Free A Veiled Deception by Annette Blair Page B

moons, and stars dominating. Candles—pillars, floaters, tapers, tea lights, gelled and jarred—occupied arches and corners, tables and counters. A few were lit, filling the air with the sweet summer scents of honeysuckle, sandalwood, and frangipani, my favorite combination, and Aunt Fiona knew it.
    She loved thick, cushy upholstered furniture, so comfortable you could sink in and meditate . . . or fall asleep.
    She hung up and hugged me, soothing all my ragged emotions without words. We didn’t always need words, between us. I hadn’t quite realized that until this minute.
    “Seeing your house again makes me realize that over the years, ours has morphed from Mom’s quaint Early American decor to Dad’s tobacco-scented early faculty lounge.”
    “I’ve noticed,” Fiona said, her Irish eyes smiling. “In other words, it’s a house for a man’s man.”
    “Well, Dad doesn’t spit on the floors or anything.”
    We chuckled as we imagined something so vulgar from Harry Cutler. From the mantel I picked up the picture of Fiona and my mother at their college graduation, arm in arm, both of them beaming. I touched my mom’s face and missed her with a depth that caused an ache in my chest. I swallowed, cleared my throat, and replaced the picture.
    The murder, the resultant stress, including the reminder of my mother’s death in that house, and now the photo, pushed an old question to the front of my mind. “Why haven’t you and my dad been able to get along since Mom died?”
    Fiona looked up sharply. “That’s not a simple question to answer.”
    “I guess that’s between you and my dad. Forget I asked.”
    “Madeira, you and I have always shared a special relationship. The time you spent here as a child meant a lot to me. I used to look forward to you showing up with your latest sewing project. Back then, your questions were about your latest clothing design.
    “It was a lot easier to tell you how to master a certain stitch than to talk about the past. I’ll try to do justice to your question. It’s valid. Just give me a little time.”
    I always wanted instant answers, but I forced myself to be patient. “Fair enough.”
    I smiled as I remembered fondly all the time I’d spent with her when I was younger. “I grew up in this place, when you think about it, learning to make pot holders and latchhook rugs, crocheting doilies, and best of all, sewing and designing.”
    She smiled. “You took the step from sewing to designing all by yourself, sweetie. I gave you fabric, needles, and thread, and you ran with them, straight to a sketching pad.”
    “Speaking of sewing, Sherry tried on Deborah’s wedding dress this morning.”
    Fiona winced. “How badly did she hate it?”
    “It’s exquisite, a cross between my style and Sherry’s, but I can turn it into Sherry’s dream dress.”
    “So? Problem solved?”
    “Well, that one is.”
    Fiona reached over and patted my hand. “I know. This morning is hard to call, but it could have been worse. I can’t discuss the details with you. Lawyer/client privilege and all that, but Sherry can tell you.”
    “I’m gonna do some snooping on my own, so I’d appreciate knowing what might have happened between Sherry and Jasmine before Sherry became your client, or between Jasmine and anyone else in the neighborhood, before I came home. Can you think of anybody who’d want to kill her?”
    “Given the bitch factor? Everybody.”
    “That’s a big help.”
    “It’s a fact.” Aunt Fiona went to the kitchen.
    I followed. “Can I help?”
    “No, thanks. I’ve prepped something quick and easy.”
    I sat on a bar stool facing her as she made us each a plate of chicken and green grape salad on greens.
    I stole a grape and popped it in my mouth. “Mmm. Did you notice anyone else, besides Jasmine and Sherry, disappearing toward the end of the party the other night?”
    “Not that I can think of.” She poured iced tea. “Deborah, maybe, for a short time. I