Veiled in Death. Stephanie Blackmoore

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      CHAPTER TWO

      Not one, but two police cars executed screeching stops in front of the Antique Emporium. Port Quincy’s chief of police, Truman Davies, who happened to also be my fiancé’s father, exited his car and surveyed the scene. His partner Faith Hendricks, several decades his junior, got out of her own police car. Her blond ponytail swung back and forth as she hurried over. Her aviator glasses were in full effect.

      Great. Helene really knows how to bring out the whole cavalry.

      I was used to Helene’s shenanigans, which up until now had not included grand theft veil on Main Street, Port Quincy, Pennsylvania.

      Truman finished observing the mess before him. At first, he seemed concerned, then irritated, and finally his crinkled eyes rested at mildly amused. I watched him cycle through those emotions as he took in the lay of the land and made his own decisions about what was probably happening. He gave a rueful chuckle and a barely perceptible shake of his head. I watched Helene lock her icy-blue eyes with Truman’s, and her heavily padded shoulders seemed to sag in defeat. It wasn’t a sight I’d had the pleasure to witness before. Soon we’d have this sorted out and Bev and I would have our pieces of the lovely veil. I inwardly cringed as I replayed the sickening shred of the delicate fabric when Helene viciously ripped the lace from my grip. Helene still had the veil clutched to her chest, a strange and rare air of defeat cloaking her more closely than her ancient designer duds.

      But my celebration was premature. A moment later, Helene seemed to spot a small opening in the crowd before her and made a final 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, СКАЧАТЬ