Wedding Bells And Magic Spells Box Set

by A. R. Winters

  I almost went to stop her. Almost.

  “And what about you?”

  “I’ll have what he’s having,” said Sarah, pointing to Kiwi.

  He was bobbing his head up and down in his bowl of cheese puffs, so quickly it was as if he was worried they would turn into a bowl of spiders if he didn’t finish them fast enough. Of course that had happened once, but that was due to Hazel Crane being ‘helpful’ rather than due to Kiwi’s speed or lack thereof.

  “You want... a bowl of cheese puffs?” said Priscilla with a quizzical look.

  Sarah nodded. “He makes them look so delicious.”

  “The customer is always right! Back in a greased jiffy,” said Priscilla as she went to get our orders.

  “Two scoops, huh?” I said to Sarah.

  She nodded seriously. “You’re under a lot of stress at the moment, and one of the best ways to relieve it is ice cream.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. My spiritual advisor told me all about it.”

  “What spiritual advisor?” This was the first I’d heard of such a person.

  “I met him in Iowa. He’s basically magic. Now he advises me online. He tells me something amazing basically every time I speak to him. Did you know corn is good for your chakras?”

  I shook my head with a smile. Sarah was one of the most interesting people I knew, and I knew a lot of interesting people—that tends to happen when you live in the witchiest town in America. But then there’s Sarah, not even a witch, who steals the show and takes the crown. Her life’s more interesting than anything you see in a celebrity tabloid.

  “Here you are, girls,” said Priscilla, placing a giant slice of her homemade—well, café-made—pie, loaded up with two tennis ball-sized scoops of ice cream on the counter in front of me.

  Sarah began to snatch up her cheese puffs immediately, her hands darting out and back again several times in quick succession. After the first volley of mouthfuls, she held up and slowly examined a cheese puff and then reached out and dipped it into the scoop of ice cream that was closest to her.

  “Hey!” I said, nudging her.

  She just grinned and carried on dipping.

  “What were you saying about Carrie before?” I asked Priscilla, who had already settled back in position in front of us, elbows back on the counter and lips ready to get back to what they did best—gossip.

  “I was saying that I think I know what the police found, but I can’t see why it would be of interest to them.”

  “What’s that?” said Sarah between loud crispy crunches of her ice-cream laden cheese puffs.

  “Carrie used to be quite the artist. Ever since she was in high school. She used to sit over there,” she said, pointing to the back booth in the far corner, “working on her drawings.”

  “What did she draw?” asked Sarah.

  “Oh, all kinds of things, when she was young. But later she got into drawing little fashionistas. Women in all kinds of elaborate clothes and the like. She was really quite good, you know. But she never went anywhere with it. I blame that Brittany Bledsoe.”

  I was chewing on an entirely too big mouthful of the sweet cherry pie to give anything more than a muffled “mmm” with which I tried to convey the message to keep going!

  “That Brittany was trouble. She had all the other girls in her little clique following her around, doing exactly what she said, and taking the blame for her when things went wrong. I heard her telling Carrie to stop with her ‘stupid little drawings,’ as she called them, plenty of times.

  “Carrie didn’t, of course. I don’t think she could have stopped if she tried—it was like a habit for her. But she never did anything with them, you know? She could have gone to art school or something. Instead, she stayed in Sequoia Bay, like most of her other girlfriends. Brittany was always telling them not to bother going away to college, that they should stay here with her. And she was so dominant, so persuasive, they did.”

  “That’s so sad,” I said, having swallowed my last giant mouthful, the next balancing precariously atop my spoon ready to go.

  “Oh, it was. Terribly sad. She was finally breaking free of Brittany’s shadow—more like a leash than a shadow, really—and she ends up dead!”

  I cocked my head at Sarah. She did the same to me.

  “Mmm mmhmm,” or something like it, I said around my pie.

  “What do you mean she was ‘finally’ breaking free?” asked Sarah. I gave her a thumbs up in thankful response for so expertly interpreting my pie-muffled words.

  “They had a big falling out,” said Priscilla.

  “Oh?” I mumbled, while preparing another delicious spoonful.

  “Yep. About six months ago. They had a big argument right here. It was around the time they both got engaged. They caused a real scene in here. I almost called the police it was getting so out of hand.”

  “What happened?”

  Priscilla shrugged. “I’m not sure exactly, but Hazel Crane went over to them and said something, and they both left immediately.”

  “Huh. How about that,” said Sarah.

  “Since then, they both kept at it though. They started to get very competitive about their weddings. But you know all about that.”

  “I do?” I asked.

  Priscilla nodded. “It was on the news the other day. Carrie and Brittany’s mother were fighting right on TV! They had to cut an interview with some business owner to focus on their fight. It was quite the story!”

  “Oh, right. Yeah. I was there,” I said. I dug my spoon deep into one scoop of the ice cream. Sarah was right; I did need it.

  “Sounds like the police should be investigating Brittany and her mother, not Zola,” said Sarah with a frown.

  Priscilla shrugged. “Maybe. But though they argued, I’m not sure it would extend to murder. Now, what’s this about Zola?”

  Sarah filled Priscilla in, who listened with the attentiveness any teacher could only dream to see in their students, while I worked hard on getting on the outside of my slice of pie. Kiwi was still happily pecking away at his own bowl of treats.

  While Sarah and Priscilla chatted, I focused on my bowl and my own thoughts.

  Brittany and her mother at least had a motive for strangling Carrie, unlike Zola. Perhaps Jack just needed to get an official statement from her. Although he had seemed really serious earlier, he kind of always seemed really serious when he was engaged in official police business.

  Although it wasn’t very nice, I found myself daydreaming about Brittany and her mother being arrested, Zola being cleared, and then in triumphant elation deciding to go ahead with the sample sale.

  If only things worked out that way.

  “What is it doing here!? Get OUT!”

  Kiwi squawked and hopped up onto my shoulder. I turned my head to confirm it was who I thought it was. Yep. Nora. She was here to help with the lunch rush, and, since parrots weren’t officially allowed—at least not when she was here—it was time for us to make our exit.

  “Out, out, OUT!” shouted Nora, making shooing motions toward my shoulder.

  Priscilla gave a lopsided smile of apology to us. I quickly slipped a ten-dollar bill onto the counter and we made our way to the exit in a hurry.

  “He’s a lovely little thing,” I heard Priscilla saying in an accusatory tone as we were just about to leave.

  “He’ll only be lovely when he’s dead and stuffed on my mantel,” responded Nora.

  Kiwi was squawking and fussing as we exited the café, and I couldn’t blame him.

  “There. Feel better?” asked Sarah when we were safe from Nora the Nemesis outside on the street.

  “Yes,” I said. “I actually do.”

  Kiwi screeched out angrily but we both ignored him. His outrage was his own for the time being.

  “Told you. You needed that ice cream,” said Sarah with a pleased look on her face.

  “Yeah, that helped. But more than that, I’ve got a plan,” I said with a devio
us smile.

  “Ooh, a plan? Fill me in quickly? I’ve got a date with a water salesman for lunch, but…”

  And so I explained my plan to Sarah, while Kiwi screeched and squawked about his mistreatment to the sky, while we strolled back to Blue Moon Bridal.

  After bidding farewell to Sarah, it was time to put the plan into action and get ahold of some real information.

  Chapter 11

  Back in the shop, I prepared myself to put the plan into action.

  “Will it work?” asked Kiwi from up on his bookcase.

  “We won’t know unless we try!” I said and pressed the ‘Call’ button on my phone.

  It rang three times before there was an answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello? Is this Brittany?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Aria Whitmore from Blue Moon Bridal.”

  “Oh, hello,” said Brittany, her voice now cool.

  “As you know, our sample sale was unfortunately delayed. However, for one or two very exclusive customers, we’re offering the chance for a private viewing of the dresses before the official sale.”

  “A private viewing? Of Zola Cates dresses? For exclusive customers? When?”

  “Oh, whenever is convenient. However, sooner rather than later would be best!”

  “I can come down right away!” said Brittany. A loud but distorted voice in the background yelled something like a command. “I mean we can come down right away. I’ll be with my mother.”

  “Wonderful. See you shortly,” I said and hung up the phone with a grin.

  “She won’t be very happy when she finds out the sale is canceled,” said Kiwi, unhelpfully.

  I gritted my teeth. “Zola may have a change of heart. The dresses are still here, after all.”

  “Because she’s at the police station.”

  “Shush you. We’re not giving up on the sale entirely yet. It’s not over until the fat lady sings, as they say.”

  “You don’t sing,” said Kiwi.

  “I’m not fat either! It’s an expression!”

  Kiwi responded with a cackle and a triumphant flying circuit of the shop before settling back down.

  “Just keep your maw shut while they’re here,” I said. “I don’t want you upsetting them.”

  Kiwi nodded his head up and down in acknowledgment, though with what appeared to be a cheeky grin on his face. Not that parrots can actually give cheeky grins, but Kiwi was pretty good at impressions.

  The door rattled and this was followed up by a rapid series of knocks.

  “That was quick!” I said.

  “Maybe they flew here,” said Kiwi with a snicker.

  I raised my finger to my lips to indicate he be quiet while I went and unlocked the door.

  “Good afternoon! Welcome to the exclusive pre-sale viewing!”

  The mother and daughter hurried in, the elder Bledsoe woman quickly pulling the door closed behind her as if to prevent someone else sneaking in after them.

  “Now this is more like it,” said Mrs. Bledsoe. “The crowd the other day was not what we were expecting of a Zola Cates sale. Speaking of which, where is she?”

  “I’m afraid she isn’t here right now. She had some very important business to attend to. I’m afraid I can’t tell you what it is though,” I said, tapping my nose with my index finger.

  “Is it another celebrity wedding?” asked Brittany, her eyes glittering with excitement.

  “I really can’t say, I’m afraid,” I said. “It’s all very hush, hush.”

  The two women looked at each other with knowing grins. I wasn’t lying; I was merely letting them imagine whatever they wished to imagine. And I’m sure Zola didn’t want the whole world to know she was being interviewed by the police—I was doing her a favor by keeping it a secret. If these ladies wanted to assume Zola was doing something else, well, that wasn’t my fault. Mostly.

  “I must say, your shoes are lovely,” I said to Brittany. She was wearing very new-looking bright red kitten heels that actually were quite nice. But that’s not why I said it. I was practicing my charm skills—we’d gotten off to a poor start the other day and I needed these women to trust and like me.

  “Oh, these old things? They’re not bad for only two hundred bucks, are they?” she answered, her words finishing with a pleased smile on her lips. Like shooting fish in a barrel.

  “And Mrs. Bledsoe, you must tell me where you get your nails done. My brides are always asking me for advice and I could do with another nail salon to recommend.”

  While I was speaking, I realized I’d made somewhat of a mistake. When you compliment someone, you’re supposed to compliment something good about them. Unfortunately, in this case, while I was speaking I realized that Mrs. Bledsoe was keeping the fourth finger of her left hand hidden under the middle, because she’d lost one of her fake nails.

  She frowned at me, but then finally smiled. “Well, I had these done at Nailed It!, but the thing is, they keep popping off! Look,” she said, indicating the missing nail.

  I frowned. “That’s a shame. The color is to die for!”

  Mrs. Bledsoe beamed as she held up her coral-pink nails in front of her face, examining and admiring them.

  “You’re right—they do have the best colors. And the girls are lovely. It’s just a shame the blasted things keep coming off.”

  I smiled, eager to change the subject. At least I hadn’t annoyed her too much by drawing attention to the missing nail.

  “Now, I’m afraid it’s still a bit of a mess in here. So most of the dresses are just on these two rails here,” I said, indicating two clothes rails I had strategically placed in the center of the room.

  “Wonderful. What about that one? That isn’t one of hers, is it?” asked Mrs. Bledsoe with a frown, pointing at the antique Davenport dress I had on display in the corner.

  With a little self-deprecating laugh, I shook my head. “No, that is a historical piece, over a hundred years old. It’s the finest dresses of its era in all of California,” I said with pride.

  Mrs. Bledsoe turned away. Brittany gave a little sniff.

  “I’m glad that isn’t one of Zola’s. It looks very dated.”

  That’s the point! It’s an antique! I imagined myself shouting in their faces. Instead, I held my tongue like a professional.

  “A different era indeed,” is what I actually said. “Now, I’ll let you girls dive in.”

  They began to flick through the rail, making rash and completely unjustified judgments about the dresses. The kind of judgments that can only really be made if a person is both ignorant and arrogant.

  Not that they didn’t appreciate them of course. They certainly liked some of them, but I had the impression that their appreciation came more from the fact that these dresses had been in magazines and on tastemaker websites than because they actually admired them for what they were.

  “Look at the lace on this one,” said Mrs. Bledsoe, holding up a dress, on which the lace was perhaps the least remarkable aspect.

  “The cut on that one really is spectacular,” I said, trying to offer her a little education.

  “Hmm. The lace is what stands out to me.”

  “Brittany,” I said.

  “Hmm?” she answered.

  I hadn’t been sure how best to broach the subject, so I decided to dive in headfirst.

  “Did you go to school with that poor girl, Carrie? I figure you must be about the same age, and you’re both from around here.”

  Both Brittany and her mother turned to me, their heads whipping around a little too fast for the look to be casual interest.

  “Yes. Actually, we used to be friends, a long time ago,” said Brittany.

  “Oh, friends is a bit strong. She followed you around like a dumb dog,” said Patricia.

  Brittany frowned. “Well, she wasn’t that bad. Though she was more of a follower than a leader, if you know what I mean.”

  “Brittany is a leader,” said Patr
icia proudly, standing behind her daughter and gripping her shoulders. “All the other girls wanted to be like her. Especially that Carrie.”

  “She would have loved to be here,” said Brittany, a possible tinge of sadness or regret in her voice. “She was obsessed with weddings.”

  “Obsessed with ruining our—I mean, your wedding,” said Patricia, just about remembering to correct herself.

  “Oh, I was like that too,” I said. “Obsessed with weddings. That’s why I’m here now!”

  “Carrie used to spend all her time drawing pictures of wedding dresses. Just copying them out of magazines. It was very unhealthy,” said Patricia with disdain. “Ooh, wasn’t this the one we saw in Vogue?”

  “Yeah, looks like it,” said Brittany, answering her mother’s final question before returning to the first comment. “Actually, Carrie designed wedding dresses. Not real ones, of course, but that’s what she liked to do. She’d draw them in her little sketchbooks and scrapbooks and all the rest of it. She used to sit in that café and draw them all the time instead of doing normal things.”

  “I remember you showed me one a few years ago,” said Patricia, “it was a copy of this,” she said, holding up a particularly elegant gown.

  “Zola only designed that dress last year,” I said.

  “It must have been a similar-looking one,” said Brittany.

  “It’s not the drawings that matter anyway,” said Patricia. “It’s in the execution. I mean, look at this,” she said, holding up another beautiful dress, “it’s one thing to draw a picture of a dress, but to actually make it, actually get it out into the world is an entirely different thing. Look at the way this just seems to float...”

  “That also looks like one that Carrie drew,” said Brittany with a frown.

  “Well, there’s only so many different ways you can stitch a few bits of white fabric together, aren’t there?” said Patricia dismissively.

  “I suppose so,” said Brittany. “You know, there was one dress I really wanted, but I can’t find it now.”

  I hoped it wasn’t the one that Carrie had been found in. That dress was now with the police and it wouldn’t ever be for sale.

  Patricia quickly tut-tutted. “While that one was nice, but we’re hoping to change the venue, remember? I think we can find something much more appropriate.”