Engaged in Death (A Wedding Planner Mystery) (19 page)

Bev flung the purple door open before I had a chance to knock. Kayla peered over her shoulder. Bev was as accessorized as her lawn, with jingly purple bead earrings, butterfly clips in her blond beehive, turquoise rhinestone-encrusted glasses, and a busy batik dress. She grabbed the heavy garment bag and bustled me inside.

“What a lovely gesture.” She deposited me on an overstuffed plaid couch. She was enveloped in her signature cinnamon smell. “You just sit tight while I see what we can do with this dress.” She set a small plate of snickerdoodles and a glass of milk on the coffee table, disappearing around the corner with Kayla, whose eyes were glued to the garment bag in anticipation.

The front door opened, and a teenager entered and removed his baseball cap. He was much taller than his mother, as skinny as she was stout. But he was as cheerful as Bev, his eyes dark and winking.

“You must be Mallory. I’m Preston.” He smiled broadly as he sat in the recliner across from me. “Real nice thing you’re doing for Kayla.”

I smiled politely as Preston leaned over and took a cookie, then inserted it in his mouth and ate it with one bite. I admired his teenage metabolism.

“The Port Quincy Country Club wouldn’t refund my reception, and I didn’t want my wedding to go to waste. Kayla’s fiancé’s deployment ended, and they want a wedding. I happened to have one to give her.” My smile faltered, as I wondered how my next statement would sound. “You were at the protest, on Founder’s Day.” I tried to keep my prying light and conversational.

Preston chuckled. “My mom loves a good protest. She says it reminds her of the sixties.”

“So I take it there’s no love lost between you and Lonestar Energy.”

“That would be correct.” Preston gave me a wary look, suddenly more on edge. He ran his hands through his blond hair. “You’re not thinking of letting them drill on your property, are you?”

“The very day I found out Sylvia Pierce left me her house and I moved in, Shane Hartley came to talk to me. I wasn’t too endeared.”

“I try to forget what he did to my mom and me.” Preston sat up so fast the springs in his La-Z-Boy whined. He reached lightning-quick and grabbed a snickerdoodle. He popped it into his mouth whole. He then retreated to his chair, chewing with ferocity, his cheeks red.

“Preston, calm down.” Bev fluttered as she rounded the corner, her earrings jingling. “That man is a sore spot in this house.”

“Damn right,” her son said through a mouthful of cookie. “Said his fracking was safe, and we wouldn’t even notice our neighbors had a well on their land. It worked out okay for them. They got to retire. But their retention pond full of toxic goo leaked and ruined
our
land, nearly poisoned
our
dogs and horses, and trapped Mom here forever. He’s made this land worthless. Thank God my dad isn’t here to see all of this.” Preston gestured out the large picture window to acres dotted with those strange white cylinders.

“What are those white things?” I squinted at the lozenges on the horizon. I didn’t point out that Shane hadn’t personally destroyed the Mitchell family’s land and water. He was just Lonestar’s representative. It was automatic lawyer-think, regarding the opposition as a company representative, not a private actor.

“They’re water buffaloes.” Bev hovered next to her son. “We had well water, but it’s ruined now.” She reached out and lightly touched her son’s shoulder. But her eyes were filled with anger as well, and she was breathing in shallow little spurts.

“Who provides the water buffaloes?” I carefully studied the plate of cookies.

“Lonestar.” Bev shook her head ruefully. “As a condition of the settlement.”

“Which you never should have signed, Mom.” Preston’s voice was thick with regret. “Sorry, but you should’ve refused it and gotten out of here. You could’ve taken them to court, and then everyone would know what they did to us. Hartley promised he’d provide us with fresh water and dig a new well from a deeper aquifer. Every month they try to worm out of filling the water tanks, interpreting the settlement this way and that, always to their benefit. Mom has to call and call to get them to follow through with
their
settlement agreement.”

“Where were you the evening of July eighth?” I tried to sound casual.

Preston laughed, his deep voice breaking to a higher register. “If I could have killed that jerk, I would have. I had a baseball game, and near a hundred people saw us. The team, Mom, and I went out for pie afterward at the Greasy Spoon, like we always do, then straight to bed. I’ll take it as a compliment you think I killed Hartley.” Preston actually smiled at the thought.

“Preston!” Bev chastised her son, anguish marring her usually cheerful face. Though I did recall she hadn’t seemed too upset the day after Shane died. Quite the contrary.

“I guess I’ll be going.” I rose from the couch. I was completely mortified. Instead of helping Kayla, I’d obliquely accused Bev’s son of murder. Then again, judging from his hostility toward Hartley and Lonestar Energy, and the fact he could have snuck out of this house while Bev slept, I wasn’t so sure Preston Mitchell was innocent. He definitely had motive to kill Hartley. Even though he was technically not an adult yet.

“You will do no such thing, Mallory. Stay right here.” Bev shot her son a nasty look.

“Sorry, Mom, and sorry, Miss Shepard. I need some air.” Preston disappeared to the back of the house, and a door slammed shut.

“I shouldn’t have questioned him.” I recalled my promise to Truman Davies not to meddle.

“His bark is worse than his bite,” Bev assured me. “He’d never hurt anyone, but he does detest Lonestar Energy, Shane Hartley in particular.”

“I’m ready,” a small voice said behind Bev.

We turned as Kayla tentatively entered the living room, and all thoughts of solving Shane’s murder drifted away.

She looked resplendent.

For my wedding, I had insisted on a rather plain dress, a sheath of cream-colored silk. It was perfectly understated, well-matched for the courthouse wedding and small reception Keith and I originally planned. Helene had freaked out, reasoning that I needed a dress of stature to go with the reception that had ballooned to hundreds of guests. So I’d switched to a ball gown. But I’d balked at beads and sequins. The bodice of this dress was plain cream satin, with a full ivory tulle skirt, frothy and as stiff as meringue. It was gorgeous, although I’d felt like I was playing princess dress-up in it, not like it was my real wedding gown.

The dress had been waiting for Kayla all along. She looked beautiful and demure and regal but comfortable. She floated over to the full-length mirror in the corner of Bev’s living room and burst into tears.

“If you don’t like it, you don’t have to wear it.” I rushed over.

“Of course I want to wear it.” Kayla began to bawl. “I’m just so happy!”

“There, there.” Bev handed Kayla a box of tissues. “This is a good reaction to have. This dress was meant for you, honey. It just had to find you.”

I grew misty-eyed. When I’d planned my wedding, I’d been mystified by the reality shows where women searched for the perfect gown, tearing up when they found a dress, proclaiming it “the one.” I’d thought it was hyperbole, but Kayla was genuinely moved, and I was too.

“What about this?” Kayla felt behind her, where the zipper gaped open down her back.

Bev frowned, her glasses slipping down her narrow nose. “We’ll have to convert it to a corset with a panel.”

“That sounds complicated. Do you have enough time?” Kayla’s luminance dimmed a degree.

Bev shoved her glasses back up. “It’ll be tight, but this is worth it. I can skim a bit off the underskirt to make the panel. Oh, sweetheart, you’ll be a beautiful bride.”

I recalled Helene’s similar words for me back at the wedding tasting, a few weeks and several lifetimes ago. But Bev meant it. And it was true. Kayla was radiant.

We fussed over her and discussed the flat shoes she’d wear to keep the hem low and debated whether the veil her mother had worn in her wedding a quarter century ago would match the dress. I’d gathered my things to slip out and grabbed a cookie for the road when Kayla spoke up.

“Mallory, you were talking about Shane Hartley earlier, when, um, Preston got so annoyed.”

“I regret it.” I glanced at Bev. “I didn’t know it was such a sore subject.” My cheeks heated. I’d known it was a touchy subject and hoped to get some information out of Bev and her son. I should’ve kept my bumbling efforts at investigating separate from planning Kayla’s big day. Truman would be furious if he knew I’d poked around.

“The Hartleys’ marriage wasn’t the strongest.” Kayla was barely audible.

“Why do you say that?” I sat back down.

“Deanna was unhappy. She and Shane were trying to have a baby, but it wasn’t working out.”

Bev made a dismissive sound, then removed the pins she’d been holding between her lips. “It looks like it worked out. That woman is about to pop any day now.”

“Who told you this?” I dropped a cookie to the floor. A basset hound appeared out of nowhere and wolfed it down in one bite, much like its master, Preston.

“I’m a waitress at the Amarillo Steakhouse on weekends, but during the week, I’m the receptionist at the fertility clinic.” Kayla concentrated on picking apart the frayed edge of a purple pillow. She looked up warily. “You can’t tell anyone this came from me. Do you pinky swear?”

Bev, looking amused, crooked her little finger around one of Kayla’s, as I did the other.

“The Hartleys were patients. Mr. Hartley was shooting blanks.”

“Then whose baby is she carrying?”

Kayla shrugged, seemingly nervous to have all of our eyes boring into her. “Mrs. Hartley had been having tests done with us, and it all came back clear. She couldn’t convince Shane to come in and get tested. Some men can’t face the music that it might not be their wife’s issues keeping them from having children. But he finally came in and gave a sample. That very afternoon, Deanna called back to say they didn’t need our services anymore because she was pregnant. We tried to call Mr. Hartley to tell him his results. He never called back.”

“Wow.” Bev’s eyes lit up at this tasty morsel of gossip. “No one would’ve guessed that.”

Kayla frowned at Bev, her face already dulled with regret. “That’s confidential, Mrs. Mitchell. The doctor treating them knows, and I do too because I had to open his chart to get his phone number. But no one else. I probably shouldn’t have read the chart, or said anything.” Kayla looked miserable, no longer glowing and ethereal.

“Of course, sweetie.” Bev patted Kayla’s arm but looked hungrily at her cell phone on the coffee table. I wondered how long it would be before Bev spread the gossip of Deanna Harley’s baby’s questionable paternity.

Preston came in just then with a second basset hound.

“I apologize for mentioning Sh—um, you know who.” I said this to Preston, who looked as hangdog as his pet.

“And I apologize for going off. I need to settle down. He’s dead. It’s time to move on.” Bev’s son offered me a shy smile as I left Bev and Kayla in a cloud of tulle and satin.

* * *

After I pulled away from the Mitchells’ house, I found myself drawn to the Davies residence. At least I thought it was their house, if our backyards were connected. I idled outside for a minute and tried to muster enough courage to ask Garrett to dinner. Then I pictured Summer, Truman, and Garrett’s mother listening in and lost my nerve.

I wasn’t ready to join Rachel at home, so I drove around the outskirts of Port Quincy, wondering for the billionth time who’d killed Shane. Preston Mitchell definitely had a temper. But could he really have killed the gas executive? Maybe, if provoked. And only if he’d known Shane was going to be at Thistle Park. I could check his baseball team’s schedule and the Greasy Spoon diner, as long as Truman didn’t find out I was snooping around again.

Like a magnet, I was drawn to the housing development where Keith had wanted us to live. I parked in front of the plot of land Helene bought for our wedding gift. She must have sold it, since builders had already broken ground. A giant foundation rose out of the sparse grass lot. I was looking for a sense of closure but felt none. I turned around in a nearby cul-de-sac. One of the houses had a pile of teddy bears, deflated Mylar balloons, and poster-board signs on its porch.

RIP Shane,
read one of them.

Deanna Hartley.
I pulled into the driveway and blinked back the thought of Chief Truman ordering me to mind my own beeswax. The large house looked impassive and cold. A
FOR SALE
sign hung in the front, emblazoned with Zach’s name. The yard was a bit unkempt, but other than that and the makeshift porch memorial, you wouldn’t know tragedy had befallen the woman who lived inside. I cursed my nosiness and rang the bell. The same doggedness that made me a good attorney would earn me no favors with Chief Truman if he found out I’d been here.

“Can I help you?” Deanna answered the door in jeans and a striped red and white T-shirt, which seemed to make her bump appear even bigger. She had a towel around her head, and wet strands of dark hair escaped to curl around her face. Her doll-like eyes blinked at me against the late afternoon sun. She didn’t seem to recognize me.

“I’m Mallory Shepard.”

Deanna gave her head a brisk rub with the towel. With one deft movement, she gathered her heavy hair, twisted it into her trademark bun and pinned it at the base of her head. She looked at me expectantly.

“I live on Sycamore Street. I inherited Sylvia Pierce’s house.”

“You were there when Shane was killed.” She motioned me in.

I followed her into what was probably the living room. It was hard to tell since every surface, the couch included, was piled with boxes.