Something Borrowed, Something Mewed

by Bethany Blake

  “I didn’t even see the Gazette today,” I told Brother Alf, whose hand had fallen to his side. He sank weakly back onto the sofa, absently stroking the cat, who had jumped onto her person’s lap. Socrates relaxed a bit, too, although he remained close to the door. “And I don’t know that you have any connection to Abigail Sinclair, let alone reason to kill her,” I added. “It’s one thing to wear a belt that might be a weapon—if it’s silk, or a silk blend.”

  Brother Alf blanched, and I realized he believed that might be the case.

  I tried to act like I hadn’t noticed his reaction, telling him, “But people kill for motive, and, no offense, I didn’t know anything about you before today, beyond the fact that your sister and Roger hoped you’d be part of the wedding.”

  Brother Alf wasn’t sure if he believed me. And I wasn’t sure I believed him when he said, quietly, “Of course I have no connection to Abigail Sinclair. None at all.”

  He’d protested a tiny bit too much. If Jonathan had been questioning him down at the station, he would’ve driven some kind of wedge under that flat denial and pried it open to reveal a secret, or maybe more than one, that Brother Alf was hiding in his twitching, pale blue eyes. I knew it. But I was alone in a castle-like building on a mountaintop where people were rumored to be imprisoned for doing far less than provoking a killer, and I stood up, forcing a smile.

  “Why would you know Abigail, living out here?” I asked, moving toward the door, while Brother Alf kissed his cat’s head and set the contented-looking creature onto the floor again. “You’re pretty isolated.”

  I wished I hadn’t emphasized that. Socrates must’ve been thinking the same thing. He made a sighing sound as I joined him at the door.

  “Thanks for the bread, which is amazing,” I told Alf, who’d trailed after me, the cat in his wake.

  “It takes over one hundred years.”

  “What?”

  I turned to Brother Alf, who had just mentioned that curious, and very long, time span, seemingly apropos of nothing, but in a very grave tone. And he looked deadly serious, too.

  “Pardon me?” I asked, my mind struggling to find some connection between dense, delightfully sour bread and ten decades. But all I could think was, Roger’s uncle is going to trap me here for a century.

  The breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding came out as a burst of laughter when he explained, “That’s how old the sourdough starter is. It’s imported from France.”

  I glanced at Socrates, who rolled his eyes.

  “About the ceremony,” Brother Alf said as the cat rolled on the floor, rubbing her little cheeks against her person’s Birkenstocks. “Where will it be held?”

  I’d nearly forgotten that he hadn’t yet agreed to be part of the wedding, and I said, “Oh, yes. About that. Piper and Roger are going to get married at an old chapel out on Crooked Creek Lane. It’s being renovated as we speak.”

  I was about to explain more about the little church, on the assumption that Brother Alf wouldn’t have any idea what I was talking about. However, his face turned a new apple-related shade: green as a Granny Smith.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Do you know something about the church? Because there is some mystery surrounding it.”

  “No, no,” he protested, his nervous eyes again telling a different story. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Just please let me know when and where I should arrive.”

  “Yes, of course,” I promised. “I’ll leave a message with the switchboard operator when all the details are worked out.”

  He nodded. “That will be fine.”

  It wasn’t fine. He was hiding something, either about the chapel or Abigail’s murder, or both those things. Maybe more stuff, too.

  I suddenly felt very hemmed in again, and Socrates was also eager to leave Graystone Arches. His nose was practically pressed against the tall, heavy door.

  “It was nice finally meeting you,” I said, reaching for the doorknob. “And I really enjoyed visiting your lovely home.”

  There was a tense moment during which Brother Alf watched me with a strange look in his eyes. I gave him time to reply, but he didn’t say a thing. He just stood there in his belted robe, the calico kneading the air with her fluffy paws.

  I finally turned away to twist the knob. But just before I opened the door, Brother Alf suddenly reached past me, braced his hand on the wood and said, “Wait. I’m afraid I cannot let you leave, Daphne.”

  Chapter 31

  “That was the world’s longest zither demonstration,” I complained when Socrates and I were finally safe in my van, coasting downhill. Ten loaves of bread, procured with Brother Alf’s discount, were perfuming the air, which grew warmer with each mile that passed, taking us closer to sea level. “That concert gave new meaning to the phrase ‘captive audience’!”

  Socrates sighed deeply. He’d tried to get me to leave during the first intermission, but I couldn’t seem to find the right moment to get away.

  And since we’d been stuck there, in a small auditorium that hadn’t exactly been packed, I’d made a few clumsy attempts, between twangy sets, to get Brother Alf to admit that he had travel plans, because I’d seen a suitcase—a black suitcase—open on his bed when he’d ducked into his room and the cat had run out.

  In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have been disappointed that my awkward questions about favorite airports and a personal anecdote about my food poisoning in Turkey hadn’t elicited more than strange looks.

  “I suppose he could’ve been unpacking,” I told Socrates, hitting the brakes to slow our retreat as we entered one of the tiniest towns in the Poconos: Hop Bottom, which was basically one block long. But an adorable block it was, with a Victorian inn, a coffee shop and a few other establishments selling gifts, like locally made bath products and pottery. “And, to be honest, I don’t think Brother Alf and Abigail Sinclair seem like they would be lovers.”

  The very thought of that prospect made me want to both cringe and laugh, and Socrates woofed loudly.

  Very loudly.

  The sound was more than mere agreement. Then he barked again, even more insistently.

  He almost never did that, and I knew he was trying to tell me something.

  Slowing down more, I steered the VW to the curb, where we came to a stop right in the center of the town.

  I first checked my gas gauge, because I did have a bad habit of letting the tank run dry.

  But the needle was practically on full, so I next looked around the town, where the sun was setting behind the quaint rows of colorful shops that lined the street.

  My gaze passed over the romantic Walnut Mountain Inn, with its private, shadowed porch, then a shop called Bubbles, which sold handmade soap. And across the street was a paper goods store I’d never seen before, because I rarely traveled to Hop Bottom.

  I read the shop’s name, and it rang a bell, but for a few seconds, I couldn’t figure out why.

  Then I grinned at Socrates, who normally frowned upon my sleuthing.

  However, he also believed that justice should be served, probably even more so when his puppy love’s person was suspected of murder, and he looked almost—almost—proud of himself when I said, “You found the Gilded Lily!”

  * * *

  The shop whose name was stamped inside the bag that held the stained, ruined garter couldn’t have been more than ten feet wide. But every square inch was packed with party goods, ephemera and greeting cards, both new and vintage.

  The store owner was also embracing the Fourth of July with floor-to-rafters enthusiasm. Red, white and blue lights crisscrossed the ceiling, and a deep gray candle in a strange but appropriate scent called “Gunpowder and Sky” burned on the counter next to a bell and a sign that urged customers to ring for service.

  Not seeing anyone amid the cheerful chaos, I rang, then began to flip through a countertop display of antique Independence Day postcards featuring cherubic children waving flags and tooting hor
ns, aggressive eagles clutching sheaves of wheat and militiamen playing fifes and drums.

  “Moxie would love this place,” I told Socrates, who was sniffing the air. The scent of gunpowder was probably overpowering his sensitive nose. I held up a postcard that featured a youngster in a sailor suit bursting out of a firecracker. The image struck me as a little creepy, but I could picture it on display in Moxie’s apartment. “Should I get this for her?”

  “Oh, lovely, lovely choice!” a gray-haired, rotund woman exclaimed, bursting out of a hidden back room, like she’d been launched from a firecracker. She rubbed her hands together, her long, voluminous white dress swirling around her as she approached us, smiling ear to ear. “All of those cards are just precious!” She looked down at Socrates. “As are you!”

  I thought the compliment was nice, but Socrates clearly didn’t consider himself “precious.” He would’ve much preferred “dignified,” and his head drooped, so his ears dragged on the floor.

  “I’ll take this one,” I told the lady, setting my chosen gift on the counter. “And I also have a question that might seem kind of crazy.”

  “There are no crazy questions,” she said, stepping behind the counter. “Just crazy people.”

  Yes, Moxie would fit right in at the Gilded Lily.

  “I was wondering if you recalled someone buying a silver gift bag,” I said. “It wouldn’t have been anything too out of the ordinary.”

  “Unless one stuffed a murder weapon into it,” the woman said, without losing her smile or the twinkle in her eye.

  So, Doebler had already been there. I wasn’t giving him enough credit.

  “Are you another detective?” she inquired, accepting cash I’d dug out of my pocket. “Are you here to ask more questions about Abbie’s death?”

  I’d never heard anyone call Abigail by a nickname, and I certainly hadn’t expected that in a tiny shop miles from Sylvan Creek. “Abbie?” I repeated, knitting my brows. “Were you friends?”

  If so, the shopkeeper didn’t seem terribly upset by her pal’s demise.

  “No, not friends,” she said. “More like ... colleagues. Abigail often bought paper goods here, for her theme weddings.”

  That made sense. It also complicated things. “So you know Dexter Shipley, too?”

  She seemed delighted by my mention of Abigail’s assistant. “Of course! Dex stops by often!”

  “Interesting,” I said quietly.

  “I’m sorry, dear,” the woman said, closing the drawer of an old-fashioned cash register and dumping some change into my waiting palm. “Did you say you’re a police officer?”

  “No, I’ve never been to the academy.” I crammed my change into my pocket. “I’m just trying to solve the case on my own, in part to help my future brother-in-law so he can marry my sister and go to Europe. The silver bag that might hold the murder weapon was last seen in my sister’s barn.”

  The cheerful shop owner didn’t seem surprised by anything I’d just said. She was too busy surprising me by pulling a silver bag out from beneath the counter—a sack just like the one that held the garter—and plopping my postcard inside.

  “I don’t sell these bags, which I bought for the shop’s silver anniversary,” she said. “But they are nice, and some people no doubt repurpose them as gift bags—as I told the real detective who visited earlier today, asking a lot of questions about shoppers from Sylvan Creek.”

  No one ever seemed to tire of pointing out that I wasn’t an authorized investigator, even when I admitted that right up front.

  In spite of being embarrassed just a few minutes before, Socrates snuffled. A sound of barely suppressed laughter.

  I pretended I didn’t hear him. “Did you point out any potential suspects, if you don’t mind me asking? Because I would really like to help my sister and her fiancé.”

  The pleasantly plump shopkeeper shoved the bag across the counter to me. “As a matter of fact, I did tell the detective about a very distinctive girl who stopped in a few weeks ago, looking for a unique wedding gift.”

  My heart started racing, and Socrates was tense at my side, too. “Did this girl buy a garter?”

  The woman behind the counter shook her head and wrinkled her nose. “No, I don’t sell those types of items. The young woman ended up buying something for herself. A string of antique paper lanterns. Red, with yellow Chinese characters.”

  My stomach turned to ice as I pictured a set of French doors leading to a balcony, and I barely got my next question out. “And this person’s hair ... ?”

  If the Gilded Lily’s proprietor realized that I could hardly breathe, it didn’t show in her expression. She continued to smile at me, her eyes still twinkling when she said, “Her hair was ‘something blue’! She told me herself that she’d dyed it especially for her best friend’s sister’s wedding!”

  Chapter 32

  I tried all evening to get in touch with Moxie, but she wasn’t answering her phone or texts.

  I feared she was being interrogated by Detective Doebler, who would’ve easily figured out that Moxie was the blue-haired customer who’d purchased paper lanterns at the Gilded Lily.

  I couldn’t understand why Moxie hadn’t identified the bag when I’d pulled the garter from the nest of tissue paper at Piper’s farmhouse, and well after midnight, when Socrates was sound asleep, I kept pacing around Plum Cottage in my striped pajamas, struggling to make sense out of other fragments that all seemed connected to Abigail Sinclair’s murder, but that didn’t add up to a complete picture.

  A silky garter of uncertain origin.

  A black suitcase I’d glimpsed on Brother Alf ’s bed.

  Dex Shipley’s interest in the Artful Engagements mansion.

  And Laci’s aggressive, maybe reckless reporting . . .

  Shaking my head, I tried to clear my thoughts, which kept circling back to Laci Chalmers, who’d promised to share information when I met her at the boat launch on the shores of Lake Wallapawakee.

  In the meantime, I realized that I had another potential source of information that I hadn’t yet mined.

  Grabbing my cell phone from the kitchen table, I texted Moxie one more time. When she didn’t respond, I climbed the spiral staircase to my loft, where I crawled onto my bed, cringing when I turned on the small lamp on my nightstand. I didn’t want to wake Socrates, who was snoring on his cushion, stretched out to catch a breeze that was drifting in through the big, porthole-like window above us.

  Being a deep sleeper, as well as thinker, he didn’t so much as blink.

  I’d tried not to disturb Tinks or Ms. Peebles, either, but to my surprise, neither one of the cats were in their usual spots. Tinkleston was missing from the foot of the bed, and Ms. Peebles wasn’t curled up in the laundry basket.

  “That can’t be good,” I whispered, glancing at the bridesmaids’ gowns I’d hung over the door to my small closet.

  Dorinda’s dress wouldn’t get used, but I needed to deliver Fidelia’s the next day.

  I took a moment to appreciate the way the burnished, umber silk fairly glowed in the soft light cast by the lamp. I knew the dresses would be equally pretty at Piper’s sunset ceremony, and I selfishly hoped Jonathan would return in time to be my date. I was looking forward to seeing him in his tuxedo, too.

  Sighing, I dragged my gaze away from the dresses and grabbed a stack of papers from the nightstand, setting them on the bed. Then I placed my phone in the space I’d cleared, only to snatch it right back when it pinged with a text.

  I wasn’t sure if I was happy or disappointed to receive a message from Jonathan instead of Moxie. And I became more ambivalent when I read his text.

  Can’t talk tonight, but miss and love you.

  I tried to focus on the reassuring part of the message, and I replied that I loved him, too. But I was worried that we’d only been apart for about a day and already there wasn’t time for a call.

  “That doesn’t bode well,” I muttered, replacing the phone near an o
ld landline I hardly ever used anymore.

  Then I bent over the papers that Jonathan had left on my porch before flying off and began to study them, starting with the photocopied clipping from the Gazette. The one that featured a grainy image of people standing on the shore of a lake.

  Squinting, because the lamp cast the faintest puddle of light on my bed, I read the caption.

  Hundreds gather for mass wedding on the shores of Lake Wallapawakee, an event sponsored by controversial local religious group Graystone Arches Gateway to Eternity.

  “Why was Abigail interested in this?” I whispered, peering at it more closely.

  I was pretty sure I spied Brother Alf Sievers in his robe, his arms outstretched, at the very edge of the water. He appeared to be standing on a platform.

  Turning a few more pages, I discovered that Abigail had collected more articles on the group, most of them negative. However, bad press, including Gabriel’s story, which was right below the mass wedding coverage, didn’t seem to have hampered the group’s growth. Flipping back through the clippings, which constituted something of a loosely organized reverse history, it was easy to see the organization gaining power and money.

  Graystone Arches Members Swell to 300

  Reclusive Group Claims Mountaintop Property

  Cool Millions: Tax Returns Reflect Graystone Arches’ Net Worth

  Beneath these was a more intriguing story.

  Bequest Shocks Prominent Chestnut Hill Family

  This small article, buried in a 1979 edition of the Philadelphia Inquirer, featured the subhead Siminski Clan Vows ‘Cult’ Will Not Receive ‘Blood Money.’

  “I know that name,” I whispered. “But from where?”

  I couldn’t recall, so I tried to read the article, looking for some clue. However, either the original, created before digital archiving was standard, had been damaged, or the photocopy had smeared. Either way, the print was illegible, and I flipped to the next page—sucking in a sharp breath when I spied the chapel on Crooked Creek Lane.