by Adrianne Lee
“That’s not reassuring, Daryl Anne,” Mom said. “You know how narrow-minded Sheriff Gooden can be. They’re probably strip-searching Whitey right now.”
My mouth fell open at the suggestion, even as I realized why she must’ve said it. I wanted to throw up. “Did they strip-search you?”
Her face flushed to a shade of hot pink, and she visibly shuddered.
I closed my eyes against images of the humiliation this gentle, proper woman had endured while she’d been incarcerated, charged with murdering Meg’s mother. But I couldn’t quell the nausea.
A cough of someone clearing their throat caught my attention. I glanced toward the storeroom door and spied my paternal grandmother, Wilhelmina Blessing—known to one and all as Billie—standing there. Tall and reed thin, dressed in vintage Chanel, she wore her black hair twisted into a chignon. She was scowling, her lips pursed, and I could see trouble brewing in those blue eyes that were so like my own.
Apparently Seth caught it, too. “It’s procedure,” he said, striding toward the love seat. He kept his voice soft as though to absorb some of the shock and dismay lingering like a noxious cloud in the room. “But it’s only done if you’re placed under arrest.”
Maybe Mom would listen to him, if not to me. After all, Seth wasn’t just friends with Troy; they also shared a working relationship. He knew a little about law enforcement stuff.
“See, Mom. Seth agrees. The police are only questioning Whitey.”
“Seth, weren’t you called in to take photos at Bernice’s?” Billie asked.
“Yes,” Seth admitted.
“Well, then maybe you caught something on film that will lead to the real culprit,” Billie said.
Seth shook his head. “I’m not allowed to discuss the actual investigation with anyone at this point, Billie.”
Mom pleaded with her gaze. “Sheriff Gooden even checked my purse, as if that cake serving set would fit into my clutch.”
“They’ll check Whitey’s van and his briefcase, too, Mom.”
“They won’t find anything. He didn’t take it. It was on the counter when we left that wretched shop. I’ll swear to that.”
“What did you photograph at Bernice’s?” I asked Seth. “A bare countertop?”
“I can’t say.” He gave me a you-know-better-than-to-ask look.
“She should’ve put something that valuable in a locked display case,” Billie said.
Mom scrunched her face as if she might spit. “What Bernice should’ve done was hired Whitey to add security cameras. Instead, in front of the whole town, mind you, she accuses him of ripping her off!”
The whole town again? Wow. I’d only seen my usually mild-mannered mother this close to losing it once before, and I didn’t relish a repeat, but my tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth, leaving me unable to speak.
“I’ll never buy another thing from that woman. I’ll have her Bunco card revoked.” Gram could quell a bridezilla with that raised eyebrow.
“Is there such a thing as a Bunco card?” Jenny asked, startling me. My mouth dried. I hadn’t seen her standing in the shadows behind Gram. Was Hannah lurking nearby, too? Probably. But I was more concerned about Jenny. This was hardly the first-day impression to be giving a new employee. She had a deer-in-the-headlights glaze to her eyes while her body seemed ready for flight. Probably wondering if she’s made a major error taking a job with the obviously insane Blessing family. If she quit, we’d be hard pressed to find a replacement on such short notice.
On the other hand, adversity proved mettle. If Jenny fled, then she wouldn’t have been able to handle the wedding expo either. We needed an assistant with backbone and pluck. Someone who could take whatever came her way and handle it with poise.
Gram didn’t answer the Bunco card question. She started toward the door, her face set. “I’m going to give that Bernice a piece of my mind. Right now.”
“No.” I hurried after her, catching her at the door. I impulsively grabbed for her arm but caught her injured wrist by mistake. She yelped, but stopped. She’d cracked the same bone twice in two months, and it wasn’t healing as quickly as the first time. “Oh my God, Gram, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“Nothing like the hurt I’m going to put on Bernice.”
CHAPTER THREE
“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?” I asked Meg as we finished our morning run and approached the source of our after-jog reward.
Meg tugged off the scrunchie holding her mass of curls at bay. She gave a shake of her head. Her hair tumbled free around her shoulders, catching glints of sunlight in its fiery strands. “Social media killed it.”
“Really?” I toweled my forehead. The only thing glinting on me was sweat. “On what do you base your conclusion—?”
“Observation. Haven’t you noticed that everyone seems to think their opinion about a crime is what happened rather than what the actual evidence proves? They don’t give a fig about the damage their careless speculation does to the often-innocent, accused individual and his or her family.”
I could attest to that, having been through it when my mom was in jail. “Bernice doesn’t have one bit of proof against Whitey, but she’s got tongues wagging like red flags in a high wind. Mom is beside herself, and Billie is plotting revenge.” I was no better off. Running four miles this morning hadn’t unfurled the knot of anger inside me.
Meg patted my back. “Be thankful Blessing’s Bridal doesn’t rely on locals to sustain its income. Unlike this espresso stand.”
“Huh?”
“My point is that a small business like this could be damaged if nasty rumors were flying around about its proprietor. Locals might shun this coffee shop, whereas you don’t have to rely on locals to sustain your income.”
“I am grateful that gossip won’t hurt our bottom line, but I don’t like knowing friends and neighbors are making quick judgments based on the skewed accusations of one woman. How do you defend that?”
“You don’t. You ignore it.”
But what if Bernice was right? What if Whitey had taken the cake server set? What do we really know about him? I couldn’t bring myself to say that out loud. Not even to Meg. It just felt too disloyal to Mom.
“I can’t believe anyone would treat your family badly. If not for the bridal shop, this place would be a ghost town,” Meg declared, digging into the coin pouch built into her jogging pants.
Meg was dead serious, but her fierce loyalty warmed my heart. I laughed. “You make it sound like we were EMTs resurrecting a drowning victim.”
“You were.”
“Like death and taxes, weddings will occur,” I said. “That is what kept us afloat when those around us were sinking. The city council took note and made some smart choices.”
“Turning this town into a one-stop wedding site was brilliant, yes, but if not for Blessing’s Bridal, that inspired idea wouldn’t likely have popped into anyone’s head.”
She was right. Renaming the stores and gearing merchandise toward all things bridal had saved this town. My gaze zeroed in on the espresso shop. The proprietor, Priscilla Pressley, was a rabid Elvis fan. Her house and shop were filled with Elvis memorabilia. Two husbands had run off because she was more in love with the deceased icon than with them.
Meg leaned in. “If Priscilla’s current boyfriend were accused of a crime, Pre-Wedding Jitters would be singing ‘Heartbreak Hotel.’”
Instead, what issued from the speakers of the latte stand was Elvis crooning “Suspicious Minds,” mocking me. I cringed and considered skipping the grande caramel macchiato I’d been anticipating. But Meg dragged me through the door. The interior was smaller than the average Starbucks, the seating limited to four cocktail-sized tables, all of them, thankfully, empty at the moment.
My mouth watered at the rush of rich aromas filling my senses. I love coffee. Not that I’ve tried every variety offered here, but I’m working on it. Just not today. I followed Meg to the counter and listened to
her order. Maybe it was my mood, or maybe I was being paranoid, but I felt like someone was staring at me. When I glanced over my shoulder, I came eye to eye with a life-sized cutout of Elvis Presley. Everywhere I looked… Elvis.
I whispered to my best friend, “A more appropriate name for this place would’ve been Graceland.”
Meg stifled a laugh. “Priscilla probably considered that but didn’t want to get sued. Besides, that name doesn’t have a wedding connection that the city council would’ve approved.”
I smiled at the barista. Not Priscilla, but her daughter, named Lisa Marie, of course. She had attitude and a fresh mouth, was twenty, pretty, and knew it. She and Meg exchanged a look of empathy, a bond that had formed between them when Lisa Marie’s fiancé dumped her a while back for the daughter of his rich boss.
Lisa Marie seemed to have put heartbreak behind her faster than Meg. But then she hadn’t also lost her mother. She said, “Daryl Anne, I’m sorry about the rumors flying around. I don’t believe them for a minute. Especially after talking to the new temp at SOSN this morning and getting the real scoop.”
“SOSN?” Meg asked.
“Something Old, Something New,” I said. “What scoop, Lisa Marie?”
Lisa Marie started our drinks, speaking louder to be heard over the grinding of the coffee beans. “Apparently, Bernice wasn’t even in the main area of the shop when the Roosevelt cake server set went missing. A sudden influx of customers crowded into the store as soon as Bernice had disappeared into the back room to deal with a recent delivery. The new girl had been about to place the set your mom and her beau had been looking at into the safe. She got distracted and forgot. When she remembered, the cake server set had vanished.”
“Did she tell the police?” Meg asked.
Lisa Marie shook her head as she worked her magic with the espresso machine. It began to hiss and steam. “She’s afraid she’ll lose her job, and she really needs the work.”
I didn’t want to, but I felt sorry for the girl. Considering how vehemently Bernice had come after Whitey, she would surely fire the young woman. My sympathy, however, didn’t extend to having someone else arrested for a crime they didn’t commit or having their reputation destroyed by false accusations. “She must come forward.”
“I’m working on her to fess up. If not to Bernice, then to Sheriff Gooden.”
I agreed. Her silence wasn’t helping Whitey.
“I told her shit happens,” Lisa Marie said. “We all deal with sticky-fingered customers. That’s what insurance is for. It even happens here. Someone jacked an Elvis and Priscilla mug recently. Not sure exactly when, but Mom noticed right off.”
Probably mislaid it, I thought. Priscilla wasn’t exactly the roundest CD in the jukebox.
Lisa Marie handed me my drink. “It was only a ten-dollar mug. Not worth submitting to insurance. Cost of doing business sometimes.”
“Where is your mom, by the way?” Meg stuck a straw through the lid of her espresso cup.
Lisa Marie rolled her eyes. “Off with the King Sisters. That’s her Elvis sisterhood. Somewhere in Reno investigating the latest Elvis sighting.”
Grinning, we headed to one of the empty tables just as three young women rushed in. Two of them were laughing and chatting; the third was head down, eyes on her cell phone. They placed their orders and retreated to a nearby table.
Meg and I were still chuckling over Priscilla and her sisterhood on their fruitless hunt. Meg said, “Long live the king.”
My phone vibrated. “Ah, it’s a text from Seth.”
Meg smiled. “I like that man.”
“Me too.” I read the text. “Hey, did you know about this? Your dad is fixing dinner for Mom, Whitey, Gram, and me at the café tonight. Apparently Seth is invited, too.”
“Oh no, I forgot to tell you. Dad will shoot me. He’s so pissed at how people are reacting to Bernice’s accusation that he wants your mom and Billie to know he doesn’t believe it for a minute. Please say you don’t have plans already.”
“Are you kidding?” I somehow managed to say over the lump of gratitude in my throat. The best gifts didn’t always come wrapped with ribbons and bows, I realized, but were more precious than anything money could buy. “We’ll be there.”
“Six sharp. He’s shutting the café down for the night to do this.”
I smiled, noticing how my espresso tasted even better than it had a second ago.
A sudden outcry from the other table startled me. “Oh my God,” one of the young women said. “According to TMZ, Peter Wolfe has eloped with his new assistant.”
Sighs of regret followed the announcement.
I jerked my gaze to Meg, distress flooding my veins. She looked stricken. I reached for her hand. “It’s probably not even true.”
“I don’t have my phone,” Meg said, patting herself down. Unlike most of our friends, she’d grown up without electronic devices. Big Finn wanted his daughter to stay connected with people in person and not through a screen. So Meg never considered her cell an extension of herself. She could take it or leave it. Mostly, she mislaid it. “Google it on yours.”
I pulled up the TMZ website, and there it was. Top of the newsfeed. International star Peter Wolfe eloped today with his new personal assistant, Ash Moon. Peter was the actor Meg had almost married eight weeks earlier. Ash was Meg’s former makeup artist assistant on the sitcom we’d worked for in Los Angeles, now Peter’s new assistant.
“Wasn’t Peter Wolfe engaged to marry someone else a couple of months ago?” asked another of the women at the next table. “Someone who used to live around here?”
Meg stumbled to her feet and rushed out the door. I hurried after her, but when I got outside, she was gone.
* * *
I worried about Meg all afternoon as I attended to giddy brides-to-be and juggled their opinionated entourages. She wasn’t answering her phone or my text messages. Not that this was of real concern. Meg might have just not found her phone yet.
I kept telling myself that as I peered into my closet trying to decide what to wear to dinner. I’d learned my sense of style from my grandmother. My wardrobe consisted of classic pieces at its foundation, which I updated with trendy accessories. Tonight was a balmy seventy-five. I slipped into some espadrilles and reached for a DVF wrap dress with a summery pattern of pinks and reds. I’d picked it up in a favorite Los Angeles consignment shop where there were racks of designer discards culled from rich Hollywood wives and sold at knockoff prices. I missed that shop.
“Wow,” Seth responded when he showed up to walk me to the café. “I like.”
“I’m glad. I wore it for you.” I strove to keep my voice light, but Seth was too sharp. He picked up on my stressful mood.
I turned to shut and lock the back door of the bridal shop, and Seth leaned over me and whispered in my ear, “If I could take away the worry lines around your beautiful mouth, Blessing, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
I shifted around, gazing first at his sexy lips and then into his eyes, melting at the affection that greeted me. “How exactly would you do that, Quinlan?”
“Any way you want me to. Use your imagination.” He traced a finger from my temple to my chin, a crooked smile softening his sharp features and sending tendrils of need soaring through me.
“I have a vivid imagination,” I warned, my voice breathy with desire.
“I’m counting on that. But right now, we’re expected elsewhere.”
I was glad traffic had died down to around twenty or so cars and that the crowded sidewalks of earlier were now passable. Seth took my hand then, right there on Front Street, where anyone passing by or looking out a window could see. Let the gossipy imaginations run wild. I didn’t care. His touch was warm, his grip possessive yet tender, and my hand seemed small and delicate against his palm. My pulse danced. If just holding his hand made me feel this much better, I might die a joyous death while receiving his full-on, stress-releasing treatment.
I struggled
to regain my composure. “Mom, Whitey, and Gram left about ten minutes ago.”
He picked up our pace. “I don’t like being the last one to a party.”
A group of shoppers flowed around us like salmon swimming upstream.
“Party? Is that what you call dinner with friends?”
“Any time with you is a party.”
I smirked, shaking my head. “Okay, you win.”
“Good. I like winning.” He leaned toward me, his breath feathery on my cheek. “And I love nights like this. It feels like there’s magic in the air. Do you feel it, Blessing?”
I glanced at the blue sky, listened to the seagulls crying, and smelled the salty air. It was a magical place to be sure, but no matter how much I wanted to lose myself in romantic suggestions and fantasies, my mind kept returning to Meg. “I suppose…”
“You suppose?”
I sighed. “I’m worried about Meg.”
“Oh, I think she’ll be fine.”
“Fine? How can you say that?” He hadn’t seen her reaction that morning to the news about Peter and Ash. I stopped in my tracks as something occurred to me. “You did hear the news, right?”
“What news?” He seemed overly cautious, not like someone about to be told something they didn’t know, but like someone afraid of giving out information that he shouldn’t be offering.
I plunged on despite that strangeness. “Peter Wolfe eloped this afternoon with Meg’s former assistant, Ash Moon.”
His expression relaxed. “Oh, sure, I heard. But you say that like Meg not marrying Wolfe was a mistake.”
“No, no. It’s not that. As far as I’m concerned, Meg dodged a bullet two months ago. But she was hit with some hard life lessons, and I’m not convinced she’s come to terms with it all. I mean, it would be a lot for a mentally grounded person to work through. Whereas Meg usually runs with her heart.” Often to her detriment.
“Is that such a bad thing?”
“No.” In fact, one of the things I loved about Meg was her spontaneity. Or maybe it was a trait I envied, rather than loved, since I tended too much toward caution. I explained to Seth how we’d learned of the elopement. “It’s just that, after she found out, she took off, and I haven’t been able to reach her since this morning.”
