A Veiled Deception (13 page)

Looking embarrassed to have the car door opened for him, Dad cleared his throat as he handed the valet his keys. “Please tell the Vancortlands that their hapless future relatives have arrived.”

“Dad!” I was both appalled and amused, but Sherry held her stomach as if she might be sick.

“You look spectacular,” I told her. “More than good enough for this place. A real stunner, and the gown looks great, too.” I’d talked her into wearing my new red, floorlength Versace with a basket-weave diamond-shaped bodice and basket-weave waist. She didn’t carry a bag. Sometimes, I couldn’t believe she was my sister. But she wore my classy red pumps with a self-weave of their own and heels that left rosette imprints—Louboutin’s self-proclaimed “follow me” shoes.

I wore a nineties Armani spiderweb gown, black with the web centered at the V

neck, growing wider as it flowed to the hem. Originally see-through, I wore it over a slip I’d designed of imported gray liquid lamé. I stood tall in my black patent Yves Saint Laurents with diamond-studded heels and cross straps, and I loved my small sculptured bracelet bag by Will Hardy.

All in all, our clothes, if not our mind-sets and personalities, fit the decor. A maid waited at the door. “The family will be right down,” she said. “Let me show you to the parlor.”

We crossed a grand foyer, its floor worked in a French royal-blue-and-gold mosaic design. I pulled Sherry and my father close, one on each arm. “I’m surprised Deborah didn’t have the gold fleur-de-lis replaced with dollar signs.”

“Deborah, Cort, Justin!” my father called, greeting them too loudly to be subtle as he tried to cover my catty remark.

Justin took Sherry on his arm, the red-faced apology for his gaudy home in his expression giving way to his appreciation of her beauty.

Deborah’s mansion screamed “money and plenty,” but it bypassed confidence to achieve a level of . . . swagger.

She gave us a quick tour of the main floor whether we wanted one or not. But I wanted to see it all, in my quest for a painting of the mysterious illusory bride. I nodded, smiled, and made the appropriate—I hoped—sound of appreciation at the colorful Tiffany glass in the floral-scape windows. I wowed appropriately at the ornate fireplaces, one walnut-carved, one of Italian marble in claret with honey veins, another of imported Dutch tiles, yada yada.

A fireplace in every room. So what? We had a center chimney colonial with fireplaces off of it and another in the taproom. Some of them even worked. Lace made by blind Belgian nuns, I thought, looking around, wishing Eve were here to see this.

Nick appeared at my side before I remembered Justin’s morning invite—what a full day—and the prospect of the evening improved. In any stage of our relationship, taking Nick Jaconetti’s arm sent a rush of pride and warmth through me. A shiver of lust, too, especially when he looked at me with that twinkle of appreciation and invitation.

Deborah cleared her throat, her look focused on us.

Nick and I were so busy flirting, we weren’t paying attention to
her
. Properly chastised, we gave her our full concentration, though Nick’s hands had an agenda of their own. Mmm.

Deborah referred to her house as a cottage, a clear ploy to have someone correct her.

Nick obliged—he was so full of it—but Deborah accepted his patronizing comment as her due.

Her hard-eyed “thank you” said, “You bet your ass it’s more than a cottage. And her snide sidelong look at Sherry added a silent, “More than
you
deserve.”

My protective big-sister instincts went into overdrive and I knew I’d give Deborah what
she
deserved for looking down her nose at Sherry, first shot I got.
Fourteen

We must never confuse elegance with snobbery.

—YVES SAINT LAURENT

During predinner drinks and hors d’oeuvres in the huge, opulent, and “intimate”

east parlor, Deborah gave us the stats on the French ormolu eight-day clock, the Lalique chandelier, and all three Rodin bronzes.

Clearly, this was the French room. Come to think of it, each room had some kind of theme. I wondered where they kept the phantom bride’s room. Because my vision could very well have taken place in
this
castle.

I have to admit that I fell for an inkwell, of all things, made from a pair of nineteenth-century glass slippers sitting on an ornate brass stand. Nick winked and bowed like my very own prince, mocking me, when I gushed, but Deborah gave me a genuine smile for the first time. Then she clapped her hands for attention and signaled for us to sit.

Everyone but Cort obeyed.

“Now for our first surprise,” she said, her Dior gown shimmering like gold dust. Justin scrubbed at his face with both hands, his discomfort apparent, as maids carried in the tissue-stuffed wedding dress on a mahogany plank, or maybe it was an old door, and set it down like a stiff on the coffee table.

“Sherry, dearest,” Deborah said, giving Cort a brusque “come and hurry” signal. He stepped forward, chewing on his unlit cigar like it tasted of fresh lemons. Deborah beamed and indicated the gown with both arms. “Behold the Vancortland wedding dress.”

Gee, no trumpets?

“Sherry, the brides in our family have worn this gown to be married in for five generations, and I’m . . . proud . . . to have you represent the sixth.”

Justin stood, raised my sister to her feet, and took her in his arms. “I’m proud of you, too.”

Deborah’s gaze wandered expectantly from Justin to Sherry and back. Cort rubbed his hands together. “We’re all proud. Let’s eat.”

“Wait,” Deborah said. “Sherry, what do you think of the Vancortland wedding gown?”

The gauntlet had been tossed, and Justin had given no hint as to his thoughts on the subject of Sherry wearing the gown.

She left his arms and stepped closer to it. “I think it’s classy, austere, and timeless.” She stroked the fabric in the loving way she’d seen me do. “I’d be honored to wear it. Oh,” she added, slapping her hand to her heart. “What a surprise!”

She’d botched the surprise act, by
ending
with it, but her appreciation came off as genuine.

“Mad,” Sherry added. “Can you make it work for me?”

I joined her and examined the gown. “It looks big for you,” I said, giving Deborah as good as she gave. “But I can take a few tucks.” I turned to our hostess. “Deborah, it’s genuinely exquisite. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful and I’ve seen the best. It’s hand stitched,” I said, fingering the peau de soie, “but so well done, it could be haute couture from Paris.”

Deborah preened. “I did find something in a family journal that mentioned having it made in Paris.”

“There you go.” I’d managed to put her off guard for now. She could hardly make a scene about the altered design when Sherry walked down the aisle wearing it. Sherry and I high-fived each other, and Deborah beamed as if we’d given her a personal compliment.

“I’m
still
hungry,” Cort said, leading Sherry in to dinner. Justin took my arm, and my father took Deborah’s, Nick bringing up the rear.

“Pardon the small dining room,” Deborah said. “But we’re all family. We save the state dining room for entertaining.”

I counted twenty chairs around a table that served a family of three. Justin avoided his mother’s eye as he tossed a place card over his shoulder and sat beside Sherry.

Nick followed his example.

While a maid scrambled to retrieve the debris, Justin nodded toward the huge Majolica soup tureen in the center of the table. “What do you say, sweetheart? Think we could give baby Kelsey a bath in that?”

“Justin!” Deborah said. “You used to have impeccable manners.”

“I’m outgrowing them?” He snapped his fingers. “Darn. My deepest apologies to everyone. I don’t mean to ruin my mother’s special evening. I mean, if a murder couldn’t, why should I?”

He was right. The evening had proceeded as if Jasmine had never existed . . . or been murdered. Crass, really . . . and wouldn’t Deborah have a hissy if I said so. On the other hand, Justin just did, and she didn’t get it.

Sherry raised her chin. “Justin, if you’re upset about Jasmine, maybe we should postpone the wedding.”

“Sweetie, I’d be upset no matter
who
got murdered at our engagement party.”

Deborah raised a brow. “
Unofficial
engagement party.”

“
Only
engagement party,” Justin snapped. “And, Sherry, we’re
not
postponing. As far as I’m concerned, we should elope.”

Her face mottled, Deborah held her tongue . . . with white-knuckled fists, so to speak. Lips pursed, she nodded at a maid, and the salad promptly arrived. Later, as we finished our Coquilles St. Jacques in relative silence, Deborah rose in a new bid for attention: “I have a second announcement.”

“Of course you do,” Cort said, indicating his need for a wine refill. Deborah clapped like a child facing a toy store shopping spree. “Harry,” she said, addressing my father, which surprised us all. “I’ve decided to save you the expense of the country club. We’ll hold the wedding and reception here.”

Cort emptied his newly filled glass in one tip.

Sherry gasped.

I gaped.

Nick rubbed his nose, his devilish dark eyes twinkling.

My father, ever the English lit professor, regarded Deborah as if she’d interrupted his lecture; in other words, as if she were a bug doing the backstroke in his soup. Nevertheless, Deborah beamed. “I know you’re overcome with gratitude, but you can’t talk me out of it.”

Justin covered Sherry’s hand and squeezed. “Lesser men have died trying.”

My father found his voice, more or less, but he had to clear his throat twice before it emerged. “We, ah, hadn’t considered the country club.”

“No need now,” Deborah said. “We’ll host it here. Ceremony under an arch by the water, dinner in the state dining room—black tie, of course—and dancing in the ballroom.”

Of course they have a ballroom. Doesn’t every self-respecting gazillionaire?

And then I noticed Deborah’s eyes. Void of emotion. Hard. Calculating. She wanted so badly for Sherry to argue, she might lose her own impeccable manners, if she wasn’t careful.

She hadn’t gotten an argument over the gown. So now she was poking a little harder. Deborah knew how every girl dreamed of her wedding. She was stealing my sister’s dreams to break her, so she’d blow like a cheap bottle of champagne. Deborah wanted to force Justin to choose between them.

I didn’t need a vision to see her scheme. I did need to do some snooping, though, and the suddenly loud and all-encompassing discussion going on around me would likely go on for some time.

Sherry could hold her own. Besides, Justin, Dad, and Nick were on her side, to the point that she was the only one
not
speaking. I stood. “Excuse me, could someone direct me to the ladies’ lounge?”

I needed to see if I could find a room where a different Vancortland bride might have been fitted for the antique wedding dress that I couldn’t wait to redesign. Ignoring directions to the first-floor powder room, I made my way up a wide, curving staircase out of
Gone with the Wind
, heart pounding, drums of doom in my head, accompanied by a silent-movie score crescendo signaling danger. I chuckled to myself and acknowledged the “too stupid to live” heroine inside me, who was having a blast.

I stumbled across the library, quite by accident, and couldn’t resist a quick search for wedding albums, but no go. Farther down the same hall, I opened the only closed door—quite the anomaly in a hall this long—and found the illusory bride’s fitting room. It looked nearly the same, except for the designer drapes. The three-way mirror had been taken away and a small piano brought in, as if to make it into a practice room. Ancient family pictures covered the instrument, but none were of the nervous maid wearing the Vancortland gown in my vision.

The gown itself had been brought up from the drawing room and was now being worn by a luxury mannequin of glossy black, the kind Faline bought in Italy. Nothing but the best in the Vancortland house. And why they hadn’t brought the dress down on the mannequin was beyond me, except that the parade of gown bearers had been much more dramatic.

I removed it from the mannequin and sat in the mission-style rocker on which a maid’s dress had once been draped—if my interpretation of the vision was correct, or even real.

Embracing the gown, I closed my eyes, hoping for another vision. Rocking made me seasick, so I stopped, opened my eyes, and saw the mysterious bride once again, dressed in her finery, gorgeous and swan-like, all toffee-cream skin and thick, black waving hair, her lush figure one that any man would admire. The door flew open and she jumped—we both did—and the bride touched her trembling hand to the pearls at her throat, gifts from the sea as flawless as she.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Deborah snapped.

I came back to myself with prickles running up and down my arms. “Deborah,” I said, swallowing the nausea rising in my throat as I found myself in the here and now.

“You scared me.”

I could have used a musical crescendo of danger before that door opened, I’ll tell you. I might have had a heart attack, never mind my confusion. Had Deborah spoken in my vision?

In real time?

Or in both?

Fifteen

Haute couture consists of secrets whispered from generation to generation . .

.—YVES SAINT LAURENT

“What are you doing in here with Sherry’s gown?” Deborah asked. “We keep this door closed.”

I’d come back to the present with such a jolt that my mind raced for old and new answers. “A closed door,” I said, probably too fast. “Precisely why I thought it was a bathroom. Why was it closed? It’s such a beautiful room.”

Her gaze slid from mine toward some unknown distance beyond me. “I’ve never been fond of this room,” she said.

If I had truly seen the past just now, with Deborah in it, had she once confronted the mysterious dark-haired bride, jolting her with fright the way she’d just jolted me?

I mean, I had an empathetic heartbeat running like a gerbil on its wheel at midnight.