For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (27 page)

And with that, they all rushed me, and we passed the next few minutes in a massive hug-fest. Liv soon joined us.

“Another reason I’m here,” Paige said, “is that I’ve decided to get married again. Under my real name. And with my parents—my real father—to walk me down the aisle.”

“Congratulations!” I said.

“Even if it means I have to go through life as Paige Turner. I think I’m going to be Paige Logan-Turner. But I still want to get married in the old church. Not a big deal this time. No huge reception. No camera. Just my new family and a few people we met here. So, one more time, could you make me a bouquet? And we’d love to have you and your friends join us at the wedding.”

Paige and her parents followed me to the consulting nook, where we designed a new bouquet. And yes, she still wanted bell-shaped flowers. “Now I realize that my love of bells was almost like a light,” she said, “guiding my way home.”

This was clearly not the shallow, bubble-headed woman she’d tried to portray on camera.

I explained we’d cornered the market on bellflowers and might have difficulty obtaining more.

“What about the blue flowers that were at the reception?” she asked. “I thought those were pretty. What do they mean?”

“Bluebells can mean
constancy
—but also
sorrowful regret
. That’s why I chose other colors of bellflowers originally.”

“But that’s perfect,” she said. “Sorrowful regret will always be a part of my life. I loved the Webers. I’ll always regret what happened here, what Max did. Part of me will always think of him as my father, and I know he cared for me. And all that time the Logans were constantly looking for me. I regret that we were not able to share my childhood.”

She sniffed. “Yes, let’s use the bluebells.”

While Suzy Weber’s wedding day had been hot and sticky and almost unbearable, Paige Logan’s day started out with a bang, as a brief band of thunderstorms ushered in a cold front that brought much relief. By the time I was walking into the church, a light, refreshing breeze was drying the pavement and the sun was playing peekaboo with scattered clouds.

I shuffled into a pew behind Mrs. June as the pianist began to play. I put my hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “You’re here early.”

She swiveled in her seat to face me. “I had some news for the family. Just decided to stay.”

“News?”

“Mixed news, really. They found Suzy Weber’s body—the real Suzy Weber—buried not far from where the Webers lived at the time. The forensic accounting guys also dug up . . .” She shook her head. “Sorry, bad choice of words, but they discovered a money trail. Weber was smart about the money.”

“Money?”

“The ransom money he demanded and collected from the Logans. He sat on it for a long time.”

“I never got why he sent that ransom note, anyway. Why take the risk of being caught claiming the money? From what he told me, he just wanted another Suzy.” I shuddered. Replaceable children.

“Well, Max is talking now. And I might just have seen a transcript of one of the questioning sessions . . .” Mrs. June paused and fanned herself, even though the church was untypically cool for the season. “Apparently he convinced himself that he did it for Suzy, so he could give her all the advantages the Logans would have. Like child support.”

“There’s a demented logic in that.”

“I guess he also used the note as an opportunity to misdirect the investigation. I just caught a glimpse of a copy of the analysis of the original ransom note, and he deliberately threw them a few curveballs. Used a special paper he’d gotten from another state. He’s ambidextrous, and he wrote the note using block letters in mechanical pencil with his left hand. Profilers were looking for a bankrupt engineer from Idaho.”

“Still very risky.”

“I’m not so sure he didn’t want to be caught. Anyway, his plan must have worked, because Weber wasn’t even on their radar. When it appeared he had gotten away with it, he still had all that cash to deal with. He slowly began adding it to his landscaping business—padding the money he received from clients and then inventing fictional accounts. To the whole world it looked like he was just doing really well in the landscaping business. Which in turn brought him more clients. He probably tripled the ransom money in profits.”

“Nothing breeds success like success. Any chance that the Logans will get any of it back?”

“A good chance they’ll get all of it. In time. And with a good lawyer. Meanwhile, the FBI has frozen all of Weber’s assets. He can’t move his accounts. He can’t even use them in his defense.”

“How’s the homicide case coming?”

“Wrapping up nicely, especially since Weber’s spilling his guts to anyone who will listen, much to the chagrin of his public defender. They’ve also matched Weber’s handwriting on the ransom demand with the warning notes.”

“At least Brad’s off the hook.”

“I did learn that it was Weber who sent the text from Gary’s phone, asking Brad to meet him in the bell tower. At that point, Gary was already dead.”

“Brad would make a decent suspect, to Max’s way of thinking. He was there when Gary blew up and threatened to fire Brad. And he must have known Brad used to ring the bells. Do you suppose I’ll need to testify?”

“Oh, honey. It won’t be so bad. Besides, you’ve seen the Logans together. Isn’t it a beautiful thing?”

Nick Maxwell slid in next to me before I could answer. Liv touched my shoulder as she and Eric took up the pew behind me. And soon the ceremony was under way. The tolling of the bell in the belfry marked the beginning of the processional, much shorter and more informal than before.

Pastor Seymour, his trusty water glass by his side, stood at the front with Michael Turner. (I finally got his name right.) They watched as Paige made her first appearance, in a simple, demure, knee-length white dress. She had both her parents by the arm and walked the aisle at a glacial pace, stopping to whisper to each of them along the way. I was impressed with how hard it seemed for them all to let go—giving their daughter in marriage when they so recently found her.

But Michael Turner left his spot at the altar, met them halfway, and embraced the Logans. And while the little church was nearly empty since the hoopla of the show was over, I was sure there was not a dry eye in the place.

I felt movement in the aisle, and Brad, slightly out of breath, slid into the empty space on my left. I suspect he was the one ringing the bells to mark Paige’s entrance.

As the simple, heartfelt wedding commenced, Nick reached over and took my right hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Maybe there was a future there, if I was patient enough to wait for his business to start turning a profit. He worked hard, so that was sure to happen. Perhaps someday he’d be standing in front of the church in a spiffy rented tux, smiling at me while I walked down that aisle in a size-twelve wedding dress—not bought from one of Easton’s overpriced and undersized salons.

I was relishing our closeness—and designing a new bouquet for myself—when Brad took hold of my left hand. His thumb stroked mine in that old, familiar manner, sending my heart rate into overdrive. Was it attraction? Did I still have feelings for Brad?

Or was it a sin to hold hands with two men at the same time?

And in church!

And maybe Grandma Mae’s spirit was still alive in the old pew where she’d spent so many Sundays, because I could have sworn I heard her sweet voice, only this time mildly reproving.

What in tarnation? Have you got leave of your senses?

Yes’m. I think I have.

Turn the page for a preview of Beverly Allen’s next Bridal Bouquet Shop Mystery

Floral Depravity

Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!

“Let me guess, Audrey.” Liv pointed to my hand. “He loves you not?”

I glanced down. I’d only intended to remove the guard petals of the rose I was working on. Instead, I’d accumulated a pile of rose petals and one decimated stem. “Sorry. Distracted, I guess.” I set the remnants aside on my worktable—little in the floral business was ever wasted—then picked up another gorgeous red rose. Good thing our cooler was well stocked.

My cousin Liv came over and pushed a sprig of boxwood into a bare spot in the funeral flowers I was preparing for a feisty local woman. She’d passed away at the ripe old age of one hundred and three, and the red roses were ordered by her seventy-nine-year-old husband. (Did that make her a cougar?) He claimed they were her favorites, and he wanted to give them to her one last time.

Although arranging funeral flowers tended to cast a pall over the shop, I still smiled when I incorporated a few unopened rosebuds. Not only would the arrangement continue to grow lovelier as they opened, but the meaning of the red rosebud,
you are young and beautiful
, was almost delightfully ironic. This arrangement, as it aged, would play out a slideshow of their lives together. As it barely began to bloom, it would represent
timid love
. Then as they opened, a
vibrant
love
. I closed my eyes and swallowed the lump in my throat.

“There’s still time to get out of this, you know,” Liv said. “You don’t have to go through with it.”

“What, this condolence arrangement? I’ve made hundreds like it.” Although I much preferred wedding bouquets. Even though I specialized in wedding flowers at the Rose in Bloom, the shop Liv and I co-owned, we all pitched in where needed, so I’d done my fair share of funeral arrangements.

“You know what I mean.”

“Uh-oh,” Amber Lee said. “If it’s time for
that
discussion, I’m going up front to check the self-service cooler.” Amber Lee, a retired schoolteacher, came to us with little floral experience but loads of enthusiasm after she discovered that retirement didn’t suit her. She was technically my assistant and helped with all the wedding arrangements, but had proved herself capable in almost every area of the shop. She was indispensable. More than that, she was becoming family.

“I just did that an hour ago,” Liv said.

“Then . . . well, I’ll figure out something else to do,” she said.

As Amber Lee hustled out of earshot, I sighed. “We’ve been through this.”

“I know.” Liv set down her tools and stretched her back. “And I don’t want to tell you how to run your life. It’s just that it’s such a big commitment.”

“And what exactly is wrong with big commitments?” My words came out sounding a bit defensive, so I forced a more casual tone into my voice. “You’ve made a few of your own, if I’m not mistaken. A husband, a house of your own”—I pointed at her burgeoning belly—“a baby due in about fifteen minutes.”

She waved off my concern. “I’ve got weeks left, and then some. The doctor suspects the baby will be late. But don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not changing the subject. We’re talking about responsibility. I’m twenty-nine years old. Why is it that you can run full-speed into adulthood, but when I take on one responsibility—”

“It’s not just . . . ” Liv rubbed the top of her stomach and breathed out, a pained expression on her face.

“What is it? A contraction?” My irritation melted away into concern. Liv and I squabbled on only the rarest of occasions, and I found staying angry with my cousin and best friend about as possible as man-powered flight, perpetual motion, or a box of chocolate remaining untouched in the shop all day.

“No, I’m fine. And you’re right.” She put her arm around me. “I don’t know why I’m such a mother hen at times. I’ll try to support you, even when I don’t agree with your decisions.”

“Of all people, Liv, you should understand what that cottage means to me.” Liv and I had spent many happy childhood summers there with our Grandma Mae. It was she who inspired our love for flowers.

“I do. I have fond memories there, too, remember? But we’re not talking about making a scrapbook. Some decisions you have to make with your head, not just your heart. Can’t you treasure Grandma Mae’s memory without buying her old cottage? You heard what the inspectors said.”

“That last one was more positive. The bank approved the loan.”

“He also said the sewer line to the road needs to be replaced.”

“Well, of course I know the place is going to need some work.” All of a sudden, my stomach went a little queasy. “Are sewer lines expensive?” Most of my money would be tied up in the down payment. I’d hoped to be able to do repairs and make improvements little by little.

“Eric said there is no sewer line to the road. The cottage has a septic system in the back. What if the only reason you got the loan was because they somehow inspected the wrong house?”

“What are the odds of that?”

“Better than you think. Eric and I figured out what that scrawl on page three said. Something about the bidet on the second floor leaking.”

The cottage didn’t have a bidet. Come to think of it, it didn’t have a second floor, either. “But maybe it’s providence. Maybe I’m meant to have that house.”

“Kiddo, the good Lord would never saddle you with that place . . . unless you’ve been a lot more wicked than you’ve been letting on. Besides,” Liv said, laying a gentle hand on my forearm, “if you’re all that confident, why do you keep stripping our roses?”

I looked down at the second bare stem in my hand and tossed it onto the worktable.

“Would you like to leave early?” Liv asked. “What time do you sign the papers?”

“Not until five,” I said. “You just don’t want me ruining all the stock.”

Liv snapped her fingers. “You saw right through me.”

I shook my head. “I have a bridal appointment in a few minutes, anyway.”

“Oh, new wedding? Who’s coming in?”

“Who do you think?” I rolled my eyes.

“Again?”

Amber Lee peeked her head in the back door. “Is it safe?”

“All better,” I said.

“Good.” She lugged in a large wrapped box and placed it in front of me. “This came for you a few minutes ago.”

“For me?” I looked at Liv and she shrugged. But a twinkle in her eye and a half smile tickling her lips told me she knew something about it. I pulled off the bow and ripped open the paper. Inside the box was a tool kit and a cordless drill. “I can’t say anyone has ever given me hardware before.”

“Consider them a housewarming gift from all of us at the shop. From what Eric told me about the place, you’re going to need them.”

“I suggested we add a good man to help you with the repairs,” Amber Lee said, “but we couldn’t quite fit him in the box.”

Liv sent her a look, which saved me the trouble. My love life was a bit complicated, since it involved friendly dates with Nick Maxwell, the local baker—who was unwilling to commit. And long phone conversations and regular texts with Brad Simmons, my ex-almost-fiancé—who seemed determined to erase the “ex” part.

“Oh,” Amber Lee said, “Kathleen Randolph and her daughter are here for their bridal consultation, take three.”

“Four,” I said, “but who’s counting?”

I propped a smile on my face as I mounted the steps to the wrought-iron gazebo we used as our consulting nook. Kathleen Randolph, owner of the Ashbury Inn and prominent—but often long-winded—local historian, had called to say she was bringing a few reference books along to this appointment to help finalize the flowers for her daughter Andrea’s wedding. Since the wedding, planned to be held at a local medieval encampment, was now just two weeks away, I hoped they didn’t have anything too exotic in mind. But it looked like they’d brought half their library. About fifty moldering tomes were piled in front of them.

I’d like to think my smile didn’t dim, but I’m not sure I’m that good.

“We brought more reference books,” Kathleen said brightly. “Found some great stuff on the Tudors.”

“Nice,” I said. I refrained from telling her the only things I know about the Tudors had to do with stucco and fake wood beams.

The next two hours were steeped in history, leaving me feeling much like a cold, wet teabag, but I managed to sketch out some flower suggestions amid their rapt discussion of the Middle Ages.

“And you
must
come to the ceremony,” Andrea said.

It wasn’t unusual for brides to invite me to their weddings. Ramble, Virginia, was such a small town that I was likely to know the bride, anyway. And it seemed to reassure them that their flowers would be there, look lovely, and if anything happened at the last minute I could fix it.

Kathleen pulled out a sheet of folded parchment and smoothed it on the table. “I drew you a map to the encampment.”

I looked at the page. It resembled a pirate’s map. All it was missing was the skull and crossbones, a sea monster, and a big X. I take that back. It had an X in a clearing surrounded by woods. “I can’t use my GPS?”

Kathleen and Andrea shared a snicker or two at my expense before Andrea took pity and explained. “The encampment is not accessible by roads. Having a parking lot right next to a Medieval encampment would make it look too much like a . . . a Renaissance fair.” I swore they both shuddered at the words.

Did I dare ask? I dared. “What’s the difference?”

“Renaissance fairs are for the . . . ” Kathleen trailed off, leaving me to wonder if she was going to say “unwashed masses.”

“For people who want to play with swords and speak in dreadfully awful cockney accents,” Andrea finished.

“Worse than Dick van Dyke in
Mary Poppins
.” This time there was no mistaking it. They both shuddered.

I happened to adore Dick van Dyke, so it took great effort to hold my tongue.

“And eat turkey legs!” they both said in unison, with distasteful grimaces on their faces.

I quirked an eyebrow.

“Turkey is a new world bird,” Andrea said. “They wouldn’t have had it in the Middle Ages.”

“The Guardians of Chivalry Encampment is for serious-minded historians who want an authentic experience,” Kathleen said. “We camp a mile from the nearest road. No electricity. No running water. Authentic dress is required. We don’t just play at the Middle Ages. We live like we are in the Middle Ages.”

“We hunt and gather, butcher our own animals, learn the old crafts,” Andrea said.

“We have a sizeable village constructed,” Kathleen said. “When we first started, oh, maybe thirty years ago, it was nothing more than a caravan of tents. We try to put up a new structure every year. But now we’re working on a castle, so it’s going to take longer.”

“I see,” I said.

I’d heard of the encampment, of course, and had seen the visitors traveling through, stopping at the local restaurants on the way in and, much grubbier looking and more foul smelling, on the way out.

“We’ve decided to go with the hand-fasting,” Andrea said. “Although the ceremony was most usually an engagement, many historians say that if the marriage was consummated at that point, the couple were considered legally wed by the church.”

“Hand-fasting?”

“We tie our hands together while we give our consent to marry,” Andrea said. “Of course, to make it legal in Virginia, we’ll have an officiant. We have someone licensed coming as a friar this year.”

“A licensed friar?” I asked.

“No, not really a friar,” she said, “any more than the knights have been dubbed by a queen. But he’s licensed by the state and will be using the persona of a friar. It couldn’t be better.”

“So you can bring the flowers the day of the wedding,” Kathleen said. “And stay for the grand feast. Of course, it will be too dark to go back, so you’ll have to stay the night. And I suppose you might need help carrying everything.”

“I . . . I guess I will. We’ve never made a delivery to the middle of the woods before.”

“And you’ll need to come in costume.” Andrea gnawed at her cuticle. “I don’t suppose you have a medieval dress in the back of your closet.”

“She’ll just have to rent something,” Kathleen said. “I mean, it’s not truly authentic, but it does the job for someone coming for the first time.”

“Most of the regulars own their own medieval wardrobe?” I asked.

“Most of the regulars
make
their own wardrobe,” Kathleen said. “Stitched by hand. Some even spin their own fibers and weave and dye their own cloth.”

“That must take . . .”

“Some old-timers work on their clothing all year long,” Andrea said. “A few even sew extra to sell—a truly authentic garment can go for thousands. We’ve been working on the wedding dress for ages. Made the pattern based on an oil painting. A lovely blue.”

“That’s where we get our ‘something blue’ tradition,” Kathleen said. “And you’ll bring the bachelor’s buttons for the festivities later?”

“They’re going to be a riot,” Andrea said.

I nodded, but I could feel my cheeks turning peony pink. To the Victorians, the flower known as the bachelor’s button often symbolized
celibacy
or the
blessing of being single
. Apparently in medieval time, “blessings” took on a whole new meaning as young women would hide the flowers in their clothing, and the bachelors would be tasked with finding them.

Although her order was simple—just her bouquet, a wreath for her hair, and the extra bachelor’s buttons—I decided this might just prove to be the most memorable wedding yet.

“There’s a nice shop that has some decent stuff,” Kathleen said. “But they sell out early.”

“Of course, you can add the costume charge to our bill,” Andrea said.

“Andrea,” Kathleen said, “I’m sure Audrey wouldn’t mind renting her own. After all, we just invited her to the wedding.”

Andrea shot her a look. “It’s only right, Mother. It’s part of the expense of getting the flowers to the venue.”

She jotted down a name onto a sheet of scrap paper and handed it to me. “Just remember, they sell out fast.”

*   *   *

I arrived at Grandma Mae’s cottage with only my suitcase and a smile. Okay, I also had a sleeping bag, food in a cooler, an old Coleman lantern, and a couple of flashlights, since the power wouldn’t be turned on until the morning. And carpal tunnel from signing all those documents.