Veiled in Death Read online

  Rachel cheered in response, as if heralding a Steelers’ touchdown.

  “But,” Horace warned us, “we’ll need to do a scientific analysis of the fabric back in D.C.”

  “Absolutely.” I nodded my assent.

  “Yes, that sounds right.” Bev agreed and let out a whoosh of air and tension.

  “No way!” Rachel furrowed her perfectly plucked brow. “The veil should stay here for now.”

  Horace nodded to my sister. “Of course, for today. I’m not taking that back to the hotel. The veil should be safe and sound in that ingenious little contraption you’ve got there.” He gestured toward the mantel. “I do, however, need to ask.” He took a deep breath and his kind face settled into a hopeful smile. “I bet you’ll need to sort out some rather big chain-of-possession issues with the lace.”

  He means Hurricane Helene.

  “But,” he continued, “if you ladies get to keep it, I think you should consider donating the artifact to the Smithsonian.” He tactfully ignored Rachel’s rude snort. “Or even just lending it to us,” he amended.

  “But it’s a liquid asset,” Rachel muttered. “You’ve got some big—” Rachel stopped herself from saying any more.

  Say what?!

  My sister continued with an outright sour expression. “Think of how much it’s worth! You can’t give that up.” She turned pleading eyes on Bev and me.

  I didn’t deign to respond, but didn’t suppress my eye roll, either. After nearly dying, my sister had been quite happy to rid our house of a very expensive John Singer Sargent painting. I guess a few years’ time had mellowed her memory.

  Bev was more wistful than anything. “I really am sad. I so wanted to wear the veil on my big day.”

  Horace gave Bev a sympathetic look, but handed her a sheaf of papers in lieu of verbal comfort. “It’s a bit premature, but these documents detail the process should you gracious ladies consider donating, or, ahem, lending the veil to the Smithsonian Institution.”

  “I guess we could have replicas of the veil created.” I brightened at the idea that popped into my head. “Like Kelly Clarkson’s Jane Austen ring when the British government didn’t let her remove the original from the country.”

  “Oh, that’s a lovely idea!” Bev’s eyes sparkled anew behind her subdued spectacles.

  Rachel looked like she wanted to sink into the floor.

  “That is totally doable,” Horace promised with a smile. “We could facilitate the creation of an exact replica.” He winced. “Sans the giant rip down the middle, of course.”

  We bade him a good afternoon and walked him out, after bestowing the veil back into the safe, that is.

  “I can’t believe you’re basically giving it away!” Rachel’s protestations were loud enough to echo through Port Quincy. I was glad Horace had already advanced down the drive in his rental car.

  “Don’t worry, Rach.” I wearily recalled Horace’s warning, and my former training as an attorney. “It might be years until this dust has settled.”

  “Huh?” Rachel perked up at the prospect.

  “Not necessarily in a good way. If this is indeed the original veil, Helene may have just as much of a claim to it, since it was hers, and stolen.” I pinched the bridge of my nose to stave off a headache. “I can’t even remember where my property case law text is. And it feels like a million years since I took the bar and practiced. I need to brush up on possession and the current stance on this.”

  But it looked like I wouldn’t need to wait. A sharp rap on the front door announced another visitor. A person who next took the liberty to try the front door, which we hadn’t yet locked since Horace had just left.

  “Greetings, ladies.” Helene let herself in, a whoosh of hot, fragrant air trailing behind her. She stepped aside to usher in a constable, who looked regretful to be taking orders from her.

  “Stop directing him.” A booming voice barked out behind Helene, and I was relieved to see Truman’s large frame block the light from the outside as he brought up the rear.

  “I just accompanied him to make sure that justice is served,” Helene hissed. “And to see Mallory and Bev here be served their slices of revenge.” Helene gave a sinister little chuckle. “They say it’s a dish best served cold, but I don’t know about you. I think it’s just as lovely to witness in the heat of summer.”

  “Just get on with your charade.” Rachel gave her large, rose gold Michael Kors watch an exaggerated glance. “We only have so many minutes a week to dedicate to your shenanigans, Helene.”

  I stifled a giggle, my sister’s assertions making me feel better in an instant.

  “Well?” Helene gave the young constable a little shove.

  “Ouch! Okay. I have a temporary restraining order issued for Mallory Ann Shepard and Beverly Lynn Mitchell.” The constable somewhat reluctantly handed two sealed documents over.

  I snorted as I ripped open the envelope and skimmed the contents within.

  Utterly predictable.

  This wasn’t the first time Helene had used the law to temporarily get what she wanted. It was one of her dearest tactics. A judge had signed a temporary restraining order prohibiting the removal of the veil from Port Quincy.

  There goes Horace’s wish for a speedy donation to the Smithsonian.

  “What are you waiting for?” Helene turned her imperious gaze on Truman. She wafted a queenly hand in his face. “Tut tut, go get my veil!”

  Truman answered her with a barely restrained smirk. “I got my own copy of the TRO, Helene. Your request for the veil to remain in Port Quincy was granted. However, given the complicated history of the matter, the judge decided the current chain of possession should be maintained. The veil will remain at Thistle Park.”

  Helene could charge to give toddler tantrum lessons. Her reaction to the judge not taking up her gambit in precisely the way she’d decreed sent her into an emotional tailspin. She gave the hallway an actual staccato line of stomps, and clenched her teeth so hard I feared she’d snap off her fillings.

  “Just you wait. I’ll see to it that my veil is returned!” She swiveled her murderous glare from person to person.

  The young constable could take it no longer. His eyes watered, and finally he gave way to a spate of hysterical laughter. “I was warned about the serving process, and how some people have strong and irrational reactions.” His laughter trailed off into a giggle. “But you, lady, take the cake.”

  “Excuse me, but I forgot my fountain pen.” Horace reappeared in the doorway, his eyes going wide as he took in Helene. “Why, hello, Mrs. Pierce. You haven’t aged a day!”

  You’re laying it on pretty thick, buddy.

  It was a totally inopportune time for the archivist to come back. But his placating tones seemed to mollify Helene.

  “Horace Overright. What a pleasant surprise.” Helene held out her hand, and Horace awkwardly gave it a peck. I felt as if I’d tumbled into some alternate universe. Horace straightened up, and as Helene turned her glare to Truman, Horace gave me a sheepish shrug.

  “Truman, I will get the judge to amend this order. There’s no way Mallory’s place is safe enough for the veil to reside.”

  Horace’s eyes nearly bugged out of his skull. “Are you kidding me? Mallory and Rachel have one of the most ingenious safes I’ve ever seen, tucked away right over there in the office, above the fireplace.”

  Oh. My. God.

  It was my turn for my eyes to grow wide and nearly bug out of my head.

  “Good one, you fool. She’s the enemy, don’t you know?” Rachel had had enough, and chastised Horace with a withering glance. It didn’t help that she towered over him.

  The little man clapped a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry, ladies. I don’t know what came over me.”

  Helene’s powder-blue eyes glittered in triumph. My safe was supposedly impenetrable. I trusted the contractor Jesse had hired to provide the actual metal structure and the digital entry system. And many a bride had stored
pricey jewelry there on the eve of her big day, and at receptions to safely sequester money and small gifts. But that didn’t mean someone couldn’t try to compel me, my sister, or Pia to open it. With a threat of danger or even death.

  Gulp.

  A cold bath of unease trickled down my back as I considered the ramifications beyond just holding the veil for safekeeping in my safe. I thought of how Keith was adamant that the veil wasn’t the famed one in question, yet Truman had revealed the veil as a possible motive in the death of Keith’s father, Richard. And now the gorgeous yet tattered lace was residing in my safe for the foreseeable future. A decision canonized by a judge’s pen stroke. A location now revealed to Bev, Horace, Jesse, Helene, Truman, and Pia. There were far too many cooks in this pressure-cooker kitchen.

  “I’m sorry you have to deal with this.” Truman offered his condolences as Horace apologized again and let himself out, his fountain pen found.

  “It’s okay.” I shivered as I watched Helene peel out of my drive, pinging up gravel, her Cadillac engulfed in a cloud of dust. I felt as if a lurid red bull’s-eye had just been painted on my back.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I took a few hours to cool my jets after the tense showdown with Helene. I knew Pia and Tabitha must be hurting from the loss of their grandmother, Claudia. Both women had murmured appreciative words when I’d made brief calls of condolence on Sunday, and both thanked me for the flowers Rachel and I sent to them and their mother, June. We’d given Pia the week off to help make the necessary arrangements for Claudia’s funeral and burial, and to grieve.

  Imagine my surprise when I got a text from Tabitha to meet for lunch. I offered to pick up a mini feast for us to eat in her office, but Tabitha insisted on getting out and clearing her head. I selected a Port Quincy institution, Pellegrino’s. While many of the movers and shakers dined there daily, it also afforded customers high-backed, recessed booths and little tables tucked into corners for a bit of privacy.

  Tabitha beat me there, and I slid into the rich leather booth across from her. The business’s air-conditioning was blasting full force. I tucked my denim jacket more closely over my sunflower-patterned dress and firmly adjusted my yellow scarf against the manufactured arctic air. I gave my friend’s hand a silent squeeze over the table. Her pretty if sharp features faltered on the way to an expression I couldn’t quite call a smile. Her gimlet-green eyes were ringed a rheumy red that nearly matched the dyed Ariel-the-mermaid jewel-tone shade she always selected for her hair.

  I ordered a dinner reminiscent of a gourmet Thanksgiving, with free-range chicken baked with sage, tarragon, and rosemary; andouille sausage stuffing; and green onion and crème fraiche green beans. The chef must have tailored this hearty, hot winter meal to combat the chill created by the summer air-conditioning. My mouth formed a little O when Tabitha ordered only a simple bowl of bison chili with jalapeño cornbread on the side.

  “It’s hard to eat these days.” My friend offered me an apologetic shrug. I could barely hear her voice, though Pellegrino’s was playing a soft suite of cello music. The restaurant had a pleasant ambiance, and we were blessedly tucked into a booth that would afford us some measure of privacy. Yet all around us, people craned their necks and peered around potted plants to send Tabitha sympathetic glances, then bent low, no doubt to gossip about the mysterious circumstances surrounding Claudia’s death. When our food arrived, Tabitha set down her spoon nearly as soon as she attempted to eat. I wanted to encourage her to get some sustenance, but didn’t want to be pushy.

  “I usually love this dish.” Tabitha gave a rueful and mirthless laugh. “Actually, I make this bowl the first part of a three-course meal I have at Pellegrino’s, not the main event. But all food tastes like sawdust in my mouth.” My wounded friend took an obligatory three bites of the rich food. She burst into tears, her usual stoicism long gone. I thrust her cloth napkin into her hand, and Tabitha delicately dabbed at her eyes.

  “I wish I could get my mind off of the reenactment for just a few minutes.” She took a restorative swig of ice water. “Not to dampen Claudia’s memory, but really so I can stop the gruesome mental replay of what went down on that reenactment field.”

  I closed my eyes and willed away the vision myself. “I guess I’ve had some crazy things happening to pull my attention away from the disaster that was Cordials and Cannonballs.”

  Tabitha nodded. “There’ve been rumblings about the Betsy Ross veil.”

  “You know about it?” I gave my friend an incredulous look, then realized the obvious. “Oh, duh. You’re the town historian. And Bev, the biggest gossip in the western hemisphere, is the other owner. Who am I kidding?”

  My outburst earned a small, tentative smile from Tabitha through her residual tears.

  “Yes, I imagine you’ll have your hands quite full with the fallout from that.”

  I didn’t like Tabitha’s choice of words to describe veil-gate. Yet a nuclear fallout was an appropriate analogy for the incident so far.

  “It’s okay. You can ask me anything you want to. I’m glad I picked this booth. I can see people watching me, but it would be hard for anyone to really eavesdrop.”

  I shivered at Tabitha’s insistence on secrecy. But her booth choice was a good move. I was used to protecting my gossip in this small town. Especially since this veil seemed to be worth killing for, at least for some.

  “What do you want to know about the veil?” Tabitha held out her hands in an expansive motion. She slipped back into her role of director of the historical society and seemed to revel in the familiarity. And I was happy to oblige if it eased her mourning for the duration of our lunch.

  “Well, for starters, how did Helene get it? And was it really made by the Betsy Ross?”

  Tabitha nodded, a faraway look in her pretty green eyes.

  “You and Pia reminded me so much of Rachel and me.” I blurted out a non sequitur and interrupted her thoughts. “You two look so alike, yet so different.”

  Tabitha gave a weak laugh. “We’re half sisters, Mallory. A lot of people don’t know that.”

  While I digested that probably unremarkable fact, Tabitha was just getting warmed up. “Let’s see.” She cocked her head and seemed to be consulting some kind of mental Rolodex. “It’s pretty darn irrefutable that the veil in question, if it indeed is the same one, was made by Betsy.”

  I filled Tabitha in on Horace’s visit, and she nodded along. “Well, then, Mallory, Rachel is right. You have a nearly priceless artifact on your hands.”

  And blood on them, too.

  Focusing on the veil may have directed Tabitha’s attention from the carnage at Cordials and Cannonballs, but sitting across from Claudia’s granddaughter made it all too real again. I ran scenarios over in my head again, thinking of how I could have prevented the shootings.

  “Earth to Mallory.”

  “Sorry, Tabitha. So how do you know the veil is the real deal? Anyone could have made it.”

  “Ah, but there’s a bona fide paper trail.” Tabitha’s pronouncement brought out her first real smile of the day. She even set down the spoon she’d been trailing around in the chili bowl and rubbed her hands in anticipation. “A receipt!” She nearly crowed.

  “A receipt? I dumbly repeated her phrase, picturing the important slip of paper that had helped to prove to Truman that Bev and I had purchased the veil from the Antique Emporium.

  “A receipt written out by Betsy herself!” Tabitha eagerly dug her phone out of her purse and typed and slid her fingers over the screen. She held up a link to the historical society’s website, a closeup of a frayed and yellowed slip of paper with spidery, slanting brown ink scrawled across. “It’s hard to see, but this is a receipt made by Betsy. Betsy Claypoole, as she was known at the time. For the cost of the veil, for one Anne Gray. The receipt was kept with the Gray family, who passed the veil down through their family line. When the patriarch had no one to pass the veil on to, he sold it at Sotheby’s. In 1950, to Keith’s grandfa
ther.”

  I let out a low whistle and squinted at the screen anew. “And I suppose the Gray family had the veil before the legend of Betsy Ross was revived.”

  Tabitha nodded, and in her new spate of enthusiasm for the subject, she even managed a bite. “I guess you know a bit about Betsy. How her descendants, a century even after her death, popularized the idea that she had sewn the very first flag. That is a tidbit historians have never been able to definitively prove, but this veil was crafted with Betsy’s very own hands.”

  “I know just a bit about her in passing.” I recalled Horace’s warning not to handle the veil too much with my bare hands. I admit I’d felt a frisson of connection when I lovingly if nervously wrapped up the veil and placed it back in the safe. It was a unique touchstone back to the days of the Revolutionary War, and I could scarcely believe the veil was still in my possession.

  “Betsy is a beloved figure for a reason,” Tabitha continued. “She went to work as a seamstress when she was just a young teenager.”

  “I can’t imagine. Summer works so hard in school, but I wouldn’t want her to be working for wages at her age.”

  Tabitha nodded. “Betsy grew up quickly, but then most of the women of the time did, too. She eloped with John Ross, who was not a Quaker. She had to leave her church over it, and she lost him so early in their marriage. She married twice more. The receipt is labeled with the surname from her third marriage. She was widowed each time. She led a really interesting life.”

  “I can see why Helene is desperate to get the veil back.” A rock sank into the pit of my stomach.

  Darn it.

  I would have to return the veil. In light of Tabitha’s revelations, it truly did belong to Helene. I really couldn’t keep the veil. A slow bit of wistfulness coursed through me. It had once belonged to her husband’s family, and now it rightfully should be reunited with her. The woman’s actions were often reprehensible. But, she didn’t ask for her husband to be murdered or the precious family heirloom to be stolen from the back seat of his car. And though I had fallen out of love with the now-odious Keith Pierce ages ago, my heart still went out to what must have been a very scared adolescent who had to deal with the sudden death of his father at an age younger than Summer is now. I would return the veil ASAP.