Something Borrowed, Something Mewed

by Bethany Blake

  “Not the right time,” I told him, meeting his droopy, knowing eyes. Then I addressed the humans again. “Abigail has been in business for years. Why would she suddenly pull a stunt like that?”

  “Because she’s been in business for years,” Roger said, turning my statement on its head. “She probably got sick of dealing with persnickety mothers, fussy flower girls, unreliable vendors and, worst of all, bridezillas.” He raised his hands to Piper. “Not you. You have been a patient saint throughout this whole debacle our mothers foisted upon us.”

  I could hear other couples around us snapping at each other as they tried to figure out what to do next, and I was glad my sister and Roger still had a unified front. I also had to admit that Roger had a point. Last but certainly not least, I finally realized that someone would have to break the news to a pair of persnickety mothers, if best buddies Maeve and Bev were still in the dark.

  “Do the women who wrote the checks to Abigail know what’s happening here?” I asked, looking between Piper and Roger.

  My sister might’ve been rattled, but she still had her wits about her. She shook her head again. “No. They have not been contacted yet.”

  “Good thinking,” I said. “We should probably—”

  I was going to suggest that we talk through how to let two demanding and take-charge women know they might’ve been swindled, because I knew they would not take that news well. But as I was speaking, Dex made his way over to us, breaking into the conversation.

  “I’m trying to contact Abigail and straighten this out,” he promised, giving us only half of his attention. His eyes were trained on his phone. Socrates wisely took a few steps back, so he wouldn’t accidentally get stepped on. “I’m sure this is all a big, if very regrettable mistake,” Dex added, rubbing his jaw. “Abigail has been under a lot of pressure lately. Errors happen.”

  Roger opened his mouth, like he was about to make another accusation.

  I didn’t think that would be productive, so I spoke first. “If it was a mistake, what’s your theory?” I asked. “What could’ve gone so wrong? Because booking six weddings for one place ... It does seem a little odd.”

  “Perhaps her planner glitched,” Dex noted coolly. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-six or twenty-seven, but he was handling the chaotic, confusing situation with admirable composure—which didn’t surprise me. I’d dealt with the tall, handsome planner-in-training several times, as maid of honor, and I was always impressed by his ability to cope with Abigail’s mercurial moods and endless demands without getting flustered. “Strange things happen,” he added, twisting his wrist to check the time. However, he wasn’t wearing a watch, and he muttered, “Force of habit.” Then he finally gave us his full attention, so I could see his blue eyes, which were impressively impassive, given the tension in the room. Lowering his voice, he spoke confidentially. “As I noted, Abigail has been very stressed lately. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s not answering my messages because she’s knocked out cold with sleeping pills. Which also cloud her judgment.”

  Roger, Piper and I exchanged puzzled glances, like none of us was sure what to make of that information. Socrates also looked disapproving, as if he thought Dex had shared too much.

  And before any of us figured out how to respond, Abigail’s right-hand man added, “I’ll let you know as soon as I have more information.” Smiling in a reassuring way, he gave Piper’s arm a quick squeeze. “Just hold tight, okay? I’ll do my best to salvage your big day.”

  “I don’t think that’s poss . . .”

  Roger tried to protest, but Dex was already striding off. We all watched him for a few moments, until Piper drew our attention back to her, noting, “Roger, you’re right. There’s no way this ‘big day’ can be saved at this point. Which means we need to start calling guests to let them know that the wedding is postponed.”

  My sister sounded disappointed, but it wasn’t her nature to fret or sulk. She was the type of person to face crises head-on. Roger seemed to pull himself together, too.

  “You’re right,” he agreed. “We have to contact Daisy Carpenter, too. She’s no doubt cooking already, but maybe we can stop her before she’s done too much. I’m sure our mothers won’t get their money back, but at least we won’t waste Daisy’s time or more food than necessary.”

  “We need to call our mothers, too,” Piper reminded us. “There’s no avoiding it.” Then she looked at me. “Daphne, can you help us, if I promise you don’t have to break the news to Mom?”

  I hesitated for a moment, because I really did want to fulfill my maid of honor duties and be of assistance. But while Piper and Roger had been making plans, I’d had an idea of my own. One that might actually provide us with some answers.

  “I will make some calls, and enlist Moxie and Fidelia, too,” I promised. “Just give me a half hour to run an errand of my own.”

  My sister might’ve been my polar opposite, but she also knew me pretty well, and she watched me with suspicion. Socrates seemed skeptical, too.

  “Where are you going?” Piper asked.

  I stalled again, because neither my sister nor my canine companion was going to like the answer. And Roger clearly objected, too, when I finally admitted, “I’m running out to Artful Engagements—I have a key, and Abigail’s permission to go inside.”

  Chapter 5

  “I think this is actually a very good idea,” I defended myself to Socrates, who was harnessed in the VW’s front seat. We were driving down the long, tree-lined lane that led to Artful Engagements, and I could tell that he thought we were on a fool’s errand. Which didn’t stop me from trying to explain my rationale for visiting the mansion. “Dexter Shipley said Abigail might be passed out. I think somebody should at least check on her. If she’s been acting erratically, and taking sedatives, maybe she’s in trouble.”

  Socrates swung his head around to give me a baleful look, and I knew he agreed with Piper and Roger, who thought Abigail had skipped town with a bunch of brides’ and grooms’ money. The fact that Abigail had actually told me she was leaving town that very day only added more weight to that theory.

  “Well, if she has bolted—which I will admit is possible—I should at least check on Ms. Peebles,” I told Socrates, pulling off my ridiculous crown of gladioli. I wasn’t sure why I’d worn it as long as I had, and I wished I could’ve changed out of the dress, too. But I felt like I should go directly to Artful Engagements, on the off chance that Abigail really did need medical attention. “Abigail asked me to stop by today,” I added, tossing the tiara into the back seat. “Albeit, a bit later than this.”

  Socrates woofed loudly, and I thought he was continuing to disagree, until another noise met my ears: the roar of a motorcycle engine, coming out of nowhere—and quickly drawing closer.

  My heart racing, I jerked the steering wheel, guiding my van to the very edge of the narrow road just in time for the snarling, black bike to tear past, at a speed much too high for the twisting lane.

  Hitting the brakes, I rested one hand on my chest, catching my breath and checking the rearview mirror. But the helmeted rider was long gone, and I turned to Socrates again. “Are you okay?”

  Needless to say, he didn’t respond, except to look at me placidly. “Well, thanks for trying to warn me,” I added, before taking one more deep breath and putting the VW in gear.

  A moment later, we rounded a slight curve and pulled up to the mansion that housed Artful Engagements, where I immediately spotted something that seemed a little ... off.

  * * *

  “I know this is technically a place of business, and usually unlocked, but Abigail doesn’t seem like someone who would leave a door ajar,” I told Socrates, who stood with me on the semicircular driveway in front of Artful Engagements. I could see part of the garden at the side of the building and glimpsed the flags, now drenched and dragging, hanging from the trees. “And it’s hard for me to believe nobody cleaned up after the party, in spite of the storm. This pr
operty is always perfectly maintained.”

  Socrates whined softly, and I could tell that he thought the wise course of action would be to turn around and leave. And seeing his lowered head and stiff tail did cause me to hesitate for a moment, because the last time he’d warned me about wandering around an old house, I’d stumbled across a body.

  Then I remembered all of the baffled brides who were also wandering—around the Par Four Room of the Sodgrass Club. And I couldn’t leave before I made sure Abigail was okay, especially since I increasingly felt something was amiss.

  “I’ve got my phone,” I reminded Socrates, showing him the device, which I held in my hand, because my dress didn’t have pockets. “If there’s any trouble, I’ll just call 911.”

  Socrates didn’t appear reassured, but I was determined to make some effort to track down Abigail. Hiking up my long, voluminous skirt with my free hand, I mounted three short steps to a small porch. Without checking to see if Socrates had followed, I pushed one of the doors open and leaned into a quiet, dim and blissfully cool foyer. “Abigail? Hello?”

  No one answered. In fact, the house was deathly quiet, the only sound the faint ticking of a clock from a distant room.

  “I don’t think anyone’s here, but I’m still going to have a quick look around,” I told Socrates, with a glance up a staircase that led to Abigail’s private quarters. The day was bright and sunny, but what little I could see of the second floor appeared dark, as if the blinds were closed or the doors were shut. I was starting to think Roger and Piper were right, and Abigail had swindled everyone and bolted. “I’m getting a little worried about Ms. Peebles,” I added. “I’m assuming that she was left behind, if Abigail really did ditch town. And you know how she tends to get stuck in high places, or wedged under furniture.”

  Socrates made a sound reminiscent of a sigh. But he followed me upstairs, which was where I usually found Ms. Peebles, although she had the run of the whole building. “Ms. Peebles?” I called softly, moving from room to room.

  As I’d expected, the curtains were drawn, and everything seemed very neat, even for an orderly person like Abigail. The upstairs kitchen, which was smaller than the commercial-grade one downstairs, didn’t have so much as a crumb on the marble countertop.

  “She really took off,” I muttered, poking my head into her bedroom, where I often found the tiny, tawny cat with the big green eyes cowering on top of a tall antique wardrobe.

  However, the feckless feline wasn’t waiting on top of the wardrobe, and she didn’t yowl from inside the closet, where she was also often trapped. But I did find something interesting. Two suitcases, both on the bed. One, which was closed, was black and shiny. The other was open, the lid thrown back, but I could see the distinctive signature Louis Vuitton pattern on the sides. Piles of neatly folded clothes waited to be tucked inside on top of the shoes that were already stashed away in plastic bags.

  “What the . . . ?” I looked down at Socrates, who was sticking close to me. “So she’s not gone yet!”

  I thought that was a good sign, but I could tell by the way Socrates shuffled his paws, and from the deep furrows in his already wrinkled brow, that he disagreed.

  “Ms. Peebles?” I tried one last time.

  My soft call was met with more silence. Except for another ticking sound, from a timepiece on Abigail’s nightstand, which also held a book and a tube of hand cream with water lilies on the label.

  I looked down at Socrates. “There’s nothing more to see here. Let’s go downstairs.”

  That suggestion seemed to appeal to my low-slung sidekick, who trotted off, his big paws thudding loudly on the stairs as we both descended to the rooms that Abigail used for her business.

  “I’ll make this quick,” I promised, poking my nose into a parlor—which was now a different kind of seating area, for client meetings.

  Not seeing the cat or Abigail, I next checked a former library that now housed her office. The space was tidy, like the rest of the mansion, with two exceptions.

  The first was a tilting pile of papers on Abigail’s desk.

  Moving closer, I saw that the document on top was a photocopy of what appeared to be an old edition of the Weekly Gazette. A grainy image, made worse by duplication, showed a bunch of people standing on the shores of what appeared to be Lake Wallapawakee.

  I had no idea why Abigail would read about what I assumed was a drowning, given the way the people were milling around.

  I could better understand her interest in two travel brochures, advertising a romantic island in the Caribbean. I was sure Abigail planned plenty of destination weddings, and I turned my attention to the other slightly messy part of the room: a corner where Abigail had stashed a bunch of baskets. The containers overflowed with wedding-related items, like cake toppers and little pillows with ribbons to keep rings in place.

  I supposed the props were used in emergencies, like if a bride forgot to bring her own special pillow for the ring-bearer. Abigail to the rescue.

  “So what happened today?” I muttered, suddenly sick on Piper’s behalf.

  Even if I did find the missing wedding planner, Piper and Roger were already calling guests to let them know the ceremony was canceled. Not that my sister had wanted the patriotic-themed extravaganza anyway.

  Sighing, I again hoisted my shiny, bluish-green skirt and headed down a corridor to the kitchen where I’d last seen Abigail arguing with Daisy Carpenter. Socrates trotted along behind me. Failing to spot Ms. Peebles there, I moved on to the back door, which was also open.

  “That’s weird,” I said, fighting off a sudden sense of foreboding as I pictured the motorcycle driving swiftly away. The mismatched pair of suitcases, which I’d initially thought were a good sign, suddenly seemed ominous, and my fingers curled more securely around my phone. Then I reminded myself that I was probably jittery because the time I’d searched a similar large, lonely property, on the shore of Lake Wallapawakee, I’d found a body. In fact, I’d probably met my quota for murder victims, and I shook off my nerves and pushed the door open wide enough for me and Socrates to pass through.

  I thought he seemed relieved as we stepped into the sunny garden, where my ears picked up two more sounds.

  The faint trickle of the fountain—and the soft yowl of a cat.

  “Let’s go save Ms. Peebles,” I said, following the distressed cry, until we reached the center of the garden, which was a disaster.

  Socrates and I both stopped at the edge of the brick patio, where the tables were strewn with plates and cups that had been hastily abandoned when the storm had cut loose. The flashy centerpieces had been blown over, and some of the soggy flags had also fallen from the trees. One lay crumpled on the ground, one had landed on the buffet, and a third was clogging up the three-tiered, perhaps six-foot-tall fountain, where Ms. Peebles had somehow managed to climb atop one of the cherub’s heads.

  “Good grief,” I said, setting my phone on a table and dragging my skirt across the bricks, while Socrates hung back. “How did you get up there?”

  The little cat blinked down at me with her green eyes, as if she had no idea how she’d crossed the pool of water, which was still red, and climbed atop a baby angel’s smooth head. The top hats and sashes had apparently blown away in the storm.

  “Come on.” I raised my arms and waved my hands, urging her to jump to me—only to suddenly freeze in place when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something peeking out from under the flag that, upon closer inspection, was draped lumpily, but perhaps too neatly, across the lowest basin.

  The half-concealed object looked a lot like a hand, with a big diamond ring winking on one finger.

  “Oh, no,” I cried, instinctively wading into the pool and dragging the sodden flag off Abigail Sinclair, who lay sprawled in the water, like some twisted part of the decor, from her white limbs to her red suit—to her face, which was an unnatural and alarming shade of blue.

  Chapter 6

  After I called for hel
p, there was nothing to do but wait, so I sat stiffly on a wrought iron chair near the fountain, along with Socrates. Ms. Peebles had jumped down by herself, at some point, and run off.

  I was tempted to keep myself busy by cleaning up the mess of plates, cups and soggy food, but I’d already disturbed the scene enough. I knew from experience that I would get in trouble if I kept moving things around.

  I also wanted to go inside, where it would be cooler, and where I wouldn’t be able to keep glancing at Abigail’s body, which was still half-submerged. However, I felt a duty to stay with her, keeping vigil, although I knew there wasn’t anything I could really do.

  “I can’t believe how this day turned out,” I said softly, just as I heard the muted sound of an approaching vehicle.

  For a moment, I got nervous, thinking the mysterious motorcyclist, who might very well have been a killer on the run, had returned. But as the noise grew more distinct, I could tell it was very different from the deep, loud rumble of the bike’s engine.

  Then the motor cut out, followed shortly by two sequential slams of a car door, or doors, while sirens finally sounded softly in the distance.

  Standing, I smoothed my sweaty palms over my already limp, damp dress, as Socrates rose, too, his manner suitably somber—unlike the demeanor of an excited, gleeful, one-eared, drooling Chihuahua, who suddenly burst into the garden, running straight for his best basset hound buddy.

  I was still trying to process Artie’s inexplicable presence at Artful Engagements when his chocolate Lab “brother,” Axis, came loping behind.

  Then, as realization set in, I felt my heart pounding as someone else joined us.

  Jonathan Black, who first grinned at me, only to have that smile slip away while he took in the scene before him.

  “Daphne?” he asked, greeting me with confusion, instead of the warm embrace I might’ve daydreamed about, once or twice, since he’d left town. He took a step closer, his dark blue eyes scanning everything, no doubt recording details, before he met my gaze again. “What in the world happened here?”