Gown with the Wind

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  “Um, I just wanted to ask if you’d be able to finish painting the last few rooms in The Duchess theater.”

  I heard a muffled swear and stifled a giggle. Jesse was six-foot-eight, a bear of a man, but his high-pitched voice coupled with his over-the-top utterance set me to laughing.

  “I know Alma didn’t really cancel the job. I could tell the person who called me was doing an impersonation of her.”

  “Then you know how dire the situation is. The theater opening is a go, and The Duchess isn’t ready.”

  “I swore I was done working with Alma, whether she canceled the event and ended our contract herself or not.” Jesse’s voice grew more agitated. “Alma is an absolute nightmare to work with, and I’m glad to be through with her.”

  I winced at his proclamation and tried to come up with another angle.

  “Now, if Alma had let Jacqueline in on some of the decisions, I might be ready to come back on board and get those rooms painted today.”

  Bingo.

  “It just so happens Jacqueline is now in charge of the theater reopening.” A tiny fib wouldn’t hurt. While Alma hadn’t technically ceded control of the event to her daughter-in-law, I had spent more time lately making decisions about The Duchess’s debut with Jacqueline rather than Alma.

  “Well, now, that’s a cat of a different stripe.” Jesse’s fondness for malaprops drew another smile across my face. “Okay. I’ll get the last few rooms painted today. But let’s be clear: This is to help out Jacqueline and you, not that Gone-with-the-Wind-crazed she-devil.”

  I hung up my cell with new theories swimming in my head. Alma had charmed me, but I was quickly learning that not everyone was simpatico with the feisty nonagenarian.

  My stomach rumbled, reminding me of my upcoming planning lunch session with Eric. It would be my third stint of the day tending to a different event. I’d been neglecting finalizing the last-minute details for Piper and Eric’s wedding, something I hoped to rectify posthaste. I needed a list to keep all the upcoming tasks straight. Due to some strange mishaps, all involving Becca and her family, I had grown our book of business this week. But we were now stretched to the limit. I added a task to my list to start hiring more employees as soon as I got a spare moment to create an ad. An extra assistant would be more than worth another salary. I chuckled to myself as I realized Rachel had gotten her wish.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I gave myself a mental pat on the back for deciding to meet Eric at one of my favorite local joints. The Greasy Spoon Diner was its usual cheery and bustling space, outfitted with gleaming chrome, shiny black and gold vinyl, and the rich and heady scents of comfort food. It was a Port Quincy institution, affording diners a chance to meet friends and acquaintances and share the latest gossip. Eric waved at me from his confines in a deep booth. He stood to greet me as I slid into my seat and took a sip of the iced tea he had already ordered for me.

  “This is just what I needed. Thanks.”

  “I noticed you drinking it back at the B and B the first day we checked in.” Eric leaned back in his seat, his dazzling, camera-ready smile on display, his blond hair close-cropped and gleaming. I wondered why Becca had dissolved her marriage to this kind and thoughtful young man. If what Samantha had said was true, Eric had just decided to end the marriage. I knew Becca was hard to please, but there must have been more to the story.

  But it was none of my business. I inwardly chastised myself for dwelling on the past, and unearthed the binder of ideas and plans I’d created for Eric and Piper. I paused to put in my order with the waitress. I selected a Cobb salad with fries on top, and a cup of corn chowder. The businesses of Port Quincy had begun to blast the air-conditioning in earnest, and the coolness of the diner made me long for something warm to savor. Eric ordered the meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy. I privately tallied up my approval. I appreciated a man who could eat, something I enjoyed sharing with Garrett.

  “Let’s just confirm your choices and remind you of what you and Piper selected.” I flipped open the binder and swiveled it across the table for Eric’s approval. Piper was at a dress fitting and had handed off the wedding planning baton to her fiancé. She’d be joining us at the tail end of our meal, and Eric had already ordered her a dish to bring back to the B and B.

  “I’m glad we’re meeting here, rather than at Thistle Park,” Eric said evenly.

  “Oh?” I stopped buttering one of the diner’s signature crusty rolls, my knife frozen aloft in the air.

  “I hadn’t known Becca’s wedding was the day before mine. Samantha did tell me Becca was engaged, but I thought her wedding would be in a year. Besides Samantha, who I work with of course, I’m not too keen on running into members of Becca’s family.”

  I blushed, thinking of an impromptu meeting I’d witnessed between Jacqueline and Eric. Becca’s mother had stopped by to drop off some heirloom cookie cutters two days ago, to fashion some of the cookies for the wedding. She’d blanched when she saw Eric entering the front hall and had beat a hasty retreat out the door. She obviously still had acrimonious feelings toward her once-son-in-law.

  “Becca and Keith wanted to marry as quickly as possible. I offered them the day before your wedding because we’d had a cancellation.”

  “I can’t really complain about having to see Becca’s family, because I’m technically still married to her.” Eric’s mouth turned up in a sheepish grin, and he turned to the binder.

  “This all looks amazing. Though I have to admit, Piper made most of the choices.”

  “And she chose well. Your colors are navy and cream, with silver and green accents. Piper wanted the reception to be sleek and trim and bold.”

  Exactly like Becca’s style.

  I chased the thought from my head and went on. “Your guests will dine on a salad of radicchio, spinach, and pear. The soup will be gazpacho, with dilled salmon as the main course. And we’ll follow up with devil’s food cake for dessert.” I flipped the page and showed a representative photograph of a cookie table, a Western Pennsylvania tradition. “And we’ll present gift bags for your guests to sample and take home as many cookies as they wish.” The cookie table would be more fun than the tame mints Helene had decreed as the favors for Becca’s wedding.

  A stray thought bubbled up in my head. “I just realized. Is the main reception dish a nod to Pickles?”

  Eric let out a hearty laugh. “You figured it out. The big guy is wild about salmon with dill, his favorite pickle seasoning, and I wanted to incorporate something for him.” A wistful look entered his eyes. “This is the longest I’ve been away from my cat.” His mouth slipped into a frown. “Becca’s cat, now. I wonder how he’s doing.”

  And I wondered the same. Becca appeared to adore the colossal Maine Coon and relish their reunion, but I knew Keith would despise the cat’s presence in their home.

  Eric seemed to read my mind. “Is Keith a cat person?”

  I barely stopped myself from squirming in the vinyl booth. “Um, I’m sure he’ll grow to love Pickles.”

  Eric raised one brow.

  “It’s too bad you guys can’t have joint custody,” I continued. I knew I couldn’t cope if I couldn’t see Whiskey and Soda every day. The little kitties had become an integral part of my family.

  “Piper and I will be returning to Colombia after our wedding and honeymoon.” Eric folded his broad hands together on top of the yellow Formica table. “We live too far to share Pickles. I never thought Piper could convince me to give up my cat. He’s traveled back and forth on my trips from South America to Port Quincy. He has his own cat passport,” Eric proudly finished. “And I will get to see him later this summer, if Becca will arrange a meeting. Piper will be back in the States to defend her dissertation in August.”

  I’d known the bride was finishing up her history dissertation at Carnegie Mellon.

  Eric stared out the front window of the diner and seemed to consider Main Street Port Quincy as he took a sip of his iced tea. “Pi
per really wants to come back home. She’s been exploring getting a position teaching and researching as close to Port Quincy as possible.”

  I wondered what this would mean for the immigration and human rights organization Eric ran with Samantha back in Bogota. “So you’re moving back?”

  A dark cloud of annoyance marred Eric’s good looks. “We’re hashing it out,” he mumbled.

  Ruh-roh.

  Maybe their future living plans were something this couple should discuss in depth before they walked down the aisle. Especially considering Eric was still technically entangled in his first marriage with Becca. But Eric had some things to get off his chest, protestations I wished I hadn’t heard.

  He took a deep breath and pushed away his glass of iced tea. “Seeing Becca when we arrived at the B and B surprised me.” He tore a roll in two, then placed it back on his plate untouched. “I thought I’d gotten over her, but—”

  Our waitress bustled over with a tray held high in the air. She carefully set down our plates of food, saving Eric from continuing his confession. We tucked into our food in weighty silence and ate without speaking for several minutes. When Eric opened his mouth to speak after we’d consumed most of our meals, I was certain, and hoping, he’d change the subject.

  “I still have feelings for Becca.”

  My recently eaten lunch plummeted in my stomach like a stone in a pool.

  This is a first.

  I’d had several weddings canceled at the last minute, and had seen ample evidence of cold feet in some of the ceremonies I’d planned. The show didn’t always have to go on, and it was always better to call off the big day than go through with a big party just because it was paid for and the guests were due to arrive. But I’d not yet heard a stark declaration such as Eric’s on the eve of a wedding.

  “This certainly complicates things,” I offered lamely. It was good I’d devoured my delicious soup and salad before Eric’s admission. I wasn’t sure I’d have been able to eat anymore now.

  “It was Glenn’s meddling that ruined my marriage to Becca.” Eric spat out the words and tossed his napkin on the table. “I have no love lost for Alma either. She was happiest when things got sticky with Becca.”

  I felt my eyes go wide before I could tamp down my alarm. What if Eric had something to do with Alma’s strangling? He obviously despised the woman. I racked my brain for the details of his itinerary, then breathed an inward sigh of relief. If I was remembering correctly, Eric and Piper had been en route to the United States from Bogota after Becca’s grandmother had been attacked.

  I took a sip of my iced tea with shaky hands. Suspecting my clients of murder was wearing thin on my already jangly nerves.

  “The Cunninghams aren’t the perfect, happy family they want everyone to believe they are,” Eric continued. “They have their own nasty secrets.”

  I choked on a swig of iced tea and waited until my coughing subsided to stare at Eric. “What are you talking about?”

  “Alma acts all sweet and innocent. But the murder of her husband, Glenn?” Eric leaned conspiratorially across the table. “My money’s on Alma.”

  A shiver stole down my back that had nothing to do with the Greasy Spoon’s overzealous air-conditioning.

  “Jacqueline did say they had their differences,” I wondered aloud. “But Samantha said it worked in their marriage.”

  Eric let out a mirthless chuckle. “Oil and water was more like it. They were one of those bickering old couples that should have just gotten a divorce, that is, if they’d believed in divorce.” Eric’s face suddenly shuttered, and he leaned back into the booth. He seemed to have realized he’d said too much about Becca, his marriage to her, and her family.

  “But all that’s in the past,” he said smoothly, almost seeming to wish he believed it himself. “What I can’t wrap my head around is Felicity.”

  I nodded, happy to leave the subject of the Cunninghams behind, even if it meant discussing a murder even more gruesome. “Samantha said she was one of your closest friends from law school, and that she still visited you and Piper in Colombia a great deal.”

  “Piper and I had looked forward to spending some time with Felicity while we were in town. She was going to be one of our bridesmaids.” He seemed to hesitate, folding his napkin into an accordion shape, then letting it fall back onto the table. “I did wonder about her personal life.”

  I tried a tactic I’d learned from Truman, back when he’d had cause to investigate yours truly. I didn’t say a word and let Eric fill the space with his own thoughts. He seemed eager to spill his concerns, and I did nothing to stop him.

  “The last few times Felicity visited me and Piper, she was constantly texting. She used to text her boyfriend, Tanner, a bit while she was away, but this was new and incessant.” A flushed look stole over Eric’s features. He seemed to wrestle with going on. “This is hard to admit. The last time she visited, Felicity took a long nap right after she arrived. Her phone was absolutely blowing up with pings and sounds. Piper and I tried to turn it off and ended up reading the texts on her screen.” He winced and leaned back from the yellow table. “I think there was a new guy in her life. One besides Tanner.”

  I blinked back my surprise and waded into the fray. “But she just got engaged last week. Why go through with it if she was seeing someone else?”

  Eric nodded at my assessment. “Good question. Because she said on her very last trip to Bogota she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay with Tanner. And this was before they even got engaged.”

  “Sorry I’m late.” Piper appeared at the edge of the booth and plopped down next to her fiancé. Eric and I both jumped, startled at her sudden arrival. Piper didn’t seem to notice and picked up a menu.

  “I’m absolutely famished. All of this wedding stuff is exhausting!” She planted a quick kiss on Eric’s cheek, and I couldn’t help but wince. The blushing bride-to-be seemed to have no inkling that her fiancé was still smitten with his former, er, current wife.

  I listened to Piper regale us with a silly and endearing tale of her latest dress fitting. Eric acted the part of the happy groom, attentive and sweet and sincere. Only I knew about his second thoughts.

  This wedding is going to be a doozy. If it even happens.

  * * *

  I was relieved to bid Eric and Piper adieu and step into the cleansing, cheerful sunshine. Passersby strode down Main with errands to do and friends to greet. Fluffy white clouds stood out in stark white contrast with a vivid periwinkle sky. The rooftops of Port Quincy’s eclectic architecture created a pleasing and varied silhouette, with Art Deco office buildings vying for attention next to Bavarian- and Edwardian-style buildings. I decided to put Eric and Piper and their relationship out of my head for the moment, and instead focus on Alma’s theater relaunch. I was due to meet the spry woman at the theater in mere minutes. I hustled across Main to the corner of Spruce, and stood for a moment to take in the newly revamped Duchess theater.

  The space was housed in an Italianate, white wedding-cake confection of a building. It was four stories high, an old-time office building that had been cleverly outfitted and given new life as a small movie theater. Until recently, the tall windows on the three upper floors had been blocked with wooden plywood. Now they featured posters of classic old films. One window showed Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca, another Charlie Chaplin. And the entire outside was gleaming, the white stone showing off tiny bits of mica embedded within, which seemed to sparkle as the sun lit up the building.

  “Good afternoon, Mallory.” Alma limped over, leaning heavily on her cane. She tsked as she stared up at the magnificent building and seemed to read my thoughts. “Glenn begged me to keep the soot on the facade.” The town of Port Quincy had once been largely fueled by the glass factory owned by the family who built Thistle Park. Many of the buildings, including the police station, proudly wore the black grime of years past on their exterior walls as a nod to history. It was a preference I could imagine a former histor
y professor such as Glenn Cunningham preferring.

  “But I had the old gal powerwashed despite his misgivings. I’m sure if he were here, he would agree with me.” Alma beamed and craned her fluffy white head back to admire the edifice.

  I had to wonder how soon after Glenn’s death Alma had restored the outside of the building, then inwardly chastised myself.

  Alma is no killer.

  The tiny woman could barely hurt a fly, despite her spirited opinions and gusto for life. She proudly held out her arm and gestured for me to take it.

  “Come along, dear, and I’ll show off the inside of the theater.” I gamely reached out to link arms with Alma, when her heavy red macramé purse slipped from her shoulder. The rather large Gone-with-the-Wind replica pistol fell out of the purse and spun around in a circle on the pavement like an out-of-control toy top.

  “Eek!” I instinctively jumped back, away from the weapon. Alma stepped on the gun to stop it from turning and nimbly deposited it into the confines of her purse. Other townsfolk hadn’t noticed the gaffe, and continued to walk down the street, blissfully unaware. I wished I could say the same.

  “Please tell me you have a permit for that thing.” The words flew out of my mouth unbidden before I could stop them.

  “Of course, silly!” Alma was totally unfazed by the appearance of the weapon. Her Southern tones were half-chastising, half-soothing. “What kind of heathen do you think I am?” She chuckled and snapped her purse shut. I felt marginally better. “Glenn hated guns.” A faraway look stole over her wizened features. “We were the definition of opposites attract. I’ve been hunting since I was in pigtails. My father, Jeremiah, taught me how to shoot a gun when I was just seven, down in Georgia. Glenn couldn’t stand the darn things. He was a pacifist to a T, thought all firearms should be confiscated.” Alma sighed and smiled contentedly. “I miss that old fool so much.”