I could make out the flowers, the top hat, the silken gloves—and the outline of two ceramic figurines: a basset hound and a white poodle.
Willow had thoughtfully purchased the miniature pups at a flea market after I’d mentioned that Socrates and Snowdrop, who was here with Daisy, would attend, if that was okay with her.
Fortunately, the Owl & Crescent was very pet-friendly. Along with the bird and cat, a rescue pig lived behind the barn in a pink children’s playhouse, complete with a weather vane.
Glancing out a window, I saw Laci Chalmers, who’d agreed to photograph the shower for a less grand scrapbook I planned to assemble in lieu of the Magical Memories book that would never happen. Laci probably should’ve been shooting the guests, but she seemed entranced with the pig, Mortimer, who was posing in front of his house, his snout lifted high. I had a feeling he would be featured somehow in the Weekly Gazette.
Needless to say, the cute porker reminded me of Harley, who in turn made me think of Dorinda—and the note she’d taped to Piper’s bicycle. I’d read it three times, and it was short and strange enough that I was pretty sure I’d memorized the whole thing, verbatim.
Sorry about your bike. It’s a little messed up. A guy named Dutch wrecked it into a tree. If I were you, I wouldn’t ask him to pay for repairs. Also, sorry I can’t sing at the wedding or walk dogs. You said I have a good voice, and I think so, too. I’m leaving for Nashville today, and I’m not coming back until I have a record deal. Or I punch another cop. Whichever comes first.
“She did have a country sound,” I muttered, swiping some paint onto my own canvas. Knowing my limitations, I was focusing on one aspect of the scene: the basset hound. Somewhat fittingly, the dog was shaping up to look like a misshapen pony.
Glancing around the room, I saw that Piper’s painting was precise, in keeping with her analytical approach to life.
Fidelia, meanwhile, seemed to finally be channeling her father, who’d been a famous, very wealthy portrait artist. Her flowers looked like something Monet would’ve created.
Elyse Hunter-Black, whose easel was flanked by her greyhounds, Paris and Milan, had rendered the scene in angular strokes, but it was clearly an artistic choice. I could picture her painting on the walls of her modern Manhattan loft, as featured in at least one design magazine.
And, while I couldn’t see some of the canvases, I was pretty sure the other guests, including Daisy Carpenter and a handful of Piper’s female friends, were all doing better than me.
Adding a blob of brown to my poor dog’s face, I shook my head, both at my painting and at my uncertainty about whether I should contact Detective Doebler to alert him to Dorinda’s departure. I could see him either being grateful or accusing me of meddling in his investigation. I hadn’t told Roger, either. It seemed like Dorinda should share her news herself, if she hadn’t already. “What a mess.”
“Oh, goodness, that is tragic!”
I turned to see Beverly Berendt looming over me, a glass of wine in her hand and an apologetic look on her face.
Not surprisingly, she was joined by fellow Realtor Maeve Templeton, who was also surveying my artwork with something close to a frown on her smooth face. “Yes, that is unfortunate,” Mom agreed, swirling her pinot grigio, too. “Why are your flowers so brown, Daphne?”
“Because they’re a dog,” I explained, which didn’t make matters any better.
I looked to Moxie for help, but she was taking a break, making her way to the buffet, which was set up on an antique sideboard. Socrates and Snowdrop had also abandoned me in favor of canoodling by the creek, which left me alone with Mom and Beverly, who leaned back and blinked at each other, their lips pursed to hold back laughter.
They were mocking me, in their mutual mime-like way, but to be honest, I was kind of happy that Mom had a friend, even if Beverly had likely chased her daughter first to a biker bar, then to a career in country music—which actually might turn out okay.
Not certain if Bev knew anything about Dorinda’s move south, I didn’t mention the bike or the note to her, either. Instead, I asked, “How’s the lawsuit coming along?”
“I can’t imagine how we’ll lose,” Mom said, fidgeting with one of her many oversized necklaces. This one had chunky red stones that glittered against her white blouse, which she’d paired with navy slacks. She was getting dangerously close to interpreting the rapidly approaching holiday too literally, perhaps taking over where Abigail had left off. She looked to Bev. “There’s no denying that fraud occurred and money is owed.”
“I feel like we’re doing the other poor families a tremendous service by spearheading the effort,” Roger’s mother added. “It’s practically charity work.” She smiled at Mom. “And several couples have expressed interest in investing any windfalls, beyond their recouped losses, in starter homes!”
I’d known they were both drumming up business with the suit.
“I suppose Abigail’s mansion will sell at some point,” I noted, using my brush to catch drips of white paint that were oozing from the dog’s eyes, thanks to my attempt to add highlights. “Unless Abigail left it to someone?”
“The estate has not been settled,” said Mom, who had some experience with circling, vulture-like, above murder victims’ manses. “However, I will note that Dexter Shipley has already expressed interest in purchasing the place.”
My hand jerked again. “Really?”
“Yes,” Beverly said, wincing and taking a step back, because I’d accidentally flicked some paint off my brush. The spatter had landed dangerously close to her more subtly patriotic blue-and-white dress. Using her free hand, she swiped at an imaginary stain. “He’s starting his own wedding planning business, and, needless to say, it would be convenient and cost-effective to use a space already set up for that exact type of enterprise, right down to the garden.”
Mom shot me a pointed look. “Which is perfect for events, when you’re not finding bodies there, Daphne.”
I refused to react to my mother’s attempt to get a rise out of me. Plus, I was preoccupied, recalling Dexter’s comments about wanting to start fresh with his own vision.
So much for that claim.
I felt my shaky faith in Dex Shipley’s innocence waver, even as I realized that it would be pretty gutsy for a killer to ask about purchasing the property where he’d committed homicide, and where he hoped to profit by rising from employee to owner in the wake of his victim’s death.
I was so caught up in debating whether I believed Dex was innocent or not that I jumped when I felt a firm hand clasp my arm, causing me to smear white all over the black smudge that was supposed to be my basset hound’s nose.
Then Beverly surprised me even more by basically telling her best friend to buzz off.
“Maeve, dear,” she said, still clutching my arm, with a surprisingly strong grip. “Would you excuse Daphne and me for a moment? I’ve been so looking forward to getting to know your lovely younger daughter!”
Mom seemed as stunned as I was by the turn of events. I supposed she’d assumed that I was the Templeton equivalent of Dorinda and not necessarily a person you seek out at parties, unless it was to criticize my artwork. But she graciously said, “What a lovely idea, since we all will be family soon.”
Her tone was cheerful, but I felt like she was warning Beverly, who seemed a bit threatening herself when she leaned close the moment Mom was out of earshot and said, “Tell me, right now, if you think my daughter committed murder, as I suspect!”
* * *
“Why do you think Dorinda is guilty?” I asked once Beverly and I had stepped outside into the close, warm night. The moon was covered by clouds, but candles burned in lanterns that hung near the door and a moonflower-smothered arbor that arched above us was strung with twinkle lights, so I could read Bev’s expression. She looked frightened—and frustrated. “Because, while I can’t deny that she despised Abigail, I don’t really think your daughter is a killer.”
“Oh, good
ness, I hope not,” Beverly said, fanning herself. She stepped out from under the arbor, and I had no choice but to follow her. “But between the unsavory crowd she spends time with, and the tattoos—”
“The unicorn? And her brother?”
I was trying to remind Bev that the images were harmless, but she shot back, “And the spiders!”
I didn’t think it was worth pointing out that many cultures considered arachnids symbols of good fortune. Beverly was shaking her head as we walked past a lush vegetable garden toward the creek, where two seats waited next to a ring of stones. “Not to mention her record, for police brutality!”
Bev wasn’t using that phrase correctly, but I didn’t mention that, either. “I know that some of the people at the Wild Hog aren’t the most ethical,” I conceded as the owl, Rembrandt, swooped out of a high, open window and off into the night. I admired his silent, majestic flight for a moment, then addressed Bev again. “But your daughter seems very nice. She returned the bicycle that was stolen from me when I visited the bar.”
Bev overlooked the purloined bike. Her eyes grew wide for a different reason. “You’ve spoken to her? Recently? At that place?”
I was confused, and not just by the fact that I didn’t see Socrates or Snowdrop anywhere. I wasn’t really worried, though, and I told Bev, “I assumed you knew that. Why else would you ask my opinion about her as a suspect?”
“Because your mother said you were almost certainly investigating the murder, and Roger has informed me that he mentioned Dorinda’s altercation with Abigail to you.” We’d reached the chairs, but Beverly didn’t sit down. “Since Maeve said you are a very astute sleuth, I assumed that you had looked into Dorinda’s whereabouts, around the time of the murder. Although I didn’t anticipate that you would visit that awful bar she lives above!”
We were supposed to be focused on Dorinda, but I was hung up on something Beverly had just said about me. “Mom called me astute?”
Beverly waved her hand. “Oh, she’s forever bragging about you and Piper. Rambling endlessly about your business enterprises and your world travels and your handsome boyfriend. Honestly, as much as I treasure our new friendship and look forward to being family, your mother can be somewhat tiresome when it comes to you and your sister.”
The wind blew, and chimes that were tucked around the property tinkled happily. “Wow. She never says that stuff to me.”
“When you have a high-spirited child, prone to adventuring, you can’t encourage them too much,” Beverly confided. “A mother needs to keep her reckless offspring in check. And it’s worked, hasn’t it? Look at how successful you are!”
I didn’t necessarily advocate the tough and hypercritical parenting approach my mother was still taking with me, and I thought she could ease up, but I had to admit that I felt like I’d turned out okay, and that she’d nudged—sometimes pushed—me in good directions since I’d returned to Sylvan Creek.
“If only I’d had the same success with Dorinda,” Beverly added with a heavy sigh. “But, alas!”
“Maybe, just maybe, you could encourage her a tiny bit,” I suggested, raising my hand and pinching my thumb and forefinger very close together. “She’s a talented musician, you know. I tried to get her to sing at the wedding, but . . .”
I caught myself, before I mentioned Dorinda’s abrupt move. But it was too late. Beverly was watching me with narrowed eyes. A few feet away, the creek burbled loudly, the sound dominating the quiet night until Bev demanded, “But what?”
“She’s gone to Nashville,” I said, not sure why I was keeping that news a secret. Dorinda hadn’t asked me to do that. Not from her mother, her brother, nor Detective Doebler. “She wants to pursue a career in music. And I think she has a future.”
That last part came out in a rush, because Bev’s mouth was opening and closing. When I finally stopped talking she surprised me by saying, “Well, at least that’s something. A step in some direction, away from the Wild Hog.”
She shuddered, either at the dread name of the bar or because the evening was getting breezy.
I looked up at the sky again. The clouds looked darker, more threatening. “We should probably go back to the barn,” I suggested, with a glance at Mortimer’s playhouse. The pig had gone inside, and the weather vane was spinning. “It looks and feels like it’s about to rain, and Dexter Shipley isn’t here to escort us with an umbrella.”
I was joking, but Beverly looked baffled. “Who in the world is Dexter Shipley? Some sort of sports player or ‘hip-hop’ person?”
I wasn’t sure why she jumped to those two particular and strangely worded conclusions, but I told her, “He’s the guy who helped you to your car when the storm broke out at Artful Engagements . . .”
I stopped describing him, because Beverly was pursing her lips and shaking her head again, more vigorously. “No. I ran to my car hampered by my brother, Alfred, who has grown portly, eating so much bread at the Gateway, and who was wearing, as usual, a ridiculous pair of sandals. He kept calling for me to wait up—he’s never liked storms—and my blouse was ruined by the time I got into my Lexus.”
I nearly asked Beverly if she was sure she remembered correctly, but she’d just described a pretty specific and plausible scenario.
And as I was trying to figure out why Dexter Shipley had lied to me—to cover up his role in a homicide was my first guess—I looked down the creek, in the direction the owl had flown.
I first spied a footbridge leading to a patch of woods.
Then I noticed two people who had crossed that arched wooden span and who were standing in the shadow of those trees.
Laci Chalmers. And Daisy Carpenter.
And it looked to me like they were arguing.
Chapter 26
“I’m telling you, it was weird,” I said loudly, accepting another armful of bags from Piper, who didn’t respond. She was hurrying through the rain from my van to her barn, where we were stashing the gifts she’d received that evening. Piper had wanted guests to come empty-handed, but, knowing they wouldn’t do that, she’d suggested they bring contributions to local pet shelters.
The small gathering of animal lovers—discounting Mom and probably Bev—had been generous, and I’d spent the latter part of the evening loading up my VW, dropping Socrates off at Plum Cottage, then driving the short distance to the farmhouse, where Piper was helping me unload everything.
Normally, I would’ve just kept the stuff in the VW, dropping it off directly at Fur-ever Friends dog rescue and Whiskered Away Home, the shelter for cats. Unfortunately, I didn’t expect to have time to swing by either of those places for at least a week, and I needed the space in my van to transport pet-sitting clients and hundreds of cookies for Wags ’n Flags—and possibly oars, boat decorations and the life jackets Mike Cavanaugh’s cousin had strongly suggested the dogs and I wear during All Paws on Deck.
Burdened by the last two sacks of kibble, I waddled awkwardly around the tarp-covered antique truck, which had been pulled outside. Splashing through a puddle I’d already stepped in twice—I could have sworn it was moving—I again reached the door, which Piper had hauled open. Stepping into the dry, warm but dark barn, I picked up where I’d left off. “I couldn’t see their faces, but Daisy and Laci were obviously arguing—”
Piper didn’t say anything, but she managed to cut me off by flipping a switch.
“Oh, it’s shaping up so nicely,” I said, setting aside my story for a moment, and dropping the bags, too, with a pile of other stuff, including my horrible painting. I wasn’t giving that away to the dog or cat rescue. I had just been hoping the blobby basset with the weepy eyes would somehow disappear in the barn, where tools and holiday decorations were usually tucked away everywhere, including under the floorboards, which would be a great spot for my artwork.
However, I suddenly doubted that I’d be able to ditch my shameful canvas in the clean, open space that stretched around me.
The floors had been swept of all du
st, and the walls were bathed in the soft glow of two crystal chandeliers, which hung from the exposed beams. Strings of Edison lights crisscrossed the eaves, too, and the rain, pattering on the roof in a steady rhythm, made it easy to imagine people dancing in a space that had been cleared under the loft.
“Elyse has been busy,” I noted, pushing some matted, wet curls away from my face and hoisting the bags again. I lugged them to the table that held the other presents, all of which would need to be tucked out of sight. But for now, the barn was a safe, dry storage place.
“Elyse’s workmen have been busy,” Piper clarified, adding two cases of canned cat food to the table, too. I was impressed by the barn, but I got the sense that my sister was starting to feel guilty for having everyone going to such lengths for her and Roger. “I appreciate all this, and it’s so much better than what Abigail was putting together. But it’s really not necessary.”
“I told you, Elyse was thrilled to pitch in. She lives to plan stuff like this!”
Piper still had a funny look on her face. “Daphne, I need to tell you something . . .”
“Can it wait?” I asked, brushing off my damp dress, which didn’t help at all. Nor did stamping my feet, which were muddy from the puddle. “I’m kind of a mess.”
“I think you look gorgeous.”
The deep male voice came from the doorway, and I looked over, greeting our visitor with a question. “Jonathan . . . What are you doing here?”
* * *
“I really thought you looked fine before,” Jonathan kindly lied, pouring two cups of tea from my kettle. He’d made himself at home at Plum Cottage while I’d gotten cleaned up, showering quickly and putting on a cozy sweatshirt, because the night air on the hilltop was cool after the rain. He carried the mugs to the living room, stepping over Ms. Peebles, who kept watching our visitor with something like awe in her wide eyes.
Tinkleston, who’d once attacked Jonathan, sat halfway up the spiral staircase, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to join the small party or if he should just go to bed, like Socrates had done.
Something Borrowed, Something Mewed Page 15