Engaged in Death (A Wedding Planner Mystery) (15 page)

“But,” Rachel said, also incredulous, “your last name is Truman, and yours is Davies.”

The chief snorted. “Everybody calls me Chief Truman because that’s my name. Truman Davies.”

“And you live together, with Summer.”

“That’s right.” Truman smirked. “My allergies will never be the same since you conned my son into keeping that kitten. And I already knew about the paintings, because Summer told us about the note that night at dinner.” Truman laughed when my jaw dropped open.

“But you’re the chief of police, and your son does criminal defense work,” I sputtered.

“It makes for some very interesting dinner-table dynamics,” Garrett said drily. “Do you have a lawn mower?”

“There might be one in the shed or the carriage house.”

Rachel retrieved the key ring from my purse and handed it to Garrett.

“Will opened the door to the shed with the big brass one. Are you really going to cut the grass in that?” Garrett looked yummy in his three-piece gray suit.

“I’ll take my jacket off.” He removed it, shouldering it around a chair. He took off his tie and undid his top button.

I swallowed and became very interested in the black-and-white checkered floor. When I looked up again, Truman stared at me with greater interest than when he was merely trying to figure out who wanted me dead.

“Be right back.” Garrett gently squeezed my shoulder as he left.

I sat up straighter now that Garrett was gone. “This message in ketchup? You can’t deny it has something to do with Shane Hartley’s murder. The threat references him by name.”

“I agree.” Truman was deferential for once. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

I shook my head slowly, trying not to aggravate my concussion.

Rachel looked down in her lap and tapped her nails together. “Tell him about the photos.” Her voice was apologetic.

“What photos?” Truman and I said in unison.

Faith entered the room and echoed the question, while Rachel shot me a look laden with regret.

“It’s for your own good. Sorry, Mall.”

“Oh,
those
photos.” My stomach dropped.

“Spill it,” Truman commanded, playing bad cop for the first time today.

“I’ll go get them,” I said icily. I’d let the pictures speak for themselves. No way would I try to put their contents into words, as the only thing more humiliating than having someone else see them was forcing myself to describe them. I might have been on my way to getting over Keith, but I didn’t need to see the cause of our end played out in the lurid stack of photos.

A few minutes later, I’d retrieved the pictures from the bottom of my suitcase. The envelope felt like it contained kryptonite, glowing with evil. It was all I could do not to throw them in the trash. Instead, I dropped them on the table in front of Truman.

“Sheesh.” He quickly rifled through them.

I averted my eyes, not wanting to revisit Keith doing the horizontal hokeypokey with Becca Cunningham.

“So this is why you called off your wedding,” Faith said, not unkindly.

I studied the table, not meeting their eyes. I said a silent prayer that Garrett would remain safely out back and wouldn’t choose this moment to return.

“It’s probably too late for fingerprints.” Truman took note of the Port Quincy postmark and lack of return address.

He kept us busy for the next hour, asking many of the same questions. Faith joined in, since dusting for prints in the dining room yielded nothing. I could see Garrett cutting the grass from the window, straining against the tall weeds with an ancient push mower, sweat trickling down his back, staining his vest and glistening on his forehead.
Delicious.
I blushed to the roots of my hair.

“Something wrong?” Truman stopped his questions.

“You look all flushed, Mallory.” Faith gave Truman a glance. “I think we’ve had enough for today.”

“Do you think it’s safe to stay here?” I tried to banish Garrett from my mind.

“We’ve been over every inch of this house, and as long as you make sure everything is locked, you’ll be fine. Keep the lights on outside to deter anyone and call us if anything happens. But you really do need to install an alarm system.”

Garrett burst in from the hallway, his shirtsleeves rolled over his elbows. He was sweaty, smiling, and glorious.

“I found you a new car.”

* * *

The thing was a boat, a vintage Volvo station wagon, circa 1976. It was in pristine condition, the color of burnt butterscotch inside and out. It was like a big, tan hearse. Garrett had found it under a tarp in the carriage house.

“I remember this car.” Truman walked into the carriage house with an amused expression, as if it were a time machine that would spit out other 1970s relics. “I remember Sylvia tooling down Main Street in this thing.”

Garrett arranged for the car to be serviced, and as the sun was setting, Mazur’s Auto Body Shop towed it away.

“With any luck, it’ll work just fine, and you two will have transportation. They’ll need to update the license plate and change the title, but it’ll probably be ready tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” I watched the
Brady Bunch
special of a car as it was towed away. “It’s really mine?”

“Sylvia deeded you everything on this property. I’m sure she meant the car too.”

* * *

The next day at noon, a mechanic drove up in the car. It was a good thing, too, as I would need new wheels to get to work. I’d begged off another day to nurse my concussion, but I’d have the Volvo to return on Monday. A woman followed the mechanic in a different car, presumably to take him back to the auto body shop. It was similar to the one that had picked up Deanna Hartley yesterday, but this one was smooth and black, with no dings or marks. Sylvia’s car rattled, a big Butterscotch Monster on wheels.

“Here she is.” The mechanic handed me the keys. “She’s a beaut, in mint condition.” He gazed admiringly at the car. “Didn’t need much work to get ’er up and running.”

“What do I owe you?”

He waved my offer away. “Garrett Davies took care of it. Enjoy the car, miss.”

I frowned as he got into the car with the woman, her face shielded with sunglasses. “I’m not sure how I feel about this.” I turned to Rachel. “Mom depended on Dad to take care of everything. After he ran off, she had to become self-sufficient overnight.”

After my parents’ ruinous divorce, my mom often said if she hadn’t relied on our father as much, she wouldn’t have been taken to the cleaners. My father had definitely gotten the better deal in the divorce, and his attorneys had been ruthless. “Be a lawyer, Mallory. Then no one can push you around,” she’d told me over and over. I’d listened to her advice and vowed to always take care of myself. Except it didn’t always work out that way. Now I knew you could be self-sufficient, and you still might not see disaster coming.

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Oh, c’mon. You scurry around like the good girl trying to make everyone else happy and someone does something nice for you for a change. Just say thank you and move on.”

I raised my eyebrows at my sister. “Well, excuse me.”

“Ahem.” Someone cleared her throat behind us.

“Oh!” I jumped. The woman leaned out the car window and waited for us to stop bickering. It was Yvette Tannenbaum.

“My dad’s shop gets all of the cars that are towed after an accident, and he took in your rental. Truman asked us to be on the lookout for an old leather book, some kind of diary?” She paused.

“Hate to say it, but nothing like that was in the car.” Her father, the mechanic, looked contrite.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Thanks for checking.”

“I’m glad you’re okay.” Yvette pushed her sunglasses up into her lanky hair. “The police will catch whoever did this to you. Take care, Mallory.”

I thanked her as she and her father drove off, then I slumped against the Volvo.

“That sucks,” I chastised myself. “I never should’ve taken the diary out of the house. It was safely tucked away in that trunk for what, eighty years, and the day we find it, I lose it.”

“You mean the day you were almost killed, the diary freakishly disappeared. This is beyond your control. You’re being too hard on yourself.”

I kicked at the gravel and wouldn’t look at Rachel.

“Besides,” she ventured slowly, “I need your help. This isn’t great timing. I entered myself last minute into the baking contest for Founder’s Day, and I don’t know if I can pull it off. I thought I’d have more time, but with your accident and everything . . .”

I groaned and rubbed my aching neck. Come to think of it, I remembered Helene mentioning something about Founder’s Day when I was at the historical society. “What’s Founder’s Day?”

“Port Quincy has a festival each July to honor the town founder, Ebenezer Quincy. He was the first settler here, and he fought in the Revolutionary War. He was also part of the Whiskey Rebellion. You know, Port Quincy played a small part in the Whiskey Rebellion. In the late seventeen hundreds, all over western Pennsylvania, people protested the tax on homemade whiskey—”

“I’ve heard of the Whiskey Rebellion, Rach. I was a history major.” My head throbbed. “What’s it got to do with a baking contest?” I added more gently.

“Zach told me about it.” Rachel twirled a strand of hair around her index finger. “I was pretty sure they wouldn’t let me enter, but the head of the contest said due to a low amount of entries this year, I could bake something.”

I tamped down a smile, the corners of my mouth twitching. Both Rachel and I were inveterate procrastinators. It was one trait we shared, and working as an attorney at a frenetic pace had managed to correct my habits. But left to my own devices, I also put off things until the very last second.

“Of course I’ll help you. What are you making?”

“Don’t get mad.” Rachel let go of her hair and began to trace a pattern in the newly mown grass with her bejeweled purple toenail and dug her fists deep into the pockets of her cut-offs.

“Why would I be mad?” A wave of doubt washed over me.

“I’m-making-schweddin-cake,” she said in a rush. “It has to incorporate whiskey, and I know a really sophisticated recipe for orange whiskey cake. It’ll be amazing.” She dared to peek through the sun-kissed waves of hair hiding her face.

“Schweddin cake? Oh, you mean wedding cake.” I imagined a lifetime of people forbidden from mentioning anything related to weddings.
That’s the one who was jilted
, people would whisper behind my back.
Don’t breathe a word about weddings or she’ll flip out.

I gave my sister a hug, trying not to gasp. A sash of bruises from the seat belt had blossomed overnight.

“You don’t need to tiptoe around the rest of your life avoiding the subject of weddings.” I steeled myself as Rachel hugged me back. “Let’s go make your cake. It’ll be fabulous.”

I gathered ingredients with my good right arm, including the last of the aged local whiskey the cats hadn’t managed to knock over. Rachel dug out Sylvia’s ancient cooking bowls and cake pans and amassed everything on the large prep table in the middle of the room.

“I’m not a fan of Tabitha.” Rachel tied her long waves in a bun. “Especially since she might be a murderer, but on one point she’s right. This place would make a perfect B and B, and we could host weddings here. It would be much better than that gross old country club.”

I sank into a chair and let out a laugh. “That’s why you’re making a wedding cake. To drum up prospective business and convince me to keep this place.” Rachel was tireless when she wanted something, and even though I didn’t think we could turn this place into a B and B, I was touched she wanted to go into business together.

“It’s worth a try.” She dared to smile. “Plus, other people will be making things like pies and small batches of cookies. I can get a lot of people to sample the wedding cake. We’ll reach more prospective customers that way.”

Prospective customers?
I began to get nervous.

“This had better be some cake,” I muttered. “Are you sure you want to bake a whole wedding cake? You only worked at that bakery in Florida for what, four months?” I instantly regretted it, not wanting to hurt my little sister’s feelings.

Rachel’s face crumpled. “Just wait and see. I might not be a fancy attorney, but I’m good at what I do when I put my mind to it.”

“I know.” I tried to backpedal. “I just don’t want you to get upset if the B and B idea doesn’t work out. I just don’t see how I can keep my job at the firm, raise enough money to fix this place up . . .”

“Maybe this is meant to be. It’s fate. Just loosen up and give it a try.”

“I would love to make Thistle Park into an inn and hold weddings, but I have to live in reality.”

Rachel’s green eyes flashed and churned. “At least I’m chasing my dreams, Mall. How did I even learn to bake? From watching you. You used to love cooking and helping Mom with her decorating business. And you secretly loved planning your wedding, even though Helene called the shots. This is perfect for you, and you know it. You just won’t take the risk.”

I met my sister’s gaze, which was sad and sincere. Then she whirled around and continued to amass baking ingredients. “We need to go to the store. I need fresher ingredients. We can inaugurate the car.”

“When is Founder’s Day?”

Rachel averted her eyes, then cleared her throat. “It’s tomorrow.”

Rachel baked with a fury when we got home from the grocery store, and I helped by measuring as best as I could with one arm. It was fun to collaborate on the recipe, and together we tweaked it to add more orange to play off the aged whiskey. I admired her confidence that the cake would turn out perfectly. I retired to bed as she began to ice the cooled layers of cake.

“Whoa,” I said when I entered the kitchen the next morning. The cake stood on the scarred wooden table, in all three tiers of glory. It was pale peach, a dreamy creamsicle of a confection, with white swirls of buttercream waltzing around the sides and little orange flowers kissing the edges where the piping met the top of each layer. The top tier had a crown of rosettes and more ribbons of peachy-colored buttercream.

Rachel’s face was solemn. “You really like it? Like,
really
really?” She channeled Sally Field at the Oscars.

“It’s gorgeous! Where did you learn to do this?” I marveled at my sister’s handiwork. Scones and cookies were one thing, but the cake was stunning.

“The bakery, silly. I was the best at decorating by the time I left, and I was only there for four months. And you got me started with cooking and baking, don’t forget that. I just hope it tastes as good as it looks.” Rachel beamed. I was sorry I had doubted her. No matter what happened with the house, my sister had found her calling. That was, if the cake tasted even half as good as it looked. I was sure it would.

We carried the cake gingerly out to the Butterscotch Monster, my left arm throbbing. We secured it as best as we could in the back portion of the station wagon. Rachel drove to the Founder’s Day fairgrounds at ten miles per hour, earning the ire of several cars stuck behind us as the Volvo coughed and sputtered, pokey and emphysemic. The entrance to the event was under a giant blue banner. It proclaimed P
ORT
Q
UINCY
F
OUNDER’S
D
AY, SPONSORED BY
L
ONESTAR
E
NERGY
. I was curious to see how the townspeople felt about the frackers.

“Mallory!” Olivia called as we set the cake on a table designated for Rachel.

“You made it.” I gave my best friend a hug. I’d bribed Olivia to drive from Pittsburgh for the day, since Rachel would be busy manning her station, then slicing and serving the cake after the judges made their decision.

A pale young woman, chubby and tentative, stood before Rachel’s cake in awe. “It’s beautiful.” She reverently stepped back to take in the confection. Her round face lit up as she walked around for a better look.

“What’s your name? Are you interested in a cake?” Rachel pounced, switching into businesswoman mode with alarming alacrity.

The girl glanced at the petite ring on her left hand.

“I’m Kayla Lang.” She fiddled with the ring. “My fiancé is deployed, but he’s coming home next week. We’re saving for a wedding.” She backed away sheepishly. “But we’ll never be able to afford a cake like that, or the kind of wedding that goes with it.”

“You’d be surprised.” Rachel dug into the pocket of the cute apron she’d donned this morning. It was vintage, peach and cream flowered cotton, with a frilly eyelet edge. It matched the cake’s icing perfectly. I wondered if she’d found it somewhere in Thistle Park and if it had inspired the cake. My sister lowered her voice and edged closer. “Our wedding and events packages will be quite affordable. Don’t hesitate to call me to set up an appointment.” She pressed a small card into the woman’s hand.

“Okay.” Uncertainty weighed down her voice. “I’ve got to get to work.” She glanced at the card before she cast the cake one more longing look, then disappeared into the throng of people walking by.

“What did you give her?” I lunged for Rachel’s apron pocket and grabbed one of the cards sticking out. It read T
HISTLE
P
ARK
B
ED
& B
REAKFAST
: P
ORT
Q
UINCY’S
P
REMIER
I
NN
& E
VENTS
V
ENUE, WITH
W
EDDINGS BY THE
S
HEPARD
S
ISTERS
. The reverse side featured a beautiful picture of Sylvia’s house, one I recognized from the historical society, taken at least fifty years ago before it had all gone to hell.

“We’re not opening a B and B, and we’re not hosting weddings!”

Rachel offered me a serene, yet smug smile. “Calm down.”

“I’m selling the house. I
want
to sell the house. Your new boyfriend
Zach
wants to sell the house. There won’t be a place for you to launch this ridiculous idea.” I made another grab at her pocket to filch the rest of the cards.

“Mallory!” Rachel executed a ballerina-like spin that put her on the other side of the table. “I’m just following my dream.
Your
dream too, if you’d admit it. Now shoo. I have potential customers to attend to.” I stared at her, open-mouthed.

“C’mon.” Olivia steered me away from my sister. “Just hear her out.”

I calmed down marginally—that is, after I got a funnel cake with extra powdered sugar. She handed me a napkin to attend to the spray of powdered sugar that fell over my blue sundress.

“It might be good for her. A project.”

“A project is crocheting a scarf, Olivia. Rachel can do what she loves—it just can’t hinge on that house.”

“She looks like she’s doing pretty well.” Olivia pointed to my sister’s booth, which was crowded with people. Rachel beamed and schmoozed her would-be customers. I hated to admit it, but this was right up her alley. I was grudgingly proud of Rachel. I just wished her success didn’t depend on my keeping the house.

“She’s in her element,” I admitted. My heart swelled with pride for my baby sister. “But I don’t know a damn thing about running a business, much less operating a B and B or throwing events.”

“You planned a wedding for three hundred people, and you were taking orders from Helene. It’ll be similar working with customers,” Olivia pointed out. “You’re the most organized person I know, and you have good ideas.”

I reflected for a moment. Planning weddings with all of their attendant details, and soothing brides and family members might not be too far off from dealing with troublesome clients, talking partners down from the ledge and coordinating trials. But something was holding me back, namely money.

“But something usually has to come to fruition to be considered a success. The wedding never happened.”

“Are you sure you can handle this hoopla today?” Olivia’s eyes strayed to my left arm in its sling.

“Positive.” I caught myself from nodding at the last second. My head still hurt, my neck still ached, and the bruises underneath my loose, gauzy cotton dress were beginning to turn from purple to a lovely shade of green.

We passed booth after booth of delectable fairground food: cotton candy, corn dogs, elephant ears, pierogies, sausage and cabbage, and the feature of the celebration, little complimentary shots of locally made whiskey for those who could prove they were over twenty-one. Little stations were set up to collect votes for the best food and drink.

We deftly avoided the row with the DAR display, which was unnecessary, as Helene didn’t seem to be around. But Tabitha was there, standing sheepishly behind the historical society booth with brochures and Revolutionary War replica items.

“Don’t laugh,” she scolded as I introduced her to Olivia. Tabitha was clad in costume from the days of the Whiskey Rebellion, when Ebenezer Quincy had founded the town. She sweated in a homespun brown skirt, a rough white blouse, and no makeup. Her brilliantly dyed hair, Ariel-the-mermaid red, peeked out from under her white cap. It was a vivid shade no Colonial woman ever sported, and her skirt was too short, exposing modern periwinkle flip-flops. She giggled as she caught me looking at her feet. “The historical society encourages us to wear this, and I usually love it, but I accidentally shrunk it in the wash. And it’s too hot for the leather shoes.”

I burst out laughing. Olivia and I chatted with Tabitha for a bit, then left her and followed the crowd, which seemed to be amassing around a podium and stage set up just beyond a small ball field.

“Can I have your attention,” brayed a large man. He was squat and beefy, in his mid-forties, with a blond buzz cut and a florid complexion. He looked like a linebacker gone to seed, and he was clad in a loud checked sport jacket, despite the midday heat. He wore it over a clashing striped brown shirt. He relished his role as emcee and grinned at the crowd.

“Thanks to everyone in Port Quincy who made this year’s Founder’s Day such a smashing success. Ebenezer Quincy would be proud to see what this town has become.” A small cheer went up around him. “As you know, I’m your mayor, Bart Tannenbaum, and I’m going to announce the winners of the food and drink contests.”

“That’s the mayor?” I murmured in disbelief. “I’ve met his wife, and they seem very different.” I scanned the dais for Yvette and spotted her sitting behind her husband. She wore another faded flowered housedress and looked as bland and diminutive as ever as she picked at her cuticles.

The mayor announced the winner of the best whiskey-themed dish, the best homemade spirits, and finally, the best whiskey-infused baked good. I stiffened as he started his announcement, then relaxed when he called out, “Miss Rachel Shepard, for her whiskey-orange wedding cake!”

My sister squealed as she bounded onto the small stage, eager to claim her certificate. I cheered even though it made my head throb, and Olivia let out a loud whistle.

Rachel paused to have her picture taken by the Port Quincy
Eagle Herald
photographer, holding a slice of her cake. She flashed her most charming smile, elated with her win. It was picture perfect, until I noticed the mayor’s hand straying rather low on my sister’s back, where her T-shirt and apron separated from her jeans.

“Ew, stop touching my sister, creepster!”

“He is kinda handsy, isn’t he?” Olivia frowned beneath her black bangs.

Rachel looked around for me as she clambered off the stage. She gave me a triumphant thumbs-up when she spotted me waving, before she disappeared to distribute the rest of her cake to the crowd, no doubt drumming up even more business.

The mayor resumed his announcements, this time about the baseball field behind him. “It is my great pleasure to dedicate the Lonestar Energy Baseball Complex, in honor of Lonestar Energy’s contributions to this community and their very generous donation of new bleachers.”

The crowd clapped and hollered enthusiastically, and a small woman struggled to rise from her seat, three spots down from Yvette Tannenbaum. She was young and slight, with dark brown hair gathered in a bun at the nape of her neck, and big, lustrous kewpie doll eyes. She carried her most arresting feature out in front of her. She was massively pregnant, her big round belly preceding her by a foot as she waddled over to the mayor.

“She’s ready to pop.” Olivia stared at the woman.

She was very pregnant, but she was glowing, and she was quite pretty.

“I’d like to introduce Mrs. Deanna Hartley, wife of the late Shane Hartley.”

The crowd hushed, and I snapped my head up too quickly, causing shooting pains to radiate down my left shoulder. I leaned against Olivia.

She propped me up, her face knotted with concern.

“That’s the wife of the man we found on the lawn.” I hadn’t seen her face as she’d exited the hospital. Seeing her up close made me think of Shane Hartley. It was a shock to see parts of his life, up front and center. He had been a real man, not just a caricature on my front porch, or in the depositions I’d read.

“Deanna made a special trip back from Houston to be here for this Founder’s Day dedication. She’ll cut the ribbon for the new field, on behalf of Lonestar Energy.”

The woman took a pair of comically large ceremonial scissors from Mayor Tannenbaum and slowly made her way over to the edge of the stage. She perched on the end next to a yellow ribbon tied across a span of new, bright blue bleachers, each one emblazoned with the Lonestar Energy insignia.

The strapping mayor must really have a problem keeping his hands to himself. He gently guided heavily pregnant Deanna Hartley by the small of her back. You could read it as chivalry, or you could read it as ick. Maybe that was the source of the severe frown marring Yvette’s face. It must not be easy to see your public-figure husband putting his hands all over every lady he came across—my luscious sister and the octogenarian who won a prize for her savory whiskey baked beans included.

Deanna Hartley struggled with the ungainly scissors as the throng of people held its collective breath. She still wore a heavy wedding band, visible from the stage, the diamonds winking and flashing from her finger like little disco balls. It made the bauble Keith had given me look like chump change. Her style was definitely Texas oil-and-gas spouse chic.

The sympathy for this pregnant, widowed woman, far from her home state, seemed to roll off the crowd in palpable waves. Deanna finally managed to cut through the ribbon, then turned to the crowd with a relieved smile. The crowd clapped and cheered, but the revelry was short-lived.

“This is
not
a day of celebration.” A clear, but disembodied voice blared from behind the crowd. We all tried to turn en masse to see the source of this pronouncement. It was a young blond woman with a bullhorn. She stood on the other side of the ball field. “Lonestar Energy is poisoning our water and our future, and you have a right to know about it.”

“Get the hell out of here,” a portly man yelled at her across the field.

“No one asked for your opinion,” a young woman said, as the man next to her chucked a bottle of Gatorade toward the protestors. The bottle burst open, sending a splash of neon yellow liquid into the air.