Engaged in Death (A Wedding Planner Mystery) (9 page)

“Whatever. You can stop smirking at me. This place probably wasn’t a dump when you lived here.”

I grabbed a rag and polished the tarnished nameplate affixed to the bottom of the heavy gilt frame. “Evelyn McGavitt,” I read aloud.

“She was Sylvia’s mother.”

“Geez!” I dropped the wood polish with a splatter and whirled around to confront a tidy, willowy woman a few years older than me, with a smooth cap of startlingly red hair. It was too vivid not to have come from a bottle. She had unsettling gimlet eyes, and she was wearing a wool skirt and riding boots, despite the July heat.

“I’m sorry I startled you. The doorbell must be broken. I rang and knocked for a good five minutes, then I let myself in since the door was unlocked. Thistle Park is so enormous, it must be hard to hear what’s going on in the front hall.”

“That’s okay.” I smiled over my initial shock. “You must be Tabitha Battles. Thanks for meeting me on a Saturday.”

I’d made appointments with Tabitha from the historical society and Zachary Novak, Sylvia’s Realtor. I hoped they could fill me in on Sylvia’s plans for the house. I had apparently lost track of time in my mania to clean.

“Who did you say she was?” I gestured to the smirking lady in the painting and wiped my hands free of furniture polish.

“The painting is of Sylvia’s mother, Evelyn McGavitt. It’s a little overwhelming. I can tell you about the history of this house and the people who lived in it.” She paused. “But just so I’m clear about my intentions, Sylvia was considering donating several items to the historical society. Nothing permanent, just loans for long-term display. It’s your decision now, of course, and I don’t want to pressure you.”

I appreciated her honesty and forthrightness. “Sure. Let’s go into the front room—er, the parlor, I guess, and we can get started.”

Rachel was awake and met us in the formal room.

“I made scones and cheese straws yesterday.” She plopped down a silver tray laden with treats. “I used recipes from one of the old cookbooks in the kitchen, with some modern substitutions. We don’t have lard, for instance.”

I beamed at my sister. For once, we were thinking on the same page. We dug into the food after Rachel and Tabitha were introduced.

“Delicious.” Tabitha was right. Rachel’s scones were amazing.

I gave my sister an appraising look. She smiled back with a flush of pride.

“You know,” Tabitha said, “if you choose to renovate this place, it would make a great bed-and-breakfast.”

Rachel’s eyes widened with excitement. “That’s what I told Mallory.”

I took another bite to avoid talking. Last night, when I returned from my disastrous day at work, Rachel had practically drawn up a business plan. She wanted to help me renovate Sylvia’s house and, according to her, once we got the attic unlocked, we could live on the third floor and run the bottom two floors as an inn. I didn’t tell her I’d envisioned the same plan—because my thoughts were mere daydreams—but Rachel actually thought we could pull it off.

I’d thought of one of my favorite places on earth, a little B and B where Keith had proposed to me, nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was owned by a kind, capable woman. I remembered thinking during our stay she had a wonderful life, running her own business and meeting new people. Could I really pull that off, here? In Sylvia’s house?

“You’d still have enough space to live here.” Tabitha’s eyes shone, unknowingly echoing Rachel’s suggestions and my daydream. “And you could hold events. Parties and weddings . . .”

That was the one kind of event I kept blocking from my mind. I’d begin to picture a marriage ceremony in the gazebo out back, then mentally shut down.

Rachel jumped in, saving us from an awkward silence. “I’ll get us coffee.”

Just then a knock sounded at the door.

“That’ll be Zachary Novak,” I said as I moved toward the hall.

Tabitha’s face crumpled.

Rachel returned with a pot of coffee, a pitcher of water, and delicate teacups, all balanced on another silver tray. Zachary Novak nearly had a heart attack when he saw my sister. I was wearing dark jeans and a button-down ruffled top, presentable enough for this business meeting, though now reeking of lemon oil. I refused to dress up on the weekends, my only respite from the heels, suits, and dresses I wore at the firm. Rachel, however, was wearing a flirty sundress and high wedges that laced around her calves. Her eyes widened when she saw him, and she set down the drinks in a hurry.

“Call me Zach.” He held my sister’s hand a beat too long.

Tabitha’s eyes appeared to twitch, but maybe she was blinking out some dust. There was enough floating around.

Like most men, Zach was captivated by Rachel. And he was just her type: tall, built, and blond, with startlingly blue eyes and a strong jaw. He flashed her a special smile as he sat across from her. I tamped down a fleeting thought that maybe now she’d never look twice at Garrett Davies.

The four of us sat in wingback chairs around a small table, feasting on Rachel’s scones and drinking coffee out of real Wedgwood cups. The floor was bare, as Rachel and I had carefully rolled up the rugs last night and left them on the back porch. We didn’t need to asphyxiate our guests with eau de cat piss.

“Garrett Davies told me Sylvia was working with both of you to decide what to do with this place.” I straightened the pen and notepad in front of me. “I want to know what her intentions were so I can make a decision.”

Zach jumped in. “Sylvia was considering selling Thistle Park. She was worried the house was too far gone and that most buyers would only be interested in the land, either to build houses on these five acres, or to drill for shale gas. So I was exploring whether there were any buyers who wanted to renovate the house or at least not use the land for fracking.”

“Were you successful?”

“Yes and no. You can’t really sell with that kind of covenant attached, to make someone promise not to do something with the land. It’s zoned to allow drilling. The house was never officially on the market, but there were some inquiries. A large family was interested, especially considering Sylvia was willing to sell it cheaply. But . . . they took one look inside and got the heck out of here.”

I choked on a sip of coffee, politely coughing it off.

“But you’ve already made great strides.”

“Sylvia would be pleased.” Tabitha looked around the now neat room.

“I know you want to honor Sylvia’s wishes,” Zach pressed on, “but if you don’t try to find the perfect buyer, this land will be snapped up in a heartbeat. Someone will develop it and build twenty houses. Or you could keep the house and lease the land for drilling. The money would fund renovations.”

“Why do the gas companies want this particular piece of land?” Rachel practically simpered, batting her mascaraed lashes at Zach.

I stifled a giggle. Surely Rachel was joking with him. Wasn’t she?

“No one else in this neighborhood will allow Lonestar to drill. This is their last chance.” Zach addressed Rachel, his mouth curving in a slow smile.

“But you can’t really tear this place down,” Tabitha interjected. “It’s basically a historical landmark. It was designed by a famous architect.”

“No, it’s not. Official historical status was never applied for or granted for Thistle Park.” Zach sat back smugly and Tabitha fumed. The two squared off, glaring at each other over their teacups and cheese straws.

My sister coolly assessed Tabitha.

“It
should
be a historical landmark. And Sylvia was looking into that process. This house is very important to Port Quincy.” Tabitha’s eyes got a faraway look. “Sylvia preserved it over the years for a reason. If you stay here, you’ll be celebrating that history.”

I gulped a slug of coffee and grimaced. I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay here. Would I be beholden to keep this place exactly as it was? I was fascinated by the idea of Thistle Park as living history, and I loved watching period piece dramas on TV, but that didn’t mean I wanted to live in one, especially now that I didn’t have the money to restore it.

Zach set down his teacup with a sharp clatter. “Sylvia didn’t mention anything about seeking historical status. I’d know. My grandmother worked here, and my father was practically raised with Keith’s father. Although I wasn’t ever close to Keith, Sylvia has been very good to my family, and she treated me like her own flesh and blood. She told me everything.” His cool blue gaze crackled with anger.

Tabitha rolled her eyes and studied her cloth napkin with undue seriousness.

Zach turned to me. “I was taking all of Sylvia’s concerns into account, and I’ll do the same for you. Some people in Port Quincy might tell you it’s your responsibility to take all of this on”—he glanced around at the chaos that was Thistle Park—“but think about what’s best for you. I predict that will be selling. Although, with a murder here, it’ll be hard to find a family willing to move in.” Thank goodness he hadn’t brought up Shane Hartley by name.

“One thing I am certain about, while I own it, is I’m not comfortable with drilling here. Especially since Sylvia was against it.” I wiped a crumb of scone away.

“Fair enough.” Zach gave an easy smile, slipping back into sales mode. “If you decide to sell, I’ll be happy to help.” He beamed at Rachel as well.

Tabitha doled out an icy glare to Zach. “Sylvia was considering donating the house to the historical society. The McGavitt family built this house, and their glass factory was the heart and soul of Port Quincy. We’d love to have the house, but I don’t expect you to donate it. Sylvia wasn’t even sure how she felt about that. She felt the house was a living thing and should have a family in it and not be a sterile museum. Perhaps that’s why she gave it to you, Mallory, for you to live here.”

Phew
. At least if I kept this place, I wouldn’t need to keep everything the same, like a time capsule.

“The McGavitt family,” I said slowly. “That was Sylvia’s middle name.”

“That’s right. Sylvia’s grandfather was a glass baron. We have an exhibit about the family. I’d love to show it to you if you’ll stop in to the historical society.” Tabitha included my sister in her warm invitation, but Rachel didn’t seem to be biting.

“It’d be helpful to include some pieces from the house,” Tabitha concluded her pitch.

“Sure. Take whatever.” The house was filled with endless knickknacks, and damned if I knew whether they were valuable or not. It was like living in a crystal flea market.

Tabitha’s jaw dropped. “We don’t want much. Some photographs, and we’ll make copies and return the originals to you. Some glass, of course, since the family decorated with pieces from their factory.”

“Seriously, take what you like. I’m sure it’d be better if some things were on display at the historical society, instead of in this mess of a house.”

Tabitha beamed, her sharp features softening. We set up a time next weekend to choose items for her exhibit. The four of us made small talk while we finished our coffee.

Zach glanced at his watch. “Well, it’s time for me to go. I have an open house. Nice to meet you.” He gave Rachel a special smile. “See you around, Tabby-cat.” He smirked as he navigated the heavy furniture on his way out.

“Only three people on this planet are allowed to call me that, and he’s not one of them,” Tabitha spat as soon as the front door thudded shut. “Not anymore, at least.”

These two obviously had a history. I raised my eyebrows and looked at Rachel to silently confer, but she wasn’t paying attention. She sat up tall in her chair, her eyes following Zach down the path and back to his car. Tabitha didn’t seem to miss that.

“I should get going too.” Her smile was tight.

“Thanks for meeting with us.”

She returned the sentiment with a real smile this time. “The pleasure is mine. Sylvia made the right decision, leaving Thistle Park to you. Keith and Helene Pierce would have sold to the highest bidder. You’ll do her proud, no matter what you decide.”

Tabitha’s impassioned good-bye caused my eyes to prickle.

Rachel finally came back to life, a predatory gleam in her pretty eyes. “You’re not still seeing Zach, are you?”

My mouth nearly dropped open. “Rachel,” I hissed.

“No, it’s okay.” Tabitha looked at Rachel head-on. “I’m not seeing him anymore. He’s all yours. Just be careful. Zach is a handful.”

“I can take care of myself, thanks.”

“I have no doubt about that.” Tabitha was a consummate professional. She bade us good-bye again and I walked her to the door.

I returned to my sister, about to chastise her for her rudeness, but she cut me off.

“It’s raining men here in Port Quincy. Who would have ever guessed?”

The next day, I resumed cleaning, with Rachel’s help. She bopped around the house in tiny running shorts and a tank top, singing aloud with her iPod, mopping the wooden floors and alternatively dancing with the handle.

I’d flung open all of the windows and was dusting the myriad of trinkets, vases, and glass all around the house, but I was creating more of a mess than before. The fluffy orange kitten studied the dust motes spiraling lazily through the sunlight.

About twenty minutes in, I sat down.

C’mon
.
I don’t have time for this.

“You need a break,” Rachel sang out from the hallway, twirling her mop around like a dance partner. “It’s the heat.”

It was true. There was no air-conditioning at Thistle Park, and we’d already blown the fuses trying to hook up half a dozen fans.

“Okay.” I allowed my baby sis to let me off the hook, when I was the one who’d demanded we clean today. “If you insist.”

I rifled through the stack of documents I’d printed Friday night before I left the firm. They were complaints and pleadings from Lonestar Energy’s many lawsuits, brought by families living in Port Quincy. If you believed the plaintiffs’ claims, Lonestar’s fracking hadn’t left the land or water unscathed. Just glancing through the documents, I could think of a dozen families that wouldn’t mind if Shane Hartley or any other Lonestar executive met an untimely death. Chief Truman and Faith Hendricks probably knew this as well, which gave me some measure of comfort. I couldn’t really be a suspect. This was all a hideous coincidence.

I leaned back onto the funny-shaped piece of furniture that Tabitha had called a fainting couch. I’d just rest my eyes for a minute.

I smelled her first. A whiff of strawberry bubble gum. My eyes fluttered open. A grin, all metal and magenta braces, and the source of the strawberry breath came into view. Then a smattering of freckles and those elfin hazel eyes. Hovering two inches from my face.

“Summer.” I sat up, nearly colliding with her as I had with her father.

“See, she’s not dead.” Rachel returned to her mopping.

Summer laughed, shifting Jeeves from one arm to the other. She’d brought the little black fluff ball back, hopefully for a visit, and he seemed content to nestle in her arms. He sported a navy harness encrusted in rhinestones. Summer unhooked her kitten and he trotted into the hallway, meowing in search of his sister and calico mama.

“Did your dad take you shopping for supplies?” I sat up, rubbing my eyes. The thought of Garrett and Summer selecting things for this spoiled little kitten brought a smile to my face.

“Oh yeah.” Summer perched on an ottoman. “He even feeds Jeeves from the table, and I’m the one who has to tell him not to. My grandpa said Dad’s reinforcing bad habits.”

The calico and Jeeves’s sister kitten came over, eager to sniff him and welcome him back.

“Dad’s only letting me keep Jeeves if I promise to dye my hair back to blond by the time school starts.” Summer brought her long ponytail of dull, inky hair in front of her face, crossing her eyes to look at the ends. They were split and the texture of straw.

“Honey”—Rachel moved over to inspect her hair—“you’ll never get this blond again. Your hair will melt before you lighten it. Or worse, turn as orange as that kitten.”

“That’s what my grandma said, but Dad won’t budge.”

“You know”—I considered Summer—“you’d look really good with a pixie cut. And your roots are just about long enough.”

“A pixie cut?” Summer frowned. “Like Tinker Bell?”

“Like a young Mia Farrow.” We’d finally gotten the Internet hooked up, so I flipped open my laptop. I typed in a search and swiveled it around when I found a 1970s picture of the actress. “See?”

Rachel jumped up and made a beeline down the hall.

“She’s so pretty.” It was as if Summer couldn’t believe she could ever look as lovely.

Rachel returned brandishing a pair of scissors and a towel. “You’re way prettier than her.” Rachel did an experimental clip on one of her own wavy strands. “These are just sharp enough. What do you think, Summer? Are you ready for a haircut?”

I began to get nervous. “I don’t know about this. Your dad might kill me, and we’ve just gotten over kitten-gate.” I moved closer to Summer, hovering in a protective stance. I pictured Garrett sitting on the porch, glowering, replacing the sunny, sexy Garrett who’d lately occupied my mind.

“Dad will be super happy to see the dyed part gone.” Summer sat on the tasseled ottoman, tucked the towel around her neck, and sat up straight. Her voice was full of confidence, but she steeled herself with her eyes closed, as if undergoing a dental exam. “Besides, if he’s mad, I’ll tell just him it was your idea.” She opened her eyes and giggled.

“I like this kid.” Rachel undid Summer’s ponytail and fluffed out the dull, black hair.

“You’re really sure?” I bit my lip. “We could make a quick call to your dad or your grandparents.”

“Positive.” Summer looked more relaxed as Rachel combed gently through her fried hair. She squeezed her eyes tight again when Rachel thwacked off most of it with one cut.

“Can I look?” Summer paled when she opened an eye and spied the artificially raven tresses pooled around her on the floor.

“Not yet.” Rachel stuck the tip of her tongue out in concentration.

I fluttered around the ottoman, praying Rachel knew what she was doing.

“You’re pretty good at this,” I said a few minutes later.

Summer sagged with relief.

“I had a six-month stint at Custom Cuts in Florida.” Rachel trimmed Summer’s hair ever closer. “I could do this in my sleep.” She shot me an
I-told-you-so
look.

Fifteen minutes later, I marveled fully at Rachel’s handiwork. Summer looked lovely and ethereal, her hair a shining cap cut close to her scalp. The cut freed her, and the girl she was shone through without all the jarring dyed black hair.

“Ta-da,” Rachel cried, as I handed Summer an old pewter hand mirror.

Summer looked as if she’d cry, and Rachel’s eyes went wide.

“I look so . . .
nice
.” A giant, cheek-splitting grin erupted on Summer’s face. “Thank you!” She jumped up and hugged Rachel and me together, pulling my sister down into her embrace, which was surprisingly strong for such a reedy girl.

“You’re welcome, sweetie.” Rachel sent me a relieved look.

Summer picked up the mirror again and stared at her reflection in awe, running her hands over her nearly shorn head. Then she set it down, grabbed the broom leaning against the window, and began to sweep her hair into a tidy pile.

“Can I help you guys clean? My dad said you could use a hand. Jeeves can hang out with his mom and sister.”

Score another point for Garrett. I smiled. “We’d love your help, but wouldn’t you rather be out with your friends?”

“My best friend, Jocelyn, is at summer camp in New Hampshire.” Summer scowled. “And my other friend, Phoebe, goes to live with her dad in Maryland in the summer ’cause her parents are divorced. It’s just me and my grandparents and my dad.”

“And Jeeves.”

“And Jeeves.” She brightened. “What did you name his mom and sister?”

Oh crap.
“Um, the mom is Whiskey—”

“And the kitten is Soda.” Rachel picked up the little orange kitten, making me regret our choices. We’d settled on those names when the cats managed to knock over an ancient bottle of liquor during their play.

“Cool.” Summer looked fondly at the reunited cat family. “So, how can I help?”

“We can roll up the rest of the rugs and take them to the back porch,” I suggested. “Then finish mopping.”

It truly was a three-person job. We’d dealt with the rugs in the parlor so we could meet with Tabitha and Zach, but there were more to deal with in the dining room. We needed to move the heavy wooden furniture, or at least raise the table and chair legs high enough to slide the tattered rugs out from under them. After pricing how much it would cost to clean genuine hundred-year-old rugs, I wasn’t sure if they’d live to see another day. They could air out on the back porch for the time being.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” I asked Summer, my question garbled as I hooked the collar of my T-shirt over my nose.

“If I can clean cat litter, I can do this.” Her voice was nasal and high since she held her nose.

Rachel and I heaved up each leg of the dining room table in turn, and four times Summer pulled the rug’s corners out from under them.

“Yuck.” Rachel rolled the pungent wool into a cylinder. Rachel and Summer each grabbed an end, and I took the middle, balancing the heavy rug on my shoulder. We tried to make our way past the pocket door, which was stuck halfway shut.

“This door is so annoying.” I jammed my shoulder against it as I shimmied through with the carpet. We made it to the back porch and threw the offending rug on top of the pile from the parlor.

“Whew.” Summer wiped the sweat from her brow. “Let’s do another one.”

“We need to un-jimmy this door.” I frowned as we returned to the house. “It would be easier if we could carry things through the dining room.”

Rachel and I each grabbed a side of the pocket door and rocked it back and forth, trying to jam it back into its track.

“Be careful,” I called out as Summer moved in to help us. “Rachel, Summer’s dad will kill us if she gets hurt.” At that moment, the door popped out of its track and hung, barely stable, all cattywampus from its frame.

“Geez Louise.” I tried to steady the door, which had half fallen on my sister.

“Thanks.” She propped it up in a less precarious position.

The three of us eased the door out of the frame and slid it onto the floor, sweating and grunting as we positioned the heavy wooden slab.

“What is that?” Summer peered into the empty pocket door track.

“A piece of paper.” I plucked the item from the ground. “It must have made the door stick.”

It was folded into quarters, and was so old it almost cracked along each crease.

“It looks like it says something.” Summer peered over my shoulder.

“Let me see!” Rachel tried to snatch the delicate onionskin paper out of my hand.

“Hold on.” I whirled around to protect the find. “We can all look at it.”

With shaking hands, I smoothed the paper out on the dining room table, all discolored and brittle. Fine, spidery cursive filled the page:

Here the note stopped, the delicate stationary torn in half.

“Who in the heck wrote this?” I asked, at the same time as Summer cried out, “There are hidden paintings somewhere in this house!”

* * *

“So the rumor is true.” Tabitha took a sip of wine and leaned across the table, her gimlet eyes shining.

“If you believe this.” I gestured to the note spread out on the tablecloth. I’d called Tabitha as soon as Summer left. If anyone would know about hidden paintings at Thistle Park, it would be the town historian. Helene and Keith were also likely candidates, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask them.

Tabitha could barely contain her excitement. She’d invited Rachel and me to dinner and asked us to bring the note.

“I can’t go,” Rachel had said airily as she blotted her lipstick and arranged her hair in a messy bun in the only bathroom. She pouted her lips in the gilded mirror and gave her reflection a practice pucker.

“Why not? And why are you dressed like that?”

Rachel was wearing what, for her, constituted a demure dress. It was baby blue and almost skimmed the tops of her knees. She’d traded her usual high heels for modest espadrille wedges, and her nails, for once, weren’t a shocking color but were a delicate shell pink. The only concession to her usual come-hither look was the top of the dress, unbuttoned rather low.

I’d changed from my cleaning garb into a jean skirt and linen tank top and hoped a nice jacket would dress it up enough for dinner. I was ready to go in twenty minutes, after I tamed my hair and applied a bit of mascara and lip gloss, while Rachel calmly reached for her cosmetics bag and spread out the contents of a mall makeup kiosk in the small bathroom. How she managed to look fresh and dewy and young under all of that makeup mystified me. It was like old times back when I was in high school, when Rachel’s complicated ablutions and beauty routines already took twice as long as mine, even though she was still in middle school.

“I have a date.” She whirled around. “Tell Tabitha I can’t come to dinner because I have plans with Zach.”

“You can tell her yourself. And I doubt she cares who Zach sees.” I didn’t think this was true, though, recalling Tabitha’s shrewd appraisal of Rachel and Zach’s banter yesterday. It seemed she cared very much.

“Nope. She’ll be annoyed. Are these earrings too much?” Rachel swished her head back and forth, and the sparkly blue bulbs jangled and flashed.

“Try some studs if you’re going to wear your hair up. Are you going out with Zach to annoy Tabitha or because you genuinely like him?” I sank onto the prim love seat across from the pedestal sink and the claw-foot tub. Furniture in a bathroom? Why not.

“Because I like him, silly.” Rachel screwed in a pair of diamond studs.

“Are those mine?” I jumped up quickly and took a deep breath of something familiar. “You’re wearing my perfume too?” I recoiled as the scent of Coco Mademoiselle nearly knocked me over.

“Just a spray.”

Try a gallon. As long as I could remember, Rachel had been sneaking clothing, jewelry, makeup, and perfume out of my room like a seasoned thief. It would take weeks before I noticed anything was missing, and by then, Rachel had usually lost the fruits of her pilfering.