Something Borrowed, Something Mewed

by Bethany Blake

  Chapter 7

  “Honestly, Daphne, it’s one thing to find bodies on normal days, but to ruin your sister’s wedding day!” My mother made a tsk-tsking sound as she clumsily attempted to pick up a slippery water chestnut with a pair of chopsticks.

  Maeve Templeton had conquered the local real estate market, but foreign foods and the implements used to cook and eat them were her Achilles’ heel. She battled daily with the Italian espresso maker that she used without permission at Flour Power, and she was struggling mightily with two thin balsa wood chopsticks at Typhoon, a funky little Chinese restaurant in the neighboring town of Zephyr Hollow.

  In a rare moment of agreement, Mom and I had decided that Piper should get out of her house and enjoy a change of scenery after a day spent at Winding Hill calling friends and family to explain that her wedding had been canceled. To our surprise, Piper had agreed. In fact, she seemed more calm and upbeat than our mother.

  “For goodness sake,” Mom complained, slapping down the chopsticks. I wasn’t sure if she was still frustrated with me, or if she was now more vexed by her inability to eat her Shanghai shrimp. And things didn’t get any clearer when she added, “This whole day has been a disaster!”

  With a slight lift of her hand, Piper caught our server’s eye from across the room, then pantomimed eating with Western-style utensils. The waitress nodded and hurried off, while Piper returned her attention to the conversation. “I think the day was destined for disaster, even before Abigail’s disappearance and, apparently, murder,” she noted. “Things started going downhill the moment Abigail handed me the ‘dossier’ full of red, white and blue ‘inspiration images.’”

  Although a candle that flickered on our table was reflected in her eyeglasses, I could tell that Piper glanced at our mother.

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. Especially since you are probably out a lot of money, thanks to whatever scam Abigail was pulling.”

  Piper was the favorite child—we all acknowledged it—and our mother came very close to smiling at my sister’s sympathetic comment. She reached across the glossy mahogany table and patted Piper’s hand while the server silently slipped a fork next to Mom’s plate. “Don’t worry about me, dear,” Mom said, while I gave the waitress a nod of gratitude. “I took out wedding liability and cancellation insurance. And if I sue Abigail’s estate, as I intend to do at this point, I’ll more than recoup my investment in the event.”

  I overlooked the callous comment about the lawsuit, which Mom was planning less than twenty-four hours after Abigail’s death, because I was too focused on the other source of my mother’s potential windfall.

  “Wedding insurance is actually a thing?” I asked, struggling a bit with my own chopsticks and a spicy dish called “dragon noodles.” In spite of spending quite a bit of time in Thailand, I hadn’t mastered the art of dining with chopsticks, either. However, I was determined not to give up, unlike Mom, who was digging in with her fork. “What made you think to even find out if it existed?”

  As soon as the question came out of my mouth, I regretted asking it.

  “I protect all of my investments!” Mom shook her head at my ignorance. Her signature asymmetrical bob swung, and the cut was so razor sharp that for a second I feared she might slash her cheek. “Who would plan a wedding without insurance?”

  “Piper, are you sure you’re okay?” I asked again, turning the subject back to my sister’s state of mind, which was at least outwardly stable. “You’re fine?”

  Expertly plucking a peanut from her plate of kung pao chicken, Piper shrugged. “It’s not like Roger left me at the altar. We’re still in love, and we’ll still get married ... at some point. I’m incredibly disappointed that the wedding didn’t take place today, and I’m angry at Abigail, although that seems wrong. But I’m coping. And Roger is less frazzled, too, now that he’s gotten a little sleep.”

  “That must’ve been some bachelor party!” I reached for my water glass, because the dragon noodles were causing me to breathe fire. Whoever had placed the little flame icon next to the dish on the menu hadn’t been kidding. Before I doused my tongue, I quickly added, “He seemed pretty wiped out this morning.”

  “I don’t know why he looked so ragged.” Piper snagged another peanut, while I lost a whole pile of noodles I’d been about to cram into my mouth. I credited Piper’s dexterity to her surgical experience and tried not to feel badly about my relative incompetence. “Maybe he did cut loose, a little, at the Lakeside.”

  I wasn’t surprised to learn that Roger and his groomsmen had gone to that particular bar, which wobbled atop a sagging pier in Lake Wallapawakee. The Lakeside, which only served boxed wine and beer—along with the freshest seafood around—was a popular haunt, especially during the summer.

  “Roger also mentioned that he didn’t sleep well, because he felt like something was going to go wrong with the wedding,” Piper added. “Apparently, he tossed and turned all night.”

  I raised my eyebrows with surprise. “Roger Berendt, half of the world’s most rational couple, had a premonition?”

  Mom waggled her fork, a dismissive gesture. “Roger doesn’t believe in voodoo, Daphne.”

  I had not mentioned a belief system that, as far as I knew, didn’t involve prognostication. But there was no sense in mentioning that to Mom.

  Piper also overlooked the disconnect between Mom’s comment and mine. “He never trusted Abigail. And he was really out of sorts near the end of the dinner at Artful Engagements. I think something, or everything, about Abigail rubbed him the wrong way . . .”

  Piper’s voice faded out as she realized she’d just admitted that her fiancé had been on the outs with the victim of a homicide. And having all been murder suspects before, our small party got quiet for a moment.

  Surrounding us, servers bustled around the crowded, dimly lit room, which was painted a deep, vibrant red that popped against lacquered black trim. Red paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, where a hand-painted dragon seemed to dance above us.

  Because the town was something of a quirky artists’ enclave, the main street, visible through a big window, bustled with tourists. I watched people stroll past in the steamy evening, some of them stopping to check a flyer that was taped to Typhoon’s glass door. I’d noticed the advertisement, too, for business called the Owl & Crescent Art Barn, which hosted painting parties for small groups. Although I had no artistic talent, I thought gathering some friends to paint and drink some wine sounded like fun. Of course, I had more serious matters to attend to right then, and I broke the silence, asking, perhaps too casually, “Roger probably called you when he got home last night, right?”

  I didn’t suspect Roger Berendt of homicide, but there was a good chance Jonathan and his partner, Detective Fred Doebler, would question all of the disgruntled brides and grooms—and likely focus on a groom who had been at Artful Engagements right before the murder. Piper must’ve been thinking the same thing, because some of the color drained from her face. “No, I told him not to call. I wanted to turn in early.”

  “Piper, dear!” Mom interjected. My less-than-subtle attempt to ensure that Roger had an alibi hadn’t escaped her, either. She shot me a dark look, silently chastising me, even as she reassured my sister. “Roger didn’t harm anyone. The killer was almost certainly that person on the motorcycle Daphne nearly crashed into.” Of course, I’d told Mom and Piper all about my discovery of Abigail’s body, including my strange encounter on the narrow lane. Then Mom pointed her fork at me. “And Daphne, I am going to kindly request that you don’t drag yet another perfectly innocent member of this family into one of your capers!”

  I wanted to protest that Jonathan, and just plain circumstance, had roped us into the last several local homicide investigations. But there always did seem to be some shreds of evidence, or potential motives, linking us to killings in Sylvan Creek.

  Thankfully, Piper spoke up first to defend me. “It’s really not Daphne’s fault, Mom. We s
eem to be at the wrong places at the wrong times lately. And Jonathan Black’s presence on the local force has upped the investigative game.”

  “Speaking of Detective Black . . .” Mom’s voice iced over, just a touch. She respected, and possibly even liked, Jonathan, but she’d probably never forgive him for buying the gorgeous A-frame house I’d found for him after he’d rejected the “golf course living” condos Mom had tried to foist upon him when he’d first moved to the area. Not that she would ever admit that I’d basically sealed the deal. “Where in the world was Roger’s best man for the last few days?”

  “Driving as fast as he legally could, all the way across the country,” I informed my mother.

  Piper already knew that part of the story. Jonathan had stopped at Winding Hill, looking for me, the moment he’d reached town. He hadn’t been responding to my 911 call when he’d found me at Artful Engagements. He’d just been tracking me down, only to find me in the midst of a mess.

  “Well, why did he fall off the face of the Earth for the last few days?” Mom pressed. “Who in the world can’t take time for a quick call or text?”

  I was still wondering that myself. Piper had been too busy contacting every person on her wedding guest list to do more than tell Jonathan my whereabouts. And Jonathan and I hadn’t had a moment to catch up before some EMTs, coroner Vonda Shakes and Detective Doebler had arrived on the scene, interrupting our reunion, which hadn’t turned out the way either one of us had anticipated. At least, I hoped Jonathan had also been looking forward to something a little more romantic than a hurried exchange at the scene of a likely homicide.

  That a murder had been committed seemed pretty clear to me. But as far as I knew, Jonathan, who’d asked me to take Axis and Artie for the evening, was still sorting out what had happened back at Artful Engagements.

  “Well, Daphne?” Mom asked again. She’d set down her fork, folded her arms and was tapping her red nails, which almost matched the wall color, against her upper arms. Clearly, Jonathan had lost a few points in her ledger. “Why didn’t he call?”

  Piper looked understandably curious, too.

  I wouldn’t have minded an answer myself. And, thankfully, before I had to admit that I had no idea, my phone pinged.

  Normally, I would’ve waited until after dinner was finished to answer, but I knew the police might be in touch again. So at the risk of being rude, I rested my chopsticks on my nearly empty plate and dug into my pocket to see who had contacted me.

  The number wasn’t familiar, but the texter had identified himself in the message, which said, Can we talk tonight? Jonathan

  Chapter 8

  By the time I’d finished dinner and hitched a ride with Mom and Piper back to Winding Hill, where I picked up Socrates, Axis and Artie, it was nearly nine o’clock. However, as I drove down Sylvan Creek’s main street, some of the shops and all of the restaurants were still open to serve the summer tourists who were meandering down the sidewalks on a balmy night. But, as I turned onto the lane that ran past Pettigrew Park, headed for a parking lot near the gorgeous, Italianate public library, the town grew quieter and darker. The library was, of course, closed, the many windows in the wedding-cake-like facade dark, too.

  Jonathan’s black truck was the only vehicle parked in the small lot, and I pulled up next to it. He wasn’t inside, so I hopped out of my van and released all of the dogs, who ran off toward the creek that ran inky black and silent on the other side of the park.

  When I couldn’t see them anymore, I spun slowly around, wondering where Jonathan was. Then I spotted him, rising from the library’s steps, where he’d been waiting.

  The moon was full, but it was still difficult to read his expression as he walked toward me.

  Neither one of us spoke, and, even as my heart raced with anticipation, I felt a knot form in the pit of my stomach.

  Jonathan obviously hadn’t been pleased to find me at the site of another suspicious death, and, although I kept trying to explain away his lack of contact, I couldn’t help suffering nagging doubts about the state of our long-distance relationship.

  That evening’s terse text, from an unfamiliar phone, wasn’t helping matters.

  Then, just as I was about to ask if everything was all right, or all wrong, he drew close enough for me to read his eyes. And, although Jonathan Black was very good at concealing his emotions when he wanted to, I could tell exactly what he was thinking when he looked down at me—right before he pulled me close and kissed me in a way that dispelled all my fears.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe your phone is at the bottom of the ocean,” I said, enjoying the feel of Jonathan’s fingers interlaced with mine as we strolled down Market Street under trees strung with hundreds of tiny white lights. After letting the dogs run in the park for a while, we were heading to Daisy Carpenter’s new restaurant, In a Pickle, to celebrate her grand opening with a drink on the patio, where canines were allowed. “It was really nice of you to take Artie to see some sea lions,” I added. “That sounds like something he’d like.”

  “Yes, he enjoyed it a little too much,” Jonathan noted, glancing at the Chihuahua, who trotted jauntily at the end of a leash, his little tail whipping back and forth and his big eyes bulging with happiness.

  Axis and Socrates were walking without leads, but Jonathan was making Artie regain his trust after having darted out onto some slippery, perilous rocks to greet a bunch of lounging marine mammals back in California. Lunging after the little dog, Jonathan had dropped his cell phone into the Pacific—which honestly sounded more like something I’d do.

  “That was our last stop on the way out of town,” he added. “I didn’t want to waste hours buying and setting up a new phone, since I was already cutting it close to get here in time for the wedding. So I borrowed a phone, called the only Sylvan Creek number I knew by heart—my own, at the station—and told Adele Ashbee, who picked up, to let you know I was on my way.”

  I looked up at him with surprise. “You really didn’t know my phone number?”

  Jonathan arched an eyebrow. “Do you know mine?”

  Heat crept into my cheeks. “Well . . .”

  Trotting along at my side, Socrates snuffled, like he’d understood the exchange.

  “It’s the curse of relying on contacts,” Jonathan noted. “And, apparently, I can’t rely on our administrative assistant, either.”

  I frowned. “It’s too bad the trip turned out to be a total waste of your time.”

  “Hey, Daphne . . .” Jonathan tugged my hand, so we all stopped under one of Sylvan Creek’s iconic, old-fashioned streetlamps, right near Piper’s practice, where the window boxes on the pretty blue clapboard overflowed with red and white petunias and impatiens.

  Patriotic lights twinkled in the windows of other shops, including Flour Power, down the street, and the marquee at the Bijoux theater advertised an upcoming showing of the movie Moxie had just mentioned, Yankee Doodle Dandy.

  The summer scene was charming, but I couldn’t stop studying Jonathan, hunting for changes that I might not have spotted when we’d Skyped over the last few months. But he looked reassuringly the same. In spite of having been working on a military base, he continued to wear his dark, nearly black hair a little longer than when he’d first moved to Sylvan Creek. And I could just make out the scar on his strong jaw, which was stubbled, as if he hadn’t shaved in the wake of his long drive, the last day of which had been made longer by his unexpected arrival at the scene of a murder.

  I did notice that Jonathan was a little leaner than usual, which had worried me at first. A tiny part of me had feared that his temporary disappearance had been related to the return of a rare form of cancer he’d already battled twice. A relapse wasn’t the type of news Jonathan would share from across the country, and in a few dark moments, I had imagined him taking time to come to grips with the diagnosis before returning here to share the news.

  But as I searched his eyes, I finally put those fears to
rest.

  And yet, I could tell that something was on his mind.

  “What were you about to say, a moment ago?” I asked, sensing the mood shifting between us.

  He spoke quietly. “Just that driving here wasn’t a waste of time.” He hesitated. “I wanted ... needed ... to see you.”

  Feeling my cheeks redden again, I squeezed, then released, his hand, signaling that we should resume walking. Socrates, who didn’t like public displays of affection, even with Snowdrop, was giving me warning looks. Artie was also getting antsy, while Axis, always well-behaved, waited patiently until he got the signal to go.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” I told Jonathan, tucking some of my curls behind my ear. A nervous gesture. “And I’m sorry you found me tangled up in another murder. I suppose this is a mess for you.” All at once, I realized what might be worrying him, and I looked up at him again. “Am I a suspect?”

  Jonathan shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I think Doebler’s given up on trying to pin homicides on you. For the time being—at least until Vonda calls time of death—the focus is on identifying the mystery motorcyclist you saw driving away. Plus, you called 911, then waited by the body, while inexplicably wearing a Statue of Liberty costume—”

  “That was my bridesmaid gown.”

  Jonathan again quirked an eyebrow. “You’re joking, right? I thought you were doing something related to Wags ’n Flags ... maybe taking part in a parade I didn’t know about ... and just hadn’t changed for the wedding yet.”

  “Nope. That wasn’t a costume. Nobody wears those except dogs, during All Paws on Deck.”

  A glimmer of amusement returned to Jonathan’s eyes. “Yes, you and Moxie can dress up Artie.”

  “Really?” We’d reached the lovely brick, Victorian building that housed In a Pickle, and I glanced down at the Chihuahua, who was spinning happily at the end of his leash, like he’d understood the conversation. Artie was a big fan of costumes. Socrates, on the other hand, made a soft, groan-like sound, while Axis, who was also a bit reserved, wisely stayed quiet. “I’m sure Moxie will dream up something special for you,” I told Artie, who yipped and bounced on his tiny paws. “We’ll just have to find someone with a boat.”