Perils and Lace Read online

  “Of course.” I nodded. “You’re right. I should be here for rehearsals. I can always work on the costumes when I get home.”

  She let out a breath. “I mean, do whatever you want. I’m only trying to save you some extra work.”

  “Thanks. So, who do we have first?”

  “How about the wardrobe?” she asked. “She’s cool. You’ll like her.”

  I hadn’t disliked any of the kids yet, but I didn’t point that fact out to Zoe. While I was waiting for Zoe to return with the wardrobe, I glanced over at a corner of the room where a table had been knocked sideways. A pile of papers, notebooks, and folders were scattered about on the floor. My best guess was that Biscuit or Gravy had bumped the table yesterday when they were conducting their wild rumpus.

  I went over to straighten up the mess and put the items back on the table. As I picked up the notebooks, I noticed that one was actually a planner. I opened the front cover and saw that it was Sandra Kelly’s planner. Could there be a clue in here as to who might’ve wanted her dead?

  I thumbed through the book to the week before Sandra’s murder.

  “Here we are!” Zoe called.

  I closed the planner and slipped it into my tote before going over to meet the wardrobe.

  “Ms. Tucker, this is Priscilla. Priscilla, Ms. Tucker.” Zoe grinned. “When Ms. Tucker has her cat with her, she reminds me of a Bond villain, but she’s pretty cool.”

  “Hi, Priscilla,” I said before lowering my voice to a stage whisper. “Don’t tell Zoe, but I am a Bond villain.”

  Priscilla giggled. “Don’t tell Zoe, but I’m a Bond villain in training. I’ve been working on my lair.”

  “Nice!” I smiled.

  Zoe rolled her eyes. “Weirdos.”

  “Takes one to know one,” Priscilla said.

  GRANDPA TOLD ME ON the way home that Martha had been assigned to help him and Ford with the sets.

  “Lucky you.” I playfully elbowed him in the ribs. “Was she as sweet as I’d expect her to be, given that stellar first impression?”

  He waffled his hand. “She wasn’t overly friendly, but she was friendlier than she’d been outside. She did go out and take several smoke breaks—said her sister Jessica got her hooked on those vape things.”

  “I thought people weren’t allowed to smoke on school property.”

  Shrugging, he said, “Maybe that doesn’t apply to vaping. I have no idea.”

  I decided to confess. “I found Sandra’s planner in the auditorium. I’m going to look through the planner tonight to see if I can find any clues as to who murdered her.”

  “And then tomorrow first thing, you’ll turn it over to Detective Cranston?” he asked.

  “Of course, I will!”

  JASON STOPPED BY WITH a gorgeous white mum in a green and gold planter. “The John S. Battle horticulturist club was selling these, and I thought you might like one for your front porch.”

  “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” I asked if he’d like something to eat or drink.

  “As much as I’d love to stay awhile, I need to get home,” he said. “Oh, hey, did you get to meet Blake’s wife today?”

  “Um...yeah.”

  He chuckled at the expression on my face which I can only imagine betrayed what I’d thought about Martha Talbot.

  “Have you met her?” I asked.

  “Only once, and she didn’t go out of her way to be nice.” His laughter bubbled up again. “I imagine she’d be even more unfriendly toward a beautiful woman.”

  I shook my head. “Not every woman is a rival for her husband’s attention.”

  “True, but Blake broke the woman’s trust once.” His smile faded. “And if you can’t trust your spouse, who can you trust?”

  I remembered what Max had said about a wife’s revenge and had to repress a shudder. After Jason had left, I did an online search for nicotine and vaping. I found that e-cigarettes and other vaping devices deliver as much nicotine—if not more—than a regular cigarette. So, Martha could have theoretically poisoned Sandra Kelly with nicotine. But how?

  You know how sometimes you do something else to get your mind off a problem, and then you come up with a solution to the problem while you’re doing the other thing? That’s what I hoped would happen while I looked through Sandra Kelly’s planner. Maybe I’d find something to connect Sandra and Martha—well, other than the obvious connection of Blake.

  I started with the day of the murder. Sandra had her lunch with me at the Down South Café on her schedule, and she had IBS – Karen at three o’clock, and then rehearsal at four-thirty that day.

  Hmm...IBS? What’s that?

  The only thing I could come up with was irritable bowel syndrome, so I did a search for IBS acronyms. I found too many to count, including intellectual belittling syndrome, Institute of Behavioral Science, and International Builders’ Show. When I searched for IBS – Karen, I found lots of articles on how women named Karen learned to live with their irritable bowel syndrome.

  I blew out a breath. Surely to goodness, Sandra Kelly hadn’t been planning to meet with Karen, whose main defining feature was that she had irritable bowel syndrome. There simply had to be a more sensible explanation.

  Going backward though Sandra’s planner, I found where she’d made a note to call Child Protective Services two days prior to her death. Given what she’d told me about Zoe’s homelife, I was guessing Sandra had called—or had planned to call—CPS about Maggie Flannagan. Had she called? If so, had she talked with Zoe’s mother before making the call?

  I flipped through the pages looking for a meeting with Maggie Flannagan, but I didn’t find anything. It was possible they’d met but that Sandra had neglected to put it on her schedule, but I felt that was unlikely given how meticulous she’d been about documenting everything else. There were no further entries about CPS either. Who would know whether Sandra Kelly had contacted CPS or not? I didn’t want to call the agency myself if Sandra had realized she was making a mistake and hadn’t called. And if she had, then surely CPS was investigating.

  Amid the yoga classes, the nail appointments, and the inspirational quotes, there were lots of notations that simply had the word “Blake” or the initials “BT.” I had to wonder if the two of them really were having an affair. After all, Sandra’s marriage had supposedly ended because of Blake Talbot. Had she still been in love with Blake when she died? Had her love for him been the reason she’d died?

  { }

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  F

  irst thing Wednesday morning, Diana Kramer came in to pick up the suit I was holding for her.

  “I’m glad you’re able to get it sooner than you’d thought,” I said.

  With a wide grin, she said, “Me too. Fergus and I came into an unexpected little windfall.”

  “That’s terrific.”

  She hugged the garment bag containing the suit to her chest. “I know. I don’t normally indulge myself like this, but I absolutely love this suit.”

  “So do I, and it fits you like a custom-made piece.”

  “If anybody asks, it was.” She winked. Putting the garment bag down long enough to pay me, she saw the yellow dress I was making for Beauty and the Beast. “I hope you’re getting paid for your work for Winter Garden High. Don’t let those people take advantage of you. Honestly, if you give an inch, they’ll take two yards.”

  I smiled. “I am getting paid, but mostly, this is good for publicity. My shop is relatively new here, and I’m still getting established.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly spread the word at the salon. I gave you a card, didn’t I?”

  “You did,” I said. “Indulgences Beauty Salon.” As soon as I’d said it, something clicked within my brain. Indulgences Beauty Salon—IBS. “Diana, was Sandra Kelly a client at your salon?”

  “She wasn’t one of my clients, but she might have seen one of the other stylists.”

  “How about Karen? Is there someone by that name who works w
ith you?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, we have a Karen. Why?”

  “Sandra mentioned her.” She did mention her in her planner. “And her hair was beautifully highlighted.” That was also true.

  “If you’re considering highlights, I’m your gal.” Diana walked over and looked more closely at my hair. “I could give you some lovely highlights and lowlights to really give your hair dimension and pop.”

  Naturally, Max chose that moment to “pop” in and say, “Know what else would give your hair some pop? Poking your finger into an electrical outlet.”

  I clamped my lips together firmly. I waited out my urge to laugh before speaking again. “I’m still thinking about it.”

  “Don’t be such a Nervous Nellie,” Diana said. “When you decide to pull that trigger, give me a call. Me—not Karen. She’s not as experienced as I am.”

  I thanked her, and she took her suit and left.

  “My, my, my. She’s awfully full of herself.” Max pointed her index finger and thumb at me. “Are you going to pull that trigger?”

  “No. I believe my hair has enough dimension and pop as is.”

  “Me too, darling. Were you merely chatting her up? Or was there a reason for your asking about Karen?”

  I told Max about finding Sandra’s planner and that an appointment with Karen from IBS was scheduled for the last afternoon of her life.

  “Ah, so we need to talk with Karen.”

  “Yes, we do,” I said. “Women often confide in their hairdressers, you know. Maybe Karen can tell me something about how Sandra was feeling or what she had on her mind that day.”

  Retrieving Diana’s business card from my desk drawer, I called Indulgences Beauty Salon. I got the answering machine. Either the business was closed on Wednesdays, or it wasn’t open early in the day.

  “Hi,” I said. “This message is for Karen.” I left my name and number and asked that Karen call me at her earliest convenience.

  “And now we wait,” Max said. “I do despise waiting.”

  Before I could commiserate with Max, Trish Oakes walked into Designs on You. She had her hair up in a bun today, making her angular features appear even sharper than usual.

  “Good morning, Amanda. I’m talking with everyone this morning to find out what we’re doing to frighten prospective vendors away from leasing the vacant space upstairs.

  “I’m haunting the joint,” Max said.

  I covered my laugh with a coughing fit. “Excuse me.”

  “Tell her about Carla.” Max floated in front of me with her arms up over her head, fingers wagging.

  That broke me, and I couldn’t hide that bubble of laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” Ms. Oakes demanded.

  “It’s just that Carla, the massage therapist, seemed to believe there was something supernatural going on at Shops on Main,” I said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Carla is the only person who has given me a valid reason for not leasing the space. The stairs created a mobility issue for some of her patients.” She sniffed. “Not that it matters to me, but she found what appears to be a charming space in Lebanon.”

  Barely containing my delight that Carla had opened her business at least half an hour’s drive away, I asked, “What about Mr. Bare?”

  “What about him?” Ms. Oakes narrowed her eyes. “Did you say something disparaging to him?”

  “Of course not. You were with me when I met him,” I reminded. “You heard everything I said to him. And even though I found him to be an eccentric, I thought he might’ve been a fun addition to the Shops on Main family. What reason did he give for turning down the space?”

  “He and the painter both said they thought the rent was too high.”

  I flipped my palms. “There you go. Have you thought about lowering the rent for that space?”

  “No, I have not! If I lower the rent for one, the rest of you will expect me to lower your rent as well. Anyway, it’s utter nonsense. The rent is perfectly reasonable.” Raising an index finger, she said, “Someone in this building is being off-putting to new prospects, and I’m going to find out who it is.”

  “I told you, I’m haunting the joint!” Max shouted at Ms. Oakes’ retreating back. “What else can I do? She won’t listen.”

  “She wouldn’t listen to me either, and I know she could hear me,” I said. “No one is being mean to prospective vendors.” I grinned. “Well, not to all of them.”

  “Lebanon is far away from Jason’s studio,” Max singsonged.

  “I know.” I gave her a double thumbs up. “Thank you for your help in making that happen.”

  “You are ever so welcome, but it was nothing. Nothing I didn’t enjoy to the fullest.”

  Before we could further gloat over Carla’s finding a location out of town, Frank came into the shop with the fabric he’d painted for the Beauty and the Beast ottoman.

  “Look what I’ve got,” he said, holding it up in front of him.

  “Oh, my goodness. That’s incredible.” I quickly cleared off a space on the worktable so he could spread it out.

  The ivory fabric had been filled with muted green, purple, orange, and gold paisleys, along with light blue accent dots and swirls.

  “Jeepers!” Max eased closer. “I’d love to have a dress made of this.”

  Frank rubbed his arms. “I just got a chill.”

  Smiling slightly, I said, “Me too.” I looked at the cloth for a long moment. “Frank, we can’t use this.”

  “Why not? I worked hard on it.”

  “That’s precisely why we can’t use it.” I gently ran my hand over one of the paisleys. “You could sell this fabric and make a heck of a lot more money than what you’ll get from the school.”

  “But I didn’t make it to sell—I made it specifically to be used in the play.” He sounded hurt.

  “I know.” I sighed. “What if we ask for it back after the play so we could carefully deconstruct the costume and you could repurpose the fabric? I mean—do you realize what an incredible work of art this is?”

  He blushed as he drew himself up to his full height. “I’m fairly proud of it, sure, but...you know...I made it for the kids.”

  “I’ll talk with Mrs. Berry this afternoon and ask if we can have the ottoman costume back once the play is over.”

  “All right,” he said. “Oh, by the way, I won’t be needing a ride today. I talked so much about the play that Ella wants to help out too. She’s coming with me.”

  “He seems happy about that,” Max mused as Frank left the room.

  “He does, doesn’t he?” I smiled. “Good.” I hoped it would last.

  { }

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I

  spent the afternoon finishing the Belle dress. With Kristen’s parents at least partially footing the bill for the costumes, I thought I should get her gown completed first and make sure she was happy with it. I was pleased with it.

  Putting the gown on the dress form, I added rosettes to the bodice.

  Max stood behind the dress form and spread her arms, pretending she was wearing the gown. “This makes me feel like a princess. I want to twirl around and sing that sappy tune from the movie—you know the one—something about ‘old tails.’” She began to hum.

  I recognized the movie’s main theme song from the ballroom scene. “Let’s hope Kristen is as pleased with the dress as you are.”

  After putting the final touches on the gown, I transferred it to a garment bag. “What do you plan to do this evening?”

  “I’m listening to that wonderful audiobook you downloaded for me,” she said. “And as I listen to that, I thought I might try to find more information on Dot’s son, Dwight. Any clues where I should start?”

  I gave her the name of the genealogy site I’d used.

  She looked pensive. “Do you think he might still be alive?”

  Doing a quick calculation in my head—and trying to remember the year of Dwight’s birth—I determined him to be
in his early eighties. “It’s possible. If I’m remembering his date of birth correctly, he’d be eighty-one.”

  “So...pretty old.” She turned down the corners of her mouth. “But people these days live longer than we did. You know, unless they tumble headfirst down the stairs.”

  “Good luck.” I gathered up the dress, Jazzy, and my tote bag and headed out.

  Jazzy and I were having dinner with Grandpa before going to the school. He’d promised it would be ready when we got there. And since I’d only had a granola bar for lunch, I was thoroughly looking forward to dinner.

  WITH OUR BELLIES FULL of barbecue chicken and potato salad, Grandpa and I strolled into Winter Garden High. I don’t know about Grandpa, but I was shocked to find Ella Peterman and Martha Talbot talking and laughing in the hall.

  “Hi, Ella,” I said. “I’m happy you’re joining us.”

  “I couldn’t let Frank have all the fun.” She turned toward her companion. “Martha, do you know Amanda and Dave?”

  Martha nodded. “Yes, I met them both yesterday. Good to see you again.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing that masterpiece Frank created,” Grandpa told Ella. “Amanda says it’s beautiful.”

  Ella beamed. “It is. He really outdid himself.”

  “That reminds me—I need to have a word with Mrs. Berry.” I excused myself and went to find the woman. She was in the auditorium in the center of the fifth row of seats.

  “Project!” she called to the actors onstage. “Your audience needs to be able to hear you in the back row!”

  “Hi, Mrs. Berry. May I have a word?”

  “Of course, Ms. Tucker.” She nodded at the seat next to her.

  Making my way past the other seats, I realized I’d have been wise to put my things in my work area before seeking out Mrs. Berry. “I won’t take but a moment of your time, but I wonder if it would be possible to reclaim the ottoman costume once the play is over.”

  She gave me an appraising look but said nothing.

  “Mr. Peterman hand painted the fabric, and it’s gorgeous,” I continued. “I’d like to deconstruct the costume following its use in the production so that he may repurpose the fabric.”