Gown with the Wind

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  “He’s getting away.” Truman narrowed his eyes as we all watched Rhett throw his body behind the wheel of his Lexus and peel away from the parking lot, kicking up pings of gravel in his wake. I held a now-weeping Becca, who had just realized her father had been having an affair with her childhood rival. My stomach did a sweeping movement of disgust, and I shared her horror.

  “Let’s get you back to the B and B.” I steered Becca back to my station wagon, walked her in a daze to her room, and gently deposited her in bed. She seemed in a state of shock. I made her a cup of strong tea and brought Pickles to her. The big guy seemed to sense some seismic shift had occurred, and showered Becca’s face with kitty Eskimo kisses. She numbly patted the Maine Coon and studiously ignored her cell phone, which was blowing up with texts and missed calls.

  The next day was more of the same, with Becca barely consuming the chicken noodle soup and toast I brought to her bedside. I talked to Jacqueline and Samantha about whether we should intervene. But Becca didn’t want to leave Thistle Park, so I let her stay in her room, working on her state of shock. To make matters worse, there was one person Becca was willing to reach out to, and he wouldn’t even deign to take her calls.

  “I messed up. It took losing my dad forever to realize I also lost the love of my life.” Becca stared ahead as she pet Pickles. I braced myself for a soliloquy about how she regretted finally divorcing Eric. But Becca had a different idea. “I realize now I belong with Keith. And it’s too late.”

  Truman dropped by to speak with Becca about her father’s affair. He stopped to check in with me in the kitchen before he left. “That poor girl’s a mess.”

  I poured Truman a cup of coffee and motioned for him to sit down. “She’s been through a rough two weeks.” Becca may have broken up my engagement to Keith what seemed like ages ago, but I wouldn’t wish what had happened in the last fortnight on my worst enemy. “Have you arrested Rhett yet?”

  Truman scowled and took a bite of the macadamia nut cookies I set before him. “The scoundrel absconded from Port Quincy. We have an all-points bulletin out for his arrest, but no one can find him. Jacqueline is no help either. She’s glad the cheating joker is gone.”

  I dipped my own cookie into my scalding coffee and took a bite. I’d spent the morning finalizing the preparations for Eric and Piper’s wedding, and welcomed the break to chat with Truman. “I wonder if Rhett tried to strangle Alma and stage it as a burglary.”

  “That’s the working theory,” Truman agreed. “Alma had always planned to bequeath her Gone with the Wind collection to Rhett. She suddenly changed her mind and gave it to Becca, and we think it was to punish Rhett for his affair with Felicity.”

  “And that’s why Alma also changed her will to leave the rest of her property to Jacqueline instead of Rhett,” I offered, recalling Becca’s admission of that fact. “But why did Rhett kill Felicity?”

  “Polly Fournier overheard her daughter arguing with a man in her apartment.” Truman didn’t know I’d already heard that from Polly herself. “It sounds like from the bits she heard, Rhett was planning on leaving Jacqueline after Becca married Keith and the big wedding was over. But that wasn’t fast enough for Felicity.”

  “So she had to go,” I whispered. A sickening knot of disgust formed in my stomach. I no longer wanted my cookie.

  “We initially thought her murder might have something to do with her smuggling emeralds from Colombia.” Truman didn’t have any trouble finishing his. “She’d visit Eric and Piper in Bogota, buy emeralds on the black market, and place them in jars of peanut butter so she wouldn’t have to declare them to customs. Then she’d sell them to buyers back here in the States, and upon delivery, she’d switch the emeralds out with lab-created fakes.”

  “And then sell the real ones again, earning twice the profit.” It was a clever scheme.

  “Eric had no idea,” Truman said

  “Except Felicity’s father, who didn’t quite buy that she’d accidentally switched out a created emerald for a real one.” I took a sip of coffee. “And Tanner may not have known about Felicity’s emerald swapping, but he did know about her affair with Rhett.” That would explain his bizarre behavior after Felicity’s body had been removed from the pool. Truman had the good graces to blush at the mention of Tanner. The young professor had been released from jail this morning, now that he was no longer accused or suspected of Felicity’s or Eric’s attempted murder.

  “The ring on her finger must have been from Rhett,” Truman agreed. “There are just two problems that still need to be resolved.” He stared out the window at the copse of trees that hid the gazebo. He held up his index finger. “One: If Tanner didn’t try to kill Eric, who did? And two, who planted Alma’s collection and a copy of her house key in Felicity’s gym locker after her death?”

  I pondered those questions long after Truman left, as I put the finishing touches on what I hoped would be a beautiful day for Eric and Piper. My happiness at creating some joy for at least one couple was marred by my concern for Becca. A crazy plan began to formulate in my head to try to get Keith to at least return her calls.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “I wonder if impersonating a love letter is unethical.” I glanced at my sister in the rearview mirror as we pulled away from the KFC drive-through.

  “Who cares? This idea is brilliant.” Rachel ripped the top off the bucket of chicken and delicately selected a drumstick. She bit into the meat and leaned back with a contented sigh.

  “Um, leave some for Keith. If you eat too much, he’ll know Becca wasn’t behind this. She would never touch the stuff.” I resisted selecting a delicious piece of chicken for myself lest I leave the steering wheel of my station wagon greasy.

  “Fair point.” Rachel finished her drumstick and placed the cardboard top back on the bucket. “But do you really think he’ll believe Becca typed a love letter to him too?”

  “She’s pretty persnickety. I could see her choosing to print one out rather than write it by hand.”

  Rachel and I parked the station wagon on a cul-de-sac one over from Keith’s McMansion and stole over to his property with stifled giggles and our bucket of fried chicken reconciliation. Thankfully, Keith’s navy BMW was parked outside.

  “We’ll need to run to the trees behind that house.” I pointed to Keith’s neighbor. I hoped they didn’t have some kind of fancy motion detectors on their property. I knew I’d sound insane if we were caught and had to give an explanation.

  “Do you really think this’ll work?” Rachel first pondered the bucket of KFC, then Keith’s colossal Cubist house.

  “I dated Keith for several years. And the way into his heart is paved with fried chicken.”

  We tiptoed up the front walk and deposited the chicken and the note we hoped Keith would believe was from Becca, respectfully begging for a second chance.

  “One, two, three.” I rang the bell, and Rachel and I booked it across Keith’s manicured lawn, around the back of his neighbor’s house, and into the woods, Charlie’s Angels style. We made it out of the neighboring cul-de-sac without causing a fuss, and collapsed inside the station wagon with a gale of laughter.

  “Let’s just hope for Becca’s sake that Keith takes the bait.” I drove through downtown Port Quincy on our way home, and considered the events of the last few weeks as a stoplight grounded me in front of Fourier’s Jewelry Store.

  “There he is again!” Rachel hissed, and grabbed at my arm.

  Garrett was just leaving the jewelry store, a small parcel tucked under his arm.

  I gulped and willed the traffic light to change.

  “Mallory.” Garrett made his way over to the sidewalk and motioned for my sister to roll down the window. Because our wagon was from the 1970s, she actually could roll it down. “You two look like you’re up to no good.”

  “You don’t even know the half of it.” Rachel giggled. She then gestured toward the small box in Garrett’s hand and opened the passenger door. “I think I
’ll just walk home from here.”

  Oh no, oh no, oh no.

  “Rachel, get back in the car.”

  But my sister was already on the sidewalk, sending me a big wink as she turned and headed in the direction of Thistle Park.

  “What’s going on?” Garrett slipped into the passenger seat just as the light changed, and I pulled through the intersection and parallel parked one street over.

  “I’m not sure. Do you want to tell me?” My heart was pounding as I willed myself not to look at the tiny jewelry box. It seemed to contain virtual kryptonite, and every second in its presence ratcheted up my heart rate.

  Garrett slid the top off the box and revealed a bed of velvet. A slim amethyst band nestled within.

  “Do you think my mother will like this?” He held the ring up to the light. “It’s Summer’s birthstone. She has one for my birth month, and I thought it would make a nice belated–Mother’s Day gift. I had to do some sleuthing to figure out her ring size without her getting suspicious.”

  My fears dissolved into laughter, and I showered Garrett’s face with kisses. He grinned in return, and pulled me in for a real scorcher.

  “I hear the rumors around town too, Mallory.” His hazel eyes grew soft and tender. “And while some day I’d love to make an honest woman of you, I want you to be an equal part of that decision.” My heart beat with a different kind of excitement at his words. “I’ll never pressure you. You’ll know when I’m ready to take the next step, because it’ll be when you are too.” He grinned and pulled me closer. “I like things just the way they are.”

  “And I do too.”

  I dropped Garrett back at his car and found my sister halfway home to Thistle Park. I pulled the car over to the sidewalk, and Rachel hopped in. I drove away from the curb with what I was guessing was a dreamy smile on my face.

  “Let’s see it.” She grabbed my left hand from the steering wheel, causing me to swerve wildly. Thankfully, no one was in the opposing lane.

  “There’s nothing to see!” I righted the boat of a station wagon and triumphantly waggled my naked and ringless finger in my sister’s face.

  “He didn’t do it?” Rachel slunk back in the worn leather, utterly defeated and dejected.

  “It was a grandmother’s ring for Lorraine.” I crowed out my answer and laughed until the tears ran down my cheeks. My sister crossed her arms in a pout over her chest as we pulled into the long drive in front of Thistle Park.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” I cut the engine behind Keith’s navy BMW.

  There he stood, my former fiancé of a year ago. He held the bucket of chicken under one arm and a bouquet of lush pink peonies under the other. He raised a bullhorn to his lips and took a steadying breath.

  “Rebecca Scarlett Cunningham. Please give me another chance.”

  The sash of a second-floor window flew up, and Becca stuck her head out the window. “You came back!”

  “I’d like nothing more than for you to be my wife.” Keith echoed the same proposal I’d heard him deliver to Becca back in October, also not coincidentally the same line he’d once delivered to me. But the echo didn’t bother me anymore, and I couldn’t repress the grin spreading across my face.

  “I’ll love you till the day I die, Becca. You and your crazy cat.”

  Becca disappeared from the window, and sixty seconds later, the front door of the B and B ricocheted open. Becca ran down the stairs and threw herself into Keith’s arms.

  He planted a mad kiss on her lips, and when they surfaced for air, a wide smile broke out on Keith’s face.

  “You had me at fried chicken.”

  Ten minutes later, my newly ordained sister put her online-officiant credentials to good use. She married Keith and Becca out in the garden, with me and Pickles bearing witness. The bride wore jeans and carried the bouquet her groom had brought her. The vows were charmingly simple.

  “Do you?” Rachel turned to Keith.

  “I do.” He wiped at the corners of his eyes and gave his bride a beatific smile. He seemed at peace standing in his khaki shorts and polo shirt, without the trappings of a big society wedding.

  “Do you?” Rachel squinted against the low angle of the sun casting its last rays over the sea of crown vetch and clover in this largely untamed section at the garden’s edge.

  Becca paused, backlit from the sun, ethereal and lovely even in her casual garb. Keith took in a sharp breath.

  “I do.” Becca leapt into Keith’s arms, and he spun her around and around. Pickles watched with contented interest, blinking his large citrine eyes.

  The happy family of three sped off in Keith’s BMW, where we’d placed a hastily drawn “Just Married” sign and tied cans of Pickles’s cat food hanging down from the bumper.

  I raised my hand to high-five my sister.

  “All’s well that ends well.”

  * * *

  The next day dawned clear and bright. I was thrilled Piper and Eric’s big day had arrived with no more murders, hiccups, or roadblocks. Eric felt well enough to attend his own nuptials, and even stood at the head of the aisle as he awaited his bride. The wedding went off without a hitch, the garden a vision in navy, cream, and silver, with the flowers and foliage complementing the chosen color scheme. Becca had grudgingly allowed Pickles to attend his former master’s wedding, and the pretty Maine Coon returned to Thistle Park for the afternoon, this time clad in a kitty-cat tuxedo for his second wedding in the span of a day.

  Guests milled about the backyard and garden paths after dining on salmon, gazpacho, and devil’s food cake. We’d decided not to feature the gazebo in this backyard wedding; Eric’s attempted murder was still so fresh in all the guests’ minds.

  I gathered a bit of trash that had blown from a guest’s table near the edge of the garden and placed it discreetly in a bag.

  “Meow.” A plaintive cry emanated from the gazebo.

  Pickles.

  I now knew the distinctive cat’s voice and rushed to the scene of Eric’s shooting. The sweet kitty was caught on a spindle that had come loose from the ornate gingerbread trim.

  “Hold still, big guy.” I worked at Pickles’s collar but couldn’t get the sturdy leather to budge. “Just a little longer, buddy.” I extracted my keys from the pocket of my dress and worked the threads of the sharpest one against the thick collar. Pickles wasn’t in any dire trouble, but I could tell he was getting uneasy with his collar holding him fast to the spindle.

  “There.” The Fort Knox of a collar finally popped off and rolled onto the floor of the gazebo. The underside of the collar gleamed with fat green gems, a passel of priceless emeralds.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing?” Eric loomed in front of me at the entryway of the gazebo, gasping and grasping at his side.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Give me the collar.” Eric slid down a gazebo pillar and held his hand out. I took an instinctive step back and gave the big Maine Coon a pat. He ran off, hopefully acting as a cat Lassie to warn the others I may need some backup.

  “Why were there emeralds sewn into Pickles’s collar?” My voice sounded high and thin, and I willed myself to calm down.

  “Because emeralds are the perfect vehicle to smuggle money out of Colombia.” Eric sent me a nasty grin as he drew on some inner reserve of strength and struggled to stand. “Too bad Felicity never found out about this cache of beauties.”

  “You killed Felicity.” It made sense. Felicity had traveled several times a year to visit Eric in Bogota. She dealt in counterfeit emeralds, and Eric must have been in on the ruse.

  But he wasn’t about to admit his guilt, even though he’d been caught.

  “No, no, no.” He shook his head and slid back down the pillar. Perhaps he hadn’t been well enough to make it through his entire wedding after all. “Although I should have when I had the chance.”

  I winced at his words and edged closer to the gazebo railing. I felt my heart flutter up into my throat when Eric pulle
d out a gun.

  Keep him talking.

  “What did you and Felicity use the emeralds to smuggle?” I was genuinely curious, in addition to trying to prolong my life.

  “Why, my excellent legal skills.” Eric let out a maniacal laugh and attempted to clarify. “I take on immigration and asylum cases for fees that aren’t exactly . . . ethical.” He finished, “I have a perfect track record gaining asylum for each of my clients, but they have to beg, borrow, and steal to pay my price.” He winced in pain. “To get the money out of Colombia and to my bank account here, we use emeralds. I’d clean my money by buying them in Colombia, and Felicity brought them back here. She was supposed to sell them, take her cut, and deposit the money into my account.”

  “But she swapped most of them out for lab emeralds, and kept the real stones to sell for herself. She was double dipping.” I wondered what Truman would think of Eric’s part in this plan. If I lived long enough to tell him about it. A thought skittered across my brain. “Did you try to kill Alma too?” It would make sense.

  “That old bag and her husband knew something I was doing wasn’t aboveboard, but they couldn’t figure out exactly what.” He spat out his words. “But that didn’t stop them from blackmailing me into leaving Becca. I should have stood my ground.”

  “So you tried to kill Alma when you got back to Port Quincy in retaliation. Did you arrive earlier than I thought?”

  Eric shook his head, as convincing an actor as I’d ever seen. “Wrong again, Mallory. I did pull a little prank on the witch right before we met at the Greasy Spoon.” He went on when he saw the confusion on my face. “I painted the skull in the bathroom, and ruined the paint. But that was it.”

  I almost believed him.

  “Then who tried to murder you in this gazebo?”

  Eric shook his head, suddenly seeming exhausted. “I don’t know. Tanner and I did fight before I got shot. He wanted to know what my business was with Felicity. He even accused me of having an affair with her. But then he left.” He paused and frowned. “The only thing I recollect is that the person who shot me smelled of lemons.”