Something Borrowed, Something Mewed

by Bethany Blake

  Of course, Roger would never live in an apartment over a dive bar, or be covered with ink, like Dorinda, who was tattooed nearly head to toe. Black spiders danced across her hands, and a majestic pink-and-purple unicorn reared up between her wrist and elbow.

  All at once, I noticed the bottom half of a human face on her upper arm.

  “Is that Roger?” I asked, leaning closer to view the portrait, which was peeking out from beneath the sleeve of her black T-shirt. “Seriously,” I said, barely resisting the urge to grab her wrist, because she was pulling back from me. “Do you have your brother on your arm?”

  Dorinda didn’t answer me. Jutting her chin, she tugged down her sleeve, obscuring the image with her shirt, which featured the Harley-Davidson logo. Her acoustic guitar, which was propped against a chair on a makeshift stage, was plastered with similar stickers.

  Clearly, Dorinda was loyal to her brother and her brand.

  “What do you want here?” she demanded. Crossing her arms, she turned away from me. “Please tell me it’s not more of this stupid ‘bridesmaid’ stuff.”

  I’d only known Dorinda Berendt for about five minutes, so there was a chance I was reading her wrong. But I was pretty sure she was dismissing the “bridesmaid stuff” because she wanted to be part of it and feared that she was going to be shut out. She was rejecting me, Fidelia and Moxie before we could reject her, just like Abigail, and probably a lot of other people, had done.

  Or maybe not. Maybe she just hated weddings.

  Dorinda faced me again, her eyes glittering with anger. “If you’ve come here to grovel, I’m not interested in putting on a fancy dress and dancing like a chicken at some stuck-up country club.”

  Under the table, where he was restlessly rooting around for fallen French fries and crumbs—of which there were quite a few—Harley snorted, like he agreed with his person.

  “I really don’t think we’re doing the chicken dance,” I informed them both, thinking I wasn’t a fan of bending my arms into “wings” and shaking my tail feathers, either. “And the reception will be held at Piper’s farm, Winding Hill. It’s going to be really nice, but not ‘stuck up’. And it would mean a lot if you would help me and my friends plan everything. We’re kind of overwhelmed.”

  Dorinda snorted, a defensive laugh. “So, you need free labor?”

  “No, we need help,” I clarified, “to give your brother—and future sister-in-law—a really nice day they’ll remember for the rest of their lives.”

  I could tell that I’d cracked Dorinda’s heavy armor by appealing to her love for Roger. But she still peered at me suspiciously from over the rim of her beer as she took a sip, stalling.

  I also took a drink of my flat cola and shuddered, setting down the can and pushing it away. If I hadn’t been facing a long bike ride home, I might’ve ordered something in a frosted mug, too.

  “What would I have to do?” Dorinda finally asked, staring at a wall full of neon beer signs again. Refusing to make eye contact seemed to be one of her defense mechanisms, and she was quick to let me know that she wasn’t agreeing to be of assistance. “Not that I’ll do anything. I’m pretty busy, taking care of Harley and all.”

  The pig in question was snoozing on the dirty floor, and given that Dorinda was hanging out in a bar before noon, I didn’t think she was overbooked with activities. I was pretty sure she could fit in the tasks that I suspected she would eventually complete.

  However, before I asked Dorinda to contact a florist and finalize the menu with Daisy Carpenter, I had two questions for her.

  Leaning forward, I waited until she grew uncomfortable enough with the silence to meet my eyes again, so I could see her reaction when I asked, “Can you attend a bridal shower on Thursday evening? And what in the world were you doing at Artful Engagements the morning I found Abigail Sinclair’s body bobbing in a fountain?”

  Chapter 20

  “I didn’t know that was you driving the old bus,” Dorinda said, pushing aside her beer, which was like the last vestige of the tough exterior she’d started shedding the moment I’d brought up her visit to the scene of a homicide. She leaned forward, her eyes darting back and forth. She wasn’t avoiding me anymore. She was making sure no one else in the dim, hazy space could hear her over a classic rock song playing on a jukebox that glowed in a dark corner, near an unused pool table. Satisfied that the few other patrons were preoccupied, she added, “I’ve been wondering when I’d get found out. I didn’t think it would happen today, when you stumbled in here.”

  “Did you really not see my name on my van when you drove past?” I asked, with a quick glance at Harley, who was snuffling in his sleep. “It’s painted in huge letters!”

  “I was going pretty fast,” Dorinda reminded me. “All I saw was a horse.”

  “That’s actually a dog,” I said. “But it’s a common mistake.”

  “Why do you have a big dog on your van?”

  “I’m a pet sitter. And I own a bakery for cats and dogs. Didn’t Roger ever mention that?”

  Dorinda shook her head. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, and she was starting to look her age as she let her defenses down and the hard edges she’d put up softened. “No. Roger doesn’t talk much about you. Mainly Piper.”

  “Well, I didn’t know you sang, either,” I told her. “You sounded great.”

  She shrugged. “It wasn’t even really a gig. Sometimes I just play. My own stuff, or covers.” She nudged the guitar case with a booted foot. “People toss me some coins or buy me a beer if they like what they hear.”

  Dorinda was acting humble, but I could tell she was proud of herself.

  “You have a real talent,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, watching pets is cool, too.” She looked down at Harley. “I like animals. They don’t judge.”

  “I like that about them, too,” I agreed, forgetting for a moment that I was worried Dorinda had strangled a wedding planner.

  I wanted to steer the conversation back to murder. However, at Dorinda’s insistence, we had ordered lunch, which was probably a terrible mistake, and we stopped talking for a minute so the bartender, who was also the cook, could set down two plates. I’d ordered the only vegetarian thing on the limited menu—a grilled cheese sandwich with potato chips—while Dorinda had opted for a cheeseburger and fries.

  When Dogtags—that was the bartender’s nickname—was out of earshot, I asked again, “Why were you at Abigail’s place?”

  Dorinda reached for a bottle of ketchup without taking her eyes off me. And she didn’t answer my question until she’d poured a red puddle onto her plate. Even then, her response wasn’t direct. “Roger says you solve murders sometimes.”

  I was glad my future brother-in-law had said something about me. And, unlike my mother and sister, apparently he didn’t disapprove of my sleuthing.

  “He says you helped Piper and your friend Dixie—”

  “Moxie.”

  “Moxie. You helped Moxie beat a murder rap.”

  “It didn’t get quite that far,” I said, taking a tentative bite of my sandwich, which was amazing. And, while I didn’t eat meat, I thought Dorinda’s burger looked good, too. I shifted in my seat, giving Dogtags a thumbs up.

  He was leaning against the bar, wiping glasses with a stained towel. “Muenster.”

  I didn’t understand. “What?”

  “The secret is Muenster,” he said, more loudly. “It melts very nicely.”

  “I’ll remember that,” I promised, turning back to Dorinda, who was slipping fries to Harley. The little pig had woken up and was rooting around under the table again.

  “Dogtags was a cook in the army,” Dorinda explained. “The kitchen is cleaner than the front of the house.”

  “Good to know,” I said, viewing my plate with more enthusiasm. I had suffered a few bouts of food poisoning, including the incident in Istanbul, and I wasn’t eager to go through the experience again. Then I lowered my voice. “I do sometimes solve
homicides. And if you’re asking if I can help you—”

  “Like I’m helping you, as a bridesmaid.”

  Dorinda wasn’t as tough as she pretended, but she had chosen, for some reason, to live in a pretty rough environment, and she was savvy. I nodded. “Yes. Although I don’t really think of it as some kind of bargain. I’d try to help you even if you bailed on being a bridesmaid—as long as you’re honest with me, and give me all the facts as you remember them.”

  Dorinda pondered her options over a big bite of her burger, which was about an inch thick and topped with a slab of tomato. She set down the sandwich and licked her fingers. “There’s not much to tell,” she finally said. “I was up all night, thinking about what that witch said about me, right to my face—”

  “What happened before the morning we nearly ran into each other?” I interrupted. I remembered how Roger had said Dorinda had thrown her dress at him, and I cautioned, “And try to stay calm, okay? Getting upset doesn’t help anything. As Saint Francis de Sales said, ‘Do everything quietly and in a calm spirit.’”

  Dorinda wiped her mouth with a napkin she’d plucked from a dispenser in the center of the table. “Roger said you’re a philosopher, too.”

  “Yet he never said ‘pet sitter’ or ‘bakery owner’?”

  “Nope. Just PI and philosopher.”

  “Interesting,” I said, through a bite of gooey cheese and buttery, toasted bread. “Now, about what happened between you and Abigail . . .”

  Dorinda tossed down the napkin. “When I went to pick up my gown, which was stupid, by the way—”

  “Because it was a costume.”

  Dorinda rolled her eyes, like she’d known that all along. “Duh. That was obvious!”

  I really regretted wearing the outfit for an entire day.

  “So, I stopped by the dead lady’s giant mansion—before she was dead,” Dorinda clarified, bending to set her plate onto the floor. I could have sworn Harley’s curly tail wagged as he chowed down on what was left of his person’s meal. “And she told me I should use makeup to cover my ‘nasty’ tattoos at the wedding.” Dorinda scowled. “I told her the idea was idiotic.” She held out her arm with the unicorn. “Like there’s makeup that would cover that. If I even wanted to do it, and pretend to be somebody I’m not. Which I don’t want to do.”

  I had to agree that Abigail’s plan had been flawed, but I let Dorinda keep talking as I mentally added details to the altercation Roger had mentioned.

  “We started arguing, and she called me ‘trashy’ and a ‘lowlife’!”

  Dorinda’s voice spiked, and I made a patting motion with my hands, urging her to tone it down, because some pretty big guys in leather jackets had turned to look at us.

  Dorinda realized her mistake, and to her credit, she controlled her temper and leaned forward, speaking more softly again. But there was a glimmer of anger in her eyes. I couldn’t really blame her for being upset, especially when she confided, “High-and-mighty Abigail Sinclair told me I should skip the wedding. That if I showed up, I’d ‘disgrace the whole affair.’ Those were her exact words.”

  Dorinda’s eyes suddenly gleamed in a different way. Tears brimmed at the edge of her lashes.

  “Like I don’t get enough comments like that from my mother,” she muttered, leaning back again.

  I gave her a second to compose herself, then pushed aside my completely empty plate. I was pretty sure Dogtags had made the wafer-thin chips by hand. “Why did you go back in the morning?”

  “I was gonna take back her cheap costume and tell her where she could stick it.”

  I winced at the image, and the reaction I imagined Detective Doebler having if Dorinda was questioned.

  “Then I was going to make her give back Roger’s money,” Dorinda added. “Because he paid for my gown.” She swiped a finger under her eye, wiping away leftover tears. She was no longer close to crying. Just angry again. “And I bet she overcharged him, too. She acted like those dresses were worth a million dollars!”

  “Yeah, she definitely ripped us off,” I agreed, as Dogtags, who’d emerged from behind the bar, cleared the table and bent to pick up Harley’s empty plate, too. Thanking him, I watched him carry the dirty dishes back to the kitchen, thinking there had to be rules against patrons eating off the same plates as pigs. Even cute ones. Not that I cared. Socrates would only eat off dishes designed for humans. I looked across the table at Dorinda. “What happened when you got to Artful Engagements?”

  “The place was unlocked. I walked around for a while, looking for her.”

  I thought of the suitcases on the bed. “Did you go upstairs?”

  Dorinda gave me a funny look. “No. I figured that was, like, her house. I’ve got some manners. I stayed on the first floor, then I looked out in the garden.” All at once, Dorinda blanched. “That’s when I saw her lying under the flag. I could tell she was dead, so I ran to my bike and took off.”

  “Did you touch anything?”

  She shook her head. “No. The doors were both open. Front and back. I figured she was airing the place out for some reason. Until I found her body. Then I knew somebody had probably rushed in, killed her and rushed out.” Dorinda spread her hands on the table, showing off the spiders on her fingers. “And if I’d touched anything, I would’ve wiped off my prints. I have a record, you know.”

  The little pig snuffled loudly. It almost seemed like he was proud of his person.

  “What exactly did you do?”

  “I was busking in Key West. Trying to get money to return to Pennsylvania after dropping out of college during spring break.” She shrugged. “Turns out singing and playing guitar for cash is illegal there without a permit.”

  I was confused. “Wouldn’t you just get fined for busking?”

  Dorinda sank down in her chair. “I punched the cop who told me to get lost.”

  She definitely had a temper. But I had a feeling it stemmed from holding in a lot of anger not toward Abigail Sinclair, but toward her mother. It was just a hunch.

  Digging into my pocket, I put the twenty on the table, certain it would cover our dirt cheap meals, including tip. “Dorinda, you have to tell the police everything you told me.”

  She reared back, clutching the table like I was about to drag her away, and Harley squared off against me, too, oinking loudly. Dorinda spoke over his squeals. “I don’t think so!”

  Everyone was staring at us, and I stood up, thinking I needed to get going. I had another appointment that evening, and I needed a shower. I wasn’t sure if Dorinda would follow me, but she rose, too, and we left together, trailed by Harley.

  “You know Roger’s under suspicion, right?” I asked when Dorinda had closed the door behind all three of us, giving us some privacy on the shaded, sagging porch. “And he’s probably making things worse for himself by trying to protect you. Which is also undermining his marriage before it even begins. He doesn’t even want to tell Piper the whole story.”

  Dorinda shrank and rubbed her arm, where she’d inked the tribute to her brother. “I didn’t know all that.” She squinted out at the sunny day. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

  “I date ... kind of date ... a detective ... a guy who was a detective . . .” Seeing Dorinda’s confusion, I gave up trying to explain Jonathan’s employment status, or my relationship to him. “I know some investigators in this town,” I said. “I could go with you, if you want to come clean.”

  “Maybe.” Dorinda was noncommittal, but I felt confident that she’d make the right decision.

  “Hey, Dorinda?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I have a mother who is like a clone of yours, and who expresses endless disappointment with me. I understand why you might want to drop out of school, run away and punch a cop. But there are better options.”

  She didn’t sound too optimistic. “Yeah. Probably.”

  I stepped down off the porch, thinking about Jonathan, who quietly helped troubled people, including a prickly
youth who reminded me of Dorinda. But just as two great ideas struck me, Dorinda looked past me, frowning. “Which bike is yours?”

  I turned to point out Piper’s twenty-one speed—only to discover that it was gone.

  “Oh, no!” I groaned, wheeling back around. “I had this bicycle . . .”

  “Sorry,” Dorinda apologized for her adopted tribe. The permanent piggy grin on Harley’s face made it seem like my plight amused him. Maybe it did. “Stuff like that happens here sometimes,” Dorinda added. “I’ll do my best to get it back. Or get parts of it back.”

  “Thanks,” I said glumly. “Can I borrow your phone? I need to call Piper for a ride.”

  Dorinda started to reach into the back pocket of her jeans, then she grinned. It was the first time I’d seen her smile.

  “You don’t have to call your sister. Bridesmaids help each other, right?”

  I felt a bit wary. “Yes . . . ?”

  Dorinda turned around, and I wasn’t sure if she was sincerely coming to my aid or testing me somehow when she said, “I’ll get an extra helmet.”

  Chapter 21

  “That was harrowing,” I told Socrates, who kept making snuffling, snickery sounds from his seat in the van. It was dark and getting drizzly outside, and there were no streetlamps on the rural road we were traveling, so I couldn’t see him very well. But I could tell that the thought of me riding on the back of Dorinda’s motorcycle, clinging to her for dear life, with a pig squashed between us, amused him. I clutched the steering wheel, still white-knuckling it, two hours after Roger’s reckless sister had delivered me, safe but shaken, to Plum Cottage. “I was sure we were going to crash!”

  Socrates tried to act suitably sympathetic, but it was clearly difficult. I was sure his spirits were uncharacteristically high because, when I’d returned home, I’d discovered a message from Daisy Carpenter, letting me know that she planned to stay put for the time being and would be happy to cater Piper’s reception. For now, Snowdrop wasn’t going anywhere.