The Wedding Thief Read online

  “That one is an excellent value.”

  I nodded, looking at the price tag of seventeen hundred dollars. “Yes, well, I’ll think about it.”

  “Ah, maybe you’re not in the market for a weather vane. Well, no matter. Would you like to see a few things that just arrived?” He turned and began walking toward the back. I followed, happy to at least be going in the right direction. “Look at this lovely piece.” He stopped in front of a huge wooden wheel. “A ship’s wheel, of course. Late nineteenth century. Oak and mahogany. Beauty, isn’t she?”

  I wondered if he’d let me leave if I bought it. “Yes, she is. I’m just not sure I have a place for her.”

  “No place for a ship’s wheel? You don’t have walls?” He sounded a little put out.

  “Yes, I have walls. I just mean it won’t really go—”

  “Ah, what a pity. Well, browse away,” he said, his arms outstretched. “I’ve got hundreds of gems.”

  I had to get out of there. I looked at my watch. “Oh, my. Time flies, doesn’t it? I need to be somewhere. Else. Is there a back door I can use? I’m parked behind the stores.”

  “Back door? Yes, just follow this aisle until you—oh, here, I’ll show you.”

  I followed him the rest of the way down the aisle into a small room. I could see red letters glowing on an EXIT sign. A woman was in there, her back to me as she looked at a folding Japanese screen with gold pagodas and trees and dragons on it. She turned, saw me, and the smile on her face vanished in a second. Mariel.

  “What did you do to your hair?” She took a step closer, examining me, scowling.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “I had it done. A cut and some highlights.”

  “You had it done to look exactly like me.” She was fuming.

  “I just added a little spark, that’s all.”

  “You added my spark. It’s my hair.”

  “Nobody owns spark, Mariel. Or a hairstyle.” I turned to Albert, whose eyes darted between Mariel and me. “I’m her sister.”

  “Yes, I see the resemblance.”

  “She’s my much older sister,” Mariel huffed. “Of course he can see the resemblance. You’re trying to be my twin.”

  “Only three years older, and I’m definitely not trying to be your twin.” I casually picked up a brass candlestick.

  “That’s one of a pair,” Albert said. “Circa 1840, I believe. Stellar condition.” He paused. “In case you have room for them.”

  I put the candlestick down. Albert raised his eyebrows and walked away. “What are you doing here?” I asked Mariel again.

  “I’m checking the registry to see if anything’s been bought.”

  She had to be kidding. “You’re registered here?”

  She shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

  “Isn’t it a little…” I lowered my voice. “Pricey?”

  “I’m not forcing anybody to buy anything here, Sara. People can get something if they want. Or not.”

  “Right. Like that Japanese screen? I’m sure they’ll be fighting over that. It’s probably fifteen thousand dollars.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s only ten.”

  A steal at that.

  “I want to know what’s going on here,” Mariel said. “You had more than a cut and some highlights.” She crossed her arms. “What are you trying to do? Destroy my life?”

  She’d lost me. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your hair. Hello. Look in the mirror.” She pushed me toward an oval mirror with a gilt frame. “See?” She jabbed a finger at the glass. “You’re totally copying me with those layers. And look how short it is. And how…blond. Ugh.”

  She was right, of course. I already knew it.

  “And you’ve turned into some kind of a criminal,” she went on. “Your picture’s all over town. And in the paper. You and that guy. Mom’s seen it too, you know.”

  Mariel had seen it. Mom had seen it. I was sure Carter must have seen it. My heart was unraveling.

  “Hold on. I’m not a—”

  “What’s wrong with you? Stealing food from people. During the week of my wedding. You’re doing this on purpose. You’re trying to embarrass me. And now you’re making yourself look like me. People will think I’m involved in it. They’ll think I’m a thief too.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Mariel. No, they won’t. Get over yourself.”

  “Ladies, ladies.” Albert was back, his face looking strained. “There are other customers in the shop. Perhaps you could keep it down.”

  “I’m leaving,” I said.

  “Excuse me, yoo-hoo!” a woman called to Albert. “Can I get some help, please?”

  He gave us a stern look before stepping away. I headed toward the door.

  “You need to change your hair back to the way it was!” Mariel stomped after me, her Louboutin heels clicking against the floor. I heard the tinkling of glass, and when I turned, I saw she’d bumped into a low-hanging chandelier from which forty crystal teardrops dangled and swayed.

  Albert scurried back and steadied the crystals, beads of perspiration glinting on his forehead. “This is Baccarat. Nineteenth century. Let’s do be careful.”

  “Yes. Sorry,” Mariel said, flashing him a smile that was gone as soon as he turned around. “I refuse to have you going all over the place trying to look like me.”

  “Oh, stop. I’m not trying to look like you. Why would I want to look like you?”

  “To get Carter back.”

  Oh my God. She was so close to the truth, I think I stopped breathing. “Give me a break,” I said, trying to put the right amount of denial and outrage in my voice. “That’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t even want him back. And I’m keeping my hair the way it is.”

  “You’re not going to get away with it, Sara.”

  An older couple turned and stared at us. I picked up a porcelain jug. One side had a chip in it. “Away with what?”

  “With ruining the week of my wedding. The way you ruined so many other things in my life.”

  Albert had scurried back again. He laid a hand on Mariel’s shoulder. “I know how stressful it can get before a wedding, but I’m sure you and your sister can work this out. Somewhere else. Shall I call you with any updates on your registry?” He was smiling, but his eyes were the eyes of a lion. I thought I saw points on a couple of his teeth.

  “Just for the record,” I said, “I never ruined anything of yours.”

  Albert lifted the jug from my hands. “I’ll just put this back here. I’m assuming you don’t have room for—”

  “Are you kidding? You were horrible to me. You always resented me for being prettier than you.”

  “I did not.”

  “Yes, you did. And you never gave me credit for anything I could do besides look good. If I won a ribbon at a horse show, you said it was because I was pretty, not because I was a good rider. If I got an A on a paper, you said the teacher had a crush on me. You hated that I was pretty. And you couldn’t stand it when I did something besides be pretty. I’m not as smart as you, Sara, and most of the time it is the way I look that gets me places, but once in a while I can pull something off using my head, and it would be nice if you could recognize that.”

  I bristled. Could I have been as bad as she claimed? Had I failed to see who she really was? I hoped not. She had to be blowing it out of proportion. And what about the way she’d always copied me?

  “You weren’t exactly blameless yourself,” I said, my elbow bumping a large wooden birdcage. “Always imitating me, wanting to do whatever I was doing. Horses, tennis, the violin, the school paper. All you ever did was try to get in the way and compete for attention, especially from Mom and Dad. You ruined my college graduation. You told Mom you were too sick to get out of bed, knowing she’d go stay with you rather than see me get my diploma. And then you went out that night and partied.”

  “You should have been happy I recovered so fast,” Mar
iel said.

  “You weren’t sick to begin with!”

  She glared at me. “You wrecked my chance to get that job at the Getty.”

  “How could I have known some offhand comment I made at a cocktail party would get back to the hiring manager?”

  “The guy you were talking to was on their board, Sara. You did know that. Didn’t you think telling him I wouldn’t know the difference between a Monet and a Manet was something that might get around?”

  She was right. I should never have said it. I’d been angry with her about something, but now I couldn’t remember what it was.

  “You’re such a bitch!” Mariel said.

  “I’m the bitch? You’re the bitch! I could name ten really rotten things you’ve done to me, starting with Carter.”

  “Enough!” Albert said, grabbing our wrists as if we were misbehaving children. He pulled us the final few yards toward the door, Mariel knocking over a brass coatrack on the way. He shooed us out, and I heard the clunk of a deadbolt after he closed the door behind us.

  Mariel strutted on ahead of me. I watched her go and then saw her stop in a dead freeze in the middle of the parking lot. She stared at her phone, and she kept staring. Then she wheeled around to me, her face white. Something was up. Maybe it was Mom. Was she back in the hospital? Oh God, I hoped not.

  “What’s going on?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think you’ve done enough for one day.” Her eyes were so cold, I shivered in the July heat.

  And I knew. She’d found out about my plan. Someone had talked. Maybe the photographer or the guy from the band. Or that opera singer. I should have known Britney Spears was too much of a stretch.

  Chapter 20

  Kind of Viral

  I heard the siren before I noticed the blue and red lights flashing in my rearview mirror. Was I speeding? Had I forgotten to put on my turn signal? Maybe there was a mechanical problem; maybe the brake lights weren’t working. I hoped they wouldn’t give me a ticket for that. It was a rental.

  I pulled over to the curb, still frazzled from the argument with Mariel. How had she discovered my plan? In the side mirror, I watched the police officer walk to the car. “Do you know why I stopped you?” He leaned in my open window.

  “Are the brake lights out or something? It’s a rental. I don’t own it.”

  “There was a stop sign back there at Canoe Hill. You slowed down, but you didn’t stop.”

  “I didn’t?” That wasn’t like me. I was a good driver. It was all because of Mariel.

  “I need to see your license and registration, please.”

  I pulled my driver’s license from my wallet and found the registration in the glove compartment. “I didn’t mean to run a stop sign,” I said. “My sister and I just had a big fight and…” I realized it wouldn’t matter to him. “Never mind.”

  There would be an expensive ticket at the end of this. And my insurance company would raise my rates. And maybe I’d get points on my license. This was Connecticut and I lived in Illinois, but their computers probably talked. Mom was right—I had to be nicer to Siri.

  The policeman went to run my license. David phoned again and I let the call go to voice mail, then sat there biting my lip and worrying about what Mom was going to say when Mariel told her I’d planned to ruin her wedding. Points on my license paled in comparison.

  But I got some good news when the officer returned several minutes later. “I’m going to let you off with a verbal warning,” he said.

  Oh, happy day. The traffic gods were smiling on me. “You mean no ticket?”

  “No ticket. But you need to be more careful.”

  “I will. I will. I promise.” I gave him a little salute and then remembered they didn’t do that on the police force.

  He handed me the license and registration. “Okay, Miss Harrington—you, uh…” He glanced at the passenger seat, where I’d put the little white box with THE ROLLING PIN printed on the top. Should I offer him one of the cookies? Would he consider that a bribe? I didn’t think so. He’d already let me off.

  Something sparked in his eyes. “I just realized who you are. You’re one of the baked-goods bandits.”

  I needed a better disguise. “We didn’t do it. The Eastville Police let us go. It was a mistake.”

  He straightened up, peering down at me. “Do you have a receipt for those cookies?”

  Gulp.

  It took a phone call to Alice at the Rolling Pin to convince the policeman that the orange chocolate chunk cookies were a gift. After straightening that out, I drove to the house, tearing off cookie pieces and nervously stuffing them in my mouth. Alice’s three varieties of chocolate, along with the brown sugar and orange zest and whatever else was in there, oozed onto my fingers.

  “Your mother’s upstairs,” Martha said, giving me a sideways glance as I walked into the kitchen. “I know she wants to talk to you.” The Review was facedown on the table, the back page visible. I could see an ad for the Alex Lingon show at the Brookside Gallery. I knew what else was in there, and I was sure Mom had seen it. I was also sure Mariel had called her and told her what I’d done.

  I walked up the stairs and stopped in the doorway of Mom’s bedroom. The normally tranquil room, decorated in pale blue and white, looked as though someone had ransacked it. The bed was strewn with clothes; scarves and belts had been thrown over the back of an armchair, and shoeboxes were stacked like skyscrapers on the writing table. She was cleaning her closet, something she did in times of high stress.

  As I studied the carnage, Mom walked out of the closet, a blouse draped over her arm. She did a little double take. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  I put the box containing the four remaining cookies on the table and waited for the bomb to drop, for her to tell me how disappointed she was with me.

  “What’s going on with your sister?”

  There it was. The bomb had been released.

  “She called me,” Mom said, “sounding very distraught. She was on her way to see Suzie McEntyre. I asked her to come home, but she said she wasn’t ready to do that. I guess she needed a friend.” Mom was nudging me with her eyes, giving me a look like she thought I might have some information to impart. I held my breath. “She’s upset with Carter about something, but she wouldn’t tell me what it was.”

  “She’s upset with Carter?” That’s what was happening?

  The little line that emerged between Mom’s eyebrows when she was worried had made its appearance. “Do you have any idea what’s going on, Sara?”

  “I don’t. But knowing Mariel, she’s probably making a mountain out of a molehill. You know how she can get.”

  “I’m worried. She sounded really upset.”

  “Whatever it is, I’m sure they’ll figure it out.”

  Mom laid the blouse on the bed. “I hope so. I’ve always said she and Carter are perfectly suited for each other.”

  “Hold on—you once said the same thing about me and Carter.”

  “Well, I didn’t really mean it about you.”

  “What?”

  She gave an exasperated shrug. “You two never would have lasted. Carter needs to help people. And he loves the idea that he can do things for Mariel. Loves that she leans on him. Needs him. Ever since your dad died, she’s become more fragile, more in need of emotional security. You know she’s not as independent as you. Not as self-sufficient. And she’s happy being the pretty girl on Carter’s arm at the parties, the dinners, the fund-raisers. She doesn’t need to be more than that.” Mom picked up a cocktail dress from the bed, folded it, and dropped it into a carton on the floor. “Maybe you should call her. Maybe she’d talk to you.”

  “I don’t think so. We had a fight this afternoon, downtown.”

  “What about?”

  “My hair.”

  “I was about to ask you what in God’s name you’d done with it.”

  I ran my hand through what was left. “I had it cut. And highlighted. I w
ent to your place, Harmony.”

  “Hmm. Turn around.” She motioned with her hand and I turned. “You look like your sister. Were you trying to copy her?”

  “I really don’t want to talk about this.”

  Mom took one of the belts from the armchair and tried it on. “Imitatus. Past participle of imitari. ‘To copy.’”

  I sighed; I didn’t need the Latin lesson. I asked her what she was doing with all the clothes.

  “I’m taking some things to the church thrift shop. And dropping off a couple of old costumes at the playhouse.” She took off the belt and put it in the carton. “By the way, did you happen to see the paper this morning?”

  I stiffened. Now it was coming. “Uh, yes.”

  “What in the world is going on with this whole baked-goods-bandit situation? I looked at the Review and there you were on the front page, larger than life. You didn’t tell me they took your mug shot the night I picked you up at the police station.”

  “They arrested me,” I said, collapsing into Mom’s armchair. “That’s part of getting arrested.”

  “But why did the police think you were stealing desserts from people? You can afford to buy whatever you want.” She glanced at me, a gentle look in her eyes. “Can’t you? Because, sweetie, if you can’t…”

  “Of course I can. I told you that night, the whole thing was a mistake. It’s because we took a pie from the art teacher’s house.”

  “I thought you went to get a sculpture.”

  “We took that too. The pie was a last-minute thing. I saw it on the kitchen counter, and I knew the owners weren’t coming back for a couple of weeks.”

  She seemed to mull that over. “I guess there’s no sense wasting a good pie.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “I saw those posters too.”

  The nail in the coffin.

  “I’d already seen the paper, and then Lydia Harper called. She told me she was coming out of her eye doctor’s office and her pupils were dilated, but even with her bad vision, she knew it was you on those posters. You and that David fellow. FREE THE BAKED-GOODS BANDITS. I didn’t believe her. Thought she might have started drinking during the day again. So I drove to town to see for myself.”