Engaged in Death (A Wedding Planner Mystery) (10 page)

“Can I borrow them?” Rachel stood and returned to the mirror, holding the other stud in her hand, poised over her ear. At least her expression reflected back in the mirror was suitably sheepish.

“Tell you what, you can have them both. Keith gave me the perfume, and I don’t think I can ever let it touch my skin again. I’d probably burst into flames. Maybe it will give you better luck. And Helene gave me those earrings”—I shuddered—“so you’re welcome to them too. We should have them exorcised before you wear them, though.” My sister might as well enjoy them, since I’d be happy to have them out of my possession.

Rachel beamed and threw her arms around me, enveloping me in the cloying scent. Still, I held on to my sister tight. Whether she was a kleptomaniac or not, I didn’t want to let go.

A horn sounded in front of the house.

“Gotta go.” Rachel skipped from the bathroom.

“Wait, where’s your date tonight?”

But Rachel was already gone. I hoped she wouldn’t parade Zach around the same restaurant where I was meeting Tabitha.

* * *

So far, so good. Almost every table at Pellegrino’s was filled, but none held my sister and Zach. And while the tables were close to each other, the collective chatter and soft piped-in Muzak offered us some measure of privacy. The lighting was low and the tables were lit by small candles. Wall sconces glowed along each wall, and potted plants and small trees were strategically placed between deep mahogany booths and intimate tables. I could barely see the other diners’ faces, let alone hear what they were talking about. But, I couldn’t relax. This would be just the kind of place Zach might take Rachel on a first date. There weren’t a lot of restaurants in Port Quincy, and the night was still young.

“Earth to Mallory.” Tabitha gave a kind smile.

I laughed. “Sorry, please start over. Could there really be paintings hidden in the house? There aren’t many left on the walls.”

“There’s a local legend that some important paintings disappeared right around the time there was a fire at Thistle Park, back in nineteen thirty-four. It started in the dining room, where the paintings were rumored to have hung. No one was ever certain if the paintings were stolen or if they went up in flames. The whole room was destroyed.”

“Why wouldn’t people just assume they were burned? Before we found this note, that is.”

Tabitha squinted at the brittle paper, as if it’d explain its cryptic message. “If the accounts are true, Sylvia’s mother, Evelyn, was beside herself. She claimed the paintings had been moved from the dining room wall before the fire started. No one could corroborate her story, since the fire was so destructive. They thought she was hysterical.” Tabitha paused for a sip of wine.

“So, what happened? The house obviously didn’t burn down.” I’d never heard this tale from Sylvia. Then again, it had happened a good seventy-five years before I’d met her.

“They managed to contain the fire and save the rest of the house, but the dining room and kitchen were basically gone. And even worse, Evelyn ran back into the house, muttering about the paintings. It made sense she’d try to save them, since they were the most valuable things left at the time. It was the Depression, and they’d sold off the rest of their art collection to keep the factory going. Evelyn didn’t make it. She died of smoke inhalation. Sylvia’s father, Charles, almost died as well, trying to pull her out.”

“How awful. And even more awful for Sylvia, to lose her mother like that.” I grabbed my third roll of the evening and took a bite of the heavenly crusty stuff.

Tabitha frowned. “She didn’t know at first. She’d eloped the evening before with Thistle Park’s gardener, Albert Smoot. It took weeks for her to receive the news her childhood home had almost burned down and that her mother perished in the fire.”

“I’ve never heard this story,” I said slowly. “And I thought Keith’s grandfather was an attorney, not a gardener?”

“He was. Keith’s grandfather was her second husband. Sylvia came back home three months after the fire and her elopement. Her first husband, Albert, had died. She never left Thistle Park again.”

We munched in silence for a few moments.

“Poor Sylvia.” I wiped my mouth with my napkin. “She once jokingly called the house her penance, but I didn’t pry, and now I understand.”

“She probably felt guilty for running off on the eve of her mother’s death.”

“So, maybe these paintings burned in the fire, or maybe they were rescued right before. And if Sylvia’s mother was desperate to get back into a burning building—”

“Then maybe she hid them!” Tabitha finished triumphantly.

“It wasn’t worth risking her life over some paintings.” I couldn’t fathom reentering a burning building to claim any possession.

“It was the Depression.”

“Were they really that hard up? Wasn’t the glass factory still going?”

Tabitha nodded. “McGavitt Glass didn’t officially close until the nineteen-sixties, but Port Quincy and the factory never fully recovered. Until now, with the fracking.”

“Which Sylvia was opposed to.”

“Not everyone is. My parents, for instance, were able to retire when they leased to Lonestar. Drilling has created hundreds of jobs in this town, and some would say it’s completely revitalized Port Quincy. But yes,” Tabitha laughed, “Sylvia made her opinions known. Shane Hartley was a regular visitor of hers, badgering her to grant him a drilling lease. She got him blacklisted from the nursing home.”

“When was this?” Maybe it was connected to his untimely death. Although, I didn’t want to connect those dots. Could Hartley have visited Sylvia at the nursing home on the day of her death? Or had Sylvia hired someone to take care of him, and they finished the job after she passed away?
Don’t be silly
.
Sylvia was no killer
.

“I’m not sure.” Tabitha puckered her brow. “I know because I was there when it happened. I can check my planner if you’d like.”

“That isn’t necessary.” Truman and Faith were probably working like mad to find Shane Hartley’s murderer.

I fished around the basket for more of the tasty warm bread. Carbs were my downfall, and now that I didn’t have to squeeze into a tiny-waisted wedding gown, I couldn’t stop myself. There was nothing left but a cloth napkin and some crumbs. “Sorry. I devoured all the bread!”

Tabitha smiled at the empty basket and took another sip from her glass. “Please, eat up.” She ate delicately, pondering each forkful of her salad, her bright red hair glowing in the dim light, her neck long and thin. She reminded me of a flamingo. “Still, the most logical conclusion about the paintings is that they burned in the fire.”

“Unless Evelyn hid them somewhere no one has ever thought to look.” I picked up the brittle note.

“And they’re right under your nose, hidden in the house.” Tabitha’s eyes sparkled as the waiter delivered our dishes.

“What were the paintings that hung in the dining room?” I speared eggplant Parmesan with my fork and plopped it into my mouth.

“I have no idea. This was all just speculation. Until now.” Tabitha held the tiny piece of yellowed paper to the light.

“So this is it.” Zach plucked the note from Tabitha’s hand.

“Hey!” She twisted around in her chair to reach for the leaf of paper.

“Rachel was just telling me about your discovery.” Zach scrutinized the note.

“Fancy seeing you here.” I glared at my sister.

Rachel gave me a barely perceptible shrug and cut her eyes toward Tabitha.

Zach frowned. “Do Helene and Keith Pierce know about this?”

“I hope not!”

Zach’s pretty surfer-boy mouth turned down at the corners. “I could see them making trouble for you if they knew there were valuable things in the house, more valuable than old silver, glass, and furniture. They’ll try to get into that house faster than you can guess.”

He was right. Maybe it was time to install a security system, like Chief Truman had suggested. This time, its purpose would be to keep out Keith and Helene, not a prospective murderer.

“You’re right. Thanks for the warning.”

“You bet.” Zach tipped an imaginary cap toward Tabitha and steered Rachel with his hand on the small of her back.

“Enjoy your dinner.” Rachel threw Tabitha a false smile, her eyes glowing with triumph.

“Likewise.” Tabitha didn’t conceal her annoyance.

“Zach,” I called out more harshly than I meant to.

Several patrons swiveled their heads in our direction.

“The note.” I toned my voice down a fraction. “You still have it.”

“Oh.” He flushed, gently depositing the frail scrap of paper into my outstretched palm, like a priest bestowing communion. “My mistake.”

* * *

The next day, after work, I was relieved to get home. I was getting back into the swing of things at the firm. I was burrowing back into my cases, pleasing Alan with my work and racking up billable hours, but I was also distracted. I wanted to nose around Thistle Park for evidence of the hidden paintings.

“You know this place better than I do,” I murmured to Whiskey, setting my purse down in the hallway. I picked her up and she began to purr. “Have you seen any valuable paintings around here?”

Rachel had left me a voice mail about getting her nails done. Thank goodness Port Quincy was small so my sister could walk everywhere while I drove the rental to Pittsburgh and back each day. “Looks like we’re all alone, kitty cat. Let’s go fix a snack before we explore.” I carried the calico through the front hall. Soda, the kitten, trotted behind us, her tiny orange legs churning to keep up.

We never made it to the kitchen. The skin at the base of my neck prickled first. Then a small rustle came from the dining room to my left. Whiskey stiffened in my arms, and she began to softly hiss. Soda ran up the stairs. Steeling myself, I peeked around the now-defunct pocket door into the room.

Keith was jiggling the heavy mahogany breakfront away from the wall. Several silver picture frames toppled off the top and onto the floor. He was so focused on his snooping he hadn’t noticed me. As he peered behind the breakfront, I grabbed a tiny teal glass bird from the credenza beside me, some of the McGavitt Glass Company’s best work. I set Whiskey on the floor, wound back, and threw the glass as hard as I could at my ex-fiancé’s balding head.

My aim was usually pretty crappy, but anger must have sharpened it.

“What the hell!” Keith jumped when the glass bird flew past his ear and connected with the dull rose damask wallpaper, missing him by mere inches. It shattered into smithereens, the glass shards all glittery like topazes on the hardwood floor.

“Looking for something, Keith?” I was still trembling. Whiskey settled next to me, resuming her hissing.

“You could have killed me.” Keith stepped away, his hands in the air, as if I were aiming a gun at him.

I smiled coolly. “You’re trespassing. This is
my
house, remember? Sylvia gave it to me. My aim won’t be so poor next time.” I picked up another glass animal from the credenza menagerie, this time an ornately cut pink elephant. I palmed it like a baseball, ready to wind up and throw.

“I just came in to see . . . how the cats were doing. This little guy in particular,” he improvised poorly. “He was Sylvia’s favorite. I wanted to make sure the ferals were being fed.”

“Nice concern, but I’m not buying it. I’ve been living here for a week. And Sylvia hasn’t lived here for years. No one seemed to care there were strays on the property all the time your grandma was in the nursing home.”

“She always had cats at the house when I was growing up.” Keith relaxed a little. “I didn’t know you’d actually moved in. I didn’t think this place was livable.” He smirked and looked around. “Well, now I see he’s okay, I’ll be going.”

“It’s a she, Keith. Calicoes are always girls.” I said a silent thank you to Summer for that tidbit of knowledge. She’d make a wonderful veterinarian. “And you never cared about this place. Tell me why you’re really here.”

Keith blinked stupidly. Sweat darkened the collar of his once-crisp blue shirt. Drops of perspiration dotted the yellow silk tie I’d given him. Once, I’d been wildly in love with him, but now the sight of him nearly turned my stomach.

“I wanted to see how you’re doing. Especially since someone was murdered here. I know you’ve been hiding from me downtown. I’ve been looking for you where you used to have lunch with Olivia. Your secretary won’t patch my calls through, but you can’t hide forever. We need to talk like civilized adults about what happened.”

“What happened?” I was trembling. Live, rage-fueled wires lit up my nerves. “You cheated on me three weeks before our wedding, that’s what happened. Now get the hell out of here.”

“This
is
my family’s house.” His eyes were flat. “I still can’t figure out why Grandma Sylvia left it to you and not her real family. Especially . . .” His eyes trailed to the empty spaces on the walls, confirming my suspicion he now knew about the paintings.

“I was more family to Sylvia than you were these last few years. What were you looking for?”

Keith answered me with silence, so I pulled my phone out of my suit pocket and began to dial.

“Who are you calling?” He licked his lips, which he always did when he was nervous.

“The police.” I took a step back, my finger hovering over the send button.

“I’m leaving, I’m leaving!” He wiggled past me into the hallway.

I couldn’t believe I’d been within a hairbreadth of marrying this deceptive man.

“How did you get in?” I followed close behind.

He stopped, his forehead creasing into a half-dozen lines.

“This.” He dug into his pocket. With a sigh of regret, he held up a house key, identical to the one on my key ring.

I snatched it out of his hand and offered him a grim smile. Then I handed the key back to him.