Gown with the Wind

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  “And we’ll need a temporary path installed so guests can avoid this hideous grass on their way to the gazebo.” Becca slid off her shoe, a pretty striped mint affair, but the footwear stayed stubbornly stuck to the ground. “What the—”

  She pulled and pulled, and the shoe came free, unfortunately separate from the heel, which stayed in the earth as the shoe broke in two.

  “Allow me.” Keith gently removed Becca’s other shoe from her foot and gallantly ripped off the other heel. It was a clever solution, and I smiled at his ingenuity. It was silly and reminded me of the old Keith I once knew and loved, the man I almost married. Buried inside his new quest for money and his blind allegiance to Helene was the person I’d once almost pledged my life to. Maybe I hadn’t been crazy to have once been engaged to Keith after all.

  Keith presented the newly augmented shoes to Becca, as if they were Cinderella’s finest glass slippers.

  “What have you done?” Becca’s voice was a mere screech as she stared incredulously at her pair of ruined shoes. “Those are Balenciagas! Oh Keith, how could you?”

  “Balenci-what?” Keith shook his head slowly at his bride. “Sorry, Bec, I was just trying to help.”

  Becca snatched the ruined shoes from his hands and slung them over her feet with vicious movements. “Let’s get this over with.”

  I felt a shaking movement next to me, and jostled Rachel to stop her from silently laughing. If I caught the giggles from my sister, it would be all over.

  “There seems to be some trouble in paradise,” Rachel whispered as she stepped aside for Becca and Keith to enter the gazebo.

  “I heard that,” Becca snapped. “And everything is fine.”

  Rachel colored momentarily as she and I served the meal. The bride and groom sat down to collard green salad with roasted pecans and okra and honeyed biscuits to start. Next up was the main meal of tarragon fried chicken, fried green tomatoes, bacon and almond green beans, and savory cheddar shrimp and grits. Lemonades, shandies, and mint juleps stood waiting on the sideboard we’d set up.

  Becca and Keith sat stone-faced as I named each dish, and I felt myself take a sharp breath as they finally tasted the meal. Keith did parcel out a mouthwatering gaze at the fried chicken. Becca let out an appreciative murmur of pleasure, despite herself, as she sampled each dish. Her fried chicken remained untouched, whereas Keith finished his chicken first, then reached to the center of the table for a second helping.

  “No!” Becca reached out and moved the chicken away. “You need to fit into your suit.”

  “It’s his favorite,” I muttered, and it was like the music stopped. Becca, Keith, and Rachel all swiveled their heads in my direction as I clapped my hand over my mouth. Becca’s look could cut glass, and I knew I’d done it. It was one thing to reflect privately on the fact that I was once betrothed to Keith. It was quite another to be dropping hints that I was privy to the knowledge of everything he liked.

  “And now for dessert,” Rachel smoothly recovered. “Peach cake, pecan cookies, and peach tartlets, along with tea, coffee, and brandy.”

  Becca oohed and aahed at the cake, as Keith made his move to snag an extra drumstick. Becca’s hand shot out lightning quick, with the reflexes of a ninja, and batted the drumstick away. “I saw that, Keith.”

  Keith shot me a wounded look.

  “And furthermore,” Becca continued, “I wanted Southern couture for this Gone with the Wind wedding, not KFC!”

  “You should try the chicken,” I counseled calmly. “It’s very nuanced.” Not that there was anything wrong with some nongourmet fried chicken either. I’d been wrestling with this Gone with the Wind theme enough as it was. “I think this menu will be a nice compromise between the traditional Southern food Helene might approve of and a way to honor Alma.”

  “I don’t know . . .” Becca neatly ignored the fact that she’d finished every morsel on her plate except for the fried chicken, and continued to hem and haw.

  “I know it’s been a tough week,” I soothed, sitting down next to Becca. “I’m not sure I would be handling things this well if my grandmother had gone through everything Alma has. But we’re facing a time crunch. I’d like nothing more than to give you and Keith a lovely day. And to do that, I need to finalize the food orders.” I sat on my hands to keep from grasping Becca’s in a plea. She blinked twice and glanced at Keith, who gave her a nod.

  “All right. This is the menu.”

  “No more changes,” Rachel warned.

  “No more changes.”

  I felt myself deflate with relief. It was going to be okay. Soon this wedding would be in the rearview mirror, and Becca and Keith would be out of my hair. Things were looking up.

  * * *

  “Are you coming with me?” Becca stared expectantly from her perch on the back porch where she was waiting with Keith. Rachel and I had begun our first trip back from the gazebo, our arms laden with plates and platters. Becca’s question snapped me back to reality. I’d wondered why they were still here after the tasting.

  “Um, coming to what?”

  “To my dress fitting and repair session with Bev, silly. I thought you should attend in case I get more ideas for the Gone with the Wind wedding. You could take notes.” Becca was entirely serious.

  “You go,” Rachel said with a smirk. “I’ll break down the rest of the tasting.”

  So I soon found myself ensconced in Keith’s backseat as we made our way to Windsor Meadows. We rode in a strange and not entirely companionable silence. I wondered what Keith and Becca would have said about the tasting had I not been in the car.

  The hulking colossus of a maroon Rubik’s Cube that was Becca and Keith’s house came into view, never ceasing to momentarily jar me. But a stranger sight also greeted us.

  “Whose car is that?” Keith frowned as he pulled behind a sleek silver Jaguar. “I’ll have to call a towing company.”

  “We’re not due for any visitors besides Bev, and she won’t be here for another half hour,” Becca said. “Is that her car, Mallory?”

  “No, Bev drives a red Escape.” The car in question didn’t belong to the bubbly dress storeowner and seamstress.

  “You ladies stay here,” Keith commanded. “I’ll check the place out.” He stepped from his BMW with a swagger, and puffed out his chest as he made his way to the front door.

  “This is silly,” Becca said and got out of the car. I slowly followed suit, not liking the feeling I was getting.

  I could see Keith poking around in the topiary by the side of the house as Becca and I made our way into the peach great room. An earsplitting shriek made me nearly jump out of my skin.

  “My gown! It’s gone!” Becca pointed to an empty, crumpled silver garment bag lying in a ball on the floor in the kitchen.

  “Someone stole the Scarlett O’Hara wedding dress?” I looked wildly around the room, but no gown could be found.

  “First my grandmother, now me!” Becca pulled her hands through her hair and sat down, stunned. Then she stood up like a rocket and began ripping apart the room, searching in vain for the dress.

  I helped her look until I heard a loud expletive uttered from the back of the house. Becca raced to the glass doors and slid them open with such force they jounced in their tracks. Keith stood rooted to the spot, his mouth open in a little round o as he took in the pool. Becca and I spilled out onto the sleek redwood porch, the obsidian rock garden calm and still.

  As was the body in the pool. She floated face up in the gently bobbing waves, her gaze forever frozen on the brilliant sun above. She was clad in the famed wedding gown, the creamy silk and embroidered gauze now heavy and waterlogged. The voluminous dress fanned out around the body, appearing slightly blue-tinted from the pool’s waters.

  It was Felicity Fournier.

  Becca’s screams echoed around the backyard.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Not you again.”

  Truman’s words were as weary as the expression on his
face. He’d just returned to Keith and Becca’s living room after securing the pool and deck out back, and combing the scene for nearly an hour with his keen police chief’s eyes. His partner Faith Hendricks stood snapping pictures of Felicity’s semi-submerged body, while Keith, Becca and I sat huddled inside. If I sat up, I could just make out the white figure of Felicity in the Scarlett O’Hara dress, entombed in her watery grave. I closed my eyes and turned my body away from the glass doors, physically blocking the view, if not erasing the memory from my mind.

  “I’m afraid so.” I’d moved to Port Quincy a little less than a year ago, and was greeted with a dead body on my lawn the very first morning after I’d moved in. Since then I’d unfortunately found myself in close propinquity to some rather strange crimes in town. And it looked like my bad luck streak was continuing.

  I shivered despite the temperate day. The 1980s splendor of a living room usually felt warm, with all of the peach and cream accoutrements. But a permanent chill seemed to have settled into my bones after seeing Felicity in the pool.

  A ding emanated from my purse and I scrabbled to retrieve my cell phone.

  “No communications for now,” Truman warned.

  “Uh-oh. It’s Bev Mitchell.” The text stated a quick apology for being late, and a promise to arrive at Becca’s soon.

  “What does that gossip queen want? Don’t breathe a word of this to her.” Truman leaned over my shoulder to scan the text. “Wait—she’s coming here? You’ve got to stop her.”

  I texted back a laconic response canceling the dress fitting and dropped the phone back into my purse. A string of dings indicated that Bev’s Spidey sense was up and running, and that there was more to my story based on my abrupt cancellation. She texted me three times before giving up. I felt guilty but obeyed Truman. I didn’t want to be the one to inadvertently spread this sad tale by giving Bev a head’s up. What had happened to Felicity was a bizarre tragedy, not grist for the Port Quincy gossip mill.

  Keith stopped comforting a whimpering Becca and glared at Truman. “If Mallory is allowed to text, I’d like to as well.”

  Truman sighed and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “No can do, Keith. I don’t need anyone else here mucking up my crime scene.”

  “And I’d like to call my mother and my sister Samantha.” Becca’s plea came out in between a jagged series of breaths.

  Truman turned a kinder gaze on the bride-to-be. “Just let us do our work for a bit longer, then you can make your calls.”

  But Helene’s own Spidey senses must have been alerted. A key turned in the door, and the dowager empress of Port Quincy let herself into the marble foyer, her kitten heels angrily striking the floor as she made her way into the great room.

  “Police lights flashing, an ambulance, and crime scene tape! What will the neighbors think?” Helene glared at Becca for a moment before marching toward the glass doors to the deck. “I want this mess cleaned up immediately!”

  Truman stepped neatly before the glass doors and held out his hand as if directing a traffic stop. “This mess, Helene, is what appears to be a murder. I’d appreciate it if you would leave the premises. We don’t need all of these cooks in the kitchen.”

  Although the fire in Truman’s hazel eyes was intense as he dismissed Helene, he wasn’t even the most agitated person in the room.

  “You promised me you’d get the key back from Helene! Honestly, Keith, who’s more important to you, me or your mother?” Becca’s tears evaporated as she sprang from the couch and took refuge behind the massive apricot-colored island in the kitchen.

  Keith hung his head as Helene stared down Truman for a good thirty seconds, and then joined her son in the spot Becca had just vacated.

  “I came as soon as you called, Son.”

  Truman’s eyes turned positively murderous. “You called your mother?”

  Keith merely tucked his head down another degree and refused to answer anyone. But I could see the red blush of embarrassment creep up his neck to stain his face.

  Smart.

  Keith practiced corporate law, primarily mergers and acquisitions. Criminal defense was not his forte, but be knew enough not to incriminate himself.

  But what exactly does he have to hide?

  And not talking at all didn’t help to make himself appear less suspect in this situation. Still, Becca and Keith had excellent alibis. They’d been with me and my sister at the tasting for the hour before returning home. But that didn’t mean that Keith, or Becca, or the couple together, hadn’t killed Felicity before coming to Thistle Park. I gulped, and my eyes inadvertently strayed to the back of the house, where a crime scene technician had joined Faith.

  “Come on, Keith.” Helene stood and briskly brought him to his feet by executing a firm grip on his elbow. She was like a mama cat bringing its recalcitrant kitten back to the fold by the scruff of its neck. “I’d like for you to visit the family attorney.”

  “No one is going anywhere.” Truman’s command came out as a snarl. “Not until you’ve all been questioned.” His lips twisted up in a rueful smile. “Including you, Helene, because you’ve chosen to wade into this crime scene.”

  Helene opened and closed her mouth, her coral-tinged lips finally settling into a firm line. She sat next to Keith with a harrumph.

  “Well, you’ll certainly be hearing from our attorney when all this is said and done.” She stared imperiously down her nose at Truman, who met her gaze with an impassive look. Helene lost the game of chicken, looking away from his steely eyes first. But she wasn’t done. “I know why this happened.”

  This earned her a second look from Truman, one of patient curiosity. We all leaned in to hear what Helene had to say.

  “I warned you not to open your pool before the official benchmark of Memorial Day, Becca. Your impudence and classlessness brought this bad luck upon you.” Helene gave a haughty wave toward the backyard, equivocating Felicity’s death as a mere inconvenience for herself.

  “What?” Becca stared at Helene with an incredulous gaze. “My opening the pool caused Felicity’s death? You really have gone insane.”

  “I need some air.” I stood and moved toward the glass doors, thankful Faith was bent over the pool, blocking my view of Felicity. Truman followed me out after a stern warning to Keith and Helene not to go anywhere. At the last second, Faith moved aside to ask Truman a question, and I caught a glimpse of the white dress. Truman must have noticed my discomfort and led me around to a copse of Japanese maples with a flurry of shiny plum leaves, which blocked our view of the pool.

  “Thanks.” My voice sounded shaky and woozy. “I’m not sure which is worse, being inside with Helene or out here with the body.”

  Truman sighed and took off his hat. “This doesn’t look good. Whether it’s a suicide or a murder.”

  He doesn’t know the half of it.

  Yesterday’s melee in Silver Bells came flooding back, complete with the shoving match between my bride and the woman in the pool. And something told me Truman had no idea what had happened.

  “Why do I get the feeling you need to tell me something?” Truman crossed his arms and waited for me to stop studying the ladybug crawling with infinite slowness on the trunk of the maple tree behind him.

  “It might not be significant—”

  Yeah right.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “Okay. Um, Becca and Felicity kind of got into a fight at the Silver Bells bridal shop yesterday.”

  Truman’s bushy eyebrows shot up to his forehead, but he remained silent, the better to allow me to prattle on and spill the beans. I’d learned from Truman over the past year not to interrupt with questions when someone was telling their tale; they’d tell you more if you let them nervously fill the heavy silence. Which I did in spades.

  “It was an actual fight. With shoving and name-calling and thrown champagne.”

  That was enough to get him talking. “Champagne?”

  “Mm-hmm. In f
ancy wedding stores, the hosts like to serve champagne to the brides and family because—”

  “I know, Mallory,” Truman interrupted. “Summer likes to make me watch I Do with her.” Truman smiled fondly as he mentioned his granddaughter Summer and the reality show her mother directed. “What was the fight about?” He turned back into inquisitor-cop mode with startling alacrity, the smile now wiped off his face.

  “A Scarlett O’Hara–replica wedding dress.” I gulped and limply gestured beyond the trees. “The one Felicity’s wearing right now.”

  Truman’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “They both wanted the dress, things got physical, and now one woman is dead. Thank you, Mallory.” He abruptly left me to hover by myself behind the tree, twisting the topaz pendant I wore around my neck tighter and tighter. I felt like I’d just signed Becca’s warrant papers. And floating up from the pool of guilt I found myself wading into was a niggling feeling that I hadn’t told Truman all he needed to know.

  “Wait!”

  “This better be good.”

  “The altercation in Silver Bells yesterday? That’s not all.” I sheepishly stared through a lock of frizzy hair that had escaped my bun. It was getting humid by the pool now that the sun was high overhead in the sky. I felt an insect bite the back of my calf but decided it was more pleasant to remain outside with a corpse than to retreat to the house and deal with Helene. “I’m not sure if this is really relevant, but—”

  “Spill it, Mallory.” Truman’s patience was wearing thin, and the hotter-than-usual May day was getting to him too. A bead of sweat gathered at his temple and rolled down the side of his face.

  “Alma asked me to keep her apprised of what’s going on in the investigation regarding her stolen memorabilia.”

  Phew. Now I feel better.

  “What?” A look of utter disappointment stole over Truman’s worn face. He quickly composed himself, but not before I caught a wounded expression. “Alma will never forgive me for not quickly solving the murder of her husband.” Truman shook his head ruefully. “And although the best minds in the department have tried for a year to solve the crime, we haven’t been able to. I don’t blame her for her anger, although I do believe it’s misplaced.”