A Veiled Deception Read online

  “Why? What happens? She piddles on the intruder?”

  “Wait, I’ll give you a demonstration.”

  I presumed then that piddling wasn’t the kitten’s forte.

  Fiona revealed the rubber mouse behind her back right before she squeaked it, and when she did, Fraidy Cat screamed like a banshee.

  I jumped; I was so startled by the sheer volume in the capacious sound. “I can’t believe that came from such a tiny kitten. Did it sound like she screamed a lengthy version of my name?”

  “See? That’s what I thought the first time I heard her,” Aunt Fiona said. “She’s all vocal cords, that one, the only kitten in the litter who is. Come to think of it, I’ve never heard a cat like her. When I got home last night, I scared her, caught the echo of your name, and knew she’d be perfect for you. Now I’m sure of it. She can be more than a watch cat; she can be your charm against negativity. When you feel nervous, stressed, or edgy, just pick her up, and she’ll restore you to balance and well-being. I shouldn’t be surprised. You gave me her mother when you went away to school in Manhattan. I’m glad you’re back, but ticked that when you finally come home, there’s a strangler on the loose.”

  “I haven’t left New York for good,” I said. But I wanted to, I didn’t say. I snuggled the yellow kitten against my neck. “I need to name her. I was thinking about something to do with her yellow color like Citrine, but what do you think about Chakra, given her attributes?”

  “Her attributes are yours alone, don’t forget.”

  “Is that significant?”

  “I think so, and you may agree with me . . . someday.”

  “I like both names,” I said.

  Fiona scratched the kitten behind an ear. “Then give the tiny little fur ball a name bigger than she is.” She grinned. “Chakra Citrine.”

  “Given the names of the Cutler children, I should probably call her Dandelion Wine, after the wine my mother always made.”

  Fiona coughed. “Somehow, I don’t think your father would appreciate that.”

  “I suppose, and I like Chakra Citrine Cutler much better.”

  “Your father will love her.”

  “Not. And you know it, but you take a perverse delight in annoying him, don’t you?”

  “Hey, I’m old. Annoying Harry is how I get my kicks. Cheesecake?”

  I looked at my plate, surprised to find it empty. “I’d love some.”

  “Aunt Fiona. It sounds to me that annoying my father is how you get his attention.”

  She made a self-mocking sound. “If that’s what I’m doing,” she said, “shame on me for taking so long. I should drum myself out of Men Chasers Anonymous.”

  “Then you are trying to get his attention?”

  “No. Maybe. Can I get back to you on that one, too?”

  ’Nuff said. I brought our dirty dishes to the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher. “Can I go up to the garage apartment when we’re done? I’d like to grab some of my vintage summer clothes, maybe look through Mom’s things. It’s been so long.”

  Aunt Fee took a key from her kitchen drawer. “Keep it while you’re home. I’m going out later, but it’s the key to all my doors, so you can come back for Chakra Citrine before you leave.”

  “You lock your doors?”

  “I do now. It’s the twenty-first century. You can’t be too careful. Even in Mystick Falls.”

  I thought of last night’s murder with a shiver. “It’s true but sad.”

  “And it’s frightening.”

  “Hey, I’m a New Yorker; I’m always ready for the worst.” Well, until I found a dead body in my childhood home, I amended in my head.

  Half an hour later, from the apartment over Aunt Fiona’s garage, I heard the crunch of gravel in the drive as she left. I hadn’t told her that the apartment had no electricity, because I didn’t want to make her late for her appointment. I simply left the door open at the top of the stairs to let in the sun.

  Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about it, but under the murderous circumstances, I slipped my pepper spray from my purse into my pocket . . . in Mystick Falls, no less.

  I broke open a preservation box of my mother’s clothes, knowing it was time, and in a way, I felt her presence as I did.

  I hadn’t realized that her taste in clothes mimicked Sherry’s. Wispy and whimsical. I needed more whimsy in my life, I thought. I could take a lesson from them.

  A whiff of White Shoulders, my mom’s favorite perfume, made me look up. “Mom?”

  No, of course not. Maybe that was her way of telling me she agreed with me. “Okay,” I said. “I understand. More whimsy for Madeira.”

  I wrapped a trapeze dress—that I clearly remembered her wearing—around my neck like a shawl and held it to my face, my eyes closed as I tried for another vision, a peek at my mother alive again, the way I’d seen the illusory bride in the Vancortland wedding gown, but nothing happened. Yet I sensed Mom behind me, looking over my shoulder.

  One way or another, I wasn’t alone, and I took comfort in that.

  I opened box after box and still no vision of Mom.

  Disappointed, sleepy, full of cheesecake, and yearning for a glimpse of the past, I sipped the iced tea I’d brought up with me and sat beside the vintage treasures my father didn’t know I owned. I’d better give him a heads-up when I decided to wear one of my mother’s outfits. He thinks I gave them to charity, and I did. I donated them to the Madeira Cutler Vintage Clothing Foundation.

  I’d been keeping them here at Aunt Fiona’s with two antique Singer sewing machines and every other vintage outfit I’d bought over the years. Truth was, I’d probably mailed her a box a month, but only because I’d been very choosy.

  Sorting through an old sewing machine drawer, a favorite pastime, I found bobbins, a thimble in a tiny glass shoe, wooden spools of thread, assorted needles, bone crochet hooks, a zipper foot, a strawberry pincushion, a bodkin for running ribbon through lace, and a darning egg.

  I stopped stirring the delightful treasures when I heard a stair creak, a second . . . a third . . . footsteps coming slowly and ominously close to the landing. I put the drawer down.

  Any of our neighbors would have called to Aunt Fiona or started talking halfway up the stairs.

  This was no neighbor.

  I slipped the mace from my pocket and crawled behind a sewing machine not far from the door, but I had to shade my eyes from the sun to see.

  Quick as a sneak, a man appeared on the landing, gun raised.

  Ten

  In difficult times fashion is always outrageous.

  —ELSA SCHIAPARELLI

  The gunman hadn’t spotted me. I elbowed the sewing machine so he’d look my way, and the minute he did, I maced him. A perfect stream for a dead hit, square between the eyes.

  His gun clattered to the floor.

  He followed it down.

  His scream terrified me, until my wits returned, and then I was really terrified, because I recognized his voice.

  Macing an assailant gave you time to run, and run I did, straight to the bathroom for a cool, wet towel.

  Laboring to take a breath, the Wiener sat on the landing, his beefy hands covering his closed, swelling eyes. They must burn like hell. The ugly burgundy blotches growing by the second around his hands told the tale.

  He couldn’t see me, so I could jump over him and run, but he’d figure out who maced him, eventually, if not when he talked to Fiona.

  On the other hand, would he want to admit that he’d been maced?

  I fought to remove his hands from his face and failed, but managed to wedge the dripping cloth beneath them.

  Surprised, he embraced the cooling balm. “Thank you,” he said, congested and coughing up a lung. “Did you see who”—hack, hack, fur ball, hack—“did this to me?”

  I huffed. “Aren’t you supposed to announce yourself when you aim a gun into a private residence?”

  My victim swore beneath his breath, the wet hand towel muffl
ing his exact words, but I knew that at least three of them weren’t “duck.”

  “I wasn’t holding a gun,” he muttered, searching the landing with his free hand, the other plastering the towel to his face. He found his weapon and opened his palm for me to see it.

  “A trigger nozzle for a hose,” he said, stating the obvious. “Pure bluff. I grabbed it off the newel post at the base of the stairs. Attorney Sullivan wasn’t home, and the open door made me suspicious. There’ve been a few robberies in the neighborhood lately.” He sighed. “Madeira Cutler, experience tells me that you’re my assailant.”

  I said nothing.

  “You might as well admit it.”

  “I come from New York!” I raised my voice in my own defense, my hands fisted, my fight-or-flight response deeply ingrained in the moment.

  Werner stood as well, like a sloppy drunk, disoriented, stumbling, and reaching blindly. If he fell on me, he’d crush me; he was that big.

  I shouldn’t give him any ideas. I took another step back. “We’ve had enough murder in Mystick Falls,” I said. “I’m outta here.”

  “Madeira, wait. I can’t see. You have the advantage. Don’t go. I’m not angry. I’ve come to expect a certain . . . aggravation . . . around you.”

  “Aggravation?”

  “Like fingernails across a chalkboard,” he said, “slicing deep into my flesh.”

  “I see.”

  “May I have another cold cloth? The pepper spray warmed this one.”

  “I don’t know where to find another. Let me refresh that one.”

  When he handed it to me, I saw the area around his eyes for the first time and remembered what type of spray I’d bought last fall. A burst of hysterical laughter escaped before I could clamp my lips together and cut off the sound.

  “What?” he asked, stumbling over the threshold into the apartment, attempting to feel his way around the room.

  “Stop!” I shouted.

  He did. “Why?”

  “Because the place is full of valuable vintage clothing and I don’t want you to get blue dye on any of it.”

  The Wiener’s jaw fell open. He turned to the wall he’d been using as a guide, fell slowly forward, bowed his head, and banged it. “Why? Why? Why?” A whack for every “why.”

  “It’s a nice electric blue,” I said, which didn’t help at all.

  The Wiener growled—well, he made a sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper. “The last time I saw a perp come in with a face this color, he stayed blue for three days.”

  “Blue perps are supposed to be easier for the cops to find.”

  “Police, not cops! Madeira, you were born to be the thorn in my side.”

  “The? You mean I’m your only thorn?”

  “Yeah. Snort. My one and only.”

  “Why, thank you, Lytton. I’m honored. I think your perp probably stayed blue because he didn’t bathe. There’s a shower up here. Do you want to try giving your face a soapy wash beneath a stream of cool water?”

  He relaxed and nodded at the wall. “I’d be eternally grateful.”

  Maybe I’d sprayed him for a bit too long?

  “Which way to the shower? Walking blue-faced into the station,” he muttered, “would be worse than overcoming the name Wiener for half my life.”

  Heat rose up my neck and burned my cheeks—poetic justice at its finest—so I took the Wiener by the hand and led him toward the bathroom, making a wide detour around my treasures.

  In the tiny afterthought of a bathroom, too intimate by far, the Wiener suddenly seemed taller and broader. I used his hand to pat the shower stall door and shut him inside the small room.

  “Where’s the light switch?” he called.

  “There’s no electricity,” I yelled back, “but you’re blind anyway.”

  I heard another “duck,” some Wiener-meets-the-wall encounters, a clearly stubbed toe, and a few more “ducks” before the peaceful sound of running water.

  Nick walked in. “Hey, ladybug.”

  Scrap! “What are you doing here?”

  “Nice welcome. But I have news.”

  “What kind of news?” I whispered.

  “I’ve got a lead on Jasmine. Our medical examiner went to school with the Mystick Falls med—”

  “Shh. Shh. Let’s go out to the stoop.” I tried to push Nick out the door.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, taking me in his arms and forcing me to stop pushing him away. “You smell sweet, like . . .”

  “Orange blossoms, honeysuckle, and sandalwood? It’s Red, my perfume. You’ve got a great nose for a Fed.”

  He cupped my bottom. “You’ve got a great as—”

  “Ask and you shall receive?”

  “If you’re offering, I’m asking.”

  He smelled good, too. Too good. “Are you wearing Ultraviolet Man?”

  “Yep!”

  Yum. I was a sucker for ambergris, so sensual and manly.

  Nick pulled me close for a hot and hungry kiss. I fell into it without my own permission, yet every nerve in my body sang.

  “Does this place have a bedroom?” he whispered against my lips.

  “Mmm.”

  “Lead the way.”

  I opened my eyes. “The way?” Past the bathroom. Down, girl. Get a grip. I stepped back and tried not to inhale seduction. Also tried not to listen to my libido: More Nick, more Nick, my body sang. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the off-again half of our relationship. You slept on my sofa bed last night. Didn’t that give you a clue?”

  “Ladybug, we’re spending all this time together, and you’re so hot, and I’m so—”

  “Horny? In lust. Deep like?” I suggested.

  “Attracted, physically, emotionally, and intellectually, so I thought we’d be on-again sooner rather than later.”

  My body said, “Yes!” My brain said, “Not now!”

  I tried pushing. He tried pulling. My body ended up plastered to his. Have mercy. I stepped back. “Later,” I said. “Now let’s go outside. This is no time to be spontaneous.”

  “You like spontaneous. Isn’t that what we’re all about?”

  “Maddie,” the Wiener called. “I can’t find a towel.”

  Nick stilled. “What the hell?”

  I started toward the bathroom, but Nick passed me and went in.

  I turned my back, so I wouldn’t see anything wiener-like.

  “Hey!” Werner shouted. “I’m naked in here.”

  “And colorful,” Nick said. “Here’s your towel.”

  After Nick came out, I opened my mouth to explain, but I didn’t have to.

  “Did you mace him?” he whispered, his shoulders shaking.

  I nodded and firmed my lips. I am not proud. I am not amused. I am a lowly thorn who—at the end of the day—owes some loyalty to its personal puncture device.

  I took a large sip of my tea to keep my lips occupied and unsmiling, but mirth tightened my throat. Restraint became difficult. I couldn’t even swallow.

  One look at Nick’s grin, and I lost the fight, laughed, and spit tea in his face.

  “Argh.”

  When Werner emerged from the bathroom, his face a nice pale blue, he found Nick wiping his own face with an old quilt square.

  “What’d she do, mace you, too?” Werner asked.

  “Iced tea,” Nick said. “All over my libido.”

  That made the Wiener grin. “Nice to hear I’m not her only target.”

  “Hel-lo, I’m here. And I’m busy, in case you haven’t noticed. Take your toxic testosterone, the both of you, and go away.”

  “Busy?” Werner asked, eyeing the disarray of overflowing preservation boxes. “Busy doing what? Opening a branch of the Salvation Army?”

  “Hey, mock all you want, but you’d be surprised at the prime vintage you can find at Sal’s.”

  Nick furrowed his brows. “Why do you keep buying vintage and parking it here?”

  “Instinct?” I suggested, not s
ure myself.

  The Wiener gave us a double take, his surprise landing on me. “You paid money for this junk?”

  “It’s not junk. It’s vintage.”

  My off-again . . . forever and my personal puncture device with a death wish gave each other a “women . . . can’t ignore ’em, can’t score without ’em” glance.

  I wanted to smack them both for good measure. “See the shoes I’m wearing? They’re Manolos.”

  “Is that like Rolos?” Werner asked.

  “Consider that a freebie, Lytton, since I owe you one.”

  “Two. You owe me two. Big ones. Huge. Gargantuan.”

  “Whatever. This is you, now robin’s-egg blue and half paid off. Live with it.”

  Lytton raised questioning hands Nick’s way. “Why do I feel as if I’ve been screwed and not in a good way?”

  “She’s no lightweight. Don’t mess with her. She’ll pin you to the mat.”

  “My hero!” I snapped, trying without success to herd them out the door. “My point is that these shoes sold retail for eight hundred ninety-five dollars but I got them at a vintage shop in the Village for two hundred dollars.”

  “Mystic Village?” Nick asked.

  “No, dinosaur brain. Greenwich Village, New York.”

  He picked up a one-piece, bell-bottom playsuit. “Psychedelic orange? You? A famous designer? Bought this?”

  “Faline is the famous designer. I’m her head assistant. But that’s not the point.”

  I picked up the Day-Glo orange playsuit and held it to my heart. “This was my mother’s. I kept her clothes after she died, and now they’re vintage. Then I bought more vintage. Fiona helped me get everything preserved.”

  Nick raised a brow. “Preserved . . . until?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  Werner looked interested. “So you’d sell them cheap, because they’re secondhand?”

  Sell them? “No, the laws of supply and demand apply especially well to quality vintage. The fewer number of designer outfits or accessories made, the more valuable they become. These shoes are a recent Blahnik design. I could have bought them uptown for full price, so they’re a bad example.”