“My mother is usually so shrewd,” I noted, shaking my head, then shaking the dust out of my rag. “Then again, she stands to make money on the swindle.”
Roger must’ve known about Mom’s plans, because he didn’t ask for an explanation. Instead, he patted the truck. “Why don’t we just run this thing through a car wash?”
That was a reasonable question. “Piper’s afraid a modern car wash will destroy the old wood. And it’s not really dirty. Just dusty.”
Roger seemed to accept that explanation. He resumed working, running his rag along the wooden slats that surrounded the truck’s bed.
“So, you really didn’t know that Abigail actually planned to leave town?” I asked, awkwardly climbing onto the back of the truck again so I could wipe down the roof of the cab. “You were as surprised as anyone else that day?”
“Of course,” Roger said. “If I’d known anything in advance, I would’ve had harsher words for Abigail Sinclair, the night . . .”
I turned to look down at Roger, who seemed to have realized that he’d slipped and nearly said something important. The sun was very low, casting shadows in the barn, but I could see regret and self-reproach in his brown eyes.
“You and Abigail had a confrontation? The night she was killed?” I asked, ignoring the soft meow I heard above me.
Roger’s mouth was a thin line. He nodded. “Yes. I did call her after Mike, Gabriel and I had drinks at the Lakeside.”
I abandoned cleaning the top of the truck and knelt down in the bed so I could see Roger, who’d moved to the back. He was twisting the rag in his hands.
“You didn’t go see Abigail, did you?”
He shook his head. “No.”
I remembered what Moxie had said about Mike’s unanswered calls. “You went somewhere, though, didn’t you?”
Roger nodded. “Yes. I did go back out for a while.”
“Where?”
Piper’s fiancé averted his gaze. “I told Detective Doebler most of this.”
“Roger, you came to me for advice. And, speaking from experience, I suggest that you tell Detective Doebler—and Piper—everything. Even if you don’t want to tell me.”
He faced me again, and his voice was tight. “I can’t. I need to protect her.”
He was wrong. “Piper can handle whatever you have to say.”
But Roger was shaking his head. “Not Piper.”
“Who?”
“My sister,” he confided. “She’s the reason I called Abigail—not the overall wedding. That whole affair was ridiculous, but it was our mothers’ folly, not Piper’s and mine. I contacted Abigail about Dorinda. And that’s who I went to see after my bachelor party—where I had two beers. No more. The detective keeps making it sound like I was drunk!”
Above us, the mewing grew louder. I still didn’t look up.
“Why aren’t you telling Detective Doebler all of this?” I asked, wishing I could see Roger better. The barn was nearly dark. “At least, I assume this is what you’ve been holding back.”
“I can’t tell him anything about Dorinda.” Roger’s voice was even more strained. “She has a record.”
Piper had called Roger’s sister “troubled,” but I was still surprised to learn that she’d had at least one serious run-in with the law.
“And Dorinda has a problem with being ... misunderstood,” he added. “She gets agitated, then defensive, and blurts things out. I need to protect her for as long as I can. Keep her out of the investigation until the real killer is caught.”
I swung my legs off the back of the truck again, still trying to see Roger better. “I’m not sure I understand why that’s so important.”
Roger took his time before explaining. Then he told me, in a whisper, “When I went to see Dorinda, late that night, she threw her bridesmaid dress at me. She wasn’t angry with me. Just frustrated. That’s how I saw the label, when I folded up the gown.”
My fingers, wrapped around the edge of the truck bed, tensed. “Why was she so upset?”
“It’s not important,” Roger said. “All I can tell you is, after she hurled the dress, Dorinda told me that she wanted to kill Abigail Sinclair. That’s the type of thing my sister says when she’s angry. And it’s why I have to keep her away from the police.”
Roger’s explanation—and Dorinda’s threat—hung out there for a long time, the quiet that descended over the barn punctuated only by the continued soft yowling from the rafters.
“People say things like that all the time without acting on them,” I finally said. “Maybe I should talk to Dorinda. I do have a good track record when it comes to sorting out situations like this.”
Roger didn’t embrace that suggestion right away. In fact, he didn’t say a thing.
“Just tell me where to find her,” I suggested. “If nothing else, I need to ask if she still wants to be a bridesmaid.”
Roger stammered, clearly taken aback. “You’d . . . you’d still consider that, after everything I just told you?”
His voice was thick with emotion, and, while I always liked Roger well enough, I suddenly saw him in a new light. He was a loyal brother, and I prized allegiance to family and friends. I also admired people who looked out for lost souls, whether they were siblings or Chihuahuas and pugs with oversized personalities. Or very insistent cats.
I finally looked up to see that, as I’d expected, Ms. Peebles was trapped on one of the barn’s exposed beams. But she wasn’t in any imminent danger and could get herself down if she’d just keep moving, so I returned my attention to Roger.
“Of course, Dorinda should still be part of the wedding party,” I told him. I felt fairly confident that I could speak on Piper’s behalf. “She’s family.” I cringed, feeling sheepish. “To be honest, we probably haven’t tried hard enough to include her in the planning, up to this point.”
Roger stood in the gathering darkness, and I thought that, in spite of being grateful for my willingness to reach out to Dorinda, he might still keep her contact information a secret. I was glad when he said, “She probably wouldn’t respond if you called or texted. I’ll send you her address.” Then he took a step back, turning toward the door. “And thanks, Daphne.”
“No problem. I look forward to meeting your sister.”
I was being truthful. I was very intrigued by Dorinda Berendt. But Roger paused at the door, like he was trying to decide if I was being sarcastic. He also had something else on his mind. Something that must’ve been bothering him. “I may be way out of line,” he noted. “But do you think I could ask one more favor, on Piper’s behalf?”
I had a lot on my plate, but I was a maid of honor, entrusted with making the bride happy. “Sure,” I agreed, speaking over increasingly strident mews. “What do you need?”
Roger made his request, which turned out to be quite big, but also sweet. When he was gone, I took a deep breath, reminding myself that my sister’s wedding was a once-ina-lifetime affair, and that Piper was lucky to have such a thoughtful future husband.
Then I finally, reluctantly raised my eyes to the rafters again—and groaned.
“Oh, Ms. Peebles! Seriously?”
Chapter 17
“I don’t understand how you ended up hanging upside down, like a bat!” I told Ms. Peebles, whom I’d just rescued with the aid of a wobbly wooden ladder I’d found stashed in a corner of the barn. The catastrophe-prone cat, whom I’d carried back to Plum Cottage after locking up the barn, seemed to have forgotten her recent peril. She followed me around the house as I opened some windows to let in the cool night air. “Cats are born to walk on things like beams!”
Tinkleston, who was perched on the mantel, made a hissing sound that was more like a snicker than a threat. I got the feeling Tinks, who didn’t seem capable anymore of sustaining rage the way he used to, was already starting to find Ms. Peebles more entertaining than infuriating. It was probably a relief not to be the cottage’s primary troublemaker.
Socrates, on the othe
r hand, didn’t seem amused by Ms. Peebles’s mishaps. He rolled his brown eyes and trundled up the spiral staircase, turning in for the night after eating his favorite summer snack, a Fruity Pupsicle.
I was pretty sure the contemplative basset was also quietly worried about Snowdrop’s possible move. I certainly understood where he was coming from.
Moving to the steamer trunk that served as my coffee table, I picked up my phone to call Jonathan. Then, at the last minute, I dialed a different number, for the Owl & Crescent Art Barn in Zephyr Hollow. A few minutes later, much to my relief, I was able to check off the latest item on my long to-do list.
“A wine-and-painting party sounds like a nice bridal shower, doesn’t it?” I asked Ms. Peebles, who continued to trail after me. Tinks had run upstairs, too, while I’d been talking to the studio’s proprietor, Willow Bellamy, who had been happy to accommodate a last-minute gathering. I turned out a light that burned in one of the living room windows, telling Ms. Peebles, “Roger’s right. Piper deserves a nice party, even if it’s small. And I like the fact that we’ll tie in another barn. It’s like a preview of the bigger party.”
Ms. Peebles flicked her tail, which might or might not have indicated agreement, although her big eyes always gave the impression that she was interested in whatever was going on.
Snuffing out the rest of the lights, I followed Socrates and Tinkleston upstairs. Ms. Peebles joined us, but wisely curled up in a cozy wicker basket full of clean clothes, rather than joining Tinks and me on the bed. I was sure Tinkleston’s lukewarm welcome would turn icy, if not violent, if Ms. Peebles set one paw on the crisp cotton sheets.
Climbing into bed, I set my phone on the nightstand and soon fell into a deep slumber. I didn’t even hear my phone sound off with messages until well after sunrise, although some of my contacts had been busy overnight.
The first message was from Roger, as promised.
You’ll find Dorinda at the end of Loudpipes Lane, off Route 23. If she’s not on the first floor, as is likely, try the second.
“Where the heck is that lane?” I muttered, scrolling on to the next text, because I seriously doubted that Tinkleston, Ms. Peebles or even Socrates, who was fairly well-traveled, if only locally, would answer me.
Opening the second text, sent by Moxie, I discovered only emojis and one punctuation mark, which was repeated at least five times.
Then I finally opened a message I might’ve been putting off reading, because it was from Jonathan, whom I hadn’t heard from in over a day. And when I read the text, I wished I could’ve delayed even longer, although there was nothing inherently troubling in the short missive, which said, simply, Daphne, we need to talk.
Chapter 18
“Maybe . . . we went ... the wrong way,” I told Moxie, who was pedaling next to me on Route 23, a shady, quiet, but hilly road that was popular with local and visiting cyclists. Men and women in spandex kept darting uphill past me and Moxie, who were both wearing regular clothes.
Well, my jeans and peasant blouse weren’t exactly remarkable. Moxie did stand out a bit in a vintage, crisp, white-collared blouse and pedal pushers that matched her lemon-drop yellow antique Schwinn.
The bike had fat tires and no gears, yet my best friend wasn’t breathing hard or sweating, unlike me, who had borrowed Piper’s twenty-one-speed touring bike for a ride Moxie forced me to undertake each July. Just like she dragged me to Pinchwater Pond every Christmas to go ice skating. She was nothing if not a fan of tradition—and obviously way more coordinated and in better shape than I was.
“. . . I think ... we should ... turn back,” I suggested, gulping air in between every pair of words that wheezed out of my mouth. Front wheel wobbling, I managed to steer to the side of the road. “I can . . . get my . . . van . . . to find ... Dorinda!”
Moxie breezed up beside me and braked to a halt, checking her Mickey Mouse watch. “I do need to run home soon to feed Sebastian.” She leaned over her handlebars and opened the lid of a wicker basket. A little white head popped out and a twitching pink nose tested the air, then Moxie’s rat dropped back into his carrier. She shut the lid. “He’s eaten all of his snacks, which means he’ll soon start eating the basket, and eventually drop to the road!”
“We don’t want ... that to happen,” I noted, catching my breath and trying to sound more concerned than relieved, although I was mainly the latter. Usually Moxie insisted that we cover at least five miles before turning back. I’d hoped to cut the actual riding part short and kill two birds with one stone by adding a stop at Dorinda’s, where I’d intended to invite her to the shower in person. “I’ll text Roger later to ask for more clear directions.”
Moxie began to scooch her bike around, readying herself to coast down the winding road, which was flanked by thick woods. “I’m sorry we didn’t find Piper’s mysterious sister-in-law-to-be. But the hunt definitely added a bit of extra fun to the ride.”
“Better fun than distance,” I noted, awkwardly turning my bicycle, too, and facing downhill.
I could already imagine the breeze in my face and feel my legs regaining some strength when all at once I heard the rumble of an engine coming from the bottom of the long rise.
A moment later, as the noise grew louder, a motorcycle came tearing around a curve.
Moxie and I both pulled our pedal-powered bikes farther off the road just in time for the motorized two-wheeler to roar past.
“Yikes!” Moxie cried, turning, like me, to watch the black bike crest the hill—where, hardly slowing down, the leather-clad rider cut sharply into a lane I hadn’t noticed before.
I continued to observe a cloud of settling dust, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Back at Artful Engagements, where I’d had a similar encounter, right before I’d found Abigail’s body.
Only, this time, I was fairly certain of the rider’s gender.
Then I peered more closely at the top of the hill, noticing a small sign on a metal post. I could only make out a few letters on the marker, but I turned to Moxie, telling her with a sigh, “You go on home, for Sebastian’s sake.” I climbed off my bicycle and, with one last longing glance at the downgrade, began trudging uphill. “I think I’ve found the missing bridesmaid, and she might have some explaining to do.”
Chapter 19
The Wild Hog Bar & Grill had a somewhat mythical status for most local folks, and as I pushed Piper’s bike toward the tilting, ramshackle, pale green building, I could understand why few people actually ventured to the remote establishment, where a half dozen motorcycles were clustered like a line of defense in a gravel parking lot. The bar itself seemed to be uniting with the surrounding forest, which pressed in from nearly all sides. What looked like years’ worth of rotted leaves smothered the rusting tin roof, and dark green beards of mold crept down the walls, growing from under air conditioners mounted on the rotting sills of tilted windows.
I’d spent a lot of time in low-budget hostels during my travels, and I knew that looks could be deceiving. But I had to admit that I was nervous as I parked my bike, which suddenly seemed spindly and ridiculous standing next to a gleaming machine with an engine that was still radiating extra heat into the summer air.
Swiping my sweaty palms on my jeans, I stepped up onto a porch where a small wooden sign, which looked like it had been carved with a jackknife, gave the only indication that the structure housed a business.
WILD HOG. CASH ONLY OR ELSE!
Checking my pockets, because I wanted a cold drink, I was relieved to discover a twenty-dollar bill. Then I took a deep breath, and, reminding myself that Roger wouldn’t have sent me there if he’d thought I’d be in any real danger, I pushed open a screen door, then a sticky wooden door.
Stepping inside, I was momentarily blinded by darkness, while my other senses were assaulted by the odors of smoke and grease and the sound of someone singing to the accompaniment of a guitar. I paused to listen, thinking the person had a lovely voice. Then I took another step into the bar, and the pe
rformance stopped abruptly when the screen door snapped shut behind me. In the wake of that noise, which echoed like a shot, I heard the creak and scrape of chairs being moved on the floor, and I was well aware that everyone was turning to stare at me.
Shading my eyes, which wasn’t helpful at all, I tried to peer into the gloomy room. “Hello?”
No one answered. The silence, and the darkness, continued to surround me.
“I’m looking for Dorinda Berendt,” I said, blinking hard, to no avail. “Is she—?”
I didn’t get a chance to finish my question. All at once, I heard a new sound. A clattering noise, like tiny footsteps coming toward me, and a throaty, but feminine voice—that of the singer—yelling, “Lady! You better run!”
* * *
“You’re lucky Harley didn’t really attack,” Dorinda grunted, leaning back in her chair and stroking an adorable little pig who sat on her lap, his mouth permanently turned up into a self-satisfied-looking grin and something like amusement in his bright eyes.
Clearly, the cute but pugnacious porker was proud of his attempt to shove me out the door by butting his little black-and-white head repeatedly into my shins.
And apparently no one at the Wild Hog gave two hoots about the presence of a pig at one of the bar’s mismatched, wobbly wooden tables. The bartender who had delivered our drinks hadn’t batted an eye at the “customer” who was breaking at least six health code violations, just by sharing a chair with Dorinda. Instead, the bearded server with the greasy T-shirt and scraggly beard had seemed disapproving of me when I’d attempted to order iced tea before settling on a random soda he’d dug up from heaven knew where.
Fortunately, I wasn’t fussy about animals in eateries, or expiration dates, because I was pretty sure if I searched the can I was popping open, I would find a “best consumed by” date of nineteen-seventy-something.
Setting her pet on the floor next to her open guitar case, which held a few coins, Dorinda leaned forward and cupped her hands around an icy mug filled with beer, the better to study me with brown eyes that were remarkably similar to Roger’s. I could tell she was trying to intimidate me, but it was hard to be cowed, given the many similarities she shared with her quiet, measured brother, from the shape of her nose to the color of her longer, wavy hair.
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