Something Borrowed, Something Mewed

by Bethany Blake

  “I thought if I could just handle Abigail’s abuse until I had a loyal customer base and firmly established this place . . .” Daisy waved her hand, gesturing to the welcoming restaurant she’d created. Snowdrop, who sat at the foot of Daisy’s stool, clearly understood her person’s mood. She lay down and whined softly. “I was convinced that I could stop catering,” Daisy continued, “and Abigail would lose her power over me.”

  Pushing away my empty plate of pickles, I rested my arms on the bar. “Daisy, maybe nobody has to know what happened in the past. I can’t imagine that Detective Doebler would go blabbing about an incident he uncovered during a murder investigation. I’ve been involved in a few cases myself, and it seems to me that detectives are pretty discreet.”

  Daisy hung her head and picked at the hem of her white coat. “The story will get out somehow.” She smiled again, but she still wasn’t amused. “It’s ironic, how Abigail actually kept the tale in check by maintaining power over it. She would’ve lost her slave labor if anyone else ever found out the truth.”

  But if Abigail was dead, Daisy would be free, and the secret would be buried, too . . .

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Daisy said quietly, watching me. “You’re wondering if I killed Abigail after I staged that pathetic rebellion the night of Piper’s party. And then I sent you that text when I was so angry.”

  I didn’t try to deny that I had doubts. “What happened in the kitchen at Artful Engagements? And what was up with the message?”

  Daisy looked away, across the bar, at a mirror that reflected us both. My curls were more wild than usual, thanks to the humidity in Flour Power’s kitchen, and I had a smudge of flour on my gray T-shirt, which featured the bakery’s paw-and-peace-sign logo. Daisy’s cheeks were pale, and she had dark circles under her eyes. Her headband, which she kept pushing with the back of her hand, was askew. In short, both of us looked like we could use a shower, and possibly a nap.

  “I didn’t want to see Abigail push you around, like she did me,” Daisy finally said. “I heard her bullying you into watching the cat, and, even if she wasn’t blackmailing you, I didn’t want you to get stuck under her thumb.”

  “I probably should’ve been more firm about refusing her,” I agreed. “But it’s very hard to argue with a person who basically ignores your protests. Which is how Piper, who is pretty direct herself, ended up with a theme wedding.”

  “Not only was Abigail forceful, but I’m pretty sure she was starting to wield her power over me just for the fun of it,” Daisy noted. “She knew that storm was coming, but she kept pushing me to stock the buffet.”

  “And you tried to fight back.”

  Daisy nodded. “Yes. When you came into the kitchen, I nearly blurted that she didn’t pay me enough to boss me around like that. But I saw the disbelief, then challenge, in her eyes, and I knew she’d destroy my business if I defied her. So at the last second, I held my tongue and did as I was told.” Daisy raised a hand. “And you need to believe that I didn’t know she’d overbooked the Sodgrass Club and was about to skip town. I had no clue! I was one of several caterers she booked that day. We all lost money, buying food and wasting our time, preparing for events that never happened.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Piper was afraid that was the case.” It was my turn to study Daisy. “So what happened after the storm cut loose? How long did you stay at the mansion?”

  Daisy drew back on her stool, suddenly putting up her guard. “Are you trying to convict, or help, me? Because I know you have a reputation for solving murders—sometimes to protect your friends. I followed the story about Moxie last winter. I read in the Gazette that you helped solve the case because the evidence pointed toward her. But I’m not one of your good friends, like Moxie. And someone goes to jail when a murder is solved. Maybe you think it should be me.”

  She was putting me on the spot, but she had a right to ask about my motives, since I was snooping around, asking a lot of questions I really had no right to ask. I needed to make a decision, and I glanced at Snowdrop, who wagged her tail again when I caught her eye.

  No one in Sylvan Creek had wanted the once-high-maintenance poodle, who had previously belonged to a woman who’d basically tried to ruin the town before ending up dead under a Christmas tree. Only Daisy had stepped forward, and now Snowdrop was well adjusted, her days of diamond-studded collars long behind her.

  Her tail still carving short arcs, Snowdrop next gazed up at Daisy with the sort of worshipful look that dogs reserve for their most important person.

  I met Daisy’s eyes again. “I believe you’re innocent. And if I can help you, I will. But you need to be honest with me.”

  Daisy nodded, accepting those terms. Then she said, “I’ve already told Detective Doebler everything that happened that night. Not that I think he believes me.”

  I’d taken another sip of beer, and I swallowed quickly so I could sympathize. “He never believes me, either. Don’t feel badly.”

  “To be honest, I don’t know why he wouldn’t suspect me,” Daisy admitted. Her brow creased, like she wasn’t sure of her own innocence. “Things got so strange after that storm broke.”

  “How so?”

  Daisy had sort of drifted off, and she shook her head, snapping back to reality. “I’m sure you remember how the guests who were still there just took off.” A faint, more genuine smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I remember seeing the monk waddling away.”

  I could also picture Brother Alf’s hasty departure, his retreat hampered by his sandals and the long ends of his belt swinging.

  “I kept running back and forth between the buffet, the kitchen and my van,” Daisy added. “I was trying to salvage at least some of the food, but it was really too late, once the rain and wind started. It was just chaos then.”

  I had questions, but I let her keep talking.

  “I know that Dexter tried to be helpful,” she said, looking off into the distance. “I saw him with an umbrella, escorting somebody to the parking lot. But I had no idea who it was, because he was hunched over the person, his free arm outstretched to shield him or her from the wind and the hail. Then Dex seemed to disappear.”

  I couldn’t help chiming in. “Where was Abigail during all this?”

  Daisy’s pale cheeks flushed, and she turned her face away. Snowdrop whined again, clearly sensing that her person was agitated.

  “What did you see?” I asked Daisy. “I can tell you’re keeping something back.”

  Daisy faced me again, and I saw misery in her brown eyes. “I haven’t even told this to Detective Doebler, because he didn’t ask the right questions. And I don’t want you to run to him—or Detective Black—if I share this with you. Because I don’t know what Laci has admitted to the police. And her story is her business, and hers to tell.”

  Maybe that was the case, but Daisy must’ve been sick of carrying Laci’s secret, on top of her own, because without waiting for me to make any promises—and I wouldn’t have been able to—she confided, “The last time I saw Abigail, the power had gone out at the mansion. I was fumbling my way down the hallway that runs past Abigail’s office, trying to get to the front door and go home. As I passed the office door, lightning flashed, and in the split second the room was illuminated, I saw Abigail—and Laci. And even in that tiny moment, it was quite clear that they were arguing, when I thought Laci should’ve already been long gone. It was her last night working for Abigail, and the party was over.”

  “Laci mentioned something about staying to get her check.”

  Daisy shook her head. “I don’t think she meant that literally. When Abigail did pay us, she sent checks in the mail.”

  I didn’t know what to make of that, and it was time for me to go. Hopping off the stool, I dug into the back of my jeans, pulling out some cash to pay Daisy for the beer and pickles.

  Daisy stood up, too, being careful not to step on Snowdrop, who’d waited patiently on the floor. Then she waved off my offe
red money. “No, this was my treat.” She suddenly seemed to realize her predicament again, and the light that had sparked briefly in her eyes flickered out. “I’ll be looking to get rid of my inventory soon anyhow. If I’m not on trial for murder.”

  I stuffed my money back into my pocket. “Don’t give up the restaurant or worry too much yet, okay? My mother, Moxie and Piper have all been in deeper trouble than you. Or, at least, as deep. And they were dealing with Jonathan, not his partner. Just stay the course for now, okay? Hold your grand opening!”

  Daisy didn’t seem convinced. She moved behind the bar, clearing off my empty plate and mug. “I don’t know . . . I can’t imagine that word about my past won’t get out somehow.” She reached under the counter, grabbed a rag and cleaned up the ring of condensation left behind by my drink. “I feel like I’m destined to be ruined here and should prepare to move on.”

  Snowdrop whimpered, as if she understood the conversation, and I suddenly realized that, if Daisy really did move, Socrates and the poodle would be separated again. I needed Daisy to stick around.

  “I can help you restore your reputation,” I promised. “I’m not as powerful as Abigail, but I do know just about everybody around here. And I can offer you a job that would introduce a lot of influential local people to your food and prove that you can safely cater a big summer event.”

  Daisy’s head jerked up, even as her hand kept swiping circles. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re trying to regroup and hold Piper’s wedding this summer. If you’re available, we’d like you to cater the reception.”

  Daisy was feeling defeated, but she was a chef at heart, and she couldn’t help being interested. The little spark in her eyes came back. “What were you thinking?”

  “Unlike Abigail, who forced you to create a bunch of red, white and blue stuff that didn’t really represent your food, I’ll leave most of the menu up to you,” I told her. Then I was struck by an idea, and I told her, “But there’s one thing you have to serve, if you accept the job. And I won’t take no for an answer!”

  Chapter 16

  “I honestly think Daisy and Snowdrop are going to be fine and stick around Sylvan Creek,” I told Socrates as I hauled open the door to Piper’s barn, trying not to drop a bunch of rags I’d brought from Plum Cottage or lose Ms. Peebles, whom I’d picked up from the farmhouse.

  I’d spent my ride back to Winding Hill debating whether to tell Socrates that Snowdrop might be leaving town again, because the poodle had disappeared once before, when she’d been part of a complicated estate settlement. Ultimately, I’d decided that Socrates would rather have time to prepare, emotionally, if he and his puppy love were going to be parted—which I didn’t really think would happen.

  “Daisy is very invested in In a Pickle,” I reminded the stoic basset hound, who followed me into the barn, where the table full of gifts waited. The pile would need to be moved again before the reception. I turned to close the door, then changed my mind, deciding to let the evening breeze clear the air. “Once Daisy successfully serves potato salad at Piper’s reception and all of the guests are wowed by her food and flock to the restaurant, she’ll regain her confidence and realize that she’s going to be successful in Sylvan Creek.”

  “Woof!”

  Socrates’ rare vocalization, which I assumed was a reminder that Daisy was also under investigation for murder, startled me, causing me to drop the old towels—and Ms. Peebles, who leaped from my arms and ran across the wooden floor.

  The barn, with its exposed rafters, sharp tools and open hayloft, was probably a terrible place to bring the world’s most accident-prone cat, but Piper had made me promise I’d take responsibility for Ms. Peebles again. And I didn’t feel good about leaving her alone at Plum Cottage with Tinkleston while I began cleaning up for the reception.

  “I’m sure Ms. Peebles will be okay for an hour or so, right?” I asked Socrates as I knelt down to pick up the rags, which I planned to use to wipe dust from the antique truck that was parked in the barn. I’d mentioned the vehicle, which was red, with wooden slats around the bed, to Elyse, and she’d suggested that we might bring it outside and decorate it with flowers, creating a photo op for guests. Grabbing the threadbare dish towels, I continued trying to reassure Socrates. “And Daisy didn’t kill anyone . . .”

  I let that thought trail off for two reasons.

  First, Socrates was wandering away, headed back outside, presumably to meditate while the sun set.

  I also grew quiet because, all at once, as I grabbed the rags from the floor—and recalled how Daisy had wiped down the bar at In a Pickle—I felt a cold knot form in the pit of my stomach.

  Still kneeling, I flashed back to the box of towels I’d seen in the kitchen, too ... and a cloth Daisy had used at Artful Engagements, when she’d wiped down the counter there.

  All of the rags were the same, presumably purchased in bulk at a restaurant supply store.

  Crouching on the rough boards, I also heard Jonathan’s voice echoing in my mind.

  “Vonda was able to find white and blue fibers in a series of tiny lacerations on her neck . . .”

  “Daisy’s towels were all blue and white striped,” I whispered, talking to myself.

  Or, at least, I thought I was alone, until I heard a soft mrrrow, coming from right next to me.

  “Hey, Ms. Peebles.” I glanced at the curious cat, who blinked at me with her huge eyes. Then I dropped all but one of the dish towels back to the floor. “You’re going to think this is crazy. But I have to check something.”

  Feeling a bit silly, I nevertheless wrapped the towel around my throat and tried to pull it tight.

  There wasn’t much leftover fabric to hold on to, so I wriggled a bit, trying to determine if an assailant could’ve really kept a grip if someone struggled.

  “Mrrow!”

  Ms. Peebles’s eyes were huge, and she backed away, like she thought I’d lost my mind.

  And she wasn’t the only one to question my investigative tactic.

  As I fought even harder against myself, I heard someone call to me from the doorway, his normally steady voice uncertain, “Daphne . . . Are you strangling yourself? Because I don’t think that’s going to work!”

  Rising, I pulled the towel away from my throat and turned to greet my rational future brother-in-law with a sheepish smile. I held out the rag. “I was just . . .”

  I planned to explain what I was doing, until I saw the look on Roger’s face as he stepped closer to me.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

  Roger Berendt was one of the most solid citizens I knew. A guy I respected and trusted, from the top of his conservative haircut to the pennies in his loafers. So I was very surprised when he swallowed thickly, then admitted, “I’ve been lying to Piper, Daphne. And I can’t do it anymore.”

  * * *

  “I understand that you wanted to spare Piper any more stress,” I told Roger, who sat next to me on the bed of the antique truck, our legs dangling down. “But you need to be honest with her. She thinks you’re pretty much free and clear, and no longer on Detective Doebler’s radar.”

  “That is not the case at all.” Roger bent his head and rubbed his temples. “I think I’m a prime suspect.” He let his hands drop to his sides and turned to me, misery clouding his brown eyes. “I can’t believe I’m coming to you about this.”

  That was a bit insulting, but I understood what he meant. Roger and Piper considered themselves the problem solvers—except when it came time to handle murders, at which point I was clearly the expert.

  “I’m hoping you can offer me some advice,” Roger said. “I’m not sure what to do at this point. I’ve never had any scrapes with the law. Nothing more than a traffic ticket. And suddenly, on the eve of my marriage and a fantastic opportunity to teach overseas, I may be arrested for homicide.”

  I’d never heard Roger Berendt sound shaken before, but, having seen Piper crack when under suspicion o
f murder, I knew what the pressure could do to even the strongest person.

  “Why don’t you tell me everything that happened after the party at Artful Engagements?” I suggested, hopping down off the truck and grabbing one of the rags, which had been piled next to me. I planned to listen carefully, but there was a lot to accomplish, and the sun was setting on one of our precious few days to get things done. Shaking out the towel, I added, “And why did you think Abigail was running some sort of scam before the day everyone found out?”

  Roger pinched the bridge of his nose and grimaced. “I regret ever using that word. I’m usually so careful with language.”

  I began polishing a fat cherry red fender. “What did you mean?”

  “I just thought Abigail’s entire business was more style than substance,” he explained, hopping down, too, and brushing off the back of his trademark khakis. He also wore a short-sleeved, plaid summer shirt and loafers. I wasn’t surprised that he considered Abigail’s enterprise frivolous and ostentatious. Roger grabbed a rag, too. “She overcharged our all-too-willing mothers for things that we could’ve done ourselves, like booking a room at the Sodgrass Club. And her ideas weren’t particularly original. Just showy—like red water in a fountain ringed by cherubs dressed as Uncle Sam. Not to mention bridesmaids’ gowns that turned out to be cheap costumes!”

  My hand jerked to a halt. “What?”

  “The dresses Abigail ordered weren’t ‘designer exclusives, ’ like she claimed. I did an Internet search on the label, and, like I expected, ‘Shakespeare’s Closet’ caters to community theater leagues and schools putting on inexpensive productions. Your dress was cheap nylon.”

  “Yet Moxie made it look good, at our fitting,” I mused, looking around for Ms. Peebles, who had disappeared. That didn’t bode well.

  “I can only imagine how much money Abigail has pocketed over the years, passing off low-quality items to brides and grooms with stars in their eyes—not to mention status-obsessed parents with deep pockets. And we fell prey to her ‘grand finale.’”