A Veiled Deception Page 3

  I hugged my brother, Alex, gushed over the pictures of his pride and joy, two-week-old Kelsey, a little blonde doll, at home with her mom, and made him promise to let me play auntie soon.

  Eventually, I had no choice but to greet Deborah, the society-queen wannabe, who made me feel dowdy, despite my Faline halter dress and Versace platform mules. Somehow, Deborah knew that my outfit came with the job and I’d rather be wearing vintage.

  Still conspicuously absent from the gathering, however, were Jasmine and the bride.

  No good could come of that!

  As I climbed the keeping room stairs, foreboding crept up my spine until I shivered. I was ten again, on my way up to visit my mother, who was recovering slowly from a car accident. The same sinking sensation had churned in my stomach then . . . right before I stood at Mom’s open bedroom door to find my father crying with his head on her chest, Mom still and silent in the bed.

  Even now, I avoided looking toward the master bedroom and headed straight for Sherry’s room, but the lavender-scented chintz exhibit stood empty.

  Three sets of stairs beckoned: front, back, keeping room. The smart thing to do would be to take one of them down.

  I wish I could say that I always did the smart thing.

  Closed, latched, oak-planked doors wearing their age-old patinas surrounded me, but only one door interested me, and I wasn’t sure why. Brandy’s.

  Yes, Brandy, who detests her name more than she detests designer clothes. Brandy—middle sister but third child—works for the Peace Corps somewhere . . . anywhere in the world, except here. On the off chance the bride was hiding, which I might be inclined to do in her place, I should check Brandy’s room.

  My hand hovered over the matte black latch while I questioned my nebulous inclination to go inside.

  Why Brandy’s room? I turned away and turned back, then finally clutched the latch handle almost as if I expected it to burn.

  I found it cool to the touch, smooth, and easy to open.

  Too easy?

  I had to push on the door and it wailed in protest. In this place, doors occasionally opened and shut on their own, which I attributed to our otherworldly inhabitants, but this, this resistance was odd.

  Should I heed the warning and leave?

  No sooner did I stop pushing than the door opened before me.

  For the second time in five minutes, I succumbed to a shiver of alarm as I stood rooted. If not for the gorgeous antique wedding gown hanging from the mahogany wardrobe door, I might have backed out, never to return. But the gown pulled me in, infusing me with a surprising sense of reassurance, as if everything would be all right, which—

  Of course, it would.

  Brandy’s curtains flapping out the window startled me and returned my dread in spades. Who in the family would leave a window open in August without pulling down the screen?

  Though birds chirped in the getaway tree outside the window and gulls cried in the distance, the room’s dense and heavy silence seemed so far beyond normal as to steal my breath.

  A strong wind grasped the curtains and fluttered them in a quick whirr of sound. Get out, get out, get out, get out.

  I hesitated, called myself an idiot, and approached the gown hanging near the foot of the bed on the opposite side of the room.

  When the scent of Jasmine’s fake Opium hit me, I stopped dead.

  I should go now, I thought, and hesitated . . . but I rounded the bed anyway.

  No sound accompanied my scream.

  In a blink I took in the sight: Jasmine, lying on the hardwood floor like a white Madonna, hair perfect, skirt modestly pulled down, legs bent to the side, ankles crossed as if to display her strappy spikes to best advantage, pearls scattered around her.

  She might have fallen into a graceful faint, except for one thing.

  Had I thought earlier that she needed only a veil?

  She had one now . . . tied tight around her throat.

  Three

  Black and white signs are like familiar antipathies of the past—day and night, angel and devil, good and evil . . .

  —VICTOR VASARELY

  I fell to my knees, ignoring the pearls digging into them, and struggled to unknot the veil with trembling hands. Up close, I could see the hint of blue smudging Jasmine’s firm lips. “Wake up,” I said. “Wake up.”

  I tried to breathe for her as I released the netting, wincing at the angry welts beneath it, and then I lifted her into my arms so she could breathe easier. “Jasmine?” I called, patting her cheek. “Jasmine!”

  I don’t know how long I held her and called her name but suddenly Nick rushed in. “Mad, you sound hysterical. I came because Fiona led me to the front stairs and whispered that you needed me, then I heard you calling—”

  His gaze fell on Jasmine. He squared his shoulders, his FBI persona falling into place like a hard-edged mask devoid of emotion. He knelt beside me, taking in every detail of the scene. “What happened?”

  “I found her like this, but the veil, Nick. It was so tight; I had to loosen it so she could breathe.”

  The pearl-tipped veil now hung like a scarf knotted loosely between Jasmine’s breasts.

  Nick frowned and checked her pulse while my heartbeat tripled at the implication, then he took her from my arms and lay her back on the floor. With his cell phone, he dialed 911 and asked for an ambulance then he hit speed dial. “Alex, come discreetly up to Brandy’s room, alone. Don’t rush, but don’t let anybody slow you down.”

  No explanation necessary, I thought. Partners. They understood and trusted each other.

  I looked closely for the rise and fall of Jasmine’s chest, but the longer I did, the more my vision blurred, until I had to wipe my cheeks with my fingertips. Breathing for her wasn’t working, either. I went limp when I stopped trying.

  Efficient and official, Nick turned as if to shield me from the sight and handed me his handkerchief.

  I tried to push him aside. “No, Nick, we have to help her.”

  He brought my head to his fast-beating heart, kissed my hair, and stroked my cheek with the back of a hand, offering shelter from the storm, a place to hide . . . literal and emotional warmth, a rare moment in which I didn’t have to be “the strong one,” except that I did. “Nick,” I whispered, looking up at him. “I have to fix this.”

  “There are some things, Maddie girl, that even you can’t fix.”

  We turned to the sound of Alex sprinting up the last few stairs. Nick took me up with him as he stood to give his partner room to assess the situation.

  “You okay, Sis?” Alex asked.

  “What do you think?” I snapped at my brother with an absurd urge to add, “You dumb puck,” like the old days, but I held my tongue. Very rare. I must have been in shock.

  Alex turned to Nick. “Did you call the coroner?” he asked, and I gasped, though a part of me had suspected the worst. Still, I’d known my mother was dead that morning, too, but I didn’t cry until my father sat me down hours later and told me so.

  Denial weaves such a sturdy suit of armor.

  “I called the paramedics,” Nick said. “Let them call the coroner, who will in turn call the police.” Nick eyed me. “If necessary,” he added, for my sake.

  Alex nodded. “Better we shouldn’t take over and tick off the local PD. As it is, whoever gets the case will beat his chest when he sees FBI on the scene before him.”

  I raised my chin and looked from my brother to my sometimes significant other. “They’re gonna think Sherry did this, you know, because of what she said during the party.”

  Alex chucked me under the chin. “Mad, you’re in mother-chick panic mode.”

  I appreciated his brotherly try at easing my worries.

  He nodded. “Sherry will have an alibi like we all do.”

  Nick cleared his throat. “Except that one of us doesn’t.”

  I shivered and went to shut the window.

  “No!” Nick and Alex shouted loud enough to startle
me.

  I turned on my heel.

  My brother made a cross with two of his fingers, as if to ward me off, a reminder of our teenage years when crossed tampons had that effect on him.

  His suddenly ruddy complexion told me that he remembered his goofy reaction, as well.

  Nick came for me, his hand at my back. “We can’t disturb a crime scene, Mad.”

  That was the difference between a brother and a sometimes lover. One treated you like—well—a brat, and the other gently conveyed a message.

  Alex nodded. “Bad enough you tampered with the murder weapon.”

  “He’s right, ladybug. You might have to answer for that. I’m sorry.” Nick frowned at my brother.

  I huffed at them both. “I didn’t tamper with anything!”

  “You did,” Alex said. “You untied the veil.”

  “Have mercy,” I snapped. “I was trying to help the woman breathe!”

  Alex rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t believe this. Our home, a crime scene.”

  Sounds of parting guests and their relieved host floated up the stairs, telling us that Dad, and everyone else, remained blissfully unaware of the horrific drama unfolding on the floor above.

  “Alex, I’m worried about how Dad will take this. What will you tell him?”

  “I’m not telling him. You tell him.” With barely a move between them, Nick and my brother suddenly closed ranks—big, bad, macho FBI ranks.

  Nick’s expression softened. “Mad, you do deal with your father better than anyone. You really should be the one to tell him.” He checked his watch. “Ambulance could be here any minute. Better do it now.”

  I planted my hands on my hips. “The two of you could take down a terrorist in a snake-infested swamp, but hurting an old man you love, that scares the bejeebers out of you.”

  They firmed their stances and puffed out their chests. Alex tugged on his cuffs. Nick jiggled the change in his pocket and rocked on his heels.

  I sighed. “I’ll do it!”

  After I checked the second-floor rooms for Sherry, without luck, I made my way downstairs, in no rush to shatter Dad’s bubble of relief at the party’s end.

  Aunt Fiona met me at the bottom and hugged me.

  I held on for a minute. “How did you know?” I asked.

  We stepped out a side door, and Aunt Fiona shut it behind us. “I felt a gut-wrenching wash of emotional pain,” she said, “and knew it belonged to you.” She cupped my cheek. “By the looks of you, I’m guessing I was right.”

  “You were. Thanks for sending Nick.” I wasn’t ready to talk about Jasmine, especially to my father. I saw a reprieve as I noticed the full moon coming into its own. “You know what that moon reminds me of?”

  I told her about my recurring dream.

  She listened, giving away nothing.

  “I usually wake up after and expect Mom to be in the room with me. When I saw you at the bottom of the stairs just now, it came to me.”

  “What did, sweetie?”

  “It’s not a dream, is it? It’s a memory.”

  Aunt Fiona took my hands. “One of my favorite memories,” she said, squeezing, asking for . . . approval or acceptance, perhaps.

  Me, Fiona, and my mother, dancing to a full moon. This so wasn’t the time for witchy questions or revelations, not spoken ones, anyway. The best support I could offer was to squeeze her hands back.

  It was enough; I could tell from the way her features relaxed.

  Still, in a bid for self-preservation, I took the conversation in a different direction. “Who else’s emotions can you—”

  “Strong, life-altering emotions,” she clarified.

  “Ah. Who else’s strong, life-altering emotions can you sense, besides mine?”

  She shrugged. “I sense emotions in the people who need me to.”

  In other words, she’d help anyone who needed her, whether it fueled her rep as a witch or not. I’d never known for sure whether Fiona practiced witchcraft. Despite our close relationship, it wasn’t a question I’d ever felt comfortable asking her.

  After my mother passed I’d never talked about my ghost sightings with anyone. In an odd way I’d felt a reluctance on Fiona’s part to discuss the subject. Not sure how I felt myself, I’d kept quiet. I’d heard rumors in town about Fiona being a witch, but in general it wasn’t something people discussed, especially if she had helped them. Aunt Fiona was known as the town lawyer, not the town witch.

  “Some people’s emotions are harder to sense than others’,” Aunt Fiona said. “Reading you and your mother always came easily and naturally.”

  “Which is why you got here before Dad had a chance to call you the morning Mom died.”

  She nodded and a tear slid down her cheek.

  The sound of wailing sirens in the distance brought me back to my purpose.

  Sound carried over water, which meant that the ambulance and or police could be farther away than they seemed. Maybe.

  I hugged Aunt Fiona once more, and we went inside.

  At least with her there, Dad wouldn’t be alone when he got the news, though they’d rarely spoken more than two words at a family gathering since my mother passed.

  Dad saw us come in. “Blasted night’s finally over.” He lifted the curtain as the sound of sirens came closer. Much closer. Scrap!

  “Not by a long shot, Dad.”

  He did a double take. “Mad, that ambulance is pulling in here.” He, of course, expected me to explain why.

  What else was new?

  I squeezed his arm as I passed him on my way to the door. “I’m afraid that we need them,” I said and opened it. “Up the stairs, fourth door on the right,” I told the paramedics as I led them to the front stairs.

  Dad lowered himself to a keeping-room chair as I returned. “Madeira, tell me that my children are all right.”

  Aunt Fiona tilted her head. “Maddie, love, what exactly is going on?”

  “Let’s go into the taproom,” I suggested, “where we can be more comfortable.” Eventually the coroner would arrive, and Jasmine’s body would be taken down the front stairs and out the door . . . the way my mother’s had been. And you couldn’t see the front stairs from the taproom.

  Bad enough Dad would have to face the police later; he didn’t need to see a replay of the worst day of his life. “Dad, would you like Aunt Fiona to make you a cup of tea?”

  Fiona stopped and waited for his answer.

  My father narrowed his eyes. “Must be bad, if you think I’d drink one of her twitchy brews.”

  Aunt Fiona bit her lip against one of her signature cutting remarks, and I appreciated it.

  Twitchy? Hmm. Did he mean witchy?

  I believed that our childhood suspicions about Aunt Fiona being a witch had been founded in truth. Did Dad believe it, too?

  Good grief, did he know that my mother had actually moon danced with her best friend . . . and taken me along for the ride?

  “Fiona,” he said, brows furrowed, his defenses weakening before my eyes, as he took his comfortable chair. “I’d appreciate a cup of tea. Thank you.” He gave me one of those parental looks. “‘Ignorance is the parent of fear.’”

  A literary quote for every occasion, I thought. “Who’s the author of that one, Dad?”

  “Herman Melville and I never knew how right he was.” Dad then tried to drill the information out of me with his “Dad does the guilts” look, the one he’d given me the morning after that fateful Winter Ball when Nick and I had lost our virginity to each other.

  I didn’t break then, either. Nick had successfully escaped at dawn via the tree outside Brandy’s window with no one the wiser.

  “Give it to me straight,” my father snapped. “‘I am never afraid of what I know,’ Shakespeare. And, Madeira, I’m smarter than you think.”

  Uh-oh. What did that mean? “Where’s Sherry?” I asked, too worried about my sister to consider my unending list of past transgressions.

  My father
picked up his pipe out of nervous habit and put it down again. “I haven’t seen Sherry since she and the Jezebel disappeared so as not to spoil ‘the surprise.’” Dad gave a strained half smile. “When Deborah left, she was fit to be tied that it hadn’t come off.”

  Whatever it was. “Mary Quant, mother of the miniskirt, where the Hermès could Sherry be?” I looked out every one of the taproom windows. I even lifted the board covering the coach-stop drive-through window. Normally dim, because of the raw boards and corner logs it was made of, the room darkened and grew chill as if with our spirits.

  My father huffed. “Madeira, you will explain the ambulance this minute.”

  Aunt Fiona brought his tea before I could answer. Not that I was putting off telling him, but I’d rather eat dirt.

  Alex owed me big time for this one.

  Dad acknowledged his tea with a grudging thanks, raising his mug in approval. She’d not been so foolish as to give him a teacup. “Fiona,” he griped. “Mad still hasn’t told me.”

  I sat, hemmed and hawed, sighed and swallowed, and finally revealed what I knew, and until I’d come down, I pretty much knew more than anybody.

  As a child I thought my father never left his stately academic demeanor behind, but for the second time in my memory, life shocked him speechless.

  By the time Aunt Fiona and Dad recovered, and I’d fielded a thousand or so questions, most of which only Jasmine could know, Nick and Alex ushered in Detective Sergeant Lytton Werner—or Little Wiener, as I’d dubbed him in third grade.

  Of all the detectives in all the world . . .

  I’d only called him Little Wiener once. Okay, so we were in the cafeteria at the time . . . and the nickname stuck like burrs in his underpants.

  That’s all I needed today, a detective in a $200 rack suit who owed me for upgrading his geek score. Not that I judged people by their clothes . . . well, yeah, I guess I did. That was my job. But seriously, a bad suit didn’t mean he was a bad detective, I hoped.

  By high school, everybody had dropped the word “little,” because Wiener the Quarterback had turned into six feet of toned muscle. The nickname had still popped up once in a while on the football field, but by then, he could beat the scrap out of anybody who said it.