Gown with the Wind

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  Tanner’s diatribe was cut short by the resumption of a male voice arguing in the gazebo.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to break that fight up. Thank you for coming to the tea, Tanner. And again, I’m so sorry about Felicity.”

  Tanner sent me a shy but dolorous smile, and trudged off to the side of the garden.

  I texted Rachel that I was going to head out to the gazebo. She texted back a second later.

  Be safe.

  I smiled at my sister’s concern. It was rude as all get-out to be having such a loud argument at the Mother’s Day tea, but I was sure I’d be able to keep the peace and the event could wind down in calm, sunny fashion. I headed off to the back of the property with a spring in my step.

  Shots rang out from the gazebo, one, two, three. They were surprisingly close, and deafeningly loud. Silence reined for a nanosecond before most of the tea attendees screamed and instinctively ducked for cover.

  Pickles and Wilkes shot out from the copse of trees. I couldn’t stop the Irish setter, but I scooped up the cat as he tore by.

  Tanner materialized at my side, his long face drained of every bit of color.

  “Tanner, call 911.” I handed him the Maine Coon and raced to the gazebo.

  There lay Eric Dempsey, in all his movie-star-good-looks glory. But he wasn’t playing a part. He wasn’t moving. His hand lay over his left side, awash in blood.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Eric, stay with me.” I tore off the gauzy top layer of my polka-dot yellow sundress and applied it to the gunshot wound at Eric’s side to try to staunch the flow of blood. The delicate fabric was soon consumed with the red stuff, and I looked around in dismay for something better to press on the wound.

  Glinting on the gazebo floor, just beyond Eric’s hand, was a massive diamond ring. It was done in Edwardian style, a colossal old European cut diamond in the center, surrounded by a dainty encrusted pattern of milgrain platinum and hundreds of tiny diamonds.

  I snapped my attention away from the pricey bauble and focused back on Eric. He shifted a millimeter and let out a groan. I nearly whooped with joy that he was still alive. I raced to the entrance to call for help. A small audience of tea attendees had let their morbid curiosity overcome their sense and had gathered in a crowd in front of the gazebo.

  “Get back.”

  Thank God.

  I was relieved to see Truman parting the sea of guests as he made his way to the gazebo with long, purposeful strides. Behind him rushed the paramedics, their stretcher at the ready to ferry Eric to the hospital.

  “That’s my fiancé! Let me through!” A hysterical Piper pushed and shoved her way to the front of the line, beating Truman and the first responders to the scene. She flung herself atop Eric and spoke to him in a low, insistent tone. It was a scene I would never forget. We’d taken down the decorations we’d used to stage Becca and Keith’s Southern couture tasting, but the gazebo was as opulent and fussy and white as it usually was. But now it was marred with a slick of blood, a dying man groaning on the floor, and his fiancée begging him to stay with us on this side of the earth.

  She peered up at me with her face awash in tears. “It’s too bad Wilkes and Pickles can’t talk.”

  The two pets had indeed seemed to have witnessed the shot.

  “Although poor Wilkes is so hard of hearing, he can’t even perceive a gun going off.” Piper clasped Eric’s hand and kept prattling on, trying to keep him awake.

  I stepped aside for Truman and the paramedics. Minutes later, Eric was carted away from the gazebo, thankfully still moaning and groaning. The woman I’d guessed to be Eric’s mother joined Piper in the back of the ambulance, and the vehicle drove away in haste, crushing several flowerbeds, the sirens flashing.

  Truman had exercised some impromptu crowd control, and the Mother’s Day tea guests had been moved from their rubbernecking station in the garden to the back porch, where many scanned the horizon of the grounds with their hands shielding their eyes from the sun.

  Rachel finally found me and flung her arms around me with such force, she nearly knocked me over. “Thank God you’re all right.” She brushed tears from her eyes. Her skills at makeup rivaled her baking skills, and there was nary a streak of mascara on her face.

  “You too.” I held my sister at arm’s length, thankful she was unharmed. “Eric seems to be the only person hurt.”

  “The only person targeted,” Rachel quickly amended. A wash of icy nerves trickled down my back at her observation. Someone had tried to murder Eric Dempsey in cold blood at our inaugural Mother’s Day tea. Rachel and I left the police to do their work and rushed back to the house to attend to our guests. Truman had the place on lockdown, and no one was happy they were now sequestered at Thistle Park for the remainder of the afternoon.

  “I’m not sure why we need to be held for questioning,” a woman complained as she glanced at her watch. “I was nowhere near the garden when the shots rang out.”

  Rachel and I freshened up the food and drinks as best we could and bustled about to make our guests feel as comfortable as was possible in the macabre situation. I sent up a silent prayer that Garrett, Lorraine, and Summer had already left the tea when the incident occurred.

  There was one person, or should I say feline, who was enjoying the situation. I spirited Pickles up to my third-floor apartment to decompress, and the big cat was thrilled to see Whiskey and Soda again. The kitties did their delicate sniffing-as-greeting routine, and Soda and Pickles were soon playing in the living room.

  “It’s too bad we can’t just ask you what happened back in that gazebo, Pickles.” I wondered what the cat had witnessed before the shots went off, and what Eric had been doing with the Maine Coon. I’d last seen the cat with Becca.

  “And it would be good if Wilkes could spill the beans too.” Wilkes had stood counsel over Alma before we’d arrived to find her strangled, and I was sure he knew who the perpetrator was.

  I rushed back downstairs and ran smack into Truman.

  “Come with me.”

  He led me out the back door, down the porch steps, and to the garden.

  “I want to know exactly what you saw, heard, and even smelled right before the shots went off. Of course, everyone has a different story, but several people have said you and Tanner were closest to the gazebo when the shots went off.”

  I gulped and nodded. I recalled learning in my evidence class in law school that most people make pretty lousy witnesses. With that in mind, I told Truman the facts as I knew them, trying to be faithful to what had happened, and letting him know when I also wasn’t sure. He listened, his hazel eyes intense and attentive.

  “Thank you, Mallory. I hope I can release your guests soon.”

  He turned to go, but I couldn’t resist.

  “Do you think this has something to do with Felicity’s death?” She had been good friends with Eric, good enough to visit him in Bogota several times a year. And it couldn’t have been a coincidence that she’d been murdered mere days before someone had made an attempt on Eric’s life.

  Storm clouds gathered in Truman’s expression, and I regretted my prying.

  “It’s very likely.” He dropped the laconic act and took off his hat. His salt-and-pepper hair was beaded with sweat. He sighed and glanced back at the guests held captive for the time being on the back porch. “It could be that Eric’s would-be murder has something to do with Felicity or Alma.” He stopped and winced. “Or Glenn, for that matter.”

  I swallowed hard and decided to keep butting in, with Truman in a sharing mood. “I know you said Felicity’s death wasn’t a suicide. Do you think it was Tanner? He seemed genuinely upset, devastated even, today at the tea.”

  I realized I didn’t want Felicity’s killer to be her fiancé.

  Truman’s brows knitted together in a grim fashion. “We’ve finished the financial forensics on the case. Felicity had amassed a questionably large fortune, with no apparent clues to explain how she obtained th
e money. Her father, Roger Fournier, was shocked. He said she received a small salary from the family jewelry business, but not enough to make up what she had. Plus, a large part of that small salary went to paying off her law school loans. Her parents said they helped her to save money by letting her live in the loft apartment above the jewelry store. But there were large cash deposits nearly every month to her account.”

  I bit my lip, a trickle of sweat running down my spine. “Um, I heard something about Felicity.”

  Truman perked up and leaned in intently.

  “Eric told me the last time she visited him in Colombia she was texting a man. Romantically. A man who wasn’t Tanner.”

  “Dammit, Mallory!” Truman shook his head and clapped his hat back atop his head. “Just when were you planning on telling me this tidbit of information?”

  I felt like sinking straight into the garden ground and blinked up in contrition. “I thought you’d interviewed Eric about Felicity.”

  Truman muttered some choice words. “I did, and specifically asked if there was anyone else in her life. Mr. Dempsey must have conveniently forgotten the information at that point.”

  “Well, I did confirm with you that Felicity never did call to set up her wedding.” I tried to score some brownie points by reminding Truman of what I had told him.

  Truman nodded. “And just as we suspected, the call logs don’t match up. Felicity never made that call to you or to Rachel. Not from her cell, Tanner’s cell, or the landline at the jewelry store.” He narrowed his eyes and spoke his next words in a skeptical tone. “You’re not hiding anything else from me, are you, Nancy Drew?”

  I placed my hand near my heart and felt my eyes go wide. “No, sir. I’m just very busy, that’s all. Rachel’s been scheming to expand our business to include more nonwedding events, and that’s how this Mother’s Day tea came about.” I glanced around at the once-pleasant day, now irrevocably mired in scandal and doom. “Not that we’ll be hosting another one of these, I’d imagine. And then Alma was strangled, and she asked me to take over her planning of The Duchess reopening. Which reminds me.” I shielded my eyes from the sun and looked over Truman’s shoulder at the remaining sequestered guests. Helene was among them. “I kind of accused Helene of canceling Alma’s vendor contracts on the eve of the theater reopening. Rachel and I have had to scramble to get the event off the ground.”

  “And how did she respond to your claim?” Truman swiveled his head in the direction of Helene sitting sourly on the back porch.

  “It’s funny, but I actually believe her that she didn’t do it.” Helene was no Oscar-caliber actress, and I thought I’d know if she’d lied to me in her denial.

  “Oh. There is one more thing.” I felt a trail of heat rise up my neck and undoubtedly stain my face pink. “Someone broke into the theater right before Alma gave me a tour. They painted a skull on the wall and a threatening note.”

  I thought Truman was going to blow his stack. “Why doesn’t Alma tell me these things? Why did you have to let me know that silly ninny lost her gun, a weapon that could have been used to try to murder Eric Dempsey?” He shook his head. “She doesn’t think I tried hard enough to solve Glenn’s murder. She couldn’t be more wrong.”

  I bit my lip and carefully studied the ground.

  Truman would really flip his lid if he found out Alma has asked me to investigate Glenn’s death on her behalf.

  But a new thought eddied up from the recesses of my brain, chasing the guilt of my secret away.

  “That ring in the gazebo.”

  “It’s a pretty pricey specimen, if it’s the real deal,” Truman mused. “And it’s also very distinctive. What about it?”

  “I think I’ve seen it before. Yes, hold on a minute. I’ll be right back.” I nearly ran through the grass and through the mazelike brick of the garden to the back porch. Bored and testy guests stared as I tore into the kitchen and dug through the recycling bin. I raced back to Truman with a several-days’ old Port Quincy Eagle Herald under my arm.

  “Recognize this?” I was truly panting now, and a further line of sweat running down my spine glued my sundress to my back. I’d hastily folded the newspaper back to the engagement announcement section, and thrust the photograph of Felicity with Tanner under Truman’s nose.

  “I’ll be.” The fancy ring residing on the gazebo floor was the very one ensconced on Felicity’s finger in her engagement photograph.

  “That wasn’t the same ring—” I began.

  “That Tanner was trying to remove from Felicity’s finger at the pool,” Truman finished. He glanced around, and our eyes both rested on the figure of Tanner. He was glumly picking at a hangnail from his perch on the porch, his mother several feet away gossiping with another woman.

  “That must be why he was trying to take it off.” The bizarre action poolside finally made sense. “He realized his fiancée was wearing someone else’s ring.”

  “Truman, you’ve got to see this.” Faith Hendricks, Truman’s young partner, motioned him over. “Hi, Mallory.”

  It was all the invitation I needed. I wordlessly followed Truman to where Faith stood. The young officer took several pictures with her digital camera, her blond ponytail swishing behind her. She then looked to Truman in silent counsel. He nodded, and Faith slipped a pencil from her uniform’s front pocket and poked it into the thicket of fragrant honeysuckle that grew around the base of the gazebo. She retracted her hand, the Gone with the Wind–replica revolver hanging from the writing utensil, literally smoking.

  “Oh, crap.” Alma’s lost gun had been used to shoot Eric.

  “How convenient,” Truman muttered. “This day is just getting started.” He made a beeline for Tanner.

  Faith and another officer finished up getting statements from everyone who had attended the tea. They gratefully gathered their belongings and beat a trail from Thistle Park, having been detained for several hours after the tea was due to dissolve. It would be a Mother’s Day they’d never forget.

  * * *

  “That’s one less event we’ll be hosting next year.” Rachel grumpily flounced into our living room and flung herself onto a puffy pink chair with a tiny and surprisingly subtle flamingo print. She wore a silky robe and shorts ensemble, and carried a nail kit in her hands.

  I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at her pronouncement. Maybe both responses were appropriate.

  “At least Eric is still alive.” If not well. Piper had texted me that he had pulled through surgery, his major organs intact. But his spleen had been nicked, and he’d lost quite a lot of blood, requiring several transfusions. The once-white gazebo bore testament to that fact. I dimly wondered when we’d be able to hose off the evidence, then felt a wave of guilt crest and crash over me.

  “And who in their right mind would want him dead? He seems like a good-enough guy to me.” Rachel retrieved a sparkly bottle of nail polish from her robe pocket and began to paint her toenails a vivid, blingy purple. My sister had had some unfortunate relationships as of late and didn’t always trust her own judgment in the men department. But I did agree with her on this one. Eric seemed like an honorable person. I thought of his immigration and asylum cases in Colombia, and sent up a prayer that he would make a speedy and complete recovery.

  “Although.” Rachel waved at her big toe and capped the polish tight, “he was once married to Becca. That’s some questionable taste right there.”

  I raised my brows and shook my head. “Not even ‘once married.’ He’s still technically wed to Becca. I don’t think Judge Frank has granted the divorce yet. Garrett would’ve told me.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes as Rachel carefully painted her nails with the same steady hand she used to decorate her gorgeous confection creations. Soda approached her to sniff at the formaldehyde-laden polish, while Whiskey appeared and curled up on her favorite spot in my lap. I thought I’d imagined it, but the kitties seemed a little glum since their new pal Pickles had left the Mother�
��s Day tea with Becca when the guests had finally been released.

  A sick thought raced through my mind, and I struggled to comprehend it. “If Becca is still married to Eric, but she wants to marry Keith—”

  “Maybe she wanted to bump off Eric to speed up her road to being a free woman.” Rachel read my mind and moved on to painting her fingernails, this time a startling shade of electric blue.

  The laws of succession and inheritance swirled around in my mind from a long-ago trusts and estates class. “And what if she tried to kill Eric to inherit from him right before he divorced her? That would be an added bonus for wanting to kill him.”

  I racked my brain, trying to recall where Becca had been when the shots had gone off. The last I’d seen her, she was hurrying away from Helene, with Pickles in her arms and Keith close behind. It was possible she’d made her way back to the gazebo in the half an hour between my last seeing her and Eric getting shot.

  “Or,” Rachel capped the second bottle of polish, “maybe Keith shot Eric.”

  “Hmm. It’s totally possible.” I’d thought I’d heard two masculine voices in the gazebo, at least for part of the argument I’d overheard. “Maybe Keith was afraid the divorce wouldn’t go through in time for his Friday wedding, so he tried to take Eric out.” I shivered despite the still-warm May evening air breezing through our open windows. A year ago, I’d been engaged to Keith myself, and now I suspected him of being a stone-cold killer.

  “Would he kill for Becca?” Rachel cocked her head in thought. “Maybe Keith did it at the behest of his fiancée.”

  My phone trilled out its announcement of an incoming call. I shifted to retrieve the phone from my pocket, gently depositing Whiskey next to me. “Speak of the devil.”

  It was Becca.

  “Mallory. I need your advice. Right now.”

  I sent my sister a quizzical look and took a deep breath. Some brides ended up using my wedding planning services more like sessions with their shrinks. They ended up seeking counsel and asking me to weigh in on bad momzilla behavior, meddling mothers-in-law, and general feelings of cold feet. But in light of what had been going down in Port Quincy this week, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be privy to Becca’s deepest, darkest thoughts.