Something Borrowed, Something Blue and Murder Read online

  Mom grumbled faintly but was already distracted, diving into the shopping bags while Dad breathed a theatrical—if silent—sigh of relief before grinning evilly at me and escaping the kitchen. I joined him in a hurry, Petunia left behind to wait for scraps, the swinging door sighing for me so I didn’t have to as I returned to the foyer with only a hint of annoyance clinging.

  Okay, more than a hint. And I know Dad saw it because he engulfed me in his strong arms, the scent of his shirt as familiar as my childhood (Mom hadn’t changed her detergent or fabric softener ever).

  “One more day, kid,” he said. “She’s been making herself crazy for this because she loves you. Give her one more day.”

  I grumbled something unflattering into his buttons before sighing for real. “I know,” I said, pushing him away a fraction. “But if this is a prequel to kids? Dad, one of us won’t survive and it’s probably going to be me.”

  Dad chuckled and kissed my forehead before stepping away with a little frown. “You two will be fine,” he said. “I’m the one who’s suffering, after all.” He took on an air of horrified angst and made me laugh while I swatted his arm to make him stop.

  “Whatever.” I glanced at the sideboard, the newspaper there making me pause, heart hurting suddenly. I’d missed out on Alicia and Jared’s wedding, though I’d managed to sneak a peek at a few of the pictures thanks to the occasional over the shoulder snooping I wrangled down at Sammy’s Coffee. At least a few of the local residents were up for letting me peruse their phones for snippets of the joyous occasion that I’d spent stumbling over and then investigating the murder of the local equestrian riding coach. Not much of a trade-off, if you asked me, but my life, in a nutshell.

  The fact that I’d missed their wedding was the past. I was (mostly) over it (yeah, right, Fee, keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better). But the disappearance and lack of any kind of contact from Reading Reader Gazette newspaperwoman Pamela Shard, troubled me deeply. I’d spent about two weeks after she vanished into thin air, abandoning the paper to the Pattersons (how expected that Geoffrey Jenkins’s son, Christopher, became the reporter/managing editor/manipulator of truth at the helm of the Gazette three weeks into Pamela’s gone poof) terrified I’d get a call from Dad or Crew or someone else that they’d stumbled on her body. Or, heaven forbid, that I’d find her, dead and tortured, abandoned somewhere hideous, laid low by the Patterson family.

  Hey. Finding bodies was my gig. I had precedent and good reason to think such things. No judging.

  The fact was, though, that this whole happiness thing I was living day-by-day, my wedding now one day out? Just a smokescreen, at this point, for the fact I was fooling myself into thinking my town wasn’t going to erupt into some kind of craziness yet again, just like it always did. Still, as I turned to look up at Dad, his own frown real this time, his gaze following mine from the paper and what had to be similar thoughts told me this particular redheaded coconut hadn’t fallen far from the tall tree in front of her.

  “Fee.” He gently grasped my shoulders in his hands and shook me just slightly, enough to get my attention. “Don’t let them win. Okay? We’ve faced everything they’ve thrown at us and made it out the other side stronger for it.” I knew he meant the Pattersons, though maybe he was also talking about Reading in general. Not like the residents of this town weren’t at least partially complicit to what was going on around them. I couldn’t believe all of them were that intensely stupid. “We got this. I got you.” He hugged me again and I hugged him back, whispering my agreement into his plaid shirt while my heart lurched in my chest and that uncomfortable feeling came back.

  The one that wanted me to marry Crew right now, in this moment, waiting be damned. Just in case something happened that would keep me from him forever.

  ***

  Chapter Three

  Footsteps and voices alerted us to new arrivals, in time for Dad to step away and turn me around, pushing me gently toward the door. I plastered on a smile just as the entry swung open, letting in a little swirl of fresh snow onto the protective mat covering the immediate stretch of hardwood. The two men who entered did so with alternating shows of respect. The younger, leaner and taller of the pair, his thin shoulders hunched under his dark blue pea coat, scuffed his feet on the plastic and rubber combo before sliding them free.

  The other, arrogance shining from his face, pushed past his companion with a beaming smile, hand outstretched to—yup, you guessed it—my dad as he breezed by me and pumped my father’s hand. Tracking snow on my floor and carpet. Earning my growing wrath and annoyance as his bigger-than-life voice boomed in the quiet of the foyer.

  “John, good to see you.” Dominic Twigg finally swung toward me and squeezed my shoulder with one of his big hands, his dark hair swept back from his high forehead, silver temples making him look distinguished, wrinkles crinkling the corners of his hazel eyes. He’d have been labeled attractive by most, despite being in his mid-fifties, though I always found his pompous bearing irritating and detracted from any kind of handsome factor he might have earned himself by being born with looks. “Fiona. So excited for you and our sheriff, my dear.” He didn’t wait for me to comment, striding past and into the dining room. I followed behind, hands clenched at my side as Reading’s choir master and church soloist who thought that made him some kind of celebrity seemed underwhelmed by the arrangements we’d created. “Not ideal, is it?” He picked at his lower lip with his index finger and thumb, frowning enough a deep crease between his eyebrows showed his age. “Rather a small crowd, then?” He shrugged it off, smiling at me though I could tell he wasn’t happy. Whatever. My wedding, my guest list. “We’ll make do. Small audience or big, I’ll sing my heart out for you, dear Fiona.”

  Since he was Mom’s choice and I would have been just as happy with my MP3 player and sound system, I held off commenting while Dad steered the singer out of the dining room and to the kitchen where, past the swinging door, the overly loud echo of Dominic’s deep voice told me he’d seen Mom.

  Lovely. She owed me so big for this.

  The other man who’d slipped into Petunia’s without much of a fuss stood in his wool socks at the entry to the room, hands tucked into the pockets of his corduroys, thin, brown hair long around his ears and swept occasionally off his forehead before he returned his long fingers to those pockets. I smiled at Ian Rudge, nodding and gesturing for him to enter the room and pointed out the small organ Mom procured for his use.

  “Sorry it’s nothing fancy,” I said. “I really appreciate you doing this, Ian.”

  The young man shrugged, though he did flash me a real smile, before sitting down to turn the instrument on. A moment later he gently and almost reverently played a soft tune that made my heart ache and I finally thanked Mom (silently, in my head, and she’d never hear otherwise) for insisting on live music. Dominic might have been a bossy, overbearing ass, but Ian was a true artist and I was lucky to have him.

  “That was beautiful, Ian.” Mom waited to interrupt until he was done, the last notes fading as she gushed and then hurried to join us. She ignored me completely, hugging him hard, almost knocking his glasses off and he muttered something softly before hugging her back.

  “My p-p-pleasure, Mrs. F-F-Fleming. Fee.” He bobbed a nod to both of us as I heard the front door open again, Daisy hurrying past the entry to the dining room en route so I didn’t have to rush. “I think Andrew was c-c-coming to look at it, though. The tuning is a b-b-bit off.”

  “Right here.” Andrew Isaac was obviously our new arrival, hadn’t even shed his jacket, heading at a clip toward us with a big smile for me and one for Mom. She hugged him, too, the short man with the round belly and balding pate returning her embrace perfunctorily before shedding his coat and hunkering down on the floor with a tool box. “I shouldn’t be long. Just a few adjustments.”

  Since Andrew was the one who’d procured the organ for us, the furniture restorer/electrician/general handyman had every right
to tinker with his own property so I left him to it, Ian hovering like the older man was doing surgery on a small, vulnerable child while Dominic stood by, humming scales to himself.

  If he was going to break into vocal exercises I needed to get out of there right now.

  Mom hesitated, though when the door opened yet again and Vivian French, her tall slimness dressed in a snow-white coat trimmed in what looked like real fur stepped inside, Mom abandoned our other guests to greet her. Sure, I’d had my moments with Vivian lately and despite our past was learning to trust her. But seeing my mother gush over her still gave me pangs.

  Jealousy, okay? I admit it. I was jealous. She was my mother, damn it. And while I knew I was being uncharitable, since Vivian’s dad was dead, her brother was dead, her mother had run off to who-knew-where and she was stuck in that big, white mansion with two old ladies, one of whom had advanced dementia, the fact that my mother was kind to her and treated her like a daughter should have gotten a pass from me. Because if anyone needed a little mothering it was Vivian French.

  Still. Get your own amazing mom. Growl.

  “Lucy.” Vivian hugged her with gentle kindness before greeting me with her custom icy stare. “Fee.”

  Oh, seriously, could we drop the act? “Thanks for helping out, Viv,” I said, hugging her myself on impulse. She stiffened when I did before gently patting my back and letting me go. “It means a lot. To Mom.” I swallowed. “And to me.”

  Vivian just nodded as if she was as uncomfortable with this whole thing as I was. Likely. “My pleasure.” She turned to Mom, now all business. “Daisy picked up the samples?”

  That set Mom off into raptures as she grasped Vivian’s arm and tugged her toward the kitchen. I took the Queen of Wheat’s gorgeous coat (hey, I wasn’t above admitting it was freaking stunning and likely another Grace Fiore, her favorite designer and an amazing woman I adored who sent a delightfully wrapped wedding gift I couldn’t wait to open) and hung it next to Daisy’s before following them into the kitchen.

  I stayed out of the way the rest of the next half hour, Mom and Vivian talking cooking Greek while Daisy attempted to translate, Petunia got underfoot and Andrew fiddled with the organ in the next room. Just another day in the life of Fiona Fleming.

  Though, as I watched Mom and Vivian, their voices dropping as they carried on their conversation like no one else in the room mattered, I wondered at how my old frenemy had volunteered to assist. She was different, had since she decided to run for mayor, even more so now that she sat in that particular seat. There were times she seemed almost human to me, now, though I was positive the icy exterior still served her well and actually found I hoped she wasn’t crushed underfoot by the politics and general mishandling of the cutest town in America.

  Not my problem. And yet… she trusted me. So. Stupid conscience.

  Maybe I would have pulled her aside and asked her a few questions. Perhaps I would have even had that chance, if Mom could be distracted. But it wasn’t meant to be. Not when the front door of Petunia’s opened one more time and the unmistakable gravelly deliciousness of my fiancé’s amazing voice reached me, paired with the deep laughter of his former partner and best woman.

  Heart beating far too fast for my own good, it was my turn to abandon everyone and run into the arms of the love of my life.

  ***

  Chapter Four

  He was faster than me, making it to the kitchen door before I could push it open, almost nailing me with it, though we both laughed over the incident.

  Mom didn’t. You’d think he’d just assaulted me with a chain saw. The gasp she let out echoed in the now quiet room, even our giggling about the near miss silenced as my mother shook her index finger at my fiancé.

  “If you give her a black eye or break her nose, Crew Turner,” she snapped.

  He hugged me tight, kissing me before crossing the kitchen and, in an uncharacteristic show of good humor, heaved my mother off her feet and swung her around until she giggled and batted at his broad shoulders, her green eyes now sparkling with laughter instead of irritation.

  “You put me down this instant.” Except, when he complied, she accepted the firm and noisy kiss he placed on her cheek, hugging him again when he was done. “Silly boy,” she whispered. Was she choked up again? Yes, yes she was. And she wasn’t alone, nope, nope.

  “If you’re done manhandling my wife,” Dad said, dry enough I knew he was doing his best to keep said wife from breaking down into weeping, “maybe you and I and your best woman here,” Dad slipped an arm around her shoulders as Special Agent Elizabeth Michaud winked at me like she knew where this was going, “should sample some of that scotch you had delivered for the reception.”

  “Johnathan Albert Campbell Fleming.” Mom had pulled out all four names which meant she wasn’t happy with his suggestion. Not even a little bit.

  But Dad waved her off when Crew joined them, though I wasn’t about to let him go so easily, winding one arm around his waist and leaning into him, the scent of him making me giddy, how his body heat warmed me up in ways that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with chemistry. He looked down at me, his blue eyes telling me he had zero intention of joining Dad and Liz if they went in search of a drink.

  Best fiancé (and soon to be husband) ever.

  When Crew looked up from my eyes, he cleared his throat and, just as when Mom gasped, we all fell into total silence. As if we knew, in that moment, something important was about to happen despite not knowing what.

  And while, in the grand scheme of things, nothing that world shattering or life changing did, the way my darling love squared himself and drew a breath sent everything else away until there was just him, me, the people we loved and the house holding space around us.

  “While I know the official speeches are for later,” he said, that voice of his that made me all shivery and liquid on the inside firing up my need to cry all over again as he went on, “I just want to tell you all how much this means to me.” He touched his chest with his free hand, fingertips pressing to the place where that big, gorgeous heart of his beat in a slow ba-dum I loved to listen to as he slept. Distracted much? “When I came to Reading four years ago, I was widowed, my family gone, a new life ahead of me. But I was alone.” He gestured at Mom. “Lucy was the first person to greet me when I drove into town. You remember, Lu?” She beamed at him, nodded. “I was trying to unlock the door of my house and couldn’t get it to work. Foreshadowing, maybe.” We all laughed. “Reading hasn’t exactly been an easy lock to pick. But that day, standing there on that doorstep, wondering if I’d made a huge mistake, I made a choice. An easy choice, when this beautiful redhead with a big smile and the trick of the lock hustled up my walkway, got me into my new place and even fed me dinner.” His voice had thickened and he left me again to go to Mom, to bend and kiss her cheek, to hug her as she embraced him tight, so tight. “There were so many times, Lucy, those first few months, I wanted to just leave Reading, to let this place win. Small town politics, and I wasn’t John Fleming, not by a long shot.” Dad’s shoulders twitched but Crew was still talking and if he’d wanted to, my father held off interrupting. “But I couldn’t. You know why?” She shook her head, tears trickling down her cheeks, lips trembling in a wavering smile. “Because that first day you made me feel so welcome I just couldn’t walk away.”

  I hadn’t heard that story before and, from the look on Dad’s face, he hadn’t either. Wait, was that my stoic father dabbing at the corner of his eye?

  Mom clasped her hands in front of her, face crumpling in sorrow. “Oh Crew, dear boy, I’m so sorry it’s been hard for you here. We’re so glad you stayed.”

  He turned toward me, smiled at me. “Me too. Thank you for giving me my second and most important reason for choosing Reading as home.”

  Okay, he had to do that, didn’t he? Make me choke a sob and press my hands over my face to keep others in, right there in front of everyone like that? Crew closed the distanc
e between us, my head suddenly tucked under his chin, hands pressing me to him, rocking me gently, softly while he whispered my name in my ear. “Fee, I love you. I stayed for you, from the first time we met. I knew it was you.”

  Damn it, Crew Turner. Stop that right now.

  Crew turned me slightly, still holding me, and went on. “For better or worse, this place is home, now.” He nodded to Vivian who nodded back. “No matter what happens, I guess I’m about to become a Fleming.”

  I laughed at that through my tears, while Dad chuckled and Mom tsked. But, knowing Reading? That was exactly what everyone would think.

  Poor Crew.

  Vivian’s phone rang, breaking the spell in the room. With a creased and apologetic frown, she met my eyes and, with real regret, said, “I’m sorry. I have to take this.”

  I stepped aside as she left, but reached out on the way by, while she pressed the handset to her ear, and touched her arm. She hesitated a long moment, icy eyes locked on mine. When had she abandoned the fake contacts that made her eyes so unrealistically blue for the pale, almost translucent shade I remembered from childhood? And when had she morphed from the bitter, popular girl with her catty remarks and patented nastiness into a cold and collected adult? I tried to remember, but failed at it as she finally left, head down, speaking low into her phone, and realized it was about the same time I figured out I kind of liked her.

  Go figure.

  Made me wonder how much I’d changed in her eyes since we were kids. And if the death of her brother was the reason we lost our friendship, as much as the reason we were coming together again. No, I hadn’t shared with her the fact I was having nightmares about Victor’s drowning. Still, knowing he’d died, that it changed us both, triggered empathy if nothing else.