Engaged in Death (A Wedding Planner Mystery) (22 page)

It was a blessing in disguise that the Port Quincy Country Club hadn’t let me out of my contract. I could have used the refund, what with my financial life imploding just like my personal life, but it was destiny for Kayla to get her wedding. Rachel and I arrived with a reprisal of her winning whiskey orange wedding cake and our mason jar centerpieces bursting with flowers gleaned from Thistle Park’s gardens, miniature versions of the bouquet I’d brought to Sylvia’s grave.

“We’re cutting this awfully close.” I set out Kayla’s wedding favors of heart cookie cutters at each place setting, atop the navy gingham tablecloths we’d ironed earlier this week. Rachel was rearranging the flowers in the jars, carefully balancing the proportion of black-eyed Susans, daisies, lilacs, and day lilies with infuriating slowness. She reminded me of our mother, the decorator, as she stepped back to adjust one of the beribboned jars with a critical eye and pulled out a single daisy.

“That looks amazing.” I gave her a quick hug. “Only
seven more
tables.” I gave my watch an exaggerated glance. Thank goodness Kayla was having a more manageable hundred guests instead of my originally planned three hundred. The two of us bustled around, placing candles and pinecones, while waiters and waitresses set down bread plates and goblets. Rachel climbed a stepladder and hung white twinkle lights from each of the eaves, glancing at her watch and biting her lip in concentration. Kayla and Travis would be married on the deck, and her guests would move into this room for the reception. I had paid for the whole country club, and for Kayla I chose the smaller banquet room, more intimate than the main ballroom. The floor in this room was wooden rather than the ballroom’s fusty floral carpet, and with the lights dimmed, we just might pull off Kayla’s country-casual themed reception.

“It’s beautiful!” Summer bounded into the room, her father in tow.

“Well done.” Garrett turned around in a slow circle.

Both Summer and Garrett had dressed up, Summer in a purple dress, and her father in one of his suits, to help us out with Kayla’s wedding.

“It’s a little spare, but I think Kayla will be pleased. I’m so glad someone will get a happy day out of this.” But something was missing. There were supposed to be bales of hay and the white trellises Bev had offered to repaint to hold more twinkling lights.

“Where’s Bev?” Rachel must have realized at the same time that key props had yet to arrive. We had three hours until the wedding began.

“I don’t know.” My phone vibrated in my pocket. Bev’s name showed up on the screen. “Hello? Oh no.” Bev was panicking about her car. “We’ll be right there.”

Kayla called me on the way over to Bev’s house.

“Do you happen to know where my dress is?” Kayla was trying to be polite, but I recognized the panic that set her voice on edge, making her mellow tones brittle and frenzied. She sounded close to tears.

“Bev is having some car trouble, sweetie. We’ll be back very soon. We have plenty of time.” I revved the station wagon harder as Rachel and I tried to make it to Bev’s without speeding too much.

Rachel gasped as we pulled in front of Bev’s ranch. Her gray Toyota had gotten a thorough beating. All four tires were slashed, and her front window was bashed in, the glass spiraling out in a messy spiderweb pattern around a jagged hole. A note lay atop the broken glass on the front dash, the large font clearly visible:
Don’t be nebby—stay out of the Hartleys’ affairs.
Nebby means nosy in western Pennsylvania parlance, and the message was driven home by the damage done to the car.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Bev gave us swift hugs. She was in a tizzy. She walked back and forth in front of the car and took short puffs of air while fussing with her jewelry. “Preston is fishing or I could use the truck to bring over the dress and the bales and trellis.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Or your son?” I reached out and held Bev at arm’s length to search her face and to calm her down.

“Not yet.” Bev blushed scarlet, her tall, blond tower of hair shaking. “I’m embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed about what? Some psychopath working over your car?”

“No, about the note. I told a few people about Shane Hartley’s . . . condition.”

I felt sick and dropped my arms. Bev’s gossip about the paternity of Deanna’s baby had made her a target. Why would paternity be such a big deal now? Shane was dead. Who would care so much? Unless it was linked to his death.

“I’m calling the police,” I said firmly. “Then we’ll load this stuff into the station wagon and get it over to the wedding.”

“Where’s the dress?” Rachel and I carried heavy bales of hay and the trellises to the back of the station wagon. My bum left arm screamed in protest, but I ignored it when I glanced at my watch and saw we didn’t have a minute to spare.

“It’s in the house,” Bev said, giving us the first good news of the day. “Thank goodness it wasn’t in the car.” She wore a wobbly smile and looked up at the sky in silent thanks.

I gulped as I took in the slashed tires, her dented car and decimated windshield. I couldn’t agree more.

* * *

Twenty minutes and three run traffic lights later, the hay bales were artfully placed around the banquet hall. The trellises were set up and adorned with more twinkling white lights. Kayla’s aunts tended to the cookie table, piled high with delectable treats made by all of the women in her family, in keeping with western Pennsylvania tradition. Flaky lady locks stuffed with cream held court next to golden peanut butter blossoms and delicate, lacy pizzelle. The once-gloating country club manager was nowhere in sight, which suited me just fine.

Garrett placed his arm around me as I whispered to him what had happened. His gesture was not lost on Summer. She blinked once, then grabbed my hand.

“C’mon, Mallory. I want to show you my DJ setup.” She pulled me over to a small table with an open laptop connected to speakers.

“Summer thought it would be a good idea to collaborate with my mom on some playlists. For the old people and slow dances, she said.” Garrett followed us.

I laughed and relaxed and saw the room fully for the first time.

Tea lights flickered inside burnished copper lanterns salvaged from Thistle Park’s greenhouse, throwing light and shadows on our flower arrangements. The country club’s white linens had been replaced with crochet doilies pilfered from the many small tables in Sylvia’s house, set atop navy gingham tablecloths salvaged from Thistle Park’s musty linen closets, washed and ironed into service. The daisy votives twinkled a soft yellow around the base of Kayla’s cake. A fresh post-rain breeze wafted in from the open doors overlooking the river. We’d arranged the trellis and lights right after we handed Kayla her dress, finishing our final adjustments as the first guests trailed in and made their way to the deck.

“Phew. This was way closer than I wanted it to be.” I slumped against the wall as more guests entered the room, marveling at our handiwork. It was gorgeous and suited Kayla better than the typical wedding held at the country club.

“But you pulled it off.” Rachel beamed. “This went from country club to country, and you did it in less than two weeks.”

“
We
pulled it off,” I corrected my sister.

Rachel’s green eyes turned misty as she fished for some Kleenex in her bra.

Kayla made her grand entrance on the arm of her father and, with the dress completely altered, it didn’t even look like mine. I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding. The gown looked like it was designed for her. The corset Bev had painstakingly added nipped in Kayla’s waist, and her mother’s veil floated atop her hair. Curled blond strands softly spiraled out of her updo. Travis looked handsome in his dress blues, and he cried when his bride met him at the altar on the deck. A few guests brushed tears out of their eyes, including yours truly.

“Thirteen-year-olds make perfect wedding DJs, don’t you think?” Rachel asked me after the ceremony. Summer played DJ with aplomb.

I had begged and pleaded with the cook, who’d remembered my epic battles with Helene and taken pity on me. He’d used the same main ingredients but tweaked the menu for Kayla. Guests dined on fried chicken and a carved peppercorn roast instead of the chicken piccata and prime rib that had been on my menu. And it looked like they were having a hell of a lot more fun than we would be having at my wedding. I sighed with relief, thinking of how close I’d gotten. Kayla’s wedding was closer in spirit to what I had wanted, even though our styles were different. What was to be a bloated pageant, predicated on Helene’s whims, was now charming and sincere.

“You okay?” Rachel touched me lightly on the shoulder.

I grinned in response. “Never been better.” It was true. The party was going in full swing, people were happy, and we’d finished in the nick of time.

After her first dance, Kayla ran over and enveloped me in a bone-crushing hug.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

* * *

“That was amazing!” I was flushed and happy at the close of my would-be wedding day, something I hadn’t imagined would be possible.

Rachel and I practically skipped into the hallway of Thistle Park. It was well past midnight, but I was more energized than I’d been in weeks.

I flopped down on the couch with a contented sigh.

“Now will you reconsider? Let’s renovate this place as a B and B and hold weddings.” Rachel looked hopeful as she plopped down next to me.

I thought carefully before I answered her. Could I trade cases and clients for color swatches and canapés? Dealing with bridezillas might be easier than dealing with petulant clients, partners, and in-house counsel. Maybe I could pull this off at Thistle Park. But just because I’d whipped together a wedding for Kayla didn’t mean I knew what I was doing. I wasn’t a businesswoman.

Still, I could picture small luncheons in the dining room. Brides posing on the grand front staircase, their trains cascading over the restored antique rugs. Warm-weather wedding ceremonies performed in the gazebo out back, sweetened by the smell of flowers in the manicured garden. Evenings topped off with dancing in the greenhouse. Candles winking and reflecting off new glass walls. Happy guests staying in Thistle Park, restored to its former glory, fed and sated with my sister’s delectable baking and my cooking. Rachel gave me an encouraging smile, and I was sure she could see the wheels turning in my head.

“I’d like to.”

Rachel cut me off with a whoop of glee.

“It’ll be a steep learning curve. We don’t know how to run a business. And I’ll need to get a loan to fix this place up. Let’s see if it’s even possible. If it is, I’m game.”

“Anything’s possible, Mallory.” Her eyes were shining. “This is going to be an amazing business venture. I promise.”

“Let’s toast to it. I’ll get us some lemonade.” The wild energy I’d felt after the wedding was ebbing, and all I wanted now was a good night’s sleep.

I padded down the hall to the kitchen and shucked my heels along the way. I hummed a bar of something Summer had played. The wood floors felt deliciously cool and smooth under my swollen feet, and the rain had broken the veil of humidity that had hung over Port Quincy. A glass of lemonade would be perfect.

I saw Whiskey first. The calico was sitting erect and still, standing vigil over something.

“What’s up, mama cat?” I bent to scratch under her chin. I flicked on the light and began to whimper, then scream. There lay Will Prentiss, in a pool of blood, staring at the kitchen ceiling, all the light gone from his eyes.

“I had hoped I wouldn’t be called back here.” Truman held a hint of accusation in his gruff voice. “Especially in the middle of the night.” He wasn’t in uniform, and the casualness of his outfit of khakis, sneakers, and a T-shirt did nothing to diminish his authority. Garrett had rushed over as well, dressed similarly. They really were quite similar, except for the thirty-year difference in age and the big belly time had put on Truman.

“Dad, chill out.” Garrett shot his father a peeved look.

There was no murder weapon, but Truman and Faith thought Will had been struck with a heavy object in the back of the head, just like Shane Hartley.

“He died no more than a few hours ago.” Truman was subdued. He tented his hands together, then exhaled and began to crack his knuckles, one by one.

I wasn’t comforted by how rattled he appeared.

Rachel shook beside me. “I don’t know if we can stay here. If we had come back from the wedding early, that could have been us.” She flicked her eyes in the direction of the kitchen, where the techs were finishing their pictures and getting ready to take Will’s body to the morgue.

“There’s no sign of forced entry.”

“Will probably kept a key,” I choked out, embarrassed by my stupidity. “When he changed all the locks for us, he could’ve kept a copy for himself.”
Why didn’t I think of that when we found him in the carriage house?

“We didn’t find a key on him.” Faith looked weary and sleepy, her glowing milkmaid countenance gone, replaced by something more grim and gray.

“The killer probably took it.” Rachel shivered even harder, though it was a balmy seventy degrees and quite stuffy inside.

“And the killer could be anyone,” I added. “Lots of people knew we’d be away at Kayla’s wedding.”

“I’ll arrange to have the locks changed again in the morning,” Truman promised.

But what about until then?
I pushed the thought out of my mind and tried to focus on the immediate present.

“What was on top of Will’s body?” As the police had pulled me from the kitchen, I’d noticed something white resting on Will’s chest.

“Another note.” Faith looked uneasy.

“And?”

She scrolled through one of the tech’s digital cameras until she found a shot of the paper.

“‘Find the paintings now or you’ll go the way Sylvia did,’” Rachel read aloud as she leaned over.

“I knew it.” I balled up my fists. “Sylvia did
not
die in her sleep.”

We were all quiet for a moment.

“Right?” I demanded of Truman.

“We weren’t called in.” He shook his head and his jowls bounced in his tired face. “She was nearly a hundred. It wasn’t negligent to presume she died in her sleep. We’ll have to reinvestigate and hopefully not exhume her body.”

I pictured Sylvia’s neat grave and the young shoots of grass poking through. No, I didn’t want that.

“Just because she was ninety-nine doesn’t mean she wasn’t murdered. I know she was. I can
feel
it, Truman. Are you any closer to finding Shane Hartley’s killer?” My fingernails dug into my palms, and I fought to keep my voice even, with no hint of accusation.

“Or the person who wrote the note in fake blood in the dining room?” Rachel folded her arms. We had tried to scrub the ketchup off the wallpaper, but it had indelibly stained the old roses and vines pattern, leaving a ghostly pink trace of the message behind.

“Or whoever worked over Bev’s car?” I sagged down in a breakfast room chair, eyeing the spot where Will’s body had been through the doorway to the kitchen.

“We can’t tell you—” Faith began her familiar spiel.

“Yeah. Yeah. You can’t tell us about the investigation. But there has to be a reason for all of this, and you’re the experts. Shane Hartley was murdered here, and we were threatened with an order to find paintings that may not exist. Bev’s tires were slashed and she was left a note.” My voice was strident, my attempt at equanimity lost.

“Beverly Mitchell is the biggest gossip in all of Port Quincy. I’m not condoning whoever did that to her, of course, but I’m not surprised.” Garrett sat next to me.

I began to sweat as I realized I’d withheld a key bit of information. I didn’t want to incense Truman and Faith, not at this hour. Then again, Will was dead. I couldn’t see how it was connected. I studied my fingernails and begged my hot face to cool off.

Truman’s eyes bore into mine. The jig was up.

“Do you have something to add, Mallory?”

“The rumor Bev was spreading? About the paternity of Deanna’s baby? It’s true.”

Truman leapt up from the bay window and sat across from me, in interrogation mode again.

“And how do you know that?” He went quiet until I was forced to meet his gaze.

“I went to see Deanna Hartley.”

Truman, Faith, and Garrett all inhaled sharply. Rachel, who already knew, sent me a miserable look from across the room. She still shivered, hugging her arms to her body.

“It wasn’t planned! I was just driving around and I saw her porch, with the memorials for Shane. She admitted Shane isn’t the father of her baby and that she and the father used Sylvia’s attic to meet.” I slumped down in my chair with this admission.

“Damn it, Mallory!” Truman hollered. “When did you talk to Deanna?”

“Wednesday. After Kayla told us about Shane, how Deanna’s baby couldn’t be his. Deanna told me the last time she and her boyfriend met here on the third floor there was a light on in the carriage house. That’s why we knew to look in there and why we found Will.”
Who might still be alive, if I hadn’t interfered.
My stomach soured.

“It would’ve been nice to know this three days ago,” Faith scolded me, while Truman rested his face in his hands. He wouldn’t look at me.

“I can’t handle any more of your meddling.” He finally raised his weary face from his palms.

I felt horrible, worse than the time I’d spilled my mother’s nicest bottle of perfume after she’d warned me not to touch it.

“I should’ve told you immediately. All of this might be related, and I’m not the one who will figure it out. That’s your job.”

Truman snorted, probably too tired to scold me anymore.

“You know what I can’t handle?” my sister piped up. “This.” She gestured to the kitchen, where Will had recently lain.

“She’s right. This is the second dead body we’ve found. This house is cursed.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more,” Truman said resignedly. “We averaged about one murder per year here in Port Quincy. Before you two moved in, that is.”

“I don’t want you staying here tonight.” Garrett glanced out the window, toward his father’s adjoining property.

“It’ll be okay.” I resigned myself to sleeping in this house of horrors. Any last thought of turning it into a bed-and-breakfast and a joyous venue for weddings had been quelled by the grisly scene in the kitchen.

“I might not have thrown the dead bolt.” Rachel shook her head with regret.

“Whoever did this would’ve gotten in anyway, if they really wanted to.” I patted my sister’s knee.

“Exactly.” Garrett frowned. “They still can. You’re not safe here.”

I thought of my dwindling bank account and swallowed hard. A few nights in a hotel would have been fine before I was fired, but now? I didn’t have a dollar to spare.

“I’ll stay.” Garrett squared his shoulders. “On the couch, Dad.” He rolled his eyes at Truman. “I’ll be back before Summer wakes up.”

* * *

Garrett was gone by the time I padded down to the kitchen the next morning. There were fresh bagels and juice on the table, and the kitchen was spic and span, every trace of blood washed away. I’d slept surprisingly well, despite finding Will, probably because Garrett had been here.

“He’s a good guy.” Rachel bit into a bagel.

“I could do much worse.” I studiously avoided the middle of the kitchen, Will’s last resting place. “I could be embarking on my honeymoon with Keith right now.”

I opened my laptop and began to type.

“What’s that?” Rachel pulled up a chair and leaned on her elbows.

“A list of suspects and victims. We’re going to figure out how it all fits together.”

“No way.” Rachel shook her head. “Truman and Faith were furious. You can’t snoop around anymore.”

Guilt pushed my mouth into a frown. “This isn’t snooping. We aren’t going to act on anything. But this just might keep us alive.”

Rachel was silent, undoubtedly thinking of the note on Will’s body, about finding the paintings or else.

“Okay. As long as we don’t do anything with the list.”

“Our victims are Shane Hartley and Will Prentiss.” I typed them in.

“And maybe Sylvia.”

“We’ve been threatened, and also Bev.”

“But Bev was threatened for gossiping about Shane Hartley’s infertility, and we’ve been threatened about the paintings.”

“But we’ve also been warned we’ll end up like Shane and Sylvia.” I shivered and took a sip of chamomile tea to chase away the chills. Too bad they weren’t temperature related.

“And our suspects. First, Will Prentiss,” Rachel said with an edge to her voice.

“He’s dead, Rachel,” I said indignantly.

“But what was he doing in here?”

“I don’t know, but he’s a victim.”

“I’m not denying that.” Rachel’s voice grew strident. “But I don’t recall inviting him here while we were at Kayla’s wedding. He had a motive to kill Shane Hartley.”

“Fine. He’s a victim
and
a suspect. I’d still put Helene and Keith at the top of the suspect list. There’s something hinky going on with Helene and her relationship to Lonestar Energy. Someone at the firm knew I was searching for Lonestar documents and changed them all to password protected. And Naomi Powell said Keith, Helene, and Lonestar made preemptory contracts to drill here, because they assumed Sylvia would die soon and they’d inherit the house.”

“If they’re on the list, you need to put Shane as a suspect for killing Sylvia,” Rachel reasoned.

“But he was banned from visiting her in the nursing home.” I reminded her of what Naomi had told me. The list was a mess, with almost every victim a possible suspect as well. I bit my fingernail, then flexed my fingers.

“What are you doing?” Rachel gave me a wary look. I’d abandoned my list and launched my Web browser.

“I’m going to take a peek at Keith’s files.”

“Mallory! Were you not just sitting at this table when Truman forbade you from investigating?”

I scowled at my sister. For years, she had been a wild child, getting into scrapes and trouble, and I’d alternately got her out of it and hid it from our mother and Doug, or tattled on her when it was too serious. I couldn’t believe things had changed so much.

“I don’t even know if I can get in. And if it makes you so uncomfortable, you don’t have to watch.”

“No, I’ll watch. I just want it on the record when you get caught that I objected.”

“Duly noted.”

I navigated to the website for Drake Lerner, Keith’s law firm. I clicked on the link for the internal login and closed my eyes in thought. “What would his password be?”

“Try your name, or your birthday.” All of Rachel’s prior concerns seemed to have evaporated.

I sniffed. “You mean
Becca’s
name or birthday.” I typed in her name and hit enter.

“Access denied.” Next I tried Snowshoe, Keith’s favorite ski resort, plus the year he was born.

“Access denied. Damn it, that’s his go-to password.”

“C’mon, try your name, or your birthday. People don’t change their passwords.” She was right, but there was no way he’d get involved with Becca and keep me as his password.

“We should just stop. If we get it wrong, Keith will be frozen out, and he’ll know someone was monkeying with his login.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you started this.” Rachel pulled the laptop away and tapped in some numbers with rapid speed then clicked enter.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The screen turned white then gray, as the Citrix server resolved itself. It now read,
Welcome, Keith.

“You’re welcome.” Rachel was smug. “His password is your birthday.”

I stared at the screen in shock.

“What are you waiting for? Find what you need before you really get caught.”

There wasn’t much in the files I could access with Keith’s password. Which made sense, since Lonestar was a client of my former law firm, not Keith’s. But I found enough. And I also stayed on the system long enough to get disbarred if anyone found out I’d been poking around in another firm’s confidential files.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.

First, there was a memo written by a summer associate at Keith’s firm. It detailed how to contest a building’s designation as a historical property. Keith and Helene had obviously worried about Sylvia’s inquiry about making Thistle Park an historical building. The summer associate concluded the house would be near impossible to tear down if it achieved historical status.

Keith also had the contract that Naomi had mentioned attached to one of his e-mails, granting Lonestar a gas lease to drill on Thistle Park’s property. The mansion would be razed to make room for a new housing development of twenty-five homes. None of the new owners would be able to contest the drilling, as it would have begun before the houses were built.

And there was one e-mail that hinted there would be a big payoff for Will Prentiss if he could find “them.” The e-mail was from Helene to Shane Hartley, and Keith was copied. The e-mail had been sent to Shane the day he died, the day I moved into Thistle Park. Shane had written back promptly and alluded to the fact he would hold off on a settlement offer for Will Prentiss until Will recovered the paintings.