Murder at a Scottish Wedding Read online

  “Not that I saw. She didn’t have her purse with her.” Paislee rubbed her arms, overcome with a chill despite the blue skies. Life was a precious thing and there were no guarantees. “She came out of the loo, though. Maybe the box is there.”

  Constable Payne gestured to Constable Monroe. “Head upstairs tae the lavatory, would you?”

  “Aye.” The officer jerked her chin toward the patrol car. “Might I have a word?”

  “Sure.” Constable Payne joined her in a whispered huddle.

  When they finished, Constable Monroe opened the boot and loaded her arms with supplies, then hurried before them up the stairs. What had they discussed?

  Constable Payne, his expression neutral, returned. “While Monroe checks the WC, show me where Felice and her family sat,” he said.

  They all climbed the stone steps, entering the church where two hundred guests waited for a wedding that wasn’t going to happen. Constable Monroe was inside the single-stall bathroom, noisily shifting things around. The dressing room door next to it was closed. Nerves buzzed through Paislee’s body.

  Constable Payne urged her out of the lobby to the interior of the church. Dozens of long pews filled the space, but she zeroed in on where her family had been sitting.

  Brody’s eyes lit and he darted away from Grandpa’s side to hers. Halfway through the P7 schoolyear he’d shot up six inches and was now all knees and elbows, with thick auburn hair. “Mum!”

  “It’s all right, love.” Paislee squeezed his shoulders as they walked toward Corbin, Matthew, and the constable. Grandpa sidled to the end of the wooden pew, concern in his brown eyes behind the black frames of his glasses. In the last year, he’d grown healthier and filled out his suit jacket and kilt.

  The band had stopped playing. Minister Angela floated down the aisle to where they stood. “I put Lydia and her parents in the dressing room with a dram.” She exhaled, her brow heavy with sadness. “What now?”

  A dram sounded perfect to Paislee, who didn’t usually drink. Another death in Nairn was cause for a nip of strong Scotch whisky.

  Mary, a few flyaway platinum strands freed of the hair netting, had her arms around her daughters—Rosebud on the right, and Hyacinth on the left—as she butted into the circle. Hyacinth held her bridesmaid’s bouquet, and Rosebud her mobile phone. Garrison, broad of shoulder from his work on the family property, stood behind them.

  “Corbin, son, what do you want tae do?” Garrison asked.

  Corbin put his hands behind his back as he surveyed the milling guests. “I don’t know yet. We’re discussing what happened with Constable Payne.”

  “I heard Felice’s neck broke.” Hyacinth’s flowers shook in her grip.

  Rosebud’s mouth flattened. “Broke?”

  Constable Payne dipped his head. “We will find oot how this tragedy occurred.”

  “The steps are slippery after a rain, aye, but the weather’s been dry.” The minister’s tone conveyed anguish at one of her flock dead on the church cobblestones.

  “Somethin’ was bothering her eyes. Right, Paislee?” Matthew tucked his phone in his vest pocket.

  “Aye. Felice said she couldn’t see.” Paislee studied Rosebud for a reaction of some kind, but the girl was looking at her mobile.

  “That doesnae make sense,” Hyacinth said. “I mean, it is dusty in this old church. Could that be it?”

  “Hardly that!” the minister said, offended. “We have several volunteers who clean the church daily.”

  Paislee recalled her last brush with death. “Could it be an allergy tae something? The candles, or flowers? That would cause red, itchy eyes.”

  “I’ll ask Harry if she had allergies,” Corbin said.

  “We’ll ask the questions,” Constable Payne assured the family. “But I’ll make a note.” He did so on his tablet. “Where was she sitting?”

  Matthew pointed to the long wooden pews polished to a shine five rows from the front.

  The constable knelt to search under the seats. “Nothin’,” he said when he’d straightened again. “How big was the box?”

  “About the size that your mobile comes in,” Paislee said. “Heavy, dark wood.”

  “That’s not the box I gave her.” Mary’s plump chin trembled.

  “Mary!” Garrison’s brow knit. “You didnae give her the brooch today? You said you’d had it cleaned.”

  “Aye! I picked it up from the jeweler’s last week and bought a fine velvet box.” Mary’s bosom huffed. “Royal blue.”

  “When did you see it last, ma’am?” Constable Payne asked.

  “This morning before church. I put it with the other gifts for the bride’s dressing room. I wasnae a member of the bridal party.” Mary allowed a heavy pause to show her dissatisfaction. “I packed it with the extra Smythe plaid ribbon and a note for Lydia.” She fanned her face. “It’s a special day, becoming one of the Smythe clan. I wanted a fresh start for us all.”

  Laird Garrison Smythe nodded at his second wife with approval.

  In other words, Paislee thought, he’d told Mary to shape up. She tried to imagine what it would be like to marry into such an illustrious family—Mary seemed to think it was like winning a gold medal. Lydia didn’t care about such things.

  “The box was wood,” Paislee said with certainty. “Not velvet.”

  Mary turned to Rosebud, then Hyacinth. “Girls?”

  Rosebud shrugged but her cheeks were scarlet. Would she admit to what she and Felice had been joking about? “I dinnae remember.”

  She was lying! Paislee turned the full force of her mum-stare on the young woman, who ducked her head.

  “Me either.” Hyacinth batted a tear. “Poor Felice. Caught up by the family curse.”

  “That brooch was not cursed,” the minister said with heat. “I blessed it meself, just as Mary requested.”

  “Curse?” Garrison spluttered. “What are ye talking aboot, lass?” He glared at his oldest stepdaughter as if she’d lost her mind.

  “We know aboot the Luckenbooth curse, Da,” Hyacinth said with a whine. “Dinnae yell.”

  Garrison shifted on his black boot heel to stare at his wife. “I thought I’d misunderstood Corbin on the stoop earlier. Mary, please explain.”

  Mary drew in a breath, her hand to her heart. “I didnae want tae involve you for this reason, Garrison. You must not deny the paranormal.” Oblivious to his narrowed gaze, she continued, “My friend Alexa is a psychic and she told me that more than one Smythe bride has died after accepting a brooch from her betrothed. If the lass isnae suited . . .”

  “Corbin’s right, Mary. That’s pure nonsense.” Garrison’s skin colored bright red. Paislee wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or anger. “Those pins are guid fortune. They dinnae bring bad luck. I will not hear more of it!”

  Mary’s mouth gaped but then she bowed her head.

  Corbin shifted his attention from his stepmother to his dad. “Felice is dead. How can we help Uncle Harry? That’s more important right now than anythin’ else.”

  Reggie, the oldest Smythe brother at thirty-five, said, “I’ll drive Da in his car tae Uncle Harry at the hospital. Cynthia and Delilah can go tae the manor in ours and wait for us there.”

  Paislee turned to see Reggie’s wife and daughter in conversation with Duncan’s wife, Nell, and their son, Owen.

  “I’ll spread the word that there’s been an accident,” the minister said. Truthfully, more than half of the guests were ambling around to find out what had happened. “The wedding is . . . postponed.”

  A delicate way to say it, Paislee thought.

  Duncan and Drew stood on either side of Corbin. “This is shite,” Drew announced, an arm loose over Harlow’s shoulders. “Let’s head home and get pished.”

  “I could use a drink,” Corbin said in a low voice. “We might as well eat the wedding feast, or it will go tae waste.”

  “I don’t know aboot that!” Mary spoke defensively, as if Corbin had stepped on her hostess-toes.

  “It’s a grand idea, son,” Garrison said, speaking over Mary to his boys. “Not a celebration like we’d hoped, but we need tae mourn our kin. Our home is open tae family as it has always been in times of joy and sorrow. You’re welcome tae join us, Minister Angela, and let our people know.”

  The minister nodded. “God and family are best at times like these. Again, I’m so sairy for everyone.”

  “You’re not going tae marry Aunt Lydia?” Brody asked Corbin.

  “I want tae, aye.” Corbin choked up and Duncan patted his shoulder. “It will have tae wait for a better time.”

  Paislee felt terrible for him and Lydia—a true love match. Brody peered up at her with concern. What was he thinking?

  And would he blurt it out like a wee bairn, or wait until they were alone? She breathed a sigh of relief when Brody gave a single nod. He was growing up in more ways than one.

  Hyacinth buried her nose in her bridesmaid’s bouquet. “Dinnae fash, Corbin. You can choose another Luckenbooth pin, withoot a curse, like Mum suggested.”

  “For the last time, that brooch was not cursed!” Corbin said.

  “Temper, temper,” Rosebud chided, staying within the safety of her mother’s arm. She appeared so young that Paislee had to be mistaken about her being at all responsible for the missing brooch. Laughing with a cousin wasn’t a crime. Felice had taken it, not Rosebud.

  “Paislee, will you three join us at the manor, please?” Corbin reached for her hand, his palm damp. “Lydia will need her family around her.”

  In other words, Corbin was quite aware that his stepfamily was toxic to his bride. Only now, Lydia was back to being not a bride and had less protection.

  “Let’s find Uncle Philip. Have him go tae the hospital for Harry so that we can alert the staff of the change in plans.” Garrison stepped toward the lobby, followed by all four of his sons.

  Paislee had Scot’s blood running through her veins and she believed there was more to this green earth than met the eye. She bowed her head for a quick prayer.

  Had Lydia’s wedding truly been cursed?

  Chapter 3

  Paislee needed an excuse to politely avoid the Smythe clan at the manor, but before she could think of one, Lydia had convinced softhearted Grandpa to join her and her parents. Aye, it had been the plan to go for a wedding dinner with gifts and dancing in the barn behind the house, but circumstances had changed. Death paid no mind to future dreams.

  “Lydia! We aren’t family. We didn’t know Felice,” Paislee said in a reasonable and logical tone.

  “You’re my family. Just for a wee bit,” Lydia pleaded. Her tears had been more than her waterproof mascara had promised, and she had rings of black under her eyes from crying—something she must have done in private with her parents in the dressing room, before approaching Paislee by the back pew.

  Paislee looked from Brody to Grandpa, to Lydia, and then Lydia’s parents. She was not strong enough to withstand all of those imploring gazes.

  “Fine. Fine. But!” She raised her palm. “We won’t stay long. Lydia, you still have the tickets tae Heidelberg tomorrow, don’t you?” The couple had chosen a deluxe getaway to Germany for two full weeks.

  “We cannae go. We arenae married. No wedding. No honeymoon. No beautiful trip tae the German wineries.” Lydia crossed her arms and did her best to maintain her composure. “We’ll need tae cancel the suite at the hotel, too. What are we going tae do with that enormous wedding cake?”

  The wedding had been all about what the Smythes had wanted, mostly Mary, with Lydia conceding left and right. She’d asked for small and intimate. There’d been two hundred guests who had witnessed this tragedy today. She’d wanted chocolate cake but had gone along with vanilla. Five layers of it.

  “I’ll phone the hotel and let them know.” Paislee was happy for a specific task to ease the burden from Lydia. “You’ll have tae handle the flights.”

  Alistair tugged at a button on his vest. She noticed he did that when nervous. “Don’t suppose you lovebirds just want tae take off on holiday?”

  “Corbin booked the tickets.” Lydia’s chin quivered. “His cousin is dead. At our wedding! This will just add more fuel tae Mary’s gossip aboot the brooch being bad luck.”

  “I’m sorry, Lyd.” Paislee hugged her tight. She hated to consider the possibility that it just might be. When the Smythes got the pin back, it could be melted down to prevent further tragedies.

  Lydia’s thoughts had gone a different direction as she clasped Paislee’s wrist and said, “We’ll need tae prove the naysayers wrong.”

  Paislee didn’t like the way that sounded. “How so?”

  Leaning forward, Lydia whispered in Paislee’s ear, “By finding oot exactly what happened tae Felice. Can you call DI Zeffer?”

  “No way!” Paislee stepped back from Lydia, next to Grandpa and Brody, the nerves of her stomach tangled like the cheapest blend of yarn.

  She hadn’t heard from the DI in months. Amelia Henry, her friend who was also a receptionist at Nairn Police Station, had mentioned over a project on the Thursday night Knit and Sip Paislee hosted at her yarn shop, Cashmere Crush, that Zeffer had left Inspector Macleod in charge more often.

  “Well, we have tae get tae the bottom of this, or I might never get married!” Lydia brought her knuckles to her lower lip. Her diamond ring sparkled.

  The past twelve months had been focused on Lydia and her wedding, and Brody’s last year in primary school. P7 was top of the food chain and her son had a wee bit of a strut. Things between Paislee and the headmaster had cooled and while part of her missed the flutter of attraction, most of her realized it was a bad idea for another seven years. Maybe forever.

  “Why this Zeffer fellow?” Alistair asked, having overheard Lydia’s whisper. “The constable is right there. Or is Paislee friends with the DI?”

  “Not friends!” There’d been a stretch of misfortunes when Grandpa had just moved to Nairn after his son Craigh went missing, where Paislee and the DI had joined forces. She’d suggested to her grandfather that he enlist the detective’s assistance because she suspected Zeffer knew more than he was letting on, but the old man kept a secret better than a priest in a confessional.

  Sophie soothed and clucked around Lydia like a plump hen comforting a chick—only this chick was fully grown. “It will happen, pet. You’ll be married soon.” Lydia’s mother was petite with cherry-red hair. It was possible Lydia had gotten her love for hair dye genetically. Sophie lowered her voice to ask, “When is an appropriate amount of time tae wait after a family member dies?”

  “The aristocracy has rules for everything. That too, I bet.” Grandpa scratched his freshly trimmed silver beard. “Is tomorrow too soon?” he suggested. “The cake should keep.”

  “Angus is right, Lydia,” Alistair said. “Should we speak with Corbin?” He scanned the inner sanctum of the church where more than half the guests had left after hearing of the tragedy. “He should be with you during this crisis.”

  “Corbin’s with his da and brothers in the lobby. They’re all devastated.” Lydia bumped her arm to her father’s. “He asked if I’d mind riding with you tae the manor?”

  Alistair nodded. “We can talk later, then.”

  Minister Angela patted Lydia on the back. “Lydia! My dear. How are ye holding up?”

  Lydia quickly blinked to keep her tears at bay. “Thanks tae you and your whisky, much better. We just arenae sure what tae do next . . .”

  Brody’s auburn fringe swept to the side of his forehead as he peered up at the minister. “Can Aunt Lydia get married tomorrow? Just tae save the cake,” her son said, showing he’d been not only listening but wanted to help.

  Grandpa snickered.

  “Tomorrow?” The minister turned to Lydia. “I’d be willing tae do the service if that’s what you want. All we need are a few witnesses.”

  Lydia’s parents both raised their hands as if in school. “We dinnae return tae Edinburgh until the day after tomorrow,” Sophie said. “Tuesday.”

  “We’d be happy tae!” Alistair agreed.

  “Let’s slow down so that I can discuss this with Corbin.” Lydia shrugged. “I doobt a wedding ceremony is what’s on his mind right now.”

  The minister oozed empathy from her pores. Angela’s unlined complexion made it difficult to place her age. Paislee guessed she was in her forties though it could be sinless living. “You were off tae Heidelberg for yer honeymoon?”

  “Aye. Corbin will need tae reschedule.” Lydia bowed her head. “I havenae been much help tae the man since he proposed.”

  “Ah, lass. In-laws create an interesting dynamic.” Angela gestured to the dressing room off the lobby of the church. “We can stash the flowers and gifts in there for now, if you’d like a quiet ceremony with Corbin this week? Our next wedding is Saturday evening, so it willnae be needed till then.”

  Lydia’s right eye twitched, a clue her best friend was on emotional overload.

  Paislee smiled in support. “Let’s take a peek.” She led the way to the dressing room, and the others followed. Constable Monroe was nowhere in sight, but the bathroom door was closed, a padlock on the knob, then blocked with blue-and-white police tape.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Brody asked.

  “Never mind, son.” Paislee pushed on the slightly open door to the room that the Barrons had been waiting in moments before and peered inside. “This way, please.”

  Prettily wrapped gifts were stacked along one wall. Paislee’s bouquet, rescued from where she’d dropped it, and Lydia’s, were the only two left. “Will they be safe?”

  Angela handed her a silver key from a band around her wrist. “This is the only copy.”

  “That’s a terrific solution,” Paislee said. It also took the pressure off needing to make an immediate decision. “I’ll return after dinner if we decide tae . . .” Skip the wedding altogether? Lydia had poured her heart into this endeavor. She and Corbin loved each other. “Well, whatever we decide.” Paislee retrieved her wristlet from the bottom drawer.

  “We can help, too,” Alistair said.

  “We will! Angela, did ye know Felice?” Sophie asked.