Read Something Borrowed, Something Bleu Online

Authors: Cricket McRae

Tags: #Suspense

Something Borrowed, Something Bleu

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Something Borrowed, Something Bleu: A Home Crafting Mystery
Š 2010 by Cricket McRae.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.
Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First e-book edition Š 2010
E-book ISBN: 9780738726311
Book design and format by Donna Burch
Cover design by Lisa Novak
Cover photograph Š Lisa Novak
Editing by Connie Hill
Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.
Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.
Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

Midnight Ink

 

 

Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

 

 

2143 Wooddale Drive

 

 

Woodbury, MN 55125

 

 

www.midnightink.com

 

 

Manufactured in the United States of America

 

 

 

This book is dedicated to libraries everywhere.

 

 

 

 

Acknowledgments

 

 

I’m grateful to everyone who had a hand in this book: agents Jacky Sach and Kim Lionetti; my critique partners Bob and Mark; and the hard working crew at Midnight Ink—Bill Krause, Terri Bischoff, Connie Hill, Courtney Colton, Lisa Novak, and Donna Burch, among others. Meg and Arden, owners of the Windsor Dairy, were kind enough to answer my questions. They make the best raw-milk artisan cheeses imaginable. Anything I got wrong is my own fault. The staff at the post office in LaPorte, Colorado provided information about lost mail. Thanks also to my parents, supportive friends, and readers who continue to ask after Sophie Mae. And, as always, Kevin has offered unfailing encouragement. Thanks for having my back.

 

 

The shrill ring of
the telephone startled me out of a sound sleep. My heart bucked, and panic shortened my breath as I stared wide-eyed into the darkness and felt around for the handset. The numbers on my bedside clock glowed 3:58.
Any call at that hour inevitably signaled grim news.
The phone tumbled, slammed onto the hardwood floor, and skittered beneath me. Brodie let out a single, sharp bark from Erin’s bedroom down the hall. Swearing, I slithered out from under the sheet. Pajama-clad behind up in the air, I groped under the bed.
There: something, but definitely not the phone. I dragged the mystery item out and held it up to the pale gray light barely beginning to glow through the window.
A pair of purple lace panties.
So that was where those had disappeared to.
The phone reverberated again. I tossed the errant underwear in the corner and pressed my cheek against the floor. My fingers scrabbled against wood. Dust bunnies retreated to the far reaches as I touched hard plastic and teased the wailing handset into my grasp. I sat up on the cold floor and peered at the caller ID with bleary eyes.
It was my mother, calling from Spring Creek, Colorado.
“Anna Belle, what’s wrong?” I demanded. “Is Dad okay?”
Her sorghum-laced voice floated over the line. “Good morning, Sophie Mae. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“What? Of course you woke me. What happened?”
“You sound upset. It’s too early in the morning for that, don’t you think?”
I managed not to growl. However, my blood pressure dropped an infinitesimal amount.
“Why,” I began, the words even and deliberate, “are you calling me at this hour if someone isn’t sick or dying?”
“Oh, good Lord, Sophie Mae. You used to be such an early riser in the summer. It is, after all—” A pause as she no doubt consulted her watch. “Oh, dear. I didn’t realize it’s only five a.m. I’m sorry, hon.”
“Four a.m.,” I said.
“But … oh. I always seem to forget about the time difference.”
“So nothing’s wrong?”
“Well …”
“Can I call you back in a few hours?” I’d been working my tail off lately, making handmade toiletries and filling orders for my Winding Road Bath Products business, and I wanted a little more shut-eye before starting in yet again.
Plus, these days I wasn’t in much of a mood to talk to my mother. Maybe I was a horrible daughter, but the frequency of her calls had increased lately as she tried to weasel her way into my wedding plans. Right now I didn’t have the time or energy to try again to convince her that Barr and I wanted a small, simple ceremony. No wedding she was involved with would be either.
“Well, as long as you’re up, I do need to talk to you,” she said.
I sighed. “Right. As long as I’m up.”
Couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Anna Belle Watson had no qualms about doing whatever she needed to in order to get what she wanted. Her polite, Southern belle demeanor softened her manipulations, as did the accent toned by time to an alluring lilt. However, I wasn’t one of her students or some untenured professor in the marketing department at Northern Colorado University. I was her daughter, even if she insisted that I call her by her first name, and I’d had a lifetime to see how she worked.
“Please,” she said.
That, along with the tiniest quaver in her voice, gave me pause. “Are you sure everything’s okay?” I asked.
“I want you to come home for a visit.”
I blew out a frustrated whoosh of air and stood. Sliding on my ducky slippers, I began to pace in the limited confines of my bedroom. From the backyard, the murmurs of contented chickens already pecking at their layer ration rode the cool breeze that curled in through the open window.
“Seriously,” I said. “I want a no-fuss, no-muss ceremony. I’ve already had one big wedding. That was enough for a lifetime.”
A small sound on the other end of the line. Then another.
“Anna Belle?” I stopped short.
A sniffle.
Ohmygod. “Are you
crying

Another pause, and then a quick, sharp laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Sniff.
I pushed. “Tell me.”
A pause, then, “You have to come home.”
What on earth? Was this one of her tricks?
“Now,” she said.
“Now?” The word came out as a squeak.
“Yes. As soon as you can.” No sniffling and no hesitancy now, just hard demand in her voice.
I bristled. “Well, I don’t know when that would be. It’s hard to up and leave when you run your own business.”
“I’m sure you can manage.”
I thought of the rows of boxes on the counter in my workroom waiting to be filled with Winding Road orders. “Anna Belle—”
“It’s about your brother.”
Slowly, I sat down on the edge of my bed. Bobby Lee had been dead for eighteen years. I realized with a start he’d been gone half my lifetime. “What are you talking about?”
One evening, my brother had tossed a rope over the main beam in the great room of my parents’ home and hung himself. Anna Belle had found him when she came downstairs for her morning coffee. Half a country away, in Seattle, I’d been sharing a dorm room with my best friend Meghan Bly at the University of Washington.
“He left a note,” Anna Belle said. The words punched through my memories.
“No, he didn’t.” My voice was quiet in my own ears. “We looked everywhere.”
“He did. A letter, actually. And it’s recently come into my possession. It … reveals something we didn’t know before. Perhaps even the key to why he did it.”
Sadness, curiosity and something very like fear rushed over me. “What does it say?”
“I’ll show it to you when you get here.”
“Anna Belle!”
“Come home for a few days, Sophie Mae. We need you.”
“But—”
“Please.”
Please? Again? I peered out the window at the high gray pre-dawn—nope, no pigs winging their way above the rooftops yet. But they should be showing up any time now.
“It’s been over a year,” she said.
I closed my eyes. Dirty pool, Anna Belle. But she was right; it had been too long. On top of that, I knew very well that my mother wouldn’t tell me what was in Bobby Lee’s note over the phone. She had a bargaining chip, and she wasn’t above using it.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped off the cliff. “I’ll see when I can get away, check some flights, and get back to you.”
“I’ll tell your father. He’ll be thrilled.”
We Watsons had once been a normal—and very close—family. My childhood had been flavored with lively conversations over the dinner table about politics, religion, and current events. My mother was an opinionated intellectual who insisted Bobby Lee and I call her by her first name. My father, Calvin Watson, had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of fascinating stories from his days as an investigative journalist. Over and over they told my brother and me we could be or do anything we wanted.
Then Bobby Lee died, and everything changed.
“And honey?” my mother continued. “You might see if your new fiancé can come. Might be nice if we actually met him before the wedding, don’t you think?”
“He’s looking forward to meeting you both. I just don’t know if he’ll be able to change his schedule on such short notice.” I said.
“I understand. As long as you can. So we’ll see you soon?”
“Soon,” I confirmed.
Her voice softened. “And I want you to know that I love you.”
Flummoxed, I muttered, “Love you, too,” and we said goodbye.
She hadn’t said that to me for … I didn’t know how long. Whatever she’d discovered about my brother, it had affected her deeply.

Other books

Checkmate by Diana Nixon
Bluebolt One by Philip McCutchan
Rome's Executioner by Robert Fabbri
A Pox Upon Us by Ron Foster
Unknown by Unknown
Need You Now by S. L. Carpenter
Blackman's Coffin by Mark de Castrique
Just a Memory by Lois Carroll
The Magic Kingdom by Stanley Elkin
Jefferson by Max Byrd