The strange man, whom I didn’t know, stood near a rose-covered arbor, chatting with my part-time, nearly certified accountant, Fidelia Tutweiler.
Abigail’s young assistant, a dark-haired young man named Dexter Shipley, who probably shouldn’t have been mingling, rounded out the strange trio.
Shaking her head, Moxie made a tsk-tsking sound. “Too bad the monk is messing up the Yankee Doodle party with an outfit that’s totally off theme.”
“Let’s just hope he doesn’t mess up the vows,” Piper said, handing her empty plate to another passing server. “Because, believe it or not, that guy—‘Brother’ Alf Sievers, from Graystone Arches Gateway to Eternity ‘monastery’—is performing the ceremony.”
I hesitated for a long moment, not sure if I should give Piper even more reason to worry. Then I took her by the arm and said, “I really think we should talk. In private.”
However, before I could tell Piper that I knew a perhaps troubling bit of information about the man of the burlap cloth, Abigail Sinclair, who’d been absent all evening, suddenly burst onto the scene, telling me, in no uncertain terms, “Daphne Templeton! Maid of honor! I need to see you right now!”
Chapter 2
“I’m completely booked for the next two weeks,” I told Abigail, who hadn’t summoned me for a wedding-related emergency. Rather, the imperious, forty-something event planner was trying to compel me to watch her accident-prone little cat, Ms. Peebles, starting the very next day, when Abigail, of all people, knew I’d be preoccupied. I followed her as she strode through the dark first floor of the mansion where her business was headquartered, trying to protest over the click of her four-inch stilettos. “I am really sorry, but I’m overcommitted, due to holiday travel, and I have to bake for All Paws on Deck.” All at once, I was struck by what I thought was a good idea. “Why can’t Dexter watch Ms. Peebles? He is your assistant.”
We were in a narrow corridor leading to the commercial kitchen, which glowed ahead of us, and Abigail spun to face me for a moment. “While Ms. Peebles and Dexter could do just fine, Dexter’s roles are very defined, and do not include pet care,” she said firmly. Her steely blue eyes, which made all local florists, DJs and bakers bow before her, glittered in the dim hallway. “Meanwhile, I’m sure it only takes a professional like yourself a few minutes to feed Ms. Peebles and change her litter.”
“But it’s at least a fifteen-minute drive here, each way, for me,” I pointed out, talking to the back of Abigail’s dark red sheath and sleek, blond chignon. She’d wheeled around and resumed walking. “That’s a half hour every day. And we both know that Ms. Peebles is prone to getting into trouble. It usually takes another half hour to find her, rescue her and get her calmed down.”
Abigail’s response was a dismissive waggle of her fingers, over her shoulder, as she passed into the kitchen. A big diamond I’d never noticed before glittered even more brightly than her eyes. “You’ll figure it out.”
“But . . .”
Whatever argument I’d been about to mount fizzled when I entered the softly lit room to discover Daisy Carpenter working at a huge island with a durable quartz countertop. While the room was homey, decorated in country French style, it was also oversized and equipped with restaurant-quality appliances for the various caterers who worked Abigail’s events.
“Hey, Daisy,” I said, abandoning my one-sided discussion with Abigail for a moment to greet the young woman who was practically my in-law. I was certain that, if canine marriage was ever a thing, Socrates and Snowdrop would be the first dogs to get hitched. “How’s Snowdrop feeling?”
Daisy was wiping down the countertop, which was already cleared of bowls and cutting boards, and she didn’t immediately look up. Shrugging, she said, “I think she’ll be good for the wedding tomorrow. She was eating her dinner when I left.”
“Oh, that’s a good sign,” I said. “I’ll be sure to tell Socrates, who is waiting by the gate to go home. I don’t think he could endure another social event without—”
“Daisy!” Abigail interrupted me, speaking sharply to the hired help. She opened a cupboard that I knew held keys to the mansion, no doubt retrieving the spare she always loaned me when I sat for Ms. Peebles. Like Piper, I was being steamrolled. And Daisy was being ordered around, too, without so much as a please or thank-you. “Make more of those skewers before you clean up. The platter is nearly empty!”
Daisy finally looked up, and I saw that her pretty, brown eyes were rimmed with red, like either she was sick—or she had been crying. Her slight frame, under a stained white apron, also looked a bit caved-in, as if she was feeling overwhelmed or defeated. Yet her chin jutted when she tossed down the towel, telling Abigail, “A storm is about to cut loose outside. Everyone will go home in a few minutes.”
As if on cue, lightning flickered outside a pair of French doors, briefly illuminating Daisy, a newcomer to the Sylvan Creek dining scene, and the wedding planner who, let’s face it, basically controlled the local market for catering.
Abigail’s face was stony, her mouth a thin, angry line—until Daisy spoke again, her chin still raised, if a bit shaky. “Plus, you keep holding me . . .”
All at once, Abigail’s eyes grew wide with surprise, just for a moment, before narrowing with warning.
Daisy must’ve understood the look, because she hesitated, then lost all her fire. Her shoulders caved more deeply. “Fine,” she grumbled, casting her eyes downward and grabbing the towel again. Tossing that over her shoulder, she moved to the doors. “I’ll assemble some more. But it will take a few minutes. I already packed the food in my van.”
“Do hurry, dear.” Abigail’s tone was much more conciliatory, if still imperious. I supposed she enjoyed winning small battles and getting her way. She shut the cupboard, a shiny key in her other hand. Striding over to me, she smiled as she pressed it into my palm. “And thank you for watching Ms. Peebles for the next week. You’re the only sitter who understands her.”
I suspected that I was the only person who would repeatedly stick my arm into a chimney flue to pull Ms. Peebles down. But before I could mention that, the smile disappeared from Abigail’s face, and, as thunder shook the mansion, she suddenly shifted the conversation to a topic I’d been dreading, and trying to avoid all night, for a number of reasons.
“So, Daphne,” Abigail said, crossing her arms and tapping her red nails against her crimson suit, “is Roger’s best man going to show up for the wedding? Or is your Detective Jonathan Black still missing in action?”
Chapter 3
When the storm that had been brewing all evening finally hit, it struck with a vengeance, drenching the buffet table, which Abigail had stubbornly insisted on restocking until the bitter end, and sending the few remaining guests, who had lingered too long, running for their vehicles.
As maid of honor, I’d felt obligated to stay until nearly the last minute, although I’d bolted before a few stubborn guests. Even so, Socrates and I had endured a harrowing ride back to our home, Plum Cottage, which was located on Piper’s property, Winding Hill Farm.
By the time my pink 1970s VW Bus had slipped and slid its way up to the isolated, tiny house, tucked away in a forested part of the property, the power was out and hail was clattering on the tin roof.
Thankfully, I was well stocked with candles, and, after changing into a comfortable pair of cotton pajamas, I knelt before the arched stone fireplace, lighting enough votives and pillars to cast the room in a soft, flickering glow.
Soon, the sturdy cottage felt snug and secure, the sound of the rain and thunder joined by Socrates’ soft snores as he dozed on his favorite rug by the hearth. Yet I couldn’t shake a feeling of unease, and not only because Piper’s wedding seemed plagued by problems, from an unhappy groom to a disgruntled, “troubled” bridesmaid and a minister whom I thought was sketchy, to say the least.
I was mainly worried because I hadn’t been able to answer Abigail Sinclair’s very reasonable question regarding the where
abouts of Detective Jonathan Black, who had seemingly dropped off the face of the Earth in the days before he was supposed to serve as best man.
Shuffling to the kitchen in my favorite pair of fluffy slippers, I put the teakettle on the gas stove, then picked up my phone, which I’d left on my spindle-legged antique table. Poising my index finger over the screen, I prepared to tap in a familiar number. Then I paused, and my gaze cut to the potted herbs on my deep kitchen windowsill, where a surly, black Persian cat was half hidden, the better to watch me with big, orange, critical eyes.
“You don’t think I should call Jonathan again, do you?” I asked Tinkleston, whose tail was twitching. “You think I’m starting to seem desperate, right?”
Tinks meowed loudly in reply. I was pretty sure he agreed that I had called Jonathan one too many times, without getting any response from the handsome, sometimes enigmatic homicide detective I’d started dating over the winter.
Things between us had been going great—until March, when Jonathan had left for San Diego, where he was working as a consultant on a naval base that had suffered a series of suspicious deaths.
The temporary job, and Jonathan’s ability to swing a leave of absence from the local force, were testament to his growing reputation as a detective and the respect he’d earned in his past life as a SEAL. I was really happy for him, and for his two dogs, Axis and Artie, who had gone along on the adventure. However, in spite of having a PhD in philosophy, which had taught me the value of patience, I had to admit that I also missed Jonathan. Especially since he had gone completely silent in recent days.
“What if something happened to him?” I mused aloud, while lightning crackled outside. I was sure that the storm was contributing to my unsettled feeling, but I couldn’t help worrying. “It’s not like Jonathan to leave Roger, especially, in the dark on the eve of his wedding!”
I hadn’t expected a response from Tinkleston, but he made another almost plaintive sound, which probably just meant he was hungry.
Setting down the phone, I retrieved some homemade Something’s Fishy Snacks, made with sardines, carrots and sweet potatoes, from the old-fashioned icebox and offered three treats to Tinks.
While he ate, I pulled the whistling kettle off the burner and poured myself a big mug of chamomile tea. Blowing out all but one candle, I picked up the one that still glowed and collected my tea and my phone, then juggled everything the whole way up the iron spiral staircase that led to my loft bedroom.
Setting my supplies on my nightstand, I climbed into bed, pulling the covers over myself, because the night was getting a little chilly as the storm roared past overhead.
A few moments later, Socrates came padding upstairs, headed to the purple velvet cushion where he usually slept. He was still settling in for his nightly meditation when Tinks joined me, too, hopping onto the bed and curling up near my feet.
“Please don’t stare at me like you disapprove,” I whispered to Tinks, so as not to disturb Socrates. The hail had stopped, and rain pattered softly overhead. Reaching past the flickering candle, I picked up my phone. “I can’t help it. I have to make sure Jonathan’s okay. And I need to know why he’s disappeared.”
When I said that word, “disappeared,” against a low rumble of thunder, I suddenly got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, recalling a conversation I’d once had with Gabriel Graham. The savvy reporter, who sometimes clashed with Jonathan, had reminded me that everyone had secrets. Especially Navy SEALs who’d seen combat, and who didn’t like to talk about the past.
But if Jonathan wasn’t who I believed him to be, I’d made a huge mistake, falling for him . . .
“No,” I whispered, causing Tinks’s ears to twitch. “I can trust Jonathan.”
I promised myself that, and yet, once again, my phone call went directly to voice mail—as I simultaneously received a text.
Fumbling, I quickly switched to my messages, only to realize that Jonathan and I didn’t have our wires crossed.
“Oh, rats,” I mumbled, unable to contain a twinge of disappointment to see Daisy Carpenter’s name on my screen, followed by a message that expressed her continued agitation with Abigail Sinclair.
Don’t take the cat sitting job for Abigail. Return the keys ASAP and tell her firmly: NO DEAL! Seriously, do it now!
I sympathized with Daisy, but I didn’t want to get dragged into a feud. I also wanted to get some sleep, because I had a big day looming. Still, I felt like I should at least offer to listen if she needed to vent, so I quickly texted back, Need to talk? I am here.
I expected my phone to ring right away, but in a few seconds, the screen went black and stayed that way.
Setting it on the nightstand, I took a sip of tea, blew out the candle and snuggled under a cotton sheet, hoping that the increasingly gentle noise of the rain and the softening rumbles of distant thunder would lull me to sleep. But my thoughts, and later my dreams, were troubled. It hardly felt like I’d dozed at all when I woke to the sound of my phone ringing, right near my ear, as if I’d reached for it again during the night.
This time, I didn’t jump. I knew from the wedding march ringtone that I shouldn’t expect to hear Jonathan’s voice when I tapped the receiver icon.
“Piper?” I asked, sitting up straighter and using my free hand to rub my eyes. Then I pulled the phone away from my ear for just a moment, checking the time, in case I’d somehow overslept. But it was still early, and I returned to the call. “What’s up?”
My sister didn’t exchange pleasantries, or even greet me.
“Get up, get dressed and get over here to the Sodgrass Club,” she ordered, sounding like a bridezilla. Except I knew she was distressed, not being a diva, when she added, “This wedding’s no longer a train wreck. It’s completely sunk, like the Titanic!”
Chapter 4
“Why in the world are so many people here?” I asked Piper, edging my way through the bland Par Four Ballroom at the Sodgrass Club, with Socrates on my heels. There were quite a few women and a handful of men milling about, chatting in tones that ranged from low, displeased whispers to loud complaints, and I clutched the too-long skirt of my bridesmaid gown so no one would step on the dragging hem.
Piper—who was not yet dressed for her wedding—was pacing tight circles at the center of the room, which should have been decorated in obnoxiously patriotic fashion, like the garden the night before. It was strange how the lack of bunting and sparkle suddenly seemed alarming. As did the presence of a sweating man in a suit, who was flitting from conversation to conversation, looking very much like a hotel manager trying to forestall some sort of panic. Abigail’s assistant, Dex Shipley, was also striding around the room, a cell phone glued to his ear and a look of concentration on his face.
I stepped in front of my sister, blocking her path. “Seriously, what is going on?”
Things were clearly falling apart around us, but Piper didn’t answer my questions right away. Halting directly before me, she looked me up and down, her brows knit together. “Why are you wearing your bridesmaid gown—which makes you look like the Statue of Liberty?”
Looking down at myself, I picked at the bluish-green, toga-like garment that Abigail had insisted we bridesmaids wear, along with spiky crowns of gladioli, one of which was perched on my curls. “Um . . . When you said get dressed . . .”
“Never mind.” Piper waved away my explanation. “Your outfit is the least of my problems!”
The room was pretty loud, but I heard Socrates make a huffing sound. He’d probably known all along that I should’ve worn regular clothes. Either that, or he was again expressing his disdain for the hideous garment, which made it look like I’d just stepped off a pedestal and waded through a harbor to reach the country club.
Ignoring him and adjusting my tiara, I said, “Please, tell me what’s happening. Because I am completely in the dark.”
Before my sister could answer, Roger joined us, threading his way through the clusters of shocked and disgrun
tled people. “Piper and I stopped by this morning to make sure everything was in order, and it appears that Abigail Sinclair promised this room to six different bridal parties,” he explained, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, like the Sodgrass manager. Roger’s face was an unpleasant shade of gray that clashed with his pale yellow polo shirt, and two dark half-moons, smudged under his eyes, made him appear even more sickly. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve guessed that my sister’s fiancé, who never had more than a cocktail or two at any gathering, hadn’t exercised his usual self-discipline at his bachelor party the night before.
“Are you okay?” I asked, resting my hand on his arm. I was confused by the news about the wedding mix-up, but more worried about the groom, whose flesh was clammy. “Do you need to sit down somewhere?”
“I’m fine,” he insisted, folding up the handkerchief with hands that shook a little. Roger was usually very calm, like Piper, but he seemed to have been pushed to his limits. His brown eyes appeared tired, but there was anger simmering there, too, and he amended his earlier assurance. “Well, I am sick over the fact that, as I predicted, Abigail Sinclair turned out to be a scam artist.”
“Let’s not jump to that conclusion,” I urged, trying to be the calm voice of reason, which was not usually my role when I was around Piper and Roger. “Abigail has a good reputation in this area. This has to be a mistake.”
Piper shook her head. “No, I’ve got to agree with Roger. Abigail told me and a bunch of other brides that she’d reserved the outdoor amphitheater here for the wedding, and this room for the reception. But, according to the manager”—Piper gestured to the panicked man in the suit—“she never contacted the resort.”
“I guarantee you that she cashed the deposit checks,” Roger noted. “I’m sure that money’s gone.”
Down by my feet, Socrates snorted loudly. I was pretty sure he was trying to say, “I told you so.”
Something Borrowed, Something Mewed Page 2
