Doug carefully put away the weapon in the hall outside the office, as if he sensed it made me uneasy. I’d seen my share of the weapons, enough to last a lifetime. And I realized that Doug hadn’t said his replica was inoperable, merely that it was unloaded.
Rachel must not have felt my unease, and piped up. “What other replica weapons will be on the battlefield?”
Doug took another swig of Gatorade. “There will be bayonets and tomahawks in addition to rifles and muskets. Some reenactors will have little hatchets. They’re either super dull, or better yet, plastic. Some people are even bringing plastic swords. There’ll be a few pistols, too.” Doug rubbed his hands together in apparent excitement. It was odd to see my pacifist stepdad, who usually abhorred weapons, getting excited about them. But I knew it was the history draw for him rather than the arms themselves. “Quincy College has a small collection, and I like to take my students to the archives to see them. Handling the material items from the time period helps make history come alive.” Doug was positively glowing.
I relaxed by a degree. “Especially when they’ve all been curated and deemed inoperable.”
Doug nodded. “None of the weapons, including the cannons and muskets, will be armed with real ammunition during the reenactment.” He fondly gestured toward his musket out of sight in the hallway. “Technically, that one could be used. But it doesn’t have real gunpowder or musket balls in it at the moment, so don’t worry.” Doug took in what was probably my wide-eyed expression.
Pia smiled. “You’re just like my sister, Tabitha. A bona fide history nut.”
Doug broke into a grin at the mention of Pia’s sister, the director of the historical society. “Tabitha has been immensely helpful planning Cordials and Cannonballs and bridging the gap between my general academic knowledge of the Revolutionary War and what happened during the battle in Port Quincy in particular.”
His smile dimmed a degree. “I’m afraid your grandma wasn’t too happy with me the other day, though.” My stepfather turned positively sheepish. “Claudia tried to sell an impressive collection of authentic Revolutionary War weapons to Quincy College. Part of my growing duties at the school is to consult with the archives department. After a lot of consideration, the college archivist and I agreed not to purchase the items.” He shook his head ruefully. “Claudia is persuasive, but we ultimately stood firm. But a lot of people in the department heard her pitch. It got a little heated.” A small stain of blush graced Doug’s face in remembrance of the altercation.
“Yup. Grandma Claudia is used to negotiating until she gets what she wants,” Pia added.
“But it all ended well. Claudia and I ended up grabbing dinner and a beer after the whole incident and that was that. It was as if it never happened.” Doug chuckled again. “We actually argued more about whether I was trying to defend her honor too much regarding Helene Pierce.”
I frowned and leaned forward. “You never told us this, Doug.”
My stepfather shrugged. “You know how that old biddy is. She doesn’t want women on the reenactment field, as you heard firsthand,” he said drily. “I intervened and tried to get Helene to reason.”
Pia, Rachel, and I roared with laughter. “Your first mistake,” I counseled my stepfather. “No one can reason with Helene Pierce.”
“Yes, a mistake I’ll never make again.” Doug shook his head. “Pia, your grandmother was more ticked at me trying to fix her problem for her than Helene was that I tried to intervene. But all’s ended well. There will be a few women on the battlefield tomorrow, and Helene can’t do a darn thing about it.”
“And I’ll raise a glass to that.” I held a delicate buttercup teacup aloft, and Rachel and Pia followed suit with their cups. We clinked with Doug’s Gatorade bottle and shared smiles all around.
Doug bade us goodbye and set off toward the house he shared with my mom to change back into twenty-first-century garb. Pia and Rachel and I made plans for Pia to start work the next day. We were eager for her to help with Cordials and Cannonballs. Things were looking up.
But the universe had other plans.
The doorbell rang with an ominous tone.
“Are you expecting anyone else?” Rachel paused with the last slice of cranberry bread held aloft in front of her.
“Nope.”
Before I could rise from the loveseat, we heard the wide front double doors swing open.
In minced Helene Pierce, her kitten heels striking the herringbone-patterned wooden floor with characteristic force. I was surprised the smell of fire and brimstone didn’t follow in her wake. She seemed to have recovered from yesterday’s comeuppance witnessed by all on Main Street. She was dressed head to toe in 1980s finery, a red power suit with nautical striped epaulettes and gold buttons giving her a comically commanding air. A sharp and expensive cloud of Caleche wafted around her.
“Hello, ladies. I thought I’d drop in to tidy up some last-minute details for Cordials and Cannonballs.”
I raised a brow in response and turned to my sister, ignoring our unwelcome interloper. “I suppose we left the front doors open for interviews.”
“We’ll need to be more careful next time,” Rachel agreed with a practiced serene air.
I wasn’t going to let Helene rattle me, not in my own house and place of business. Too bad my heart was secretly racing. Helene was technically trespassing. I didn’t want her here a second longer than she needed to be. Still, I would keep my cool. I was proud that I was no longer afraid of Helene, just annoyed that I had to think of a way to get her out of my house. The biggest battle I’d ever had with Helene had been over this mansion. It hadn’t been a Revolutionary War–size fight, but it had been big enough for me to want to avoid her for the next few decades. Helene’s mother-in-law, Sylvia, had changed her will in her final week on earth and bequeathed the hulking mansion to me, effectively cutting out Helene and her son, Keith. It was an unexpected act that changed the course of all of our lives. I was eternally grateful for Sylvia and sent a smile over my shoulder at the picture of her I kept on my desk. I mustered up some of the sass and vigor Sylvia had retained even in her nineties and squared my shoulders. I was ready for whatever Helene was bringing today, probably about the veil.
“Hey!” I nearly ducked for cover when Helene reached into her snakeskin power briefcase and flung a manila folder in my face. “That was uncalled for.”
“Sorry. Poor aim.” Helene sent me a smirk and included Pia in her disdain. “Not all of us were star softball players, like your mother, June.”
Rachel sent Pia a steadying look, willing her not to take Helene’s bait.
“I have some last-minute changes for Cordials and Cannonballs. See to it that my choices are enacted by sunrise the day of the event.” Helene primly seated herself in a chintz wingback chair, despite not being formally offered a seat.
I breathed out a sigh of semi-relief. This I could deal with. “Helene, I already got these updates, in the documents the committee shared on the cloud.” I winced, knowing that Helene wasn’t technologically astute enough to have added her tweaks to the event checklist herself, but had spent last night ruthlessly dictating her changes to the town council’s assistant. But I would be professional and diplomatic, especially in front of our new hire.
“Some of your ideas are good, Helene, like spacing out the refreshment tables amongst the craft tables. But others can’t be changed at this late hour.” I hoped she’d be willing to take the single bone I offered, cut her losses, and get the heck out of here. But that would be expecting the impossible.
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to pull this off, Mallory.” She adjusted the heavy gold bangle bracelets threatening to escape her skinny wrists. “But time is of the essence. I guess I’ll take what I can get.”
Huh?!
Rachel and I exchanged confused looks. Helene never capitulated when there was a centimeter to haggle over.
“Now, to the real business at hand.” Her lips curved up in a sinist
er smile.
This was more like it. Of course, Cordials and Cannonballs business was just a pretext.
“You will return my veil to me this instant, Mallory. I’m not playing games. I’ve given you a wide berth to do your little thing here in Port Quincy.” She waved her hand around in the air, as if to dismiss the whole grounds of Thistle Park that served as my B and B and the anchor for the carefully and successfully built business I’d worked so hard to create. “But I’ll have you know this. You will return the veil, a once-in-a-lifetime artifact, or your days in Port Quincy are numbered.”
Interesting choice of words.
I couldn’t stop my spine from tingling. I should have been worried about Helene’s threat to smote me from my beloved hometown, but I was used to her hyperbole. A subtler bit of information she’d just shared was giving me real pause. Calling something an artifact was different. The now torn swath of lace was pretty and certainly an antique, but that didn’t quite equal an artifact.
But there was no time to waste. I left my thoughts to actually address Helene’s presence. I had to get this loon out of my house. Thankfully Rachel was already on it.
“Who cares, lady? I’ve seen that veil, and it’s nice if that’s your jam, but really, there are much better wedding headpieces out there. If you’ll just be going we can all get back to having a pleasant afternoon.” Rachel bore daggers into the glare she volleyed at Helene. But Helene just sat there, staring us down. Finally, she looked over our shoulders as if to guess where we’d hidden the veil.
I was secretly happy I’d stowed the fragile fabric in the safe concealed behind a portrait in this very office. I had to will my neck muscles and eyes to not inadvertently swivel toward the safe. Helene was intimately familiar with this house, as once upon a time she was due to inherit it. But the modern safe was new. Thankfully, she had no clue where it was. My gaze swept to take in my sister. I hoped Rachel was able to keep from giving away our hiding place.
Rachel trained her eyes upon the herringbone-patterned wooden floor and busy floral rugs scattered throughout our office.
Phew.
I closed my eyes and pictured the space over our little office fireplace, outfitted with a modern gas insert. The slim slit of a safe was fireproofed and secret and only accessible by pressing a certain piece of molding mounted to a spring on the original teak mantel. No one would look there. I opened my eyes to see Rachel’s will finally broken. Her long-lashed eyes flicked toward the safe.
No, no, no!
But we were okay. Helene’s steely eyes were trained inexplicably on Pia.
“Mother?”
Oh great.
Keith Pierce, my former fiancé and Helene’s son, arrived on the scene. He swaggered into the office as if he owned the place. Indeed, Keith had grown up believing he would inherit the Gilded Age mansion. Too bad he’d cheated on me right before our wedding, and his grandmother had gifted the colossus of a building to me instead.
I craned my head to see if his wife, Becca, had accompanied him. Thankfully Keith seemed to be traveling alone.
“It’s time to go, Mother. You have better things to do.”
Ouch.
Despite having had a long engagement, I’d rarely witnessed Keith crossing his mother, no less putting her mother in her place.
“What gives?” Rachel mouthed sotto voce. I shrugged, as flummoxed as she was. Pia just sat in silence, her dagger gaze lasered in on Helene.
“Keith.” Helene’s voice was low and strained. “I am not leaving without my veil.”
I’d had enough of this weird visit. “Do we need to call Truman?”
Keith had had enough, too. “This is not the same scrap of lace sewn by Betsy Ross, Mother.”
Mic drop.
Keith seemed proud of his declaration and for standing up to Helene. Until a flicker of doubt skittered over the features I’d once upon a time found so handsome. His perpetually haughty and annoyed arrogance dimmed a fraction. His eyes swiveled to Helene’s and seemed to read, Oops.
Keith had seemingly inadvertently revealed the veil in question could have been sewn by Betsy Ross. Make that a major oops.
I gasped at his admission once I realized the gravity of his claim.
Helene looked utterly crushed. She recovered and hissed at her son. “Don’t tell these rubes! You just ruined everything!”
Keith sighed. His fleeting hesitation was gone. Keith thought he was impervious to mistakes. The usual swagger he wore like a cloak came rushing back. He dismissed Helene with a tilt of his head. “That veil is long gone, Mother. There’s no way it was stowed away at that antique shop. My father—” He stopped short and seemed to realize he’d said too much.
I couldn’t conceal my shock. Keith was a skilled corporate trial attorney. It wasn’t like him to make an admission like that. I nearly squinted as I considered him. He was adept at handling the stress of working at a big firm. But today was different. A drop of sweat rolled from his balding head and landed with a silent plop on his elegant cream-and-blue–striped tie. His complexion sported a gray cast instead of its usual hale and hearty pink. His eyes were even a bit red and rheumy. The man was not well.
I silently tsked at caring so much about him in the moment to closely observe those details, even though several years ago I’d been betrothed to him. In any event, he was stressed. Even revealing that the veil might have something to do with Betsy Ross was a gaffe of colossal proportions.
Helene looked fearful. And for once, she had nothing left to say. She swept from the room, her kitten heels nearly boring holes in the floor. The sharp scent of Caleche stirred and eddied with her exit. Keith gave me a steady look before he turned to trot after his mother. He seemed to want to apologize for her, but then thought better. His stressed look was overtaken by something even deeper and more melancholy. I couldn’t remember a time he looked genuinely morose. He finally gave a weak half shrug and left the room.
Pia, Rachel, and I were quiet for a full ten seconds. My younger cat, Soda, chose that moment to skitter into the office and jump on Pia’s lap.
“Your suit—” I moved to pick up my kitty.
“I don’t mind.” Pia petted the little orange Creamsicle-colored cat and let out a shaky laugh. “And I thought yesterday was intense.”
The three of us burst into happy laughter. Rachel’s eyes were shining. “Is it possible our veil was really crafted by the Betsy Ross?!”
I couldn’t help but smirk at my sister’s choice of words. Rachel had a secret hankering to live as large as a true celebrity. I could nearly see the dollar signs flashing in her eyes like a slot machine at the casino. If Bev and I had rightfully purchased a piece of Americana made by legendary Betsy Ross, it could be worth more than I could even fathom. But Rachel had just done that quick calculation herself.
The three of us chatted for a few minutes. “I’m so sad Doug just left,” I moaned. “I was a history major in college, but he’s the true expert. His specialty and PhD are on immigration in the colonial era. He’d love to be here right now.”
“No wonder Helene was so hot and bothered to get it back,” Rachel mused. “When all along it’s just been sitting in that safe, fifteen feet away.” Rachel blushed a second later, realizing she’d let slip where the veil was. I sent my sister a kind look.
I wasn’t sure why, but I felt like I could trust Pia. Pia looked long and hard where Rachel had gestured. Was she a bit too interested? I shrugged away my concern. She’d need to know about the safe soon enough. We used the security device for about half of the weddings held at Thistle Park.
I crossed the room and pressed the specific knob on the panel, revealing the digitally locked safe. “Brides often drop off their rings and family jewelry the week of their wedding. It’s nice, and crucial even, to have a safe place to put them.”
Pia nodded, her interest seeming purely professional. It wasn’t like I was giving away the code to the darn thing, anyway. And I would have to trust my newest hire
.
The three of us chatted for a few more minutes about the veil. Pia wanted to tell her family about getting the assistant wedding-planner job and reluctantly placed a purring Soda on her chair. Rachel and I made a pact to only tell certain trusted persons about the possibility of the veil being crafted by Betsy Ross. My sister skipped off to text her boyfriend, Miles, one of the few to make the list. I sat next to my cat and absently petted her fluffy orange head. She purred in contentment.
But I was anything but content. The revelation about the veil I co-owned with Bev should have been cause for celebration. But certain fraught memories made me less than elated to possess the pretty swath of antique fabric. I closed my eyes and cuddled my cat, willing the nightmare visions away.
I opened my eyes and took a breath in the relative safety of the present. The portrait I’d placed in front of the safe was an oil painting of the original mistress of this house, Evelyn McGavitt. Her visage in the painting was chameleonlike. Most days her pretty face cast in oil-paint brushstrokes appeared to playfully smirk and twinkle. Today the enigmatic expression seemed to send me a message of caution. I turned my back on the portrait and the veil concealed behind it. The innocent lace seemed to be stirring up a whole heaping helping of trouble.
Bev and I had purchased the veil for a mere twenty dollars. Now the pretty scrap of lace didn’t seem worth it if it meant this much trouble. It was turning out to be more than I bargained for.
CHAPTER THREE
The next day arrived bright and early. I yawned and opened one eye to greet the sharp slice of sun sneaking through my blinds. Rachel and I occupied the third floor of the mansion, a space converted from storage and servants’ quarters into an airy and lofty apartment decorated by our mother. The space was a definite contrast to the B and B portion of Thistle Park. My mother had decorated the third floor in cheery and whimsical Emerald Coast style. It was cozy and bright, but last night I hadn’t been able to enjoy the space. My mind was laden with new worries fueled by the so-called Betsy Ross veil. After a fitful night of sleep, I’d finally dozed off. Which was a good thing since some solid hours of sleep seemed to have knocked some sense into me. In the clear, early morning light I now doubted the lace in my possession was really sewn by Betsy Ross.
Veiled in Death Page 7
