The Bride Wore Crimson Page 2

  I studied her. “Have you started up with him again?”

  “Not officially. Maybe not at all. I mean, when I was unavailable, he couldn’t stop telling me that we belonged together, but since my engagement ended, well, it’s like he’s avoiding me.”

  I hated the hurt in her voice, but lately that emotion seemed to keep popping up. Life had been anything but kind. I offered her an understanding smile. “Troy said he was going to give you space and time… remember? You’re dealing with the loss of your mom and the whole mess with Peter. Troy doesn’t want to pressure you.”

  She arched a skeptic brow. “But it was okay to pressure me when I was hours away from exchanging vows with someone else?”

  She had a point, but still, I rolled my eyes, knowing I’d just been presented with a peek into my best friend’s mind, a glimpse at what I call the Chaotic Express. Meg wanted it both ways, but mostly she wanted it her way. If only she could decide what that was. “Do you want a relationship with him or not?”

  “What if he only wanted me because he thought someone else wanted me?”

  “I don’t think that was the case.”

  “Then why didn’t he come to see me? I told him I was helping you in the shop today.”

  “Meg, Troy was wearing his uniform.” I turned back to the window. “He’s working.”

  “Working?” It seemed to take a second for that to register. Her eyes widened. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”

  Sure, now she’s curious.

  The next second she was beside me, trying to see through the slit in the butcher paper. “Has he come out yet?”

  “Nope.” I stepped aside, sharing my sliver of street view.

  “There’s a lot of people gathering out there.” She glanced up at me, eyes ripe with speculation. “Do you think Bernice was robbed?”

  “Maybe…”

  “I’m going to find out.” She turned and began picking her way out of the window display with me right behind her.

  As soon as I unlocked and opened the door, Meg rushed out ahead of me. The crowd had grown and spilled into the street, their colliding voices sounding like a discordant choir practicing hymns off-key. I couldn’t make out what anyone was saying. Meg headed into the thick of things. I hung back, a bad feeling freezing my feet to the spot. My gaze zeroed in on Something Old, Something New, which inhabited a Victorian three-story house that had been built by one of the founding fathers of Weddingville, Bernice’s great-great-great-uncle.

  A siren bleated like a sheep with hiccups, clearing a path for a second police car to make its way to the shop. My heart began to pound. Hard. One cop car was interesting but not usually anything to get too excited about. Two cop cars screamed “real crime.” The last time anything this official occurred, there’d been a murder.

  Troy emerged from the building, waving people back. A cap covered his blue-black hair but not his piercing blue eyes, which were scanning the onlookers. He glanced past Meg and me. His cold gaze sent a shiver down my spine, and I retreated several feet. Oh, crap. I hadn’t shut or locked the bridal shop door. As I spun around to do that, I was nearly run over by Whitey.

  His face was as pale as his hair. He was panting. His eyes were wild as though something or someone were after him. “I need to get inside, Daryl Anne. Now.”

  “There he is!” Bernice’s voice ripped through the air, silencing the crowd. I spun toward Something Old, Something New. She was tugging on Troy’s sleeve, her gray hair as frenzied as a disturbed beehive, her arm outstretched. The crowd gasped and parted like a split seam. Shock shot through me. Bernice was pointing at Whitey. “That’s him! He’s the one who stole President Roosevelt’s cake server set!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I stepped back. Whitey looked more frantic than ever. Then Bernice shouted her accusation again, pushed past Troy, and came running through the parted crowd like an ostrich in a ravine. Troy charged after her. The crowd cheered encouragement. Whitey blanched, bumped by me, and shoved into the bridal shop. Troy gained on a panting Bernice, overtaking her by six feet. He arrived just as the door was shut in my face.

  He cursed under his breath, then glanced at me and apologized for swearing. “Do you have the key, Daryl Anne?”

  I did, but I hadn’t heard the lock click. I reached for the handle. The door opened, and Troy rushed in. I could see Whitey in there, too. Along with my mother. Bernice grabbed my arm. “Outta my way, Daryl Anne.”

  The crowd surged toward us. Holy cow. We were going to be trampled.

  “No!” Fear gave me the strength to free myself from the irate owner of Something Old, Something New. I shoved her toward the charging mob, ducked into the bridal shop, and twisted the lock.

  I slumped into the door, my breath lodged in my throat. Loud voices, Bernice’s the only distinguishable one, railed against the glass at my back. My knees wobbled as if I were holding a tornado at bay. My gaze locked on the scene in the salon.

  Coming into the bridal shop is like entering a church. A feeling of reverence or high joy fills you. For this is where the true commitment to marriage is made—not at the time of the proposal, not the putting on of the engagement ring but by taking the most important step any bride-to-be can. Selecting her gown. She knows only then that there is no turning back. She will mean every word of the vows that she speaks on that special day, will dedicate her heart and her life to the love she feels for her chosen mate.

  But what was going on in here now washed away the magic from this place of pristine gowns and exalted hope, leaving in its wake a sinister tension. The commotion had brought my mother from the storeroom. She’d halted halfway into the salon, apparently stunned, like me, into silence.

  Troy had Whitey spread-eagled against a wall like a common thug, patting him down.

  I felt a breath on my neck and nearly jumped out of my skin when I realized Hannah was beside me. “There’s just something about a man in uniform…,” she whispered, her gaze locked on Troy.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Officer O’Malley?” Mom demanded, using the voice she saved for particularly difficult customers. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Please stay where you are, Ms. Blessing,” Troy said, holding his palm toward her like a human stop sign. “I’m just doing my duty.”

  “What duty?” Mom demanded, ignoring the warning to stay put as she started toward the two men. From the fierce glint in her eyes, I wasn’t sure what exactly she intended to do, but I feared it might land her in handcuffs.

  I jumped in, hoping to divert her. “Bernice’s store was robbed, Mom. She claims Whitey stole the Roosevelt wedding server set.”

  “What?” Whitey said, jerking to look over his shoulder. “I did not.”

  “Then why’d you run?” Troy demanded, stepping back and tugging the other man around.

  Whitey squirmed, wiggling his legs as if adjusting himself as discreetly as possible. His neck had a reddish hue, a sign that he was either embarrassed at being felt up by another man or annoyed. Maybe both. He kept his gaze steadied on Troy. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  I remembered the wild look of desperation on his face when he’d insisted I let him into the bridal shop. He probably had a perfectly innocent reason for that. One he’d explain right now. Right?

  “It seemed like you were running from me,” Troy said.

  Whitey looked as if he’d like to tell the cop to have his eyes checked. He shook his head. “Wasn’t.”

  Keep out of it, Daryl Anne. Mom will be ticked if you say anything that will put her boyfriend into hotter water than he’s already in. Why couldn’t I ever listen to the good advice that little voice in my head offered? I blurted out, “You seemed like you wanted to get away from something.”

  “Daryl Anne,” Mom gasped, scowling at me. She was wringing her hands. “That’s nonsense. Whitey was just coming back to keep our lunch date. Weren’t you, Whitey? Tell them.”

  “Tattletale,” Hannah whispered near my
shoulder. I wanted to bat her away like an annoying fly.

  Whitey sighed. He lifted his head and glanced at Mom with regret. “Daryl Anne’s right, Susan. I was trying to get away from someone. Three someones, actually. Your mother-in-law’s Bunco club.”

  “What?” Mom frowned. “Why?”

  Troy shuffled his feet, his boots clunking on the hardwood beneath his heels. Whitey returned his focus to the cop. Troy moved back, putting more space between himself and his suspect. He withdrew a pencil and a small, ringed tablet from his shirt pocket. “Why don’t you just explain that, Mr. Grobowski?”

  Whitey tucked in a loose shirttail and adjusted the baseball cap on his snowy hair. “I had an appointment this morning with Wanda Perroni, the owner of the Wedding Cakery.”

  “That’s right, Troy,” Mom said. “I asked him to bring back some of Wanda’s cannoli.”

  “I forgot that, Susan. I’m sorry,” Whitey said.

  A pang of regret swept through me. Wanda baked the freshest cakes and sweetest pastries this side of heaven, and despite the seriousness of the moment, my mouth began to water at the thought of some cannoli.

  “Are you in need of a wedding cake, Mr. Brokowski?” Troy asked, frowning.

  “No.” Whitey answered too quickly, wincing as if Troy had pinched him. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “No. Mrs. Perroni expressed an interest in obtaining one of my security systems.”

  “And…,” Troy said when Whitey didn’t continue.

  “And when I arrived, she wasn’t alone,” Whitey said, as if reliving the memory were a physical pain. I swear if his shirt had been buttoned at the neck, he would’ve tugged at it. “She’d invited two friends—Velda Weeks and Jeanette Corn—to sit in on the meeting.”

  I groaned internally. Wanda, Velda, and Jeanette. I’d suffered a few run-ins with that senior, tongue-wagging trio.

  Whitey cleared his throat. “They claimed to also be interested in my security systems. I figured it was about to be a very profitable morning.”

  “But it wasn’t?” Troy asked, his voice as neutral as Switzerland.

  Whitey twisted his mouth. “Let’s just say it didn’t go exactly as planned.”

  Troy jotted something in his tablet. I wasn’t sure what he was writing, but as far as I could tell, Whitey hadn’t said anything that Troy might soon forget.

  Mom said, “So, what happened?”

  Whitey shook his head as if still not believing what had gone down. “I presented my sales pitch along with brochures that detail exactly which options or equipment comes with my four different packages. You can look in my briefcase. Oh, hell, I left my briefcase at the bakery.”

  “The brochures list all of his prices,” Mom informed Troy.

  Troy nodded. “Yeah, I figured. But what does any of this have to do with the robbery, Mr. Brokowski?”

  “Nothing,” Whitey said, seeming about to blow his top. “I didn’t rob that store.”

  I wanted to believe him as much as my mother did, but he was acting guilty of something.

  “I’d like to believe you, but surely you realize by running you look guilty.” Troy’s calm was unnerving.

  “I had to run,” Whitey said, his voice full of frustration. “Those Bunco women were chasing me.”

  Troy stayed mute, studying Whitey. The silence stretched out until Whitey lost it. “I didn’t rob anyone.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Mom leaped to his defense, as if she’d been at his side all morning and knew for a fact that he was completely innocent.

  I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop wondering why he kept fidgeting. If he was innocent, why didn’t he answer the most important question? “Why were the women chasing you?”

  Whitey glanced in my direction, as though seeing me for the first time. He blinked, then seemed to realize I might be giving him the benefit of the doubt, and he grabbed on to it like a lifeline. Any port in a storm. “Like I said, I thought they were interested in buying, or at least considering, one of my security systems. But I quickly understood that they were more interested in finding out about… me.”

  I swear Troy’s ears twitched. “What about you?”

  “I don’t know…” Whitey rubbed his hands on his pants.

  “A blind person can see he’s lying,” Hannah whispered.

  “Don’t you have a shipment to unpack?” I whispered back.

  “It’s not going anywhere,” she countered.

  “Please, just tell the man,” Mom implored Whitey, a quiver in her voice. Was she losing trust in her beau, or was she afraid Troy would haul him to jail? My heart squeezed. It wasn’t like she didn’t have reason to imagine such a scenario after her own ordeal with the local police when Meg’s mom was killed.

  “They wanted to know—” Whitey broke off and looked away, his neck getting redder. His gaze fixed on the gown Meg had abandoned on the floor near the display window. “They wanted to know if my intentions were honorable… you know, about you.”

  Seriously? They’d appointed themselves the love police? I stifled a laugh, but Mom gasped. “Why those nosy old biddies…”

  “What prompted them to chase after you?” Troy said.

  Whitey swallowed hard. “The more personal the question got, the more uncomfortable I got. I realized the so-called meeting was just a ploy. None of those women wanted a security system. So I thanked them for their time and consideration and excused myself. I’d made the mistake of walking there. I was halfway back here when I heard them calling my name. Shouting questions at me in the street. I picked up my pace, but the sidewalks were crowded, and damn, those old broads are fast. People started to stop and stare, until all I could think was to get away.”

  “O’Malley!” A loud knock sounded on the door. “You in there?”

  “It’s Sheriff Gooden,” Hannah said, disappearing a second later like a wisp of smoke.

  I hurried back to the door, wishing I had access here to the monitors Whitey had installed in the office and our living quarters that allowed us to see who stood outside the door. Before unlocking the latch, I asked, “Are you alone, Sheriff?”

  “Daryl Anne Blessing, you let me in there right now. This is official WPD business. A crime has been committed.” I remembered how cold this man could be when it came to his duty. I appreciated his dedication to the law and safety of those he was entrusted to protect but still didn’t think he was much of a detective. Solving crimes took a clever man. Sheriff Gooden was just a good, honest policeman elected by the majority for his ability as a mediator.

  I eased the door open and peered into his squinting eyes, his lined face. He was in his forties but could pass for sixty. To my relief, most of the crowd had dispersed. Except for Bernice. She hovered behind the sheriff.

  I pointed at Bernice. “I’m not letting her in.”

  He nodded. “Bernice, go back to your store.”

  “But—”

  “Allow me to do my job.” His voice was low and full of authority.

  “All right,” she said begrudgingly, “but don’t let that snake oil salesman pull the wool over your eyes.”

  My narrowed gaze caused Bernice to retreat a step, but her expression remained adamant. “I’m sorry, Daryl Anne, but your mother’s being taken in by that slick talker. The whole town thinks so.”

  The whole town? Since when had she become the spokesperson for the whole town? It took every bit of willpower I possessed not to verbally cut her to shreds. Sometimes it’s better to hold your tongue than to have the last word. I closed the door. If the gossips hadn’t already been spouting opinions about Mom dating a man who was not a hometown resident, they would be after this morning. Thanks to the love police and Bernice.

  And since Sheriff Gooden insisted on hauling Whitey to the station for further questioning, I feared too many of those opinions would slant in Bernice’s favor.

  * * *

  Later, as I stood outside checking the display window, I caught a reflection in the glass that
caused my heart to skip. I’d never been so glad to see Seth Quinlan, the owner of Cherished Moments photo studio, striding across the street toward me. The chill around my heart began to melt. He wasn’t pretty-boy handsome, like David Beckham or Brad Pitt, but his rugged features, crooked grin, and warm chocolate eyes added up to one stunningly sexy male.

  He was coming from Something Old, Something New, a camera slung around his neck, another attached to his hip. The police hired him to shoot crime scenes on those few occasions that a crime was committed in Weddingville, and that was likely what he’d been doing at Bernice’s.

  As he neared, he seemed to read the distress I couldn’t hide. He frowned, then grinned, and I knew he was contemplating how to lift my spirits. “A nickel for your thoughts, Blessing,” Seth said, an inside joke between us.

  “A nickel, Quinlan?” I tilted my head, gazing up at him. His usual offer was the old one-cent standard.

  “Yeah.” He shoved his fingers through his thick tawny hair, reconfiguring it as a gust of wind might do. “A nickel.”

  I arched a brow, curious. “Why so much?”

  He leaned in, his sandalwood scent filling me. “Since I’ve gotten to know you, I’ve realized your thoughts are worth more than a mere penny.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to smile but darned if I didn’t. A small one. He just had a way of untwisting the knot in my stomach like nothing else could. Unfortunately, the sensation was fleeting. As soon as I dragged him into the bridal shop, closing the door behind us and glancing at my mother, the gut-wrench returned.

  Seth stayed by the door as I hurried to her side, sinking next to her on the red velvet love seat. Distress wafted off her like dust motes in the dimmed light. I took her hands. “I thought you’d gone upstairs to lie down.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Mom, it’ll be okay. They haven’t arrested Whitey. They’re just questioning him.”