Veiled in Death. Stephanie Blackmoore

and pearls. Her eyes grew wide with excitement as she held the bauble up to the light. She nodded and placed the brooch into an already overflowing rattan basket of wares with a contented smile. Bev was no doubt imagining her own nuptials and how the brooch tied in seamlessly with her theme. I breathed an inward sigh of relief.

      I’m off the hook. For now.

      Bev and I had spent the last hour pouring over the wares in the Antique Emporium. Bev showed no signs of slowing down, and I gave myself an imaginary pat on the back. We’d begun this planning session even earlier in the day, starting out with mugs of coffee in the garden behind my mansion B and B. We’d spent a contemplative and productive hour on the swath of land anchored with its very own hulking mansion, a place with its very own name, Thistle Park. Bev was set on having an outdoor wedding, and we’d strolled around the garden in the early morning sunlight, the June sunrise evaporating the fine dusting of dew glinting off each petal and blade of grass. Bev had nearly dropped her mug of steaming French roast when she alighted on a backdrop of lush and cheery daisies.

      “That’s it! The perfect spot. This is where I want the trellis placed, and where I want to exchange my vows with Jesse.”

      Her decree several hours ago had sealed the deal and finally given me a definitive theme for her ceremony and reception. Bev’s wedding to Jesse would be lush and sophisticatedly simple, drawing largely on elements from both the garden and the Fourth of July. I would design the wedding around the aforementioned daisies in the fields, as well as star-patterned tablecloths, and my sister would make Bev and Jesse a cake featuring red accents and sparklers.

      “Is this too cheesy?” Bev furrowed her blond brows behind the frames of her bedazzled spectacles. She struggled as she held aloft a rather large oil painting of a field of daisies.

      “Ooh, not at all. We could put this on an easel in the front hall, right next to the guest book. Bring a little of the magic and wonder of the outdoors inside.” I smiled as Bev placed a small green sticker on the back of the painting’s frame, claiming it for her own. I took a step back and nearly grew dizzy taking in all of the Antique Emporium’s wares. We were in a small room, one of many that made up the rabbit warren of spaces that occupied the deceptively small-looking store. It featured a narrow storefront but spanned the length of two city blocks as its depth made up for the lack of width. The store teetered on the edge of being categorized as carefully cluttered, and barely resisted sliding into chaos. The labyrinthine layout of a marching succession of small rooms kept the whole visit from becoming overwhelming. The proprietress of the store, June Battles, knew her way around the knickknack chaos. She could famously find an item in thirty seconds flat, seemingly having catalogued her wares by memory.

      I cradled a small set of ceramic leaves arranged in a crystal vase. The leaves made a pleasant plink against the cut crystal.

      “Looking for inspiration for your own big day, hmm?” Bev couldn’t tamp down her grin. Her cessation in nagging me about setting a wedding date of my own had been annoyingly short.

      I set the pretty display down and stifled a rueful smile. “Maybe I am.”

      It was time to stop being annoyed at the well-meaning friends and family in my life who could never stop haranguing me about picking a wedding date. I glanced at the pretty champagne antique diamond ring on my finger, a vintage estate piece my fiancé, Garrett, had procured from this very store.

      “At least we’ve narrowed our wedding down to one season,” I added wryly. I abandoned the promise I made mere minutes ago not to take Bev’s bait, as I couldn’t resist defending myself against the gossip about my refusal to seal the deal on my fiancé’s proposal.

      “Let me guess.” Bev cocked her head, her highly teased platinum beehive teetering as if she’d designed her hair to replicate the Leaning Tower of Pisa. But the beehive stayed put. Her gravity-defying do always remained artfully atop her head, with nary a spritz of hair spray, and today was no exception. A slow smile graced Bev’s face. “Fall!”

      I rewarded Bev with a smile of my own. “You know my tastes well.”

      My beau and I had indeed decided on an autumn ceremony and reception. The light in Port Quincy, Pennsylvania, would be mellow and cozy. The lovely tree-lined streets would be adorned with leaves in a riot of color. The orange, topaz, rich red maple, and vibrant yellow leaves would set the tone. I could picture a banquet chock-full of sweet and savory foods, seamlessly melding comfort and sophistication.

      But it’s so far away.

      I brushed away that nagging thought and told myself at least it was still happening, albeit months later than I’d prefer. After some crazy events had befallen me, my family, and my business, I was secretly itching to get hitched. When I joked about eloping to Vegas, my fiancé, Garrett, was all for it. But my secret rush to wed was not what everyone else saw. They saw a bride who was continually stalling and delaying and waiting for the perfect time to wed. But I was no Goldilocks bride. I just simply didn’t have the time and space in my schedule to throw my own wedding. Not just yet. Which was good, because my mother, Carole, was pushing to occupy the starring role planning my wedding, and I didn’t want the impending drama.

      My phone vibrated with an angry buzz, like a taunted yellow jacket. Bev raised one brow as I let out a sigh. “It’s my mother.”

      It was as if thinking of her had conjured her from the cell-phone-wave ether. I squinted to read the text in the somewhat muted light.

      Sorry I can’t make it, sweetie.

      I breathed a sigh of relief. My mom was well-meaning, and an expert steamroller to boot. She would have no misgivings about riding roughshod over my very own plans for my very own wedding if she disagreed stylistically. And she’d been dying to be here to help me start looking for inspiration for my wedding. But Mom’s decorating and staging business was booming. She had her own business meetings scheduled today. She had initially expressed guilt over missing a chance to go antiquing. Until she’d heard the purpose of today’s visit was to help Bev plan her wedding.

      Many moons ago, after my father had left, Mom briefly dated Bev’s fiancé, Jesse. Although Mom and Jesse’s relationship was long in the past, Mom and Bev still performed a tetchy little dance each time their paths crossed in the small town of Port Quincy. While the two women weren’t outwardly hostile, unfortunately and understandably, I predicted they’d never truly feel comfortable in each other’s company.

      My phone buzzed again with another text.

      I did come across this today. I couldn’t help myself!

      Attached to my mother’s text was a grainy photo of a cream layette set for an infant.

      “Oh, c’mon, Mom!” I dropped my phone into the depths of my bag, refusing to engage and take the bait. Bev gave me an amused and quizzical look.

      “You might tease me too much about how long it’s taking me to tie the knot, but at least you’re not nagging me about grandchildren. My mom really needs to slow her roll.”

      A knowing look lit up Bev’s face, and I regretted my little outburst immediately. Bev was a dear friend but also the biggest gossip this side of the Monongahela River.

      “Not that I’m even thinking about that yet,” I backtracked hastily. “I need to focus on your wedding, and mine!” I heard the panicked cheeriness in my voice and hastily wheeled around to hide the blush I felt warming my neck. The truth was, I’d been thinking a lot about my mom’s constant nagging to give her a grandchild.

      My fiancé had been maddeningly unspecific about whether we should have a child. Up until my mother’s constant hints and nudges, I’d been ambivalent, too. I’d always thought of it as a someday thing. The door wasn’t closed and there was certainly no deadline. But lately my mother’s needling was getting to me. She’d set my biological clock a-ticking and a-tocking. And I’d realized with a start that I hadn’t had a real discussion about the matter with Garrett. Just bringing up the matter would be a big deal. It would no doubt cause seismic shocks to the little family we were about to create with the two of us and his fourteen-year-old