Marry Christmas Murder

Book 5: Wedding Planner Mystery

by Stephanie Blackmoore

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Professional wedding planner Mallory is attempting to plan Olivia’s perfect wedding. She's dreaming of a white Christmas—as in a white wedding gown and all the trimmings. But that’s not the only event that’s keeping everyone busy. Olivia’s family is in real-estate development, and they’re sponsoring Paws and Poinsettias—a benefit for the Port Quincy animal shelter. Meanwhile, Mallory’s mom wants to use her daughter’s connection to snag a job staging homes for the company...and the current stager is not filled with holiday cheer at the news that she might be replaced.

When the endangered employee downs some antifreeze-spiked punch at a party, Mallory has a murder to solve—among other mysteries including a missing cat, a toy-drive heist, and a baby found in a manger thirty years earlier.

Release date: September 24, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

“I’m at the airport, Mallory. Please come get me.” I felt a rueful smile on my face as I heard the trill of excitement in my mother’s voice.

“Very funny, Mom. You were here just a couple of weeks ago at Thanksgiving.”

I wasn’t due for a visit from my sweet but meddling mother until a few days before Christmas. It was only the first week of December, and I wondered what had put her in a joking mood. I gazed at the kitchen of my B and B, tucked atop a hill in Port Quincy, Pennsylvania. I soaked up the holiday milieu. A skinny, flocked tree, one of seven in the mansion, stood attention in the corner of the room. This specimen was the most casual Christmas tree of the bunch, decorated with all the handmade ornaments my sister Rachel and I had crafted in our youth. There were misshapen snowmen and snaggletooth angels, fuzzy reindeer, and glittery pinecones, all lovingly made by our small hands a few decades ago. Hundreds of red and green twinkle lights blinked back at me in merry rounds. The sweet, piquant smell of cardamom cookies baking vied for olfactory attention with the sharp scent of evergreens from the garland hanging above the window seat. The ledge overlooking the back porch was filled with a dozen candles in silver, red, and gold. Their electric flames cast a warm glow against the frosted glass. The MP3 player on the island blasted out a stream of Motown Christmas hits. All was calm, all was bright. December was my favorite time of year, and I was making the most of it.

My mother snapped me back to reality. “I have news. We finally sold our house! Your stepfather and I are moving to Port Quincy immediately. That is, right now.”

She’s one hundred percent serious.

The neat row of cardamom cookie men and women I’d just retrieved from the oven slid to the ground, where many met a crispy death on the black-and-white checkered floor, broken into cookie smithereens. I managed to rescue a few with my oven-mitted hands, stifling my yelp. I nervously bit into one of the cardamom army’s brethren that hadn’t perished on the floor. The cookie was delicious, and noshing on the crispy little confection gave me a certain satisfaction. Talking to my mother Carole sometimes reduced me to stress eating.

I placed the portable phone on the island so she couldn’t hear me chew. My sister, Rachel, breezed into the room and glanced at the caller ID feature. She pushed the speaker button, a smirk lighting up her pretty face.

I was distracted by my sister’s getup. She wore a red velvet jumpsuit, complete with bell-shaped sleeves and a daringly cut neckline. Her feet were ensconced in gold high-heeled boots, and she completed her look with glittery red earrings nearly swishing to her shoulders. Her caramel waves were perched atop her head in a jaunty genie ponytail, and one brow was arched, a silent question begging me to fill her in on our mother’s call.

I should have known when the phone rang it would be my mother. I’d recently installed a landline so my guests at the B and B would have an infallible way to contact me without dealing with the vagaries of cell phone outages. So far the only callers had been random telemarketers ignoring the line’s unlisted status. The only other person who had the number was my mother, for use in case of emergency.

And Mom moving to Port Quincy definitely classifies as an emergency.

I loved my mother dearly. Don’t get me wrong. But she was a bit of a meddler, and we’d had a fantastic relationship these past few years since she and my stepdad retired to the Emerald Coast of Florida. We’d see each other about four times a year, catch up and reminisce, and I’d be treated to a healthy dose of unsolicited advice. I thought she’d been half joking about moving to my adopted hometown of Port Quincy. Rachel and I assumed she and my stepfather would opt for their old stomping grounds in Pittsburgh, a safe and pleasant two hours away.

“Mallory, this isn’t a joke. Come get us!” My mom’s voice resonated around the room via speaker, a little shrill at having been ignored. Rachel jumped back, nearly dropping her own cardamom figure, this one a squat snowman. She testily bit off his hat and sent a sigh toward the phone on the island.

The airport west of Pittsburgh was hours away. I felt myself growing a bit testy.

“I’d love to pick you up, Mom. But I have an appointment in . . .” I glanced at my watch, “fifteen minutes.” I did have a business to run.

But I couldn’t tamp down an undeniable thread of amusement. I giggled that of course my mother would hop on a Southwest flight from Pensacola post haste in a bid to get started on her move ASAP. She didn’t do anything by half measures.

My stepfather drily explained my mother’s hastiness. “I realize this is short notice, girls. But your mother believes all the good houses currently for sale in Port Quincy will be snatched up if she waits any longer.”

My mother had a keen interest in real estate, having been a stager before she retired. Rachel and I exchanged a glance and shrug.

“Fine. We’ll just rent a car. I thought my only daughters would be more excited.” My mother delivered her speech with a healthy dose of petulance. I heard Doug soothing her in the background. I felt myself soften by degrees.

“It’s not that we’re not excited! We are.” I glanced at my sister, who nodded vigorously, despite my parents not being able to see her gesture over the phone. Her long, sparkly red earrings clanged against her shoulders.

“It’ll be so fun to see you all the time rather than just holidays,” Rachel chimed in. Then my mom had to go and ruin all the warm fuzzies we’d just cultivated.

“I hear you munching on something, young lady. You need to watch your figure and keep the interest of that fellow of yours!” My mother’s voice of censure rippled through the air, and I stopped mid-bite, another half-eaten cardamom figure momentarily spared. Rachel tried unsuccessfully to tamp down her giggles. I was simultaneously annoyed at my mother’s antiquated views on my cookie consumption and my figure, while also being amused at her use of the word fellow to describe my boyfriend, Garrett. That’s how it usually was when I interacted with Carole, a confusing mix of annoyance and appreciation. Rachel and I said our goodbyes and waited three seconds to start laughing.

“No doubt it’ll be a blast to have Mom here for the holidays.” I removed a second tray of crispy cookies and slid them more carefully onto a cooling rack.

Rachel nodded her agreement and plucked a jaunty soldier from the rack. She blew a stream of air onto the cookie and popped it into her mouth.

It would be a treat to spend the whole month of December together rather than the short visit she’d booked for the week of Christmas Eve through New Year’s Day. It was the one time of year my sister and I had refused to book a single wedding. We had a few events to throw, but nothing major. And no one did Christmas like my mother. Not that she would have much help to lend in the decorating arena. The mansion was already decked out from top to bottom. I hadn’t let Christmas influence me prior to Thanksgiving, but as soon as the sun rose on Black Friday, all bets were off. When others were rising at dawn to score deals on gifts, Rachel and I tore around Thistle Park with boxes of greenery, tinsel, and mistletoe.

The spirit of the season was woven into the very fabric of the mansion. And I owed my zest for the holiday season to my mother Carole. She had made the winter holidays extra special for my sister and me because that’s when our father had left. I tamped down a wince of pain, remembering presents under the tree, but no dad. My mother had gone into typical decorator overdrive that December to stamp out the indelible mark made by my father’s absence. She’d drowned us kids in ribbons, tinsel, cookies, and Christmas tunes to numb the pain and redirect our attention. It had almost worked. Little by little, year by year, the sorrow subsided. A tradition that had been born of sadness morphed into a joyful, boisterous, over-the-top celebration.

Our B and B bore that familial legacy. Green twinkle lights winked each evening from the trees and shrubs surrounding Thistle Park. Stately candles lit each window, and giant twin wreaths with cardinals nestled within the boughs greeted visitors at the double front doors. We’d woven fresh and artificial garlands through the spokes of the grand staircase. A massive tree, nearly worthy of a White House lawn, stood sentinel in the front hall. It was decorated with glass ornaments fashioned in the factory owned by the family that had originally built the mansion. While the trees outside of the B and B and the one in the front hall were tasteful and traditional, the other six scattered about the mansion were kitschy and fun. Rachel and I had holiday music blasting in our third-floor apartment, and we reveled in the season and the tradition our mother had cultivated for us.

Still, a tiny frisson of doubt nestled between my shoulder blades at the thought of my mom and stepdad taking up permanent residence in Port Quincy. I’d gotten into some crazy situations over the past few years, and my mom was the empress of worry and catastrophizing. It was easier to allay her fears and concerns from afar.

Rachel seemed to channel my thoughts and let out a breath with an audible gust. “It will be interesting when Mom and Doug are here all the time.”

I gulped.

Make that forever.

I glanced at my watch and confirmed we had a few minutes before our appointment. There was no time to ruminate, as we had a planning meeting to attend. My sister and I did a 180-degree turn and focused our attention on the pastel parade that would be my best friend Olivia’s spring wedding. Last night Rachel and I had finished up our presentation of ideas on my tablet. I’d recently switched from using heavy, tactile idea books to share planning ideas with couples and their families. The tablet was sleek and efficient, but I still gathered a neat and tidy bundle of fabric swatches for brides and family members to examine. I didn’t want them to miss out on personally examining all of the small touches. It was fun to observe their faces lighting up as they brushed their fingers over luxe fabrics with surprising textures, whether rich brocade or slippery silk. But I had to admit I didn’t miss ferrying around the heavy tomes I used to use, the massive three-ring binders groaning with sketches and swatches. Couples still got to experience a glimpse of the styling of their big day with precise place settings at wedding tastings, their five senses stimulated with a representative meal.

And that was the experience I’d designed for Olivia and her family. I swelled with pride as Rachel and I ferried minute portions of a meal perfect for the springtime feast Olivia and her fiancé, Toby, had requested. We’d assembled a cucumber, citrus, and dill roulade for the salad course. Next was ginger mahi-mahi with grilled root vegetables for the main dish, followed by a citrus-and-berry angel food wedding cake. The food and theme seemed somewhat discordant, all light and effervescent springtime amidst the explosion of evergreens and cheery Christmas decorations, while outside the chilly wind whipped around the grounds. But we’d suspend disbelief and be transported to a sneak preview of Olivia and Toby’s big day. We placed the dishes on the sideboard in my office and awaited our guests.

The doorbell clanged, and I ushered in Olivia’s parents and grandparents. Olivia’s mother, Goldie March, was as quiet and dignified as always. Her dark hair was done in a sophisticated chignon, her brown turtleneck sweater dress subdued and refined. Olivia’s father, Alan, was more animated. The tall man gave me an affable hug, his wire-frame glasses slipping down his nose, his gray hair perfectly coiffed.

“Goldie? Like Goldie Hawn?” Rachel’s smile faltered when Olivia’s mom dropped her hand like a hot coal. Mrs. March may have shared her name with the celebrity, but her affect and style were the antithesis of Ms. Hawn’s. Goldie March was buttoned up and staid.

“Yes,” Goldie admitted, her face somewhat dour. “It’s short for Marigold. We have a tradition of botanical names for the women in our family.”

I hadn’t met Olivia’s grandparents and smiled at the older couple who emerged behind Goldie.

“I’m Clementine March, Olivia’s grandma.” The woman before me shrugged off her sporty, silver parka and hood with a flourish. She had pretty silver hair, cut in a short, spiky style. I blinked in the light of the hall’s chandelier and realized the tips of each spike had been dyed a vibrant green. Somehow Clementine March avoided looking like an exotic southwest cactus and had landed in the territory of bold, grandma chic. Large diamond studs twinkled in her ears. The rest of her attire was understated, close-fitting black exercise garb.

“Clementine! I had no idea you were Olivia’s grandmother!” Rachel squealed and rushed forward to exchange air kisses with the older woman, who dispensed with formalities and gave my sister a hearty hug. “Clementine is my favorite yoga instructor at Bodies in Motion.”

“And Rachel is my best student!” Clementine bestowed a fond look on my sister. Both women were tall, and their styles were similarly bold. Clementine had finished her all black, beat poet yoga getup with blinking Christmas light earrings. My sister and Olivia’s grandmother were two peas in a pod, style wise.

“And I’m Olivia’s grandpa, Rudy March.” The most arresting guest of all shrugged off a large Sherpa coat. He took in the bird chandelier, a fixture formed of concentric rings of glass birds chasing each other around and around. He next scanned the colossal Christmas tree and let out a low whistle.

I felt like doing the same. He was the spitting image of a Norman Rockwell Santa Claus, complete with a shiny bald head, thinning white hair, a voluminous snowy beard, tiny spectacles, and a jolly affect. The man looked like he’d just come to life and walked off a holiday edition Coca-Cola can.

Rachel and I hung up our guests’ coats in the small vestibule to the left of the door. We ushered Olivia’s family into our shared office and took seats on the poofy chintz and striped furniture arrayed around a low, walnut oval table. And we began our wait for the bride.

She’s not going to show.

Half an hour later, we’d run out of polite chitchat to sustain our guests.

“Oh, let’s just get on with it,” Clementine announced. She gestured with her green-tipped manicure to the food on the sideboard. “Olivia obviously isn’t coming.”

“You know how hard she’s working in her final push to make partner.” Alan frowned at his mother-in-law as he defended his absent daughter. “I’m sure she has a good reason for not being here.”

And on cue, my cell phone buzzed with a text from the bride.

“Something has come up at the firm,” I murmured. Olivia and I had met at the high-powered law firm where we’d both once been starry-eyed associates. I’d lasted half a decade at Russell Carey before decamping to become a wedding planner. Olivia had stuck out the grind of corporate litigation with its long hours and pressure-cooker atmosphere. She was on the cusp of making partner this winter. I knew her excuse was one hundred percent legitimate and no fault of her own, if not ill timed.

“Sorry I’m late.” The groom-to-be ducked into the room, a warm smile gracing his handsome face. Toby Frank, a tall redhead, was just as busy as his fiancée. Toby was a surgeon at the McGavitt-Pierce Memorial Hospital in town, and his work and shifts on call made his attendance at this wedding meeting just as unlikely as his busy bride’s.

“I’m sorry my mom couldn’t make it. She’s got a trial she thought would wrap up yesterday.” Toby’s mother, Ursula Frank, was Port Quincy’s most notorious judge, a woman who was fair and honest, but fierce in her decisiveness both on and off the court.

“Well, both women with careers in law are absent today.” Clementine subtly drew censure at her granddaughter and gave a pointed gaze at the large cuckoo clock in the corner. With the groom in attendance, we began our meeting.

Olivia’s family and fiancé gave appreciative murmurs as they tucked into the springtime menu.

“This will be lovely for our daughter’s April nuptials.” Goldie’s pronouncement was tinged with as much excitement as her buttoned-up demeanor allowed. I began my presentation of ideas on the tablet, and smiled as Clementine donned a pair of sparkly green reading glasses to better see the screen.

“That’s the March family dress!” The older woman beamed with delight as a photograph of herself, then one of Goldie, slid onto the screen. “Each woman in our family has worn the gown since the turn of the last century.” Clementine frowned. “But Olivia is quite small boned. The dress will need to be cut down.”

“And we’ll have plenty of time before April to do so,” I soothed. I finished the presentation, and Olivia’s family chatted excitedly about the wedding.

“I’m sorry to cut and run.” Toby stood and glanced at his heavy nautical watch. “I’m on call soon, and I’d like to be a bit closer to the hospital with the roads growing slick.” He gestured outside, where a fine sheet of sleet slithered down from leaden clouds. “Give Olivia my love.” He offered his future in-laws a winning smile, asked me for directions to the bathroom, and ducked into the hallway.

Clementine waited a moment before he was gone. “I knew Olivia would put that career of hers ahead of her wedding.” She held up her hand as Alan began to protest. “I know she has no choice. And I’m as proud as anyone that she’ll make partner. But this is a special time in her life, and her absence, well, it’s a bit telling.”

I tamped down a similar feeling and took a deep breath. I’d been so pumped when my best friend had excitedly tasked me with planning her big day. I’d introduced her to Toby and had a hunch the two would be a perfect match. They’d agreed and had gotten engaged in lightning-quick fashion. But I’d conveniently forgotten that as long as Olivia worked for Russell Carey, her allegiance was to the firm, first and foremost.

I recalled trying to plan my own defunct wedding to my ex-fiancé Keith, all while striving to be a model associate. We didn’t marry, but it had been an exercise in extreme multitasking to try to pull off planning a wedding while working eighty hours a week. Olivia was on the precipice of making partner, and I had to excuse her absence today.

Goldie and Clementine must have read my mind.

“She won’t be able to keep up these hours when she’s wed,” Clementine sniffed. “She ought to take up a second career, like my yoga. Then she could be an attentive wife and eventually a mother—all while feeling personally fulfilled.”

Her daughter Goldie rolled her dark brown eyes so forcefully they nearly ricocheted out of her head. “Come on, Mother. Olivia’s worked so hard for this. And Toby understands more than anyone else could, for Pete’s sake. He’s gone at the hospital just as much as she’s at the firm.”

“Which is why she needs to leave that horrid place and relocate to Port Quincy. There’s no way her new marriage can withstand a long commute to Pittsburgh each day on top of working such inhospitable hours.”

She has a point.

I’d wondered how Olivia and Toby would rearrange their lives after their wedding in the spring. As of now, the busy careerists saw each other on weekends only. Olivia had made no mention of cutting back on billable hours or moving south to Port Quincy. And Toby seemed quite committed to remaining at the hospital, unless something had recently changed.

“Will Toby be taking the March name?” Rudy stroked his white beard from his perch on a rose love seat. I did another double take, expecting to see a red hat atop his head to complete his Santa affect. “It’s important for our family legacy. At least their children could carry it on.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen this time, Rudy.” Alan drily arched a brow above his wire-framed rims and threw back the last of the scotch he’d been consuming. I realized with a start he must have taken on the March surname, as he shared it with his wife’s parents.

I hadn’t heard any cars advance down the drive. I hoped Toby hadn’t stuck around to hear any of the current conversation.

“Well, one thing’s for sure.” Clementine folded her green-tipped manicured fingers together. “Mallory, since Olivia won’t be an active participant planning her own wedding, I think it’s time to deputize you to make all of the choices.”

I gulped as the rest of the attendees swiveled their gazes in my direction. Little did they know Olivia had made a similar request of me just a mere week ago.

“Absolutely not!” Twin spots of pink appeared on Goldie’s cheekbones. “This is Olivia’s big day. I’m sure she can find time to make a few key decisions.” Goldie shot her mother a glare and sank into her wingback chair with arms crossed.

I felt myself grimace and quickly made my expression neutral. If this was the kind of atmosphere Olivia faced within her family, maybe it was better that she cast her lot with the hostile climes of my former law firm. It might be safer for her to reside there than bask in the cruel rays of her mother and grandmother’s dueling expectations.

I swallowed and waded into the fray. “It might be necessary to make some decisions to keep the ball rolling. And if Olivia—”

“Good. And now let’s turn to the auction.” Clement. . .