Something Borrowed, Something Mewed

Book 5: Lucky Paws Petsitting Mystery

by Bethany Blake

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Female Sleuths; Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

Daphne Templeton's sister Piper is getting married-and their mother is getting carried away. She insists on hiring Sylvan Creek's top event planner, Abigail Sinclair, who proposes an Independence Day theme complete with Statue of Liberty-inspired bridesmaid dresses. With all the bickering among the families, Daphne's glad her only duty right now is pet-sitting for Abby's cat, Ms. Peebles. But there are some fireworks coming that aren't part of the ceremony. The Poconos will never be the same . . .

At a tension-filled dress fitting, the abrasive wedding planner is found strangled by a garter-a weapon both borrowed and blue. Now Daphne's services are required not just for organizing the big day, but for figuring out whether one of the in-laws is an outlaw . . .

Release date: May 28, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

As June rolled toward July in the quaint, pet-centric town of Sylvan Creek, Pennsylvania, the whole community rallied to prepare for the annual weeklong Wags ’n Flags celebration of our nation’s independence, a tradition that dated back farther than even the oldest old-timers could remember.

As always, the balcony of the historic Sylvan Creek Hotel was draped with old-fashioned bunting, the gazebo in Pettigrew Park was strung with red, white and blue lights, and nearly every storefront featured patriotic, often pet-related displays, like the one at Fetch! pet emporium, where owner Tessie Flinchbaugh had dressed her shop mascot, a life-sized plush Irish wolfhound, exactly like Uncle Sam, right down to his cottony beard.

Unfortunately, the patriotic decor was being carried a bit too far at one local Pocono Mountains establishment: the mansion that housed Artful Engagements & Events, where, for better or for worse, my sister, Piper Templeton, was holding her wedding rehearsal dinner on the night before her marriage.

The ceremony, which would unite my sensible veterinarian sibling and her compatibly pragmatic, sweater-vest-loving fiancé, Roger Berendt, had originally been planned for October. However, the date had changed when Roger, a professor at nearby Wynton University, was offered a last-minute opportunity to guest lecture for the fall term at Manchester University—in England, not New Hampshire.

Deciding they’d rather start their temporary long-distance relationship as husband and wife, instead of postponing the wedding until Roger returned in late December, the two had announced that they would tie the knot in early July, right before Roger left for Europe, where he would have just a few weeks to settle in and prepare to teach.

As Piper’s maid of honor, I was scrambling to help plan the nuptials, which was a challenge, given that my pet-sitting business, Daphne Templeton’s Lucky Paws, was booked solid, and my bakery for pets, Flour Power, had just been commissioned to bake three hundred cookies shaped like hot dogs and flags for the annual dog-friendly Fourth of July All Paws on Deck Rowboat Regatta on Lake Wallapawakee.

I probably should’ve been happy that Piper’s and my mother, Realtor Maeve Templeton, had teamed up with Roger’s mom, Beverly Berendt, to bring in reinforcements, in the form of wedding planner Abigail Sinclair, of Artful Engagements. But as I stood with Piper and my best friend and fellow bridesmaid Moxie Bloom in the heart of Abigail’s garden, where she often hosted catered affairs, I couldn’t help thinking that Abigail had gone a tiny bit overboard, like half the costumed dogs in the regatta would eventually do.

“I feel like I’m an extra in Yankee Doodle Dandy!” Moxie exclaimed, gazing around the candlelit garden, where guests mingled, chatting and eating hors d’oeuvres under a canopy of American flags, which were suspended among the trees. Several wrought iron tables, clustered on a brick patio, were bursting with shiny centerpieces inspired by exploding rockets. And each chair was festooned with a big, star-spangled bow.

Even the large fountain that gurgled at the center of the lush landscaping had been decorated in patriotic fashion. A trio of once-naked cherubs, who poured water from cement casks into a wide, low basin, now wore blue-and-white sashes and top hats, while the water had been dyed a bright shade of red that was actually a little off-putting to me.

“I half expect Jimmy Cagney to come bursting in, dancing a jig to ‘You’re a Grand Old Flag’!” Moxie added, clasping her hands in front of her chest. As a fan of all things vintage, from the film she was referencing to the 1950s sleeveless cocktail dress she was wearing, Moxie was obviously delighted by the prospect of a flag-waving chorus line stomping through the shrubbery. “It’s like the musical has come to life—only with more pageantry!”

All at once, I heard a rumbling sound, very reminiscent of a groan, coming from near my feet. Looking down, I saw that my taciturn basset hound sidekick, Socrates, was hanging and shaking his big, dappled head, like he disagreed with Moxie and thought the spectacle was too much. Socrates was not a fan of ostentatious events. Nor was he happy about the fact that, as honorary “grooms-dog,” he would have to wear a bow tie during the ceremony at the stuffy Sodgrass Country Club. And, last but certainly not least, he really didn’t like mingling—especially since his “puppy love,” a poodle named Snowdrop, was home with doggy sniffles.

“This whole thing is a train wreck,” Piper said grimly, scanning the party, which was also bigger than the average rehearsal dinner. Being Sylvan Creek, where everybody knew everybody, the shindig had taken on a life of its own, and the garden was full of people and dogs, all of whom shared some sort of history with the bride, groom, and usually me.

Looking around at the guests, too, I quickly spotted Moxie’s boyfriend, groomsman Mike Cavanaugh, and his mischievous little pug, Tiny Tim, as well as Tessie and Tom Flinchbaugh, who were gathered around Roger. Although he still had a bachelor party to attend that evening, Piper’s reserved hubby-to-be already looked exhausted to be the center of attention. His smile didn’t quite reach his brown eyes, and he kept rubbing his neck, messing up the collar of his dress shirt.

“The whole thing is completely over-the-top—an overpriced scam, in Roger’s opinion,” Piper noted, as thunder echoed ominously in the distance.

“Scam” was a harsh term for a normally mild-mannered man like Roger, and I winced at the word, and at the noise from above.

“I will never understand how we got roped into having a theme wedding,” my understated sister added, picking at a plate of too-colorful canapés. Even the food, supplied by Snowdrop’s person, chef Daisy Carpenter, was on theme, and in some cases, appearance had taken priority over taste. “It makes no sense!”

“Really? You don’t know how this happened?” I asked, glancing over at the buffet, where our mother was laughing it up with Beverly—not that either of them was actually smiling. The two women eschewed wrinkle-causing expressions. Instead, they conveyed whatever mirth they felt by tossing back their heads so their matching angular bobs swung and lightly touching each other’s arms. They were also remarkably similar in terms of wardrobe. In spite of the heat, both had chosen to wear black pencil skirts and white shirts, accented with blue-and-red silk scarves—the Fourth of July, as interpreted by Ann Taylor.

“I thought they would hate each other,” Piper noted, watching them, too. “I mean, Beverly is practically a rival. And Mom crushes rivals. Yet they’ve been inseparable since the engagement party.”

“Maybe they bond over having one ‘perfect’ and one ‘wayward’ child,” I suggested, balancing my own plate and popping a cheesy wonton “firecracker” into my mouth. The appetizer—one of the less patriotic, and more tasty, choices—was aptly named. Herbed and spiced cream cheese burst out of the crisp wrapper, and I covered my mouth as I spoke. “Speaking of which, is Roger’s supposedly ‘rebellious’ sister coming tonight? Because I am dying to meet the missing bridesmaid.”

“Ooh, me too,” Moxie agreed, her green eyes glimmering with interest. As the owner of Sylvan Creek’s unique salon for people and pets, Spa and Paw, she was also the chief conduit for local gossip. “Dorinda Berendt sounds like a very intriguing person!”

“She’s a very troubled person,” Piper clarified. “And I don’t expect her to show up tonight. From what I understand, Dorinda had a run-in with Abigail when she came here to pick up her bridesmaid dress yesterday.” Piper rolled her eyes behind her wire-rimmed eyeglasses. “And don’t even get me started on those hideous things—”

“Smile, bride and company!”

For a second, I thought someone honestly wanted Piper, especially, to cheer up. Then, as Moxie took me by the shoulders and spun me around, dragging me next to her and my sister, I realized that we were about to be photographed.

Before I could even steady my plate full of tiny nibbles, a flash blinded me. And I was still blinking when Abigail’s official photographer, Laci Chalmers, turned her camera around so we could all try to see the image she’d captured.

“Talk about a ‘magical memory,’” Laci said, sounding a touch sarcastic when she alluded to the Magical Memories scrapbook that came with every Artful Engagements wedding package.

At least, Mom had touted the binder as a selling point when she’d unleashed Abigail on Piper.

“You all look marvelous,” Laci added, with a wink that said otherwise.

Moxie, who did look great, took the compliment seriously. “Why, thank you,” she said, lightly touching her hair, which she’d dyed a quirky, cool color she called “something blue.”

While not pushing any fashion boundaries, Piper also looked nice in a crisp, sleeveless sheath, so I was pretty sure Laci’s wink had been aimed at me.

In the split second before she turned the camera back around, I saw that my grayish-green eyes had been closed and my dirty-blond curls were going crazier than usual, thanks to the rising humidity. I also noted that my floral sundress, which I’d purchased at the Tuscan equivalent of a flea market, was wilting in the heat, so it looked only a notch above Laci’s fitted black T-shirt and cargo pants.

I assumed that Abigail allowed the young photographer to wear the casual outfit because Laci moved around a lot and carried a lot of gear.

Or maybe Laci was breaking the rules because she was a short-timer.

“You are shooting the wedding tomorrow, right?” Piper asked, so I knew she was thinking the same thing as me. Which was rare, given that my sensible sibling and I were complete opposites. “You’ll be there, right, Laci?”

“Only as a favor,” she said, absently rumpling her dark hair, which was cut in an extremely short pixie that accented her high cheekbones and blue eyes. “I collect my last paycheck from the wicked witch of the Poconos tonight—assuming I can pry the cash out of her grasping hands.”

Laci was grinning, but the comment was still pretty harsh, though justified.

“Lucky for you, you’re friends with my new boss, so I am happy to help out,” she added, jerking her thumb in the direction of Gabriel Graham, who was owner of and formerly sole reporter at Sylvan Creek’s Weekly Gazette.

Gabriel, whom I used to date, off and on, had his arm around his more serious girlfriend, gorgeous television executive Elyse Hunter-Black.

“Of course, we’ll pay you,” Piper promised Laci. “We don’t expect you to work for nothing!”

Laci, who had an acerbic personality that would dovetail well with Gabriel’s edgy wit, was already backing away, and she waved off the offer with a wry grin. “I’m just happy to be free of these gigs, and Abigail’s clutches, forever. This one’s on the house. In fact, my presence at the wedding, which will kill Abigail, will be payment enough!”

“Wow, no love lost between Laci and her boss,” Piper said quietly as Laci disappeared into the crowd.

“I guess not,” I answered my sister, but my attention had already shifted back to Mom and Beverly Berendt, who had their heads bent together, like different witches. Ones who might be brewing up some scheme to take over the world. Or at least dominate the local real estate market.

“What are the odds you’d marry the son of a bossy, scarf-wearing Realtor from the next town over, huh, Piper?” I mused, shaking my head. “It’s like you’re getting a double dose of Mom!”

Down by my feet, Socrates huffed softly. Given that he avoided my mother whenever possible, I suspected he was already dreading future family gatherings.

“I didn’t know Mrs. Berendt sold real estate, too,” Moxie said, sounding delighted by the terrible coincidence. She plucked a cocktail in the party’s signature colors from a tray carried by a passing server. “Where?”

Piper slipped a blueberry from a skewer that also held chunks of watermelon and feta. The appetizer was festive, and contrasted with my sister’s glum tone when she told Moxie, “Beverly has an office in Zephyr Hollow.”

“Oh, I love that town!” Moxie cried, missing the point—which was that Piper’s mother-in-law would be way too close for comfort. “It’s so artsy and weird!”

All at once, lightning flickered in the distance, drawing my attention to the darkening sky.

“Friar Tuck over there would fit right in at Zephyr Hollow,” Moxie added, seemingly apropos of nothing. But when I looked at my best friend again, I saw that she was pointing to a balding, bearded man who wore a brown robe that did appear monkish, if only because it was tied with what appeared to be a rope, albeit a colorful, decorative one. A pair of Birkenstock-style sandals added to his monastic mien.

The strange man, whom I didn’t know, stood near a rose-covered arbor, chatting with my part-time, nearly certified accountant, Fidelia Tutweiler.

Abigail’s young assistant, a dark-haired young man named Dexter Shipley, who probably shouldn’t have been mingling, rounded out the strange trio.

Shaking her head, Moxie made a tsk-tsking sound. “Too bad the monk is messing up the Yankee Doodle party with an outfit that’s totally off theme.”

“Let’s just hope he doesn’t mess up the vows,” Piper said, handing her empty plate to another passing server. “Because, believe it or not, that guy—‘Brother’ Alf Sievers, from Graystone Arches Gateway to Eternity ‘monastery’—is performing the ceremony.”

I hesitated for a long moment, not sure if I should give Piper even more reason to worry. Then I took her by the arm and said, “I really think we should talk. In private.”

However, before I could tell Piper that I knew a perhaps troubling bit of information about the man of the burlap cloth, Abigail Sinclair, who’d been absent all evening, suddenly burst onto the scene, telling me, in no uncertain terms, “Daphne Templeton! Maid of honor! I need to see you right now!”

“I’m completely booked for the next two weeks,” I told Abigail, who hadn’t summoned me for a wedding-related emergency. Rather, the imperious, forty-something event planner was trying to compel me to watch her accident-prone little cat, Ms. Peebles, starting the very next day, when Abigail, of all people, knew I’d be preoccupied. I followed her as she strode through the dark first floor of the mansion where her business was headquartered, trying to protest over the click of her four-inch stilettos. “I am really sorry, but I’m overcommitted, due to holiday travel, and I have to bake for All Paws on Deck.” All at once, I was struck by what I thought was a good idea. “Why can’t Dexter watch Ms. Peebles? He is your assistant.”

We were in a narrow corridor leading to the commercial kitchen, which glowed ahead of us, and Abigail spun to face me for a moment. “While Ms. Peebles and Dexter could do just fine, Dexter’s roles are very defined, and do not include pet care,” she said firmly. Her steely blue eyes, which made all local florists, DJs and bakers bow before her, glittered in the dim hallway. “Meanwhile, I’m sure it only takes a professional like yourself a few minutes to feed Ms. Peebles and change her litter.”

“But it’s at least a fifteen-minute drive here, each way, for me,” I pointed out, talking to the back of Abigail’s dark red sheath and sleek, blond chignon. She’d wheeled around and resumed walking. “That’s a half hour every day. And we both know that Ms. Peebles is prone to getting into trouble. It usually takes another half hour to find her, rescue her and get her calmed down.”

Abigail’s response was a dismissive waggle of her fingers, over her shoulder, as she passed into the kitchen. A big diamond I’d never noticed before glittered even more brightly than her eyes. “You’ll figure it out.”

“But . . .”

Whatever argument I’d been about to mount fizzled when I entered the softly lit room to discover Daisy Carpenter working at a huge island with a durable quartz countertop. While the room was homey, decorated in country French style, it was also oversized and equipped with restaurant-quality appliances for the various caterers who worked Abigail’s events.

“Hey, Daisy,” I said, abandoning my one-sided discussion with Abigail for a moment to greet the young woman who was practically my in-law. I was certain that, if canine marriage was ever a thing, Socrates and Snowdrop would be the first dogs to get hitched. “How’s Snowdrop feeling?”

Daisy was wiping down the countertop, which was already cleared of bowls and cutting boards, and she didn’t immediately look up. Shrugging, she said, “I think she’ll be good for the wedding tomorrow. She was eating her dinner when I left.”

“Oh, that’s a good sign,” I said. “I’ll be sure to tell Socrates, who is waiting by the gate to go home. I don’t think he could endure another social event without—”

“Daisy!” Abigail interrupted me, speaking sharply to the hired help. She opened a cupboard that I knew held keys to the mansion, no doubt retrieving the spare she always loaned me when I sat for Ms. Peebles. Like Piper, I was being steamrolled. And Daisy was being ordered around, too, without so much as a please or thank-you. “Make more of those skewers before you clean up. The platter is nearly empty!”

Daisy finally looked up, and I saw that her pretty, brown eyes were rimmed with red, like either she was sick—or she had been crying. Her slight frame, under a stained white apron, also looked a bit caved-in, as if she was feeling overwhelmed or defeated. Yet her chin jutted when she tossed down the towel, telling Abigail, “A storm is about to cut loose outside. Everyone will go home in a few minutes.”

As if on cue, lightning flickered outside a pair of French doors, briefly illuminating Daisy, a newcomer to the Sylvan Creek dining scene, and the wedding planner who, let’s face it, basically controlled the local market for catering.

Abigail’s face was stony, her mouth a thin, angry line—until Daisy spoke again, her chin still raised, if a bit shaky. “Plus, you keep holding me . . .”

All at once, Abigail’s eyes grew wide with surprise, just for a moment, before narrowing with warning.

Daisy must’ve understood the look, because she hesitated, then lost all her fire. Her shoulders caved more deeply. “Fine,” she grumbled, casting her eyes downward and grabbing the towel again. Tossing that over her shoulder, she moved to the doors. “I’ll assemble some more. But it will take a few minutes. I already packed the food in my van.”

“Do hurry, dear.” Abigail’s tone was much more conciliatory, if still imperious. I supposed she enjoyed winning small battles and getting her way. She shut the cupboard, a shiny key in her other hand. Striding over to me, she smiled as she pressed it into my palm. “And thank you for watching Ms. Peebles for the next week. You’re the only sitter who understands her.”

I suspected that I was the only person who would repeatedly stick my arm into a chimney flue to pull Ms. Peebles down. But before I could mention that, the smile disappeared from Abigail’s face, and, as thunder shook the mansion, she suddenly shifted the conversation to a topic I’d been dreading, and trying to avoid all night, for a number of reasons.

“So, Daphne,” Abigail said, crossing her arms and tapping her red nails against her crimson suit, “is Roger’s best man going to show up for the wedding? Or is your Detective Jonathan Black still missing in action?”

When the storm that had been brewing all evening finally hit, it struck with a vengeance, drenching the buffet table, which Abigail had stubbornly insisted on restocking until the bitter end, and sending the few remaining guests, who had lingered too long, running for their vehicles.

As maid of honor, I’d felt obligated to stay until nearly the last minute, although I’d bolted before a few stubborn guests. Even so, Socrates and I had endured a harrowing ride back to our home, Plum Cottage, which was located on Piper’s property, Winding Hill Farm.

By the time my pink 1970s VW Bus had slipped and slid its way up to the isolated, tiny house, tucked away in a forested part of the property, the power was out and hail was clattering on the tin roof.

Thankfully, I was well stocked with candles, and, after changing into a comfortable pair of cotton pajamas, I knelt before the arched stone fireplace, lighting enough votives and pillars to cast the room in a soft, flickering glow.

Soon, the sturdy cottage felt snug and secure, the sound of the rain and thunder joined by Socrates’ soft snores as he dozed on his favorite rug by the hearth. Yet I couldn’t shake a feeling of unease, and not only because Piper’s wedding seemed plagued by problems, from an unhappy groom to a disgruntled, “troubled” bridesmaid and a minister whom I thought was sketchy, to say the least.

I was mainly worried because I hadn’t been able to answer Abigail Sinclair’s very reasonable question regarding the whereabouts of Detective Jonathan Black, who had seemingly dropped off the face of the Earth in the days before he was supposed to serve as best man.

Shuffling to the kitchen in my favorite pair of fluffy slippers, I put the teakettle on the gas stove, then picked up my phone, which I’d left on my spindle-legged antique table. Poising my index finger over the screen, I prepared to tap in a familiar number. Then I paused, and my gaze cut to the potted herbs on my deep kitchen windowsill, where a surly, black Persian cat was half hidden, the better to watch me with big, orange, critical eyes.

“You don’t think I should call Jonathan again, do you?” I asked Tinkleston, whose tail was twitching. “You think I’m starting to seem desperate, right?”

Tinks meowed loudly in reply. I was pretty sure he agreed that I had called Jonathan one too many times, without getting any response from the handsome, sometimes enigmatic homicide detective I’d started dating over the winter.

Things between us had been going great—until March, when Jonathan had left for San Diego, where he was working as a consultant on a naval base that had suffered a series of suspicious deaths.

The temporary job, and Jonathan’s ability to swing a leave of absence from the local force, were testament to his growing reputation as a detective and the respect he’d earned in his past life as a SEAL. I was really happy for him, and for his two dogs, Axis and Artie, who had gone along on the adventure. However, in spite of having a PhD in philosophy, which had taught me the value of patience, I had to admit that I also missed Jonathan. Especially since he had gone completely silent in recent days.

“What if something happened to him?” I mused aloud, while lightning crackled outside. I was sure that the storm was contributing to my unsettled feeling, but I couldn’t help worrying. “It’s not like Jonathan to leave Roger, especially, in the dark on the eve of his wedding!”

I hadn’t expected a response from Tinkleston, but he made another almost plaintive sound, which probably just meant he was hungry.

Setting down the phone, I retrieved some homemade Something’s Fishy Snacks, made with sardines, carrots and sweet potatoes, from the old-fashioned icebox and offered three treats to Tinks.

While he ate, I pulled the whistling kettle off the burner and poured myself a big mug of chamomile tea. Blowing out all but one candle, I picked up the one that still glowed and collected my tea and my phone, then juggled everything the whole way up the iron spiral staircase that led to my loft bedroom.

Setting my supplies on my nightstand, I climbed into bed, pulling the covers over myself, because the night was getting a little chilly as the storm roared past overhead.

A few moments later, Socrates came padding upstairs, headed to the purple velvet cushion wh. . .