Veiled in Death. Stephanie Blackmoore

run for it with the veil. Truman’s amusement slid right off his face.

      “Stop her!” He hefted his frame in an impressively quick fashion and motored off after Helene. He sprinted half a block and stopped when Faith rounded the corner from the other direction, her hands on her hips. Faith thankfully did not reach for her holstered gun, but she still meant business. She may have been young, but she exuded authority. Her youthful appearance didn’t take away from her stature as a policewoman. Faith gave one short, disapproving shake of her head, her blond ponytail swishing against her black policewoman’s uniform in apparent disapproval.

      Faith slipped her sunglasses down her nose and delivered a scathing gaze at Helene. Then she marched Helene back to us with her hand firmly clamped on the collar of Helene’s jacket, as if Faith were a scolding mama cat. But Helene was no cute kitten. She was the spitting image of an angry, bedraggled show cat sputtering in her Bill Blass suit.

      “What’s all this about?” Truman’s voice was stern. His previous mirth at this improbable situation had evaporated in the June sun.

      Bev, Helene, and I began talking all at once. Our voices grew louder and incomprehensible.

      “Whoa. One at a time.” Truman couldn’t suppress an eye roll as he delivered his order. I was a bit miffed at being scolded like a toddler. No way did I want to be lumped into the same category as Helene. I wasn’t the one to rip a rightfully purchased item from someone’s hands in broad daylight and try to abscond with it.

      Helene took a step forward, her defeated posture gone. She clutched the purloined veil to her middle with one hand, and puffed out her king-cobra pageboy hairdo with the other.

      “I was just liberating my long-lost family heirloom from these hooligans.” Her thin lips swathed in pearlescent coral lipstick settled into a smug, if not terse and triumphant, grimace.

      “What?!” Bev took offense to Helene’s name-calling and reached for the veil.

      “Bev.” Truman flashed a warning glance at the seamstress. Bev dejectedly took a step back.

      “We just bought that veil a minute ago!” Bev managed to restrain herself from manhandling Helene, but her voice was shrill.

      “That’s right. Bev and I bought this piece of lace right here at the Antique Emporium.” I gestured toward the brick storefront, willing any of the Battles women to emerge and corroborate my story. “I have the receipt and everything.”

      “Okay. Let’s see it.” Truman held out his large palm, now barely suppressing a smile. He sensed this kerfuffle would soon be solved and the spectacle on Main Street would go away.

      Let’s get this charade over with.

      I reached into the clear shopping bag from the Antique Emporium and stifled a cry.

      “It’s gone.” I held up the bag. It fluttered in the slight breeze, the plastic now in tatters. I’d been holding the thin receptacle in the same hand as the veil, and Helene’s barbaric swipe with her peach French tips had ripped the bag open with the precision of a velociraptor. My eyes tore up and down the sidewalk, seeking the slim white slip of paper receipt that had once nestled safely within the bag.

      “How convenient, Mallory, dear.” Helene gave a toss of her head, her icy eyes positively dancing with mirth.

      This time it was Bev who laid a steadying hand on my arm. I swallowed and urged myself to stay cool. The only thing keeping me from losing it was sending up a silent prayer of thanks that I’d had the good fortune and sense to not marry Helene’s son, Keith. I finally noticed the growing chatter around me. The crowd of early morning shoppers and walkers had grown. They clutched their iced coffees, scones, and donuts as if waiting for us to deliver a reality-show-worthy cat fight.

      “Truman, we have a copy of the receipt.” Claudia’s bell-like voice cut through the whispers as she emerged from the Antique Emporium with a restorative whoosh of cold air.

      I couldn’t suppress a giggle as I took in her getup. She must have started changing out of her reenactment gear when this melee went down. She wore bright turquoise capris with an embroidered pineapple pattern atop pretty melon-colored espadrilles. But her top half was still cloaked in a homespun shirt and rough-woven brown jacket, her tricorn hat still pinned on, but knocked askew. She looked like a time traveler caught in a comical mid-change back to the future. Claudia was Helene’s adversary, and now my knight in shining armor.

      Er, make that colonial-era garb.

      “See? We sold it to Mallory and Bev.” Claudia stopped to draw in a breath. She was feisty and in good health, but this kerfuffle seemed to have rattled the septuagenarian. “Excuse me, I’m a bit out of breath. I haven’t run out that door this fast in years. But it’ll be good practice for when I rush the field this weekend.” She couldn’t resist shooting Helene a little smile with her dig. Then she nearly doubled over and stifled a wheeze. She finally righted herself and laid a slip of yellow paper into Truman’s still-outstretched palm. “I gave them the top copy of the receipt.”

      The chief scanned the paper with keen hazel eyes. I blinked and realized with a start that Garrett was a near carbon-copy of his father, just twenty-five years his junior.

      “She just made that up!” Helene’s composure dissolved in a screech.

      “Oh, give me a break.” I was glad I hadn’t had a chance to don my sunglasses, the better for Helene to see my displeasure with her with a mighty eye roll.

      “It’s time-stamped seven minutes ago.” Truman glanced at the crowd and sighed. “I really don’t think this is a tough one to solve. This seems to be the end of the matter.” He handed the storekeeper’s yellow copy of the receipt to Claudia and laid his upturned hand out again, this time before Helene.

      “Relinquish the veil.”

      Helene’s eyes nearly bugged out of her skull at Truman’s demand. “I. Will. Not. And you of all people, Truman, should understand why.” Helene jammed the delicate lace into Truman’s face. He took a protective step back. But he couldn’t hide the flinch that slipped out when he got a closer look at the veil.

      Huh?

      Before I had time to process that puzzling exchange, the door to the Antique Emporium flew open again. Out streamed Pia and June, the latter expertly wielding a mint-condition Louisville Slugger. She’d no doubt nabbed the baseball bat from her stock.

      “Easy there, June,” Truman cautioned.

      June ignored the chief and directed her ire at Helene. “I was captain and the best hitter for the Quincy College softball team, class of 1978.” Her voice carried down the sidewalk as the small crowd of curious onlookers grew. I was more shocked at her outburst than anything. June was expertly persuasive in her store, but never pushy. If anything, the reedy redhead was serene and calm as she moved through her kingdom of antique treasures. This was a side of her I never expected to see. Her assertiveness mixed with her normally willowy, patrician air was strange to see.

      Truman cleared his throat to stifle a laugh. “That won’t be necessary, but thank you, June.”

      I saw Pia relax by a degree. She had been hovering behind her mother, looking ready to spring into action and restrain her if necessary.

      “We found the veil in the store this morning.” June seemed to come to her senses and let the thick wooden bat drop to her side. She’d win Truman over with reason instead of subduing Helene with threatened force.

      A dawning look of realization seemed to steal over Truman’s face, but it was fleeting. I began to doubt I’d even seen it.

      “This is ludicrous. Mallory and I bought this veil, fair and square. We found it in a—”

      But Bev was cut off by a nearly frantic Pia, who I now realized had baby Miri strapped to her front in the carrier.

      “You’re saying too much, Bev.” Pia’s gimlet green eyes, so like her sister Tabitha’s, were wide with caution.