A Veiled Deception by Annette Blair Page B

out of trouble.”
    “Some good-bye,” I said, putting my phone away. With any luck, Wickford was as small and gossipy as Mystick Falls. Maybe I’d be better off pretending I didn’t know Jasmine was dead. What would be the harm?
    Scrap! If the police suspected two attempts on Jasmine’s life, they wouldn’t let Sherry off the hook, even if they did find another suspect. I sighed and realized I was still sitting in the Sweets’ driveway. I took a few calming breaths before I got out of the car.
    The Sweet house, two doors down from ours, had been handed down for generations; the current owners, however, had an unfortunate taste in colors. While Day-Glo orange looked great on a sixties playsuit, it did not suit a Victorian Lady. Lucky for the neighborhood, old Oscar at the hardware store told young Mrs. Sweet that they were out of teal for the trim that day, and she settled on the pale peach he’d “just” put on sale. It toned down the shock factor and made the viewer only slightly queasy.
    There are two Mrs. Sweets. Young Mrs. Sweet, only eighty, attended our party the other night. She rarely says an unkind word, except for that unfortunate incident at the funeral parlor when she’d publicly berated Mr. Sweet—comfortably ensconced in his brass casket—for leaving her to care for his ornery old mother, alone. Old Mrs. Sweet, her mother-in-law, usually managed to hide her control-freak crunchy middle beneath a layer of I-only-want-to-please-you marshmallow cream. Either way, as a child I’d once imagined whacking the old lady with a broom. My guilt had passed at her son’s funeral, however, because I understood her daughter-in-law’s rage so well.
    Both Mrs. Sweets had been extremely kind to us when Mom died. They cooked, baked, and showed up at most of our school plays and sports games, not to mention graduations, every one. If you multiply that by the four Cutler children, the sum is a hefty time investment.
    It was nice to know that someone had been cheering or applauding when my father was off earning a living for us, and my mother was across the river in Elm Grove Cemetery.
    Today, like many childhood days, I heard the two of them arguing before I rang the doorbell.
    Young Mrs. Sweet answered. “Lordy me, Madeira, but Dolly’s in a snit. Her hundred and third birthday party this afternoon with the governor, no less, and she refuses to wear her best dress.”
    I followed the daughter-in-law into old Mrs. Sweet’s room. “Happy birthday, Dolly, dear. Why won’t you wear your best dress?”
    The centenarian pouted. “Madeira, you design clothes, so you’ll understand about favorite dresses. I’m saving it for a special occasion.”
    The younger indicated the older behind her back with a jerky, exhibit-A, palmout motion that roughly translated to: “Dead idiot walking.”
    At a hundred and three, Dolly must realize that her next special occasion would probably be her funeral, I thought, but wouldn’t say. “I’ll tell you what, dear. Wear your best dress today, and tomorrow I’ll come back and measure you for a Madeira Cutler designer original. I’ll make you a new best dress and you can pick whatever design you want. I’ll even take you to select the fabric.”
    “Ethel,” Dolly Sweet said. “Give me my best dress.”
    “Well, hurry, Momma. We have to leave in three minutes.”
    That’s my work done for the day. I’d laid the groundwork for gossip over measurements and dress designs. “Tomorrow morning, then?” I confirmed.
    “Come early, Madeira,” young Mrs. Sweet suggested,
    “and we’ll have tea first, like the old days.”
    “And cherry pie,” old Mrs. Sweet added. She’d made us hundreds when we were growing up.
    “Sherry thought you named the pies after her, you know.”
    Sweet the older winked. “Well, of course she did, dear, because I told her so.”
    I kissed them each on the cheek. “Oh, before I go, Ethel. Did you notice anyone else go missing from the party last