Engaged in Death (A Wedding Planner Mystery) (8 page)

But my hopeful feelings soared, and it made work slightly more bearable. The whispers about the cancelled wedding, the pitying glances, and the gazes cutting away from mine stung a bit less. People probably thought I’d gone on meds, the change in my mood was so complete. It ticked me off in my feminist soul that it took interest in another man to make me feel less adrift.

* * *

“Are you ready to venture out?” Olivia asked at lunchtime. She floated the idea tentatively, as if I were a healed leper leaving the colony for the first time in a dozen years. Her dark brown eyes squinted with concern beneath her bangs.

We’d been fast friends since the first day I met her seven years ago, when we’d been nervous summer associates. She had warned me about getting involved with Keith, a senior associate, when I was working for the firm as a law student, but I’d brushed her off. When my engagement ended, I’d gotten a big hug instead of an “I told you so,” and Olivia had done most of the work to undo my elaborate wedding plans. She was my rock.

“I believe I am.” I rubbed the egg-sized bump on my head like a good-luck talisman. I smiled, thinking of Garrett walking off into the sunset with Jeeves.

“What are you grinning about? You look like you’ve got a secret.”

“No secrets. I’m finally settling into Sylvia’s house. I’m actually glad Rachel’s here. And the people in Port Quincy are all right. I don’t think I’ll be murdered in my sleep.”

Olivia blew her thick black bangs off her forehead, eyeing me. She didn’t press me about it.

“And, I’m starting to feel okay about what happened with Keith. Lucky, even. I’m better off without him.”

“That’s the spirit.” Olivia held up her hand for a high five.

“Now I just need to find a bride and revise my wedding.”

Before Olivia arrived at my office I’d checked my personal email. I’d had a surprising ten inquiries about my “free wedding” giveaway. But none of the requests would work. Several brides desperately wanted a wedding at the country club, but wouldn’t be able to use the space on the appointed date. They wanted to know if I’d had any success negotiating using the country club space at a later date. The Port Quincy Dalmatian Rescue League was interested in taking over the event for a fundraiser, and they wanted to feature their pooches. A quick call to Mr. Haines, the country club manager, nixed that idea.

“There can be no animals on the premises, Miss Shepard. Good luck finding a group to take over your reception.” I could hear the condescension in his voice, and could picture his sneer curving around his blinding dentures. I hung up before I said something I regretted. I filled Olivia in on my phone call with Mr. Haines, and all of the requests to use the reception that wouldn’t quite work.

“You know,” Olivia said cautiously, “it might be time to haul out the big guns. This would make a great story.”

“Like for the newspaper?” I squeaked, dropping my purse in alarm.

“I guess you’re not ready for that.”

The two of us made our way out of my office. I didn’t want to broadcast my failure of a wedding so publicly, but I was bound and determined to find a bride to take over the reception. I just had to find that bride without humiliating myself any further.

The elevator stopped its smooth descent and we crossed the marble lobby and exited revolving doors into the humid day. We headed for our favorite restaurant, a hole-in-the-wall that served delicious Indian food, a safe block away. A rivulet of sweat traced my spine, gluing my silk shirt to my back. I hid behind my sunglasses, glancing around for any signs of Keith or Becca.

A woman exited the identical chrome and glass skyscraper next door. She looked right then left and tentatively ventured out. She spotted me at the edge of her vision, dropping the bag she was carrying. Papers flew out of the overstuffed satchel, and she froze. Her eyes darted over as she finally scrambled to retrieve her documents. As she leaned over, her dark roots contrasted with shining blond hair, Heather Locklear–style, circa
Melrose Place
.

“Becca Cunningham,” spat out Olivia.

“I’m not hungry anymore.” My legs turned to jelly, and bile rose in my throat. I stood rooted to the ground, my feet useless as I clung to Olivia’s arm.

“Wait, Mallory!” Becca stuffed sheaves of paper into her cranberry shoulder bag. It was identical to the one I carried. Keith had given me the soft leather attaché for Christmas. My head spun. Had he gifted her the very same present? Keith was nothing if not efficient. Becca advanced toward us, abandoning the rest of her papers to the sidewalk, where they were picked up in the slight breeze before wafting into traffic like giant, rectangular snowflakes. “Please, I need to talk to you. I want to tell you—”

She didn’t get to tell me what was so pressing, because Olivia grabbed me by the elbow and wrenched me around in an about-face.

I left my stomach on the sidewalk, along with my dignity, as we power walked back to our building and zoomed up in the elevator. I wasn’t sure which was worse. Running into the woman Keith had been cheating with, or the look of panic in her eyes. I didn’t really hate Becca Cunningham.
She
hadn’t gotten down on one knee and offered her fidelity to me. Keith had.

Olivia grabbed us sandwiches from the firm cafeteria and forced me to choke down a few bites while we hunkered in my office. My newfound courage was gone. Pleasant thoughts of Garrett Davies evaporated, replaced with visions of me skulking about in shadows, never venturing out for fear of seeing my ex or his paramour.

“I wonder what she was going to tell you.” Olivia sat primly in one of the blond wooden chairs that faced my desk. “Surely not apologizing. It’s a little late for that.”

“I need a new job.” My sister’s advice had been spot-on. “And that was just her. If I ran into Keith, I’m not sure what I’d do.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t cheat.”

There was a knock at the door, which opened before I could invite the person in. My secretary hung back, as if she’d been running interference, on her way to warn me. She gave me an apologetic shrug before she continued down the hall.

“Mallory.” Alan Brinkman, the partner who gave me the majority of my work, was about fifty, with rheumy eyes, a graying comb-over, and a snappish manner. He was always dressed in perfectly pressed suits, well taken care of by his wife. The long hours and the stress of working for Russell Carey for more than twenty-five years had taken their toll on him. He was cold and dismissive with associates and petty and obstructive with opposing counsel. I’d sacrificed many evenings pulling all-nighters for Alan, and though he was a bear to work for, he gave me plenty of assignments, real experience, and good reviews. And that was what counted around here.

Olivia jumped up, taking her tuna sandwich with her. “See you later.” She gave me a sympathetic look as she closed the door behind her.

“What can I do for you, Alan?” The chirpy tone in my voice was fake, and the corners of my mouth quivered with the effort of maintaining a plastic grin. I was already on thin ice for taking off three days this week, legitimate reasons be damned. Alan might like my work product, but he didn’t tolerate personal crises interfering with the practice of law. And it was odd he’d decided to swing by my office. He usually summoned me to his with a curt bark on the phone.

“I want to know what’s going on with the investigation into Shane Hartley’s death.” It was the same tactic he used when cross-examining witnesses. No exchanging pleasantries with Alan. He went straight for the jugular. It was a technique I was trying to hone, but I didn’t appreciate being on the receiving end.

“Pardon me?” I tried to stall and gather my thoughts for this interrogation.

“Lonestar Energy is one of this firm’s biggest clients. I was very upset to hear my star associate was involved with a client’s death.” Alan’s left eye began to twitch in unison with the pulsating vein now standing out above his right temple.

Alan was about to go nuclear. I’d only seen him this agitated once, and it was right before he threw his Penn Law class of 1989 paperweight at his secretary. She’d taken it in stride, but the firm had decided it would be better to give her a nice payoff so we could all pretend he hadn’t almost decapitated her.

I gulped some air and tried to still my nervous hands. I would have been ecstatic to hear Alan call me his star associate just a week ago, but now I was sweating. “Involved? I wasn’t
involved
in Hartley’s death. I just inherited my, um . . .” Here, I stalled, not sure what to call Sylvia. “My future grandmother-in-law’s house. The first night I spent there, he was murdered. I barely knew him, and I had no reason to want him dead.”

Alan loomed over my desk, all six feet of him. His stale coffee breath mingled with his aftershave. I recoiled and tried not to roll my chair back.

“You were seen arguing with him the day before he died. Are you a suspect in Shane Hartley’s murder?”

The answer was maybe. Unofficially. But that was none of Alan’s damn business. Had the firm been in contact with the Port Quincy police? How did he know I’d argued with Hartley?

I leaned forward, my face three inches from his. “Do you really think I spend my time prowling small towns and bashing in the skulls of people I’ve just met?” I laughed, but it came out wrong, all strangled and high-pitched, like a muffled sneeze.

Alan’s face relaxed. He rubbed his twitching eye. “It just looks bad. Some of these lawsuits we’re defending on behalf of Lonestar have reached a delicate stage.”

“You mean they’re about to settle.”

“To put it bluntly, yes. Shane Hartley, as head of operations for Lonestar here in Pennsylvania, was an indispensable part of that process.”

“Maybe that’s why he was murdered. Someone didn’t want a settlement to go through. Or maybe it was a threat against Lonestar.”

A look of annoyance returned to Alan’s worn face. “Just help the police do their job, and you do yours. I know you’re going through some blips in your personal life, but you need to focus on your work and keep your hours up.”

Blips?
That was one way of putting it.

“Yes, Alan,” I said, all obsequious and obedient.

I sagged when he left my office. The door snapped shut.

“Oh crap.” I couldn’t have the firm scrutinizing my work or questioning my involvement in Shane Hartley’s death. I needed my job, and I wanted to keep my head down and turn in good work so I could make partner.

Then again, I’d done nothing wrong. If the firm was poking around in my business, I’d poke right back. I opened Russell Carey’s internal document system on my computer. Searches for
Lonestar Energy
and
Shane Hartley
yielded over three thousand documents. It seemed like half of Port Quincy was suing Lonestar. The majority of the claims alleged Lonestar miscalculated gas royalties, poisoned animals, overfilled noxious retention ponds, and turned a blind eye to wastewater leaks. There were a few wrongful death cases from workplace accidents and gas explosions. Russell Carey was very busy defending Lonestar.

I stopped billing for the cases I should have been focusing on and lost the rest of the afternoon. I read all about the trouble Lonestar Energy got into and how my colleagues at Russell Carey LLP got them out of it.

* * *

Saturday arrived, and after I’d lived at Thistle Park for five days, the house was still an utter disaster. It would probably be that way for weeks, if not months. Even if I fixed up the place, it’d cost a fortune just to maintain it. Though the enormity of the task weighed on me and brought out my inner neurotic control freak, I was charmed by this odd, hulking mansion.

Since Alan’s visit yesterday, I’d been daydreaming of opening the mansion as a B and B. I imagined treating guests to a Gilded Age trip back in time and planning weddings that would be held in the lush restored garden out back. My mind wandered to the old cookbooks in the kitchen, which had beckoned to me from day one. I pictured serving food inspired by the dishes cooked here long ago. I used to love cooking before I started practicing law, but these days I never seemed to find the time.

Today we were having company, and I was appalled by the state of the house, as if it had fallen into disrepair under my watch. I woke up before dawn and attempted to make a dent in the squalor, or at least show I’d tried.

“Appearances,” I said to myself. “Watch out, or you’ll turn into Helene.”

Rachel slept while I cleaned. I hummed a tune as the calico and her apricot kitten watched me polish the dark wood in the back hall. I hoped the lemon-scented oil would overpower the lingering smell of mustiness and cat pee.

The hallway featured several large mirrors, the glass now hazy with age, spotting my reflection with gold flecks. Cobwebs adorned the chandelier above, and desiccated spiders hung upside-down, like the rusted-out, inverted skeletons of old, broken umbrellas. I stood on tiptoe and batted them with a broom. I spent hours polishing, mopping, and sweeping, working out the stress of the week on the woodwork while I sweated in the humid air.

The hallway seemed to be filled with the ghosts of the family that had lived at Thistle Park. I felt watched, but not in a bad way. A large oil portrait of a woman at the far end of the hallway caught my eye. There weren’t many paintings left in the house. Most of the walls had oval and rectangle-shaped patches of vibrant wallpaper, once preserved behind the pictures.

I moved closer. The woman in the portrait stared at me with what, at first, seemed to be an imperious glare. Her pretty mouth was set in a hard line. Her visage was dimmed by lacquer that had aged and grown dull, but I could still make out the mischievous gleam in her dark brown eyes. They danced with mirth, as if she found my predicament amusing.