Something Borrowed, Something Mewed

by Bethany Blake

  I was working on the flags, piping red “icing” made with beet-tinted yogurt onto the cookies, and I shrugged, messing up a line. Setting aside my mistake, I said, “Well, for now, let’s work with the existing timeline.”

  “I think this is all very exciting!” Fidelia said, reaching for the list. Then she shook her head and sighed. “And it’s so romantic, too, with the mysterious chapel.”

  “Yes, it’s like The Birds meets The Father of the Bride,” Moxie agreed, referencing two classic movies that, if I recalled correctly, featured little white churches—one of which had been infested with a nightmare’s worth of murderous crows, while the other had served as the backdrop for a dream wedding.

  I wished Socrates could’ve been there to roll his eyes, but he had chosen to stay home with Ms. Peebles and Tinkleston rather than listen to one more wedding-related discussion. I suspected that the reserved basset was also avoiding Mike Cavanaugh’s prank-loving pug, Tiny Tim, whom Moxie was watching that morning.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I was relieved to see the tawny, impish dog in the PUG NATION shirt snoring near the back door, his little paws in the air and his tongue darting in and out of his pushed-in muzzle.

  “I love Daphne’s idea about the barn, too,” Moxie noted. “It’s going to be perfect for the reception.”

  I’d first thought of holding Piper’s post-wedding party in her picturesque, classic red barn the day I’d warehoused her early wedding gifts. But, lacking a venue for the ceremony, I’d pretty much dismissed the idea—until Jonathan had promised to deliver a church. Then I’d quickly contacted his ex-wife, Elyse Hunter-Black, who produced a TV show called Wondrous Weddings for her network, Stylish Life. Fortunately, Elyse, who had impeccable taste, had been thrilled by the prospect of transforming the barn with lights, flowers and music.

  “It’s going to be magical,” Fidelia agreed. “I’ve been checking out dream wedding websites myself, and you should see how beautiful a barn can be in the hands of a skilled decorator!”

  Moxie, Piper and I exchanged surreptitious glances, and I knew they were also feeling a bit badly for Fidelia, who had a romantic streak, but who had never had a date, let alone a proposal, since moving to Sylvan Creek. We all knew that, because Fidelia complained endlessly about her lack of a romantic life.

  Then I took a closer look at my part-time accountant, noting that she was wearing a surprisingly bright yellow blouse and blue shorts instead of her usual palette of brown.

  I’d never known Fidelia Tutweiler to wear so much color, let alone bare any skin, and I gave myself a mental pat on the back for setting her up with two handsome dance partners at the holiday Bark the Halls Ball. I swear, twirling around the floor with Jonathan and Gabriel Graham had boosted her confidence.

  In fact, a moment later, I suspected that she might have her sights set on a man. And a handsome one, at that.

  “Do you think maybe we should ask Dex for some assistance?” Fidelia mused, sounding a bit too casual when she spoke the young wedding planner’s name. She was also overly focused on the list of tasks, which we intended to divvy up. I got the sense she was trying to avoid meeting our eyes when she said, “Dexter didn’t try to cheat anyone. And he’d probably feel badly enough to help us out. Because this list is pretty long.”

  Moxie had a gleam in her eye that told me she agreed that Fidelia might have a crush on Dex, who’d chatted with Fidelia at Artful Engagements.

  As I pictured that exchange, I suddenly realized that Dexter Shipley might take over the business in the wake of his boss’s death. If that was the case, he would be out from under Abigail’s oppressive, demanding thumb and owner of an established, lucrative enterprise.

  Interesting.

  “Well?” Fidelia prompted, sounding hopeful. “Should we contact Dexter?”

  I wasn’t sure about that idea, and I deferred to the bride. “What do you think, Piper?”

  “Even with help, you’re all attempting the impossible,” Piper insisted again. She reached across the island and plucked the list from Fidelia’s fingers. “Flowers. Photographer. Minister! Nothing’s in place!”

  Fidelia seemed disappointed by Piper’s dismissal of her idea about Dexter, while I couldn’t believe my can-do sister was acting so defeated. “I can easily contact Alf Sievers and Laci Chalmers,” I volunteered, setting a completed flag cookie onto a drying rack. I looked to Piper. “That is, if you still want both, or either, of them involved in the ceremony.”

  “I doubt Laci will be interested.” Piper reached for one of the strawberry-lemonade slushies I’d whipped up in Flour Power’s blender. I’d expected the kitchen to get hot. “And it’s almost impossible to call Alf.”

  “Who the heck is ‘Alf’?” Moxie asked, without looking up from her work, which was impeccable. I would never understand what had gone wrong with my van. “I don’t recognize that name.”

  “He’s Roger’s uncle,” I explained, since Piper wasn’t rushing to brag about her odd officiant. “He was dressed as a monk the other night. And he’s kind of famous for performing a mass wedding on the shores of Lake Wallapawakee a few years ago.”

  “It was a blatant publicity stunt.” Piper shook her head. “Two hundred couples getting married at once. Why would anyone take part—or be involved with Graystone Arches Gateway to Eternity?”

  Moxie seemed oblivious to Piper’s disapproval. Her eyes lit up. “Oh, I love that cult! They make the best sourdough—and zithers!” She’d finished decorating all the cooled hot dog cookies, and she set down her piping bag so she could make a tossing motion. “I just throw away the flyers that invite you to live with them forever as a hostage when I buy the bread at the farmers’ market.”

  Fidelia, who had also spoken with Roger’s uncle at the party, made a face. “I thought Brother Alf was very sweet. I can’t imagine he’d take anyone hostage.”

  “I doubt the residents are actually held against their will,” Piper said. Then she changed her tune slightly. “Although, Daphne, you might want to avoid the compound. You do have a habit of getting yourself into sticky situations.”

  I hadn’t planned to drive to the isolated property, and I frowned. “Why did you say I can’t just call?”

  “There’s only one phone at Graystone Arches. If you call someone, the monk on duty may or may not bother to track down the person you’re trying to reach. And you’d have to hand your phone over if you went there. They took Roger’s away when he visited a few weeks ago to ask Alf to marry us.”

  I set down my piping bag, too, and licked some yogurt off my fingers. The beet mixture was surprisingly tasty. “Are you sure you can’t use another minister?”

  Piper shook her head. “No. I told you, it would cause a huge family rift. So, please, just forget this crazy wedding idea!”

  “Let me at least ask Laci and Brother Alf if they’re available,” I said. “It can’t hurt.”

  Piper sighed. “Fine. If you insist. But please don’t go to too much trouble. You’re all very busy!”

  “If you aren’t detained at the cult, could you please pick up some bread?” Moxie requested. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Umm, sure,” I agreed, while Piper shot Moxie one of her signature funny looks.

  Fidelia didn’t seem to think the comment was odd. She was too enthralled by the growing intrigue surrounding the wedding. “Has anyone else realized that, between all of us, the monk, Laci . . . and possibly Dexter”—she wasn’t giving up on her plan to loop in Abigail’s assistant—“we’re reassembling the people who were at Artful Engagements the night before Abigail’s murder? And, if things go as planned, we’ll all meet at an abandoned chapel where someone went missing years ago.” She shuddered with what I thought was a mixture of dread and glee. “I feel like I’m in an Agatha Christie novel, and the killer will be revealed at the wedding!”

  Fidelia had made the observation, but Piper looked directly at me. “Please tell me that’s not your plan, Daphne.”

 
I raised my hands, protesting my innocence. “I just want to return safely from Graystone Arches. I am not investigating anything.”

  Piper continued to appear doubtful. Shooting me one more warning look, she read the next item on the list. “We’d need a cake, too!”

  Moxie’s hand shot up. “I can do that. I’ve finished Artie’s and Timmy’s costumes for the regatta, so I have some free time.”

  “Will you please tell me how you’re dressing the dogs?” I asked, reaching for my own slushie. As I’d expected, it had grown warm in the kitchen, where an antique fan, set on top of a cupboard, created the only breeze. “Are they, like, part of a pair?”

  “Yes, they have matching costumes,” Moxie confirmed. “But I’m not telling you anything else. I want it to be a surprise when you set sail!”

  Swallowing a sip of the icy drink, I blinked at her, confused. “When I set sail?”

  Moxie nodded. “Yes, of course. You’ll be captaining the S.S. Tiny-tanic, which is not so much a luxury liner as Mike’s cousin’s rowboat.”

  Piper groaned, while Fidelia clapped her hands together. “Oh, what fun, Daphne! You always have the best adventures!”

  “I don’t even know how to row . . . And that name, Tiny-tanic . . .”

  Moxie spoke right over me. “You don’t need to worry about a thing. The boat’s real name is Something’s Fishy. Mike’s cousin Fred just jokes that it’s the Tiny-tanic—because it sank once. But he’s plugging all the leaks as we speak. You will be good to go by All Paws on Deck!”

  I didn’t see how Something’s Fishy was much better than the nickname, but my shoulders slumped with resignation. “Will you be ‘sailing’ with me?”

  Moxie made a mock shudder. “No, thank you. There are turtles in that lake.” She had a severe case of chelonaphobia. “Plus, I’ll be busy baking the wedding cake. I’ll probably just pop by in time to see you and the dogs floating by.”

  I couldn’t deny that Moxie would be preoccupied. And she was doing me and Piper a lot of favors by making Artie’s and Tiny Tim’s costumes and baking what I knew would be a beautiful cake. Moxie had once re-created all of Sylvan Creek in gingerbread, her details so accurate that a missing light in a window had helped to solve a homicide.

  “There is so much going on,” Piper noted, sounding concerned again—while I got a little worried, too, because Tiny Tim had woken up and was heading for the glass counter, which was stocked with treats. “And I hate the thought of Jonathan fixing up a chapel just for me and Roger. That’s a big favor.”

  Reluctantly setting down my cold, sweating glass, I followed the pug. “Jonathan said he needs to repair the building anyway. And he promises it won’t take long.”

  “I think we can all trust Jonathan Black,” Moxie advised, as I stepped into the public part of the bakery. “He always comes through. Remember the time he saved you from your own refrigerator, Daphne?”

  I was well aware that Moxie was urging me to have faith in more than Jonathan’s ability to slap some paint on an old church. I had already told her about how I’d pushed Jonathan away with the weak, but somewhat true, excuse that Piper and Roger should share the first kiss at the chapel. The whole truth was that I fell harder for Jonathan every time he so much as took my hand in his, and I wasn’t sure that was a good idea, for the time being.

  Needless to say, Jonathan’s and my ride home had been quiet, and the kiss I did receive, at Plum Cottage, had been planted respectfully on my cheek.

  “I’m sure the chapel will be finished,” I promised, pretending I didn’t catch Moxie’s deeper meaning. Continuing to keep one eye on Timmy, who’d passed the counter and moved to the door, I spoke over my shoulder. “In the meantime, we also need a caterer. It seems as if Daisy Carpenter has disappeared.”

  Back in the kitchen, Piper responded to me, but I didn’t catch what she said, because all at once, Timmy popped up onto his hind legs, pressed his paws against the glass, and started barking in an urgent, excited staccato.

  I really didn’t want to pay attention to those yips, because the last time Timmy had summoned me in a similar way, he’d dragged me into the middle of a murder investigation. Yet I found myself joining him at the door, where I looked across the street.

  Then I turned back again and said, more loudly, “Correction. I don’t think Daisy has vanished. I think she’s just been hiding!”

  Chapter 14

  “Hey, Snowdrop,” I called softly, poking my head into In a Pickle. The poodle, who was probably violating a bunch of health codes by exploring the dining room, dropped down to all fours and turned away from the window, where Tiny Tim had obviously spotted her before I did.

  Her tail wagging, Snowdrop hurried to me on her delicate paws, her nails clicking on the whitewashed pine floor.

  “Socrates and I have both missed you,” I whispered, offering her a treat I’d grabbed from Flour Power before darting across the street. Snowdrop’s puffball-topped tail was wagging hard, so I knew she’d missed us, too. I had to resist the urge to pat her head, because the fur between her ears was also perfectly teased, and I didn’t want to mess it up. Instead, I asked, “Where’s Daisy?”

  Snowdrop seemed to understand the question. Her eyes alight, she turned toward a discreetly placed swinging door on the opposite side of the pretty restaurant, which was decorated in an upscale country style that accurately reflected Daisy’s innovative farm-to-table cuisine. Exposed brick walls surrounded a scattering of scarred walnut tables, above which metal pendant lights dangled from an original punched-tin ceiling. Old pickle barrels flanked a bar where customers could have a glass of wine or sample from glass jars of tempting homemade pickles in flavors ranging from sweet-and-sour to garlic dill and spicy habanero.

  Offering Snowdrop another treat, I picked my way through the tables, which were preset with gingham place mats. As I drew closer to the door, I heard clinking, clanging sounds coming from the kitchen, like Daisy was finally going to have her grand opening.

  Thinking I’d congratulate her and offer to help before bringing up the catering job, I pushed open the door—only to discover that the young chef wasn’t chopping, stirring and sautéing. In fact, there was no food in sight. Only plenty of utensils, which Daisy was tossing into bus pans that were lined up on her shiny silver prep area.

  “Daisy, what are you doing?” I asked, one hand still on the door.

  She wheeled around, her eyes wide with alarm. Or guilt. Maybe both.

  “What’s going on?” I inquired again, stepping into the kitchen and letting the door swing shut behind me. I didn’t mean to exclude Snowdrop, but, having read a few pages from the health and safety manual that governed local establishments, I was sure dogs weren’t welcome in commercial kitchens.

  “Please, go, Daphne,” Daisy requested, without greeting me. She resumed piling gleaming utensils into the gray pan. “Just leave me alone!”

  I overlooked that plea, because she seemed awfully distressed. Then my gaze darted to two cardboard boxes that also sat on the counter. One of the cartons, which, according to its label, should have held tomatoes, was filled with linens. A stack of striped terry cloth towels was about to topple over. “Are you packing up your kitchen?”

  Daisy wasn’t cooking, but she’d covered her hair with a wide headband and donned her chef’s coat, probably out of habit. Swiping the sleeve under her nose, she spoke in a choked voice that told me she’d been crying. “I have no choice!”

  I was seriously starting to wonder if Daisy might have had a hand in Abigail’s death. I couldn’t imagine the petite brunette with the wide brown eyes and heart-shaped face killing anyone, but she’d gone into hiding right after the crime, and it looked like she was fleeing town.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” I suggested, keeping my voice even and standing very still, so I wouldn’t provoke her or make her dart off. “Maybe I can help.”

  “There’s nothing you can do,” she said, her bow-like lower lip quivering. �
�The police already suspect me of killing Abigail—and they haven’t even figured out the secret she held over my head, using it to blackmail me!”

  The case against Daisy seemed to be getting stronger, and I probably should’ve run away. But the fear I felt prickling in my veins was balanced by an equal tingle of curiosity, and I heard myself asking, “What secret, Daisy?”

  She suddenly seemed to grasp that she’d unburdened herself too much. Her jaw hung open for a moment. Then she must’ve figured there was no going back. Or maybe she needed to confide in someone, because all at once she blurted the truth.

  “Abigail knew about the poisonings, Daphne! The ones I hid for two years!”

  Chapter 15

  “You have got to give me the recipe for the spicy habanero, and the other varieties, too, if you don’t mind,” I said, taking a sip of beer from a frosted mug. I set the drink on the gleaming bar and swiveled on my high stool. “Like everything you cook, your pickles are delicious.”

  Daisy smiled, but wryly, and her eyes were still rimmed with red. “I’m surprised you’re not scared to eat here—like everyone else will be, when word gets out that dozens of people got deathly ill from my food.”

  Poor Daisy hadn’t purposely poisoned anyone. Something had gone wrong with potato salad she’d prepared for a summer wedding back in her hometown of Narrowsburg, New York, in the Catskills. She’d come to another tourist-friendly community—Sylvan Creek—in hopes of making a fresh start. Unfortunately, she hadn’t moved quite far enough to escape the gossip among small-town wedding planners on the East Coast. The planner who’d booked Daisy for the fateful reception had contacted Abigail, warning her about the disaster.

  Abigail had been savvy enough to realize that the incident, which had stemmed from a server’s failure to fill an ice tray under the salad, wouldn’t happen again. She was also smart enough to grasp that she basically held Daisy’s reputation in her hands, and she’d used that power to force Daisy to work for next to nothing.