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

hurt a flea. Even if that flea was a rotten, no-good snake oil salesman and a land-ruining son-of-a-you-know-what.”
    “Chief Truman seems to think Rachel and I are somehow implicated, which is ridiculous. Especially if Mr. Hartley had so many enemies.”
    Rachel snorted next to me in agreement.
    “Well, his wife is a decent human being,” Bev sniffed. “How she’ll manage with the baby due so soon, I don’t know.” She clucked her tongue.
    “That poor woman,” Yvette addressed the porch floor. “She didn’t deserve this.”
    My heart wrenched. Even if Shane Hartley wasn’t well liked in Port Quincy, he was a real person, not just a caricature. My heart did a flop for his wife and unborn child.
    Yvette peered at her hands, twisting her gold wedding ring around and around. “I hope you don’t mind me asking. I don’t want to seem ghoulish. Were you here when it happened?” She peered up through her curtain of hair. “Did you hear the struggle?”
    Rachel swallowed. “We were here, but we were sleeping. We didn’t hear a thing.”
    “I don’t think the police believe us.” I shifted the heavy bowl in my arms. The bottom was cut glass, and the weight of it had already pressed patterns into the skin on my arms, little acorns, berries and sheaves of wheat. “They just left after questioning us all morning. That’s why we’re still in our pajamas.”
    “You can keep that, honey.” Bev proudly gestured to the large dish and deftly changed the subject. “The glass, in addition to the zucchini casserole. It’s McGavitt glass, made here in Port Quincy. Right in the factory owned by Sylvia’s family. And don’t worry, the zucchini’s from the farmers’ market. I didn’t grow it.”
    I tried to lift the heavy dish to get a better look. “You don’t say. Thank you.” I hoped we liked Bev’s zucchini casserole, because we’d be eating it for weeks. I didn’t delve into her odd remark about not growing the veggies herself. What is with these people?
    Bev snorted. “You don’t know anything about Thistle Park, do you?” She gestured around the grounds, the gems in her costume jewelry glistening on her fingers like Jolly Rancher candies. “Sylvia tried to keep things just as they were when the house was built. It’s like you’re living in a little bit of preserved history.”
    “Something like that,” I mumbled. I had been a history major in college and was fascinated by the house, but that didn’t mean I reveled in the mess inside. “Sylvia told me about Thistle Park, but only because she wanted to escape from the nursing home and move back in. I’m trying to figure out what to do with this house and how best to carry out her wishes.” There had been no love lost between Shane Hartley and Sylvia, according to Garrett. How would she have felt knowing he had been murdered on her property?
    “So you’re staying?” Yvette glanced around the beat-up porch.
    You’re crazy , her eyes said for her.
    Rachel, however, peered at me with hope in her eyes.
    “I don’t know. This place could be lovely, but it’d take a lot of sweat equity and money to even get it to the point where I can sell it. It’s barely livable. And after what happened . . . I don’t feel safe here.”
    “Honey, believe it or not, this town is safe. You don’t need to worry about a thing. That’s why Yvette and I came over today. You can ask us for anything. We’re just so excited you two girls moved in, even if it’s temporary.” Bev gave us an encouraging smile. “People are real friendly here in Port Quincy. You’ll see.”
    Yvette stood from her railing perch. “It was nice to meet you. I need to get going, but do let us know if you need anything.”
    Bev pulled out a card that read, “Port Quincy’s finest seamstress” with her cell number. She pressed the card in my hand before she swooped in for an impulsive hug, all soft and bosomy and smelling of cinnamon. I was barely able to hold on to the casserole.