It was only seven thirty, but my dedicated and early-rising sister was usually at her practice by seven at the latest.
Since I had time to kill, I pulled over and let Socrates out. He went directly to the back door, like he also thought something might be amiss, and I started to get worried as I opened the unlocked door and stuck my head inside, calling softly, “Piper?”
She didn’t answer me, so Socrates and I entered the kitchen, where I first noticed a stack of mail—and a copy of the Weekly Gazette—on Piper’s breakfast bar.
Picking up the paper, I saw that the top story was about the murder, and I didn’t think Detective Doebler would be happy with the headline: Local Cops Stymied by Red, White and Blue Slaying.
Then I spied a smaller story that made me groan.
Area Realtors Lead Bamboozled Brides in Legal Battle for Compensation
The article was accompanied by a photo of Mom and Beverly Berendt, standing back-to-back, their arms crossed, looking something like an aging pair of Charlie’s angels out for justice.
I was pretty sure they were also handing out business cards to the brides and grooms they were dragging into their class action suit, because sooner or later, the couples would get married and probably want to buy property.
I decided not to read the whole account, but I did check the bylines. Both stories were by Laci Chalmers.
“Laci is definitely hustling,” I noted to Socrates, who was sniffing around the kitchen. “Gabriel must be happy.”
Socrates had mixed feelings about the Gazette’s editor and didn’t respond with so much as a look in my direction, so I set down the paper next to the stack of mail, which included a bill from the water company and a brochure that featured palm trees and a sandy beach, not unlike the travel pamphlets I’d recently seen at Artful Engagements.
Since all my mail came to the farmhouse, mingled with Piper’s correspondence, I didn’t hesitate to reach for the brochure—only to be stopped by my sister, whom I hadn’t even heard step into the kitchen.
“Daphne! What are you doing? And what are you doing here?”
I looked up to see her blinking at me with mingled rebuke and surprise.
I stared right back, not believing my eyes. Socrates was observing my sister, too, his head tilted so that one of his long ears dragged on the ground.
I didn’t mean to sound rude, but I had to hold back a chuckle when I asked, “What the heck are you wearing, Piper?”
* * *
“It’s not the gown I’m going with,” Piper repeated as I tugged at the zipper of a white, filmy spaghetti-strap dress, in which she was stuck. Her cheeks were flushed. “I just thought it looked pretty, so I brought it home with a few others I found at Something Borrowed, Something New. But none of them are working, and they all need to go back!”
Socrates had politely remained in the kitchen, but Piper and I were in her bedroom, and I glanced at her closet, which was open. A bunch of long white plastic bags from Sylvan Creek’s only bridal shop hung inside, next to Piper’s wardrobe of cardigans, blouses, slacks and capris.
“Can you please hurry?” she requested, batting helplessly at her back. “I need to get to work soon.”
That was true, but I thought she was mainly embarrassed and wanted to be free of the last wedding gown I ever would’ve thought Piper would consider. The sheath was close to skimpy—slinky, even—and too insubstantial, let alone formal, for any wedding held in conservative Pennsylvania, by a conservative couple.
“I didn’t mean to laugh,” I said, finally getting the zipper to budge. I stepped back, letting Piper, who’d squirmed away impatiently, tug it the rest of the way. “You actually look lovely. It’s just so different for you!”
“Well, different can be good. If not in this case.”
She sounded defensive, and her cheeks were still flaming, so I backed toward the door, telling her, “I’ll go brew some coffee and fill your thermos.”
Piper wasn’t as addicted to caffeine as our mother, but she always took a big mug of black coffee to her practice, and she nodded grudgingly. “Thanks.”
I left her to change and returned to the kitchen, where I whispered to Socrates, “Something’s not adding up here.”
He gave a rare, low woof of agreement while I poured ground beans into a filter and water into Piper’s workhorse traditional Mr. Coffee machine. By the time Piper emerged from her room, wearing a peach-colored, summer-weight sweater and white pants, the house was filled with the earthy, bitter aroma of Piper’s favorite Colombian blend.
“Piper, again, I’m sorry,” I told her. “You really did look nice.”
Socrates woofed again, begging forgiveness, too.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she told me, opening an old-fashioned bread box and taking out a bag of English muffins. She held it up, wordlessly offering me one. I shook my head in the negative. “I just felt foolish, locked into one of several gowns that don’t suit me,” she told me. “And there’s so much going on, with Roger and the investigation.”
I didn’t want to let on that Roger had spoken with me, in case he hadn’t talked with Piper yet, so I said, “But you said he probably wasn’t under suspicion.”
Piper had placed a muffin in her toaster, and she spun the bag, sealing it again. “I was never as confident as I acted in front of Moxie and Fidelia. I just didn’t want Fidelia, especially, to know how worried I am, since I’m not as close to her. Meanwhile, Roger has confided that he’s quite concerned, too. Detective Doebler is hounding him about a phone call he made to Artful Engagements just before midnight. And he’s determined to protect Dorinda, who was also upset with Abigail, and whose only alibi is a bunch of bikers who aren’t exactly known for being forthcoming with the police.”
I was glad Roger had been honest with Piper, telling her everything he’d shared with me.
“Is there anything I can do?” I offered. The coffee had stopped dripping, so I grabbed Piper’s thermos from the drying rack in her farmhouse sink and filled it to the rim. “Aside from help with zippers and breakfast?”
Piper shook her head. “I don’t want you to get involved in this case. I just have to trust that Roger’s innocence will be enough to save the day. Just like Mom’s and my innocence won out in similar situations.”
I thought I deserved a tiny bit of credit for proving them innocent by catching the real killers when they were murder suspects. But, hearing the faith in Piper’s voice, I mainly felt very guilty for doubting Roger, even for a moment. Socrates, who was incredibly loyal, not to mention a good judge of character, seemed to know what I was thinking. He gave me what looked like a shaming glance.
Fortunately, Piper was oblivious to all but her toast, which had popped up. Plucking the muffin from the slot, she sighed. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I wish Jonathan was on the case.”
I was setting her coffee on the counter, and my hand jerked when she added, “When were you going to tell me about his job offer?”
“What?”
“I know that he’s been offered a position in California.”
I turned to see Piper spreading peanut butter on the warm bread, but watching me. “How did you find out?” I asked.
“I went out to see the chapel, and he was working there. We got to talking, and he mentioned it. He was surprised I didn’t know.”
I leaned back against the counter, wrapping my fingers around the marble edge. “I didn’t want to add my problems to yours.”
“You’re my sister, Daphne. You can always talk to me.”
Piper and I were complete opposites, and we’d taken very different paths growing up. She had always walked a clear, straight line, from high school to college to career, while I had meandered. Only lately, since I’d moved to Winding Hill and we’d gotten tangled up in some difficult situations, did we seem to be forging a truly solid bond. That was another reason I didn’t want to leave Sylvan Creek, in spite of what Jonathan had said to me the night before. Th
ree little words that I shared with my sister, since she’d offered to listen.
“Last night, Jonathan told me he’s in love with me.”
“I’ve known that since ... well, about the time he tried to put me away for murder.” She licked some peanut butter off her fingers, still watching me. Probably wondering why I wasn’t jumping for joy. “What did you say?”
The farmhouse wasn’t air-conditioned, and a trickle of sweat ran down my back as I recalled my poor response. Shrugging, I picked at my fingernails, hiding my embarrassment. “There was a lot of stammering. Before I ran away.”
Socrates, who, let’s face it, had heard everything from his spot in Jonathan’s living room, dropped down to his belly and whined on my behalf.
“Oh, Daphne.” Piper also sounded borderline exasperated with me, but, to my surprise, somewhat sympathetic. She set her half-eaten breakfast onto a waiting plate and joined me, leaning against the counter, too. Then she bent to see my eyes. “Jonathan Black is not like our father. He’s not waiting for some excuse to bail and fly off to the West Coast. He’s looking for a reason to stay. Or at least a compromise that keeps you together.”
Piper treated pets, not people, but after a moment of reflection, I realized that her analysis was dead-on. I shook my head with disbelief. “How did I not see that I’ve been waiting for him to leave? Because that’s true. From the moment he went to San Diego, I’ve been bracing for the worst, expecting him never to come back. How did I not realize that the past is messing up my future?”
“Because you’re in love with Jonathan, and that’s terrifying. Especially when you don’t exactly have a great male role model. I suppose that’s why I wanted to be married before Roger left for Europe. I’m sure I have some subconscious trust issues going on, too.”
I rarely thought of Piper as vulnerable, because she didn’t like to be seen that way. I appreciated her candor. “Thanks, Piper. You’ve helped me see things more clearly.”
She smiled. “No problem. You did keep me out of jail once. And you’ve been a great maid of honor.”
I grinned, too, feeling lighter. “You mentioned seeing the chapel,” I noted, pushing off from the counter. We both needed to get to work. “How’s it coming along? And will it be done in time?”
Piper gave me a funny look. “You know, the chapel—which is adorable . . . You know that Jonathan’s not really . . .”
I wanted her to finish whatever thought she was trying to form, but she suddenly seemed to realize she didn’t have time to keep chatting. As she checked the clock on the stove, her eyes widened behind her glasses. “Oh, goodness. I am late! I’m seeing a ferret with an injured tail in ten minutes!”
“Don’t forget the shower tonight,” I called as she hurried to leave.
Opening the door, she turned back. “Oh, Daphne, I really wish you hadn’t—”
“Your friends want to celebrate. Roger insisted, and I think it’s a great idea.”
Piper didn’t seem convinced. Shaking her head, she departed without another word, leaving me and Socrates alone in the kitchen. I knew she didn’t expect me to clean up, but I still had a few minutes to spare, so I finished her English muffin, turned off the coffeepot and wiped down the counter.
Looking around, I tried to find more ways to be useful, only to recall the dresses that were hanging in Piper’s closet.
“A good maid of honor would return them, right?” I asked Socrates. “I’m driving right by Something Borrowed, Something New later today.”
Socrates didn’t seem convinced that my errand was a good one, but I ignored him and returned to Piper’s bedroom.
I was about to pull down all the bagged dresses, but at the last second, I couldn’t resist seeing the other styles Piper was rejecting.
Socrates padded to the door, watching with a skeptical eye.
“I’m not opening mail,” I reminded him. “I’m just checking out a bunch of unwanted dresses. I don’t think Piper would really care.”
He shook his head while I unzipped one bag.
And another.
And another.
Planting my fists on my hips, I surveyed the gowns. Then I turned to Socrates, invoking the original name of the boat I’d captain during All Paws on Deck.
“There is definitely something fishy going on here!”
Chapter 23
“Why would Piper choose a whole bunch of skimpy dresses?” I again asked Socrates as he hopped out of the VW at Something Borrowed, Something New, where the parking lot was nearly empty. The little white shop, housed in an old one-room schoolhouse, stood alone just outside of Sylvan Creek in a pretty field that was strewn with sunflowers big and small in all sorts of cheerful shades of yellow and orange. As its name suggested, the boutique sold both new and vintage formal wear, making it one of Moxie’s favorite haunts. Since I often accompanied her on shopping trips, I was no stranger to hauling the type of slippery bags I was wrangling out of the back of my van.
Still, I struggled as I kicked the door shut, my arms overflowing with Piper’s very unusual collection of rejected gowns.
Then, just as I feared I was going to lose control of the whole pile, someone came to my rescue, hurrying out of the shop, grabbing the hangers and swooping the dresses out of my arms with a gallant offer of, “Please, let me help you!”
“Thanks, Dexter,” I said, wiping my brow with my arm. The day was as hot as it was bright.
Even though he was wearing a suit, Dex Shipley didn’t seem affected by the temperature, and his smile was nearly as dazzling as the sun. “No problem.” He led the way to the door, speaking over his shoulder. “Welcome to the shop!”
Socrates and I followed him inside the cheerful interior, where a seafoam-green carpet stretched between soft white walls. An ancient chalkboard, announcing a sale on fall apparel, linked the boutique to its history. “Um, are you working ... ?”
I was about to ask Dexter if he’d already changed careers in the wake of Abigail’s fraud and death, which might’ve spelled the end of Artful Engagements.
Before I finished my question, though, I spotted someone I knew whom I hadn’t expected to be there. Nor did I ever anticipate seeing this person in a crystal-encrusted, mermaid-style bridal gown with what I was pretty sure was a princess seam bodice.
“Fidelia?”
* * *
“I could’ve sworn I was assigned to hunt for bridesmaids’ dresses,” Fidelia said after she’d changed back into her regular clothes. Two faint spots of color appeared on her cheeks, under what looked to be a trace of cosmetic blush. She was wearing colorful clothes again, too—a bright pink blouse—and I could have sworn her normally mousy brown hair was a bit darker. The color looked good on her. “I just got a bit carried away, with the wedding dress,” she said, biting her lower lip. “It was so lovely!”
“You really did look nice,” I assured her, flipping through a rack of gowns. Socrates, who probably feared he would be forced to try on a bow tie, had turned tail the moment he’d seen Fidelia spinning on a dais surrounded by three mirrors and was waiting outside. “And as for ‘assignments,’ everyone is welcome to pitch in however they can,” I added. “I can certainly use the help.”
Fidelia was also perusing the stock, right next to me, but I saw her gaze flick to Dexter Shipley, who was across the shop, arranging a veil on a mannequin, and I thought I knew the real reason she’d stopped by Something Borrowed, Something New.
“Fidelia?” I whispered. “Did you know Dexter would be working here? Do you have a crush on him?”
I could tell by her startled reaction that I was right. But I’d said the wrong thing.
“No . . . no, of course not,” she stammered softly, backing away from the rack. She again glanced at Dexter, who seemed oblivious to us both. “I’m here to help you and Piper!”
Fidelia’s self-confidence was legendarily low, and I tried to give it a boost. “Well, if you like him—and he is handsome, and seems nice—you should ask him to
do something. Like go to the fireworks tomorrow night. Or to All Paws on Deck.” I had a sudden image of myself at that event. “You can watch me sink in the Tiny-tanic. It’ll definitely give you something to talk about.”
“Oh, I don’t think so, Daphne.” Fidelia’s cheeks had gone pale. She took another step back. “I’m not like you, dating handsome journalists and detectives.” Her gaze darted to Dexter one more time. He still didn’t seem to notice us, and I worried that I’d been wrong to give Fidelia advice that, perhaps fortunately, she wasn’t going to heed anyway. She checked her wrist, although she wasn’t wearing a watch. “I’ve . . . I’ve got to go, Daphne. I’ve got a class in a half hour.” She must’ve seen the confusion on my face, because she added, “Summer session!”
With that, my part-time accountant scurried out the door, the shop bell tinkling in the wake of her departure.
“Well, I botched that,” I muttered, resuming my attempt to find a dress that would flatter me, Moxie, Fidelia and Dorinda—and which wouldn’t look anything like Lady Liberty’s toga.
I was so focused on sifting through silk and chiffon that I didn’t even hear Dexter Shipley come up behind me until he said, gravely, “Daphne Templeton, did you chase away a potential three-thousand-dollar sale?”
* * *
“I’m sorry, but there was no sale to begin with,” I told Dexter, who had wheeled a rack of specially curated potential gowns over to the dais where Fidelia had recently been twirling. “Fidelia Tutweiler is quite single. And very interesting. A sweet person.”
I wasn’t being very subtle, and Dex’s blue eyes registered regret as he unzipped a plastic bag like the ones he’d just taken off my hands. “I’m sorry, Daphne. I’m not interested in dating right now. I’m just coming off of a breakup, and I’m incredibly busy with my new enterprise.” His jaw clenched. “The whole mess at Artful Engagements is bogging me down, too. It seems like I’ll never get out from under fixing the mess Abigail left.”
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