Gown with the Wind

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  “Is this old bat playing with a full deck of cards?” Rachel gripped my arm with her talonlike gel nails and leaned back, out of Alma’s line of fire.

  “I’d shoot Felicity if I ever caught her here, just like Scarlett shot that Union solider!” Alma moved her imaginary target to something outside the window, and Rhett blanched as the gun’s path swept over him.

  Jacqueline whispered to Rhett, loud enough for all to hear, “What were you thinking? Are you sure you want her to have that gun?”

  “Wait . . . Is that a Gone with the Wind gun?” Rachel couldn’t tamp down her smirk as she posed her question. “Let me guess: that’s an exact replica.”

  “Why, yes,” Alma cooed, bestowing Rachel with a warm smile and placing the gun in her lap. The heavy weapon made an interesting contrast to her English rose–patterned robe. “I’ve wanted one for ages but couldn’t justify the purchase. Thank you, Son.” Alma beamed at Rhett and lovingly stroked the cold metal of the gun’s barrel.

  A wheeze racked through Rachel, and I felt the small couch we were sitting on start to shake.

  Oh no.

  Rachel was almost unsuccessfully holding back a gale of laughter. She could staunch it no more, and a thin giggle escaped her lips. Alma shot her a dirty look that could scorch earth. I dove for my purse, hanging from the arm of the couch, and made a show of searching for a tissue. My ribs ached as my sister’s infectious laughter spread, and it took me a quarter of a minute to compose myself. Thankfully, Alma didn’t seem to notice.

  “Control yourself,” I whispered to Rachel.

  “I for one am not a fan of guns,” Jacqueline said primly. “I know what they can do, especially around those who don’t know how to use them.”

  Alma shot her daughter-in-law a withering glare. “I’ve been around guns my whole life, Jacqueline. Plus, perhaps if Glenn had consented to have a gun last year, he would still be with us.” A sad look stole over Alma, and she began to place the gun back in its case.

  “You can’t have guns in most school buildings here in Pennsylvania, Grandma,” Samantha counseled.

  That’s interesting.

  From Samantha’s remark, Glenn must have worked at a school. I filed that tidbit away and tried to figure out a way to politely ask Alma why in the heck she’d summoned me again. I needed to get cracking on helping her with her theater relaunch; there wasn’t a minute to spare. And while the coffee was delicious, and her replica Tara mansion was interesting, if not a bit kooky, Rachel and I had better things to do with our time.

  “Maybe now that you’ve gotten home you’ll consider postponing plans for reopening The Duchess theater,” Jacqueline carefully suggested, her face an impassive mask. “You could just wait until after Becca’s wedding, for instance, and then you’ll be more fully healed.” Jacqueline’s voice slipped into a pleading range, and she stared beseechingly at Alma.

  “Nonsense.” Alma snapped the gun case together with a crisp clatter and set the sleek wooden box on a polished teak end table. “As God is my witness, I will be well enough to relaunch that theater.”

  “Then at least let me help you.” Gone was Jacqueline’s cool, willowy demeanor. She was practically begging.

  “Just focus on your daughter’s wedding.” Alma dismissed Jacqueline, who deflated like a week-old balloon, and turned to me. “Mallory, that’s why you’re here. I have my binder of ideas and contracts and vendors all ready for you to take over. You’ll barely have to lift a finger,” the older woman promised. “Just tie up some loose ends.” Alma imperiously motioned for Samantha to hand me the binder, a huge three-ring monstrosity of a tome that weighed at least half a pound.

  “This looks very . . . thorough,” I announced. It would take at least a day just to go through the thing. I recalled the beautiful yet crumbling building on the corner of Main and Spruce that had been under construction for the past year, a lattice of scaffolding crisscrossing the edifice. Was it even near completion?

  What have I gotten myself into?

  Rachel squirmed on her cushion next to me. She’d wanted to expand our business, but I was willing to bet this series of last-minute affairs, beginning with Keith and Becca’s wedding, and now this theater opening, weren’t what my sister had in mind. Jacqueline looked longingly at the binder. I made a mental note to ask Jacqueline for her help later, and decided I didn’t need to let Alma know. It would be my and Jacqueline’s little secret.

  Rhett let out a sigh from across the room, and began to roll a small wooden stone through his fingers. He pocketed the item and glanced at his watch.

  “You’ll soon be rid of me,” Alma noted drily, taking in her son’s boredom. “But before you go, Rhett, I’d like to see my most-prized items. Be a dear and get me my cane, I’d like to take a trip to the vault.”

  Rhett colored and rubbed his meaty hands together. “Why don’t you have another cup of tea, Mother?”

  “Rhett Cunningham, are you hiding something from me?” Alma sat up in her chair so fast she startled the sleeping Wilkes, who had been lying in repose next to her. The pretty Irish setter raised his regal head and peered at all of us before yawning and resuming his nap.

  “I just think it’s best we wait for the police to arrive.” Rhett wouldn’t meet Alma’s eyes. A knock at the door caused all of us to jump, all except Wilkes, who slept on. The dog truly must have been hard of hearing.

  “Speak of the devil,” Alma muttered.

  Samantha returned from the hallway with Truman dogging her heels. I adored my boyfriend’s father and couldn’t get past Alma’s displeasure with him. I was certain Truman had done everything he could to catch and bring Alma’s husband’s killer to justice.

  “Good morning, Alma. I’d like to apologize for the state in which our investigators left your home. We tried to clean up most of the fingerprint dust, but you’ll find some things disturbed.”

  Alma sat forward intently. “I just got home from the hospital a mere half hour ago. And my dear family hasn’t let me look around yet.” She scanned the room and aimed a laser beam of a glare at Rhett, Jacqueline, and her granddaughters. I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with her censure.

  “I’ll get right to it.” Truman sat down, uninvited, on a severe-looking wingback chair near Alma. “After a thorough examination of your house, and in consultation with your son, his wife, and your insurance agent, it appears several items from your collection are missing. They include your first edition signed copy of Gone with the Wind, as well as your diamond and emerald replica Scarlett O’Hara engagement ring crafted by Fournier’s Jewelry Store.”

  Alma closed her eyes and leaned back against her chair. Her hand fluttered to her chest, and we all leaned in.

  “Grandma—” Becca leaped up to tend to Alma, and the older woman’s eyes flickered open.

  “I’m all right, child. Go on, Truman.” Alma seemed to draw upon some well of inner strength, and appeared to blink back a cache of tears.

  “We will be investigating this burglary and assault—” Truman began.

  “Assault? Pfft. I was nearly murdered!” Alma sat forward so fast, the gun case ricocheted off her lap and fell to the floor with a clatter. Mercifully, the clasps held, and the gun remained safely inside. “Why, if Wilkes hadn’t barked, I may not even be here with you today.”

  “I thought Wilkes was deaf?” Samantha cocked her head and studied the beautiful dog. Indeed, the Irish setter hadn’t so much as stirred an inch when Truman had rung the rather loud doorbell.

  “He is, but even he could tell I was in distress. Truman, let’s not beat around the bush. I can think of one person who would wish to see me dead. She harangued me morning, noon, and night to purchase my famed collection. Not that she could afford it, I might add,” Alma sneakily put in.

  “And who might that be?” I could tell Truman’s patience was wearing thin with Alma’s theatrics.

  “Felicity Fournier, of course!” Alma sat back in her chair triumphantly and slid the gun case und
er her coffee table.

  Truman frowned and let a weighty silence permeate the room.

  “Well, aren’t you going to do something? Hup to it. Go arrest the scoundrel!” Alma glared at Truman, and Rachel stifled another giggle next to me.

  “Ma’am,” Truman began, “while there is no love lost between you and Felicity Fournier, I can’t just arrest people based on hunches. We’re thoroughly investigating your case.”

  “I can’t think of anyone else desperate enough to try to pilfer my things,” Alma seethed.

  She had a point about desperation. Felicity’s actions in Silver Bells had been downright bizarre. The woman had proved herself to be an inveterate Gone with the Wind nut, but did that make her a murderer? I shivered despite the warmth of the room, which seemed to be devoid of air conditioning. I wondered if Alma was a purist for historical accuracy, right down to matters of HVAC systems. My own inherited mansion hadn’t had such amenities as air conditioning and radiators when it came into existence, but you can bet your fanny I’d upgraded the place to join the twenty-first century.

  “I’ve drawn up the paperwork you’ll need to prove the absence of the items to start seeking reimbursement from insurance. I can help you with any of the reports you’ll need to file.” Truman stood and donned his hat.

  “What you can do is find my precious things. Then I won’t need to file a report.” Alma’s crisp words came out as a command. “It sounds to me like you’re already throwing in the towel, Truman Davies. Just like you did with my dear Glenn’s murder investigation.”

  “I will stop at nothing until I solve both, Alma, and you know that.” Truman was at once gruff but sincere. Alma dismissed him with a snort, and Truman took his leave, after bidding us all goodbye.

  Rachel and I stood to go, looking longingly toward the ornate hall and wide door to freedom.

  “Jacqueline, be a dear and make me a new pot of tea. Becca, please take Wilkes for his midmorning walk. Samantha, there’s a bit of laundry that needs to be done, and some traces of fingerprint powder on the windowsills. And Rhett, you can start lunch.” Alma gave her family stern marching orders, and the Cunninghams shuffled off to do her bidding.

  “Mallory and Rachel, please wait.”

  Rats.

  Rachel and I sank back onto our small couch and awaited Alma’s orders.

  “I need you to do some investigating for me.” Alma grabbed my hand in her cold one and gave my knuckles a firm squeeze. I pulled my hand back as if I’d touched a live coal and tucked them in my lap.

  “I’m a wedding planner, Alma, not a private investigator.”

  “Fiddle dee dee.” Alma waved her hand dismissively in the air. “You’re dating the chief’s son, correct?”

  “She sure is.” Rachel was enjoying this too much.

  “Yes, I am, but I’m not sure what that has to do with anything.”

  “Just keep an eye out for me, dear; that you can surely do? You seem fond of Truman, but the harsh truth is that he bungled the murder investigation of my dear Glenn. I don’t want to be next.”

  I shivered at her concern and gathered my purse in my lap.

  “I really should be going, Alma.”

  Her hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. Her eyes were filled with infinite sadness. “Please, just promise me you’ll keep your ear to the ground. Especially concerning what happened to Glenn.”

  I gulped and extricated my wrist from her python’s grasp.

  “I guess I can do that,” I whispered, regretting my acceptance of her plea as soon as it left my lips.

  “Thank you, my dear. You won’t regret it. Oh, and Mallory? You almost forgot this.” Her slippered foot nudged the gigantic tome of a binder with The Duchess theater reopening plans.

  “How could I have left this?” I picked up the binder and rested it in my arms.

  Rachel and I made our way to the Butterscotch Monster.

  “What a crazy bunch of characters.” Rachel shook her head in wonderment at the outside of Tara as she smoothed down her miniskirt. “And it only gets better.” She gestured down the long drive, where Keith’s navy BMW was pulling in.

  “Mallory, wait.” Becca’s voice rang out over the yard, and she minced over, her heels sinking into the grass. Wilkes sniffed beside her on his leash, the doggy happy to be enjoying the late spring sunshine. His long snout opened in a cheerful canine smile. I knelt to pet his lovely auburn fur, and he rolled over for a belly rub.

  “When can we schedule a final tasting for the Gone with the Wind–themed ceremony and reception?”

  I carefully composed myself as I finished petting Wilkes. “There won’t be a tasting, Becca. Don’t worry. Rachel and I know what you like by now, and what will please Helene, and honor Alma. You’ll love it, and it will be a fun surprise on your big day.”

  “But—” Becca’s mouth twisted in a pout.

  “You heard her, sister,” Rachel snapped. “We’ve run out of time, and you just have to trust us, okay?”

  “So you can’t whip one up?” Keith joined his bride and gave Wilkes a feeble pat. “I thought you were gunning to be the premier wedding planning service in all of Western Pennsylvania. And you can’t make a tasting happen?”

  I narrowed my eyes, willing myself not to be bamboozled by his bullying.

  “Of course we can! Be prepared to get your socks knocked off.” Rachel sneered at Keith and turned on her heel to the station wagon. I gave a final pat to Wilkes and joined my sister.

  “I guess we’ve got a tasting to create.”

  Rachel offered a sheepish smile. “Oops.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Third time’s the charm,” I muttered. I had ordered food for the Japanese cherry blossom–themed wedding and Helene’s country club imitation meal and now was repurposing some of it for this latest iteration of the menu. But some food couldn’t be used for the wedding. Helene was paying me an obscene amount to make this wedding come off, and it wasn’t the change of plans that bothered me but the perceived waste of it all. Luckily, the food would be used by those in need, as I was going to donate much of it to the Helping Hands Foundation, run by my newly married friends, Owen and Dakota.

  And today’s tasting was going to be a more subdued affair. We would just be hosting Becca and Keith; the rest of the Cunningham clan had thankfully remained home, presumably to tend to Alma.

  “Homestretch,” Rachel muttered as she put the finishing touches on a miniature version of a cake for the couple. The confection was three tiers of peach cake swathed in glossy light pink icing, with pale green ribbon trim and magnolia accents scattered here and there. The beauty of the cake had taken its toll on my sister. She’d spent extra time with her under-eye concealer this morning in our shared bathroom after baking the cake in the wee hours of the morning.

  “Whatever happens, it’ll be over in less than two weeks. We can do this.” I slid trays of the representative meal into the oven to warm, and a trill of déjà vu trickled down my spine. Of course it did. I’d done this twice before. I didn’t appreciate the fire-drill atmosphere that catering to Becca created, but deep down, my heart still went out to her. Her grandmother Alma had just been through the ordeal of a lifetime, and Becca herself was about to tether herself to Keith forever. And perhaps more concerning, to Helene for the rest of her life. It was enough to make a girl feel for her enemies.

  “Let’s do this.” I held up my hand and Rachel gave me a weary high five. We ferried an elaborate place setting for two out to the gazebo near the rear of our property. Rachel had insisted on wearing heels, in the form of sky-high wedges, the better to not sink down into the grass. We started out on the herringbone-brick paths of the garden, then off-roaded it to wend our way through the smooth expanse of emerald lawn to get to the gazebo.

  The florist Lucy Sattler from the Bloomery had arrived near dawn to work her prodigious magic. I’d been shocked she’d agreed to decorate the gazebo for this impromptu tasting. She’d had an opening, and I was sure
the obscene amount of money Becca, Keith, and Helene had collectively pledged to spend on flowers hadn’t hurt.

  In three more trips, our work setting up the tasting was finished. The intricate white gazebo echoed the Italianate design of the mansion, with a gingerbread trim of curlicues, swirls, and flowers. A small thistle weather vane stood at attention at the top of the cupola, gently twirling in a slow circle from the wind. The columns of the gazebo were twined in swaths of magnolias and pink roses and ribbon, recalling the May Day festival the town had just held. A wicker table sat within, a sturdy and jaunty seersucker tablecloth laid over it. Dishes from the latest proposed menu for the wedding were served on a delicate china pattern featuring buttercups. I was proud of this latest tasting we’d whipped up for Becca and Keith, and couldn’t help but hope they’d also love it.

  “This weather is too cool. It had better warm up in two weeks.” Becca bemoaned the temperature as she minced across the lawn in spike heels.

  “Here we go,” I whispered to Rachel, who grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze.

  “Mallory, can’t you do something about this?” Keith frowned as he offered Becca his arm when she stumbled.

  “About the weather?” I tried to wipe away the incredulous look I felt steal over my face. “I suppose we could rent some more heat lamps and set them around the property, although it might be too late. I think your guests will dress appropriately for an outdoor spring wedding.” My eyes flickered to the couple themselves. Keith wore one of his ubiquitous sports jackets, but Becca was clad in a gauzy, insubstantial mint-green sundress. She pulled her thin cardigan closer to her to ward off some of the chill.

  “It’s pretty early in the morning now. Your midafternoon wedding will be warmer.”

  “No, no, no! Get the heaters.” Becca’s mouth twisted down in a frown.

  “They’re quite costly, especially this late—”

  “Whatever she wants, get it,” Keith said in a practiced monotone. Becca beamed at him, her frown turned upside down. But it quickly returned, as she found her four-inch spike heel mired deep in the grass.