Something Borrowed, Something Mewed

by Bethany Blake

  Moxie was so stuck in the past that I wondered if she subconsciously thought Roger might actually be taking a boat to Europe. She probably pictured us all waving him off as he stood at the rail of a 1930s Cunard luxury ocean liner, confetti raining down around him and champagne corks popping.

  Socrates, who had also risen and shaken himself, gave Moxie a funny look, like he thought the comment was odd, too.

  “As I told Jonathan, I really doubt that it’s possible to throw a wedding before Roger flies off in less than two weeks,” I said, leading the way to the kitchen, where the back door was located. “We don’t have anything in place. Not even venues for the wedding or reception—”

  All at once, I lost my train of thought, and I abruptly stopped in front of Piper’s kitchen window, causing Socrates to bump into my leg.

  The day was overcast, but the scene outside was still lovely. Piper’s restored red barn, where she kept an antique truck parked, was hung with festive bunting, in anticipation of the holiday, and a field of daisies danced in the light breeze.

  “What’s out there?” Moxie asked, joining me at the window. She craned her neck, frowning. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Nothing,” I said, because I wasn’t sure if I wanted to share my idea yet.

  It might be too crazy, especially since I already had so much to do. The Wags ’n Flags celebration would kick off in a few days, bringing more tourists to town. And I was still overbooked with pet-sitting clients ...

  “Oh my gosh!” I cried, dropping one of the gifts as my hand shot to my mouth. I turned to Moxie, who looked confused, as did Socrates. “Between Abigail’s scam and her murder—and Jonathan’s unexpected return—I totally forgot about Ms. Peebles!”

  Chapter 10

  “This hopefully isn’t going to take long,” I told Detective Fred Doebler, who was accompanying me and Socrates into Abigail’s mansion.

  The building’s interior technically wasn’t a crime scene. Only the garden was officially sealed off with yellow tape and still under scrutiny by a few members of the investigative team. But Jonathan’s partner, who was overseeing activity at the site, had intercepted me before I could open the front door. He’d made it clear that he didn’t want me nosing around Artful Engagements or Abigail’s private living quarters and had insisted upon tagging along as I checked on Ms. Peebles. In fact, if I hadn’t reminded him that someone would need to clean her litter box and possibly extricate her from some potentially perilous situation, he would’ve just opened a can of cat food himself.

  “I’ll honestly just be a few minutes,” I added, leading the way into the dim, cool foyer. Detective Doebler was close on my heels, but Socrates lagged slightly behind, like he was still reluctant to enter the building. “Unless poor Ms. Peebles is really stuck somewhere. Which happens. A lot.”

  “You’re taking the cat with you, right?” Detective Doebler asked. “So you”—he glanced down at Socrates—“and your dog don’t need to keep coming back here.”

  I was pretty sure Socrates knew he’d been insulted, but he clearly didn’t care about Detective Doebler’s opinion and was completely ignoring him.

  “So, the cat’s going with you, correct?” Detective Doebler repeated, as if saying it twice would make me agree.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t my plan. “I don’t think I can do that,” I told him. “I’d like to get her out of this big, lonely house, but I don’t have a foster home for her. And I don’t think my cat, Tinkleston, would give her a very warm welcome at Plum Cottage.”

  Socrates, who had been listening, made a disapproving snorting sound, while Detective Doebler scratched his head, which was crowned by a receding thatch of sandy hair. “Aren’t you on the board of directors of a cat shelter?”

  I was, indeed, one of the administrators of a shelter called Whiskered Away Home, but I didn’t think many people knew about my involvement. “Yes,” I told him. “But how did you know that?”

  I hoped he was going to say that Jonathan talked about me all the time, but, of course, since Jonathan rarely shared anything personal, that wasn’t the case.

  “I dug into your life the last few times you were involved in killings.” Detective Doebler’s voice was flat, and I could tell he still considered me a suspect. “So. Are you going to take the cat to the shelter? Or will you have to return here every day to feed it?”

  “For now, I plan to keep Ms. Peebles here, because at this point, I don’t think she’s up for adoption,” I told him. “Maybe Abigail had provisions for her in her will.”

  Detective Doebler opened his mouth, so for a second I thought he was going to order me to take Ms. Peebles home. But he didn’t really have that authority.

  “Just make it as quick as possible, okay?” he requested, tapping his wrist to get me moving.

  It struck me that the middle-aged, paunchy sleuth had gained a bit of an attitude since Jonathan had been away. In past investigations, Jonathan had definitely been the dominant partner. However, while Detective Doebler had also stepped up his wardrobe game, with a better-fitting suit in a shade other than brown, I suspected that he would again take a subordinate role when . . . if . . . Jonathan returned to his old job. A decision that would again team Jonathan with a partner who wasn’t always pleasant to be around.

  “I’m going,” I agreed with a sigh, because it seemed even more likely that Jonathan would take the position in California.

  Detective Doebler wasn’t listening. He’d been distracted by something on his phone, and he didn’t follow me upstairs, like I’d expected. He remained in the foyer, his head bent over his screen and his thumbs fumbling, while Socrates wisely tagged along with me.

  “Where do you think Ms. Peebles is wedged today?” I asked him, starting a game that my prescient canine friend and I had played more than once at Artful Engagements. But before I could guess “flue of the upstairs fireplace,” I heard a muted, panicked mewling sound, coming from Abigail’s bedroom.

  Heading right for that door, which was ajar, I pushed it open and listened more closely, because I didn’t see Ms. Peebles anywhere.

  Mrrow . . .

  The familiar, still-muffled cry of distress drew my eyes to the bed, and my spine stiffened with surprise.

  My hand still resting on the door, I glanced down at Socrates, who shook his head with clear disbelief.

  Then, much as I hated to do it, I called over my shoulder, “Detective Doebler? You might want to come here ... and I guess I will be taking the cat.”

  Chapter 11

  “Are you sure you can’t keep Ms. Peebles at the farmhouse?” I asked Piper, my gaze darting between Tinkleston, who was hunkered down in his favorite spot on the kitchen windowsill, and Ms. Peebles, who sat on top of the old-fashioned icebox.

  Tinks was hissing like an angry general defending his miniature turf, while Ms. Peebles was blinking her wide eyes and licking a paw, seemingly oblivious to her temporary housemate’s extreme displeasure at having a second cat in the house.

  I sort of envied Socrates, who had headed straight upstairs the moment we’d come home, to avoid the conflict.

  “Seriously, Piper,” I said, shooting my sister, who sat at the kitchen table, an imploring look while I dug my hand into a canister of freshly made Salmon Snackers. I probably shouldn’t have been rewarding Tinkleston’s behavior, but as the one-sided feline fight and the afternoon wore on, I felt like I needed to resort to bribes. Setting two treats in front of Ms. Peebles and one in front of Tinkleston—who batted his to the floor with his black puffball paw, a look of indignation on his smooshed-in face—I continued pleading with Piper. “Wouldn’t you like to have a cute, wide-eyed cat around for a few days?”

  “Although I know that I owe you for all you’ve done as maid of honor, including sorting through the gifts—”

  “Some of which were very strange,” I interrupted, thinking of the soggy garter.

  “Including the strange ones,” Piper continued, digging into a slice of her
favorite pie: peach cream, made from our grandmother Lillian’s recipe. “In spite of all that, I’m afraid that, between everything happening in my personal life and guinea pig emergencies, I can’t handle a pet right now,” she said, repeating excuses she’d already listed. Then she glanced at Ms. Peebles. “Especially one who gets herself zippered into suitcases.”

  “That was no accident,” I said, joining her at the table with my own slice of the simple but delicious pastry, made with cinnamon, sugar, cream and fresh peaches from a local orchard. “Between the time I found Abigail’s body and the time I returned to Artful Engagements, someone took one of the suitcases that was on the bed and sealed Ms. Peebles in the remaining bag.”

  Piper covered her mouth with her hand, because she’d just taken a big bite. “Are you sure there were two bags on the bed the first time you went through the house?” She raised her voice, speaking over a new round of complaints by Tinks, who was yowling. “It was a pretty stressful day.”

  “No, I’m not wrong about the suitcases. I remember them both, because one was Louis Vuitton, in the classic pattern I always associate with Mom, and the other, now missing, was basic black.”

  Piper set her fork on her empty plate and sat back in her chair. “Daphne, I can tell you are starting to investigate, and, although you have had some success in the past, I wish you wouldn’t do it.”

  “I simply went to care for a cat,” I reminded her. “The suitcases just happened to be there. Now it’s impossible not to speculate.”

  Piper wanted to object, because every time I got mixed up in a murder, I seemed to nearly get killed. But her logical side also loved solving puzzles, and she quickly abandoned the lecture and started surmising herself. “Let me guess. You’re thinking that Abigail planned to travel with someone—maybe a romantic partner—and that person came back after Abigail was killed to reclaim his or her luggage and sneak away.”

  Keeping one eye on Tinks, who had finally grown quiet and hopped down from the windowsill, I nodded. “Yes. And it’s interesting that you think the person might’ve been a woman. To be honest, I was only picturing a guy—maybe because I also thought the motorcyclist who nearly crashed into my van was male. Which might not be right. I didn’t really get a good look at him. Or her.”

  Piper had been scraping her fork across her plate, rounding up the last few crumbs, but she stilled her hand. And when she looked up to meet my gaze, I thought she seemed troubled, for some reason. “Do you really think the motorcyclist was male? Not female?”

  “In retrospect, I’m not sure,” I admitted, pushing my plate, which held the last slice from the pie tin, across the table. I loved the dessert, which I only made a few times each summer, when the fruit was at its peak, but Piper was fanatical for peaches. She accepted the offering with a nod of gratitude while I continued kicking myself for being shortsighted. “I’ve been making gender-based assumptions that might very well be wrong. I’m glad you reminded me that Abigail might have had a girlfriend, not a boyfriend.”

  “Or neither,” Piper reminded me. “We’re just speculating here. And the motorcyclist and suitcase owner aren’t necessarily the same person—or even the killer.”

  “True,” I agreed, working hard to both focus on the conversation and continue to monitor Tinks, who had eaten his treat. The stealthy, surly Persian was stalking around the floor while Ms. Peebles continued to groom herself on the icebox. I didn’t intend to interfere unless a real fight broke out. “But most homicides are committed by someone close to the victim.”

  Piper stood up, like she was getting ready to leave. “Which might be a good reason for a secret lover to quietly gather his or her things and make an exit before the police even knew about the relationship.”

  “So, as far as you knew, Abigail wasn’t involved with anyone?”

  “No.” Piper picked up the plates and carried them to the sink. “But I didn’t know her that well. You would probably know more than me, since you spent time in her personal space.”

  I pushed back my chair and stood up, too, which sent Tinks scampering from the room. I considered that a good thing. “I don’t recall anything that would indicate anyone ever visited Abigail, let alone spent the night.”

  As I said that, I pictured the room as it had looked the day I’d found Abigail in the fountain, and I had this nagging feeling that I was overlooking, or forgetting, something. Maybe a clue to the suitcase owner’s gender. But I couldn’t put my finger on what I was missing.

  I also suddenly felt sorry for Abigail.

  “It’s kind of sad, to think that she planned so many weddings but never got married herself. Looking back, it seems like the upper part of the mansion always had a lonely, sterile vibe.”

  Piper was washing the plates, but she looked over her shoulder at me so I could see when she rolled her eyes. “You and Moxie and your ‘vibes’ ! You’re probably just feeling mushy because Jonathan’s back in town. It’s funny how being in love makes you wish everyone was feeling the same way.”

  I hadn’t yet told Piper about Jonathan’s job offer, because she had enough on her mind without listening to my problems. Grabbing a dish towel, I turned the conversation to her love life.

  “So, have you and Roger decided whether you’ll try to cobble together a wedding in the next week or so?”

  The amusement I’d just seen in Piper’s eyes flickered out. “It’s impossible, Daphne. And, although I’ve tried not to make a big deal out of it, especially to Mom, I really am disappointed.” She shrugged. “It’s hard to explain, but it would have meant a lot to me if we’d been married when he was overseas, even if that had meant jumping through hoops in Abigail’s star-spangled circus, with a cult leader for a ringmaster.”

  “So you know about Brother Alf’s organization?” I asked, glad that Piper had brought up the man in the monk’s outfit who would’ve presided over her ceremony.

  I’d been shocked when Piper had told me he was a member of Graystone Arches Gateway to Eternity, a community that occupied a compound located about fifteen miles from Sylvan Creek, deep in the Pocono Mountains. I’d never been there, but I’d heard rumors that the “brothers” and “sisters” did more than bake amazing bread—and craft handmade zithers—at their monastic estate. From what I understood, from both local gossip and an exposé Gabriel Graham had printed about the group shortly after he’d taken over the Gazette, the leaders brainwashed acolytes into staying on the property.

  “I take it you’ve heard the rumors?” I added, accepting a wet plate from Piper.

  “Yes, of course,” my sister informed me. “I read Gabriel’s story. But most people around here knew the place, which is half-monastery, half-dojo and all cult—”

  “What do you mean ‘dojo’?” I interrupted. Having taken a weekend krav maga class at a community center in Israel, I was intrigued by the martial arts.

  “I don’t think they break any boards,” Piper said. “I’ve just heard that they get different-colored belts for their robes, based upon their loyalty and service—and, I’m sure, financial contribution—to the ‘community.’”

  I recalled that Brother Alf had been wearing a decorative rope around his waist at the dinner, but I couldn’t remember the color. “How high up is Alf? You said he’s a leader, right?”

  “Not only a leader but the founder. Don’t you remember when he performed that mass wedding on the shores of Lake Wallapawakee?”

  I nearly dropped the plate. “No! How did I miss that?”

  Piper looked to the ceiling, thinking back. “I think you might’ve been on one of your overseas jaunts. To Istanbul, I believe.”

  “Oh, yeah!” I smiled at the memory of impressive minarets and medieval architecture, which I’d greatly enjoyed until I got food poisoning from cheese-filled börek pastry sold by a somewhat shady street vendor. Shaking off the memory, I set the dry plate on the counter and returned my focus to the present. “So why did you ask Brother Alf to marry you?”

  “Be
lieve it or not, he’s Roger’s uncle.” Piper rinsed the other plate. “There was really no other choice, unless we wanted to cause a family rift. Just like I had to ask Dorinda to be a bridesmaid.”

  “About Dorinda . . .”

  Piper shut off the tap—and that line of discussion. “Let’s not get into that mess right now, okay?”

  “Fine,” I agreed, accepting the second clean plate. “But who knew mild-mannered Roger Berendt had such a complex family!”

  Piper pulled the old rubber stopper out of the drain and watched the water swirl away with a wistful expression on her face. “You know, I would’ve endured it all, to be married before Roger goes away.” Her shoulders lifted and fell. “It’ll sound stupid, but it would have been easier, somehow, to live apart if I knew he was my husband and we had that solid connection.”

  It was not like my rational sister, who had just accused me of being fanciful about love, to get sentimental about the special union shared by spouses, and I had to resist the urge to tease her. I also understood what she meant. Jonathan and I weren’t on the verge of getting married—maybe the opposite was happening—but for once in my life, my previously commitment-phobic self could understand how one might want to forge an even deeper bond with a partner before being separated by many miles.

  “So why not elope?” I asked, opening a cupboard and putting away both plates. “You have the license.”

  I thought I’d come up with a great idea, but Piper offered me another wry grin. “Have you met Bev and Maeve? Do you think they’d take kindly to me and Roger running off? Their ‘status’ in the community demands that their children have a suitable wedding that serves as a public showcase of their financial means and good taste.”

  She was right. Eloping would definitely be frowned upon.

  Then again, Piper and Roger could have a real Fourth-of-July-themed wedding. One that made a statement about the couple’s future independence from two domineering real estate agents. But I knew rule-following Piper would never do that.