Something Borrowed, Something Mewed

by Bethany Blake

  “That’s not true, Daphne.” Fidelia glared at me with disbelief. She knew I was exposing her as a fraud, and it seemed that she’d somehow expected me to cover for her, right before she did me in. “You’re lying!” She turned to Dexter. “You know I have money! My inheritance—”

  “Is never coming,” I interrupted, addressing Dex. “No matter what she told you about her father’s millions being tied up in some legal battle that’s nearly over, or a trust fund she’s about to get control of ... It’s not true. You’ve been swindled.”

  Fidelia couldn’t even deny it. “Dex,” she moaned, clutching at him desperately, while he again backed away, twisting sideways to block her advances. “I can explain . . .”

  It probably should’ve felt good to bring both of their lying, cheating worlds crumbling down, but it didn’t at all. I felt sick as Dex brandished the knife not at me, but at Fidelia, losing his movie-star cool entirely and screaming, “You! You’ve ruined a perfectly good plan that could’ve made me a rich man living on a tropical island. Instead, you’ve dragged me into two homicides—and you don’t even have any money?”

  It was Socrates’ and my only chance. While Fidelia shrieked in reply, cursing Dexter, I bent to grab my phone, and Socrates and I both darted out of the room, shoving past the bickering couple, who immediately realized their mistake and again turned on us.

  But they had lost their wits and stumbled against each other, giving me and a surprisingly quick basset hound the chance to tear down the hallway, bound down the steps and crash out the front door into the night.

  My plan had been to jump into the VW, and I’d thought our chances of making it to safety were still pretty slim, given that I had to hoist a low-slung dog into his seat, even as I could hear yelling and footsteps right behind us.

  Yet all at once, I quit running, and Socrates stopped short, too, because, just as Fidelia and Dex stumbled through the front door, finally united again in purpose, two squad cars that were rolling quickly down the lane, along with some unmarked vehicles, finally switched on their red dome lights and blared their sirens, lighting up the night like . . . well, the Fourth of July.

  I’d never seen a more welcome parade.

  Chapter 46

  “You really cut it close this time,” I told Jonathan Black, who was leaning against his truck. I was also resting against the pickup—and Jonathan. We were alone under a starry sky at Artful Engagements, after Detective Doebler and some uniformed officers had handcuffed and led away Fidelia and Dexter, who’d made a brief and embarrassing attempt to run off into the night on foot. Socrates had been so mortified on their behalf that he’d already climbed into the van, wiping his paws of the dysfunctional couple for good. Shifting, I looked up at Jonathan. “It was getting pretty dicey!”

  “You should not be joking about that,” he warned me, facing me, too, and crossing his arms. “If it hadn’t been for your phone and your mother . . .”

  I frowned, confused. I didn’t understand how my phone had come into play, but I was more baffled by my mother’s involvement in the evening’s events. “What did Mom have to do with your arrival in the nick of time?”

  Jonathan’s eyes were dark with continued concern. “When I arrived back in town and couldn’t find you or Piper, and neither of you answered your phones—”

  “Piper’s on her honeymoon,” I interrupted. “She and Roger eloped.”

  Jonathan drew back, surprised. “Really?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed, smiling. “They’re in St. Thomas. Piper sent some pictures of them both looking deliriously happy. Then she told me she’d be out of contact for at least a week.”

  Although that news meant Jonathan had fixed up a chapel for nothing, he grinned, too. “Good for them.”

  I didn’t want to ruin the lighter mood, but he needed to finish explaining why he was even there. “So, getting back to my mother?”

  His smile faded. “When I failed to contact you or Piper, I got a little worried, knowing that you were in the midst of a murder investigation.” I opened my mouth, and he said, “Let’s not pretend otherwise.” I nodded agreement, and he continued telling his tale. “So I called Moxie, who said you’d been in a shipwreck.” Jonathan looked me up and down. “Which was apparently true.”

  “Hey—”

  Jonathan spoke over my second, louder protest, which still would’ve been weak. I was a mess.

  “Since it’s sometimes difficult to get clear information from Moxie Bloom”—he raised a hand—“charming as her colloquialisms are, I called someone who always gives me the story straight, even if we don’t always agree on real estate.”

  “Mom.”

  “Yes. And she mentioned that you had planned to stop by Artful Engagements on your way home after, and I quote, ‘offering a worthy tribute to the wonderful and underappreciated humor of McHale’s Navy.’ Whatever that means.”

  My heart felt warm, and I rested my hand on my finally dry shirt. “Mom said that?”

  Jonathan arched an eyebrow. “Could I make it up?”

  He really couldn’t.

  “I raced here because, as I made my way back from California, I kept piecing together the clues in Abigail Sinclair’s murder,” he continued. “I thought the killer had to be one of the three people who stayed the latest after the rehearsal dinner, and I was leaning toward Shipley. When I heard you had gone to a place where he might be gathering his things or erasing clues, I was afraid you might encounter him. And I assumed you’d reached the same conclusion as me, meaning that meeting wouldn’t go well.”

  “I wish I could take that much credit,” I said. “But, to be honest, I couldn’t believe the clues that pointed to Fidelia, and I didn’t so much solve the crime as get lured here as a potential victim.” I paused to think for a moment, then asked, “So, what made you decide to call in reinforcements? That seems a little premature, based on what little information you had.”

  “I didn’t do that,” he said. “The uniformed officers were responding to a 911 call from your phone, which they traced to here. When they realized the request for help came from Artful Engagements, they contacted Doebler, too ... What is wrong?”

  Jonathan asked that question because my jaw had dropped to the ground. “That can’t really be possible.”

  “What?”

  “I tapped the panic button icon on my phone before I slid it across the carpet, toward Socrates. But I didn’t get to tap again, actually placing the call. I was afraid Dexter would notice.”

  Jonathan and I both looked at the van, where Socrates was waiting patiently. Jonathan spoke first. “You don’t really think . . . Could a paw even . . . ?”

  “I have no idea,” I admitted, nevertheless thinking someone had earned an extra treat that night. “Maybe Socrates should go to the police academy!”

  I was trying to make light of what had been a bad situation, but Jonathan didn’t laugh. He grew intensely serious and took my hands in his.

  I searched his face. “What?”

  “Daphne . . .”

  I had finally reached a point where I could read the once-unknowable Jonathan Black like a book, and I swallowed thickly. “Just say it.”

  “I need you to be more careful, moving forward.”

  My heart felt like a chunk of lead, and I released his hands. “Why would you say that—beyond the usual reasons?”

  He took a deep breath, then said, “Because, as it turns out, I won’t always be here to save the day.”

  Chapter 47

  “This is the best wedding reception I’ve ever attended where the bride and groom didn’t even bother to show up,” Moxie said, as if she attended similar events all the time. She clasped her hands, gazing around the barn, which was full of Piper’s and my friends and family, and, of course, a lot of canines, including Artie, Axis, Tiny Tim, Socrates and Snowdrop, who were all mingling like the humans. “It’s just smashing!”

  The party did seem to be going well. The night was balmy, under a fu
ll moon that bathed the field of daisies in a wash of gentle light. More flowers overflowed from the bed of the antique truck, which was, as predicted, a popular spot for photos. And the barn’s interior glowed softly with light from the chandeliers and hundreds of votives, which were tucked on the rafters, the windowsills and the long farmhouse tables, where guests were gathered, enjoying conversation and Daisy Carpenter’s amazing food, which was drawing rave reviews, as was the decor.

  I only had one complaint, related to Elyse’s decision to hang the awful painting I’d created at the Owl & Crescent right above the buffet tables. But it was an honest mistake. Elyse had thought my canvas, which she’d found discarded in the barn, was some sort of quaint folk piece by “someone with raw, or perhaps, intriguingly, no talent,” as she’d put it, before I’d claimed the work as my own. She’d still insisted upon displaying the blobby basset hound, promising me that guests would find the mysterious work “compelling.” And, as usual, Elyse’s sense of style was dead-on. I’d already received two offers to buy the painting from people who said they couldn’t seem to look away from it.

  “Daisy and Elyse did an amazing job,” I agreed with Moxie, searching the crowd until I found the woman who was responsible for the ambience. Flanked by her greyhounds, Elyse stood near the open barn door, talking with Tom and Tessie Flinchbaugh and Gabriel Graham, who had his arm around his gorgeous girlfriend.

  They were a striking couple, and I was happy for them, if slightly miffed at Gabriel for running a photo of me slogging out of Lake Wallapawakee next to a story with the headline, Local Pet Sitter Torpedoes Beloved Event.

  I turned back to Moxie, who had baked a cake—except it wasn’t the multitiered confection I’d seen in her sketchbook. The simple but lovely chocolate dessert had only one layer and an appropriately basic border of flowers.

  “How did you know not to make the real cake?” I asked my best friend, who’d washed the blue dye out of her hair. Her spiky locks were barn red, the perfect complement to a vintage gingham dress she’d altered to be formfitting, a playful balance between the rustic theme and an upscale cocktail party. “Did Piper tell you she was going to elope? Because I was getting really worried when you kept putting off baking.”

  Moxie’s eyes sparkled. “Piper didn’t say a thing. I just knew, from the moment I drew it, that the cake was meant for another couple.” She was a bit psychic. “And there’s not a huge hurry to bake it. There’s still some time. Although, not too long.”

  “Is it for you and Mike?” I asked, thinking it would be strange for Moxie to bake her own wedding cake for her inevitable union with the man who was threading his way through the crowd, a big smile lighting up his face when he spotted the woman he’d loved since high school.

  Moxie grinned, too, as Mike took her hand, wordlessly pulling her toward the makeshift dance floor. “No, silly,” she told me, over her shoulder. “The cake is for you and Jonathan!”

  I didn’t have a chance to respond before she was out of earshot, and I wouldn’t have ruined the party, anyway, by telling her that Jonathan and I would not be getting married.

  I’d insisted, the previous night, that he take the job in California, refusing to even listen to his attempt to explain how maybe we could have the best of both worlds.

  The last thing I wanted was to become desperately clingy, like Fidelia Tutweiler, and spend my days worrying about whether Jonathan was happy with a long-distance relationship that I knew in my heart wouldn’t work for me.

  In the end, I’d pushed him firmly away, telling him that I would prefer to end our relationship while we still loved each other, rather than watch it fizzle away slowly across three thousand miles until it sadly flickered out in an awkward Skype or phone call.

  Standing alone in the crowd, I watched as Mike folded Moxie against himself, both of them swaying to a soft ballad sung by none other than Dorinda Berendt, who had returned to Sylvan Creek, mistakenly thinking the wedding was still on.

  “She has a lovely voice, doesn’t she?” my mother asked, joining me and handing me one of the signature Winding Hill Sunset cocktails Daisy had created for the evening.

  To my surprise, Mom was sipping the tasty mix of orange juice, triple sec and peach schnapps. It was unlike her to drink anything but wine, let alone serve me—or compliment her once-best friend, now rival’s rebellious child, who would soon return to Nashville, where she really was determined to make her mark.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Mom, who looked the same. She wore a cream-colored sheath dress that bared her still remarkably toned arms, with a silk scarf in a water-colored pastel floral pattern, an Impressionistic echo of the truck full of summer blooms that was parked outside. “Why are you handing me beverages and being nice about Dorinda? Because I know you’re not happy with Beverly.”

  I searched the barn again and found Roger’s mother in a small group of people I didn’t recognize. I assumed they were part of the Berendt family. And from the way they were huddled together, I wouldn’t have been surprised if they were discussing the sudden disappearance of Brother Alf Sievers and the imminent collapse of Graystone Arches Gateway to Eternity, where I needed to go ASAP and buy two sourdough starters before they were all gone. In retrospect, it probably was worth the price, and Moxie would appreciate the gift tin. I looked askance at Mom again.

  “Knowing that Bev is handling the sale of Abigail Sinclair’s mansion, I’d be surprised if you could think of something good to say about Roger right now.”

  “Daphne, Daphne, Daphne . . .” Mom shook her head at my ignorance, and I was relieved that she was acting normally again. “I have no issues with the Berendt family. Not the singer. Not the young man who stole your sister away.” In spite of her claims to the contrary, she might’ve had a few issues with the elopement. “And certainly not with Beverly, who is free to go after any listing she wants.”

  I did not believe a word of that last statement. “Seriously, Mom? You expect me to believe that you have no problem with Beverly encroaching on your real estate territory?”

  The corners of my mother’s mouth lifted upward to an absurd degree, by her standards, and she got a sly look in her eyes. “Let’s just say that Brother Alf Sievers is uncomfortable placing the sale of Great Walnut Mountain and the castle atop it into the hands of a sister who is currently very displeased with him.”

  I nearly dropped my cocktail. “You’re going to sell an entire mountain?”

  Mom sipped her drink, her dark eyes growing dreamy, an expression I’d never seen before. “I’ve had three calls from resort operators already,” she said, smacking her lips. “And the property’s not even on the market yet.”

  My mother was going to make a fortune off the commission, and, although I wasn’t into material goods, I felt I had to congratulate her. I clinked our glasses. “Good for you.”

  “And good for you, not getting killed,” Mom noted. “I suppose we should toast that, too. Although, I believe that I more than once tried to warn you that your accountant was not only unqualified, but sketchy.”

  I couldn’t recall my mother ever using those exact words, but it would’ve made sense. She didn’t trust anyone who wasn’t born and bred in Sylvan Creek. And she was right about Fidelia’s lack of qualifications. Yet, in spite of all that had happened, I didn’t regret trying to help a fellow human being.

  “Well, Fidelia and Dexter will likely be going away for a long time,” I told Mom. “I think there’s a pretty airtight case against them. And even if there wasn’t, the way they turned on each other, I think they’ll take each other down.”

  “Love is so messy,” my mother said with an uncharacteristic sigh.

  I gave her another funny look. “Is there something going on? Am I missing something here?”

  Mom’s hand, holding her drink, jerked, and some of her Winding Hill Sunset sloshed out of her glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Daphne,” she said, using her other hand to adjust the sharp edge of her alr
eady flawless bob. “What in the world would be ‘going on’?”

  She was hiding something. But I wouldn’t get the truth right then, because someone else joined us, interrupting the conversation by asking us both a two-word question that wouldn’t have made sense in most other contexts.

  “Potato salad?”

  Chapter 48

  “I can’t thank you enough for watching Snowdrop, and for solving Abigail and Laci’s murders,” Daisy Carpenter said, smiling first at me, then at the poodle, who, along with Socrates, had joined us outside the barn for a brief break from the party. The air was cooler and rich with the scent of flowers. “I was honestly starting to worry that I would be tried for homicide—a fear that grew worse when the truth about my argument with Laci came to light.”

  I cringed, nearly spilling what was left of the potato salad she’d offered me and Mom. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean for Detective Doebler to overhear. But once he had . . .”

  “You had to tell the truth,” Daisy agreed. “It just looked really bad for me. In a Pickle probably would’ve closed as quickly as it had opened if the story about the food poisoning got out, as it likely will someday. Hopefully after I’ve proven myself. In the meantime, your faith in me means a lot—whether it’s in my character, or in my ability to succeed as a chef.”

  Actually, I had doubted Daisy at times when it came to murder, a fact I didn’t intend to share. And, as I’d told Jonathan, I didn’t exactly solve the crimes, although I’d hoped to do that on Daisy’s behalf.

  “I can’t take credit for solving anything,” I admitted again, licking my fork to get the last bit of the salad, which was delicious. I was pretty sure I tasted dill in the mayonnaise, which would make sense, since Daisy’s specialty was pickles. She was keeping the recipe a secret, though, even from me. I scraped the fork around the empty bowl one more time, telling Daisy, “And, to be honest, Snowdrop was the one who had full faith in you. I, in turn, trusted her instincts.”