Free Engaged in Death (A Wedding Planner Mystery) by Stephanie Blackmoore

firmly tied silk robe and shorts.
    “I’m not sure where the morning went.” I lamely gestured at our sleepwear.
    Before I became too preoccupied with my appearance, my attention switched to our visitors. The first woman was short like me and almost as wide as she was tall. Her blond hair was teased into an honest-to-goodness beehive. Her voluminous top was dotted Swiss, with little green circles on a white background, which she had paired with tomato-red pedal pushers, ones that perfectly matched her red cat’s-eye glasses. She looked like a cheery box of Krispy Kremes.
    “I’m Beverly Mitchell. You can call me Bev. We’re the official Port Quincy Welcome Wagon.” Bev pumped my hand, her numerous thick band rings tickling my palm. She thrust the heavy, cold glass bowl into my arms so she could shake hands with my sister.
    I turned to the meeker woman mincing up the bowed porch stairs. She was tall and willowy, but all of her height was wasted, as she hunched forward like she wanted to disappear. Her floral housedress was faded and pilled. She looked through a curtain of lank, dull brown hair, which had escaped her clip. Her eyes, myopic and magnified behind large wire frames, darted right and left. She finally reached us and awkwardly handed Rachel a basket of muffins but didn’t offer her hand.
    Where have I seen her before?
    “You’re the singer from Sylvia’s funeral,” I blurted out.
    The woman nearly jumped out of her sandals. She said nothing, neither confirming nor denying it.
    “Your voice is amazing.” I tried to not scare her any further. “Are you a professional singer?” That seemed to have gotten through to her.
    “I just sing for church.” She shrugged. “I’m the receptionist at my dad’s auto body shop. I was going to be an opera singer”—she gulped and looked down—“but that ship has sailed.”
    “I’m Mallory Shepard, and this is my sister, Rachel.” I cradled the heavy bowl in my left arm and reached out to shake her hand.
    The woman took a step back, leaving my hand hovering awkwardly in the air.
    “You inherited Sylvia Pierce’s house.” She gave me an appraising look but didn’t seem to notice my extended hand.
    “In a way.” How did she know? “Does everyone know everyone else’s business in Port Quincy?” I blurted out.
    The woman released a peal of genuine laughter, and this time she held out her hand and consented to a weak handshake, her hand cold and papery. But the laugh was real and warm and rich and full, like her singing voice.
    “I’m Yvette Tannenbaum. Excuse my poor manners. My husband told me about what happened here last night. A real murder in Port Quincy. It’s just a little . . . unsettling.” The laughter in her voice died out.
    “Y- vette ,” Bev tsk-tsked her friend. “No one is supposed to know about that yet. Although, you’re right.” She gave me a pointed look. “Everyone is in everyone else’s business here. No one can keep a secret.”
    Rachel and I exchanged glances. “So everybody in town knows someone was murdered here?”
    Yvette shook her head. “Not yet. My husband, Bart, is the mayor, so the police alerted him immediately.”
    “But I’m sure most people will know soon enough. It’ll be in the Eagle Herald . Things like this just don’t happen in Port Quincy. . . .” Bev’s gaze strayed over to the patch of wet grass. “Is that where he passed?”
    “That’s where we found him.” Rachel refused to look.
    Bev trembled but seemed to steel herself. “I know it’s not right to say, but I can think of about a hundred people who are rejoicing now that Shane Hartley’s dead.”
    “I wouldn’t talk like that, Bev.” Yvette leaned against the railing. “Especially since you’re one of those hundred people.” She looked a little faint.
    Rachel seemed ready to catch her if the whole thing snapped off and, from the looks of the rotted porch rail, it just might.
    Bev glared at her friend. “You know I wouldn’t