The Bride Wore Crimson

Book 2: The Weddingville mystery Series

by Adrianne Lee

Genres: Women's Fiction; Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

EVERY BRIDE WANTS A KILLER WEDDING Weddingville, Washington, is in the throes of its annual bridal fair. For Daryl Anne Blessing, that means soothing the high-strung brides-to-be who have taken her family's dress shop by storm. Hunky photographer Seth Quinlan is around to provide eye candy and witty repartee-but it's no laughing matter when a diamond ring set disappears from the Ring Bearer Jewelers, followed by a designer gown from Blessing's Bridal Shop. Daryl Anne hopes the thefts are just the work of a prankster poking fun at the wedding fever that's overtaken the town. But Weddingville's shopkeepers can't afford for the bridal fair to lose its luster. Then business takes a dark turn when a bride is found dead in Flower Girl Shop's fridge. Now, with Weddingville's romantic reputation on the line, Daryl Anne and Seth turn up the heat on their own simmering attraction-and a killer determined to make bridezillas a dying breed . . .

Release date: November 10, 2015

Publisher: Forever Yours

Print pages: 242

Sample

Things were about to get insane. I heard it on the gentle July breeze, smelled it in the salty air, tasted it in my morning coffee. Think convention on steroids. In Vegas, merchants set up displays in two or three humongous buildings. Blocks long. In Weddingville, Washington, the whole town gets involved, every single business. Residents sell their yards for parking lots. Shoppers swarm the walkways and the stores, grabbing bargains, garnering ideas. Dresses fly from Blessing’s Bridal faster than the showroom can be restocked. Yep, things were about to get cray-cray. I just didn’t realize how crazy.

I hadn’t been to a bridal fair in seven years, but I still knew the preparation was as important as the resulting income. Good thing I excelled at organization. Like you did, Daryl Anne Blessing, being your best friend’s maid of honor? I cursed the little voice inside my head but winced at the accuracy of the allegation. Usually I’m levelheaded, sensible, logical. Perfect traits in a maid of honor whose primary duty is to keep the bride emotionally calm. My stomach pinched. I’d done a stellar job of that. Eight weeks later, my bestie Meg Reilly was still single, we’d both given up our dream jobs in Hollywood, moved back to our hometown, and into our respective parents’ houses.

Practical, yes—as well as a little embarrassing.

But it wasn’t my fault Meg’s ex-fiancé slept with her mother… shortly after getting engaged to Meg. Not that he’d known she was Meg’s mom, but still… Loser. And it wasn’t my fault that Meg’s mom was a self-centered bitch-on-wheels, or that she ended up murdered, or that Meg was shot as we tried to escape the killer.

I mean, really, how could any maid of honor keep the bride calm given all that?

Thankfully, the bullet only grazed Meg’s scalp. The real damage? Grief, confusion, and trauma. Her usually bright spirit had gone into hiding. Like the sun peeking from behind a huge, dark cloud, there were a few moments of light shining through, but mostly it was gloom. She seemed to be drifting through each day. I had to snap her out of it. I wanted my best friend back, not this new, angrier version of her.

So sue me. I decided to try shock therapy. But then my conscience kicked in, and now I feared this might be rubbing salt into some pretty fresh wounds. “If you’d rather not do this, Meg, I will totally understand.”

“Daryl Anne,” Meg said, green eyes flashing as she gave a toss of her head, her mass of red curls bouncing, the tiny scar near the hairline showing, “everywhere I go in this seaside village, everywhere I look, I see something that reminds me. It’s unavoidable.”

I sighed, jabbing a hand through my super-short black hair. My gaze shifted to our surroundings, as if I could find the right words written on the old brick walls. But probably the only tales this three-story building might tell were of its former life as two warehouses and the logging company that had flourished here.

The building came to my family fully renovated, its history disrupted, the top floor turned into a single-family residence and the lower two levels repurposed for our business, Blessing’s Bridal. Meg and I were on the main floor in the storeroom that separated the salon from the office and alterations. We were in the process of categorizing gowns according to price and style and placing them onto racks that would soon be pawed through by excited, determined shoppers.

I faced her again. “I know, it’s impossible to avoid the reminders, but—”

“No,” Meg said, stopping me mid-protest. She waved a dismissive hand. “I’m so glad to be out of the café. It’s not cool when someone orders coffee and I burst into tears for no apparent reason. I think I’m doing fine, then wham, the waterworks start. Then comes the pity. Or the customer walks out. Compared to that, this is a piece of wedding cake.”

What she was enduring sent an ache through my heart that even her pun didn’t ease. I was glad she could joke, but I wanted to hug her, to take away every last ounce of distress and heartbreak and grief. I resisted the urge and squeezed her hand instead. “Are you sure?”

She gave me a smile full of gratitude and then smacked a couple of dresses. “Hey, all this lace and chiffon—”

“Tulle.”

“Tulle…” Meg pursed her lips, reproof in her gaze.

I winced. Note to self: Zip your lip. I made that gesture and earned a goofy grin from Meg. “Sorry.”

“Daryl Anne Blessing, I couldn’t ask for a better friend than you.” She caught both of my hands, made me look right at her. “I have to do this. I want to do it. Think of it as getting back on the horse that threw me.”

I blinked, Meg’s sunny light finally parting the dark clouds. Maybe this would be okay after all. “Now I’m the one who’s going to cry.”

“Don’t you dare,” she admonished.

A bell jangled, announcing someone had come through the front door. The locked front door. Meg’s eyes rounded. My nerves tweaked. Mom and Gram were still upstairs in our third-floor apartment. The shop wasn’t open yet. Our gazes met, alarm echoing alarm. Shivers scurried across my skin. Okay, so I was still a bit traumatized, too.

I pulled my phone from my pocket. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but after almost being killed eight weeks ago, I had 9-1-1 on speed dial. We crept to the salon, me in the lead. The light in the reception area was filtered through the butcher paper taped to the three huge display windows. The main room always reminded me of a charming New York brownstone, the walls plasterboarded with patches of aged brick showing through. Original hardwood planking and high ceilings made the space seem larger than it was.

Two red velvet love seats served as the waiting area, while a rack of brochures from the various businesses in town stood near an Edwardian reception desk. The usual bouquet of fresh roses was missing from the center table, the air bereft of that lush aroma. And several naked mannequins awaited Meg’s and my attention. As all of this crossed my mind, I stepped cautiously into the room and froze.

Meg rammed into my backside, almost knocking me off my feet.

My mouth must’ve been hanging open as my mother said, “Daryl Anne, you’re gawking.”

And why wouldn’t I be? I hadn’t heard her leave this morning. And she wasn’t alone. A man with a shock of white-blond hair stood at her side, towering over her. I scrambled to make sense of this. Had she gotten up before me and gone to breakfast with this guy—who’d recently installed our new security system? No, I realized. She was wearing the same thing she’d had on when she left for their date last night. Oh my God, was this a walk of shame? Oh, no, no, no. The thought sent another wave of unease through me. Mom was blushing as if she’d read my mind. As if she were guilty. Definitely not the behavior I expected from Susan Blessing, chaste widow.

But what behavior did I expect? She was an adult. Free to do whatever she wanted with whomever she wanted. I’d even encouraged her to start dating. But considering the dismay churning through me, I should’ve told her to take things slower. That, or I wasn’t sure Whitey Grobowski was the right man for her. After all, how well did we know him?

Sure, he was nice enough looking for an older dude. He even seemed to make her happy, happier than she’d been since my dad passed away over a decade ago. I felt suddenly selfish and about eleven years old. She hadn’t dated anyone in all those years. Not one date. Why would I wish that on her again? Did I want her to end up alone and lonely, her life centered on this shop and Gram and me? Without another shot at romantic love? No. But I had the feeling that she was going from zero to sixty in record time, and I feared she might get sucked into the dizzying whirl of that excitement. Might not listen to her heart or use good judgment. I’d rather see her put on the brakes, slow down. At least a bit.

Meg whispered in my ear, “I was going to ask how your mom’s new relationship was going, but I see it’s heatin’ up.”

I elbowed her as I took in Mom’s attire. As I’d observed earlier, she still wore the burgundy A-line skirt and pale rose sweater set that I’d helped her select last night, along with the pearls Dad had given her the day they wed. Classic dinner and movie ensemble. Whitey had on navy twill pants and a matching long-sleeved shirt, the cuffs rolled up his muscled forearms. It was exactly the selection I would have chosen for him in my old position as Key Wardrobe for a Los Angeles–based TV sitcom. Perfect “working, blue-collar guy,” right down to the company logo—GHSS, GIG HARBOR SECURITY SYSTEMS—over the pocket and the Leatherman tool secured to his belt loop.

“What have you two been up to this sunny morning?” Meg asked, the innocent note in her voice making me want to pinch her.

“We were just over at Something Old, Something New,” Mom said, gesturing toward the shop across the street. “Bernice was showing off a new shipment of jewelry she picked up at an estate sale last week. There were a couple of really sweet antique bracelets and hairpieces. Oh, and she had an antique gold cake server set that she claimed was once owned by President Roosevelt’s wife. It’s solid gold with fancy carving and their initials engraved.”

“It’d net somebody a pretty penny on eBay.” Whitey gave a low whistle of appreciation, then shook his head. “That woman really should invest in better locks.”

Mom huffed. “She should invest in one of your security systems, but don’t take her rejecting that offer personally. There’s no convincing Bernice. She’s always been penny-wise and pound-foolish. Serve her right if she got robbed.”

“Now, Susan, unruffle those feathers on my behalf,” Whitey said softly. “I don’t need her business as much as she might need mine, and I don’t begrudge her the choice.”

A rap on the glass door brought us all around. But butcher paper prevented us from seeing who was there. Mom said, “Oh, that should be Jenny Carson, the temp I hired yesterday.”

I knew she’d been interviewing for the position, of course. I just didn’t realize she’d found and hired someone already. It was a relief, actually. Business quadrupled during the wedding expo, and seasonal helpers became a rare and priceless commodity.

“In that case,” Whitey said, following Mom to the door, “I’ll get out of your hair so you ladies can work. I’ve got my own appointment to get to down the street. I’ll call you later, Susan.”

Mom was beaming when she greeted Jenny, and Jenny seemed to think the smile was all for her. I could have told her different. Mom was smitten. Definitely falling for the first man she’d dated in fifteen years. This was a disaster. Hadn’t anyone ever talked to her about the joys of playing the field? At least until she’d earned her dating cleats?

“Hi,” Jenny said, glancing from Meg to me and back again as introductions were made, her honey-brown, slicked-back ponytail switching like a metronome. She was tall, even in ballet shoes, but she was not ballerina thin. At around five-nine, she had the toned build of a gymnast. Her put-together appearance would immediately appeal to any potential employer.

“Jenny is planning her own wedding,” Mom said.

Jenny nodded, then gushed in a voice that sounded younger than the twenty-two I’d guessed her to be. “Bradley’s currently stationed in the Middle East. I’m not sure where. He can’t say. We’re getting married next Valentine’s Day.”

For Meg’s sake, I winced inwardly at the new reminder that she was still single instead of enjoying the lavish honeymoon she’d planned. And I felt equally bad for Jenny. I couldn’t imagine the fear of waking up every morning and not knowing for sure where your fiancé was or if he was okay. My mind flashed to Seth Quinlan. Even though our relationship was only at the first date stage, I was grateful that his stint in the armed services was behind him.

In an effort to change the subject, and to see if Mom hadn’t been influenced by appearance only, I said, “I haven’t seen your resume, Jenny. Where did you work before?”

“The Veiled Bride in Portland. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

But I had. “Actually we buy gowns from them occasionally.”

“Really?” Her dark eyes rounded, and she laughed. “Why didn’t I know that?”

“What brings you to this area?” Meg asked, echoing my own curiosity.

“Bradley’s family lives in Gig Harbor. I’m staying with them while he’s deployed.” Jenny toyed with her right earring, a tiny red heart, as if it were hurting her earlobe.

“How long did you work for the Veiled Bride?” I asked, wondering about her actual experience.

“Daryl Anne, this is not a police interrogation,” Mom said. “Jenny already has the job. Her references have been checked.”

Wow. My mom putting me in my place in front of the hired help and my BFF. Not that I didn’t deserve it. I did. Clearly.

“Sorry,” I said, pondering why I felt the need to question my mother’s judgment on this hire. I decided it was her judgment on the boyfriend front that I was questioning, but I couldn’t do that verbally. Therefore I needed to stop taking out my frustration on the temp.

The door opened, and Hannah Farley, our other temp, scrambled inside, clutching a large shoulder bag to her chest as if to ward off anyone who might invade her private space. Whenever I looked at her, I had the impression of staring at a tropical beach—pale brown hair and eyebrows, white-sand complexion, and eyes the blue of tide pools. She offered a dour, “Morning.”

Hannah was a cousin on my mother’s side, younger than me by five years. She’d been a sneaky, sticky-fingered kid, always creeping up on me. I never heard her coming, didn’t know she was there until I felt her breath on my neck. I hoped she’d outgrown that disturbing trait.

We all acknowledged her greeting. Mom, usually one to hug a relative, offered instead a warm smile. Hannah wasn’t the touchy-feeling type.

Mom clapped her hands together as if to say, Let’s get this show rolling. She told Hannah, “A new shipment is due any time this morning.”

“’Kay,” Hannah said, and took off for the back room.

She already knew the routine and her way around the shop. She’d worked the expos during the years I’d lived in Los Angeles. Now that I was back, Gram and Mom had reassigned her to unpacking merchandise as it arrived, logging the items into the computer, and labeling them. Hannah would also be helping in alterations, her nimble fingers perfect for the delicate work that Gram could no longer do.

“Daryl Anne, Jenny and I will finish up the categorizing in the showroom,” Mom said. “You and Meg should really start putting those display cases together.”

“Yay,” Meg said as soon as we were alone in the salon. “I’d rather do something artistic. That left-brain stuff gives me a migraine.”

I chuckled. Meg can do magic with makeup and hair. She excels at creative. I have an eye for detail and overall composition.

“Do we have a theme?”

“Yes, ‘buy this dress.’”

We laughed and got to work. Since the shop sold dresses that ran the gambit from sample sizes to real women sizes, the mannequins reflected that. I was jacking up my last “bride”—adding a veil, tiara, and jewelry—when noise from outside caught my attention. I crept to the glass and tore a peephole in the paper.

Meg apparently hadn’t heard the sound. Probably because she was still wrestling her mannequin into a wedding gown. She was much better with a makeup brush and likely wished that was what she was doing instead. But I gave her points for not complaining. “Daryl Anne, what are you doing? We haven’t finished this display yet. I thought you didn’t want anyone peeping in before the big reveal.”

“No one’s paying the least attention to what I’m doing. It’s Something Old, Something New that’s drawing gawkers like seagulls to fish guts,” I said, eyeing the cop car parking at the curb outside the store across the street.

“Considering the markup on Bernice’s antiques”—Meg grunted as she worked the corset closed on the gown—“a shopper probably collapsed after looking at a price tag.”

“In that case, Bernice would’ve sent for an ambulance, not the police,” I said, glancing at her over my shoulder. I recalled Mom saying, “Serve her right if she got robbed.”

“The police?” Meg’s head popped up, but she seemed not to care why the cops were at Something Old, Something New. “Sheriff Gooden or Troy?”

Troy was Troy O’Malley, Meg’s junior and high school sweetheart, the man everyone thought she’d marry. Once upon a time. Until beauty college and the navy intervened.

But from the dreamy tone she’d just used to say his name, I figured she might be falling back in love with him. Or maybe—as I’d suspected a couple of months ago—she’d never really gotten over him. “It was Troy.”

Meg set aside the mannequin, untangled herself from the voluminous satin skirt of the Vera Wang gown, and picked through the display to stand by my side. “Is he coming here?”

“No.” I shook my head. “He went into Bernice’s store.”

“Bernice’s?” she said, sounding disappointed.

I frowned. Had she paid no attention to what I’d been saying? I started to ask, but the look in her eyes stopped me. She gave a toss of her hair, a sign that she had a bee in her bonnet. “Do you think I’m dumb for even considering starting up a relationship with him again?”

I studied her. “Have you started up with him again?”

“Not officially. Maybe not at all. I mean, when I was unavailable, he couldn’t stop telling me that we belonged together, but since my engagement ended, well, it’s like he’s avoiding me.”

I ha. . .