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  VEILED IN DEATH

  Tabitha picked at her newly arrived razzleberry pie. The server had placed the pies on the table with a warmed dollop of French vanilla ice cream running in rivulets through the red-and-blue baked fruit.

  “Mallory.” Her voice grew even more serious. “I love history. I love material culture. But I saw a man die over it. That veil is trouble. I want you to get it out of your possession.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” The veil was seeming more like a curse at this point than a boon. I thought of the psychological damage keeping such a secret had wrought on my friend. I recalled how the Pierces’ machinations and power had ruined good people’s lives. I didn’t want to get messed up in that. I gave my friend’s hand another squeeze.

  Tabitha took in a restorative, if shaky breath, and tried to drink some coffee, but only succeeded in spilling several sloshes on the table. “What I can’t figure out now was how the veil, missing these twenty-five years, got in our shop.”

  “Your store is the perfect hiding spot,” I mused. “Or someone could be trying to frame you guys. But it looked like that hatbox had been in the basement of the Antique Emporium for a long time.” I stared into space, feeling good enough to eat most of my pie. “What I can’t get is whether what happened at Cordials and Cannonballs had something to do with this.”

  “Just promise you won’t go all Nancy Drew and try to solve this, Mallory.” She held out her pinky and made me swear not to intervene. I joined in her laughter. No way would I touch this . . .

  Books by Stephanie Blackmoore

  ENGAGED IN DEATH

  MURDER WEARS WHITE

  MURDER BORROWED, MURDER BLUE

  GOWN WITH THE WIND

  MARRY CHRISTMAS MURDER

  VEILED IN DEATH

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Veiled in Death

  Stephanie Blackmoore

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  VEILED IN DEATH

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  EPILOGUE

  RECIPES

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Stephanie Hayes

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1755-9

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1756-6 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1756-2 (ebook)

  For my mom and dad

  CHAPTER ONE

  “So, are you going to get hitched or not?” My dear friend Bev Mitchell raised one artfully plucked blond brow above her purple cat’s-eye glasses. The rhinestones adorning the frames twinkled as merrily as the mirth in her eyes. Her basset hound, Elvis, opened one droopy eye to regard his mistress. His floppy ears barely moved as he swiveled his gaze from Bev to me. Then he placed one smooth paw over his eyes and returned to his nap. Apparently, he wasn’t interested in having this conversation.

  That makes two of us, buddy.

  “Of course!” I tried to tamp down the frisson of annoyance I heard escape my lips. I took a measured breath. Although we were dear friends, today Bev was also technically a client. I wanted to focus on the business at hand and help her plan her upcoming wedding. Meddling in my love life was not on my to-do list for today. I pasted a serene smile on my face and answered Bev in a more modulated tone. “We’re just deciding some last-minute things. Like whether to get married at work or not.”

  It was true. Most brides wouldn’t give a fleeting thought about getting hitched at the place where they earned their living. It simply wouldn’t make sense. But as a wedding planner, my biggest hesitation was whether or not to get married at my home and also my place of business, the mansion where I regularly held weekend weddings.

  “Oh, hogwash. I know a professional procrastinator when I see one.” Bev gave my arm a warm squeeze and returned to the task at hand, foraging for antique pieces to gussy up her own wedding. Bev and her lucky beau were due to wed in less than three weeks. Bev bestowed me with a gentle smile and amended her statement. “But you’ve only been hesitant when it comes to planning your very own wedding. You’ve been pitch-perfect planning my big day! I can’t wait!” Bev forgot her haranguing and held up her find, a daisy-themed brooch made of citrines and pearls. Her eyes grew wide with excitement as she held the bauble up to the light. She nodded and placed the brooch into an already overflowing rattan basket of wares with a contented smile. Bev was no doubt imagining her own nuptials and how the brooch tied in seamlessly with her theme. I breathed an inward sigh of relief.

  I’m off the hook. For now.

  Bev and I had spent the last hour pouring over the wares in the Antique Emporium. Bev showed no signs of slowing down, and I gave myself an imaginary pat on the back. We’d begun this planning session even earlier in the day, starting out with mugs of coffee in the garden behind my mansion B and B. We’d spent a contemplative and productive hour on the swath of land anchored with its very own hulking mansion, a place with its very own name, Thistle Park. Bev was set on having an outdoor wedding, and we’d strolled around the garden in the early morning sunlight, the June sunrise evaporating the fine dusting of dew glinting off each petal and blade of grass. Bev had nearly dropped her mug of steaming French roast when she alighted on a backdrop of lush and cheery daisies.

  “That’s it! The perfect spot. This is where I want the trellis placed, and where I want to exchange my vows with Jesse.”

  Her decree several hours ago had sealed the deal and finally given me a definitive theme for her ceremony and reception. Bev’s wedding to Jesse would be lush and sophisticatedly simple, drawing largely on elements from both the garden and the Fourth of July. I would design the wedding around the aforementioned daisies in the fields, as well as star-patterned tablecloths, and my sister would make Bev and Jesse a cake featuring red accents and sparklers.

  “Is this too cheesy?” Bev furrowed her blond brows behind the frames of her bedazzled spectacles. She struggled as she held aloft a rather large oil painting of a field of daisies.

  “Ooh, not at all. We could put this on an easel in the front hall, right next to the guest book. Bring a little of the magic and wonder of the outdoors inside.” I smiled as Bev placed a small green sticker on the back of the painting’s frame, claiming it
for her own. I took a step back and nearly grew dizzy taking in all of the Antique Emporium’s wares. We were in a small room, one of many that made up the rabbit warren of spaces that occupied the deceptively small-looking store. It featured a narrow storefront but spanned the length of two city blocks as its depth made up for the lack of width. The store teetered on the edge of being categorized as carefully cluttered, and barely resisted sliding into chaos. The labyrinthine layout of a marching succession of small rooms kept the whole visit from becoming overwhelming. The proprietress of the store, June Battles, knew her way around the knickknack chaos. She could famously find an item in thirty seconds flat, seemingly having catalogued her wares by memory.

  I cradled a small set of ceramic leaves arranged in a crystal vase. The leaves made a pleasant plink against the cut crystal.

  “Looking for inspiration for your own big day, hmm?” Bev couldn’t tamp down her grin. Her cessation in nagging me about setting a wedding date of my own had been annoyingly short.

  I set the pretty display down and stifled a rueful smile. “Maybe I am.”

  It was time to stop being annoyed at the well-meaning friends and family in my life who could never stop haranguing me about picking a wedding date. I glanced at the pretty champagne antique diamond ring on my finger, a vintage estate piece my fiancé, Garrett, had procured from this very store.

  “At least we’ve narrowed our wedding down to one season,” I added wryly. I abandoned the promise I made mere minutes ago not to take Bev’s bait, as I couldn’t resist defending myself against the gossip about my refusal to seal the deal on my fiancé’s proposal.

  “Let me guess.” Bev cocked her head, her highly teased platinum beehive teetering as if she’d designed her hair to replicate the Leaning Tower of Pisa. But the beehive stayed put. Her gravity-defying do always remained artfully atop her head, with nary a spritz of hair spray, and today was no exception. A slow smile graced Bev’s face. “Fall!”

  I rewarded Bev with a smile of my own. “You know my tastes well.”

  My beau and I had indeed decided on an autumn ceremony and reception. The light in Port Quincy, Pennsylvania, would be mellow and cozy. The lovely tree-lined streets would be adorned with leaves in a riot of color. The orange, topaz, rich red maple, and vibrant yellow leaves would set the tone. I could picture a banquet chock-full of sweet and savory foods, seamlessly melding comfort and sophistication.

  But it’s so far away.

  I brushed away that nagging thought and told myself at least it was still happening, albeit months later than I’d prefer. After some crazy events had befallen me, my family, and my business, I was secretly itching to get hitched. When I joked about eloping to Vegas, my fiancé, Garrett, was all for it. But my secret rush to wed was not what everyone else saw. They saw a bride who was continually stalling and delaying and waiting for the perfect time to wed. But I was no Goldilocks bride. I just simply didn’t have the time and space in my schedule to throw my own wedding. Not just yet. Which was good, because my mother, Carole, was pushing to occupy the starring role planning my wedding, and I didn’t want the impending drama.

  My phone vibrated with an angry buzz, like a taunted yellow jacket. Bev raised one brow as I let out a sigh. “It’s my mother.”

  It was as if thinking of her had conjured her from the cell-phone-wave ether. I squinted to read the text in the somewhat muted light.

  Sorry I can’t make it, sweetie.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. My mom was well-meaning, and an expert steamroller to boot. She would have no misgivings about riding roughshod over my very own plans for my very own wedding if she disagreed stylistically. And she’d been dying to be here to help me start looking for inspiration for my wedding. But Mom’s decorating and staging business was booming. She had her own business meetings scheduled today. She had initially expressed guilt over missing a chance to go antiquing. Until she’d heard the purpose of today’s visit was to help Bev plan her wedding.

  Many moons ago, after my father had left, Mom briefly dated Bev’s fiancé, Jesse. Although Mom and Jesse’s relationship was long in the past, Mom and Bev still performed a tetchy little dance each time their paths crossed in the small town of Port Quincy. While the two women weren’t outwardly hostile, unfortunately and understandably, I predicted they’d never truly feel comfortable in each other’s company.

  My phone buzzed again with another text.

  I did come across this today. I couldn’t help myself!

  Attached to my mother’s text was a grainy photo of a cream layette set for an infant.

  “Oh, c’mon, Mom!” I dropped my phone into the depths of my bag, refusing to engage and take the bait. Bev gave me an amused and quizzical look.

  “You might tease me too much about how long it’s taking me to tie the knot, but at least you’re not nagging me about grandchildren. My mom really needs to slow her roll.”

  A knowing look lit up Bev’s face, and I regretted my little outburst immediately. Bev was a dear friend but also the biggest gossip this side of the Monongahela River.

  “Not that I’m even thinking about that yet,” I backtracked hastily. “I need to focus on your wedding, and mine!” I heard the panicked cheeriness in my voice and hastily wheeled around to hide the blush I felt warming my neck. The truth was, I’d been thinking a lot about my mom’s constant nagging to give her a grandchild.

  My fiancé had been maddeningly unspecific about whether we should have a child. Up until my mother’s constant hints and nudges, I’d been ambivalent, too. I’d always thought of it as a someday thing. The door wasn’t closed and there was certainly no deadline. But lately my mother’s needling was getting to me. She’d set my biological clock a-ticking and a-tocking. And I’d realized with a start that I hadn’t had a real discussion about the matter with Garrett. Just bringing up the matter would be a big deal. It would no doubt cause seismic shocks to the little family we were about to create with the two of us and his fourteen-year-old daughter, Summer.

  “Holy tamale.” I stopped pacing from Bev and stood still. Before me was a dress that was nothing short of a vision. I took it as a sign that I could push my weightier concerns away for the moment and concentrate on the present.

  Bev joined me and let out a low whistle. Elvis briefly raised his head from his paw, then went back to sleep. “That dress is lovely, Mallory.”

  I couldn’t tear my eyes from the pretty lace sundress silhouetted in the window. It was a deep mellow color reminiscent of French vanilla ice cream. The fit would be barely off the shoulder, with a simple yet slightly daring deep V-neck top. The bodice was fitted with subtle pleats, and the barely flared bell skirt with its whimsical lace overlay nearly floated in the soft ceiling-fan breeze. The dress was a kind of a country-chic version of Jackie Kennedy’s gown, if such a thing were possible. It was probably meant to be tea length, but if I tried it on, I bet it would skim my ankles. It would look equally stunning with low-heeled sandals, wedges, or flats. I’d come to favor wearing chic flats during big events as I bustled around making sure everything was going well. It had been difficult to return to sky-high heels the few times I’d tried. Comfort reigned in my job, but the flats I chose weren’t boring. I always advised my own brides to tuck away a comfy but pretty pair of sandals or ballet shoes for their reception. I could picture wearing stunning, but still comfortable shoes with this dress for the whole day in order to accent and accommodate the ankle-skimming and train-less length.

  I couldn’t suppress a grin. This dress was some kind of lightning-bolt muse.

  I was just getting started with ideas percolating rapid fire in my brain as I reached out to touch the creamy lace. I’d been excited to marry Garrett, of course, but hadn’t been too enthused about planning the wedding. I was suffering from a strong case of wedding burnout, an occupational hazard of being a wedding planner. But this dress was the spark. A catalyst to get me out of my funk and inspire my mind with hundreds of ideas.

  This is
it.

  And I had accompanying me today the best person to consult about the dress. Bev was the owner of Port Quincy’s only bridal shop, Silver Bells, and an excellent seamstress as well.

  “Can you work your magic on this dress?” I turned eagerly to Bev and rushed on in my excitement. “What would be most appropriate? A backyard wedding? Or perhaps something small in the greenhouse?” I took in Bev’s amusement and prattled on. “This is definitely a summer wedding dress. Dare I move things up?” I felt a slow, sly smile steal over my face. A moved-up summer wedding would quell the rumors of my supposed cold feet. And I’d owe it all to the unlikely inspiration from this sweet and sophisticated gem of a dress.

  Port Quincy’s resident wedding-dress expert tsked and stared down her button nose at the pretty lace on the dress form in the window. Two frown lines marred the smooth expanse of her forehead beneath the beehive.

  Uh-oh.

  I didn’t like where Bev’s initial silent opinion was going.

  “But I thought you had your heart set on fall.” Bev’s reminder sent me spiraling back to earth from the heady orbit the dress had sent me to.

  “I guess so.” I felt the magic glow of the dress fade and rallied to preserve it. “But this dress could still work, right?” I turned beseechingly to my friend. “I could tweak the accessories to make it work for fall.”

  Bev’s blue eyes took on a kind cast behind her outrageous glasses. “I think this dress is lovely, too, Mallory. But it’s a little informal, don’t you think? This dress is much more suited for rehearsal dinner fare. It’s far from an actual gown.”