The Wedding Thief Read online

  Officer Madden was walking toward us, David behind him. “We’re free!” I said, running up to David. But he didn’t look at me. He stared beyond me at the wall where a large round clock ticked loudly. “My mother’s here,” I told him. “She’ll give us a ride back to Hampstead. We can drop you off at the inn.”

  He looked at me then, his jaw set, his eyes cool. “I have a ride. I’ve got a taxi coming.”

  A taxi? He was going back in a taxi? I wanted him to drive back with us. We’d gone through this experience together. We had a special bond because of it. We should be celebrating. But he was going back by himself in a cab. I felt as though some part of me had come loose and was being left behind. “David, please come with us. Let us give you a ride.”

  He shook his head. “No, thanks. And I’d like my sunglasses back.” He held out his hand.

  His sunglasses. His Wayfarers. The ones he’d said looked good on me. “Of course.” I pulled them out of the plastic bag and held them for a few seconds. Then I handed them over. “Thanks for loaning them to me.”

  My mother clapped her hands like a schoolteacher signaling her charges that it was time to move. “Well, whoever is going, let’s go now. Mistakes have been made, but we will not let ourselves be defined by them, as my character Eda Vernon said in The Sirens of Summer.”

  “It’s just me going with you, Mom.” I felt empty and sad. I looked back at David, but he’d turned away.

  My mother linked her arm through mine. “All right, then. On we forge.”

  I found my watch and ring in the plastic bag and put them on as we walked to the doors. Just before they opened, Mom stopped and turned to Officer Barnes, who was talking to the woman behind the reception window.

  “A poppyseed cake? Really? Why would my daughter want to steal that? The seeds get stuck in your teeth.”

  Chapter 17

  The Handoff

  All Sunday night I had terrible dreams. In one I was running down dark streets, dim alleyways, carrying a coconut cake with raspberry filling, Detective Brickle chasing me. I could hear his shoes hitting the pavement as he got closer and closer. And then he yelled, Stop! Drop that cake! I awoke in a cold sweat, my heart skittering in my chest as I pulled myself from sleep, relaxing only when the landmarks of my bedroom came into focus.

  I let out a breath. They’d arrested us but they’d let us go. It was over. I could put it behind me. I had to put it behind me. I had a much more important matter to get back to: Carter. The wedding was only five days away, and although he’d been very sweet to me and we’d had a few laughs, I knew I needed to up the ante to really get his attention. New hair, new makeup, new wardrobe, new me. I had to make myself irresistible.

  I grabbed my phone from the bedside table and called Harmony Day Spa, the place where Mom had been going for years. They loved her there, which was good for me, because it usually took several days to get an appointment, but when I explained that I had a hair emergency and added that I was Camille Harrington’s daughter, the receptionist figured out a way to squeeze me in the next morning. Wow. The power of Mom.

  Sitting on the banquette with my personal planner, I made a list of the stores I wanted to look in for new clothes. I’d just put down the planner when a text message came through on my cell phone. David.

  Eastville PD needs us both to sign something to release the hand.

  I texted back: They need me too? It’s not even mine.

  Well, it’s not mine either. And don’t forget who got us into this mess in the first place.

  How could I forget? From the tone of the text, I could tell he hadn’t thawed since last night. I offered to drive, since I figured the van was still sitting in an impound lot somewhere, but David said he’d already picked it up and that he’d meet me at the police station. Things were still chilly. Monday wasn’t starting well.

  At eleven a.m., I pulled into the parking lot of the Eastville Police Department. The building didn’t look nearly as intimidating in the daylight. Maybe the fact that I wasn’t arriving in handcuffs also had something to do with it. I spotted the white van and parked next to it. David got out.

  “Hello,” I said.

  He gave me a prickly “Hello” and we walked inside.

  “You need to go to the property room,” the officer at the front desk said. “All the way down the hall.”

  I’d just mumbled that they’d probably never had a giant hand in the property room before when someone called my name. I turned. Detective Brickle stood in the hallway, dressed in an all-gray ensemble, like last night’s. I felt the air around me harden.

  “So, Miss Harrington, we meet again. And I presume this is Mr. Cole.” He looked at David, who gave him a perfunctory nod. “Can I talk to you two in my office for a minute?”

  What was there to talk about? I wanted to get the hand and leave.

  “We’re here to pick something up,” David said.

  “Yes, I know what you’re here for. This won’t take long.”

  We followed Detective Brickle into his office and sat down in a couple of metal chairs by his desk. “I just wanted to mention that although the homeowners told us you had permission to go into their house and take the sculpture, as far as the other crimes go, we don’t consider the matter closed.” He picked up a coffee mug, the words I’M A DETECTIVE. WHAT’S YOUR SUPERPOWER? printed on the side. He took a sip of whatever was in it.

  “What other crimes?” David said. “I came here because I was told we needed to sign something so we could pick up the sculpture.”

  He didn’t know? “Didn’t they ask you about this last night?” I said. “The banana bread and the cake? Somebody’s stealing desserts from people’s houses and they think it’s us because I took that pie from Jeanette’s.”

  He laughed. “You’re kidding, right?” He looked from me to Detective Brickle and then realized we were serious. “Nobody talked to me about anything. I said I wanted to see my lawyer and the next thing I knew, I was let go. Told it was a mistake.”

  “We didn’t have the evidence to detain you,” Detective Brickle said, putting his arms behind his head. “At least, not at that moment, but we still have an open case here.” He leaned back in his chair, which pressed against a bulletin board and a poster announcing a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of a man who looked a little bit like our old piano tuner.

  “I was informed this morning that the scope of the investigation has widened,” he went on. “Similar occurrences in other towns in the county. We think they’re related. And I just got word about an incident right across the border. A little town called Turnbridge, New York. Sound familiar? Ever been there? My money says you have. Two trays of cinnamon buns. Same MO.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” David said. “Are you seriously accusing us of taking food?”

  “I’m not accusing anybody of anything. I’m just telling you we’re not letting this rest. Good people have gone out of their way to make good food, and somebody out there thinks it’s fun to steal it. We don’t find that amusing.”

  “Okay, for the record,” David said, “we didn’t take any of your cookies or pies or whatever it is you’re looking for. I can’t believe you people spend your time on this kind of stuff. Aren’t there enough real crimes out there for you to solve?”

  Detective Brickle stiffened and leaned toward us. “Oh, you don’t think these are real crimes? Let me tell you something. These are real. Today a pie, tomorrow a car. That’s how it goes. And that’s why we’re going to put an end to it. We have a nice, quiet little town here with people who like to bake, and we want to keep it that way. We don’t want trouble. So take this as a warning—we’ve got our eyes on you.”

  “Okay, that’s it,” David said. “If there’s anything else you want to say, you can call my lawyer. And the same goes for Sara.” He put his hand on my arm. “Don’t say a word. I’m not letting these people push you around. Let’s go.”

  He stood up. I stood up.
He led me out of the room, and the tight feeling in my chest subsided. We were a team again.

  We decided to deliver the hand together—after all, this was the big send-off. David followed me back to Hampstead, to the Brookside Gallery, which was in a large, red, contemporary-barn type of building with oversize windows on the street side. We walked through the door and into a huge rectangular room with a cathedral ceiling and lots of natural light. Workers in black clothes, some wearing gloves, were busy moving paintings, pushing sculptures on dollies.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, we’re closed.” A man in creased blue jeans, an orange tabby cat on his shoulder, strode toward us. “That door is supposed to be locked. We’re getting ready for a show.” He tapped his black-framed glasses, straightening them on his nose.

  “I understand,” David said. “But I need to speak to the owner, please. It’s important.”

  “That would be me,” the man said, glancing back at two workers moving a giant feather made of silvery metal. “One second.” He raised an index finger, spun around, walked to the men, and issued some instructions I couldn’t hear, the cat sitting still the whole time.

  “As I was saying,” he continued when he returned, “I’m the owner. Kingsley Pellinger.” His mouth twitched into a smile that lasted barely long enough to see.

  David introduced us and explained that we knew about the upcoming show. “My girlfriend, Anastasia Ellsworth, is Alex Lingon’s assistant and she asked me to do her a favor—”

  “That’s lovely,” Kingsley said, presenting his little flick of a smile again. “But I do have my hands full right now with—”

  “Yes, I know,” David said. “The show. That’s what this is about.”

  Kingsley turned away again and eyed two men who were moving an eight-foot-tall blue ampersand sign. “Make sure that gets to Doris Gables today. They’ve called at least six times.” He turned back to David. “Sorry. You were saying?”

  “I have a piece of Alex Lingon’s work that’s supposed to be in the show.”

  “I don’t understand.” Kingsley’s broad forehead wrinkled; the cat stretched a paw. “We took delivery of everything last week. It’s all here. We’re about to start setting it up.”

  “This piece wasn’t with the others,” David said. “It never made it onto the truck. I drove it here from Alex’s studio. It’s in a van outside.”

  “Another piece. Hmm.” Kingsley scratched the jowl under his chin.

  I didn’t like the sound of that Hmm or the way he was looking at us. I hoped he wasn’t going to start making phone calls, asking questions we didn’t want asked. Or answered. The thought of him calling Ana or, God forbid, Alex made me shiver.

  Kingsley’s eyeglasses slipped a millimeter down the bridge of his nose. He took them off. He stared at them. He twirled them. Finally, he said, “Well, let’s see what it is you’ve got.” He walked us to the door, then turned to the workers once more, snapping his fingers. “People! Let’s keep this locked. I can’t have the whole town walking in here right now.” He gave David a placid look. “Where are you parked?”

  “Down the street.”

  “Drive around to the back, then. There’s a buzzer. I’ll open the door.”

  David and I walked to the van. “Interesting character,” he said, imitating Kingsley’s smile. I couldn’t laugh. We’d come this far, and now I was worried something was going to go wrong. Maybe Kingsley would figure out the piece had been damaged, and he’d start asking questions. Or he’d call Alex to talk about the mix-up with delivery. What would we do then?

  We drove around to the back of the gallery, and I pressed the buzzer. A moment later Kingsley appeared, without the cat this time, and he and David brought the bubble-wrapped hand inside and put it on a table in a room where artwork was being stored.

  As David and Kingsley unwrapped the hand, I thought again what a fantastic job Jeanette had done. The fingers shimmered under the ceiling light, a hundred shades of green vibrating like rippling water. I almost felt a little sad about giving it up.

  Kingsley stared at the sculpture, stepped back, stared some more, and walked around the table. “It’s lovely. Quite lovely.” He pressed the tips of his fingers together, resting his chin on top. “Alex certainly has a consummate grasp of form and tactility.”

  “Yes, he does,” David said.

  “He told me he’d begun experimenting, that he was heading in a new direction,” Kingsley added. “But it’s not at all what I expected. It’s a bit more, uh, primitive than what I’d imagined.” He flicked his smile again. “But then, Alex does like to surprise us, doesn’t he?” He took a closer look at one of the knuckles, the tip of the pinkie. He examined the other side again. Then he clasped his hands. “Quite remarkable, really. Yes, I like this new direction. I like it very much.”

  We’d done it. The hand was home.

  “Do you need a lift to your car?” David asked as we stood by the back door of the gallery.

  I didn’t know if he was serious or joking. My car was only a block away. “No, thanks. I have some shopping to do in town.” New clothes, new makeup. The Carter plan.

  “I’m heading back to Manhattan,” he said as we walked toward the van.

  That shouldn’t have surprised me. He lived there. It made sense he’d go back. He’d gone back last week for a few days. But this was different. We’d accomplished our mission to get the hand to the gallery, and David was leaving for good. The disaster with Alex Lingon’s sculpture had been a major thorn in my side, but now that we’d had it repaired and left it at the gallery, I felt a heavy sense of loss.

  “Well, I guess that’s it, then,” he said, opening the driver’s side door.

  “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  The moment that spun out between us felt awkward. We’d been through a lot together. Trying to fix the hand ourselves, getting it fixed but getting arrested, being blamed for thefts all over the county—even in New York. But most of all, there was that kiss. I knew I had to forget about it, though. I loved Carter, and David loved Ana.

  David broke the spell, pulling me toward him and wrapping his arms around me. “Thanks. I’ll see you Friday.”

  “Friday?”

  “The opening.” He looked at me as though he couldn’t believe I’d forgotten. “You’re coming, aren’t you? I’ll be there. With Ana. You can meet her.”

  The opening. “Yes, of course I’ll be there.”

  I felt better knowing I’d get to see him one more time. But the comment about Ana bothered me. I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet her.

  Chapter 18

  Identity Crisis

  Harmony Day Spa was downtown on Main Street in a white house with light blue shutters and a hedge of pink hydrangeas out front. Stepping into the reception area, with its green and white décor, and inhaling the fresh scent of mint and eucalyptus, I felt confident this was where I’d find the new me.

  “We’ve got you with Danielle for your color and Jen for your cut,” the girl behind the counter told me, adding that Danielle was Mom’s colorist.

  I sat down, silently thanking my mother, and was greeted a few minutes later by a tiny woman no older than thirty. Her short, pale pink hair was tucked behind her ears. “I love your mother,” she said, her voice an octave higher than most people’s.

  I thanked her, although I’d never been quite sure about the correct response to that. She led me into a room where several clients were having their hair colored, the salon employees brushing dye over squares of foil, dabbing at roots with paintbrushes.

  “So, what can I do for you?”

  I took a seat in Danielle’s chair, wishing I could tell her the truth the way I would have with my colorist in Chicago: that I wanted to win back my former beau and I needed to look spectacular to do it. But she knew Mom, so I couldn’t go there. “I need a new identity,” I told her. “I want to look different, become someone else.”

  She raised the chair a few inches and draped a plastic cape over me.

>   “A new you. Okay, I can handle that.”

  I liked her smile, her confidence.

  “Is this for something special, like an event? Or are you just tired of what you’ve got?”

  “Honestly,” I said, “it’s more a matter of necessity. It’s complicated.”

  She ran her hands through my hair, revealing a rose tattoo on the underside of her arm. “Well, I see you’ve got highlights, but they look a little faded.”

  I nodded. I didn’t want to look faded.

  Danielle pulled a lock of hair between her fingers. “Your natural color is light brown. Which is pretty…”

  Her voice trailed off. My natural color wasn’t pretty. I knew that. It was the reason why I’d been highlighting it all these years.

  “But you could do with a little more spark.”

  Ah, now we were talking. “Yes, spark sounds good.”

  “Have you got anything in mind?”

  I did have something in mind. I scrolled through my cell phone and found the photo of Carter and Mariel. “I like this style, with the layers and everything, but I don’t want my hair this short or this blond. Could you do something not quite as light? Maybe just a shade lighter than what I have now?” I’d be going in the direction of something Carter liked.

  Danielle looked at the picture and then studied my reflection in the mirror. “Sure, I think that would look good on you.”

  She went to mix the colors and I skimmed through some e-mails. Change orders to supplier contracts for the fall directors’ meeting. A reminder from Accounts Payable that I’d neglected to attach the hotel receipt to my last travel voucher. A chain letter (were people still sending those?) for single women, which I deleted.

  Danielle returned with two plastic bowls of acrid white dye and a couple of paintbrushes. “So what’s it like, having Camille Harrington as your mom?” she asked as she began brushing the dye on my hair. “Oh God, I’m sorry.” She let out a nervous laugh. “Everybody must ask you that. You must hate it.”