Engaged in Death (A Wedding Planner Mystery) (11 page)

“The locks will be changed within the hour. Keep that as a memento to remember the last time you ever set foot in your grandma’s house. My house now.”

* * *

True to my word, I called Will Prentiss, Sylvia’s handyman. He arrived within the hour. His name seemed familiar to me, and I wondered if I’d read it within the many Lonestar complaints and filings that now comprised my bedtime reading most nights.

He parked his truck in front of the house. He was an affable-looking middle-aged man, with sandy hair and kind brown eyes and a sunburned face. He wore work boots and walked with a barely perceptible limp, his right foot hitching up a little higher with each step than his left. Though it was hot, he wore long cargo pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt that reached to his wrists. There was a shiny patch of skin visible on the right side of his neck above his collarbone.

“Good to finally meet you.” His red face cracked open with a smile. He seemed shy and couldn’t quite meet my eyes, but he was genial and upbeat. He turned around and surveyed the mangy yard.

“Been a while since someone cut the grass.”

I hid my embarrassment. “I’ve been kind of busy. We’ll get around to it eventually.”

He laughed. “That’s what I’m here for. I did that kind of thing for Sylvia, both when she lived here and when she went to the home. Hard to keep up with a big house like this, but I kept things from getting too outta hand. So, you’re having trouble with your locks?”

“I’m having trouble keeping certain people out.”

“Helene Pierce? Or Keith?”

I burst out laughing. “How did you guess? Just Keith, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find Helene trespassing too.”

He nodded. “She couldn’t wait for Miss Sylvia to pass on to get her hands on this place.”

“Why is that?” Suspicion curdled the smile right off my face.

“All the antiques, I suppose. And Helene probably would’ve leased the land for drilling, or sold it off, because she never passed up an opportunity to make money. Though I don’t recommend fracking on your property.” Will ran his hand uneasily through his hair.

“That’s definitely not going to happen now. In addition to changing the outside locks, I could also use your help with the attic. It’s locked and none of my keys work.” I wanted to change the subject and stop talking about the Pierces. My blood pressure was rising just from recalling Keith’s unannounced visit.

Will frowned. “There should be a key in the door to the third floor. It’s been a while, but the last time I was here, it was there.”

Rachel came home from her manicure and made us all some lemonade while Will oiled and changed the many locks on the doors and windows of Thistle Park.

“And now we’ll check out the third floor.” He took a long pull from his lemonade. Mint leaves swirled among the ice cubes, fresh and fragrant from the wild garden out back.

The three of us trooped up the steep servants’ stairs to the third floor. Rachel and I paused, panting, a few steps below Will as he worked in the small landing. He’d climbed the stairs twice as fast, despite his limp.

“I swear the key was in the door this winter.” He picked the lock.

“Maybe the paintings are hidden up here,” I whispered to Rachel.

“Paintings?” Will snorted. “That old legend? You’re more likely to find a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow than any paintings hidden here.”

Apparently my whispers hadn’t been quiet enough. “What do you know about them?”

“Miss Sylvia used to talk about growing up during the Depression and how her parents sold off all the good art. She married her father’s attorney to keep from losing this place after her parents died.” Will was referencing Sylvia’s second marriage. “If there’d been some valuable paintings here, she would have found them. She needed the money.”

Within minutes, the lock “popped” and Will pushed the creaky door open.

“Hm.” He stepped into the attic.

“Hm what?” Rachel eagerly moved past him and into the space. It was big, more a proper third floor than an attic. The front part seemed to be divided up just as the floor below, with large rooms leading off a narrow hallway. The back section was parceled into smaller rooms, some barely bigger than a closet. The ceilings were less ornate than downstairs, with no molding or gilded murals, unless you counted the water stains from the leaky roof. But the space wasn’t what had elicited Will’s response.

“It was locked from the outside, but someone’s been here recently.”

I followed Will’s eyes down the hall. A trail of footprints marred the heavy dust, so thick it looked as if they’d been made in snow. I shivered. Perhaps our trespasser was still here.

“Don’t walk in them,” I cautioned Rachel, who was advancing toward the back hallway. “I’m calling the police for real this time.”

“Trouble seems to find you, Miss Shepard.” Chief Truman shook his head at the footprints in the dust, as if I had somehow conjured them expressly to annoy him.

“This town seems to be full of trouble.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “I lived in Pittsburgh and was never threatened nor woken up to a corpse outside my window. Not until I came to good old Port Quincy. I thought small towns were supposed to be safe.”

The chief’s nostrils flared.

“Lemonade?” Rachel appeared at his side with a sweaty glass.

“Don’t mind if I do.” He settled kinder eyes on my sister.

“Do you think this has anything to do with Shane Hartley’s murder?” Faith Hendricks was walking the length of the hallway, snapping pictures before we disturbed the dust.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted wearily, “but probably not. Everyone knew this place was abandoned. Anyone could have been up here.”

“Someone has the key to the third floor,” Will piped up. “I come in here a few times a year for maintenance, and it’s always been in the lock. I didn’t even bother going in.”

“And whoever has the key used it very recently.” Faith returned with her camera. “Come take a look. I’m done with my pictures. Just don’t touch anything else.”

Chief Truman, Rachel, Will, and I gingerly stepped around the footprint trail to reach the far bedroom at the end of the hall. It was cramped, with a severely sloping ceiling to accommodate the lines of the mansard roof above. The sheets on the single iron bed looked mussed and recently used. There was a bottle of cheap chardonnay on the floor, half drunk, and the remnants of crackers and cheese on a china plate I recognized from a set in the butler’s pantry. There were a few scented candles set on saucers, burned to the wick. And some mouse droppings.

“Ew.” Rachel wrinkled her nose.

“You know what this is,” I seethed. “Someone’s love nest.”

“Probably teenagers.” The chief shook his head dismissively.

“No way. Brie and chardonnay? Teenagers would leave behind Doritos and Milwaukee’s Best.”

Rachel nodded, seemingly impressed with my assessment.

“This couple is older.”

And I know just who it is
. I rubbed my eyes, trying to flush out the mental image of Keith and Becca Cunningham scampering around this very bedroom.

“Meow.” Soda the kitten had found her way up the stairs and cried plaintively at my feet. I picked her up and snuggled her soft orange fur.

“You think you know who it is?” Chief Truman cocked his head, examining my expression.

“Keith Pierce and Becca Cunningham.” I scratched Soda underneath her chin. “I caught Keith creeping around here this afternoon. Looking for something. Of course, he had a key to his grandma’s house. I stupidly didn’t think about that until he showed me. That’s why I asked Will to change the locks.”

Truman sighed. “I hate to break it to you, but you inherited this place a week ago, and before then Keith Pierce wasn’t trespassing. I’m sure Sylvia gave him a key. Do you have any reason to think he’s been here since last week, after this place was deeded over to you?”

“No.” I shook my head in defeat. “But I bet he was meeting his girlfriend here before he found out Sylvia left me the place.”

Faith and my sister politely turned their eyes away from mine as I reluctantly mentioned Keith’s cheating, but Truman just stared at me.

Keith and Becca could have met in any hotel in Pittsburgh. There was no reason for them to come all the way out to Thistle Park. And a week ago, the rumor that some valuable paintings might be stowed in the house hadn’t been revived. I wanted to kick myself for discussing it with Tabitha out in the open at Pellegrino’s. I frowned, wondering just how discreet Tabitha and Zach were.

“I’ve been here while Mallory was at work. I would’ve known if someone had come into the house,” Rachel added.

“Just the same, I’ll follow up with Mr. Pierce. I’ll make it clear he’d better not trespass again,” Truman promised.

Faith carefully wrapped the wine, the plate, and the food remnants in a brown paper evidence bag.

“Thanks, Chief Truman.” I sank into a spare wooden chair. What I wouldn’t give to be there when he set Keith straight. “How’s Shane Hartley’s murder investigation going?”

The chief grunted. “You’re no longer officially a suspect, so that’s good.”

“Tell that to my employer,” I muttered.

“I did, numerous times.”

“What?” I sat up sharply, digging my spine into the hard wood. The firm was aware I had been here the night Shane died, but I didn’t actually think they’d questioned the Port Quincy police in any great detail.

“Russell Carey is very thorough.” Truman gave me a pitying look. “I assured them you’re no longer a suspect. Congratulations, I believe you. I don’t think you, or you”—he glanced at Rachel—“murdered Shane Hartley.”

“Who are the suspects?” I was still trying to calm down after hearing my law firm had contacted the Port Quincy police to suss out whether I had murdered one of their clients.

“We can’t share any details about our investigation.” Faith sounded bleak.

Wouldn’t, or
couldn’t
share, because they had nothing? I recalled the dozens of lawsuits filed against Lonestar Energy and all of the angry former workers and families who’d allowed drilling on their property, only to see it turn out badly. Anyone could have killed Shane Hartley, but I was no longer a suspect.

I decided to take what I could get and call it a day.

* * *

Rachel and I slept well that night, secure in the house, all of the locks employed to keep would-be murderers and trespassers at bay. Extra sleep didn’t help me focus at work, though. I’d been an exemplary associate right up until the day I found out about Keith and Becca. Turning in excellent work, pleasing partners and clients alike, all while hitting my billable hours requirements, with a (sometimes admittedly fake) smile on my face. Now I was officially slipping, my attention drawn back to Port Quincy and Thistle Park, lost paintings, murdered gas executives, and an ever-elusive bride to take over my reception.

Interest in my Craigslist ad had died down, and I was considering Olivia’s suggestion to pitch my reception to the newspaper as a features story, but something held me back. It was one thing that half of the town knew me as Keith Pierce’s cuckolded, would-be-wife, but seeing the tale in print was another story. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the luxury of hiding from the media. As I left work, my cell rang, the number unfamiliar.

“Mallory Shepard?”

“Yes?”

“This is Denise Gregory, features editor at the
Eagle Standard.
Are you the author of the Craigslist post offering up a wedding?”

I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk outside of my building and caromed into a man hurrying by.

“Sorry,” I muttered, collecting myself, my nerves bathed in ice. “Yes, I did write that ad.”

“Wonderful. I wanted to know if you’d found anyone to take your offer and get a comment from you about your wedding and this act of charity. It must have been quite an ordeal standing up to the Pierces.” The editor said this last bit in a breathy tone, gossipy and fake-chummy.

“Um, no comment.” I clicked my phone off, feeling guilty about having hung up on her, but I couldn’t talk about the cancelled wedding as a retort to Keith and Helene, even if it would net me a bride to take over the reception.

* * *

After work, I stopped at Thistle Park, gathered up Whiskey and Soda in their new carriers, and trooped off to the Port Quincy veterinarian. Summer and her grandma had taken Jeeves for a checkup yesterday, and Summer had called to report his clean bill of health. It was a gentle hint that I should take in my two cats. Luckily, the vet had a cancellation and could fit me in.

I sat in a squeaky vinyl waiting room chair, the carriers on either side of me. The office was empty, all but me and the front desk attendant. A dog barked in one of the examination rooms. I closed my eyes as I petted the cats through the tops of their carriers, planning the rest of the evening so I could catch up on work. The front door tinkled behind me.

“How fortuitous to run into you.” The voice sent chills up my spine. A second later, the sharp fizz of Calèche reached my nostrils, poisoning the air and warning me too late. Baxter the Yorkie seemed to recognize me. He strained at his leash, front paws flailing in the air. Whiskey wasn’t too happy about the dog encroaching on her space and hissed.

“Helene.” I stood and tried to sound as cold and commanding as she did. It didn’t work and came out as a meek croak.

“I wasn’t sure how to reach you, since you won’t deign to speak to me or my son.” Helene’s mouth was set in a harsh line of disapproval, a look she’d seldom strayed from in the years I’d known her.

I stared at her incredulously. “Keith was trespassing. I don’t need to be civil when I find someone has broken into
my
house.” Bull’s-eye.

Helene blinked and seemed to shake for a moment in her nude pumps. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” Her hiss was barely above a whisper. She took a step closer, squaring her skinny shoulders beneath her shoulder pads.

Baxter whined and twisted, trying to lick my hand. Next to Sylvia, Baxter was the only other family member of Keith’s I’d ever liked, and it killed me I couldn’t bend down to scratch behind his little white ears.

“It was going to be a surprise, but I may as well tell you.” Helene’s voice dropped softer still. “I’m suing you. And I’m going to win.”

A mixture of fear and rage bubbled up. “So, freaking sue me, already!” I brought the young man manning the check-in desk to his feet. “Bring it on!”

My bravado didn’t match my actual feelings. I couldn’t afford a lawsuit on top of squirreling away money to renovate Sylvia’s house and keeping up with my law school loans. My heart began to beat at a faster clip. Could Helene hear it or see it knocking against my rib cage through my thin blouse?

“Everything in that house, including those paintings, had better be exactly the way you found them.” Helene delivered this threat in a near screech. She jabbed one French-manicured finger in the air, punctuating each word.

It was my turn to whisper, my suspicions about Keith’s visit confirmed. “How did you know about the paintings?”

“Port Quincy is a small town. One you could never hope to understand.” Helene shook her head pityingly, and I took a step back, moving in front of my cats.

“It’s you who doesn’t understand much. You never appreciated Sylvia, and you tried to bully her out of the only home she’d ever known.”

The receptionist was really getting into our tiff, and I was giving him more fodder. Baxter whimpered, and I tried to tone it down for his sake.

“Try to remember Thistle Park was never yours,” I said quietly. “It isn’t even your family. You married into it.”

Helene offered me a wide smile, so big her bridgework appeared. “Marry into the family?” She tilted her head, considering my choice of words. “You, my dear, didn’t even manage that.”

She picked up Baxter, turned on her heel, and minced out, the door bouncing shut behind her.

I threw it open and shouted after her, “I dumped Keith, not the other way around!” It was too late. I was treated to her smile in the rearview mirror of her Cadillac as she drove off, leaving me coughing in a cloud of exhaust.

* * *

I was unsettled from my run-in with Helene. After the kitties received clean bills of health, I returned home to hunker down at the kitchen table. I plugged away at my laptop, making little mistakes as I caught up on work until the wee hours of the morning. I soldiered on at work the next day, stopping to eat lunch with Olivia in my office.

“You need to take a break.” Olivia tucked a strand of her long black hair behind her ear. “Promise you’ll take off the time you set aside for”—here, she paused—“your honeymoon.”

“I can’t take time off.” I paced in front of my office window, overlooking the aptly named Point, where the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers joined to form the Ohio. A pigeon fluttered outside my window, trying to alight on the ledge, but the sharp, rusty spikes erected at the base kept it from landing.
Why do you want in here so badly when all I want to do is get out
?

“Alan’s already mad I took time off for my broken engagement, Sylvia’s funeral, and the murder investigation on my damn front lawn. No more time off. It doesn’t matter I’m on track to bill over two thousand hours this year. Besides, I can’t risk this job. Especially if Helene’s not bluffing. I’ll need to pay for an attorney. Unless you want to represent me?”

Olivia shook her head. “In a pinch, but I don’t do estate work, and neither do you. Or I’d suggest you represent yourself.”

“A woman who is her own lawyer has a fool for a client.” I sat heavily in my chair.

“Well, there’s one good thing about all of this.” Olivia tucked into her burger and fries. “I starved myself to fit into that stupid sea-foam bridesmaid’s dress, no offense. Now I can celebrate and eat whatever I want, and you can celebrate the fact you didn’t marry that cheating bastard.”

“I’ll toast to that.” I clinked my paper coffee cup with hers. I only managed to eat half of the limp salad before Olivia left. I was still on my lunch hour, so I could investigate some non-work issues. I unlocked my computer and searched for the firm’s Lonestar documents again and filtered them for the name of Sylvia’s handyman, Will Prentiss.

William B. Prentiss had sued Lonestar Energy this past winter for negligence related to an accident on his farm. I cringed, reading the complaint, which spelled out in detail how an explosion had injured Will. He had been examining his well, which had stopped producing water. A pocket of methane had ignited and exploded, burning Will’s right side. He had been airlifted to a hospital in Pittsburgh, where he’d spent a month recuperating. For a while, it hadn’t seemed like he’d make it. I read Will’s horrific deposition, trying to stay detached as I heard his friendly voice in my head. I recalled the shiny patch of skin on the right side of his neck, his limp, and his long sleeves and pants in the summer heat.