Veiled in Death

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  We sat in content silence for a few minutes while we finished our meals. I couldn’t believe the whether-to-have-kids conundrum was a welcome change of focus. But compared to yesterday, I’d take it. And Olivia wasn’t quite done.

  “Maybe,” she began tentatively, “when you settle some of these big issues, like where to live and when you and Garrett are getting married, the even bigger questions will fall into place.”

  I filled in my friend on the exciting plan to build a new abode on the land adjoining my property and Garrett’s parents’. “Although we were going to break ground soon, and with Jesse recuperating, I’m sure that will be on hold. As it should be. I think my mom got carried away.”

  “And Garrett mentioned on Friday that you two are considering scheduling your wedding for the summer instead of fall?” Olivia asked her question innocently, her long black lashes blinking in anticipation.

  “That seems too rushed, too, in light of yesterday,” I miserably put in.

  Olivia reached across the table and grabbed my hands. “Close your eyes, Mallory.”

  “Huh?” I glanced around at the other diners, who had finally stopped staring at me like I was a zoo animal, and had returned to their food and conversations. “Come again?”

  “Just try it.” There was mirth and laughter dancing in Olivia’s eyes, and I grabbed on to her happiness like a life preserver. “Now. How do you picture getting married?”

  I tried not to think about how I was doing a vision quest in a booth in the Greasy Spoon and attempted to play long. “Okay. Um. Well, I see a dress.” I gulped. “A dress at the Antique Emporium, to be exact. And I don’t even think the season matters. I see my friends and my family, and we’re having fun. It’s casual, and meaningful, and intimate.” I opened my eyes. “I guess I get it now. It doesn’t matter when I get hitched, just that I want to do it. Thanks, Liv.”

  Olivia’s brown eyes sparkled. “I do know that dress you mentioned is the key to it all, though. Why don’t you go get it, and when everyone is all healed up and ready to go, just do it?”

  I nodded at her enthusiasm. Then I clapped a hand to my forehead. “Shoot. I promised Wedding Divas magazine they could do a story on our wedding. It’s a feature about how wedding planners approach their own weddings.” I frowned. “It seemed like a fun idea, but it might not work for a smaller, more casual wedding.”

  Olivia’s expression turned mischievous. “Then don’t do it. From now on, do exactly what you want. Oof.” Her power talk trailed off as she grabbed her belly. “That was a strong one.”

  I glanced down at her stomach in alarm. “You’re not going to have the baby right now, are you?”

  Olivia let out a pretty peal of laughter. “Nope. The due date is still two-and-a-half weeks away. I bet that was just a practice contraction.” Olivia’s eyes sparkled.

  My phone let out an insistent buzz, and I murmured an apology as I eagerly checked it. I was worried I’d miss an update from my mom or Bev.

  “It’s an email from the Smithsonian,” I said with wonder. “They want to meet to discuss the veil.”

  I gulped down the rest of my iced tea and bid my best friend goodbye. I had a feeling that things were going to get even more complicated, if that was even possible.

  * * *

  Monday morning arrived with a periwinkle sky barely brushed with feathery cirrus clouds. There was no fog or humidity. Just calm, atmospheric clarity.

  “If only we’d had this weather for Cordials and Cannonballs,” I grumbled to myself as I glanced out my bedroom window. I’d tried to keep my mind busy after my lunch with Olivia. When things got too quiet, my brain tried to make sense of senseless things: the ruined event, Jesse’s injury, the idea that anyone wanted to hurt my dear stepfather, and the unfair and cruel death of Claudia. And hanging over it all in the present was Bev’s nonsensical anger directed at my mother. I had texted my friend a few times, and her cagey answers were crystalizing into a bizarre theory that perhaps Doug had been to blame for Jesse’s injuries. I decided to chalk up Bev’s claim on her need to make sense of what had happened to Jesse.

  And despite Bev’s nonsensical accusations, I was grateful for Doug’s increasingly speedy recovery. Doug revealed that the ER had initially been puzzled at how to handle a suspected musket shot, but had eventually just sewed and cleaned up the jagged flesh like any other wound. My stepfather felt better on a massive dose of ibuprofen. He also seemed to be enjoying my mom taking off work to flutter around him. Neither she, Rachel, or I had the heart to tell Doug that Bev somehow suspected him of shooting Jesse. The men were friends, and Doug was secure in his marriage to Mom.

  I was almost happy to be entertaining the specialist due to arrive from the Smithsonian. It was possible I could offload the veil and maybe in the process earn enough good karma points to get this month of June back on track. I put the mess of Cordials and Cannonballs and its aftermath on the back burner, if only for a bit.

  “Are you ready?” Rachel entered the library with a tray set for tea. A delicate curl of steam twisted up from the spout, ringing the plate of cranberry and white chocolate biscotti. Together with my sister I had selected a pretty purple violet and forget-me-not pattern from our eclectic collection of antique tea sets. A few summers ago, we’d done an inventory and kept all of the ones that were not made with lead glaze. We enjoyed bringing them out for events and to host. I thought the archivist might appreciate this set, made and commissioned right here in Port Quincy in the 1920s.

  “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” My eyes strayed to the silver tray where I’d eventually place the veil for the Smithsonian representative to examine. Call me crazy, but I hadn’t even gotten it out yet. It could have been the stress from Saturday’s reenactment turned shoot-out, but I imagined Helene wafting through the library window on a broom and absconding with the lace before I could stop her. Stranger things seemed to have happened, and I was taking no chances.

  “They must really think this is the real deal if they sent someone from D.C.” Rachel absentmindedly fluffed a throw pillow, her green eyes alive with schemes and calculations. I knew my acquisitive little sister was seeing little sugarplum dollar-signs dancing in her head at the prospect of me owning a real artifact created by Betsy Ross.

  “They sat up and listened when I told them we’d found the veil in Port Quincy.” I recalled the sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line when I’d mentioned the provenance of the found veil. “And then they really got interested when Truman collaborated with them.”

  I finished straightening the room and stood to face my sister. “But you remember what happened with the paintings.”

  Rachel blinked her ultra-long lashes. “What on earth do you mean, Mallory?”

  I lobbed a pillow at my sister, nearly knocking her sky-high genie ponytail askew.

  “Hey!” Rachel grabbed the pillow with her cat-like reflexes and set it down on a fainting couch with a pat. “That was uncalled for. Fine. It doesn’t pay to stash precious artifacts in one’s house. Especially this one.” A brief cloud swept over her pretty looks. I know we are both thinking of what had happened when certain unsavory characters knew of some rumored valuable paintings in the house.

  “Collecting rare pieces is great, but we’re a B and B. Not a museum.” I had texted Bev last night, and the two of us were moving in the direction of donating the piece if it truly had been sewn by Betsy Ross. Although I anticipated a vicious fight from Helene, and hadn’t started going down the legal rabbit hole of ownership when one party fairly purchased an item that had long ago been stolen from another.

  “Ugh. You’re such a killjoy!” Rachel nearly stamped her foot as she saw profits from the veil slip from her sparkly, acrylic-nailed fingers.

  But I stood firm. I no longer saw the veil as a whimsical find to share with Bev on our respective wedding days. The veil wasn’t a boon, but a coveted chess piece that could bring me, my sister, and now Pia, and Bev as a co-owner of the veil, to r
eal danger.

  “At this point, Rach, I kind of want to jettison the whole darn thing. Or cede it to Helene.”

  Rachel’s green eyes grew to saucer proportions. “No! Don’t let that old meanie win.”

  “I shrugged. It might not be our choice.” I suppressed a shiver. “What if it’s already starting?” My question began as a whisper, and rose to a shrill pitch.

  Rachel scrunched up her nose in thought. “Wait, like what went down at Cordials and Cannonballs was somehow tied to the veil?” A real look of panic flicked over her features.

  “Precisely.” I held up my fingers one by one. “Richard Pierce was ostensibly murdered because of this veil, albeit a quarter of a century ago. And it was controversial enough that my own ex-fiancé never told me.” I took note of the look of shock on Rachel’s face at this admission. “The hit-and-run that killed Helene’s husband sounds much more like a straight-up hit. Two. Helene got all riled up when she found out we’d bought this veil. She was ticked at Claudia, whose family store sold Bev and me the veil. Now”—I gulped—“Claudia is gone. Which points to Helene.”

  Rachel nodded her assent. “I can’t picture Helene pulling the trigger. But I can see that crazy lady calling in a hit on Claudia. She specializes in getting others to do her dirty work. But what about Jesse?”

  “Ahem.”

  Rachel and I jumped when Bev appeared in the library. “Believe me, girls, I’ve been trying to figure out the same thing.”

  Rachel and I spent a few testy minutes arguing over who had left the front door unlocked. “We can’t be too careful with the veil in here.” I didn’t want to leave the house open to attack. I felt a knot forming in my stomach when I realized my mind automatically jumped to macabre possibilities.

  “It’s okay, Mallory.” Bev attempted to soothe me. “I locked the doors after I came in.”

  I was distracted more by my friend’s unusual getup than calmed by her words. Bev was wearing the most somber outfit I’d ever seen on her plump figure. She’d dressed head to toe in dark colors, with nary a glittery accent. I knew she wore prescription glasses, but she still had over two dozen pairs. These ones were black tortoiseshell to match her black cap-sleeved top and dark wash jeans. Ah. If I squinted, I could see the resin frames were infused with the barest hint of microscopic glitter. Her sky-high beehive was still bedazzled with its usual butterflies, but these ones were styled in an unusual somber gray. The decorations almost looked like moonlit moths, but velvety, subdued ones.

  “And I’m sure Truman will have this all wrapped up in no time.” Bev raised one blond brow. She let her eyes stray toward a 1990s portrait of Mom, Doug, Rachel, and I. I didn’t suppress my eye roll at her insinuation that my parents had had one iota to do with Jesse’s attack.

  I could count on Rachel to be even less subtle. “Oh, c’mon, Bev! You can’t possibly think that Doug or Mom would want to hurt Jesse. What did Doug do, shoot your fiancé, then somehow wound himself ?”

  Bev gave Rachel a narrow-eyed look. “I just know that Truman is looking at all of the possibilities.”

  The front hall bell rang. The three of us jumped.

  “Saved by the bell.” Rachel gave Bev a somewhat unkind smirk. “And into the fray.”

  The man we greeted on the front porch and ushered into the mansion seemed overwhelmed to meet three women who claimed to have a stake in the veil.

  “Hello, Ms. Shepard, I presume? I’m Horace Overright.” The man before me was only a few inches taller than my five feet even. He was wearing an interesting mix of professional and casual. His top was all business, with a windowpane patterned shirt, polka-dot tie, and dapper suspenders. He completed his look with decidedly casual olive twill shorts and a pair of Vans slip-ons that had seen better days. He caught me visually critiquing his look and gave me a shrug. “It’s as humid up here as it is in D.C. Not what I remembered.”

  I found myself laughing with the pleasant middle-aged man and ushered him into our cool, air-conditioned mansion. He nodded appreciatively. “And you upgraded Thistle Park, I see.”

  “Excuse me?” I waited until he’d made his introductions to Rachel and Bev to question him. “You’ve been here before?”

  He nodded as he eagerly looked around. “I was a junior varsity point man in authenticating and examining the veil when Helene Pierce originally owned it. I had tea with her mother-in-law, Sylvia, when I was last in Port Quincy. It only makes sense that they sent me up today.”

  Horace appreciated the tea set Rachel and I selected for his visit, but he didn’t dillydally. He made it clear this wasn’t a social visit. After neatly consuming exactly one slice of biscotti, and one cup of tea, he clapped his hands together. His jewelry mirrored his clothes. On one hand was an ancient and pricey-looking gold signet ring. On the other was a simple silicone band. “Where is it?”

  I felt a wave of panic wash over me at his request to see the veil. I’d taken to heart Truman’s admonition not to let anyone know of the safe’s location. That’s why our little meeting was taking place in the library rather than the office.

  “I’ll get it.” Rachel and I laughed as we both rose and declared we’d get the veil.

  “I’ll go with you.” Horace stood and brushed off a crumb of biscotti.

  “That’s not necessary.” It was Bev who batted down his request and dared him with dagger eyes to take a step out of the library.

  “I always like to see where people keep their precious collection items.” Horace refused to take no for an answer, and nimbly trotted down the hall in my and Rachel’s wake, his Vans silent on the hardwood and antique runner.

  Darn it.

  Rachel and I exchanged rueful looks as we made our way to the safe.

  “Whoa. That’s awesome!” Horace’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head when I pressed the little dragonfly carved into the teak mantel. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It was designed by my fiancé, Jesse Flowers, a master craftsman and historical restoration specialist,” Bev gushed.

  I realized with a start that Bev knew of the location of the safe, too, since Jesse had indeed designed and built the complicated hidey-hole. Truman would be disappointed when I furnished him with an even longer list of people privy to the safe’s location.

  I didn’t feel as much trepidation from Horace knowing where we kept the veil. He was a professional, after all. But I still reflexively covered the digital keypad with my other palm as my fingers flew over the numbers. If I had to do it at the grocery store with my debit card PIN, I wasn’t going to not do so here. I’d suffered enough weird occurrences over the years to justify my paranoia.

  We held our collective breath as I slipped the tissue-paper wrapped bundle from the cool, metal confines of the safe.

  “Ladies and gentleman, here it is.” I peeled back the tissue and delicately plucked the veil from its folded pile, holding the exquisite and aged lace up to the light.

  “Whoa.” Horace seemed to make it across my office in a flash. “Mm-hmm. I’m willing to bet this is it.” He tried to suppress a wince and gestured toward my hands. “Although, dear, you really ought to be wearing gloves.”

  I dropped the fabric like a hot coal and felt mildly chastened. I realized Horace had procured gloves for himself from his shorts pockets. “They’re pretty clean,” I murmured. “Except for that piece of biscotti.” I felt a slow blush.

  Horace chuckled and donned a pair of wire-framed reading glasses for a closer look. “No worries. People have residual oils on their hands that can damage the fabric.”

  Rachel lost her patience at his chastisement. “For Pete’s sake, it was stuffed at the bottom of a hatbox!”

  Horace gave her a gentle smile. “Yes, Truman did tell me that. Fair enough.” But he drew in a sharp breath when his examination revealed the veil to be in two pieces. He gave a low and dolorous whistle. “And Truman told me about the melee on Main Street, too. But that didn’t prepare me, in all honesty, for this.” He
held up the two jagged ends, viciously rent by Helene.

  “Meow.” My sweet little orange kitten must have awoken from her nap in the parlor. She turned her pretty lemon-yellow eyes to the veil Horace held aloft, and the temptation was too much. Before I could stop her, Soda alighted on the desk and reached out a clawed, although recently trimmed, paw. She took a playful swipe at the delicate artifact and jumped when Horace let out a primal yelp.

  “Oh, my goodness, Soda!” I scooped up the Creamsicle-colored fluff ball and gave her some comforting pats before I gently placed her outside the office and shut the door firmly behind me. Bev was fanning a nearly faint Horace, who had taken the liberty to sink into my office chair. Rachel was nearly purple as she attempted to keep from bursting into gales of laughter.

  “I’m so sorry.” My worry over the revelation of my safe’s location seemed like a minor issue in comparison to my cat nearly doing a Freddie Krueger on the priceless veil.

  Horace let out a strange wheeze. I wondered if I’d need to revive him with some modern-day smelling salts. But his wheeze grew and erupted into a hearty spate of laughter. “This town hasn’t gotten any less crazy in the twenty-five years since I last visited.”

  We all joined in his mirth, relieved that the veil wasn’t going to suffer any more tears. We grew quiet as Horace brought out a pricey-looking small digital camera, and took numerous close-up shots of the lace’s patterns.

  “Now, I just eyeballed this fabric.” Horace neatly and lovingly folded up the veil and wrapped it up in the tissue paper. “I have our original authentication papers that we collaborated with Sotheby’s to produce, around the time of the original sale of the veil. I’ll need to compare the photographs, of course. But for now, I am going to make the official call and tentatively authenticate the veil as a piece of lace crafted by Betsy Ross.”