Something Borrowed, Something Mewed

by Bethany Blake

  “This whole thing is exhausting,” Piper said, folding her arms around herself as yet another car rumbled up the drive, stopping near the cop cars. “I just wanted a nice, normal wedding.”

  “You’ll have one,” I promised, with more conviction than I felt. “I’m doing my best.”

  “I know, and I appreciate that,” Piper said, talking to me, but watching Laci Chalmers hop out of a beat-up Honda. My sister flinched as Laci started snapping pictures on the run, trying to get some images before the cluster of law enforcement officers who were huddled just inside the barn broke up. The shiny bag dangled from Detective Doebler’s gloved hand, looking paradoxically festive next to his sober brown suit. “I think that ship has sailed, though,” Piper noted. “And with about as much success as I predict for the Tiny-tanic.”

  No one had high hopes for that boat, least of all me—and Socrates, who whined on my behalf.

  Piper gestured to Laci, who continued to circle the meeting, half crouched down, the flash on her camera punctuating the darkness like fireworks. “Along with being part of what passes for a media circus in Sylvan Creek, Roger is still under suspicion, and we still have a cult leader for an officiant. In spite of your best efforts, things just don’t seem to be working out.”

  “Let’s just hope the garter is the murder weapon,” I said. “Surely there couldn’t be a connection between Roger and that.”

  Piper remained glum. “I’m hardly daring to hope at this point.”

  “Why don’t you head back inside and go to bed,” I suggested, not sure what else to tell her. I certainly didn’t want to make things worse by admitting that I’d completely forgotten about Alf Sievers, whom I would contact the first thing in the morning. Plus, Laci Chalmers was stalking over to us, her camera still at the ready.

  The meeting of professional investigators appeared to be wrapping up, so she probably wanted to get a quote or two from me and Piper.

  “Hurry,” I said, practically shoving my sister toward her house. “I’ll handle Laci.”

  Piper hesitated, then she nodded. “Thanks. I am exhausted.”

  “Piper, wait!” Laci was waving a hand and calling to my sister’s retreating back.

  For once, my normally polite sibling strode on without replying.

  Laci, who was less than five feet from me by then, raised her camera, as if she was going to snap a picture of Piper from behind. Then, at the last second, she changed her mind and snapped a shot of me, as I raised one hand, trying to ward her off.

  I knew I would look guilty in the image if it ran in the Gazette, and I felt guilty, too, when Laci grinned at me wickedly, asking, “So, how did a death-dealing piece of lingerie end up in your swindled sister’s barn?”

  * * *

  “First of all, my mother was swindled, not my sister, which is why Mom started the lawsuit,” I reminded Laci, immediately realizing that wasn’t much better. I’d probably just given Laci the opportunity to position my mom as a suspect. I could see the headline now: Deadly Delicates Found in Barn. Subhead: Daughter of Woman Cheated by Murder Victim Recalls Mother’s Personal Grudge. I looked down at Socrates, who rolled his eyes, like he agreed I was making matters worse, before turning back to Laci and waving my hands, trying to erase my words. “Not that Mom killed anyone!”

  “You said that, not me,” Laci observed, her blue eyes glittering in the moonlight, while her torso disappeared into the darkness. She once again wore a black shirt and khaki cargo pants. Her short, dark hair was nearly invisible, too. “Maybe Maeve got her revenge before she tried to claim her share of the estate.”

  The sad thing was, that sounded like a plausible scenario. Then I remembered what Beverly Berendt had told me, about how my mother secretly bragged about me, and I felt disloyal.

  “My mother has her faults, but she’s no killer,” I said, watching Detective Doebler climb into his unmarked sedan. The uniformed officers were getting into their squad car, too, leaving Jonathan alone in the barn. He stood bathed in the soft light of the chandeliers, his head bent over his phone as he repeatedly tapped the screen. Continuing to observe him, I asked Laci, “How did you even know to come here?”

  “I was at the Gazette, working late, and Gabriel always has the scanner on. It’s like working in 1953, with all the old papers and that crackling squawk box.”

  She was complaining, but I could tell she liked the atmosphere at the Gazette’s offices, which were stuck in time, from the old metal desks to a tray of linotype that I thought might still be in use. She grinned slyly. “So, sleuth-about-town—”

  “Who calls me that?” I interrupted, still keeping one eye on Jonathan, who continued texting. He didn’t even look up when the cars’ engines turned over.

  “Gabriel says you’re the second-best amateur detective in town. After him, of course.”

  I was kind of flattered, although I considered myself number one.

  “So, who’s your money on, as the killer, if not your mother?” Laci asked, slinging her camera over her shoulder and crossing her arms. She cocked her head, her hair and shirt momentarily highly visible, illuminated by headlights beaming from the vehicles, which were turning around, heading down the hill. “Maybe your future brother-in-law? Or Daisy Carpenter?” When I didn’t bite, she continued listing people who, I had to admit, were on my radar. “How about Dex Shipley? Or me?”

  Needless to say, I’d been thinking about Laci’s argument with Daisy and the possibility of some kind of love triangle among the women who had last been together at the mansion, right before Abigail’s death.

  Still, I told Laci, “I don’t have a top suspect yet, because I’m not really investigating.”

  That claim earned a snuffle of reproach from Socrates. However, I felt like I was being honest. Speculating and sleuthing were two very different things. I hadn’t done more than wrap a rag around my neck and offer a few people counsel.

  Okay, maybe I was borderline sleuthing.

  “At any rate, I wouldn’t identify anyone,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself. I’d made the mistake of pairing shorts with my sweatshirt, and I was getting cold. Then I nodded to Laci’s camera. “You’re a reporter. I wouldn’t want my uninformed speculation showing up in the Gazette.”

  “Fair enough.” A half smile played on Laci’s lips. “But I bet you recall what I said the night of the rehearsal dinner. About how I’d probably have to pry my last paycheck out of Abigail’s hands. And I bet you remember that I called her a witch, too.”

  I couldn’t understand why Laci Chalmers was baiting me, trying to get me to admit that I did have some suspicions about her. Nor could I figure out why she would want to play up comments that would’ve caused anyone to doubt her innocence.

  I glanced once more at Jonathan, who was slipping his phone into the back pocket of his jeans. I knew Laci wouldn’t have a chance to answer the questions I was about to ask, but I posed them anyway.

  “Okay, Laci,” I said. “If you insist on discussing your possible involvement in Abigail’s death, why don’t you tell me what kind of suitcase you own? And I’d be interested to know what you and Daisy Carpenter were arguing about near the woods behind the Owl & Crescent, too.”

  I’d caught Laci off guard, and she stammered. “We . . . we were arguing about a story I’m writing. About how she poisoned a bunch of people with potato salad. I overheard her and Abigail whispering about it once. Daisy’s completely covered it up.”

  “It wasn’t her fault. And she’s trying to make a fresh start.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Laci said, with a grunt. I didn’t know if she really had secrets herself or if she was making a general statement about human nature. “As for the suitcase, I think I know what you’re getting at.” She looked over her shoulder and saw Jonathan walking toward us. When she faced me again, she spoke quickly, her voice low, confidential—and urgent. “There’s no time to explain. Meet me at Kremser’s Landing, two nights from now. Ten o’clock. I’ll share everything I
know, if you’ll spill, too.”

  I knew the spot she was referencing. It was a lonely stretch of gravel on Lake Wallapawakee, across from where the town’s fireworks display would be launched. “Why there?”

  “I’m shooting the fireworks for the paper. It’s private, and I can kill two birds with one stone—talk to you, and get the images I need.”

  “But . . .”

  Laci didn’t give me a chance to ask more questions. She hurried off, brushing right past Jonathan, who turned to watch her jump into her car, rev the engine and drive quickly off.

  “What was that about?” he asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder as he approached me. “She left in a hurry.”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. Jonathan didn’t request further explanation, so I asked, “Does it seem like the garter might be the murder weapon?”

  “Yes, it seems possible,” he said. “The elastic was completely destroyed, and even to the naked eye, it was obvious that some of the fabric was stretched to, or beyond, its limits. It’s also possible that the garter was initially blue, stained purple by the red water in the fountain. But that’s all speculation. Doebler will need to order more tests.”

  We began the short walk back to Plum Cottage, where Jonathan’s truck was still parked, and he rested one hand on the small of my back. Socrates trotted ahead of us, his white paws like ghostly, temporary footprints on the ground.

  “When did the bag arrive?” Jonathan inquired.

  “I’m not even sure,” I said. “People were dropping stuff off at Piper’s house, and some bags were left at the Sodgrass Club.” I was struck by a sudden idea. “Gifts were left for other couples, too. It’s possible that the garter wasn’t even meant for Piper. It was such a mess when all the brides and grooms realized that the club was overbooked. And there was no card with the nondescript bag. Maybe we got it by mistake.”

  “I’ll share that with Doebler.”

  “Why would someone put a murder weapon into a gift bag?” I mused.

  “Maybe to cast suspicion on all the guests? Hide the weapon in plain sight? I’m not sure.”

  He was responding, but I could tell his mind was elsewhere, so I dropped the subject, letting him think. We walked together in silence, accompanied by crickets, until we reached the cottage, where he escorted me all the way to my front door.

  Opening that, he let Socrates inside, but clasped my arm, holding me back.

  I’d had a funny feeling growing inside me from the moment I’d seen him texting so late at night, and the sensation that something was amiss had escalated during our walk down the wooded path.

  “What’s up?” I asked, too casually.

  “I’m really sorry, Daphne,” Jonathan said, cutting right to the chase. “I just heard from NCIS. I’m leaving for San Diego again in the morning.”

  Chapter 28

  I tossed and turned all night, replaying Jonathan’s and my conversation on the porch. I was happy that there had been a break in the case on the naval base, which might bode well for wrapping up his obligations in California. Yet the fact that he was needed so urgently, and seemed indispensable—enough so that the navy was flying him across the country for just a few days—drove home the reality of our situation.

  He should take the job. It’s a good move, and it makes sense. He’ll regret any other choice.

  Those were my first thoughts upon waking up on the eve of the Fourth of July. Or maybe I hadn’t really slept at all, and my resolution to insist that Jonathan accept the position was just a continuation of a full night’s worth of jumbled musings.

  Ms. Peebles and Tinkleston had been up into the wee hours, too. Thankfully, the cats seemed to be having a positive impact on each other after their rocky start. Tinks spent less time scowling in the herbs, and Ms. Peebles hadn’t gotten stuck in the chimney for two days.

  Only Socrates had slept soundly, as always. He stretched on his purple cushion while I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and rubbed my eyes against bright sunlight streaming in through the circular window behind us.

  Together, we padded downstairs to the kitchen and I fed the cats, then filled a ceramic bowl for Socrates, too.

  Putting on the kettle, I checked my phone, which I’d left on the kitchen table.

  There was only one text waiting for me, from Moxie, and it made my heart sink, which was appropriate, given the contents of the message:

  Setting down the phone, I went to the front door, thinking I’d open it to let some fresh air into the cottage before the day got too hot, as was predicted.

  But when I opened the door, I was met by more than a cool breeze. I discovered that someone else had been restless overnight and had left me a package.

  Not just a package, but a mystery to solve.

  * * *

  “Why do you think Jonathan gave you a big pile of newspaper clippings?” Moxie asked, over the sound of her own hammering.

  Heeding her shorthand summons, which had been followed by directions, I’d met her at Mike Cavanaugh’s cousin’s lovely Sylvan Creek home, where a gray, weathered rowboat was dry-docked behind the garage, waiting on a trailer to be hauled to the lake. Moxie was bent over the rickety craft, affixing bunting to what I believed to be the hull. I thought adding more holes to the ancient vessel, even high on the side, was probably a mistake, and Socrates seemed to agree. He winced every time the hammer met wood.

  Unfortunately, my best friend wouldn’t be deterred. She whacked the boat pretty hard, then looked up at me. “Wouldn’t flowers have been a nicer apology for leaving?”

  “The clippings are from Artful Engagements,” I explained. “Detective Doebler doesn’t think they’re important, but Jonathan and I believe they might be related to Abigail’s murder. He left them with me so I could read through them, looking for clues.”

  Moxie stopped hammering long enough to rest one hand on her chest, a dreamy look in her eyes. “Oh, he’s finally teaming up with you—as an investigator! That’s so romantic!”

  I had also been oddly touched by Jonathan’s inclusion of me in an investigation, which, strangely, spoke volumes about his increasing faith in me.

  I wished I felt like I could trust the ancient boat that I was circling, pausing behind the trailer to note that someone had painted a black X over Something’s Fishy. New red paint announced the vessel as the Tiny-tanic. Apparently the nickname had become ominously official.

  “So, will Jonathan be back in time for the wedding?” Moxie asked, mumbling through two nails she held between her teeth.

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “And, to be honest, Piper seems like she wants to just give up on the whole thing. Or, at least that’s how it seemed last night when police officers were raiding her barn, looking for a murder weapon in her gift bags. I think she’s pretty discouraged.”

  “I don’t blame her,” Moxie said, giving the Tiny-tanic one more smack for what I thought was just good measure. Or maybe she hit it for good luck, the way one might break a champagne bottle over a ship. Straightening, she brushed some of her short, still-blue hair off her forehead with the back of her bare arm, although she didn’t look sweaty at all in vintage, high-waisted shorts and a checked top that she’d knotted at the waist. “It was bad enough that Mike and I had to restart our relationship under a cloud of suspicion. I wouldn’t want to start a life as husband and wife that way.”

  That was one of the most sensible things Moxie had ever uttered. However, Piper had also said being married to Roger before he left town was important to her.

  “I think she’ll be happy when it all comes together,” I said, peeking into the boat, where more decorations, a set of oars and the promised life jackets, including two small ones for four-legged passengers, awaited. I saw a few spots that were quite obviously patched, too, and I didn’t think the repairs looked very effective. Sunlight was streaming through a hole near what I believed to be the stern. I forgot about the wedding for a moment, because I feared my life might be in jeopar
dy, in spite of the safety vest that awaited me. “Moxie, the holes will all be above water when this thing is afloat, right?”

  She didn’t exactly answer. Clapping one hand on the side of the boat, she said, “I have been assured that this little craft is lake-worthy, if not seaworthy. I would not row out on the ocean.”

  Socrates made a groaning sound. I thought he was not only fearful for my well-being, but still expressing general dismay over the whole idea of the regatta.

  “I’m going to need to do a costume fitting for Artie,” Moxie added. “Will you be picking him up later?”

  “He and Axis are staying with Elyse for the next few days,” I told her. “Jonathan didn’t want to add to my already overloaded to-do list.”

  Moxie dropped her hammer into a battered metal toolbox. “Oh, that was nice of him. I suppose I can run out to Elyse’s house.”

  “Thanks, Moxie,” I said, glancing into the boat again. Loops of lights, some streamers, pinwheels and sparklers were piled high next to the more practical gear. “And please don’t feel like you have to go overboard . . . no pun intended . . . with decorating the boat.” I was starting to worry about making a spectacle of myself before we even sank, so I tried to encourage Moxie to put her talents to use elsewhere. “I know you have a cake to bake, too. If the boat is a little understated, that’s more than okay.”

  She waved off my concerns. “I told you. There’s plenty of time for the cake. And there’s no such thing as ‘overboard’ with All Paws on Deck—unless you lean too far starboard. From what I understand, the Tiny-tanic lists a little.”

  Socrates lay down and covered his muzzle with his big paws, like he couldn’t endure the conversation for one more minute.

  Luckily for him, we needed to get going. “Just please don’t let the cake go for too long,” I said, moving toward my van, where Moxie had painted the misshapen dog that was so often mistaken for an equally deformed pony. I sometimes feared haste had contributed to the mistakes, and I didn’t want that to happen to Piper’s cake, which was so beautiful on paper. I hauled open the passenger side door for Socrates, who gratefully lumbered inside. Then I slammed the door. “Please promise me the cake will be perfect.”