Secrets and Stilettos (Murder In Style Book 1) Read online

  My mother watched the change in emotions with concern, so I gave one huge sniff that ended my little pity party and decided to make the best of it. I had a gorgeous home that needed lots of repair (a good thing since it would distract me from the lack of movie premiers!), a caring family, and the opportunity to start over. Blueberry Lake was about to get a makeover.

  “I’LL LEAVE YOU TO GET settled then.” My mother stood at the front door of Gran’s house. “I’ll see you in an hour at the shop.”

  “An hour?” I gave my mother a bleary-eyed stare. “It’s barely seven in the morning, and I haven’t slept in approximately thirty-nine hours. Do you mind if I take a quick nap?”

  “Actually,” she said, shifting uneasily. “Maybe you could nap later?”

  “What did you do, mother?”

  She sighed. “I made you an appointment with Grant Mark.”

  “Does it have to be so early?”

  “He’s the best man in the Duvet wedding,” she said, the words spilling out in a deluge of hope. “Please help, honey—we need his business. I just got in a slew of new suits and tuxedos, and it would be so great for the store if we could say we outfitted the best man. The Duvet wedding! It’s the biggest winter wedding Blueberry Lake has ever seen. I heard Lana’s father is spending almost six figures on it!”

  “No offense, mom, but why would he be shopping at a thrift store for his wedding attire?”

  “The bride and groom requested it. They’re doing an old rustic themed wedding, and they want to use only local businesses for the event. Also, Lana had a bit of a falling out with Amy Flowers, and Amy’s got the only tux rental shop in town. We’re her only hope to keep everything local if she wants to boycott Amy’s store.”

  “So, we’re the last choice?”

  “I’m afraid so,” she said with a wince. “But these new suits will be perfect. He’ll look marvelous.”

  My eyes widened. It would be a lot of money for my mother. And maybe I would get a small commission on it. The things I could buy! I could fill a closet with new shoes. I could open a makeup salon with all the foundations and eyeshadow palettes and lipsticks I could purchase. I could retire and buy a golf cart and live as a stylish old lady on Blueberry Lake for the rest of my days. Okay, maybe not the latter, but a girl could dream.

  “Let me guess. You told him I’d help style his outfit?”

  “Sort of.” At my glare, my mother sighed. “I told him I was flying in a stylist from Hollywood who could guide him on the latest fashions. I told him he’d be so hip.”

  I smacked a hand to my forehead. “Please tell me you didn’t use the word hip.”

  “Is that out of style now? See, Jenna—you’re proving my point. I need your help. I’m an awkward old woman, and you’re my gorgeous, successful daughter.”

  “You’re just sucking up to me now, mother,” I said. “And by the way, I flew myself in, thank you very much!”

  “I...” My mother hesitated. “I sent your cousin to pick you up from the airport.”

  “I’ll be there,” I promised her. “Have all the suits and tuxedos pulled into a section when I get in, and it will make everything go faster. Oh! Let’s also have a few suave outfits sitting in the dressing room as well—stylish jeans, formal but comfortable shirts, that sort of thing. He’ll have a rehearsal dinner, some lounge times with the groomsmen, a bachelor party. We can help him with all of that.”

  My mother wobbled a little as she leaned against the door. “You’re brilliant. Thank you, honey. By the way, don’t forget—dinner is at seven tonight. Sid and May will be there, too.”

  I gave her a wave as she left and headed to her thrift shop, aptly titled Something Old. Ever since I’d been a child, my mother had collected things. She’d started with books, then moved on to interesting and oddly shaped planters, then graduated to furniture and records and a slew of anything that was older than her and smelled like dust.

  After her move to Blueberry Lake, she’d decided to turn her passion into a business and had founded the town’s first true thrift shop. She’d expanded into clothing and lamps and bookcases and all sorts of brilliant things that had once been in style and then been lost. The only unfortunate part of the equation was the lack of profit. She’d been burning through cash getting a foothold in the business, and the revenue just wasn’t coming in fast enough to fill the hole.

  Part of the reason I’d moved home was to see if I could help. I was under no illusions that I had a magical touch, but I’d already chased my dreams in Hollywood, and they’d sort of fizzled out and ended with a whizz-bang after a public dumping from my ex-boyfriend. After years of putting my needs first, it was time to help my mother see her dreams to fruition.

  I spent the next hour puttering around and sweeping off the furniture my Gran had left behind. It was easy to see where Bea had halfheartedly tried to run a duster over the couch and swipe a paper towel on the kitchen counter, but as one obsessed by chaos and disorder and collections of old things, keeping a clean house was not high on my mother’s priority list.

  As the sun rose, it burned stronger through the windows despite the ridiculous temperatures. When the sunlight sparkled, I caught glimpses of the place that had been my summer haven. The place where worries had ceased to exist, and friendship and food and family had come together in a dream for several short, fleeting weeks.

  There was no food around, but the electricity had been turned on and the heater left running to get the house warm for my arrival. Thank goodness for that, since the weather outside was in the single digits. One-degree Fahrenheit, to be specific. Why does one-digit weather even exist in this universe?

  Due to the absence of food, I’d have to stop at the coffee shop and check out the array of muffins on the way to my appointment. My stomach was growling, and that was not the soundtrack to a professional styling appointment.

  After tidying the kitchen, I moved to the living area where a bay window sat like a portrait along one side. A stiff window seat with squashy cushions filled the nook and made me smile. May and I had spent our evenings here eating popcorn and fresh blueberries—the town was named appropriately, after all—as we watched the sun set.

  A darker swatch of woods sat behind the house, and it was amid these trees that the local neighborhood children had spent hours playing tag or hide and seek, called home only by the dinner bell that rang universally at dusk. It was under the tightly knit canopy of branches that I’d first broken my arm, and it was high above the ground where May had hidden on an attempt to run away from home for all of five minutes. (She’d only packed Twizzlers. She would never have lasted long.)

  It was the place where, once upon a time, we’d believed fairies flitted above us and pixies peeped between sun-dusted leaves. I briefly wondered if the magic of the outdoors would persist now that I was nearly thirty years old and properly filled with cynicism. I hoped so—I’d never minded a good fairytale.

  A quick glance at the clock told me time was ticking, and if I wanted that muffin, I’d better get moving. I decided to bring Louie (my purse) along for the ride, and because my shoes murdered me just a little bit with every step, I gently kicked them off and settled on the cutest pair of furry boots I’d gotten at a sample sale. Nineteen dollars, but they looked like a million bucks. I was my mother’s daughter.

  Blueberry Jam was the town café belonging to June Bixby—a woman who had looked exactly eighty-nine years old since forever and had been my grandmother’s dearest friend. Even as a child, I remembered June looking as ancient as my mother’s collections. As I stepped through the doors, I realized that some things never changed—including June.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Greta Green reincarnated.” June beamed a huge smile as I stepped, still shivering, into the warmth of the sweet-smelling café. “Jenna McGovern, how are you?”

  My mother’s maiden name and Gran’s married name had been Green, a fitting name for a woman who’d spent her spare time as a botany hobbyist. Gran had
run a small garden shop simply called Green’s after her husband died decades ago. It was that business which had provided her with an income to live on and raise her children, even though the shop had been no more than a glorified shed and greenhouse combination in her backyard.

  The structures were still there. I’d seen them on my walk-through of the yard, though they’d fallen into a state of disrepair. I made a mental note to have someone come out to the house and see if they couldn’t help me revive the glorious gardens at last frost. I’d love to coax back those knotted raspberry bushes, the thorny blackberries, and the tart little apple tree with a perfect reading nook between its branches.

  I sighed. “When does summer arrive around these parts?”

  June grinned. “Your vitamin D can’t be depleted yet! You just touched down.”

  I smiled back and scanned the menu. “Speaking of, I’m starving. Do you have any of those muffins I love?”

  “Blueberry glaze,” she said confidently. “Fresh from the oven. Can I add a little butter for you?”

  I was surprisingly touched by the gesture and her offer to add fat to my muffin. In Hollywood, if I’d ordered the same, I’d have been given a low-fat, crusty collection of Bran-flavored cardboard in a pre-wrapped package. There’d be no fresh from the oven warmth, nor would there be the personalized touch, the remembrance of an order from years past.

  “I’d love that,” I said, and pretended my lip didn’t tremble. I really needed some sleep. My eyes were probably red, and my emotions were just bursting to come out through every tear duct this body owned. “Thanks, June. How have you been?”

  She gave a shrug as she buttered it, and I noticed her hair had turned just a bit whiter. “It was hard to say goodbye to your grandma. We’d been friends since we were just girls. Watching you and May run around together all those years ago—it was just like seeing your grandmother and me all over again.”

  I forced a smile while simultaneously talking my own tears down from a ledge. As the newbie in town, I didn’t want someone’s first impression of me to be a snotty, sobbing mess in the local café. That would be perfect fodder for the local gossip mill, and my reputation might never recover if word got out. Small town talk could be brutal.

  “Enough about me,” June said. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Venti nonfat vanilla latte with two pumps of sugar free syrup—” I stopped at the look of horror on June’s face and closed my mouth quickly. Squinting at the menu behind the counter, I saw a simple listing for coffee and orange juice. “Actually, I’ll take a cup of coffee to go.”

  “I knew you’d inherit a prissy order being out there,” June said, reaching for the Styrofoam cup and filling it with piping hot black coffee. “I’ll make a deal with you, Jenna McGovern. You try drinking this steaming hot black coffee every day for a week. In the meantime, I’ll learn to make those fancy lattes you like.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that, June.”

  “No, no, change is good,” she said with a smile. “Plus, I reckon you won’t find anything better than a cup of hot, slightly burned black coffee to warm you up in these winter months.”

  I raised the coffee and muffin in a salute as the door tinkled open and a slew of other customers strolled inside. “You’re on, June—consider it a deal. See you tomorrow!”

  Though I hated to admit it, June was right. As I plowed through six inches of yet-to-be-shoveled snow in my fluffy boots, which were rapidly de-fluffing, I watched the swirl of steam rise through the lid of the mug and freeze upon impact with the air. When the ridiculous temperatures outside had cooled the coffee to a safely consumable level, I took a sip, and sure enough, it warmed me straight to the core. I pictured the beverage sliding through my veins like mercury, and by the time I leaned against the entrance to my mother’s shop, I had pink cheeks, soggy boots, and a grin on my face.

  “What makes you so happy?” my mother said. “You look like a drowned rat. And those boots, darling, are not practical. Why don’t you pick a pair of shoes off the rack and get changed? You’ll catch a cold if you have wet feet all day! Hurry, though. Grant is already in the back perusing the men’s section. Oh—” she paused for a noisy kiss to my cheek—“and thank you, honey, for all your help.”

  I happily complied with my mother’s suggestions. I wandered first over to the cash register where a young woman sat.

  “Hi, I’m Allie Martin.” A woman who appeared to be in her mid-twenties, stuck her hand out, accompanying the gesture with a bright and shiny grin that had me unable to resist smiling back. “You must be Jenna. Your mom has been talking about you coming home for months! I could’ve picked you out of a lineup.”

  “Well, that just makes me blush.” I shook her hand, watching her eyes widen at the sight of my purse. “Do you mind if I leave this behind the counter?”

  “Is that a real Louis Vuitton?” Allie flicked a mane of shiny brown hair over her shoulder. “Not a knock-off purchased out of some weirdo’s trunk?”

  “It’s real,” I admitted, thrilled to be with a kindred Louie-lover soul. “Go on, you can touch it.”

  “Oh, my stars.” Allie took the purse, cradled it to her chest. She flashed that contagious smile again. “This is gorgeous.”

  “It was actually a gift,” I said, wrinkling my nose as I recalled the giver of it. “From my ex-boyfriend. I probably should’ve dumped it when he ousted me, but I couldn’t give him up. The purse, I mean.”

  “You shouldn’t have to,” Allie said. “It’s like...I dunno, keeping the dog or something. You wouldn’t give away your gorgeous pup just because your boyfriend was a jerk, would you?”

  “I’m glad we see eye to eye.” I positively trilled with excitement at Allie’s enthusiasm. Maybe I wouldn’t be so out of place in Blueberry Lake. “Well, I guess I have a client, so I’ll see you around. Thanks for watching over my purse for me.”

  “Say, I have a quick question for you.”

  “Sure, what is it?”

  Allie’s grin grew brighter. All soft curves and big, fluffy hair, Allie looked like the quintessential girl next door... with an allergy to fashion. Massive hoop earrings kicked off an ensemble that ended with scuffed combat boots on her feet, and the outfit in between looked like it’d been picked off the racks of my mother’s shop in no particular order. Her highlighter-yellow turtleneck was offset by a pair of velour pants in an odd shade of purple. Both were just a smidgeon too tight.

  “It’s a little embarrassing,” Allie said, running her hands nervously over her purple pants. “You style people, right?”

  “Yes! And I would be very happy to style an outfit for you.”

  “Not me!” Allie recoiled and gestured to her rainbow clothes. “Look at this! I’ve got more style than most women can handle. But my mom’s birthday is coming up, and she’s always complaining about how she’s got nothing to wear. Do you think I could hire you to do a quick styling session for her?”

  “Consider it on the house,” I said. “Mark it down in the planner.”

  “What planner?” Allie looked around at the counter, but there was nothing on it except knickknacks. “We schedule sort of loosey-goosey around here.”

  I reached over the counter, unzipped Louie, and pulled a cute little floral notebook from it. Flipping it open, I slid it across the counter. “Here’s our new planner. You pick the date and time because I’m as free as a bird. Meanwhile, I’d better get over to Grant.”

  While Allie set to getting the planner ready, I swung by the women’s shoe section, thinking I really needed to get this store outfitted with a computer. I’d caught sight of a large-print calculator on the counter and a stack of blank receipts. My mother still provided handwritten receipts and used a calculator. The year was 2019 for crying out loud. Only in Blueberry Lake.

  In the women’s shoe section, I found a gorgeous pair of powder blue vintage heels in a size eight and slipped them on. They were the perfect accent to my slim black pants and loose flowin
g top—also black. Black matched everything, but without a pop of color to spruce things up, it could get a bit drab. Then again, I hadn’t much of a choice in what to wear since nearly all my clothes were lost in some airport jail in Aruba (or, more likely, LAX).

  Newly outfitted, I sashayed to the back of the store, greeting customers as I went. To my surprise, the place had filled up nicely despite the early morning hour. Apparently, people were either stir crazy because of the snow, or everyone had plans this weekend and needed a new outfit. Either way, it was a promising sign for my mother.

  I found a lost looking man somewhere between women’s brassieres and men’s boxers. “Hello,” I said with a kind smile. “Are you Mr. Mark?”

  “Er, no,” he said, and then scurried away leaving me to melt into a puddle of embarrassment.

  “Hi there, you must be Jenna.” A deep voice sounded from behind me, accompanied by the opening of a fitting room door. “Call me Grant.”

  I could feel my cheeks coloring as I turned to face the correct client standing in the doorway. “Hi, sorry! He just looked lost, so I thought—my, you’ve gotten a great start already!”

  “You think?” Grant had blond hair, a clean-shaven face, and a crooked sort of smile that led me to believe one flash of it could get him whatever he wanted. “I just threw on whatever your mother had set out back here.”

  “You look really great,” I said, surveying the suit on him. “Are you thinking of wearing this for the wedding or the rehearsal dinner?”

  “Neither. This one would be for work,” he said in that smooth voice of his. “I’m a lawyer.”

  “Ah, well, I’m sure this will look great in the courtroom,” I said. “Er—what sort of lawyer are you?”

  “You’re cute, you know.” He laughed, ignoring the question. “Say, can you give me a hand?”

  “Um, sure. Do you need something in a different size? I can poke around, but usually the things we have are one-of-a-kind.”