Love, Laughter, and Murder Ever After (The Wedding Planner Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  “And you’d made that sample specifically for Duke, because it’s his favorite,” she reflected.

  “The poor man ate the entire piece,” he went on. “He didn’t have a prayer.”

  “Who knew you’d made the piece for Duke?” She asked urgently.

  Harry sunk into the couch after pouring himself another glass and took a moment to think it through, but all he could come up with was, “Slaughter thinks I did it.”

  It pained Kitty to see him so rattled. He looked pale and a cold sweat had broken out across his forehead. His hands were shaky and trembled when he lifted the whiskey to his quivering mouth.

  “Harry, I promise you I’m going to find who did this. I’m not going to let Sterling pin the murder on you just because it’s convenient.”

  Their eyes locked, but Kitty could tell he found little comfort in her promise. Nevertheless, she vowed to be tenacious, brassy, and unrelenting until the real killer was brought to light and justice.

  “I don’t recall telling anyone about the lemon custard,” he said, crestfallen. “But I’d been busy all morning baking and preparing the samples. I left the bakery twice between six and nine in the morning to get additional ingredients. This is a sleepy town, and safe for that matter. I didn’t lock the bakery door.”

  “Oh dear,” Kitty gasped. “Anyone could’ve gotten in.”

  “And I told Slaughter as much,” he pleaded. “But the way that man looked at me... He didn’t believe a word I said.”

  “When you returned to the bakery, did you notice anything out of place?” She asked eagerly.

  “It was a blur, Kitty. I was rushing around. I just don’t remember.”

  “Who would know the lemon custard was for Duke?” She was thinking out loud, but Harry supplied an answer.

  “It was easy for me to learn lemon custard was Duke’s favorite. I’d read it online.”

  “So anyone could’ve guessed,” she mused.

  Harry’s eyes brightened with a critical detail. “I’d left my notes on the counter.”

  “Notes?”

  “Yes, my notes stated the lemon custard was for Duke!”

  “It’s so calculated,” she went on. “And the other samples weren’t poisoned, which tells me the killer didn’t want to risk harming anyone else seated around that table... like themselves.”

  “Who would want to kill Duke von Winkle?” He asked.

  Kitty shot him a leveling gaze as her eyebrows floated up knowingly. “Who wouldn’t?”

  “No.” He’d breathed the word with intrigue.

  Kitty nodded, falling into bemused silence, and then pointed out, “You were at Cherry Blossom. They didn’t exactly hold back their true feelings.”

  Finally, Kitty knocked back her whiskey then held her glass out for Harry to refresh. He did and she brought it to her lips right quick and gulped down another hearty sip just as her tummy started to burn and churn.

  Goodness this is some strong whiskey.

  “Sterling tore my store apart,” she stated. “He was looking for the poison.” She snorted. “As if a bottle of it would be lying around my shop!”

  “He suspects you?”

  “I’d like to think he suspects everyone, but you’re my biggest concern at this point.”

  “That means he could riffle through my bakery. What if the killer planted the poison there? What if I’m being framed?”

  It was Kitty’s greatest fear.

  “What did Sterling say when he talked to you?” She asked, trying to anchor the conversation into hard fact so they wouldn’t get sucked down the drain of frenzied dismay.

  “He didn’t say much only asked questions that made me very nervous.”

  “Like what?” She asked. “If you can tell me then I might have a shot at getting into that twisted head of his. I can help if I understand his logic.”

  “Ok,” said Harry, trying to calm himself by drinking more.

  Kitty took a moment to sip more herself, though the effect had loosened her quite a bit already.

  “Sterling had me write down my whereabouts for the entire morning and highlight when and how I handled the lemon custard.”

  “At the bakery?”

  “Yes.” He fell silent to pluck from his memory all that had transpired between him and the sneaky detective.

  “What about your van?” She asked when the notion suddenly struck her.

  “What about it?”

  “I’ve seen you load up an order before, Harry. You leave your van’s back doors wide open with the cake boxes laying out fully exposed as you trek back and forth, carrying more and more boxes out. This morning you’d brought more than twelve boxes. How many trips did you make?”

  “Three I think.”

  “While the van was out front and wide open?” She asked to be certain.

  “Well, yes.”

  “And you didn’t tell Sterling this?”

  “Well, no. What are you thinking?”

  “We need to convince Sterling that the lemon custard was unattended on so many occasions that anyone could’ve gotten their hands on it. That’s our first effort, our stopgap to get him off your back. And I’m going to do everything in my power to pry into the lives of the von Winkles and the Astorias. At this point no one is closer to them than I am. I’ve a better shot at solving the mystery than even Sterling does. That man will not ruin your life.”

  She punctuated the declaration by tossing back her whiskey and slamming the glass on the coffee table.

  “Whew!” she yelped then wiped her mouth.

  Harry stared at her.

  “You aren’t driving are you?” He asked, assessing her state. “Let me call you a cab.”

  During the four-minute cab ride to her home on Orchard Street, Kitty went from delightfully tipsy to thoroughly inebriated as the whiskey filtered slowly through her system until it had snuck up on her and pounced, but she paid it no mind. If anything, it’d help her fall asleep hard and fast and her overly analytical mind would finally rest. She’d start fresh tomorrow, get close to each member of the families, and rustle up as much information as she could find.

  Ever the gentleman, Harry had paid the cab driver upon his arrival, so when it pulled up to her small blue house, Kitty simply thanked the driver and spilled out onto the sidewalk with a giggle.

  She bounded, though not in the straightest line, to her front door, fishing her keys from her pink purse as she went.

  “I expected you home much earlier.”

  The man’s voice had come from the shadows behind her, and startled, Kitty whipped around and slugged him hard in the face.

  “Christ!” exclaimed Sterling, stumbling and holding his jaw. “What the hell?!”

  “Oh!” She gasped, shaking out her smarting fist. “You scared the living daylights out of me!”

  Sterling righted himself and stepped into the light that shone down from the portico. His lip was bleeding and his dark eyes searched hers for an apology.

  Never!

  “What do you think you’re doing here?” she demanded. It took some concentration to steady her balance so she braced herself on the doorknob.

  “I have to ask you a few things.”

  “Based on your heartless interrogation of Harry?” she asked, accusingly.

  “It wasn’t heartless. I’m doing my job.” Sterling wiped his lip then stared at the blood on his fingers.

  “You’re going to need gauze,” she observed.

  “And a drink would be nice.” He was grinning at her. He rolled his shoulders back and the wall of his chest caught her eye, but quickly her gaze snapped up to meet his. “Like what you see?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Hardly.”

  Kitty fumbled her key into the lock, which didn’t seem to fit like it should, and before she knew it, Sterling’s hands were brushing over hers, as he stole the key, flipped it right side up, and inserted it into the lock properly.

  “You smell like you’ve had a few,” he said sof
tly into her ear.

  She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, causing him to grunt and step back. Then she pushed the front door open and stepped inside, Sterling at her heels.

  She led him through her quaint home, turning on the lights as she went, and then told him to wait in the living room as she padded into the bathroom to fetch some gauze, but he disregarded the invitation and entered the bathroom after her.

  “Why are you so obstinate?” she asked, turning cross.

  “It’s so girly in here, Doll. I take it you haven’t had a man in awhile,” he said, casually sitting on the toilet lid, legs splayed, elbow resting on the sink, glancing up at her as he leaned back.

  She supposed this act worked on most women, but it wouldn’t on her. She refused to succumb to the implied insult and respond other than simply restating her name, not that he’d call her that.

  Kitty kneeled before the sink, opened the cabinet, and extracted a small first aid kit. She’d use alcohol on him. She hoped it’d sting like hell.

  As she took gauze and disinfectant out of the kit, she said, “Harry Collins is not responsible for Duke von Winkle’s death and you know it. He left that lemon custard unattended several times, including when it was sitting in a cake box in the back of his van. The doors were wide open, you know. Anyone could've laced the cake with poison.”

  “I wouldn’t tell you how to do your job,” he pointed out, but she doubted that.

  Hovering over him and trying not to appreciate his undeniably handsome features, Kitty pressed the alcohol pad to his lip.

  If it stung he didn’t let on, and the fact that he didn’t bothered her.

  “Stop grinning,” she told him. “You look like a hyena.”

  She felt suddenly light headed, the sharp scent of alcohol causing her senses to reel, and soon she got the spins. Her legs turned rubbery and her knees buckled. She was falling onto him.

  Sterling grabbed her waist, but not to right her. He was pulling her down onto his lap and she didn’t have the wherewithal to resist. She landed gently against his hard body.

  “I’ve had a bit too much to drink,” she admitted in a soft, apologetic tone, hand bracing the sink counter, intensions to pull herself up forming at the forefront of her mind.

  “It’s Ok,” he said in a deep whisper. “My lip’s fine now. Let’s get you into the bedroom.”

  “Ha!” she exclaimed. “Wouldn’t you like that?!”

  Hoisting herself up, Kitty concentrated on the tasks to come: collecting the first aid materials and placing them back in the kit, returning the kit to the cabinet, and getting the heck out of the bathroom... but she did none of those things when she got to her feet. Instead, she allowed Sterling to cradle her, his strong arm wrapped firmly around her waist, as he guided her from the bathroom into the living room.

  He helped her to the couch then stalked off, as her eyes drifted closed. Next she heard running water and moments later felt a cool glass in her hand—water.

  She gulped it down and refused to look at him.

  “Ask me what you came here to ask me and get out,” she ordered, as he took the empty glass from her hand.

  “Do you need more water?” he asked.

  Ugh, he must be thinking tending to her will get her into bed. This guy was too much!

  “No,” she snapped. “I need to get on with my evening—”

  “You mean get into bed,” he grinned.

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” she quipped. “But I have a very busy day tomorrow so why are you here?”

  “To get your fingerprints,” he said in a coolly sexy tone, as he took the water glass from the coffee table and got to his feet.

  “Hey! You can’t take that!”

  “I have to,” he said. “There were a number of prints on those cake boxes.”

  “Well, aren’t you conniving?” She was in a huff, making an effort to get to her feet as well. “Of course my fingerprints are on those cake boxes! I helped Harry carry them to the table in my store!”

  “There were more than two sets of prints,” he clarified. “And I need to know who’s who.”

  She leapt for the glass but he pulled it back beyond her reach so she fell against him in her multiple attempts, but soon he was easing her back, a strong hand pressed against her soft hip. She gave up, weary.

  “Just get out,” she said, exhausted. “And leave me alone.”

  “Does the word silk mean anything to you?” he asked, feet planted as though he’d go when he was good and ready.

  “No,” she said without thinking. “Anything else?”

  Sterling shook his head, drinking in the sight of her.

  “Good night, Doll,” he told her as he backed away then turned for the door.

  “Good riddance,” she said, but under her breath.

  When she heard the front door close, she padded off toward her bedroom, turning the lights off as she went. She opened a window to get some fresh night air in the room, peeled the covers back, and then collapsed into bed, pink sundress and all.

  She passed out before her head hit the pillow as tortured dreams pulled her into fitful sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  Contessa von Winkle had refused to meet Kitty at Happily Ever After, claiming her little store would cause the bride insurmountable anxiety, so Kitty agreed to drive to the von Winkle estate on the other side of Greenwich.

  Kitty had taken painstaking measures to pull herself together that morning. She’d selected a demure, lace dress, the lavender hue of which brought out her unusual eyes. She’d styled her choppy brown locks with care, and applied her makeup artfully, all the while pushing thoughts of Sterling Slaughter from her mind.

  There was nothing Kitty despised more than a man who used his masculine wiles to lure her into giving what she wouldn’t have otherwise. It had been a sneaky trick taking her fingerprints in the manner he had, and the only thing that gave Kitty solace, as she drove west, was the fact that she had clocked him and clocked him good.

  She hoped it’d hurt. And she prayed he’d think twice before paying her a visit unannounced. He wasn’t drawn to her. He wasn’t interested. He was using his bad-boy charm to pull the wool over her eyes and Kitty wasn’t having it. She’d find the killer and put him to shame and hopefully spend the rest of her days rubbing his attractive nose in it.

  Oh wait, she shouldn’t be thinking about doing anything with Sterling for the rest of her days...

  Scratch that!

  The von Winkle estate was a stunning Greek Revival mansion tucked away in the Connecticut countryside on a luxurious seventeen acres. The grounds were exquisitely designed with breathtaking horticulture of blooming flowers, sparkling fountains, and majestic sculptures, all laid out across the grounds.

  Kitty lifted her finger to the doorbell, but there was no need to press it. The grand doors pulled open revealing a butler on the other side.

  “Madam Sinclair,” he said, standing with a proud chest and indifferent eyes. “Miss Contessa is relaxing in the garden. Right this way.”

  The butler led Kitty through a round, marble foyer with lofty ceilings adorned with chandeliers that twinkled in the morning light.

  When they rounded an arching staircase, Roxanne von Winkle descended, so Kitty paused to greet the widow.

  “Roxanne, you look beautiful all things considered,” said Kitty in a consoling tone.

  The thirty-eight year old smiled weakly, as she stepped onto marble, then shook Kitty’s hand. Her eyes looked puffy and she was dressed in a black, flowing dress that both accentuated and hid her strong figure. She smoothed a hand over her blond hair, not that there was a strand loose from her coif.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice raspy.

  Kitty wondered if she’d been yelling. Were those puffy eyes the result of mourning sobbing or had Roxanne been fighting with her spoiled stepdaughter? Only time would tell.

  “I understand you’re meeting with Contessa?”

  “I a
m,” she said. “You’re welcome to join.”

  “She wouldn’t want that,” Roxanne said, bitterly.

  It was then that Kitty noticed the purple, silk scarf around her neck.

  Silk.

  Sterling’s allusion to the significance of the word sprung to mind.

  “This house isn’t big enough for the both of us,” she went on. “Now that Duke is no longer with us, Contessa has become...unpleasant.”

  “How so?” Kitty asked then added, “You have my full confidence. I won’t repeat a word.”

  Roxanne glared at the butler until he shrank and padded off.

  “She isn’t concerned one bit that her father’s passed away.”

  Passed away? Had Sterling not told the family that Duke had been poisoned?

  “I’m listening,” she prodded.

  “She spent all of yesterday with the accountant. She was prying. She wanted to know about her inheritance, the accounts, and the life insurance policy Duke had taken out on himself, of which she is the beneficiary. All she cares about is money.”

  “You weren’t the beneficiary?” Kitty questioned, since it seemed a peculiar detail.

  “I certainly thought I was,” said Roxanne, brows lifting with suspicion. “And so did Duke, but evidently the policy had been updated.”

  “Had it?” Kitty asked, intrigued. “When?”

  “Not two weeks ago,” said Roxanne. “And even more unsettling is the fact that a change in beneficiary takes two weeks to process.”

  Kitty had stopped breathing she was so excited.

  “That means on the very day the policy was finalized, Duke died. How’s that for irony?”

  Kitty wasn’t sure how ironic it was, but she got the point and nodded.

  “When I confronted her about all of this, well, all hell broke loose,” she went on. “It was nothing but screaming and slamming doors until four in the morning.” Roxanne took a deep breath to compose herself. “Good luck,” she offered. “You’re going to need it with her.”

  “What else do you know?” Kitty asked, fishing for all she could hook.

  “Well,” said Roxanne, leaning in and taking on an even more discreet tone. “A detective contacted me. Duke didn’t die of natural causes.”