My heart thumped in my chest. “Why do you say that?”
His admission was grudging. “That storm the night of Sinclair’s murder took down a tree on Route 23. It held up what little traffic was on the road that night. A flag man remembers waving Berendt by near the front of a line of cars. There’s no denying that Berendt was stuck for at least a half hour, trying to get to his sister at her dive bar.”
Detective Doebler left me to figure out that the delay would’ve eaten up time Roger would have needed to get to Artful Engagements, kill Abigail, and drive to the Wild Hog.
I wondered, for a moment, why Roger hadn’t mentioned the fallen tree in his defense, then I realized he’d likely been keeping one last card close to his vest in case he needed to sacrifice himself to save his sister.
“He’s got an alibi for Chalmers’s death, too,” Detective Doebler reminded me. “So your family is lucky again, if not your friends.”
I should’ve been happy for Roger and Piper, who were finally free to marry and start their new lives without a cloud of concern and suspicion hovering over them. But as I watched Daisy slouch away through the crowded park, her head hanging down, guarding against the stares of curious onlookers, I felt the lowest I had since the whole wedding-and-murder debacle had begun.
I also felt an overwhelming urge to prove Sylvan Creek’s increasingly power-drunk detective wrong about Daisy Carpenter, no matter what it took. Because Snowdrop, still wiggling in my arms, might’ve had her faults, but I trusted dogs even more than people, and the little white poodle was trying to tell me, with every fiber of her twisting body, that she believed in Daisy. And that, along with my doubt that Daisy could kill, was good enough for me.
Chapter 38
“Well, if you had to find another body, at least it didn’t interfere with any sort of special occasion,” Mom noted when we met for a late-afternoon coffee, following the community picnic.
Not surprisingly, my mother was completely overlooking the fact that I’d discovered Laci Chalmers’s corpse during one of the town’s biggest annual events.
Like Fidelia Tutweiler, Mom wasn’t a fan of fireworks, which she called “much ado about literally nothing.” Therefore, the celebration didn’t even register with her.
Shaking out a sugar packet, she tore it open and dumped the contents into the already potent quadruple espresso she’d forced the barista at Oh, Beans to brew up for her, contrary to a store policy against dangerous levels of caffeine.
The always adorable shop was extra festive for the extended Fourth of July celebration. Along with serving holiday drinks, including one called John Hancock’s Signature Blend—“a concoction writ large”—and Paul Revere’s Midnight Ride—a mix of Oh, Beans’ three darkest brews—the shiplap walls were festooned with classic reproduction artwork, including Leutze’s Washington Crossing the Delaware and a 1940s Rosie the Riveter poster. Candles burned in each of the twelve-paned windows, and I recognized the distinctive scent of Gunpowder and Sky, which I’d first smelled at the Gilded Lily.
The overall effect was charming, and I thought it was a lesson in how a theme could be taken just far enough.
“I do continue to worry about your deleterious effect on the local real estate market,” Mom added, stirring the sugar into her custom drink. “There are limits on how many corpses a buyer will accept in one town before moving on to, say, Zephyr Hollow!”
That single reference to competition with a neighboring real estate market told me that there might be a tiny rift forming between two formerly chummy mini-moguls. I wasn’t sure what would be worse for Piper—if Mom and Bev were thick as thieves, or at odds. It was probably a lose-lose situation.
I was also impressed by the vocabulary word—“delete-rious”—that Mom had tucked into the middle of a completely unfounded correlation between my admittedly uncanny ability to unearth, or, in some cases, wade right into, homicide victims and the price of area properties. The conclusion seemed particularly off base since the Sylvan Creek market was, by all accounts, booming.
I swirled the straw in my tall glass, which held another holiday special drink, called Boston (Iced) Tea Party, which was a tart, cool mix of English tea and cranberry juice. “I don’t think I’m hurting your business too much,” I said. “And any damage I do is probably mitigated by Jonathan, who is apparently snapping up land right and left. Not that you’d ever mention that you deal with him on a regular basis.”
“Realtor-client privilege,” Mom reminded me. She might’ve disapproved of Jonathan’s decision not to live on a golf course, like a “sensible bachelor,” and she’d been unhappy when she’d believed he’d bailed on Piper and Roger’s wedding, but she always appreciated a shrewd investor, and she nearly smiled. “I will say that he has a keen eye for potentially lucrative investments.” The near smile turned into a near frown. “When he’s making decisions with his head, for the good of his portfolio.”
I gulped down a big sip of my drink. “What does that mean?”
My mother gazed out one of the windows, and for the first time in recent memory, her expression softened. Then she met my eyes again and, without answering my question, told me reluctantly, “I suppose you could do worse, Daphne.”
There was a compliment, or perhaps insult, buried in there somewhere. Recalling how Beverly Berendt had claimed that my mother sometimes bragged about me, I decided to believe it was the former. Wanting to leave well enough alone, I changed the subject.
“Mom, about the land Jonathan bought on Crooked Creek Lane.” I leaned forward. “Do you know anything about it?”
It took a lot to rattle my mother, but I saw a flicker of unease in her eyes, and she downed her espresso. Then she dug into her purse and slapped some money onto the table. “I don’t even know what you’re asking, Daphne. It’s a lovely property, and it will be a wonderful spot for a wedding. Honestly, I can’t fathom what compels you to go digging around, endlessly asking questions that don’t need to be answered!”
With that, my flustered mother swept out of Oh, Beans, tossing a four-hundred-dollar bandanna-print scarf over her shoulder—“American cowgirl” as interpreted by Saint Laurent—and leaving me to wonder what the heck she was hiding from me related to the place where her favorite child would form a bond that was said to last for eternity.
Chapter 39
As evening settled over the Poconos the day after Laci Chalmers’s murder—and the day before the rowboat regatta—I puttered around Plum Cottage, restless and ruminating about weddings, homicides and, last but certainly not least, going down with the Tiny-tanic in front of the whole town.
By all rights, I should’ve sat on my screened porch enjoying a glass of wine. After leaving Oh, Beans shortly after my mother’s departure, I’d spent most of the day at Flour Power, finishing up the cookies for All Paws on Deck. I’d had some pet-sitting obligations, too, including three dog walks. And I’d stopped by the barn on the way home, checking the decorations for the reception.
Elyse and her crew had done a fantastic job, although I was a bit surprised by some of her choices, which weren’t as romantic as I would’ve expected. In fact, she’d switched out the crystal chandeliers for wrought iron and added long, mismatched antique farmhouse tables instead of the smaller, round rentals covered with white cloths that I’d believed were part of her original plan.
I assumed that Piper, who wasn’t fussy, would be just fine with the last-minute swaps. Not that I knew for certain. I hadn’t seen my sister since just after Laci’s murder, at Elyse’s mansion, and I assumed she was still decompressing with Roger before the coming round of more pleasant excitement the day after next.
I was looking forward to the wedding, yet I wouldn’t have said I felt truly happy right then, and I could tell that Snowdrop and Socrates were unsettled, too. They kept wandering around the cottage, sniffing their food bowls, pawing at the door and trying, but failing, to nap.
Tinks was also disgruntled, pouting on the windowsill he’d ref
used to share, his smooshed-in face looking even grumpier than usual. I had a feeling he wished he hadn’t chased his playmate away.
“If you stay on your good behavior, I’ll bring Ms. Peebles back here after the wedding,” I assured him. “Right now, I can’t be here enough to supervise you.”
My promise did little to placate the cranky Persian. Swiping his paw, he tried to push a coffee can full of sage off the sill. I caught it just in time, but missed stopping Tinks, who leaped over my free hand and ran up the spiral staircase.
That left me, Socrates and Snowdrop to pace around, with hours to go until our bedtime.
Joining them in the living room, where they were both lying near the hearth, their muzzles on their paws, I felt the urge to curl up, too.
Actually, I wanted to talk with Jonathan and tell him all about how Laci had been murdered, Roger had been cleared of Abigail’s homicide, and Daisy was actually under arrest after failing to convince Detective Doebler that she’d been alone at In a Pickle at the time of Laci’s death.
It was probably ironic that practically the whole town had been at Lake Wallapawakee, where the murder had taken place, so no one had seen any lights on at the restaurant.
I hated that I’d made Daisy’s situation worse by telling Detective Doebler about her argument with Laci, although I still stood by my decision to be honest.
On the other hand, I was keeping information from Jonathan, who didn’t yet know about my discovery of Laci’s body. As much as I wanted to spill everything, I didn’t want to worry him, so I’d kept my texts and voice mails upbeat, touching only on Roger’s good news, and briefly, because Jonathan was obviously very busy, sending me repeated apologies for not being available.
I could feel myself drifting into a funk, when all at once, a warm breeze drifted in through the open windows, and I looked around my homey cottage, which was filled with creatures I loved. My sister was just a short drive away, getting ready for the happiest day of her life, my best friend was hopefully baking a cake, and my mother . . .
Well, rumor had it that she was proud of me, in her own way.
“We should not be moping around,” I told Snowdrop and Socrates, who both raised their heads, the tags on their collars jingling in unison. As soon as I had their attention, I realized I didn’t have a plan, but I quickly came up with one on the fly. Checking the angle of the sun one more time, to make sure we could reach our destination before dark, I asked one wary and one eager dog, “Who wants to go for a ride?”
* * *
Snowdrop, Socrates and I definitely would’ve made it to Crooked Creek Lane before sunset—if I hadn’t gotten hopelessly lost in the mysterious valley, which still seemed like something out of a fairy tale.
As it was, the sun was just at the horizon, burnishing the summer foliage in a way that reminded me of my bridesmaid’s dress, as we bumped down the lane to the chapel.
“I’m not turning back now,” I told Socrates, who was strapped into the VW’s front seat with Snowdrop. The petite poodle was the only soul, animal or human, with whom he would willingly share his prized spot. He swung his head to look at me, and I saw that he believed we should just go home. Snowdrop, on the other hand, was panting eagerly in anticipation of an adventure. They were a classic example of opposites who’d attracted. “We won’t stay long,” I promised Socrates, who was the bark of reason in the vehicle. “I just feel that, since we came all this way, we should at least make sure the church ... is not done!”
I changed my tune at the last moment, groaning with dismay, because when we emerged from the copse of trees to reach the dead end, I discovered not a picture-perfect little house of worship, but scaffolding, tarps and sawhorses—along with a shiny Lincoln Continental that seemed like an odd car for a contractor, and an expensive one for a recent ex-convict, to drive.
“I guess business is really taking off for the former inmates,” I grumbled. I didn’t begrudge their success. I was just frustrated that the job wasn’t done, with less than forty-eight hours to go.
Parking my van next to the luxury sedan, I hopped out, then released the dogs.
We all proceeded to sniff around the property—literally, on the part of Socrates and Snowdrop. Glancing toward the pond, I saw that someone had added a small gazebo, which would’ve been nice if the rest of the work had been done first. But as I circled the church, I discovered that, while flower boxes adorned the windows and most of the painting was finished, there were still a few projects to complete. Coming back around to the front, I was happy to note that the steps had been repaired. But the door was locked, so I couldn’t check the interior.
Stepping backward, I shaded my eyes, trying to see if someone was on top of the scaffolding. “Hello?”
No one answered, so I stepped farther back, looking all the way up to the steeple, which was among the unfinished projects. However, the plywood had been removed, revealing a black iron bell—and a figure in silhouette, backlit by the slanting rays of the setting sun.
“Hello?” I called again.
The person leaned out over the walled edge of the steeple. Dangerously far, in my opinion.
“Daphne?”
I immediately recognized the voice, as did Socrates, who’d trotted up next to me, along with Snowdrop. The low, almost growling sound that rumbled in Socrates’ chest told me that he was not pleased to run across the man who continued to teeter above us in an unsound structure, where supposedly foul play had once occurred.
I, meanwhile, was mainly confused. And perhaps a little concerned. “Brother Alf?” I called. “What are you doing here?”
A long, long silence stretched between us. Then the man of the cloth confessed to us, “I’ve come to say goodbye—forever!”
Chapter 40
“I’m sorry I keep scaring you with my attire and flair for the dramatic,” Brother Alf said, taking a seat next to me on the chapel’s steps. “I assure you, I have no intention of killing myself.” He twisted to look wistfully at the building behind us. “I’m simply saying goodbye to a spot that was once special to me, before I move on.”
Having glimpsed a suitcase on his bed when he’d ducked into his room at Graystone Arches, I wasn’t surprised to learn that Brother Alf was hitting the road. But I hadn’t expected him to tell me that he was leaving the area for good.
Since he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, share exactly where he was headed, I instead asked, “What really happened here, back in the seventies?”
Brother Alf’s response was a deep sigh that resonated with what sounded like a lifetime of regret, and I gave him a moment to reflect, thinking that Jonathan was right. The chapel was a good spot for contemplation.
The air was dark and soft and smelled of cut grass, mowed by the landscapers who’d cleared the area around the pond, so the water glistened in the moonlight. Frogs croaked and answered one another, and every now and then, I heard the faint hoot of an owl. The sound reminded me of Rembrandt, the bird from the Owl & Crescent Art Barn, although I doubted he ventured so far from his home. I was tempted to be lulled into complacency, but I still needed to understand why Brother Alf had made one last stop at the chapel, and why he’d reacted so strongly when I’d first mentioned it, back at Graystone Arches.
“You had something to do with a woman named Desdemona Siminski, didn’t you?” I prompted softly, interrupting his reverie.
Brother Alf drew back gawking at me like I was a magician who’d just identified a card he’d pulled randomly from a deck. “How did you know that?”
“It was a guess,” I admitted, glancing at Socrates and Snowdrop, who were sitting by the pond, their heads bent together. They looked like the basset hound and poodle figurines from the painting party, and I was glad Socrates had agreed to leave my side. He’d only done so after I’d contacted Moxie, telling her our whereabouts, and letting Brother Alf know, in no uncertain terms, that if we didn’t get home by nine p.m., the cops would be looking for him.
Brother Alf had act
ually been happy to loop a third party into our meeting. He seemed a little wary of me, too, after reading about how I’d found Laci’s body at the lake.
“Well, it wasn’t a complete guess,” I added. “I got hold of a bunch of clippings that Abigail had collected at Artful Engagements. They were all about Graystone Arches. Paging through them was like reading a history of your . . .” I almost said “cult’s,” but caught myself just in time. “A history of your organization’s rise, in reverse. And one of the stories, near the very bottom of the pile, featured a photo of the chapel.”
He knew what I was talking about. “Yes. Taken at Desdemona’s wedding. Or, more precisely, the night before she was to be married.”
His voice was quiet, almost hoarse. I could only see him in profile, but his expression looked haunted.
I spoke more softly, too. “Who was she?”
To my surprise, he shifted on the steps and suddenly smiled, laughter in his eyes. “Only the most beautiful, wildest thing you’ve ever met. That stuffy old-money family of hers could never crush her spirit!”
I tried to be tactful. “I take it you two were ... ?”
His grin vanished, and he cleared his throat, like he was uncomfortable, too. “Yes. We were ... an item. Drawn to each other like magnets from the moment we met. But the timing was bad. Very bad.”
I was familiar with that situation, but at least Jonathan and I weren’t involved with other people. Our situation wasn’t quite so complicated, nor unethical. “How did you meet?”
Brother Alf hung his head. “She was planning her wedding. Her family, who hailed from Philadelphia—”
“Yes, I read that.”
“They had a summer home on Lake Wallapawakee,” he continued. “They decided that their favorite vacation retreat would be a lovely site for their daughter’s celebration.” He twisted to look at the chapel again, then faced forward. “I had just started here, a fresh-faced minister right out of divinity school, with all the best intentions in the world to save souls.” He laughed, and it came out like a rueful, yet bemused grunt. “Then I met Des!”
Something Borrowed, Something Mewed Page 22
