Something Borrowed, Something Mewed

by Bethany Blake

  Moxie joined me on the driver’s side. “When the time is nigh, the cake will be as promised!”

  She was being strangely cryptic. And her use of the archaic, biblically prophetic word “nigh” gave me a creepy feeling, given my next destination. The fact that the sky suddenly darkened, too, as if on cue, added to my sudden sense of foreboding.

  Nevertheless, I climbed behind the wheel, prepared to drive to Graystone Arches Gateway to Eternity.

  But first, I rolled down the window, because the VW lacked air-conditioning, and Moxie was rapping to get my attention.

  “What’s up?” I inquired, since she looked very grave. Like maybe she honestly believed I might be held against my will—a concern that had crossed my mind several times that morning. I almost wished she’d talk me out of my errand, which I’d probably put off out of some subconscious concern. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes,” Moxie confirmed, making me even more nervous. “There’s something I need to tell you before you enter the gates to forever!”

  Chapter 29

  “I should’ve known Moxie wanted to add a loaf of pumpernickel to her order for sourdough,” I told Socrates, who was staring out the window, watching the trees pass by as we climbed higher and higher up a road that snaked along the edge of Great Walnut Mountain, one of the highest peaks in the Poconos. Normally, a crest that size would’ve housed a ski resort, but from what I understood, an eccentric multimillionaire had purchased the entire mountain back in the 1880s to build a castle-like fortress, where he’d lived as a recluse. At some point, the property had been deeded in perpetuity to Graystone Arches Gateway to Eternity, and now the “monks” and their “acolytes” lived cloistered on the hilltop. I glanced over at my skeptic of a sidekick. “I don’t know why I got so nervous when Moxie said nigh and forever!”

  Socrates seemed to agree that I’d been a little too edgy, back in town. He continued to observe the passing foliage, while I finally spied a sign ahead in a gathering mist. It was like we were entering the cloud cover on that increasingly muggy, hot day, and I leaned forward, peering through the fog.

  Not surprisingly, since nothing else was located on the mountain, I discovered that we’d reached our destination, and I slowed to turn onto a bumpy lane, at which point I began to fret not about getting out of, but getting into the compound after our long drive. From what I understood, a gatekeeper was posted in a watchtower at the main entrance, and not everyone earned admittance. Supposedly, according to local legend, one had to be pure of heart in order to pass through the massive granite portal that loomed ahead, looking every bit as imposing as I’d expected, if not more.

  Then again, local legends could obviously get totally blown out of proportion, because as I pulled up to a massive, but open, iron gate, I saw not a stern watchman waiting to turn us away, but a chalkboard sign, decorated with brightly colored, hand-drawn flowers and letters, that said, Open House Today! Zither Demonstration 3 p.m. at Larison Hall!

  And below that was a notice that was going to make Moxie very happy: Special on Sourdough—$3.49 per HEAVENLY Loaf !

  * * *

  “Well, this is nothing—and everything—like I expected,” I whispered to Socrates, whose head was swiveling back and forth as we walked the peaceful grounds of Graystone Arches. The compound, which was crisscrossed with paths linking pretty stone buildings, reminded me of a college campus, except, instead of chattering coeds, silent, robed figures moved slowly about, their expressions almost too placid. While their vestments were uniformly brown, the ropes that tied them came in a rainbow of hues, denoting rank—and financial contribution—if Piper was correct. “I thought it would feel like a prison,” I added. “But I haven’t felt trapped or threatened at all, with the exception of handing over my cell phone. That was kind of weird.”

  Socrates gave me a sidelong look, and I could tell he thought everything about Graystone Arches was a bit off.

  “I know,” I said quietly as a cloaked acolyte practically floated past us, carrying what I assumed was a zither. If the open house was a success, I hadn’t seen evidence of that yet. I was the only person wearing anything but a belted muslin sack. In fact, the guest book I’d signed upon entering the compound only had about five signatures from the past two weeks. I’d read the whole list, reassured by the fact that everyone had signed out at some point. Still, as Socrates and I passed yet another resident who met my gaze furtively from under his or her hood, the sign inviting us through the gates increasingly seemed like a trap, and I fought to keep my breath steady. “I’m sure we are perfectly fine,” I told Socrates. “We’ll laugh about our nervousness on the way home.”

  In spite of acting nonchalantly on the ride, Socrates remained on guard, and I had to admit that worried me, even as we passed a cheerful bakery where I would need to stop on the way out to pick up a few loaves for Moxie and me. The person who’d given us directions to Brother Alf’s “chambers” insisted that the bread froze well, so I planned to stock up, too.

  Of course, that was assuming that Socrates and I survived our adventure. As we followed the instructions we’d been given, we were moving deeper into the compound, passing under a grove of ancient walnut trees, where the mist we’d encountered on the road swirled amid the trunks.

  The biggest building I’d seen from across the grounds—one that I assumed, from its towers and turrets, was the original owner’s home—loomed just beyond the grove, and we emerged in front of one of the property’s signature archways.

  We’d been instructed to pass through that portal and follow a shadowed corridor that stretched beyond us. I surmised that the passageway, which led under the massive building, had once been traversed by horses and carts, and that a carriage house waited at the other end.

  Socrates and I hesitated, sharing wary looks. Then I recalled that Roger had recently visited the compound and come home just fine. Moreover, Moxie knew where we were, and, if we didn’t get back to Sylvan Creek, she wouldn’t rest until her bread, if not her best friend, was delivered home.

  “Those loaves are our safety net,” I whispered to Socrates, as we both stepped into the semidarkness on an afternoon that was growing increasingly gloomy.

  My basset hound sidekick didn’t woof or wag a reply. His tail hung low and his head swiveled again as we made our way down the silent corridor, which reminded me of the skeleton-strewn catacombs that ran beneath the great cities of Europe. Water dripped from some unseen source, and a trickle of cold sweat ran down my back at the ominous sound.

  “We should . . .”

  I was about to suggest that Socrates and I turn back when, all at once, yet another robed and hooded figure stepped out of an alcove I hadn’t even seen, stopping right in front of us and looking for all the world like the grim reaper.

  I knew, because I’d played that role in a disastrous production of A Christmas Carol, thanks to Fidelia Tutweiler, who’d refused to play the part, in spite of acing her audition.

  “Hello?” I ventured softly, when the individual who blocked our path didn’t move or speak. “We’re looking for—”

  “I know who you seek, Daphne Templeton,” the cloaked figure finally said in a low, deep voice. Without removing his hood, he took yet another step closer, raising his hand in a spectral, beckoning gesture, while Socrates and I stepped back. “I have known you would come,” he told me, drawing even closer, his hand still outstretched. “And I have been awaiting your arrival with much anticipation!”

  Chapter 30

  “Of course, you couldn’t have known that Brother Augustus, who gave you directions, alerted me to your visit—and I’m sorry about wearing the hood,” Brother Alf Sievers said, shaking his head with self-reproach. “No wonder you were unnerved!”

  “I guess I didn’t expect you all to have walkie-talkies, since I had to turn over my phone,” I noted, watching him bustle about his “chambers,” which weren’t anything like the austere accommodations I’d expected.

  Roger’s unc
le, who’d finally bared his balding pate, actually inhabited a quite comfortable apartment, which had been carved out of space on the top floor of the imposing main building. Mullioned, leaded windows overlooked the valley below, although the thickening mist obscured the view. Inside, where the air smelled of comforting yeast and flour—tinged, perhaps, with a faint odor I recognized as a pet sitter—Brother Alf’s amenities included a clean, welcoming kitchenette with stainless steel appliances and a living room with a cozy sectional, where he’d gestured for me to sit.

  Socrates, who wasn’t yet succumbing to the ruddy-cheeked cleric’s hospitality, waited by the tall, arched wooden door that Brother Alf had closed behind us. I assumed that another matching door, which was also shut, led to his bedroom.

  “It gets so chilly here on top of this blasted old mountain,” Brother Alf noted, the mild oath offered affectionately and jovially. Rubbing his hands together to warm them, he plucked a whistling red kettle from the stove. “I forget that the cloak can be off-putting to outsiders!”

  “It was a little spooky,” I told him, wishing he’d accepted my offer to help with the snacks. But he’d insisted on brewing the tea and slicing up several loaves of bread without assistance. “Sorry if Socrates and I overreacted.”

  Over by the door, Socrates gave a low warning sound, almost like a growl. I guessed that he was trying to claim that he hadn’t been concerned, but I knew otherwise.

  “No worries, no worries,” Brother Alf insisted, filling a bowl with water and taking that to Socrates, along with a dog biscuit on a plate. “I don’t get many canine visitors—or visitors at all,” he added, in a nevertheless cheerful tone. “But I keep treats on hand, just in case. We are close to Sylvan Creek, the pet lovers’ paradise.” Chuckling at his own turn of phrase, he set the bowl and plate down near the door. “Cheers, Master Socrates! Cheers, and welcome to my humble home!”

  Socrates still remained wary, while I was charmed—probably too charmed—by Roger’s relative, who had shuffled back to the kitchen to retrieve the tray he’d prepared for us. A part of me realized that charisma almost certainly played a role in luring people into cults, but with his twinkling eyes and apple-red cheeks, it was very hard not to like Alf Sievers. And my resolve to remain detached weakened when he set the tea and a selection of monk-baked breads, all slathered with butter churned on the premises, from Gateway Arches’ own grass-fed cows, right in front of me on a low coffee table.

  I kind of felt like I was already in heaven.

  “Please, enjoy,” Brother Alf urged me, waving his hands like a magician over the already enchanting tray of goodies. “You deserve a treat after navigating the mountain road to get here.” He sat down on a section of the couch at a right angle to mine, blinking at me with happy befuddlement. “For what reason I haven’t yet thought to ascertain.”

  I’d already helped myself to the pumpernickel—Moxie’s last-minute request—and I’d closed my eyes for just a second to enjoy the divine, hearty taste.

  “Oh, yes, about my visit,” I said, my eyelids snapping open. I’d been close to asking where to sign on, if only for an instant. “I’m here because we bridesmaids are regrouping after the wedding disaster, and we’re hell-bent . . .” I immediately regretted my phrasing. “We are heck-bent on getting Piper and Roger married before he leaves for Europe. We even have locations for the ceremony and the reception. Now all we need is an officiant.” Licking butter off my fingers, I shrugged. “And about a dozen other things. But ‘officiant’ is right up there.”

  Brother Alf hadn’t reacted to my mild curse, but as I’d been speaking, the light in his eyes had been dimming, and his apple-hued cheeks had faded from Red Delicious to Pink Lady.

  “You . . . you still want me to perform the ceremony?” he inquired, resting his hands on his knees. He gave himself a nervous squeeze, knocking his legs together under his garment. “In spite of what happened with Abigail Sinclair?”

  I didn’t understand why Abigail’s murder would have anything to do with whether he presided over Piper and Roger’s union. And maybe he wasn’t referring to the homicide.

  He cleared his throat, trying again. “I mean, if you’re planning an entirely new wedding—a fresh start—perhaps you, or should I say Roger and Piper, don’t want any reminders of the whole sad mess at the Sodgrass Club, and the subsequent legal battle,” he clarified. “To think of my sister, and your family, being swindled . . .” He sighed. “It broke my heart, and I would understand if my nephew and his lovely bride wanted to start their lives together with no vestige of that previous, let’s face it, garish, event.”

  “You’re not a ‘vestige,’” I assured him, although part of me thought I should’ve just accepted his offer to stay away from the ceremony. Piper didn’t seem to want him to preside. But his inclusion seemed to be important to her future husband and his kin, so I reminded Brother Alf, “You’re family!”

  “Oh, goodness.” He continued to seem uncertain and fidgeted with his belt.

  That was the first time I noticed the color.

  Blue, braided with strands of white.

  I kept staring at that long tie, trying to determine if there was any chance it was woven of silk. I didn’t think so, but Graystone Arches certainly didn’t seem to lack for funding.

  And the longer I studied the belt, the more I wondered if I might’ve been wrong about a damp garter. Because the object wrapped around Brother Alf’s expansive waist could easily be used to strangle someone.

  In fact, I rubbed my throat, recalling that Beverly Berendt had mentioned that her sibling had impeded her progress to her vehicle. But Bev hadn’t said anything about seeing him drive off . . .

  “Is something wrong?” Brother Alf inquired.

  I met his gaze, and it seemed to me that his eyes were a little less friendly.

  “That’s just . . . just a lovely belt,” I noted, nodding to his hands, which continued to play absently with one of the tassled ends.

  Could it be silk?

  “I understand the colors are related to rank, right?” I asked, because he didn’t thank me for the compliment.

  Instead, he suddenly seemed to take a personal and suitably monastic vow of silence.

  I looked over at Socrates, who had wisely remained near the door. His brown eyes were at once warning and resigned, like he knew things were going to get worse before they got better.

  The silence stretched on until Brother Alf said, “I knew it. I knew all along that you came here in person because you’re investigating Abigail Sinclair’s murder. Roger and Beverly both said you’re an amateur sleuth!”

  “I have cracked a few cases,” I admitted, finally setting down a piece of the sourdough. Moxie was right. It was amazing, and I’d kept eating, even when things had started to get uncomfortable. We’d probably reached a conversational tipping point, though, and I pushed aside my snack so I could concentrate. “But how did you make that leap? Why would my admiration of your belt mean I was looking into a murder?”

  That question was either going to stump him or, quite possibly, expose him as a killer. Of course, there was a third option. The inquiry might also threaten him and cause him to strangle me. Unfortunately, I didn’t think of that ahead of time, and I grew nervous when he stood up, telling me, through bloodless lips, “Wait right here. I have something to show you.”

  I should’ve bolted, and Socrates clearly agreed. He stood up and shuffled on his big dappled paws, pantomiming a run for the hills.

  But Brother Alf was moving quickly for an older gentleman in Birkenstocks and socks, hurrying to the closed door. When he opened it, a fluffy calico cat slipped out, and I saw that I’d been correct. The door led to his bedroom, where I glimpsed something that I found very interesting, beyond the feline, who was running across the floor.

  At least, I thought I’d spied an object that intrigued me.

  Before I could be sure, Brother Alf, who had ducked inside the room, emerged holding not a weapon, as part
of me had feared, but a newspaper. A copy of the Weekly Gazette, which he stuck under my nose, so I could see a front-page story with the headline Cops Narrow in on Murder Weapon.

  The story, with Laci Chalmers’s byline, described the events that had taken place at Winding Hill the previous night. At least, that’s what I assumed. I couldn’t read the whole piece, because it was pretty long, with a jump to another page, and Brother Alf’s hand was shaking. I could barely make out Jonathan in the accompanying photo, which also showed Detective Doebler and the uniformed officers conferring in Piper’s barn.

  I looked up at Brother Alf, confused, excited by the prospect of catching a killer, and terrified that he’d silence me if I learned the truth. Yet I had to ask, “Are you trying to tell me that you planted the garter?”

  “No!” He seemed exasperated with me and pointed at a different, smaller article. An investigative, speculative piece that was also by Laci, and which also featured a photo.

  I quickly read the headline: Is Lethal Lingerie Red Herring?

  Scanning the story, I caught the phrases “killed after over-the-top patriotic bash,” “red, white and blue objects abounded,” and “dish towel.”

  “She’s very observant,” I muttered, next checking the black-and-white photo, which was a blown-up and unflattering shot of Brother Alf’s waist, with the caption Blue-and-white belt, worn by member of Graystone Arches Gateway to Eternity elder to fatal soiree, among many potential weapons that could match fibers found in victim’s wound.

  Laci, or more likely Gabriel, had been wise enough not to mention Brother Alf by name. But the image still seemed borderline libelous to me, and I thought Gabriel had taken a great risk by running it.