A Veiled Deception Page 21

  She remembered?

  I sat straighter. Had she taken on her mother’s persona?

  “In this picture, I’m trying on my wedding gown, hiding my work-worn hands, though I needn’t have bothered. I worked beside the seamstress fitting me. The people of Cort’s class, they hated me, though not as much as the people of my own class, but I put up with all of it to be with him.”

  Amber studied another picture. “And this,” Amber said, “is where Deborah—” She stood straight, her stance aggressive as she turned and skewered Deborah with her gaze. “You notice I do not call you Mrs. Vancortland, because you are not better than me, except perhaps at lies, deceit, and greed.”

  Deborah raised her chin, but she couldn’t hide her trembling hands any more than Pearl had been able to hide her callused ones so many years ago.

  “I remember everything about this day,” Amber said. “You told me to take off your gown. Cort would marry you because you were expecting his child. You put much effort into catching him that way. Before I left, the old lady you paid for the brew to put in Cort’s drink at the country club came to me. She felt bad that she’d played a role in my loss, and she told me everything. But I had more class than to try and trap a husband with a child.”

  She gave Deborah a nod, almost of respect but not quite. “Congratulations. You knew the right words. You said Cort could take you to the country club but he could never take me. That was mean and bitter, but shrewd. That’s what broke me, that I wasn’t good enough for the man I loved. I can tell you this now; you don’t look good enough for him, either.”

  Amber studied the faces around her. “Which is the child I lost Cort to?”

  “I miscarried,” Deborah said, her face mottled. “I couldn’t help that.”

  Werner got up, took Amber’s arm, and led her to a chair beside her father and daughter. Then he called for something more to be brought in by the officers. Another easel. This one with the drawing of Mildred Updike nursing Deborah, and a signed document of some sort, though it was impossible to read from here.

  Werner cleared his throat. “Do you have a quarrel with anything Miss Delgado said about the first drawings, Mrs. Vancortland?”

  “Of course I do. Her accusations are ridiculous, all of them.”

  Big mistake, I thought.

  “Of course,” Werner echoed, acerbically, indicating the second easel. “Can you explain these sketches?”

  Deborah went and pointed to the picture of the nurse. “This is the nurse who took care of me when I miscarried and this is a certificate of dead birth to prove it.”

  “To prove it,” Werner repeated. “Most people don’t care to see proof. Would you like to elaborate?”

  “No,” Deborah said. “I think it’s self-explanatory, and the memory is still painful.” Deborah sat and held a regal pose.

  “Fine, then, if you won’t elaborate, I will. Mildred Saunders is your old chum from Miss Finley’s Finishing School. And this proof is signed by her, for which she may lose her nursing license. She’s under investigation as we speak. This document is a fake, but you know that. An official certificate of death would have been signed by a coroner or the attending physician. No hospital within a fifty-mile radius has a record of your miscarriage that summer, by the way.”

  “I miscarried at home.”

  “That’s not what you told me.” Cort stood, holding the sleepy little girl against his shoulder. “You said you’d been rushed to the hospital. I’ve felt guilty for that business trip for thirty years.”

  Werner went and looked down at Deborah, who suddenly appeared quite small. “Were you pregnant at the time of your marriage, Mrs. Vancortland?”

  Deborah’s mouth worked like a fish out of water.

  “Your friend Mildred, who helped you fake your miscarriage, was Jasmine Updike’s mother. The fake miscarriage; that’s what Jasmine Updike used to blackmail you. Is that why you strangled her, Mrs. Vancortland?”

  Deborah looked at Cort, but he ignored her as he returned to rocking the sleeping child, his gaze only for Vanessa, his hand clutching Amber’s at her child’s back.

  I felt bad for Deborah but I felt worse for Amber, who’d been riddled with emotional pain since childhood.

  But which of them killed Jasmine? We still didn’t know.

  “I didn’t kill Jasmine,” Deborah said. “I’m all the rotten things you’re all thinking, I guess—”

  She guessed?

  In her pregnant pause—a rather large slap of poetic justice—she waited for someone to refute her statement.

  No one did.

  Quizzing the silent faces around her, she sighed. “I don’t deserve you, Cort, nor you, Justin. But I’m not a murderer.”

  “In a way,” Cort said, looking at her. “You killed the woman I loved. In another way, I helped you. I should have taken Pearl to the country club that night. I had just enough doubt in me to let you talk me out of it. I’ll never forgive myself.”

  Cort looked up at Justin. “I love you, son. No regrets there.” He cupped Amber’s cheek. “I wish I could have raised you both. Will you let me make it up to you, Amber?”

  “There is no going back,” she said. “Our time has passed.”

  “Think about it,” Cort said, with raw emotion. “You and your daughter can come and live with me.”

  Deborah squeaked, but Justin squeezed his mother’s shoulder and she shut up.

  Cort barely spared Deborah a glance.

  Werner nodded to the psychiatrist, who came forward. “Miss Morales,” he said, addressing Amber as if she were Pearl. “Did you strangle Jasmine Updike?”

  “No, I did not,” Amber said, holding her head in the exact way I’d seen Pearl hold hers. “I never heard of anyone named Jasmine Updike.”

  That might have been true the night of the murder. In fact, Amber might have kept to herself to the point that she didn’t realize she’d killed the wrong woman. Only when Sherry had arrived on her doorstep had she realized the true identity of the next Vancortland bride. After a night of questioning about Jasmine Updike’s death, though, she had certainly heard of her by now.

  Amber had, I thought, but maybe not Pearl.

  “Did you strangle the Vancortland bride?” Werner asked her.

  “No, I did not.”

  I stepped forward with a thought that had only come to me as I donned my mother’s treasured pearl earrings this morning. “Pearl, did you use olive oil to polish the pearls Cort gave you?”

  Amber smiled. “How did you know?”

  Everyone but the psychiatrist stilled.

  Amber beamed. “Aren’t they beautiful?” She touched her throat. “But where are they?” She thought for a minute. “Oh, I used them to turn Deborah Vancortland into a throwaway bride like me. I’ve been waiting to do that for years.” She smiled.

  Werner waved his hand to halt the vocal reactions. “You didn’t use only the pearls, Ms. Morales.”

  Amber looked Deborah’s way. “I knew the pearls wouldn’t be strong enough alone, so I braided them with several of the pretty twines I use to tie my pastry boxes.” She shook her head as if rethinking her words.

  “Wait. No, that can’t be right.” Amber, or Pearl, licked her lips, and reconsidered. “I used my mother’s bridal pearls with my twine to strangle the woman who ruined my, no, my mother’s life.”

  She turned on Deborah and narrowed her eyes. “Why aren’t you dead like my mother?” She leapt at Deborah before Werner, or anyone, could anticipate her.

  That fast, her hands were around Deborah’s throat, her thumbs pressing so hard, I backed into Nick’s chest, his arms coming around me.

  Justin got to them first.

  “Amber!” He pulled her hands from his mother’s throat. “You’re my sister. I’ll help you.” He captured Amber’s hands and crushed them against his chest as he held her, while Werner’s men escorted Deborah to the far corner of the room.

  Amber struggled from Justin’s hold and reached for his
throat.

  Sherry screamed.

  Amber stopped, her hands in midair. “I have a brother?” She turned to Cort, her daughter asleep in his arms. “Papa, help me.” Amber Delgado covered her face with her hands and wept.

  The knot in my throat hurt too much to contain.

  Cort got up and gave the sleeping Vanessa to Sherry. “Take care of your niece until we get back, will you, sweetie?”

  Sherry nodded and kissed the sleeping child while Justin comforted his sister. When Cort reached them, Amber sobbed once and threw herself into her father’s arms. “I’m so sorry. I . . . always hoped to make you proud, not shame you.”

  Cort consoled her. “I’m glad you’re my daughter. We’ll get through this. We’re family.”

  Werner put Amber’s arms behind her back to handcuff her.

  “Is that necessary?” Cort asked.

  The psychologist nodded. “She could harm herself, as well as anyone, right now.”

  “It’s best,” Werner said. “We know what we heard. I’m guessing she wasn’t herself at the time of the murder, either.”

  “I’m coming with her,” Cort said. “We’ll get you the best criminal lawyer money can buy.”

  Deborah’s head came up. She, too, caught the irony. He hadn’t hired the best lawyer money could buy for her.

  Justin kissed Sherry’s brow. “I’m going with them. I’ll be back as soon as I can. There’s a nursery upstairs; I’ll have a crib brought down. Keep her with you. She’ll want her mother. Use my room. I need to know you’ll be waiting for me when I get home.”

  Sherry nodded.

  Cort spared Deborah a glance. “It’s been over for a long time. I accept equal responsibility for the past. You won’t want for anything.”

  Deborah came out of her fog. “What?”

  Two officers escorted Amber from the drawing room in cuffs, followed by her father and brother.

  “Renee,” Cort said to Deborah’s maid. “Pack your mistress’s bags, enough for tonight at least, and find her a hotel. She’ll let you know where. We’ll forward the rest of her things, later. She’s moving out.”

  Deborah screamed, though she hadn’t reacted to her past sins or their deadly consequences. She hadn’t reacted to Amber’s hands on her throat or her part in Amber’s illness. Not even when her son put his life in danger to save hers did she say a word.

  Nothing scared that woman more than the thought of losing her lifestyle.

  Thirty

  The creative universe begins with its essentiality, and, whatever path the imagination takes, ends with its purity.

  —GIORGIO ARMANI

  On a bright Sunday morning in early September, Dolly Sweet attended my sister’s wedding at Cortland House wearing her Katharine Hepburn gown.

  Oy!

  I raised my thoughts to the universe. Please don’t let Dolly leave to join Dante during Sherry’s wedding. Or her reception.

  Sherry deserved a perfect wedding day, especially after the month that led up to it.

  When the family adventurer walked in, my panic subsided. I ran and caught my sister Brandy in my arms. “I can’t believe you made it!”

  “Me, either.” She squeezed me tight for a minute. “At one point, I offered to fly the plane to get here faster.”

  “Did they let you?” Middle sister or not, Brandy Cutler could be pretty damned persuasive. Just ask anybody whose life she’d touched in the Peace Corps. And, yes, she could fly a plane.

  “No, but the pilot was intrigued by my offer. We have a date tomorrow night.”

  I laughed and stepped back so I could get a better look at her in Mom’s strapless jonquil-print sundress. “You look super.”

  My eyes filled and so did Brandy’s for a minute. “I remember her wearing this outfit with platform wedges, sunny Bakelite jewelry, purse and all.” Thanks for leaving it on my bed. If I’d had to decide what to wear, I might have given in to jet lag and missed the whole thing.” Brandy fiddled with the clasp on her purse. “I owe you an apology, Mad. I thought you were crazy when you kept Mom’s clothes. I was wrong.”

  “But you still think I’m crazy for pandering to moneyed fashion plates.”

  She bit her lip for half a second. “True . . . but for Sherry’s sake,” Brandy whispered, “I won’t mention that I could feed a starving continent for a year on the cost of her wedding.” Her voice rose with every word. “And don’t get me started on this twenty-four-karat gold bordello.”

  Cort coughed behind her. “You have a problem with my bordello, Miss Cutler?” He winked.

  Brandy colored but she raised her chin and accepted Cort’s offered arm. He led her toward the dressing room where Sherry waited to take center stage. They stopped on the way, however, and I knew by the body language, the way Brandy spoke and Cort listened, that she’d gone into fund-raising mode. Poor Cort.

  I respected my sister’s passion for her work, and maybe after she saw Sherry in her wedding gown, Brandy would respect mine. I was sorry she had missed the rehearsal dinner, but she’d made the wedding, and that was what counted.

  Last night, as a maid of honor gift, Sherry and Justin had given me the glass slipper inkwell I loved, the one on a filigreed brass stand.

  When Brandy emerged from Sherry’s dressing room a short while later, Cort met her, handed her a check, and escorted her to the Cutler family seating area. I guess Brandy had more than one reason to celebrate today.

  Cort took the mike up front and suggested people take their seats.

  When Sherry emerged, cameras went off from every corner. I’d gotten my friends from New York to do a cover spread in a bridal magazine. The Vancortland gown would be the launch design for Vintage Magic. The article would announce my grand opening on Halloween.

  Fast, I know, like all my decisions. But with luck and more fast thinking, I could pull it off.

  After all, I could fix anything.

  Right now, my carriage house—Dante waiting inside—still looked like a shack, but the architectural design rocked, and I’d pick a construction crew within the week. I had a lot of work to do, but I was ready to jump in, proud in my Pradas.

  Most important, Sherry was happy. Justin, too. His parents had been miserable; their split was a relief, even to their son.

  Justin and Sherry had moved into the mansion to help Cort raise Vanessa until Amber came home, which she would . . . in time. Her new family visited her regularly at the high-security psychiatric wing of the hospital.

  We’d been assured that Amber’s plea of insanity should stick. Not only were her psychiatric records available, but the loss of her fiancé in Iraq—a surprise to us all—had put her sanity on a very slippery slope. She’d found herself suddenly an unwed mother raising a daughter alone . . . like her own mother had done.

  The Vancortland engagement announcement had been the last straw.

  While Sherry posed for some pre-wedding photos on the grand staircase, Eve and I watched Deborah come around the side of the house on the arm of a mature, buff member of the country-club set.

  Dripping diamonds, she forced her way into the first row on the groom’s side. Yes, she came through the yard, instead of the house, but she couldn’t be self-effacing if her life depended on it.

  Cort might have been shocked when she asked him to move down, but he didn’t show it. He stood, ever the gentleman, but he stubbornly retained his aisle seat and the one next to it for his granddaughter.

  These days, he looked . . . content . . . driving around Mystick Falls with an occupied toddler seat in the back of his Mercedes. DNA tests had proved that, yes, Amber was his daughter and Vanessa his granddaughter, so he got custody. I’d never seen a man beam as much as he did when he got the word.

  He often took Vanessa to the hospital to have lunch with her mother, so the little girl who spent most of her time with her aunt Sherry wouldn’t forget which was which.

  The groom’s side might be sparse, but the bride’s side overflowed with Cutlers and fr
iends. First row: Brandy, Alex, his wife, Tricia, with baby Kelsey, being passed from relative to relative. The aisle seat remained empty, waiting for my dad.

  Eve and her parents sat behind them with Fiona and the Sweets. The rest of our Mystick Falls neighbors and our downtown Mystic friends filled the bride’s side.

  Nick, the best man—Justin’s and mine—escorted Justin to his spot at the gazebo.

  I waved, and Nick raised his chin, his piercing dark eyes filled with promise.

  I shivered and turned my attention to Sherry as the orchestra began to play the wedding march. I smoothed my sister’s train, and remembered how she’d swirled with the flare of the first dress I’d made her. She might have been three at the time.

  Our stubborn little blonde with the infectious laugh had turned into a swan.

  Oh, how I wished my mother could see this bride in whom I held so much pride.

  I turned to my handsome father and dusted the lapels of his tux, before I took my place in front of them.

  When it was time to begin, I patted Vanessa’s tiny peau-de-soie bottom. The two-and-a-half-year-old began her trek down the silk carpet, across the flowing back lawn toward the gazebo near the river, scattering red rose petals, slowly, carefully, making sure to drop no more than one petal at a time.

  When she dropped two, she picked one of them up.

  A chuckle ran through the guests, and I’m sure a hundred more people fell in love with her.

  I’d made her a mini bridal gown and pouch purse with the fabric from the train of the Vancortland gown. Vanessa adored purses and who was I to argue?

  A crown of white rosebuds nested in her dark curls. Her tiny pair of kitten-heeled shoes were a bit too big, but she’d mastered the walk. During fittings she’d kept stepping into our spikes and walking away, so we found her a pair of her own, sort of.

  The little girl playing dress up simply added to the imperfectly perfect . . . the wedding of Sherry and Justin’s dreams.

  When she reached Cort, Vanessa raised her arms. “Pa-pop. All done.”

  I preceded my sister down the aisle wearing another of my mother’s dresses, a full-length Grecian halter gown of flowered red chiffon, though you could barely see the flowers, they were so muted. I wore the red Louboutin pumps with the heels that left a rosette imprint and carried white roses.