Veiled in Death Read online

  My appetite sated, I was ready for whatever news he had for me. “Did Betsy Ross make the veil, or not?”

  Truman sputtered and set down his glass of tea. Beads of condensation rushed down the glass and stained the napkin beneath. “News does travel fast in this town.”

  I chuckled and filled him in on what was probably a big-time mess-up by Keith. Truman nodded, affirming the story and filling my head with wonder. I possibly held an extremely significant piece of Americana in my little safe just a hallway away.

  Truman bolted upright and peered into the darkness in the garden. “What in the heck was that?”

  As if taking a command, the back spotlights were triggered and lit up a patch of wildflowers that served as a delicacy for the local deer population. A pretty doe blinked impassively at us and continued to munch on a blue flower.

  “Let’s go inside.”

  I was alarmed by Truman’s gruff order. I snuffed out each citronella candle and followed him in, startled more by his actions than by the movements from the deer, which I’d grown accustomed to in the summer evenings.

  “What was that all about?” I waited until Truman had unloaded the tray to grill him.

  “Someone could be listening.” Truman’s eyes darted to the now dark backyard, visible through the back-door window. I’d never seen him so spooked. It was deeply unsettling.

  “It’s not like we’re harboring state secrets, Truman.” I smirked and waited for him to assert that he wasn’t. He answered me with silence, his mouth set in a grim line. “We’re not, are we?”

  Truman winced and gestured for me to sit down.

  “Oh, no. If you’re going to be so cagey, I’m putting you to work.” I motioned to my two kitties dozing in the window seat. “It’s cat beauty-parlor day.” I tapped the calendar to punctuate my point. “And since Rachel is out with Miles, and frankly, you’re freaking me out, you’re going to help.”

  “Excuse me?” Truman finally broke from his deep-state demeanor.

  “Time is tight and tonight we’re trimming the cats’ nails.”

  Truman seemed almost relieved to have a task to do that didn’t involve returning to the topic of the veil.

  “Allow me.” Truman solemnly scooped up my usually sweet, but now predictably ornery calico, and gently held her against his uniform. She squirmed a bit and then was still. I saw a nice pattern of orange, white, and black cat hair on his uniform. I moved in and deftly snipped Whiskey’s claws with my kitty nail scissors. Truman set the small cat on the ground, and she began to purr, twining around both my and Truman’s ankles.

  “She does this every time. Acts like it’s the end of the world getting her kitty manicure, then when it’s done, she gives you a little thank-you.”

  Truman motioned to my other cat, Whiskey’s daughter, Soda, as if to finish our pet grooming task before getting down to brass tacks. Soda, usually the little spitfire just out of kitten-hood, always calmly acquiesced. She had been adopted so young that she always knew this ritual was just part of the routine. But her mother, Whiskey, had spent some time on her own. Whiskey viewed clipping her nails as the greatest affront known to cat-hood.

  The task done, Truman laughed as I gave him a lint roller. I moved to make us post-dinner cups of coffee.

  “Sorry about the cat hair. Now what were you saying about the veil?” It was time to return to business now that we were both more relaxed and not on high alert.

  Truman didn’t mince words. “The veil you purchased yesterday? There’s a distinct possibility it is a famed piece created by Betsy Ross.”

  His admission hung in the air. I finished my coffee ministrations with shaky hands and carefully handed Truman a cup.

  “Is the veil in a safe place?” Truman’s eyes bored into me as his coffee sat ignored.

  “Mm-hm. Currently locked up in the safe in my office. Not many people even know I have a safe in there.”

  A flicker of doubt briefly marred Truman’s poker face. “How many people know of the safe’s exact location?”

  I bit my lip and pondered his question. “Lots of brides and families know I have a safe. But I don’t literally show it to them. Only Rachel and I know the precise piece of molding on the fireplace you need to press to get it to open.”

  Phew.

  “Oh! And Pia knows, too. We showed her yesterday during her first day of work. She’ll need to know about it. But she doesn’t know the actual code.”

  I wasn’t rewarded with the look of relief I sought. Truman’s frown deepened. “I wish you’d just kept it between you and Rachel.”

  Truman’s disapproval made me uneasy. “It’s okay. Pia’s trustworthy. Plus, she really does need to know about the safe as our newest assistant.”

  I was rewarded with another impassive blink from Truman. He said nothing, waiting for me to prattle on. I squirmed in the silence and tried to ease the tension with a sip of coffee. Truman could make you feel like you were under the glare of his censure without a single word. I didn’t appreciate his lack of agreement that Pia was trustworthy. And I realized with a horrible start that I didn’t know much about her. She’d passed a background check as part of the hiring process, and she’d done nothing to give me pause. But my trust in Pia was based merely on pure gut feeling.

  “No one from the Smithsonian has gotten back to me,” I carefully offered. “If the veil right here at Thistle Park could really have been made by Betsy Ross, wouldn’t they be all up in my business by now?”

  After the first interested callback, the Smithsonian had left me alone.

  Truman raised a bushy brow. “Well, my dear, they haven’t gotten back to you.” He let his statement hang in the air.

  “Ah, but they have filled you in.”

  Truman gave a mirthless laugh. “I spent much of yesterday afternoon discussing the incident on Main involving you and Bev and Helene, with the Smithsonian.”

  Truman seemed to squint at me over his coffee cup. He must have made up his mind to include me, because he opened up the floodgates.

  “I may as well tell you the whole sordid tale.” His hazel eyes twinkled. “Since we both know you’ll drag it out of me anyway. Once upon a time, Helene did own a veil crafted by Betsy Ross. Or rather, Betsy Claypoole.”

  I let out a low whistle and nodded. I’d looked up Betsy Ross after the claim about our veil. She’d married three times and had been widowed just as many times. She’d become Betsy Claypoole upon her third marriage. “That must have cost a pretty penny.”

  And it wouldn’t have mattered to Helene. She’d come from a family with a sizeable fortune, and had married the heir to the glass factory that had kept the town of Port Quincy employed for three quarters of a century. The glass factory had closed in the 1960s, plunging Port Quincy into decay like so many other former manufacturing towns. But the Pierces had made out alright, maintaining their own wealth through their investments, art collections, real estate holdings, and the sale of the business. The town of Port Quincy hadn’t been so lucky; that is, until the last five years. I was happy to be part of the mini renaissance sweeping through the town as people rediscovered its charm. Downtown was filled once again with useful and whimsical shops and service purveyors. But it was still hard to believe that a veil crafted by Betsy Ross once resided in Port Quincy, even if Helene had predictably been its owner. Her rant on Main Street made more sense.

  “I suppose a veil like that would matter to Helene, since we all know she’s obsessed with her claim of being a descendant of the town founder.” I felt my mouth twist into a frown. Helene loved claiming she was the descendant of a Revolutionary War participant. She was active in the Port Quincy Daughters of the American Revolution, and had spearheaded the coup to try to keep women off tomorrow’s battle reenactment.

  Truman shrugged. “It doesn’t make her any more American than anyone else, though, which is why her love of this period of history isn’t as innocent as it could be.”

  I nodded, sharing his sentiment.
A loose fact from the matter at hand was rattling around in my brain. “Wait. You said she did have a veil made by Betsy Ross. But she lost it?”

  Truman nodded. “The veil Helene lost was indeed made by the famous creator of the first American flag. It was authenticated and everything, with a genuine receipt made by Betsy Ross, when she was known as Betsy Claypoole. It was last seen in the back seat of Richard Pierce’s car, over two decades ago.” Truman paused. He was well aware of my former engagement to Keith, Helene and Richard’s son. “You know of course that Richard was killed during a hit-and-run accident. By the time the police and emergency responders arrived at the scene, the veil was missing.”

  I sat in stunned silence, my coffee cup held aloft in front of me. I finally set it down and found my voice.

  “Keith never told me,” I sputtered to explain. “He did tell me his dad was injured in a car accident, and didn’t make it. But he made it sound like an accident, pure and simple. Not what sounds like something that may have been intentional, and motivated by a priceless veil.”

  My mind floated back three years prior, to when I was engaged to Keith. Though my ex-fiancé had omitted this intrigue by just mentioning how his father had passed away in a car accident, I had been privy to the emotional damage the event had inflicted on a young Keith. The death of his father at age thirteen had thrown his and Helene’s life into sudden upheaval. It would have been painful enough for him to have to revisit losing his father in a car accident, without divulging the additional sinister details of the tragedy being a hit-and-run. I didn’t blame him for the omission. It was technically his business to keep it to himself. Still, despite being long over Keith Pierce, I was a smidge upset to know that he hadn’t told me the whole story.

  “You didn’t know.” Truman’s gaze was kind. “I suppose it’s hard for Keith to talk about how we initially thought it was a run-of-the-mill accident, then realized it was probably a planned hit.”

  “But why?”

  Truman shrugged. “Richard Pierce wasn’t well liked. He ruled this town, just like Helene does now. Just not as overtly. That woman stomps and blusters to get her way. Richard was subtler, his influence hidden. He was a skilled attorney, and he was both feared and revered. That meant there were lots of disgruntled parties to investigate, many with motives to kill him, and some of whom would have recognized and realized the value of the veil on his back seat.” Truman paused in thought. “The only person who could stand up to him was his mother, Sylvia. He had a lot of enemies, Mallory. And after he procured the veil for Helene from Sotheby’s, there were a bunch of splashy stories about it. The Pierces should have lent the veil to a museum, or obtained better security for it. It certainly shouldn’t have been taken out of the safe and thrown in the back of Richard’s Cadillac. We could never prove why he’d taken it out for a spin. Helene was no help in that matter.”

  “And the veil Bev and I bought? Could that be the same piece stolen from the back seat of Richard’s car?”

  Truman winced and swallowed a gulp of coffee. His expression looked like it was as pleasant as a glug of battery acid. He gave a regretful and barely perceptible nod.

  I had my answer. An immediate cascade of chills ran down my spine. “What if Richard Pierce’s hit was planned specifically to get the veil?” I heard my voice go up in a squeak.

  “Maybe we should get it out of here, Mallory. The Smithsonian wants to examine it, and Sotheby’s has offered their services as well. Until then, I could keep it at the station.”

  It was a tempting offer. But for some reason I wasn’t willing to give up the swatch of lace. “I don’t think too many people know it’s here,” I offered in a small voice.

  Truman snorted. “Just half of Main Street.” He amended his judgment. “Although it was a big deal twenty-five years ago, I’m not sure many could put two and two together. Fair enough. Keep the veil. But no one else is to know about the location of the safe, and do not share the passcode. And start locking your back door, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Yoo-hoo!” As if to prove his point, in through the back door streamed Carole and Doug. “I’ve got building permit applications!” My mom shook a stack of forms under my nose. Doug looked both sheepish and excited.

  Our talk of death and veils had come to an abrupt end. It was time to talk about happier things.

  “I can’t believe I forgot to thank you for the lovely gesture of donating land to build a new house for me and Garrett and Summer.” I formally thanked Truman for the offer Lorraine had made and was rewarded with a hearty hug. I wanted to keep my interactions with Truman more like this, rather than returning to the past events of murder and mayhem in Port Quincy.

  “Of course, Lorraine and I want to give you and Garrett the land.”

  “And you have one less worry.” My mom beamed.

  “I spoke to Jesse this evening, and he’s on board to quickly design you a new structure that honors the architecture of Thistle Park, on a much smaller scale, of course, and that will be a cozy home for you and Garrett and Summer.” My mother wisely left off a quip about the new abode being a place for the passel of grandchildren she was demanding.

  Still, I was a bit miffed at her steamrolling. “That’s very sweet of you, Mom, to get the ball rolling. I wanted to talk to Jesse and Bev myself though, and make it clear that this project can wait so they can focus on their wedding in three weeks.”

  “Fiddle fuddle.” My mother waved her hand in my face. “I’m not sure what Bev Mitchell has to do with Jesse taking on the project to construct your new home.”

  I shared an apprehensive glance with my stepfather. I knew my mother was long over Jesse, but didn’t like how she seemed to be weaponizing her connections to the man in order to get to Bev.

  “Now, let’s toast to your house!” My mom retrieved a chilled bottle of Moscato from the fridge, left over from the tasting, and busied herself pouring four glasses.

  “To Mallory and Garrett and Summer’s new house!” My mom raised her glass, and Truman, Doug, and I dutifully clinked with hers.

  I murmured my goodnight and slipped off to my office to wrap up the last bit of details for Cordials and Cannonballs. I needed a minute to make sure Rachel and Pia had tied up the loose ends, and to digest the bombshell Truman had laid at my feet.

  I needn’t have worried. My sister and Pia had taken care of everything with aplomb. Cordials and Cannonballs would be a roaring success. Yet a smidge of doubt crept in as I thought of the veil, currently residing in its metallic tomb. My eyes darted toward the safe nestled behind the oil portrait. I had a tiny bit of Moscato left in the goblet in my hand. I turned my back firmly on the safe and veil nestled within and raised a silent toast to myself, to the future.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next day dawned in a hazy glow, a thick fog coating the town of Port Quincy. I stared incredulously out my third-floor aerie window at a gray sky, thick as cotton batting, that reduced the newly risen sun to a hazy orb.

  “This weather stinks.” Rachel appeared at my side and squinched up her pretty face in disapproval.

  “At least it isn’t raining.” I turned my back to the window and determined we’d have a wonderful inaugural Cordials and Cannonballs, despite the soupy mess outside.

  Despite the surprise fog, I shrugged on the duds I’d selected the night before. I’d selected a summery yet professional khaki sundress with palm trees scattered all over the fabric, a rattan belt, and leather sandals. I’d planned on topping the whole thing off with a wide-brimmed sun hat, but the unusually cloudy sky and thick fog nixed any need for headgear. I decided a heavy coating of sunscreen would suffice.

  Rachel in contrast had donned a daringly short, pink floral denim romper, her long legs showcased in wedge espadrilles with a healthy two inches of rattan wedge. I seldom saw my sister in anything but heels, and she could walk in all types of stilt-like shoes with aplomb. But the romper gave me pause.

  “Are you sure you want to wear that?” I squinted
at her outfit. “We only have porta-potties at the event. Fancy porta-potties, but you’ll still have to contend with doing business in a romper.”

  Rachel laughed and flicked away my concerns, her sparkly metallic acrylics catching light from the kitchen light fixture. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a romper pro.”

  We quickly assembled industrial-size carry cups of strong French roast, and fueled up on hearty breakfast fare. I filled bowls with fresh kibble and gave our two cats goodbye pats on their furry little heads.

  Rachel held up her sequin-covered iPhone. The weather app showed a staggering number. “Ninety-nine percent humidity?!” Rachel swiped her screen closed. “Doesn’t that just, like, automatically turn into rain?”

  I shrugged, more preoccupied with the event checklist affixed to a clipboard. “Nothing we can do about it now. It’s been ridiculously humid all week. I’ve nearly forgotten what normal weather feels like, anyway. I just hope this fog doesn’t keep people home, and that cars are able to see well enough to arrive without any accidents.” I recalled learning that Helene’s husband wasn’t felled by a mere car accident, but instead a calculated hit, and shrugged off a shiver. I only wanted to focus on positive thoughts as I ushered in the first Cordials and Cannonballs and tried to keep Truman’s revelation out of my mind.

  Rachel and I packed light messenger bags with our clipboards, coffee, and walkie-talkies for the day. My sister pushed away a tear as she regarded me locking the big double doors.

  “What’s up?”

  Rachel sent me a sweet smile. “I’ll miss this.” She waved her hands around. “Getting ready and discussing the day’s event, then setting off together.”