“Sorry.” I handed her the towel so she could dry her hands. I also needed to free my own hands so I could answer my phone, which was pinging in my pocket. As I pulled out my cell, I reluctantly agreed, “I guess you’re right. Eloping is out of the question.”
I was talking, but distracted by a message from Jonathan. One that read: Take a ride with me to Crooked Creek Lane?
I was just about to ask Piper if she’d ever heard of that road when a black whirlwind flew past our feet and Tinkleston finally launched himself at the world’s meekest, most clueless and most accident-prone cat, who went flying off the icebox with a familiar, plaintive yowl.
Chapter 12
“Where are we going?” I asked Jonathan, who hadn’t answered that question the five other times I’d posed it since hopping into his truck about fifteen minutes, and ten miles, back at Winding Hill, where Piper had finally agreed to keep Ms. Peebles for at least a day or so.
“You are persistent,” he noted, grinning as he negotiated a narrow, curving road that passed through an isolated, deep valley I couldn’t ever recall exploring.
I almost felt as though he’d conjured up the bright green acres of farmland and shaded forest that passed by on either side of us, the setting sun adding depth and vibrancy to the palette of summer hues.
The truck’s windows were open, and I stuck my hand out to catch the breeze, not unlike the three dogs who were sitting in the back seat, sticking their noses out to sniff the scents of cows and flowers and freshly mown fields. Checking the rearview mirror on my side, I saw that even Artie, who was awfully short, had managed to get in on the action, squishing next to Socrates, whose ears were flapping in the wind.
“Can you at least give me a hint?” I requested, facing forward again and trapping my wildly whipping curls with one hand. “Or a small clue?”
Jonathan downshifted to second so we wouldn’t skid around a particularly tight turn. “We both know you take small clues and attempt to solve big crimes. So, no. I’m afraid you’ll have to remain in the dark for now.”
I sat up straighter. “Speaking of big crimes ... have you heard anything about Abigail’s murder investigation? Because I find it hard to believe that Detective Doebler keeps you in the dark, even if you’re technically not on the case.”
I immediately wished I hadn’t mentioned the part about Jonathan being on leave, because so far, we’d avoided talking about whether he would ever solve another case in Sylvan Creek. I knew we needed to discuss that topic at some point, but right then, I was just enjoying the ride and wanted to live in the moment a bit longer.
Maybe Jonathan felt the same way. He overlooked my comment about his continued leave of absence. “There’s been some progress,” he informed me. “The coroner’s office has determined cause of death.”
I shifted in my seat, facing him as much as I could within the constraints of my seat belt. “Can you tell me anything?”
“I suppose so, since it’s all going to be in the Gazette tomorrow anyway. Graham’s new protégé, whose name escapes me . . .”
“Chalmers.” I filled in the blanks. “Laci Chalmers.”
I’d forgotten all about Laci, whom I’d last seen at Artful Engagements the night before Abigail had been murdered. If I remembered correctly, Laci had called Abigail a witch—and said something about prying her last paycheck from Abigail’s grasping fingers after the event was over. A time when everyone else, with the exception, perhaps, of Dexter Shipley and maybe Daisy Carpenter, would’ve gone home ...
“Do you know something about Ms. Chalmers?” Jonathan asked, his gaze cutting to me again for just a moment. “You’re awfully quiet.”
“I barely know Laci,” I said, sidestepping the question. I wasn’t going to implicate a young reporter who was relatively new to town based upon some wisecracks she’d made on the last day of a horrible job. However, I did tell him, “I noticed she has an edgy sense of humor, like Gabriel. I thought they’d get along.”
Jonathan could tell that I was holding back, but he didn’t press me to share more. We might’ve been dating, but we had certain unspoken rules when it came to investigating murders. There were limits on what he could tell me. And he probably knew by then that I would follow up on any hunches I had and let him—or, this time, Detective Doebler—know if I found a real lead.
“So, what will I read in the Gazette?” I asked, suffering a sudden twinge of concern. “Anything about my friends? Or family members?” I hesitated, then added, “Or maybe something about potential family members?”
Jonathan shook his head. “Doebler wouldn’t speculate about suspects, Daphne. Not with a reporter.”
“What about with you?”
Jonathan’s fingers flexed on the steering wheel, and he didn’t answer right away. Then he glanced at me again. “It would be nice if Berendt had a better alibi.”
That was all he needed to say. All that he would say. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I muttered.
Jonathan acted like he didn’t hear me, and I understood that, if I was ever asked—which I wouldn’t be—that brief exchange never happened.
“You will likely read that Abigail was murdered around one a.m.,” he said, slowing the truck and turning onto a dirt path that was bordered by a field of daisies on one side and a bubbling brook on the other. I wanted to insist that he tell me where we were headed, but I also wanted to learn more about the investigation. “There was evidence of a significant struggle, during which her assailant attempted to strangle her, after knocking her over and ultimately drowning her in the fountain.”
Jonathan spoke evenly, with enviable clinical dispassion, while I rubbed my throat, which had gotten tight.
“In spite of the fact that the wounds had been submerged for quite a long time, Vonda was able to find white and blue fibers in a series of tiny lacerations on her neck,” he added.
“You mean from the flag that was draped over her?”
“Doubtful,” Jonathan said, as we passed under a copse of trees that arched above the road. The dogs had pulled their heads in, and they also seemed anxious. Or eager, like maybe Axis and Artie, at least, had visited this spot before. “The fibers are likely from whatever object the killer used to strangle Sinclair,” Jonathan noted. “Doebler’s waiting on lab results that will hopefully reveal what, exactly, that weapon was.”
I had a lot more questions, but we had emerged from the trees, and I forgot about the murder for a moment when I saw that we had reached a dead end. The lane stopped at the edge of a pond, just past a ramshackle white building with peeling paint and sagging shutters.
“Um, Jonathan?” I ventured, when he parked in front of the dilapidated structure. I glanced back at Socrates, who was also eyeing our destination warily. Then I turned back to Jonathan, who was getting out of the truck and releasing the dogs, who ran directly for the pond. Socrates seemed to forget his misgivings and chased after his friends. I exited the vehicle, too, with less enthusiasm. “Did you bring me to another crime scene?” I asked, slamming my door shut. “Because this looks like the perfect setting for a homicide.”
“There are rumors of a great tragedy that took place here,” Jonathan said, coming around to the front of the truck, the better to view the building. Then he grinned at me. “But it’s also, in my opinion, the perfect place for you, Moxie and your crew of other bridesmaids to hold Piper and Roger’s wedding ceremony.”
* * *
“Granted, this place is kind of amazing,” I admitted, wandering around inside the abandoned chapel, where legend said a woman had flung herself—or been pushed—from the steeple that rose crookedly above us. To this day, those who wandered by the boarded-up chapel late at night were said to hear mournful cries and the clanging of long-silenced bells. At least, that was the story as related by Jonathan, who seemed to know quite a bit about the old church, which was in much better shape inside than out.
Dappled sunlight, filtering through arched windows that probably only required a g
ood cleaning, illuminated rows of honey-colored oak pews and a simple wooden altar, set upon a wide-plank floor that was scuffed in a charming, rustic way.
I looked up at the arched ceiling, which was strung with cobwebs, thinking that, with a little elbow grease and a coat of white paint applied over the course of a day or two, the interior could, indeed, be perfect for the simple type of ceremony I knew Piper would love.
But the exterior ...
I turned to Jonathan, who was leaning against the wall near the door, his arms crossed over his chest, as he awaited my verdict. Which was mixed, to say the least.
“You can’t be serious about bringing wedding guests here,” I said, still not convinced he wasn’t pulling my leg. “I mean, once people were inside, they’d think it was lovely. But the outside is scarier than the old story about the haunted steeple.”
“I suspect any mournful cries come from owls, roosting above us,” Jonathan said, looking up at the rafters. Then he met my gaze again, and I saw amusement in his eyes. “I wouldn’t worry about ghosts crashing the ceremony.”
“Haunted or not, how in the world did you even find this place?” I asked, running one hand along the back of a pew. Against my better judgment, I was totally falling for the chapel’s interior the longer I remained in the space. I withdrew my hand, forcing myself to focus on reality, as opposed to imagining an evening ceremony, lit by candles I could tuck in each of the narrow, peaked windows that lined the walls. “And who the heck owns it?” I added, suddenly worried that we were trespassing. “Tell me the whole story, please, before I get my heart set on this spot—for Piper.”
I added that last part because, for a second, I’d been imagining my own dream wedding—and, like Piper, I wasn’t the type of girl who daydreamed about white dresses and veils. My fantasies usually involved passports and plane tickets.
Plus, the only guy I’d ever truly wanted any kind of commitment with was likely moving three thousand miles away.
“So, what’s the story?” I repeated. “What first brought you here?”
Jonathan leaned against the back of the pew and crossed his arms again. “I was looking through some cold case files when I first came to Sylvan Creek, and I found the story about the steeple intriguing. So one day, I came out here to walk through the scene.” He shrugged, like what he was about to say was inconsequential, although I found it more fascinating than a long-forgotten tragedy. “Ever since then, I come here sometimes, to think. In spite of the chapel’s supposedly sad history, I find it strangely peaceful. Enough so that I bought the land, about a year ago.”
My jaw nearly dropped to the dusty floor. “You own this place?”
“And a few other parcels in the area,” he noted, like that was no big deal, either. And maybe it wasn’t to Jonathan, who came from a family wealthy enough to send him to boarding schools and then Yale, before he’d dropped out to join the navy. He grinned at my continued surprise. “Please don’t think I purchased this property just to meditate. This was a good investment. At least, according to your mother, who struck what I believe was a great deal with the farmer who wanted to divest himself of this unused acreage.”
My eyes must’ve been huge. “Mom never breathed a word.”
“Realtor-client privilege,” Jonathan said, referencing a doctrine my mother often invoked, and which I was still certain she’d made up. “She’s very serious about it. And I’ll admit, I don’t talk about my investments very often, either.”
“No, you don’t. Which is okay,” I assured him. “My finances are only an open book because the story is so short. And edited by Fidelia Tutweiler, whose passion for accounting is not necessarily matched by her skill level.”
Jonathan laughed, his white teeth flashing in the chapel, which had grown dark. We both seemed to realize that at the same time, and we made our way down the aisle to the door, which Jonathan opened for me.
I stepped past him out into a cool breeze, which carried the sound of the dogs playing near the pond, crickets singing and the soft, spooky hoot of an owl. The waxing moon glowed in a clear, star-filled sky, bathing the old chapel in a forgiving glow.
Taking a few steps back from the building, I let my gaze travel from the crooked, plywood-sealed steeple to the peeling paint and sagging steps.
Jonathan joined me, studying the building, too.
“It really is oddly peaceful here,” I said. “I can see why you come here to clear your mind. But can you really fix this place up in the brief window of time we have to hold the wedding?” I suddenly thought of a factor that might influence that timeline, or derail the ceremony. “That is, assuming Roger is cleared of all suspicion, related to Abigail’s homicide.”
I supposed I was trying to get some assurance from Jonathan, but he didn’t exactly offer me that. “Let’s hope for the best and assume he’ll be able to travel as planned.” Before I could ask more questions, he added, “And I won’t be repairing the chapel alone. I’ll have help.”
I glanced at the pond, hoping he wasn’t referring to Axis and Artie, who, along with Socrates, continued to sniff around at the water’s edge. “From who?”
Jonathan answered my question with a question. “Remember how I hired some ex-convicts to work on my barn?”
Of course I recalled that Jonathan had given some former prisoners the opportunity to gain work experience by hiring them to construct the beautiful barn that sat behind his home. “Yes, but can you count on them again?”
“Two of the men started a construction company together.” Jonathan smiled. “They’re very grateful for the fresh start, and they said they’d be more than happy to undertake what they consider to be a relatively simple project—which mainly involves scraping paint and adjusting a few boards. I told them the steeple doesn’t have to be perfect, as long as the plywood is down so people can see the bell. They also know a landscaper who can clear some brush from around the pond and plant some flowers, last-minute.”
I had to admit that Jonathan’s plan sounded realistic, and I finally let myself fully envision Piper and Roger standing at the altar, while the candles I’d imagined glowed softly on the deep windowsills and the scent of wildflowers and sounds of soft music filled the cozy space.
And I knew the perfect spot for the reception . . .
“Just have a little faith in me, okay?” Jonathan added quietly, interrupting my daydream.
He sounded different—his voice lower and more serious—and when I turned to him, looking up into his eyes, I knew we weren’t just talking about a renovation project anymore.
“Daphne . . .” He reached for one of my hands and laced his fingers with mine. “About the job in California. I don’t want you to worry about us.”
I searched his eyes, looking for reassurance again. “How can I not?”
Jonathan used his free hand to rub the back of his neck, a gesture that meant he was struggling to find an answer, too.
I looked away for a second, and he took my other hand, drawing my attention back to him. “We’ll figure something out.”
“Yes, of course,” I agreed, hoping that didn’t count as a fib. Because the more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that he’d take the California job and that what we would “figure out” would be a long-distance relationship doomed to failure. Still, I heard myself bending my rules about lying by saying, “Everything will be fine, I’m sure.”
Jonathan didn’t reply. He drew me closer to himself, so I could feel the warmth of his body and smell his familiar spicy, masculine cologne. I wanted him to kiss me. But as he wrapped one arm around me and bent to make that wish come true, I stopped him with a firm hand to his chest and a firmer, single-word command that I couldn’t believe escaped my mouth.
“Wait.”
Chapter 13
“While I’m very grateful for Jonathan’s offer, and your willingness to help out, I honestly don’t think we could pull this off,” Piper said the next day, while looking over a list of things we’d need
to accomplish if we were really going to hold her wedding and reception in less than two weeks. She set the paper on the butcher block work surface at Flour Power, where I’d also summoned Moxie and Fidelia Tutweiler for an emergency bridal party meeting.
The small space wasn’t optimal, but I really needed to decorate some of the three hundred cookies that would be handed out to dogs at the All Paws on Deck regatta. Plus, I knew that Maeve Templeton would only venture to Flour Power’s kitchen twice a day, at regular times, to use the coffee maker. Otherwise, the room was like a secret bunker, safe from meddling mothers and mothers-in-law.
“There’s just too much to do,” Piper added, sitting back on one of the high stools that ringed the island, where cooling racks held about three dozen cookies shaped like flags and little hot dogs. Picking up her phone, she once again checked a photo of the chapel I’d snapped and sent to everyone in the room. “It’s a lot to ask of Jonathan, and you three have already done so much, too. We can’t throw a wedding on such short notice!”
I hated to bring up a bad topic, but I had to ask, “Are you sure Roger is really leaving in a few weeks? We all know that he wasn’t involved in Abigail’s murder, but I think everyone who was upset with her is probably under investigation. Do you think he might be detained in the United States longer than expected—which would mean we had a little more time?”
I tried to put a positive spin on Roger’s status as a suspect, and Piper didn’t seem overly concerned anyhow.
“I think he’ll be traveling as scheduled,” she said. “He hasn’t mentioned anything about Detective Doebler lately. It seems that the investigative focus has turned elsewhere, thank goodness.”
Given my recent conversation with Jonathan, who had indicated otherwise, that news surprised me. Moxie seemed doubtful, too. She was making herself useful by squeezing squiggles of mustard on the mini-wieners, but she looked up from her work to meet my gaze and shake her head slightly, as if to say, “Piper’s being too optimistic.”
Something Borrowed, Something Mewed Page 7
