by Dana Dratch
When I talked to Nick, I left out only the part about our favorite blond pickpocket being part of Harkins’s crew. But with a wedding in the offing, I knew she was on his mind.
“How are you doing?” I asked Nick when I found him going over a last-minute checklist in the kitchen.
“OK, considering,” he said with a sigh. “It’s funny, I keep thinking about Gabby. I guess because she’s the closest I’ve ever gotten to the altar. But we didn’t end up together. I know she’s happy, though. And I’m moving forward.”
I slapped him on the back. “I can’t believe you’re a godfather.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me Ian wasn’t the father. Best episode of Jerry Springer ever.”
“Hey, I didn’t even tell Ian. That one was strictly to protect Alistair. God knows, I didn’t do much else for the little guy.”
“With Alistair, it really does take a village,” Nick said. “And every village needs an idiot.”
I stuck out my tongue. “Just for that, I’m gonna sabotage the wedding cake. How’d it turn out, by the way?”
“If anyone asks, simple is elegant,” he said.
“How elegant is it?”
“Basically, three progressively larger cakes, stacked. White icing. Actual flowers on top. Pansies from Ian’s kitchen garden. Edible in case anyone chews first and asks questions later. And the whole thing’s covered with icing swirls. Swirls hide a multitude of sins.”
“Sounds delicious.” When it came to wedding cake—or any cake—the icing was my favorite part.
“Cake decorating is an art,” Nick said. “A true art. I should have had one of your forger friends take a crack at it. ’Cause it was totally beyond me. Hence keeping it simple.”
“Simple is elegant. Got it. Lucy prepared for her big moment?”
“Yup. And I’ve got some bacon as a backup. Just in case.”
“Smart.”
“Hey, that’s why they made me the godfather.”
“By the way, when the minister asks if you renounce Satan, the correct answer is ‘yes.’”
* * *
“Och, I’m too old to be wearin’ white,” Daisy said, looking in the mirror as she finished dressing in her third-floor suite. “I’m fifty-two, and I’ve got a change-of-life baby, fer cryin’ out loud.”
“It’s a tradition,” I said. “It means you and your guy are starting with a clean slate.”
Baba nodded.
“Mutton dressed as lamb,” she said to the mirror.
“You look gorgeous,” I said. “Like a princess.”
She did, too. The long, bias-cut dress skimmed her in all the right places. With bronzed skin and sun-streaked hair piled on her head set off with a half-circlet of flowers, she looked like a Grecian goddess.
“You love him?” I asked.
Daisy grinned. “Oh yah. I’d walk through fire for that man. He’s ma other half.”
There was a loud rap on the door. “Open up, girls. It’s nearly showtime!”
Mom.
I opened the door, and she was standing there, holding a bottle of chilled champagne in one hand and clutching four crystal glasses in the other.
“How did you knock on the door?” I asked.
“Heels are good for more than just stopping traffic. Really, Alexandra.”
Mom bustled in and proceeded to uncork the bottle with nothing more dramatic than a little whoosh. She filled four glasses. I handed one each to Daisy and Baba.
“To true love,” Mom said simply. “Now that you’ve found it, hang on tight.”
Was it my imagination or was she a little misty-eyed?
We clinked glasses. And drank it down. Mom gave everyone a refill.
“I can’t thank you all enough for bein’ here,” Daisy said. “On our big day. And helpin’ with the wee one. If it weren’t for you all . . . Well, I don’t know how I could ever repay ya, so I’ll just say ‘thank you.’”
“If you really want to repay us, help me get this one married off,” my mother said, flexing a sharp elbow in my direction.
Baba smiled.
* * *
The backyard garden was lush and green. After the rain we’d gotten, it seemed like all the flowers were exploding at once.
The vicar and Harkins were stationed under a large tree on the far side of the yard. Ian, the best man, was at his dad’s shoulder.
I didn’t see Daisy’s face when she walked down the aisle. In English weddings, the bride goes first, and the bridesmaids follow.
But I did watch Harkins’s expression as she glided toward him on Trip’s steady arm. Cecil Harkins looked contented, exuberant, and blissful. All at the same time.
I snuck a peek at Ian. The guy really knew how to wear a tux. But that might have been the champagne talking.
Baba was in the front row with Alistair in her lap. Nick sat on her left, a diaper bag by his chair. Tom, Trip’s partner, was stationed on her right, armed with hankies and Kleenex. Just in case.
Lucy sauntered down the aisle next to me, her head high. When we reached Ian, he bent and gently removed the wedding rings from the pocket on the back of Lucy’s white lace collar. No bacon necessary.
Then she ran over to where Nick was sitting and hopped up into his lap.
After the wedding, I sat with Trip and Tom, while Nick and Baba stood in front of the vicar, next to Harkins and Daisy.
“I got five bucks says the kid’s gonna use ‘Campbell’ as a moniker when he hits grade school,” Marty whispered from the seat behind me. “Alistair’s gonna be tough going on the playground.”
“I’ll take that action,” Benny said.
“Make it ten,” said Leo.
“Too rich for my blood,” said Fred. “I dropped all my dough on a silver rattle. Engraved.”
Baba held Alistair, who looked up into her face with curious, blue eyes.
Mr. and Mrs. Harkins hit a home run in the godparent department.
“Took a bit of a chin-wag with the vicar,” Harkins confided later, as we snapped photos. “Absolutely worth it.”
When the sun went down, twinkling lights in the trees and the arbors made the garden look like a fairyland. Jazz, swing, and R&B tunes floated on the warm evening air as we danced into the night on the flagstone patio. Nick, Trip, Ian, Tom, and I took turns throughout the evening toting chilled champagne and trays of hors d’oeuvres, caviar, and mini sandwiches out from the kitchen to the big buffet table.
Nick could say what he wanted about his cake-decorating skills. The wedding cake looked beautiful. And tasted great. Lemon sponge.
My favorite moment? After the bride and groom’s first dance, Harkins lifted Alistair out of Baba’s arms, and he and Daisy swayed together to the music, cuddling their little guy. Alistair smiled and giggled.
I even caught Marty wiping away a tear.
Chapter 59
The next day, I realized the only battle I had left to fight was with accounting at the Sentinel. To get paid. Lots of promises, still no cash.
Daisy and Harkins were off on their honeymoon. The Outer Banks of North Carolina.
They’d elected to take Alistair with them and make it a family vacation. Besides, I don’t think anyone was prying Alistair away from his parents again anytime soon.
Marty was still on the sofa. He swore he could maneuver the inn stairs just fine with crutches. And Ian had guaranteed him a room no higher than the second floor. I stepped in to make sure it wasn’t Paul’s old room.
That one had some bad karma no amount of Febreze or burning sage would ever clear.
I was kind of glad when Terri, his physical therapist, said she wanted to see a little more progress before he was regularly climbing stairs. So he was stuck with us for a few more days.
But that hadn’t stopped him from hitting the B&B for a poker night with Harkins and his cronies.
That’s where Marty had picked up another interesting tidbit. The spandex biking club? Harkins’s buds. Without a car, tha
t’s how they were getting around town. No gas, no noise, no auto registration, and, in a residential neighborhood, no raised eyebrows. Best of all, Fred confessed to Marty, they’d blasted past our house regularly, just to keep an eye on things. And if they happened to catch a glimpse of Alistair (and could pass the news on to Daisy and Harkins), so much the better.
Mom had booked back into the B&B for the wedding. This time, for one night only. Trip claimed she wanted to end her visit on a high note. I contend she suspected something was up. But that’s another battle for another day.
It turned out Lydia Stewart’s disappearance had nothing to do with Alistair, Simmons, or the Freezer of Doom. Nick found out from one of Janie Parker’s suppliers that Lydia had gone to New York for a little “freshening up.” Complete with a casual wardrobe, perky boobs, and a strawberry blond ’do.
How weird was that?
Still, something had been nagging at me. And it had nothing to do with Lydia’s new look.
When Emily Prestwick talked about killing Bell, she claimed she didn’t know why he had been at the B&B. She’d been more concerned about where he was.
“Not in this house,” she had said.
So what was so special about that particular house?
Now with no Alistair, no bodies, and no Mom to distract me, my brain started sifting through the weirdness of the past few weeks. And a picture started coming into focus.
Ian’s vagueness about his former occupation. The fact that he’d sent Emily back to Boston, rather than turning her in to the cops. The location of his inn—just outside DC. And the ease with which he got movers and shakers to come to his place—and to recommend it to their friends.
Ian was running a meetinghouse for spies.
So was he the one who’d intimidated Jameson Blair? Or did he simply have access to someone who did? Through his web of contacts?
But I hadn’t told Ian who was threatening his father. Or why.
I knew Harkins and his friends hadn’t said anything. And Emily Prestwick claimed she didn’t know. I believed her, too. Because in killing Bell, she’d actually made things harder for Harkins. And Ian.
So who had known about Blair and told Ian?
Then something clicked. How angry he’d been when I wouldn’t share everything I’d learned about his father. Then the quick mea culpa. Followed by an even quicker visit with Alistair. Who had slept in my bedroom.
I tried to recall the past week. I’d never talked with Nick about my stroll to Magnolia Circle. But I did discuss it with Trip. A lot. On the front porch over galettes that same evening. And later, on the phone.
I lifted the handset off its charging station, examining it from all angles. Nothing.
I grabbed the phone stand and flipped it upside down, running my hand over the flat aluminum underside. One anomaly: a little piece of beige plastic. About the size of a dime.
I pried, and it came off in my hand.
Clutching it, I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a frying pan out of the cupboard. I tucked the bug into a sandwich bag and gave it a hard whack. Followed by two more. Then I emptied the electronic crumbs into my hand.
Marty and Baba were both in the living room. Wheel of Fortune. “I’ve got to go across the street for a minute,” I told them. “I’ll be right back.”
I flew out the door on adrenaline alone.
When I walked into the inn, Ian was standing behind the desk cradling a bottle of champagne. His face lit up.
“Perfect timing,” he purred, reaching under the counter to produce two crystal glasses. “I was just about to head over to your place. It took some doing, but I’ve managed to locate a very special vintage I think you’ll really enjoy.”
“No, this time I have a present for you,” I said evenly.
When I dumped the electronic confetti into his glass, Ian’s expression was pure shock. His face crumpled. “Alex, I can explain . . .”
“No explanation necessary,” I said, catching a whiff of his exotic cologne. This time, it had zero effect.
Not even a flutter.
“You got what you needed,” I concluded. “And I’m really glad it ended well. But I’m done. Over and out.”
With that, I turned and walked out the front door into the bright June sunshine.
Acknowledgments
What’s not a mystery is just how many people it takes to bring a book to life. A very big “thank you” to my editor, Alicia Condon. You always make the story better—and you “get” the Vlodnacheks. You’re still my best audience!
I also need to thank the wonderful team at Kensington Books. Special shout-outs to copy editor Pat Fogarty, production editor Robin Cook, and art director Janice Rossi. You guys made this into a real book!
A grateful “thank you and wow!” to artist Michelle Grant. Each cover is better than the last. This one is gorgeous and glamorous. It also makes me smile (and laugh at Lucy) every time I see it.
And last but definitely not least: a huge “thank you” to my agent, Erin Niumata, of Folio Literary Management, who first noticed, read and believed in CONFESSIONS OF A RED HERRING. You are one in a million. The hydrangeas in this one are for you!
Read on for a preview of
RED HOT
the next Red Herring mystery.
Alex Vlodnachek is in the hot seat again. This time, she has a century-old mystery, a reclusive billionaire, a secret tunnel and a dead body to thank. But when a photojournalist flame hits town—and checks in to the neighborhood B&B—that really turns up the heat . . .
I was fine until they discovered the body.
After a couple of months of icy silence, Ian Sterling and I had reached a neighborly detente. I avoided his B&B. He stayed away from my house. And, when we were on neutral ground—like the mailbox or the grocery store—we would wave and smile from a polite distance.
Nick thought we were both nuts. But my brother wasn’t the one who found a bug planted in his bedroom.
Long story.
So imagine my surprise when I heard a gentle knock on the door one afternoon, glanced through the peephole, and spotted Ian on the front porch.
I looked down at Lucy. The pup looked up at me. “What do you think?” I whispered.
She appeared perplexed.
I debated not answering the door. But my car was in the driveway. And, more important, my brother was baking peach pies in Ian’s kitchen. If something had happened to Nick, I needed to know.
Even if it meant consorting with Ian the spy.
I opened the door a sliver. Lucy stuck her snout through the crack and sniffed the air.
“Hullo,” he said, in his clipped British accent. Spotting Lucy, his face relaxed into a smile. “I was wondering if I might speak with you a moment. It’s a bit of a ticklish situation.”
“Is Nick all right?”
Ian looked puzzled. Clearly, whatever it was didn’t involve my brother. “He’s fine. No worries there.”
He hesitated. I pulled Lucy back by the collar and considered slamming the door in his face. No way he was coming inside.
But my dog had other plans. She wanted to go out and play.
“Could we sit on the porch?” he asked. “I have to tell you something, and there’s no good way to say it.”
“Is everyone OK? Alistair? Daisy? Harkins?” I loved Ian’s family like my own. And my tiff with him didn’t involve the rest of the clan. I’d watched baby Alistair while Daisy and Harkins went into D.C. last Saturday.
“Everyone’s very well, thank you. Ship-shape, in fact.”
I gestured at the plastic lawn chairs and stepped outside, as Lucy trampled my feet racing ahead. Then I closed the door firmly behind me. If Ian was expecting a tea party, he’d come to the wrong house.
Lucy tore around the lamppost at top speed, like a young filly. Now in her canine adolescence, her legs were growing longer and stronger. And she was getting faster.
She raced around the side of the house. I expected she’d be gone for a
few minutes. Lucy liked her privacy.
Ian settled into one of the faded yellow chairs. “As you may or may not know, I’m having some renovations done at the inn. Nothing that impacts the guests or the kitchen. But I’d wanted to finish out some of the basement areas, so that we could make use of the space for storage.”
Nick had told me as much. But I wasn’t going to admit that to Ian. I said nothing.
“While they were examining one of the walls, the workmen discovered a tunnel.”
My eyebrows shot up, and Ian paused. Nick had said nothing about a tunnel.
“We found it just this morning, in fact,” Ian added. “We were exploring it, to see how far and where it went. And, I’m afraid, that’s when we found it.”
He stopped.
“It?” I asked.
“A body,” he said. “Almost at the end of the tunnel. Very near a door of some kind.”
“Ian, that’s awful!” I blurted. “Is it . . . ?”
He shook his head quickly.
What neither of us said aloud: Three particularly nasty characters had disappeared from the B&B about two months ago. None had been seen since. I knew at least two of them were dead. I’d found their bodies. Before they vanished again.
Ian swore he didn’t know their final resting place. But I had my doubts.
Out in the yard, Lucy reappeared, refreshed. She bounded up the steps and threw herself at Ian’s feet. He grinned and scratched her left ear. She thumped her tail in bliss and rolled over exposing her fluffy, white belly.
I struggled not to smile.
Ian looked at me. Willing my face blank, I waited for him to continue. He folded his hands in his lap.
“This appears to be a woman,” he said slowly. “From the clothing. The rest is . . . well, bones.”
This news would ricochet around our small-town-slash-D. C.-bedroom-community like a bullet. I wondered what kind of reaction he’d get from our patrician, pain in the association neighbor, Lydia Stewart. She had at least ten years on (and a serious case of the hots for), Mr. Ian Sterling. As head of the neighborhood homeowners group, she was also a stickler for community rules and regs. And a dead body probably wouldn’t help property values.
