Gown with the Wind

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  But a smug smile graced Felicity’s face. She dangled an impossibly large diamond in Becca’s face, her left ring finger weighed down by the intricate Edwardian design of hundreds of tiny diamonds flanking one seriously colossal center stone.

  Becca blanched at the beacon of a ring shoved in her face, and I watched a kaleidoscope of emotions cycle over her. She seemed to rest on jealousy, and bit her lip. “You finally got Tanner to pop the question, Felicity? What has it been, five years?”

  Felicity snorted as she polished the gleaming bauble with the sleeve of her silver robe. “Hardly. We got engaged last night. We did our engagement photos this morning. Look for an official announcement in the newspaper. Tanner and I will be wed by the end of summer.”

  Becca seemed to fixate and salivate on Felicity’s ring. “Did your father design this?” Her voice was a thinly suppressed strain of jealousy.

  Felicity’s father.

  That was it. The woman looked familiar, in addition to bearing a passable resemblance to Vivien Leigh. I could see an echo of the town jeweler, Roger Fournier, in her features.

  “Daddy and Tanner designed it together,” Felicity confirmed. “Good things come to those who wait, Becca. I’m not rushing through my wedding and marriage. It makes me wonder why you are. What do you have to hide? I mean, come on! Getting married in two weeks because there’s been a cancellation?”

  Becca’s hands curled into fists, her own massive engagement ring making a painful-looking kind of brass knuckle.

  “Easy there, bruiser.” I squeezed Becca’s shoulder and mentally begged her to remember she was in a place of business, not a boxing ring.

  “I’m sure we can settle this amicably,” Samantha chimed in, her lawyer hat still on. Samantha’s voice of reason seemed to soothe her twin.

  “I suppose,” Becca grumbled.

  “And since Bev was just ringing us up, when she returns, we’ll finish our transaction and go,” I finished.

  And it would have been a sensible plan. Except Felicity appeared to have lost her mind and lunged for the dress.

  “Get your mitts off of it!” Becca pushed Felicity away and attempted to wheel the heavy dress form behind a counter displaying twinkling, delicate bridal jewelry. Felicity jammed one long leg into the opening behind the counter and cut Becca off.

  “This dress belongs with me!” Felicity grabbed one sleeve and gave a sharp tug. Becca grabbed the voluminous skirt and pulled the dress toward her. A rough tug-of-war with the delicate gown as a rope ensued. The poor gown didn’t stand a chance.

  The sickening rip of fabric made time stand still. Both women dropped their holds on the dress, and the heavy dress form toppled over. The back of the dress was utterly destroyed. The poufy skirt displayed its innards, the layers of sewed-in petticoats and stiff netting that created the bell skirt spilling out of the gaping maw of torn fabric.

  Felicity began to hyperventilate. “You. You ruined it! You ruin everything, Becca Cunningham.” Her eyes wildly tore around the room, and settled on a half-drunk flute of champagne. Felicity picked up the vessel and threw the contents all over Becca. It was a hideous reincarnation of Girls Gone Wild come to Port Quincy, Pennsylvania. The elegant setting of the Silver Bells dress shop didn’t make it any classier. The champagne landed in Becca’s face in a bubbly jet.

  Becca stood still, the sticky wine trailing down her checks. She brushed champagne from her eyes and calmly retrieved a tissue from the counter. “Now we’re talking assault charges, Felicity.”

  Bev returned, and all the color drained from her face. “What in heaven’s name is going on in my store?” She swiveled and pointed a finger at Felicity. “You. And you.” This time Becca got the finger point of censure. “I want to know right now.”

  We all sheepishly studied the smooth expanse of dark wood floor. For once I was at a loss for words. Normally, I would be advocating for my bride, but I couldn’t find the will to do so today. And Bev now seemed silenced too. She appeared appalled by the shenanigans in her store, usually a place for joyful celebration and nervous but good-willed energy. Oh, I’d witnessed the occasional spat between competing bridezillas and momzillas. But things never resorted to knock-down, drag-out fights.

  Bev wrung her plump, bejeweled hands. The butterflies in her beehive shook with apparent consternation. I had to reflect on the irony. Bev loved drama and a good story as she claimed her title as Port Quincy’s resident queen of gossip. But she wasn’t enjoying this crazy tale as it unfolded in her own store.

  “All right, girls, we’ll settle this before you manage to tear my store apart.” Bev took a deep breath and clucked over Becca and Felicity like a mother hen. “Maybe neither of you should wear this dress,” she chastised.

  “But—” Becca began to argue.

  “I did offer it to you first,” Bev cut her off, “but in light of what has happened to this poor gown, I feel a bit of fairness needs to be injected into the situation. We’ll flip a coin,” she dramatically announced, the judge and jury of final decision-making in her store.

  “Here.” I dug around the contents of my purse and retrieved my wallet, selecting a single tarnished penny.

  “I call heads.” Felicity seethed as Bev placed the penny on her thumbnail. Felicity’s eyes were aglow with hunger and anger, and I knew I never wanted to cross her.

  Bev flipped the coin, and it soared through the air in a dramatic arc.

  “Let me see!” Becca shoved Felicity out of the way and made for the penny as it rolled around on the sleek hardwood floor like a demented top and finally came to rest.

  “Tails!” Bev swooped in to pluck the coin and turned to Becca. “The dress is yours.”

  Dark clouds gathered in the irises of Felicity’s eyes, and she swept from the shop, still wearing a Silver Bells robe. She clutched her clothes in a ball to her chest, and tore down the street wearing flip-flops.

  Bev rung Becca up and accepted her debit card before carefully packing up the ruined Scarlett O’Hara gown in its garment bag. Bev tsked one final time over the large rip down the back of the dress, and gave the gown a little pat, as if to console it. I swear, I saw the bead of a tear in the corner of her eye.

  “I’ll just place this in the back for safekeeping,” Bev announced. “I’ll mend the back as soon as possible, since time is of the essence for your wedding.” Bev had been an accomplished seamstress before she’d opened Silver Bells, and I knew if anyone could fix the ruined gown, Bev could.

  “The gown isn’t safe here,” Becca savagely intoned. “I’ll take it home with me, and you can mend it there.”

  Bev’s blond eyebrows shot up to her forehead at Becca’s impudence. She opened her mouth as if to rejoin, then thought better of it. But her normally merry blue eyes were crackling with barely suppressed ire.

  “I’ll come to your house to do the personalized fittings, in light of this . . . altercation here today,” Bev acquiesced. “Though such on-site seamstress work seems to be reserved for the likes of the British royal family,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Perfect.” Becca disappeared into a dressing room, and emerged mere minutes later in her clothes. She swanned out of Silver Bells, and Samantha and I scurried after her in her wake.

  If this little trip was indicative of how planning Becca’s wedding was going to go, I was in for one heck of a ride.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “She did what?” Rachel stared at me with incredulous eyes after I gave her the capsule synopsis of Becca’s altercation with Felicity at Silver Bells.

  “It was an actual physical fight,” I said in wonderment. “All over a Scarlett O’Hara–replica gown. And while I do agree that switching the theme to a Gone with the Wind wedding to honor Alma is a lovely idea, we really don’t have time to make a new menu, order food from our suppliers, and switch up our other vendors.”

  Rachel dished out a heaping helping of mapo tofu from our favorite takeout joint and handed me a plate. “This is all my fault! I pu
shed you to accept all these other events this May, and it’s come back to bite us in the rear end.”

  I offered my sister a rueful smile and took a vicious bite of a spring roll. “Business is booming. It could be worse. We’ll make it work. We have to.”

  I tossed and turned after retiring to bed that night. My calico cat, Whiskey, sensed my unease and opened one ocher eye, which glowed in the moonlight. Her daughter, Soda, a tiny orange cat, slept on at the foot of my bed, blissfully unaware. It was soon morning, and I was greeted with a text from Alma herself, beckoning me to meet her later at her house for her homecoming.

  “She must be doing well to have only spent a few days in the hospital,” I mused to Rachel over waffles in the big kitchen downstairs. We were free of guests this week because there would be no wedding this weekend, and our guests were usually affiliated with the weddings we held here. Instead, we’d be hosting a baby shower, and later the Mother’s Day tea over the weekend. It felt strange to whip up a breakfast for just the two of us instead of a group of guests. I dressed the waffles in a simple fashion with a pat of butter and a pour of maple syrup and deposited one plate in front of my sister.

  “Maybe well enough to take back planning of her theater opening,” Rachel said hopefully as she spooned some strawberry preserves atop her waffle.

  “I’d almost forgotten.” A gulp of hot coffee went down the wrong pipe, and I coughed and spluttered. “Will you go with me?” I wanted some reinforcements when meeting with Alma. Becca and her family were turning out to be on another level of cray cray than even I had initially suspected, and I wanted someone there on my side.

  “Of course! Let’s go.”

  Ten minutes later, and Rachel and I were headed west through Port Quincy, out to the suburbs ringing the town.

  Rachel let out a giggle as we slowly drove up Alma’s driveway. “This lady doesn’t mess around.”

  I could see now that the house was obviously a perfect copy of the movie version of Tara. I hadn’t noticed when we arrived the first time, as I was worried we hadn’t heard from Alma. But now I could appreciate the hulking white house for what it was meant to be. I peered carefully at the house’s skyline to try to determine if it had been built from the ground up as an homage to Tara, or if Alma had redone an existing house to mimic the mansion from the book and movie. It was a perfect replica; the only thing missing would be true Southern foliage, like some magnolia trees or live oaks.

  “Hasn’t she taken things a bit far?” Rachel giggled, then rapped sharply on the heavy dark green door.

  “Wait’ll you get a load of the inside. Then tell me if she’s gone too far.”

  “What are you doing here?” Becca stood with a guarded look masking her features as she opened the door a tiny crack.

  “Your grandmother asked me to come.” I raised one brow and waited for Becca to invite us in.

  “Very well. But shouldn’t you be working on some task for my wedding?”

  “I’ll get back to your wedding as soon as possible, Becca. That is, after I’ve tended to whatever matter your ailing grandmother has requested to see me about.”

  Becca’s face softened, and she let us in. We followed her through the vast, busily patterned and chandeliered entry hall to a sitting room off to the left. Rachel craned back her head and took it all in, not succeeding in suppressing a little gasp.

  Alma made convalescing look good. She was propped up on a chaise in a new floral robe, this time with Wilkes the Irish setter by her side. I took in creepy, life-size portraits of Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O’Hara and Clark Gable as Rhett Butler. The oil paintings presided over the room with arresting stature. The Vivien Leigh portrait bore a striking resemblance to Felicity from the dress shop, although Rhett Cunningham looked nothing like his character namesake.

  “I was just telling Grandma about my altercation in Silver Bells,” Becca gushed. “Felicity called heads, but she guessed wrong! And that’s how I ended up with the dress. It was totally worth it, even if I did have a glass of champagne thrown in my face.”

  “Oh Becca, it sounds simply dreadful.” Jacqueline laid a hand on her chest and looked near tears.

  “Bravo, Becca!” Alma nearly cackled and leaned forward to touch Becca’s hand. “You get your spirit from me, my dear.” I could tell it was Alma’s opinion that Becca courted the most. She seemed proud of her descent into fisticuffs. Becca blushed, twin spots of genuine color showing up a fraction lower than the rouge she’d artfully applied.

  “Yes, I am proud of you for claiming dibs on that dress!” Alma’s eyes twinkled merrily, and I almost forgot the terrible ordeal she’d recently been through.

  “I had to have the Scarlett dress,” Becca gushed. “It was meant to be.”

  All the while, Rhett gazed at his daughter in abject and barely muffled horror. “Rebecca Scarlett Cunningham, your mother and I raised you to be a lady, not a barroom brawler.” Rhett drew himself up in his chair to his full height, still not matching that of his daughter Becca.

  “Do stop.” Alma laid on her Southern accent with full effect, and reached for a delicate lavender-colored atomizer. She spritzed herself several times, an effort, I suppose, to literally clear the air. A pleasant, citrusy scent filled the room. “It’s lemon verbena,” Alma explained. “Ellen O’Hara’s scent.”

  I racked my brain to recall the Margaret Mitchell novel and famed movie.

  “Scarlett O’Hara’s mother was Ellen, right?” I took a seat near the window because none of the Cunninghams had bothered to offer me a place to sit. Rachel followed suit.

  “Yes!” Alma beamed at me. “You’ve read the book!”

  “Not recently,” I murmured. “But I do recall bits and pieces.”

  “I have a signed first edition of the novel.” Alma grinned, barely able to contain herself. “And dozens of other editions as well. I’ll lend you a copy, so you can enjoy the novel again.”

  “That would be lovely.” I offered the older woman a smile, but I had no intention of reading what I recalled was a rather hefty tome anytime soon.

  “Felicity mentioned she’d made another offer on your collection.” Becca sniffed in disdain and took a delicate sip of sparkling water.

  “That’s what I need to talk to the police about.” Alma drew her robe closely around her with a shiver. “I’ve been racking my brain as to who could have done this to me—” she gestured limply toward her bruised and mottled neck “and I keep coming back to Felicity Fournier.” She’d abandoned the scarf she’d worn in the hospital, and her injuries were on full and lurid display.

  “That poor lady,” Rachel whispered to me, taking in Alma’s neck.

  “And who are you?” Alma seemed to notice my sister for the first time, her keen eyes sliding over Rachel’s short silver miniskirt and the strip of midriff exposed below her white sweater.

  “I’m Mallory’s sister, Rachel.”

  Jacqueline seemed to remember her manners and got Rachel and me cups of coffee.

  “As I was saying,” Alma continued, “I’m not sure she has it in her to literally strangle me, but Felicity has been badgering me about purchasing every major piece of memorabilia I have.”

  “And it sounds like she made you another handsome offer,” Rhett grumbled from the corner. “Would that girl really try to kill you, Mother?” He snorted, and Jacqueline dispensed a sharp look.

  “She got engaged two nights ago,” Becca said in wonderment. “Though I wonder what Tanner sees in her.”

  “She was your rival in everything growing up,” Samantha offered. “And apparently she still is. If there’s anyone who’s a bigger Gone with the Wind nut than you are, Grandma, it’s Felicity Fournier.” Samantha spoke her words with love and affection, but they still agitated Alma.

  “That’s blasphemy! Felicity Fournier is nothing but a two-bit hobbyist, while I have made Gone with the Wind my life.”

  “Now, now,” Rhett counseled. “Enough talk of Felicity; Becca and Samantha, you’re u
psetting your grandmother!” Judging from the jowls working up and down on his face, Rhett was even more bothered by the talk than his mother. “And many other people know of your collection. It’s world-famous, and there are lots of people who would kill for even a small portion of the things you own.”

  A shiver danced up my back. Someone had been in this very house two nights ago, intent on killing Alma, ostensibly for items in her collection.

  “Didn’t you tell me that Alma gave her collection to Becca?” Rachel whispered into my ear.

  “Good point,” I whispered back. One that Rhett conveniently kept forgetting.

  “The collection that belongs to you now, my dear,” Alma said, bestowing Becca with a munificent smile.

  “Be that as it may, the collection will remain here for now.” Rhett wasn’t questioning, but ordering. Becca shrugged at her father, not seeming to especially care. “And because you won’t consent to giving up this house to move in with me and Jacqueline, or for an apartment in Whispering Brook, I’ve taken it upon myself to get you some protection.” Rhett had mentioned the same nursing home where Keith’s grandmother had lived out her life.

  “A bodyguard?” Alma looked tickled pink, and actually peered through the doorway, as if a security person would instantly appear.

  “No, even better.” Rhett knelt down next to the couch and retrieved a package wrapped in plain brown paper. He gently placed the box in his mother’s lap. “Open it!”

  Alma licked her dry lips and tore open the paper as if she were a young child on Christmas morning. She lifted the box and stared within, then gingerly picked up a gun. A dawning sense of recognition stole over her, and her lined face broke into an infectious grin. She turned over the gun in her gnarled hands, marveling at its craftsmanship. It appeared larger than the guns I’d seen on television, and the one I’d unfortunately once been around during a high-stakes situation.

  “A Remington 1858 revolver!” Alma raised the gun and took practice aim at a large red vase.

  Everyone stiffened as she closed one eye to get better focus. I felt like I should hit the deck.