Something Borrowed, Something Mewed

by Bethany Blake

  “And someplace else to get a drink,” Jonathan noted, nodding to a sign on In a Pickle’s arched doorway.

  CLOSED—SORRY FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE

  Stepping back from the doorway, where a banner that hung above us paradoxically announced the restaurant’s grand opening, I finally noticed that the building’s tall, narrow windows were all dark, just like the window at Flour Power, across the street.

  “Sorry, Socrates,” I said, looking down at the stoic basset hound, who’d hoped to see Snowdrop. He was trying to hide his disappointment, but his tail drooped lower than usual. Turning to Jonathan, I frowned. “I wonder if this has something to do with Abigail and the wedding disaster.”

  “How so?”

  “Daisy Carpenter was supposed to cater Piper’s wedding,” I explained, suddenly recalling the strange exchange I’d witnessed back at Artful Engagements, when I’d thought Daisy might’ve been crying. I didn’t believe in keeping secrets from Jonathan, but I didn’t like gossip—or casting suspicion on friends—so I decided to keep that information to myself, unless Jonathan gave me good reason to share it. “She might be dealing with a bunch of wasted food.”

  The street had grown quieter, and Jonathan bent to unclip the leash from Artie’s collar. The Chihuahua did another happy dance. Then, on some unspoken agreement, we all began to move toward Flour Power, where the Italian coffee maker and some freshly baked treats for pets, and usually people, waited. “What better place to get rid of food than a restaurant?” Jonathan observed. “Shouldn’t she be open, if she has a lot to spare?”

  As we crossed the street, I glanced over my shoulder at the dark restaurant, feeling a touch of concern. “Yes. I suppose so.”

  “So, what will happen, with the wedding?” Jonathan asked when we stopped at the door to Flour Power, where the dogs were already waiting. “Will it take place before Roger leaves the country?”

  “I doubt it,” I reluctantly conceded, digging into the pocket of my jeans to find my keys. “We don’t even have a venue. And everything is booked in the middle of summer.”

  “But if you had a place—”

  “That would be fantastic, but probably impossible,” I said, selecting the right key. I shook my head as I tried to unlock the door. “Not that Piper wanted to get married at the Sodgrass Club. That was Mom and her new best friend Beverly Berendt’s idea, in collaboration with Abigail.”

  Standing behind me, Jonathan dragged his hand through his hair. “There are a lot of suspects in this case, but I can’t deny that your family and friends are mixed up in yet another homicide.”

  All at once, my hand froze as I pictured Roger’s ashen face the morning of the murder. After a night when his whereabouts probably couldn’t be verified, following his party.

  Roger, who’d been upset with Abigail about the wedding, and her treatment of his sister, Dorinda . . .

  “What are you thinking about, Daphne?” Jonathan asked. “I can tell you’re formulating some kind of theory, or considering a clue.”

  “It’s nothing,” I told him, shaking off my concerns and opening the door so the dogs could all trot into the dark, mod-themed bakery. When Jonathan and I were inside, too, I turned to him before I even switched on the lights. Moonlight streamed in through the windows, casting half of Jonathan’s face in shadow. “At least, there’s nothing I want to tell you right now, if that’s okay.”

  Jonathan didn’t say anything for a long time. I wondered if, like me, he was thinking about how our relationship always seemed to walk a tricky tightrope, one that stretched between our personal lives and his job, making things difficult for both of us. But especially for him.

  “Daphne,” he finally said quietly. I could tell that he was choosing his words carefully. “You do know that I’m technically still on leave, and not really assigned to this case—which would create a conflict of interest. I just helped out earlier because I was at the scene.”

  My mouth opened and closed a few times as I realized I might’ve deluded myself a little. “I . . . I guess I did know that, on some level,” I said. “But for some reason, I assumed you would stay until the case was solved . . .”

  He was shaking his head. “No, Daphne. Regardless of whether or not Doebler solves Sinclair’s murder, I’ll need to return to California in less than two weeks.”

  A bigger, heavier silence fell between us, punctuated by the steady click of my cat-shaped clock’s swinging tail and rolling eyes. Even the dogs had the sense to disappear behind the counter into the kitchen, leaving me and Jonathan alone, surrounded by displays full of treats and the sixties-inspired flowers Moxie had painted on the walls. In spite of the cheerful, comforting surroundings, I felt a weight growing inside of myself that was as ponderous as the silence. Maybe I was having a premonition. Or maybe I was just getting better at reading the complex emotions reflected in Jonathan’s eyes.

  “Jonathan?” I took a step closer to him. “What did you want to talk about earlier?”

  He looked away from me, out at the festive street, where twinkle lights glowed in most of the windows and a few tourists still strolled. Fireworks, set off by revelers getting a head start on the holiday, crackled softly in the distance. Meeting my gaze again, Jonathan said, “We should probably sit down. There are things we need to discuss.”

  In spite of how he’d kissed me, and the way we’d just held hands, I felt my heart sinking like a rock to my favorite Mexican sandals. “Just tell me what’s up,” I requested. “Please.”

  Jonathan again took a moment to think. And when he spoke, his voice was low and measured. “I haven’t made a decision yet. I wanted to consult with you. And take time to weigh my options.”

  My stomach was really twisting. “Options? For what?”

  Jonathan took a step closer and gently clasped my arms, so I could feel that he didn’t want to lose our newly reestablished connection, even as he told me, “I have an offer for a permanent position—with NCIS in San Diego.”

  Chapter 9

  “Daphne, you know that I’m a little bit psychic, and I have a very strong feeling that Jonathan isn’t going anywhere,” Moxie said, her serious proclamation at odds with the way she was crossing her eyes, the better to thread a needle by the dim light filtering through my sister’s living room windows on a hot, overcast day.

  Although I used to live in the farmhouse, it felt odd to be there while Piper was out for the afternoon, attending to a guinea pig who’d eaten a bunch of Styrofoam packing peanuts. In her absence, my sister had asked me, as maid of honor, to help her deal with a few remaining things that needed to be done in the wake of the wedding debacle.

  My first task was to sort through a bunch of gifts that were piled in the farmhouse. Some of the presents had been mailed earlier by well-wishers who lived out of town. Others were from sympathetic guests who kept stopping by Winding Hill, insisting that the couple accept the items they’d already purchased, because they knew Piper and Roger would get married eventually. And a few boxes and bags had ended up at the Sodgrass Club, too, in the previous day’s confusion.

  Piper, at least, felt weird about using anything until she was actually married, and she’d asked me to catalog everything so she could write thank-you notes. Then I was supposed to store the gifts, which were no doubt constant reminders of a day gone wrong, in the barn.

  Moxie, meanwhile, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, crafting a costume for Artie to wear to All Paws on Deck. She’d leaped at the chance to dress up her favorite “model” again and had devised a plan within hours after I’d texted her.

  Socrates, on the other hand, was expressing his disapproval of pet costumes, and probably decorated rowboats, by pretending to sleep near the fireplace.

  I really thought that, like Jonathan, he should just give up and accept that dogs in Sylvan Creek dressed up and paraded around.

  “My sixth sense tells me that your relationship with Detective Black is just fine,” Moxie added, stabbing the needle into khaki
fabric. I had no idea how she planned to dress the Chihuahua and Mike’s pug, Tiny Tim, who would both ride on a boat owned by one of Mike’s relatives. The costumes were supposed to be a surprise, even for me. She held up her handiwork, inspecting her stitches, but I couldn’t even guess what her ultimate goal was. “Trust me. I would feel it, if Jonathan was going to take that navy job. Which sounds like a step down to me. I mean, I’ve seen NCIS on TV, and it’s not that interesting. I don’t even bother with the spin-offs!”

  My best friend said a lot of kooky things without even realizing it. But she and I—and probably Socrates, too—knew that investigating crimes for an agency with international reach would be an exciting challenge for a guy who thrived on challenges, and who’d only reluctantly abandoned the risk and endless adventure of life as a Navy SEAL.

  Along with making more money and having more room for advancement, Jonathan would also be returning to a brotherhood he’d loved, in one of the most beautiful places in the country, if not the world ...

  “What about going with him?” Moxie asked, reading my thoughts, which had just drifted to sunny San Diego. “I would miss you, but I couldn’t blame you for following your heart.”

  “We didn’t even talk about that possibility—which isn’t really possible at all,” I told her. “I signed a three-year lease on the bakery, and I have Lucky Paws clients who count on me. I have serious commitments, not to mention friends and family here.”

  “Well, then, he’ll just have to stay in Sylvan Creek,” Moxie said firmly, as if she’d settled the issue.

  “It’s not that simple.” Moving to Piper’s coffee table, I reached for a pitcher of freshly brewed iced tea, infused with sprigs of mint from Piper’s expansive garden, and I poured two tumblers full, the ice clinking into the glasses. “As Jonathan pointed out last night, he would’ve had to again recuse himself from a case, if he was officially back on the local payroll. He’s starting to worry that he knows too many people—or at least people who get mixed up in murders—to do his job here.”

  Looking up at me, Moxie gnawed her lower lip. “That is kind of problematic. You, especially, do find a lot of bodies.”

  “Yes, it’s like I’m accidentally pushing him away,” I agreed glumly. “Ironically, the thing that brought us together—involvement in murders—is now threatening to help send him across the country, permanently.”

  Moxie shook her head. “It’s like no good ever comes of homicide.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I took a sip of the cool, refreshing tea, then set my glass down next to a plate of freshly baked cookies—one of which had been nibbled.

  Glancing around the room, I spied a naked tail slithering under the couch. In the past, I would’ve shuddered to know that Moxie’s white rat, Sebastian, was creeping around the room. Having grown fond of him, I was instead slightly irritated that he’d ruined a perfectly good lemon meltaway.

  “So are you going to solve this case?” Moxie asked, oblivious to her pet’s petty crime. “Because it seems like, once again, people you’re close to are prime suspects.”

  I’d returned to the gift pile and was about to check the contents of a huge white bag, but I stopped to look at Moxie, who was rooting around in the antique hatbox that served as her sewing basket. “Who comes to mind first, for you?”

  Moxie had brought up the subject of suspects, but she didn’t seem eager to answer. A silence fell over the room as she continued digging in the box.

  “Who, Moxie?” I asked. “Spill.”

  Finally looking up at me again, she worried her lower lip. “It’s not like I believe he did it . . .”

  I was afraid I knew who she was about to name, because I couldn’t stop thinking about a certain person’s quite obvious motive and recent state of mind myself—even though doing so also made me uncomfortable.

  “You’re thinking about Roger, aren’t you?” I asked quietly, digging into the white sack and pulling a heavy gift from a nest of white tissue paper. The marble wine cooler, which wasn’t even in a box, screamed “regift.” Checking the accompanying card, I muttered, “Really, Aunt Noreen?” Then I bent to pluck a notepad off the sofa, quickly jotting down my relative’s name and a description of the object, which I doubted Piper and Roger would ever use, either. “I’ve thought about him as a suspect, too,” I added. “But for once I agree with my mother. It’s almost impossible to believe Roger Berendt could commit murder.”

  Moxie had pulled some gold thread from her sewing kit, and she used her teeth to tear off about a foot from the spool before reminding me, “But we both thought about that possibility.”

  “It’s hard not to, given that Roger was angry the night before Abigail’s death, and he looked so ashen and exhausted back at the Sodgrass Club.”

  As we talked, I reached for another gift bag, which was one of several silver sacks, and, like the wine cooler, probably not new. There was a stain on the bottom. Then I dug into the tissue paper and found the source of the mark. Something damp.

  That didn’t seem promising, but I nevertheless pulled out the object, which turned out to be a purple, lacy garter that looked about seven sizes too big for Piper’s leg, because the elastic was destroyed. Setting down the bag, I dangled the ruined accessory from my index finger, showing the weird present to Moxie. “What do you make of this?”

  Moxie made a show of shuddering before returning her attention to her project. “I don’t think I want to know.”

  I dropped the odd, somewhat icky gift back into the bag, which had a small stamp on the interior, near one of the handles: The Gilded Lily. Fishing around some more, I failed to find a card, which was okay. I didn’t think Piper owed the giver a note of gratitude. I pushed the bag aside. “I don’t want to know the story, either.”

  Socrates must’ve agreed. He made a soft, almost growling sound, so I knew he’d been faking his nap.

  I wiped my fingers on my jeans. “Getting back to Roger ... It’s a little bit too easy to imagine a scenario in which he went to Artful Engagements to complain about the wedding and Abigail’s treatment of his sister—”

  “Are we ever going to meet Dorinda?” Moxie interrupted. “What’s her story?”

  “I have no idea.” I pulled together some of the presents to take to the barn. “But Piper said Abigail was very rude to her, which also upset Roger.”

  “Gee, I didn’t even know about that part, and I already expected him to be investigated!”

  “Yes, if I were Detective Doebler, I’d have to conclude that Roger had motive. Especially if he’d somehow known about Abigail’s plan to disappear with his mother’s money.” I looked around the room, even though I knew we were alone. Still, I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Which seems possible.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Piper has twice mentioned that Roger didn’t trust Abigail and believed she was ripping them off.”

  Moxie had resumed rooting around in the sewing kit, but her hand suddenly froze. And when she slowly raised her eyes to meet my gaze, I saw that she seemed uncertain.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s just that ... Well, Mike said Roger called Abigail a ‘scam artist’ when they went out for drinks.” She spoke quietly, too. “And I wasn’t going to share the rest of what he told me, because it’s probably nothing . . .”

  I heard a jingle of tags and looked over to see that Socrates had raised his head, like he couldn’t contain his own curiosity, even though he normally disapproved of gossip.

  “Maybe you should tell me,” I suggested. “We both know, from experience, that it can be problematic when information trickles out during a murder investigation.”

  Moxie hesitated. Then she confided, “Mike was the designated driver that night. Which was kind of a joke, because Roger and Gabriel don’t really drink. Except maybe Roger, that night.”

  “Roger got drunk?” I frowned. “That’s hard to believe, too.”

  “Well, it wasn’t like Roger got ossified
,” Moxie clarified, using a vintage word, which I was pretty sure meant “drunk,” based upon context. Abandoning her sewing project, she held out her hand so Sebastian could climb on board. I hadn’t even seen him sneak out from under the couch. As she delivered the rat into her sewing kit, where he sometimes traveled, Moxie continued her story. “But I guess Roger hadn’t eaten much at the party, and after a few beers, he seemed a little tipsy. And more agitated. So, about an hour after Mike dropped him off, he called Roger’s cell phone and landline, just to be a good groomsman, you know? He wanted to make sure Roger was okay and remind him to set his alarm for the following day.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “Roger didn’t answer either phone.”

  I took a moment to think, then said, “He could’ve been asleep.”

  Moxie shrugged. “Yes, probably.”

  We were acting like we agreed on that scenario. But I could tell that, like me, Moxie was also imagining an alternative. One in which Roger, his inhibitions lowered and his judgment clouded, had gone back out ...

  “Nope,” I said firmly, cutting off my own speculation. I bent to pick up the gifts I’d just cataloged. “No way!”

  “Yes, we got a little crazy there!” Moxie agreed, sounding relieved to dismiss our ridiculous suspicions. She tucked the materials for her project into the box and rested the lid lightly on top, leaving a gap so Sebastian could breathe. Then she uncurled her legs and stood up, dusting off her 1950s pedal pushers, although Piper’s floors were spotless. “As former murder suspects ourselves, we, of all people, shouldn’t be speculating about our friends, no matter how terribly guilty they look. We should be trying to figure out if there’s any way we can help Piper and Roger get married before he has to sail to England.”