Something Borrowed, Something Mewed

by Bethany Blake

  An owl swooped over us, and in a flight of fancy, I really believed it was Rembrandt. Brother Alf followed the bird’s progress, too, until I said, “The picture in the newspaper, where her bridesmaids are so happy, and she’s alone . . .”

  His hands drooped between his knees, to the extent they could do that, since he was wearing his robe. “I had already told Des I couldn’t destroy her relationship with her family, because they suspected what was happening. And we were wrong to go behind her fiancé’s back, too. I’d told her it was over.”

  “What happened?”

  “She did not take it well. And being headstrong, not to mention armed with a trust fund that she’d gained control of at age twenty-one, she simply struck out on her own one night, leaving from the chapel, after saying goodbye to me, right here.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed him. “But the rumor is someone died here. There’s even a cold case file.”

  “The Siminski family tried to claim foul play, to save face. They insisted that Desdemona would never have left of her own free will. Even when Des donated generously to Gateway Arches, as a way of telling me that she still cared, in spite of all that had happened between us . . .”

  I recalled the clipping about the Siminski family’s battle to stop the donation of “blood money.”

  “. . . Even then, the Siminskis swore an imposter had gotten hold of Des’s identity and trust fund. To them, it was better to claim she’d been murdered than admit, publicly, that she’d walked away from her family, her future husband—and her infant daughter.”

  My eyes nearly popped out of my head, and Socrates and Snowdrop, whose keen ears must’ve been tuned in to the conversation, looked back at us, too.

  “Desdemona Siminski had a child? But you said she wasn’t . . .”

  Brother Alf laughed again. “I’m the one who lives a cloistered life, but you seem very naive right now, Daphne Templeton. Surely you know that even in the late nineteen seventies, children were born out of wedlock. And, I told you, Des was quite wild!”

  I pictured the old photo. I had thought the sad bride seemed familiar somehow. “I’m going to make another guess.”

  I didn’t have to. Brother Alf rubbed his jaw. “Yes. That child was Abigail.”

  “But she didn’t use her family name.”

  “From what I understand, she thought ‘Sinclair’ sounded classier for a wedding planner. She didn’t change it until she started her business.”

  I thought back to the guest book at Graystone Arches, where Abigail had signed in with her real name. I hadn’t recognized the surname itself. I’d thought the moniker looked familiar because I knew Abigail’s distinctive handwriting from notes she’d left me when I sat for Ms. Peebles. The sharp, slanted way she wrote an “a,” and the angular dots, like slashes, she’d placed over each “i” were unmistakable.

  “She went to see you recently, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. While I’d sort of kept an eye on her, over the years, she suddenly seemed intent upon making an appearance in my life, letting me know that she had always blamed me for breaking up her family.” His shoulders drooped. “And I suppose she was right.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It sounds to me like Desdemona wouldn’t have been very happy, tied down to a child. Most mothers don’t bolt that easily. And you ultimately tried to do the right thing.”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Perhaps. But I must share some of the blame for the mess that left Abigail motherless.” He nodded to his car. “And as you can see, even today, I have a difficult time resisting worldly temptations. I tried to cloister myself. Sought a new, more simple life, to atone for my sins, leaving this congregation behind and starting Graystone Arches. But, in spite of my best intentions, I ended up with a baking and zither empire!”

  Brother Alf was exasperated by his own Midas touch, and I wasn’t sure what to say except, “The zithers do seem impressive. And my best friend is fanatical for the bread.”

  The dogs were still listening, and Socrates whined with embarrassment on my behalf. Then again, he might’ve still been complaining about the excessively long concert we’d endured.

  “Getting back to Abigail,” I said, hoping to gloss over my awkward comment. “Who raised her, if her mother was out of the picture?”

  “Her father, Alan Ogilvie, who would’ve married Des, if she and I hadn’t fallen so hard for each other. And I understand he was a devoted man. But I don’t think it was ever enough. Abigail was determined to punish me for interfering with the dream she had of a perfect, happy family.”

  I considered Graystone Arches and its inhabitants almost unassailable. The place was literally a castle on a mountaintop. “If you’d wanted, you could’ve shut her out entirely. So how could she do that?”

  “By telling a terrible truth.” He shifted again to meet my gaze. “You know about the mass wedding, right? Just a few years ago?”

  I nodded. That clip had been out of order, at the top of the pile.

  “Such a stupid stunt, in retrospect!” Brother Alf groaned.

  I didn’t tell him that Piper and I both agreed.

  “Abigail had enlisted someone to do some investigating, and they’d dug deep enough to realize that the acolyte who performed the ceremony—”

  “I thought you did that,” I interrupted. “I saw a picture.”

  He rubbed his balding head, getting agitated. “No. Brother Thomas looked like me.” He grabbed part of his robe. “We all look alike, in these vestments.”

  That was true, and the photo I’d seen was grainy and shot from a distance.

  “I was ill that day,” Brother Alf explained. “So I told one of my followers to take my place and preside over the exchange of vows.”

  “But . . . ?”

  Brother Alf buried his face in his hands. “Brother Thomas wasn’t ordained. Had no authority!”

  My eyes got big again. “So all of those marriages . . . ?”

  “Shams,” Brother Alf confirmed, in a whisper. “And Abigail was going to publicly expose me for the greedy, lustful fraud that I am. Even Beverly doesn’t know the whole truth about me.”

  I had let down my guard as I’d listened to his fascinating story, but all at once, I felt a cold chill run down my spine, and I rose. Socrates and Snowdrop stood up, too, and joined us, both dogs on alert.

  I didn’t understand why Brother Alf had shared his secret with me, aside from the fact that he was leaving town anyhow. And I suddenly realized that he’d had a powerful motive to kill Abigail. Not to mention a colorful belt.

  “The dogs and I need to go now,” I said, clutching my phone. I tapped the screen. “I’m telling Moxie we’re heading home.”

  Brother Alf stood up, too, and he stepped back, raising his hands. “No, you misunderstand. I wouldn’t have hurt Abigail, physically.”

  I glanced at the woven rope around his middle, again doubting him.

  “I’d harmed her enough, emotionally,” he continued. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, looking sick. “I didn’t realize the extent until I spoke with her at the Gateway, and again at Roger and Piper’s rehearsal dinner. She was living proof of the damage I’d done, so many years ago. So cold and angry!”

  I still feared Brother Alf a tiny bit. But I felt sorry for him, too. He was deeply flawed. But he was also remorseful.

  “We’re more than just the product of our parents, if they leave,” I assured him. “I’m living proof of that, and so is Piper.”

  He looked to his luxury sedan, a symbol of avarice. “I’ve done other harm, too. It’s time for me to take Fifi—”

  For a second, I regretted feeling sad for him, because it sounded like he had another paramour, to put it politely. “Who is ‘Fifi’?”

  “The calico you met,” he informed me. “She’s in a carrier in the car.”

  I noticed then that the windows were down. “Oh.”

  “It’s time for me to take Fifi and move on,” he continued. “I’m thinking of
retiring to the desert. Someplace I can reflect and live more simply.”

  I was positive he’d start another cult, and so was Socrates. He nuzzled Snowdrop and they walked to the van, like he’d had enough of Brother Alf.

  I followed the dogs. “What will happen to the acolytes? Aren’t you kind of pulling the rug out from under them?”

  “Spiritually, yes,” he admitted. “But financially, they are in for a windfall. I’ve made provisions to distribute all assets from the pending sale of the mountain and compound among them. And the zither business alone could sustain those who choose to continue their spiritual journey together at some other location.”

  “You mean, they’re all rich?”

  Brother Alf nodded again. “Yes. And free to go about their lives—as they always were, you know. The rumors that I held anyone hostage were never true.”

  With that, he slipped quickly into his Lincoln and started the engine. But right before he drove off, he stuck his head out of the open window. “Daphne?”

  “Yes?”

  “We sell the sourdough starter, if your friend wants some. It’s ten dollars for an ounce—in really nice packaging, if you’re looking for hostess gifts, too.”

  I wished he’d told me all that when I’d been at the compound. And as he drove away, I also wished I’d asked him to recommend another minister—an ordained one—to perform his nephew’s wedding.

  Last but not least, I regretted not inquiring about who Abigail had conspired with to dig into Brother Alf’s past, because I had a feeling that person might’ve just been silenced, too, in the chilly waters of Lake Wallapawakee.

  Chapter 41

  “Brother Alf is a fishy character and a huckster, but I don’t know if he’s a killer,” I told Socrates and Snowdrop as we crested Winding Hill in the van. “I just don’t see enough motive for either murder. Between the zithers, the bread—and the mountain—he was literally sitting on a fortune, even if his reputation was ruined and he never lured ... er, accepted ... another acolyte into his flock. He could’ve just ignored Abigail and waited out the scandal about the bogus weddings.”

  Snowdrop barked loudly, like she still thought Brother Alf might be guilty of more than running his cult, while Socrates simply looked out the window at the dark night.

  I took that to mean he either agreed with me or simply had no time for a snake oil salesman who peddled sourdough starter for more than five bucks an ounce. Decorative container or not, the price was pretty high.

  “Well, at least we all got away alive,” I noted, driving past the farmhouse, where most of the windows were dark. However, I did spy a light glowing in the kitchen, and I pulled into the gravel patch by the barn, next to Piper’s Acura.

  Socrates tilted his head, letting me know he didn’t understand why we were stopping.

  “I feel like I should tell Piper the chapel’s not quite done,” I explained, unhooking my seat belt. “And I want to ask if she has a viable wedding dress yet. Because we are nearly out of time.” I opened my door. “You two can stay here. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Neither one of the love-struck canines objected to some time alone, so I hopped out of the VW and hurried to Piper’s back door. Raising my hand to knock, I realized that she might have turned in early, resting up for the coming big days. Deciding to make a quiet entrance, I used the key I still kept on my ring, for emergencies, and poked my head into the kitchen.

  The room was warm and stuffy, all the windows sealed, which wasn’t like Piper, who always liked to let in the summer breezes that cooled the hilltop.

  The kitchen was also too clean, every dish put away, every scrap of paper gone, and the white bowl that always held some fruit empty.

  I was struck by the crazy idea that my own sister had moved away without telling me.

  Then I spied a note tacked to the refrigerator, and I suddenly feared that notion wasn’t so crazy at all.

  Chapter 42

  “Did everyone except me guess that Piper and Roger were eloping?” I asked Mom the next evening, when she made a rare appearance at a Wags ’n Flags event, if only to tuck business cards into the bags of dog cookies I was handing out from a table on the lakeshore.

  If Beverly Berendt hadn’t insisted that Mom was proud of me, I would’ve thought my mother also looked forward to watching me, Artie and Tiny Tim go down with the Tiny-tanic. I still believed that might be the case, and part of me hoped that Moxie, who was running late, would fail to show up with the boat and the dogs in time for the parade. The sun had already set, and most of the other craft were lined up in the water, waiting to turn on their lights to oohs and aahs from the crowd before doing slow, small laps to more applause.

  Socrates and Snowdrop had already picked a spot to observe the regatta, and I gave my basset hound buddy, who probably would’ve preferred to stay home, credit for indulging the poodle, whose person sat wanly in a lawn chair, trying to act normally while out on bail.

  “Honestly, Daphne,” Mom said, tucking yet another card into one of the cellophane pouches meant to advertise my business. “Did you really think your sister would have her reception in a barn?” Leaning over the table, she handed a cookie and her contact information to a man who was passing by with a Great Dane at his side. “How adorable,” Mom cooed, pointing at the dog, which I knew for a fact was making her inwardly shudder. When the pair walked on, she changed her tone and told me, “It was a nice attempt dear, but I, for one, anticipated that Piper and Roger would fly off somewhere tasteful and romantic to be wed.”

  I secretly believed that, like me, Mom had not suspected a thing. And I knew for a fact that Piper hadn’t objected to the spot I’d found for the reception—a location that had been endorsed and decorated by one of the nation’s top tastemakers.

  Elyse Hunter-Black, who was at the lake with Axis, Paris and Milan, had known all about Piper’s plans, because my guilt-ridden sister had spilled the beans the night Laci had been murdered, right before I’d walked in on her and Elyse chatting quietly in Elyse’s kitchen. That was why Elyse had looked so guilty, herself, when I’d entered the room.

  Fortunately, she hadn’t been upset about the wasted decorating effort. In fact, she’d happily switched gears, downplaying the romantic touches and setting up a more casual party for family and friends, who would still celebrate, albeit without the bride and groom physically present, the very next day.

  “I really don’t think the barn was the deciding factor,” I said, glancing over my shoulder to see if Moxie was on her way in a borrowed truck with a boat in tow. I couldn’t deny that I was relieved to discover that the Tiny-tanic was still nowhere in sight, and I turned back around. “The note didn’t even mention the reception.”

  The truth was, when they chose to fly to the Virgin Islands and tie the knot, my sister and Roger had simply wanted to make a fresh start far from the drama of dual homicides and the suspicion that had hovered around Roger.

  It was all clear in the very apologetic message Piper had stuck on her fridge.

  Along with providing a rationale for the couple’s out-of-character, impulsive and rebellious choice, my sister had explained why she’d tried on the skimpy gowns, thinking she should go with something “beachy” for the private seaside ceremony.

  She had, of course, quickly realized she’d been wrong. In the photos she’d texted from an isolated cove, she’d worn a simple white sheath—and a huge smile on her face. Roger, slightly sunburned, looked otherwise blissful, too.

  I’d kept the images on my phone, and the note in my pocket, because in it, Piper had asked me a question that she’d started to pose once before, only to stop herself.

  I didn’t understand why she’d finished her thought in a note of apology, and I believed that what she’d written about Jonathan’s work on the chapel was wrong.

  However, at least I finally understood why I’d seen travel brochures in her kitchen and why she’d been so rattled when I’d found her trying on the gowns I’d then return
ed to Something Borrowed, Something New.

  “I knew something was fishy when I saw those dresses,” I muttered—my timing perfect, because a truck pulling Something Fishy, aka the Tiny-tanic, was rolling down onto the beach.

  My mother and I were silent for a moment, as were most of the people who’d turned to check out the late arrival.

  Then the night air was filled with a sound I hadn’t heard in years.

  Peals of unrestrained laughter—coming from my mother.

  Chapter 43

  “I seriously doubt anyone but Mom and Moxie understood that you two are supposed to be characters from McHale’s Navy—which was, against all reason, my mother’s favorite show, back in the day,” I told Artie and Tiny Tim, who stood proudly at the prow of our rowboat, which was bobbing on the dark lake, and which now had yet another moniker: PT 73.

  I certainly hadn’t recognized the name of the vessel from a 1960s sitcom starring Ernest Borgnine and Tim Conway. However, now that I had some context, I had to admit that Moxie had done a good job of casting Timmy, the wrinkled, snub-nosed pug, as Borgnine’s character, Lieutenant Commander Quentin McHale, while skinny, shivering, overly enthusiastic Artie was perfect as Conway’s Ensign Parker.

  I knew the dogs’ roles and ranks because Moxie had faithfully re-created the program’s costumes, right down to McHale’s hat and epaulets and Ensign Parker’s narrow tie. Not that I still would’ve recognized the characters, if she hadn’t made dog tags for both little sailors.

  The mock PT boat was not quite as realistic, although Moxie had outdone herself in a different way by adding at least twenty red, white and blue pinwheels and even more strands of lights in the same colors, all strung between the sides of the boat and a tall flagpole she’d added to the very center of the craft, which did list a bit to one side.