A Veiled Deception

by Annette Blair

  “What about the autopsy?” I asked. “Any clues there?”

  “You watch too much TV. We don’t have the report yet, and if we did, I wouldn’t be discussing it with you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, relaxed now that my official statement had been taken.

  “No problem. It’s natural to be curious, especially when you’re the one who found the body.”

  “No,” I said. “I apologize for giving you that nickname in school. Kids can be cruel. I’m sorry I was a typical, cruel kid.”

  He looked at me as if he actually saw me, maybe for the first time, until his gaze focused beyond me . . . to a hurtful place?

  Guilt skewered me, but Werner’s sigh held a “c’est la vie” quality. “I like to think of that episode in my life as character building,” he said. “Because of it, I learned to fistfight at an early age, work out regularly, and generally stand up for myself, which encouraged me to enter the police academy.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I would have been a wuss, without your ‘help,’ and I use the term loosely.” He shook his head philosophically. “Who knows, but for you, I might be a shut-in computer nerd, instead of a detective. I didn’t like what you did, but I took what I could from it and threw the rest away.”

  “So you forgive me?”

  His grin wasn’t meant to be pleasant. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Okay, so you’re not a forgiving man, but you are a fair one.”

  “I am. I want the real killer, Madeira. I hope, for your sake, it’s not your sister.”

  “It’s not. Thank you.” I turned to go back to the waiting room, but he took my arm and steered me around toward a side door that led to the parking lot.

  My father and Cort were exchanging literary quotes in lieu of conversation.

  Justin stopped pacing when he saw me.

  “Where’s Sherry?” I asked him.

  “She and Fiona haven’t come out, yet, and they went in for questioning before us.”

  “Baste it!” I swore. “And your mother?”

  “She’s not out yet, either.”

  Deborah came out almost immediately, but another fifteen minutes passed before Sherry joined us, and she’d been crying. I met her and took her in my arms, everyone crowding around us, but as soon as Justin broke through, Sherry moved into his arms.

  “Are you okay, hon?” he asked, smoothing her hair back from her brow. She was looking down, so we couldn’t see her face.

  After a minute, Sherry pulled a bit away from Justin to address us. “Somebody told them that I called Jasmine a bitch and threatened her life.”

  Denial echoed around the group, with one exception.

  “Deborah!” Cort snapped.

  Justin growled. “Damn it, Mom!”

  Deborah furrowed her brows attempting to look innocent. “The woman detective asked me if anybody had said anything incriminating. We were supposed to tell the truth, weren’t we? Did you all lie when they asked you that? I mean this is a horrible scandal we’re being dragged into.” She slid her gaze to Sherry and away so fast, blame might not have been assigned, but it was. “I mean,” she said, “it’s all embarrassing enough without lying.”

  Cort looked disgusted with his wife, but the questions he shot at her revealed that Deborah had been the only one interviewed by the female detective who might, or might not, have asked about incriminating statements.

  Deborah patted Sherry’s shoulder in the way one might so as to keep from catching guilt cooties by association. “I’m glad you weren’t arrested, dear.”

  Deborah turned to me with a smile. A smile, the stitch. “Madeira, you have something to drop off, don’t forget. And dinner at our house tonight at seven.” Deborah waved as she left, got into her powder blue Mercedes, and drove away.

  Cort didn’t look happy as he got into his taupe version of the same car and followed.

  Justin and Sherry exchanged glances. “Eloping sounds good about now,” Justin said.

  “I can’t leave the state,” Sherry whispered.

  “Screw work,” Justin snapped. “I’m not leaving you today. Let’s get out of here.” He put Sherry in his car and they left together.

  “I couldn’t ask for a better son-in-law,” my father said.

  Given Justin’s past connection to Jasmine, I sure hoped Dad was right.

  Nine

  Zest is the secret of all beauty. There is no beauty that is attractive without zest.—CHRISTIAN DIOR

  I touched Fiona’s arm. “Aunt Fiona, can I follow you home? I’d like to talk to you.”

  “I was going to suggest it myself, dear. I’ll make us some lunch. Eve, will you be joining us?”

  “No, thank you, Fiona. Mad can drop me at home on the way. I need to go over to UConn. Get my paperwork settled. Scope it out for fall courses.”

  I made sure my dad was okay before I got in my car, and I let him leave first, so I could follow and make sure he got home all right. I dropped Eve at her parents’ with a promise to call her after tonight’s dinner at Deborah’s.

  Dad’s car sat in our drive when I went by and I saw him walking down our sloping lawn toward the Mystic River. This must be hard on him, but he tended to suffer in silence, my dad, so who could tell what he was thinking?

  I appreciated being home again with nature all around me. The house lots here in Mystick Falls were huge and staggered so that the riverside houses had a front-door view of the woods and the wood-side houses had a front-door view of the river.

  Fiona’s house looked more like a small Irish manor, mystical, inside and out, as if it belonged on a hillside surrounded by moors facing the Irish Sea. Not that I expected to see the occasional leprechaun, but I did find myself humming the theme song to the Wizard of Oz as I pulled into the driveway. Oy.

  A tribute to her personality, her home spoke of her zest for life in all its intricacies, a quality I had always admired.

  Perhaps because I’d seen that zest up close and personal during the occasional moon dance as a toddler? Add to that my formative years, during which I’d earned the right to walk in without knocking, a habit I took advantage of at this moment.

  Aunt Fiona was on the phone and she signaled that she’d be another minute.

  Inside, her textured earth-tone walls covered a spectrum of colors from clay to sand to Connecticut’s wild honeysuckle. Celtic symbols adorned fabrics and artwork, even floor tiles . . . suns, moons, and stars dominating.

  Candles—pillars, floaters, tapers, tea lights, gelled and jarred—occupied arches and corners, tables and counters. A few were lit, filling the air with the sweet summer scents of honeysuckle, sandalwood, and frangipani, my favorite combination, and Aunt Fiona knew it.

  She loved thick, cushy upholstered furniture, so comfortable you could sink in and meditate . . . or fall asleep.

  She hung up and hugged me, soothing all my ragged emotions without words. We didn’t always need words, between us. I hadn’t quite realized that until this minute.

  “Seeing your house again makes me realize that over the years, ours has morphed from Mom’s quaint Early American decor to Dad’s tobacco-scented early faculty lounge.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Fiona said, her Irish eyes smiling. “In other words, it’s a house for a man’s man.”

  “Well, Dad doesn’t spit on the floors or anything.”

  We chuckled as we imagined something so vulgar from Harry Cutler.

  From the mantel I picked up the picture of Fiona and my mother at their college graduation, arm in arm, both of them beaming. I touched my mom’s face and missed her with a depth that caused an ache in my chest. I swallowed, cleared my throat, and replaced the picture.

  The murder, the resultant stress, including the reminder of my mother’s death in that house, and now the photo, pushed an old question to the front of my mind. “Why haven’t you and my dad been able to get along since Mom died?”

  Fiona looked up sharply. “That’s not a simple question to answer.�
��

  “I guess that’s between you and my dad. Forget I asked.”

  “Madeira, you and I have always shared a special relationship. The time you spent here as a child meant a lot to me. I used to look forward to you showing up with your latest sewing project. Back then, your questions were about your latest clothing design.

  “It was a lot easier to tell you how to master a certain stitch than to talk about the past. I’ll try to do justice to your question. It’s valid. Just give me a little time.”

  I always wanted instant answers, but I forced myself to be patient. “Fair enough.” I smiled as I remembered fondly all the time I’d spent with her when I was younger. “I grew up in this place, when you think about it, learning to make pot holders and latch-hook rugs, crocheting doilies, and best of all, sewing and designing.”

  She smiled. “You took the step from sewing to designing all by yourself, sweetie. I gave you fabric, needles, and thread, and you ran with them, straight to a sketching pad.”

  “Speaking of sewing, Sherry tried on Deborah’s wedding dress this morning.”

  Fiona winced. “How badly did she hate it?”

  “It’s exquisite, a cross between my style and Sherry’s, but I can turn it into Sherry’s dream dress.”

  “So? Problem solved?”

  “Well, that one is.”

  Fiona reached over and patted my hand. “I know. This morning is hard to call, but it could have been worse. I can’t discuss the details with you. Lawyer/client privilege and all that, but Sherry can tell you.”

  “I’m gonna do some snooping on my own, so I’d appreciate knowing what might have happened between Sherry and Jasmine before Sherry became your client, or between Jasmine and anyone else in the neighborhood, before I came home. Can you think of anybody who’d want to kill her?”

  “Given the bitch factor? Everybody.”

  “That’s a big help.”

  “It’s a fact.” Aunt Fiona went to the kitchen.

  I followed. “Can I help?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve prepped something quick and easy.”

  I sat on a bar stool facing her as she made us each a plate of chicken and green grape salad on greens.

  I stole a grape and popped it in my mouth. “Mmm. Did you notice anyone else, besides Jasmine and Sherry, disappearing toward the end of the party the other night?”

  “Not that I can think of.” She poured iced tea. “Deborah, maybe, for a short time. I noticed because of the lack of judgment in the room.” Aunt Fiona popped a grape herself and winked.

  I found it difficult to make small talk. My mind was too full of the mystery bride. “Aunt Fiona, something happened to me while I was working on the wedding gown this morning,” I admitted with a rush. “Something spooky weird.”

  Fiona stopped scooping salad, rested her hands on the counter, and looked up at me, ready to hear whatever I had to say. I’d told this woman when my “pet” toad dried up in the sun and when Nick dated somebody else for the first time.

  Dear, wise Aunt Fiona always listened.

  My hands trembled again, and I hid them in my lap. “I went into some kind of . . . trance, or I had a vision or something. I saw another woman wearing Deborah’s wedding dress. A maid, I think. She was being fitted for the gown by a seamstress in a gorgeous room that belonged in a castle.”

  Fiona crossed her lips with a finger and looked at me as if she were trying to decide how to answer. Then she nodded, finished making lunch, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and brought our plates to her glass-topped kitchen table. We always ate in her sunny kitchen, leaving her antique oak refectory dining-room set with its carved chairs, hutch, and buffet for special occasions.

  I grabbed our glasses of iced tea and brought them with me to the table.

  “First,” Fiona said, “if you want to know about old gossip, go see Mrs. Sweet’s mother-in-law. Dolly Sweet knows all the juicy bits.”

  “Right. Thanks.” I tasted the salad and sighed.

  “Psychometry,” Fiona said.

  “What?” I put down my fork, my throat suddenly too tight to swallow.

  “A psychometric can touch something and learn about its owner, or owners, or anything about the object’s past. Works best with antiques . . . and, apparently, with vintage clothes, though that might take a specialist. You?” She opened her mouth to say something more and took a sip of her tea instead.

  A shiver ran up my spine and the hair on the back of my neck stood to salute. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  She put down her glass of tea and released a breath. “You inherited your psychometric ability from your mother.”

  The clouds in my mind parted and the sun broke through. I felt close to my mother for the first time in eighteen years. “A long-dormant gift,” Eve had called it. A gift from my mom. “Mom was psychic?”

  My throat got tight again. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, or run and hide. A frightening gift. Power, an accessory that I didn’t ask for or want. What was the downside of power, I wondered, but I knew instinctively.

  Responsibility. I scoffed inwardly. God knew, I could deal with that.

  Hands cupped my shoulders. Comforting, but not Mom’s. I hadn’t realized Aunt Fiona had come around the table. “It’s a daunting gift,” I said, turning to her. “I love it because it’s from Mom, but—”

  “Your father will kill me if he finds out I told you.” She gave a small smile. “Sorry, bad joke.”

  “That’s why you and Dad don’t get along. You know things he wants to forget.”

  “Something like that.” She sat down again and covered my hand with hers. “Madeira, I think the universe is trying to tell you something. Your mother would have thought the same.”

  “You two were a lot alike, weren’t you? Dancing beneath the moon and all that?”

  “Like sisters,” Aunt Fiona said. “Soul mates, I believe. And I don’t mean like she and your dad were soul mates. That was love, the real thing. I envied her that, but I was happy for her.”

  “He’s a good dad.”

  “Harry? He’s the best. The sad truth is that I fell for him, too, but he only ever saw Kathleen.”

  “Have you been carrying a torch for my dad all these years?”

  “You tell him and I’ll—I’ll—”

  “Turn me into a toad?”

  “Let’s save that conversation for when you’re not on information overload.”

  “Bummer,” I said, and she smiled.

  “If I’m psychometric,” I added, a conditional exploration of the gift settling in, “then I’m going down to the Underhill Funeral Chapel carriage house to lean against the outside wall and suck up all its secrets.”

  “That old shack. Why?”

  “A shack. That’s what Eve calls it.”

  “That’s what everybody calls it. They say it’s haunted.”

  An unexpected thrill of anticipation shot through me. “Haunted? Seriously?” Now why should that entice me? Maybe because I was already haunted by the bride of my so-called psychometric vision.

  Fiona shrugged. “Who knows? What do you care about that old place?”

  “I don’t know, but it . . . appeals to me, always has, to be truthful. Do you know who owns it?”

  “No, but I could find out. I hope it’s because you want a tour. Maybe you could poke around a little. Though Goddess knows why you’d want to.”

  I’d heard Aunt Fiona say “Goddess knows” a hundred times, but I’d never quite picked up on it before. Neither had I surrendered myself so openly to the spiritual pulse in the air here. I couldn’t define it, but it touched me. Today its warmth welcomed and consoled me. Mom, are you here?

  Goddess knew.

  Was it this house or was my newfound and dubious psychic ability coming into play?

  Every house in Mystick Falls hailed from the nineteenth century, though ours was a century older, so we were talking living history here. Residual energy, perhaps. Entities from beyond this
plane.

  No, all our houses couldn’t be haunted, though maybe Fiona’s could. For the first time, I sought meaning in the Celtic symbols around me. I listened for their wise whispers and welcomed their comforting peace. One wall hanging in particular caught my attention—a spiral of assorted stars in bronze, silver, and gold—surrounding a mating sun and quarter moon.

  I went and stroked the brilliant piece of folk art, feeling closer to my mother than I had in years.

  “That was your mother’s,” Fiona said. “I took it off the curb where your father had left it for trash pickup and brought it here.”

  “It” represented more than a tapestry, it symbolized the kinship that Mom and Fiona shared.

  Besides my troubling psychic ability, what else could I have inherited from my mother? What precisely had brought Kathleen O’Reilly Cutler and Fiona Sullivan, college strangers, together, besides their Celtic heritage? Was it their penchant for dancing beneath the moon?

  I turned to ask Aunt Fiona how she and Mom met in college, but she’d left the room, as if she understood that I had puzzles to ponder and a mother to remember.

  “I have a gift for you,” she said, returning, cuddling a plump, bright little honey-colored fur ball.

  “For me? Oh, Aunt Fiona, she? He?” I checked. “She’s adorable. I took the kitten into my arms and something odd happened. “Aunt Fiona, I cuddled her and got the most amazing tingle in my middle and at the same time, joy and well-being seemed to fill me.”

  Aunt Fiona grinned. “She has an effect on your solar plexus? Isn’t that interesting?”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s yellow and that’s your yellow chakra. When it’s in balance, it brings a sense of well-being, positive thinking, and joy.”

  “It’s like we’re connected, somehow. Like she’s supposed to be mine. What’s her name?”

  Aunt Fiona looked rather like the cat that ate the canary. “I call her Fraidy Cat, because she’s afraid of everything. Your father doesn’t want a watchdog; too big and too much trouble to walk, he says. I suggested one the other night. But Fraidy Cat frightens easily, and when she’s scared, watch out.”