“Dexter, did you really not know anything about Abigail’s plan?” The question popped out of my mouth before I could stop it, but Dexter didn’t seem upset.
“Not a thing,” he assured me, holding up a pink satin sheath with spaghetti straps. The color would’ve worked on Moxie, but Dorinda would’ve looked horrible. I shook my head, rejecting the gown. “Abigail and I were in the process of separating, professionally,” he added, zipping the gown back into the bag. “I had already bought this place, with the long-term goal of establishing a one-stop bridal experience.”
“You mean wedding planning, too.”
He nodded, unzipping another garment bag. “Yes. Abigail and I were going to be competitors. But that was far down the road. I’ve only owned this place for three months, and all of my focus is here. I bought the shop because old Tillie Martingale wanted to retire. The opportunity was there and likely wouldn’t come again. But I have a huge learning curve when it comes to women’s fashion.”
Pulling a dramatic black-and-white cocktail-length dress from the bag, he glanced at the mannequin he’d just been dressing, and I looked, too. The veil was a bit askew.
“Plus, Abigail and I had creative differences,” Dex continued, rehanging the second dress on the rack, too, when I again shook my head. Moxie would’ve hated the ultramodern pattern. “It was time for us to part ways. I was only staying on to help with some of the weddings that were in the works when I bought the shop—mainly in hopes of persuading Abigail not to carry out some of her increasingly over-the-top ideas.”
I recalled several times Dex had all but grimaced as he’d carried out Abigail’s plans for Piper’s wedding. “You hated the Fourth of July theme, didn’t you?”
He snorted, and, in his sharp, dark suit, with his neat haircut and dreamy eyes, he was good-looking enough to pull it off. “It was gaudy and ridiculous,” he said. “I hate what happened to all the brides and grooms back at the Sodgrass Club, but in a way, your sister is lucky. Especially if your mother’s class action suit is successful and everyone recoups their losses.”
“I guess Artful Engagements will likely be liquidated, if Mom and her fellow litigants win.”
“I suspect so,” Dexter agreed. “I’m incredibly lucky I got out when I did, rather than buy in as a partner.”
That was a surprise. “Abigail offered you that chance?”
“Yes, I had a chance to be her full partner—which probably indicates that the business was struggling, hence her take-the-money-and-run strategy.” Dexter held up a yellow dress, and, seeing crystals on the bodice, I shook my head more firmly. I couldn’t imagine anything really flashy looking right in the chapel. Just like Piper’s slinky sheaths wouldn’t have fit in. “Regardless, I never came close to biting. I wanted to be in total control of a new business, with a new vision.”
He seemed to be undermining my theory that he might’ve killed Abigail in order to take over a thriving company with an established clientele.
“She must’ve been threatened by your plans, right?” I asked. “I’m surprised you were able to work together at all, once she knew what you were up to.”
I was fishing around, pretty obviously, but Dex didn’t seem to care.
“Brides who would avail themselves of my services wouldn’t go to Abigail,” he informed me. “She knew that. She repeatedly expressed unhappiness about my plans—which were quite public, by the way. But she was far from threatened.” He shrugged. “Why would she be, when she was planning a scam and, apparently, getting ready to flee town? In retrospect, I think that all the times she snapped at me and belittled my dreams, she was putting on an act. Covering her tracks while knowing all along that we’d never really compete, because she’d be off to . . . who knows where.”
“So you’ve heard about the suitcases?”
Dexter’s hand hovered over the selection of gowns, a pair of cuff links winking as he tried to decide what to show me next. He was very young, but had the suave air of an older movie star. If Moxie hadn’t been in love with Mike Cavanaugh, I might’ve tried to pair her up with Dex.
“Yes,” he said, his back still toward me. “The homicide detective, several insurance claims adjusters and some officers who investigate fraud have all mentioned the bag on the bed.” I thought it was interesting that he only knew about one suitcase, when I’d seen two. “I understand she was packed and ready to go,” he noted, “but never got the chance.”
“Had you ever traveled with her?”
Dexter’s hand dropped, and he turned back to me, temporarily giving up on our quest. He seemed understandably confused, and maybe intrigued, by the turn the conversation had taken.
“Yes, of course, we often traveled to destination weddings, expos and vendor fairs.” He moved to a wheeled cart that held a bottle of complimentary champagne and wiggled out the cork. Pouring two glasses, he handed one to me. “Cheers.”
We clinked, and I took a sip. The bottle had been open and was half empty, but the drink still fizzed pleasantly. When my nose stopped tickling, I asked, “What kind of suitcase did Abigail use?”
That question also probably seemed to come out of nowhere, but Dexter grinned. “Louis Vuitton. I can’t tell you how many times I hauled her bags off airport carousels. She certainly never made a move to get them herself!”
“Did you ever see her carry a basic black bag? Plastic?”
He raised his eyebrows. “You’re joking, right? Abigail Sinclair traveled in style. If her bags didn’t match, she wouldn’t have gone at all.”
Having been part of one of Abigail’s matchy-matchy events, I believed him. And I hadn’t really believed the suitcase had been Abigail’s to begin with. “Did she have a . . . partner?” I asked. “Someone she was involved with?”
Dexter still didn’t seem to care why I was asking a series of questions about luggage and lovers. He seemed too taken aback by the idea of Abigail having the latter to consider why I might want to know, and he laughed out loud before telling me, “Oh, no. I don’t know who in the world would be brave enough to pair up with Abigail romantically! God help the man who tried to meet her exacting standards on more than a professional level!”
I was pretty sure someone had tried to live up to Abigail’s demands—and had maybe killed her, when she made too many.
“I see your point,” I said, taking another sip of champagne. My last sip. I could already feel the bubbles going to my head. Before long, I’d be twirling on the dais in a gown, like Fidelia. I set my flute on the tray and, against my better, if slightly clouded judgment, asked a somewhat reckless question. “Dexter, what do you remember from the night of Abigail’s death?”
He put down his glass, too. For a moment, we were close enough that I could smell his cologne, a distinctive sweet-and-sharp scent that I didn’t like as much as I liked the masculine fragrance Jonathan always wore.
And I wasn’t sure I liked the sudden shrewd look in Dexter’s eyes, although I’d earned the suspicion I saw there.
“You have a reputation for solving murders,” he said, in a lower, more even voice. “I’m fully aware that your questions haven’t just been asked out of curiosity. I know you’re trying to find the killer.”
I couldn’t deny that. “I’m just trying to get a clear picture of the events leading up to her death, mainly to help my future brother-in-law.”
The sun was shifting, casting shadows on the white walls and seafoam carpet, so it seemed like we were in the center of a stormy ocean. I kind of wished Socrates was inside, instead of relaxing under one of the shade trees that grew near the schoolhouse.
I probably should’ve left, but I asked again, “What did you see, Dexter?”
“I’m under no obligation to tell you anything, Daphne,” he reminded me, checking his wrist, like he had places to be. However, like Fidelia, he wasn’t even wearing a watch, and he shook out his arm. “But I like Roger, and I can’t imagine him killing anyone, so I’ll tell you what little I know. Which is next t
o nothing. Because when the storm hit, I grabbed an umbrella and started helping guests to their cars.”
“Who?”
“One guest,” he corrected himself. “The groom’s mother, who kept complaining that the water would leave marks on her silk blouse.”
I could imagine Beverly fretting as she was hustled away to her vehicle.
“It was obvious that the event was over, and that we wouldn’t even be able to clean up, so I left,” he added, with the slightest lift of his shoulders. “It’s pretty straightforward.”
His story was. Yet I felt like something was missing, either from the tale—or from our entire discussion of his relationship with his former employer. And the absent element was, I realized, emotion. Like any of the old-time movie stars Moxie so adored, Dex Shipley was almost too good at keeping his cool.
“Dexter,” I said, cocking my head. “Can I ask one last question?”
“Yes,” he agreed. One corner of his mouth lifted into a wry grin. “We’ve come this far.”
“How did you manage to deal with Abigail for even a few years? She seems like a very difficult person to get along with.”
I’d been trying to provoke a heartfelt response, and I got it.
Anger glittered in his eyes. Maybe toward Abigail. Or maybe toward me for asking nosy questions. Probably toward both of us. “If you’re asking whether I ever wanted to kill Abigail Sinclair—and I believe you are—who wouldn’t sometimes chafe under the control of a tyrant? Which was, let’s face it, what she was. But I used her, too. She taught me how to run a business without ever setting foot in a classroom. That’s why I sought her out and endured her abuse. And I found my way out from under her thumb, as I’d always planned.” He gestured around the shop. “A nonviolent way. Because I have goals that can’t be achieved in a prison cell. But if you want to know if I ever daydreamed about doing away with the boss, as I’ve already told Detective Doebler, the short answer is yes.”
There wasn’t much more to say, so I didn’t even respond. And within a few seconds, Dexter had regained his composure. Clearing his throat, he nodded to the rack of dresses. “Should we continue looking for something that meets your vision?”
“I’m starting to fear that the dress I imagine doesn’t exist,” I said, glad that the tense moment was over, even if I’d been the one who’d provoked it. There had been a few seconds, while he’d expressed his true feelings about Abigail, that I’d been tempted to run for the door. Relaxing a bit, I told him, “Or, if the gown I’m picturing is out there somewhere, there’s only one, because I keep thinking it has to be vintage, or it will just look wrong on Moxie, and in the little chapel where Piper’s now getting married.”
Dexter took some time to think, then he snapped his fingers and said, “I might honestly have exactly what you’re looking for.”
I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but it happened anyway. “Really?”
“Yes, come on.” He started to walk away, beckoning me with one hand. His cuff links flashed again. “I’ll show you.”
I looked around the now-gloomy shop, which was still devoid of customers. Prom season had come and gone, and everyone with a summer wedding apparently already had the perfect dress. I really wished some fall or winter wedding parties would show up, but I supposed most brides and their entourages shopped on weekends. I turned back to Dex. “Where are you taking me?”
“A special storeroom,” he said, still beckoning. “Just come with me. Please. You won’t regret this.”
I had a feeling I would. But I was a dedicated maid of honor, and the next thing I knew, I was in a cramped space, the kind that gave me claustrophobia. And when Dexter pulled aside a sheet, draped over a sagging rack that didn’t have wheels, I could only mutter with disbelief, “You have got to be kidding me.”
Chapter 24
“Oh, Daphne, this gown is perfect,” Moxie exclaimed, smoothing a long, burnished-gold dress, which she’d hung on a peg in her garret apartment, located in a big yellow Victorian on Market Street, above my favorite bookshop, the Philosopher’s Tome. Moxie always decorated for every holiday, and she’d put her unique twist on Independence Day, intermingling American artifacts with items like a string of old-looking red-and-yellow Chinese paper lanterns that were strung across the top of the open French doors that led to her balcony. I knew my best friend well enough to understand that she was honoring the Chinese origin of fireworks. “It’s one of the loveliest dresses I’ve ever seen,” Moxie added, “including the one that nearly got you killed, which was exquisite.”
I had, indeed, nearly been murdered related to my purchase of a custom-made dress for last year’s Bark the Halls Christmas ball. Socrates, who was observing me and Moxie from the balcony, considered the incident a cautionary tale against vanity. And I could tell he wasn’t too thrilled that I’d ventured into a back room with a guy who I didn’t think had committed murder—although I wasn’t entirely ruling Dex out.
“Well, if I was going to get killed over this dress, it probably would’ve happened already, back at Something Borrowed, Something New,” I noted as I admired the gown, too. The dress had been hanging with a bunch of Tillie Martingale’s old stock, which dated back to the boutique’s grand opening in the 1960s. Among the castoffs had been a whole bridal party’s worth of softly burnished umber, almost gold, silk sheaths with velvet detailing on the bodices. The gowns, probably from a canceled wedding, had mystery woven into their very fabric, which reminded me of a Tuscan sunset at the height of summer.
Moxie was smitten, too. “These are almost worth dying for,” she said, earning a low woof of disapproval from Socrates. “I liked the Statue of Liberty costumes, but this dress is really special.”
Giving up entirely on the conversation, Socrates turned to watch the sun setting over Sylvan Creek, while I wandered over to the big table where Moxie had created the elaborate gingerbread copy of the town that had helped solve a murder.
The detailed cookie sculpture was long gone—probably eaten by the white rat who currently sat on a sketch pad.
Gently moving Sebastian aside, which was a big step for me, I gasped. “Oh, Moxie! This is amazing!” I turned to my friend, who was beaming with pride over my reaction to her drawing of Piper’s wedding cake. “Do you really think you can pull this off?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, joining me. Her finger traced the outline of the three-tiered confection, which featured an elaborate, but subtle, design, as if she was drawing it again. “I told you that I’ve already finished the costumes for All Paws on Deck.”
I still hadn’t seen the outfits that Artie and Tiny Tim would wear.
Well, I had glimpsed a gold button when Moxie had whisked the costumes away as I’d entered her apartment. I had no idea where she’d hidden them in her crowded, charming home, and I knew they wouldn’t reappear until I was boarding the Tiny-tanic.
“No need to worry,” she added, with a smile. “I’ve got ages!”
“Um, no, you don’t,” I reminded her, checking the clock on her antique pink GE oven. Moxie’s apartment was like a time capsule, stuffed from its sharply peaked eaves to its castle-like turret with all her favorite things from the past. A few objects, like a console television whose greenish screen had been blank for thirty years, were purely decorative, but I was pretty sure the clock kept perfect time. “And we are running late for the shower.”
Moxie, who was fortunately already dressed in a suitable summer party dress, circa 1940, noted the time, too. “Oh, we do have to run!”
Socrates must’ve been listening, because he shambled in from the balcony.
Leaving the French doors open to let in a soft summer breeze, which carried the crackle of fireworks as the Fourth drew even closer, we all hurried down to my VW, where Moxie and Socrates engaged in a good-natured, if silent, debate about who would get to ride shotgun.
I hopped in the driver’s seat and started to put the van in gear, only to notice that something was amiss in the back.<
br />
Hopping out, I opened the rear door, which was already ajar.
For a moment, I was delighted to see that someone had returned Piper’s bicycle, if roughly, by jamming it awkwardly into my vehicle. The bike looked a bit worse for the wear, too.
Then I pulled off a note that was taped to the handlebars and read it quickly, thinking it would be an apology.
But it wasn’t.
The message, scrawled with obvious haste on a crumpled piece of paper, was an unexpected farewell.
Chapter 25
The Owl & Crescent Art Barn was tucked away on the outskirts of Zephyr Hollow, a picturesque hamlet that drew the region’s writers, artists and musicians with an almost mystical pull. The little structure, located behind a small, colorful Victorian house on the edge of a babbling brook, was an eclectic treat for the eyes, filled to the rafters with knickknacks collected by the owner, a pretty, dark-haired young woman named Willow Bellamy, who had a warm smile and an air of mystery herself.
That impression was probably enhanced by a book I’d spied on a high shelf when I was trying to get a better look at the inspiration for the barn’s name, a white-faced owl named Rembrandt, who was perched in the rafters.
The dusty tome, titled Bellamy Book of Spells, Lore & Miscellany, seemed to hint that Willow’s ancestors, at least, had dabbled in potions. And I wouldn’t have been surprised if our hostess for the evening did a bit of conjuring herself, beyond whipping up some amazing summer hors d’oeuvres.
Moxie seemed to agree that the Owl & Crescent, which was also home to a sweet gray cat named Luna, who had a moon-shaped mark on her chest, was enchanting.
“I love this place,” she whispered, waving a hand that held a Parmesan tuile topped with heirloom tomato salad. Her other hand was deftly wielding a paintbrush, dabbing oil onto a canvas, where a realistic rendering of the wedding-related objects Willow had arranged on a long farmhouse table was already taking shape.
Something Borrowed, Something Mewed Page 14