I frowned. “No, she’ll kill us.”
“Who will?” Tony asked.
“One of the gowns belonged to Sylvia Rockfort.” I cleared my throat and pushed down the panic threatening to overtake me. “She’s getting married in three weeks.”
Sylvia’s B-star rating wasn’t enough to attract her a lot of attention, but most residents of Sun Valley had seen their fair city highlighted in the tabloids when she dated Brock Grafton.
Tony grimaced.
“She’s going to be so angry when she finds out. We’d like to keep this quiet for a few days, if possible,” I said.
“We’ll file a report, but the most important thing to do now is contact your insurance adjuster. You do have theft insurance?”
“Not enough to cover everything.” My parents had insisted I invest in good insurance, but I hadn’t upped the merchandise value before the shipment of wedding gowns arrived. That error in my planning now hung like a huge flashing “I told you so” beacon in the empty space of the closet where Sylvia’s dress should have been. Again the panic crawled up the back of my throat as I calculated how much the insurance might cover and what Lorea and I would do with the balance. I clamped down on the fear and reassured myself that everything would work out—there would be time to dry-heave later. I definitely would not think about multicolored stones in a quilt.
After Tony left, Lorea and I tidied up and attempted to get some work done, but neither of us was very successful. I heard a sniffle and walked to the back room where Lorea was sewing.
“Lorea?” I crouched beside her and put my arm around her slim frame.
She attempted a smile but failed. She wiped at the tears escaping the corners of her eyes. “Sylvia’s going to kill me,” Lorea sobbed. “She’ll ruin us. You know how she is with her lawsuits.”
“Maybe we should call a lawyer.” It was something I didn’t want to do, but I couldn’t soothe Lorea’s fears when the same thought had crossed my mind.
She lifted her head. “Do you know any who could scare her off in case she tried to sue us?”
“First of all, I’m going to find that dress. And second, Sylvia wouldn’t have grounds to sue if we offer her a full refund and a replacement dress.”
Lorea didn’t look convinced, but she wiped her face and let out an angry huff. “I can’t believe this is happening when we were so close to making this dream a reality.”
“Your dream is still coming true. We’ll figure this out, and don’t forget we have Natalie’s dress.” Not thinking of diamonds, I repeated to myself. I pulled out my cell phone and started scrolling through contacts.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to see if I know any lawyers.” My mouth turned down. “But the only one I know lives in Phoenix.”
Lorea stood and picked up her pincushion. “Have you heard about the new divorce lawyer in town?”
“No, should I have?”
“Natalie’s mom, Kaly, was telling me he’s been keeping the courts busy.”
Stowing my phone in my purse, I lifted my shoulders. “Well, people do get divorced—they say over half of all marriages end in divorce these days.”
Lorea tsked. “I know. It’s just that he’s such a cynic that Kaly swears he could make even someone like Natalie want to get a divorce. He hates the idea of marriage.”
“And how did she come by all this info?”
“Kaly’s brother is in the process of getting divorced. His wife hired the new lawyer.” Lorea smoothed the fabric on one of the gowns. “Anyway, Kaly warned me about him because she was concerned. He’s been advertising his services for prenuptial agreements.”
“Why is that a concern?” I toggled through a list of expenses on my computer and tried to figure out how much I could afford to spend on a security camera.
“Because when people meet with him for a prenup, he talks them out of getting married. But the bigger reason is, he’s friends with Brock. I guess he’s doing the prenup for Natalie.”
“I can see why that would have Kaly worried.” Natalie’s mother was a born-and-raised Idahoan, and she was as genuine as you could find. It was probably hard for her to wrap her mind around why a prenuptial agreement would be needed in the case of her sweet daughter. “And who is he?”
“I can’t remember his name,” Lorea replied. “People are saying he’s pretty tight-lipped about his past. They’re not even sure where he came from because he’s so vague, but he’s good at what he does.”
“Well, let’s just hope Sylvia’s dress turns up so we don’t have to worry about lawyers. I’m going to make a few calls about installing a security system.”
Thirty minutes later, I had an appointment scheduled on Saturday for installation of a surveillance camera. Just before noon, Walter Mayfield tapped on the glass. He wore a concerned look, so it was a safe bet he had come to offer his condolences or perhaps to check on the future payback of his loan.
“Hi, Walter.” I opened the door for him. “I guess you heard the bad news.”
“No specifics. Tony said there was a break-in, and he needed to check the area.”
“Some of our wedding gowns were stolen,” I said.
Walter flinched and his forehead creased with worry, but in the next breath he composed himself, giving us his usual smile. “The important thing is that you girls are okay.”
“Thanks, Walter,” Lorea said.
His smile was the thing I liked most about his appearance. Walter was in his fifties, with silver streaks running through his dark hair. He wore an ornate wedding band he had designed himself. Mayfield Jewelers was known for the outstanding quality of their diamonds, and his ring had three beautiful stones embedded in the band. “I have some insurance, so I’ll help Lorea pay you back,” I said.
Walter waved his hand. “I’m not worried. I wanted to check on you and let you know I’m heading out of town for a diamond-buying trip to Belgium. Hopefully, things will be looking better by the time I get back.”
“Oh, I thought you weren’t leaving until October,” Lorea said. Walter usually went to Belgium twice a year, so it was surprising for him to leave during wedding season.
“That was my original plan, but my cousin had some frequent-flier miles that were about to expire. He also invited me to a family reunion in Wisconsin on my way out, so I moved things up.”
“That sounds nice,” I said. “But we’ll miss you.”
“Gracie is running the store for me. She has a great eye for matching each bride to the perfect ring, so keep sending your clients over.” He lifted his hand. “I’ll be back in two weeks.”
“Bring us back a souvenir,” Lorea said with a wave. “Like a diamond.”
“Or chocolate,” I said.
After letting Walter out the front door, I made the decision to take a much-needed lunch break. It was silly, but I wanted to try to find Sylvia’s dress, and I needed some brain food in order to think up some ideas. “I’m frazzled. I’m going to Smokehouse BBQ for some fried pickles. Do you want to come?”
Lorea laughed. “No, thanks. Stress relief for me doesn’t have anything to do with pickles.”
“Here, let me give you some stress relief before you go.” She grabbed a spritz bottle, and I closed my eyes as she sprayed a combination of lavender and melaleuca oils on my face and hair. “Take a deep breath.”
The calming scent of lavender tickled my nose, and I smiled.
“See, that helps,” Lorea said. “Of course, you’ll have to rinse and repeat after you get back from your smelly barbeque joint.”
I laughed. “Now, if only they could bottle that smell . . .”
Lorea frowned. I waved at her as I headed out the door. “I won’t be too long.”
I rolled down my window as I approached the intersection for the Smokehouse BBQ and inhaled when the aroma of wood smoke filled my nose. A large rust-colored smoker belched out smoldering trails of mouth-watering aromas. The place was a dive, but the succulent ribs fal
ling off the bone and dripping with his signature “smoke sauce” had given Clay Anderson a cult following.
With limited parking, I slid in next to a decked out Harley Davidson Road Glide. I regarded the dark blue and silver insignia on the Screamin’ Eagle version. I had an eye for Harleys, and I hadn’t seen this one around town before. I paused to admire it with more deserving attention. I grew up riding dirt bikes through the fields to move pipe, and the wide-open stretches of flat deserts provided plenty of great recreation for motorcycle enthusiasts in this part of Idaho. To say I had a thing for a fancy ride was putting it mildly.
If I hadn’t been so sensible, my first ride would have been a Harley with a purple glitter helmet. Instead, I drove a used Mercury Mountaineer with plenty of space in the back for hauling wedding décor. My fingers grazed the leather saddlebags attached to the bike, and then I curled them inward and wondered who the lucky owner might be. My parents didn’t know about my secret desire to date a biker. Briette had always teased about setting me up with a Harley owner, but it had never happened.
The biker would be in for a treat if this was his first time at Smokehouse BBQ. Clay’s burnt ends, a marvelously slow-cooked beef brisket with a bark full of so much flavor it could make any barbeque enthusiast cry, was the Thursday special.
The restaurant was actually an old house remodeled into a barbeque joint, and I squeezed between two ranchers in the entryway and walked toward the front to place my order. A glance through the four booth seats and three tables didn’t satisfy my curiosity regarding the owner of the Harley, as I didn’t spot any leather-clad bikers.
Two senior citizen couples, a few golfers, and a heavy-set man chomping through some ribs and brisket sandwiches made up the lunch crowd at the moment. The bike could belong to anyone, but I held out hope that I hadn’t spotted him yet. With a ride like that, he had to be interesting. Clay was skilled at moving people through the joint, though, and the weather was warm enough for the outdoor patio to be in use. I’d have to check.
A line of take-out orders flanked the cash register, and I lifted my fingers in a wave as Clay shimmied through the kitchen with a billowing pan of Smokehouse pork.
“Hey, Adri. I’ll throw some pickles in the juice for ya,” Clay hollered. “What else would you like today?”
“That pork looks delicious. I’ll have a Clay’s special sauce sandwich.”
He grinned and gave me a wink. His ruddy face perspired, and he continually wiped it with a white towel as he dodged the sizzling grease that enveloped the sweet potato fries and pickles.
After I placed my order, I meandered over to the patio door but was still unable to sate my curiosity. No one occupied the deck chairs under the bright red Coca-Cola umbrellas, so I turned back toward the empty corner booth I had passed. Only it wasn’t empty anymore.
I came up short as I locked eyes with a man whose deep blue gaze fastened on me. Thick black hair curled at his temples and rimless glasses sat lightly on the bridge of his nose. The muscles in his forearms tightened as he lowered a copy of The Idaho Mountain Express, Ketchum’s most reliable newspaper. I guessed he was about thirty and noted the absence of a wedding band. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Sorry, did I take your spot? Clay likes to keep this house full.”
“Oh, not at all. I—uh . . .” I stuttered and looked around to find that the ranchers had just taken residence at the last table and a group of tittering ladies were heading out to the patio.
“Rack of ribs, burnt-end special for Luke, and a side of onion rings and slaw,” Clay hollered.
Blue-Eyes stood at the call, proving his name was Luke. I tried not to stare, but he was well over six feet and made an imposing figure in the low-ceilinged barbeque joint. He wore carpenter jeans and hiking boots with a moss-green, V-neck tee that accentuated his muscular build.
“Why don’t you sit down? There’s room for both of us.” Luke thumbed toward the booth.
“Are you sure?”
That smile appeared again as he nodded. “Definitely.”
The booth could comfortably fit four, so I considered his offer. I turned to watch him pay for his order and felt my stomach flip. Luke headed toward me with his steaming plate. I was just about to sit down when Clay hollered, “Order’s up, Adri.”
I nodded at Luke as I approached the counter. Clay slid a tray full of hot fried pickles alongside a sandwich overflowing with carnivorous delight. I hurried forward, glad for the interruption to my awkwardness.
“Thanks. I really needed some comfort food today.” I pushed two dollars in his tip jar, grabbed a stack of napkins, and turned back around.
Luke nodded as I set my tray down and slid in close to the window. I wanted to bite into one of my fried pickles to wipe the stupid grin off my face, but they were still too hot.
“I’m Luke.” He pushed his tray to the side and extended a hand.
I gave him a firm handshake. “Adrielle Pyper, but you can call me Adri. Everyone does. Thanks for letting me sit here.”
“My pleasure. This place has amazing food, doesn’t it?” Luke lifted his burnt-end special and inhaled slowly, closing his eyes as he took a saucy bite.
I laughed but followed suit with my sandwich. “Mmm. The best barbeque I’ve ever had.” I felt self-conscious eating the messy sandwich in front of him, but the aromas caressing my nose had kicked my hunger into high gear, and not even the best-looking guy could make me miss out on this meal. When I bit into the fried pickle, steam escaped from the hot vegetable turned to the artery-clogging dark side. I chewed slowly, savoring the flavors. Luke’s face split into a grin.
“I haven’t ever tried the fried pickles. They just sound weird, but from the look on your face, they must taste good.”
He was forward. First inviting me to sit with him and now practically asking for one of my deep-fried delicacies. Chewing slowly, I picked the smallest breaded pickle and edged it onto his plate. “I dare you.”
Luke’s eyebrows lifted, and he set down the rib he’d been gnawing. He grabbed the pickle and took a bite. I heard the slight crunch and saw the steam release from the fried shell. “That’s hot!” He chewed quickly and swigged some water. “But tasty.” He examined the crusty exterior and took another bite. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” I took another bite of Clay’s special sandwich and savored how the pork separated in meaty chunks with each mouthful. “Are you from around here?”
Luke wiped his face with a paper towel he snagged from the roll sitting on our table. “Not really. I’m a transplant. But I found this place the first weekend I moved to town. I love coming on burnt-end special days.”
“I come here when I need comfort food. It’s been a while.”
“Why? What do you do?”
“I’m a wedding planner. I own Pyper’s Dream Weddings, and this is the busiest time of year for me.” The missing wedding dresses were the real reason I needed fried pickles, but I wasn’t about to make that public knowledge.
He wrinkled his nose. “I can see why you need comfort food. Maybe you should order some more pickles.”
“Hey, I love what I do. I make people’s dreams come true.”
Luke popped an onion ring into his mouth, chewed, and mumbled, “Or their worst nightmare.”
“Wow.” I leaned back with a frown. “Remind me never to let one of my prospective clients come within ten yards of you.”
“Probably not a bad idea, considering . . .”
“Considering what?”
“I’m just giving you a hard time.” Luke took a monstrous bite of his sandwich.
I knew my face was red, and if he had half a brain, he could see my hackles were raised in defense of every girl’s fairy-tale wedding.
He chewed for a few seconds, and when I didn’t respond to his rather brusque jab at my line of work, he reached across the table and brushed his fingers over the back of my hand. “I shouldn’t have said that. I apologize. I don’t even know you, and I sh
ouldn’t make fun, no matter what I think of marriage.”
The glass of water became my focal point and I took a drink, clinking the ice cubes around noisily.
“You must be very good at what you do. I know why your name sounds familiar. You’re doing Sylvia Rockfort’s and Brock Grafton’s weddings, aren’t you?”
I tried unsuccessfully to hide the grimace that belied my feelings of Ketchum’s own soap-star diva. Luke slapped his thigh as he laughed. I gave in and laughed with him.
“See, now that would be my worst nightmare,” he said.
If he was new to the area, I wondered if he’d experienced Sylvia’s charm personally, or if he was only going by what the tabloids presented. “That’s not fair. I’ve worked with many brides who are wonderful and kind. You can’t knock marriage just because someone like Sylvia is doing it.”
“Whatever you say.”
I grumbled and finished the last bite of fried pickle. A glance at my watch made my throat tighten. It was already past one o’clock, and I had plenty of work to do. “My goodness, I’m a slow eater today.”
“Me too. I’d better be on my way.” He stood and swept a few crumbs from his pant legs. “It was fun talking to you. Do you ever give out your number to strange men set against marriage?”
I couldn’t help smiling, but I wasn’t sure about him. “Well, you know where to find me.”
“Ah, gonna make me grovel, huh?”
He rubbed his hand along the shadow of stubble on his jaw, and I almost relented when I noticed the dimple in his chin. But my pride kept me to the sticking point.
“I don’t think I got your last name.”
He paused. “It’s Stetson.” He waited as if to see how I would react, and then his shoulders relaxed. “Have a great weekend, Adri.”
I was confused with his reticence just before he left and wondered why he’d been reluctant to give his last name. The way his broad shoulders filled the doorframe tucked the question in the back of my brain, though, especially when he turned and lifted two fingers in a wave. When he walked out the door and straddled the Harley, I knew I was in trouble.
Diamond Rings Are Deadly Things Page 6