Pearl Morales Delgado.

  A shiver ran through me, fear and awareness melding into a stream of ice flowing through my veins. “Delgado? Do you know an Amber Delgado?”

  Mr. Morales stilled, hesitated, and ultimately nodded. “Amber is the name of Pearl’s daughter.”

  “Nick, we have to go home.”

  “We have a return flight in the morning.”

  “No, I mean we have to leave now. Sherry’s in danger.”

  Nick took both my arms and looked into my eyes as if I might be under the influence or something. “Madeira, what are you talking about?”

  “Amber Delgado is the cake lady.”

  “Who?”

  “She served the mini wedding cakes on the night of my sister’s party—”

  I obviously hadn’t gotten through, or so Nick’s confusion said. “The daughter of the bride from your vis—from the Vancortlands’ past?”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  Morales swore in Spanish. “The Vancortlands; they ruined everything.”

  Nick stood straighter, listening, really listening after Morales echoed Amber’s likely sentiment.

  “The daughter of the woman Vancortland jilted was at his son’s engagement party,” I repeated. “How weird is that?”

  “You have my attention.”

  “Amber thought Jasmine was the Vancortland bride; she told me so herself.”

  “Ladybug, you’re talking too fast and you’re not making any sense.”

  “Who cares? This morning, I talked Sherry into picking out her own wedding cake, and I forgot my cell phone at home.”

  “That sounds serious,” Nick said.

  I wanted to kick him, except that I knew my words must be as scattered as my thoughts. I took a deep breath. “A couple of weeks ago, Jasmine and Deborah went to pick out the wedding cake without bringing Sherry, so Amber assumed Jasmine was the bride.”

  “Oh,” Nick said. “That puts the picture in focus.”

>   “Damn straight. What if Amber wanted payback for what Vancortland did to her mother and got it by killing the next Vancortland bride . . . except she killed the wrong one? My sister could walk into the pastry shop any minute and correct that misconception. Is that clear enough? Gimme your damned phone!”

  “Madre de Dios!” Mr. Morales wiped his face on his handkerchief. “Not murder.”

  I looked at Nick’s phone and blanked. Who remembers cell phone numbers with speed dial to fall back on? I thought I was sunk, but we’d bought our phones together, all of us at the same store, same time, for the family minutes, and our numbers were close.

  I found Sherry’s on the third try, but she was either out of range or her phone was off. I left her a message. “Sweetie, I don’t have time to explain, but don’t go pick out your cake today. It might not be safe. Stay with Justin. Lock the doors and don’t open them for the cake lady.” I clapped the phone shut and held it so tight my knuckles hurt. My father was at UConn, like Eve, teaching a last summer course and prepping for the new semester. Fiona would be in court and tied up for the rest of the day.

  I had no justification for asking Werner to protect my sister. None.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  “I’ll try Alex,” Nick said, repeating my actions, but he shook his head after letting it ring for a minute. “He must have turned off his phone for the meeting I’m missing.”

  “It was Amber’s mother,” Morales said, recapturing our attention. “Pearl, she poisoned Amber’s mind, filling it with every detail of her short-lived joy and bitter emotional pain. But it’s not Pearl’s fault, either. It’s the fault of another, though Pearl never said who. I wondered if Amber knew who hurt her mother, or who her father was, especially when she . . . when her mind snapped.”

  “Amber’s mind?” I asked.

  Morales nodded with sadness. “Always a loner, that girl, in her own world nurturing dark thoughts. She did better under the doctor’s care,” Morales added. “She was improving, but she left the psychiatric facility four years ago without being discharged. We never knew where she went. About two years ago, she sent us word of her daughter and told us she was better. I think since you are here, she was wrong about that.”

  “Deborah could be in danger, too, Nick. I don’t know her number, but doesn’t Amber’s mental state give us justification for calling Werner?”

  Nick nodded and made the call.

  “See if you can get him to take Amber Delgado in for questioning. Tell him that she owns the Cake Lady shop. Ask him if he can hold her until we get back. Tell him that Sherry’s in danger and that we’ll catch a quick plane out.”

  I turned to Pearl’s brother and offered my hand. “Thank you, Mr. Morales.” I smoothed my fingers over Pearl’s name. She’d died at twenty-five, a fate she didn’t deserve.

  I pictured her in the Vancortland gown, saw her fleeting happiness and her love for Cort.

  Sorrow rose up and tightened my throat. “Rest in peace, Pearl. We’ll see that Amber is safe.”

  Nick got off the phone. “Werner agreed to bring Amber in and hold her for questioning, but he said he wouldn’t be able to hold her long.”

  “Why not?”

  “He thinks he made a breakthrough on the case.”

  “How can that be?”

  “He arrested Deborah for Jasmine’s murder.”

  Twenty-eight

  I love old things. Modern things are so cold. I need things that have lived.—BARBARA HULANICKI

  We picked up our bags at the hotel and drove to the airport in a thunderstorm, which delayed our flight. Before we finally boarded, Nick was able to reach Werner and give him our flight number and arrival time, asking again for him to hold Amber until we got there, but she hadn’t yet been found. Her shop was closed when it should have been open.

  Panic gripped me and my imagination ran wild. I tried Sherry again with Nick’s phone while the rest of the passengers boarded. When I failed, I called home.

  Sherry wasn’t there, either. I hung up and called again, to key into our home voice-mail system.

  One message: “I called your cell phone, Sis, and when I did, I heard it ringing in your bedroom. I’m tellin’ you, one purse makes life easier. Anyway, congratulate me; I’m on my way to take matters into my own hands. I’m going to listen to bands until I find one I like, and then I’m going to pick out my own damned wedding cake.”

  Oh, God, she had left that message hours ago. “Sherry’s in trouble, Nick, and it’s my fault. Amber might know by now that my sister is the next Vancortland bride. Sherry could be—she could be—”

  “Calm down,” he said, putting up the seat arm between us to hold me. “Sherry will be fine. You’re hyperventilating on conjecture. We’ve already sent Werner looking for Amber and Sherry. And there’s no physical proof that Amber’s the murderer.”

  Physical proof. Physical proof. Why did the words make me nauseous?

  I needed to distract myself or I’d go mad. So I decided to sketch my visions to see if I might have missed the smallest of clues. I took my sketchbook from my satellite bag and began to put my visions on paper.

  Sketching was a part of designing that usually brought me peace, but today my hands were no more steady than my heartbeat. Nonetheless I brought the scenes to life.

  Life. That’s what we were down to. Life and death. That’s why putting the smallest details in each sketch was important.

  I did every one, including my vision of Mildred as the nurse caring for Deborah.

  Since I needed to keep busy or scream, I added a sketch of Deborah and Mildred at finishing school and the head shot I’d done of Cort’s picture of Pearl, but I did this one with the pearls and earrings he’d given her. She must have taken her bridal jewelry with her when she left.

  Despite the no-cell-phone rule after takeoff, I furtively tried calling Sherry several more times between sketches, but with no luck. If I got caught, I figured Nick could flash his badge.

  My sketches were rough, and a bit shaky, but they were detailed, and who knew, they might serve a larger purpose than helping me work off a nervous breakdown’s worth of energy.

  I sketched through the flight, the storms that dogged the plane seeming like an omen of doom—my sister’s doom—which only made me concentrate harder on every detail of each scene.

  Nick respected my concentration, though I felt the seat beside me shift often. I wasn’t the only passenger filled with angst.

  He didn’t ask to see the sketches until I sighed and said they were finished, and even then, I hesitated.

  “Ladybug. You know you can trust me.”

  I put them in chronological order and handed them over.

  I identified Pearl in the first. Nick whistled, gave me a look of speculation, and examined the rest with quiet focus. “I didn’t mean to be derogatory when you first told me,” he said after going through them. “Visions, really? I won’t say it’s not hard to believe, but these sketches speak volumes.”

  “Gee, thanks. You think I wanted a gift that would make me sound like a pathological liar?”

  “Nevertheless, ladybug. Be ready to deal with the naysayers. Most people will think your story is fiction, that you’re nuts, to use your word, but I know you better than that. Is there a trigger?”

  “Trigger? What do you mean? Like the trigger I wanted to pull when you made me feel like a mental case for telling you about my visions? The clues are not all in my head. They’re right there. On paper.”

  Nick winced. “Do the visions come when, say . . . a bell rings, or a clock strikes? Do they generally come to you only when you’re with your sister? Or when you’re working on her wedding gown?”

  “When I’m working on clothes. Any clothes.”

  “Fine,” Nick said. “So you had visions all the time in New York?”

  “Never.”

  “So it happens only when you’re in Mystic working on clothes?”

  “No.” I shuffled the sk
etches. “I had that vision in Wickford, Rhode Island. It’s vintage clothes, I think. It seems only to happen when I’m working on clothes with a past,” I said, excited to pinpoint the lowest common denominator . . . except for Dolly’s gown. Bummer.

  That couldn’t be right. Well, maybe I was half right. No need to make Nick any more skeptical. “Fiona says it’s called psychometry, knowing things about an object’s past by touching it.”

  “Only old clothes talk to you?”

  “Not all of them do, as it turns out, and I don’t like your tone. I’m sketching my psychic visions. Live with it.”

  I was jumping out of my skin with the worst possible scenarios running through my mind by the time we arrived at the Providence airport, and as if the flight hadn’t been long enough, we had to circle before we could land, because of the weather.

  Thank the Goddess, we didn’t have any luggage to claim. “Now we have to wait for a bus,” I said, hearing the whine in my voice.

  “No, we don’t,” Nick said as we cleared the gate and his phone rang. After a brief conversation, he hung up. “Werner’s waiting for us out front.”

  “That’s bad, Nick. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t have bad news.” My eyes filled as I imagined Sherry in Jasmine’s place, strangled on a cold floor somewhere.

  The darkness inside me was like the darkness outside where Werner stood by a patrol car waiting for us. “Get in, Mad,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  I didn’t move. “Sherry’s dead, isn’t she?”

  “No, Mad, she’s alive, none the worse for being locked in Amber Delgado’s bedroom for a few hours.”

  My eyes filled from sheer relief. “Locked in Amber’s bedroom?”

  “Sherry said that shortly after she got to the cake shop, Delgado asked for a ride home. Said her car wouldn’t start—she was waiting for a mechanic—but her daughter had taken ill.”

  I could see Sherry, the kindergarten teacher, falling for that.

  “At her apartment, Ms. Delgado got Sherry to go in with her, in case the little girl needed medicine, so Sherry could go and get it.”

  Yeah, Sherry would fall for that one, too.

  Your sister thought she was going to meet the child when she entered Delgado’s bedroom, but the door shut and locked behind her. No windows in the apartment bedrooms, so Sherry picked up something heavy and waited at the door for Delgado to return. She said she heard Delgado making calls to find a sitter.”