Chapter Twelve

~ Jenna ~

The next morning Valorie Anderson, Mom’s best friend and my godmother, calls me. “Do you have time for lunch today?”

“Sure,” I say as I pull on my warm robe, slide my feet into slippers, and pad into the kitchen.

“Good. I need to talk to you.” She sounds much more awake than I feel.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“We’ll talk about it when I see you.”

“Is this an intervention?” I ask, only half joking as I put a pod in my coffeemaker and press the brew button. It’s Sunday; the only day of the week the shop is closed. Since most of the weddings I plan happen on Saturday, Sunday is my only day off.

“It’s an intervention in the sense that we need to talk about getting you a lawyer. I worry that since this is Hemlock’s first murder and Jackson Bradley is new-ish in his job, he’s going to be eager to prove he’s keeping the town safe by making an arrest. I’m afraid he might try to pin Riley Buxston’s murder on you.”

I blink, wondering if she knows something I don’t.

“He’s only questioned me, Val. I think he knows in his heart I didn’t do it.”

Val is quiet and I realize how flimsy and naively optimistic my words sound. She only has my best interest at heart, but it feels like she’s just pulled the chain on a sink stopper and my what’s left of my hope and courage are circling the drain.

“I don’t mean to scare you, honey, but think about it. People are already talking. That means Jackson’s under a lot of pressure to solve it. And fast. You were the last person known to be with Riley.”

“He wouldn’t just take the easy way out and pin it on an innocent person. Would he?”

Val sighs.

“Would he?” I repeat.

When she doesn’t answer me, I say, “Oh, my God. That’s exactly what he’s doing.”

I take my coffee to the glass-topped two-seater cafe table and fall onto one of the bistro chairs.

Again, Val sighs audibly. “I’m sorry, hon. I don’t mean to scare you, but I was talking to your mom a minute ago and we both think it’s better to lawyer up and be prepared—even if you end up not needing the lawyer—than to scramble to find one at the last minute if you do.”

“Val, I can’t afford a lawyer. I’m barely making ends meet as it is.”

I glance around my small living quarters, at the wet-bar-turned-kitchenette, the neat, but worn secondhand furniture, the small desk in the corner, the bookshelf that houses my favorite reads and pictures of people who are important to me. It’s an eclectic mix that speaks of a life that’s just getting started.

It’s only a temporary arrangement until I get the business off the ground and save up some money, and I’m grateful for it, of course. Still, even though a floor and a door separate us, essentially, I’m twenty-five years old and still living with my mother.

The groom turning up dead before the biggest wedding of my career, and my having to find the money to hire a lawyer because I’m the chief suspect, does not bode well for the future of my business.

Who wants to hire the wedding planner of doom?

The reality hits me like a punch in the gut. All the air rushes out of my lungs. I try to stand, but the edges of my vision kaleidoscope. I hold on to the edge of the table for support, then drop onto the chair.

“That’s why I want to see you today,” Val says. “I have a plan.”

I consider asking her to meet me here, because if people are talking, I don’t want them to stare and whisper about me behind their hands. I mean, which is worse—to be seen out brunching the day after your biggest client is found dead or to hide away like I’m guilty?

Val and I make arrangements to meet for brunch at eleven.

As soon as we hang up, the familiar pattern of my mom’s knock sounds on the door at the top of the stairs. One long, four quick, two long knocks.

“Come in,” I call from the kitchen table.

“Good morning.” She looks fresh and pretty in her pink tunic top and brown leggings. She’s already done her hair and applied light makeup. “Did you talk to Val?”

She walks over to the coffeemaker and begins brewing herself a cup.

“I did. We’re having brunch at eleven. Do you want to come?”

She shakes her head. “Thanks, but I think you and Val should talk.”

“What’s this grand plan of hers?” I ask.

Mom shrugs. “I was hoping she’d tell you over the phone.”

“Nope. I’ll get the scoop when I see her.”

Mom brings her cup over to the table and sits with me. We sip in silence for a moment, as if the events of the past twenty-four hours are finally sinking in.

“Oh! Good news,” she says. “Nicole finally returned my texts.”

“Where did she go?”

“She said when she was sitting in the car, she checked flights back to Atlanta and found one that left at 2:00 a.m. She called an Uber and went to the airport. She said Jackson can ask her any questions by phone.”

We stare at each other for a moment.

“Huh. I can’t figure out if bolting like she did was ungrateful after we rescued her from Grace Marie or if she did us a huge favor by leaving us out of her decision to flee.”

My mom laughs. “Yeah, well, good for her. Jackson didn’t have grounds to make her stay. If she wanted to get out of here, it was probably the best thing she could’ve done for herself.”

“Have you talked to Jackson this morning?”

“I haven’t.”

“I wonder what he thinks of it?”

She shrugs as she sips her coffee. “Not my problem. My only concern is clearing your name.”

“To that end, I’d better shower and get ready so I can meet Val and hear what she has to say.

~ Jenna ~

When I walk into the White Owl Café, hostess Hadley Chambers’s eyes fly open. “Jenna…good to see you.”

I detect a cautious note of why are you here? But before she can say anything else, Val is waving at me from a table by the windows that front the Main Street sidewalk.

“I see my party.”

Hadley follows my gaze. “I didn’t realize Val was meeting you.”

I muster my best smile. “She is. I can show myself to the table.”

A handful of people stop mid conversation and stare at me as I walk by. I hold my head up high and focus on Val, who is standing to hug me.

“Good morning, hon!”

Val is effortlessly gorgeous. Her dark hair is braided into hundreds of tiny plaits. It’s pulled off her face and held in place at the nape of her neck by an elastic band. Her dark eyes are warm and her caramel skin is enviably flawless, showcased by the cranberry sweater set she’s wearing. Her serene smile instantly puts me at ease. A safe harbor where I can ignore all the stares and whispers.

When she releases me from the hug, I notice the sharp-dressed guy who is standing next to her. He’s tall with curly black hair and familiar green eyes.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I invited my nephew, Ian, to join us. Jenna, you remember Ian, don’t you? My sister’s son.”

I met Ian once, a long time ago, when I was in elementary school. He’s older than me. So, he was probably starting middle school. I just remember he was bookish and quiet and awkward. He didn’t have much to say to me.

“Ian is a lawyer now.” The pride in Val’s voice is undeniable. “He’s willing to take your case pro bono. But I’m getting ahead of things. I’ll let him tell you about it after we eat.”

“Thanks, Ian.” As I meet his gaze, my cheeks burn. “Do you live in Hemlock now?”

“No, I live in Asheville. I’m with a firm there.”

“Oh, that’s almost an hour from here,” I say.

“It’s not a bad drive.”

The server, a teenager named Sally Josephs, approaches our table to take our drink order. I order a hot tea, trying not to dwell on the fact that I’m asking for free legal advice. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to him and make sure what I’ve already said to Jackson won’t come back to haunt me. If he thinks it will, maybe he can offer some pointers on what I can do about it.

After Sally leaves, we’re quiet as we peruse the menu.

I steal a glance at Ian. In the past, when Val has mentioned him, the mental picture I got was of middle-school Ian, a skinny boy with glasses. But this guy—this man—with his broad shoulders and cheekbones… Yeah, Ian has grown up nicely.

He catches me looking at him and smiles. My stomach flip-flops in a way that makes my breath hitch. Is this a little zing of attraction I’m feeling?

The last thing I need right now in the midst of everything else.

Thank goodness Val leads the small talk until Sally comes back to take our order.

When she’s gone, Ian glances around the crowded restaurant. “This isn’t a great place to dig into the details of your case, for obvious reasons. But if you’re free tomorrow, we can discuss particulars. I’m staying with Aunt Val tonight because I have some business in town tomorrow. We can talk after that. It shouldn’t take too long.”

“I’m free, just tell me what time. My office is just up the street. We’ll have privacy there. And, Ian”—I lean in and lower my voice—“I don’t expect you to represent me pro bono. I don’t have a lot of cash right now, but tomorrow let’s talk about a payment plan.”

He shrugs and smiles at me. My heart melts a little.

“We’ll see. Let’s hope they catch the murderer fast. That way, you won’t need an attorney.”

His gaze holds mine for a few beats and it hits me that if I’m his client, this chemistry will be good for nothing…until the case is closed.

Sally brings our food—eggs Benedict for Val, a Western omelet for Ian, and banana brûlée French toast for me.

I’m cutting my first bite when I see movement out of the corner of my eye that makes me look out the window to my right. Jackson, who is wearing his police uniform, is standing on the sidewalk looking in at me.

He motions for me to come outside. I shake my head and point to my breakfast.

He frowns, puts his hands on his hips and gives his head a more emphatic shake. He mouths what I understand to be, I need you to come out here now.

“What is he saying?” Val asks. She looks from me to Ian, back to me, then at Jackson.

My heart is racing. He wants me to come out there. I don’t have a good feeling about this.

He holds up his phone, points to it and then to me, which I understand to be he wants me to get my phone. I pull it out of my purse and see that I have one missed call from an unknown number, ten calls from my mom and a text.

The preview portion of the message says, “Jackson came to the house looking for you…”

Somehow, this morning, my phone ended up in silent mode.

Then a text from the same unknown number comes through. “I need you to come down to the station. Please don’t make me come in there and get you.”

I gasp and feel dozens of pairs of eyes on me before I even look up from my phone.

“What is it?” Val asks.

People are watching us. I hear someone say, “Is she under arrest?” Someone else says, “She killed Riley Buxston.”

I whisper, “Jackson says I have to go to the station right now or he’ll come in and get me.”

Ian tosses his napkin onto the table. “Let’s go then. I’ll drive.”

Jackson is at the station when we arrive.

“I’m Chief Jackson Bradley. Who are you?”

“Ian McCoy. Jenna’s lawyer.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“How exactly is this situation good? From this angle, it’s a major inconvenience for my client. You couldn’t even let her finish her breakfast?”

For a split second, Jackson looks sheepish, but then he raises chin and his eyes darken. “Come on back,” he says, motioning for us to follow.

We make a quick stop by what I presume is his office. He grabs a manila folder off his desk and a handheld recording device. Then he leads us to an interrogation room that contains a wooden table and four mismatched metal chairs.

I’ve lived in Hemlock most of my life, but this is the first time I’ve been on this side of the police station reception desk. Actually, I’d only had reason to visit the police station a couple of times. I can’t even remember why.

“Take a seat.” With a jerk of his head, Jackson gestures to the chairs on our side of the table.

Before Ian sits down, he says, “Why have you brought my client in?”

Jackson holds up the folder. “The fingerprint reports came back. Jenna’s fingerprints are on the murder weapon. As her lawyer, I’m sure you know she is the last known person to have seen the victim before he died.”

I feel the color drain from my face. My legs go numb.

Ian doesn’t even flinch. “Are you arresting her?” he asks.

Jackson looks at me, then looks away. He’s not enjoying this. Still, I don’t understand why he had to do what he did in front of everybody at the White Owl.

“Jackson, why are you doing this?” I ask.

Ian holds up a hand like a traffic cop. “Please stop. Let me do the talking.”

“I just don’t understand why he couldn’t let me finish my breakfast. Why did he do that in front of everyone?”

“Jenna,” Ian snaps. “Did I not make myself clear? I will do the talking.”

My eyes sting. Maybe I was mistaken earlier when I thought I sensed chemistry between us, because, right now, Ian is acting as cold and hard as the metal chair I’m sitting on. The first tear breaches the dam and trickles down my cheek.

“I need a private word with my client,” Ian says.

It’s not a request, but a professional demand.

Jackson nods stoically. He nudges a box of tissue in front of me.

As he starts to leave the room, Ian says, “Could I have a copy of the fingerprint report?”

“Yes,” Jackson says. “Are you going to be long?”

“As long as we need.”

Jackson mutters something under his breath as he leaves. Since he didn’t come back at Ian, I consider it a good sign.

Taking a deep breath, I realize I don’t need chemistry right now. I need a good lawyer and Ian seems to be holding his own.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” he said. “But I need you to understand that anything you say—no matter how seemingly inconsequential—can and will be used against you. So, are we in agreement that when the police are in here, I will do the talking?”

I nod.

“Good. Now, start from the beginning and tell me everything.”

It takes a few minutes for me to bring him up to speed.

When I’m done, he looks me in the eyes and says, “I need you to be honest with me, did you kill Riley Buxston?”

My heart leaps into my throat and I fear I’ll choke on it. But I manage to squeak out the word “No.”

“Why are your fingerprints on the murder weapon?”

“I told you. After I took Riley home and got him settled on the couch, the decanter was sitting there on the coffee table. I picked it up because it was…pretty.”

“How do you know the decanter was the murder weapon?”

“I told you that when my mom found Riley she said she saw it lying in pieces around him. Why are you doubting me? I didn’t kill him.”

“I believe you, Jenna.” Ian’s tone is softer now.

There’s a knock at the door. Ian presses his fingers to his lips and I nod. He opens the door and Jackson hands him a stack of papers.

“Thanks. Give me a minute to look this over, and we’ll be ready to talk to you.”

Jackson nods and leaves the room again. I remember the text that Mom sent. She must be out of her mind right about now. Val said she would go to her. I can’t imagine the scene that unfolded when Val told her Jackson made me come to the station.

“How are we going to convince Chief Bradley that I didn’t do it?”

“The burden of proof is on him,” he says as he thumbs through the papers Jackson gave him. “The state has to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that you’re the murderer.” He looks up at me. “I believe they’re not going to be able to do it. Starting with this.”

He slaps the papers against his hand. “They lifted other fingerprints from that decanter among other discrepancies.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to call him back in. You’re going to sit tight and not say a word. Got it? I’m going to do the talking. You’ll be out of here within the hour. Deal?”

~ Jenna ~

Ian is right. After he outlines to Jackson the many reasons why I couldn’t have been the one to kill Riley, Jackson releases me with the caveat that I wasn’t off the hook and there would be more questions.

Now, everything will go through Ian. His instructions to me are to call him if anyone contacts me. Otherwise, he says I should try not to think about it too much, to try to live as normally as possible.

As if.

To that end, I go to Monday’s noon meeting of the Hemlock Ladies League. It’s a relief to funnel my energies into the Christmas festival, which happens next weekend.

The meeting is at the Lazy Strumpet bookstore. The place is decorated to the hilt for Christmas.

Owner Rose Henshaw has wrapped boxes like packages and they grace every shelf that isn’t occupied by books and notions. Glittery silver snowflakes dangle from the ceiling.

There are five Christmas trees in the shop; four are decorated in book-related themes; the fifth is an angel tree. It’s the shop’s annual gift drive. Customers can pick an angel from a branch and purchase a book that’s listed on the back, the wish of an underprivileged child in the county.

Christmas music plays softly in the background. All around the store, twinkling lights remind us that this is the season of comfort and joy.

With all that’s happened, comfort and joy are scarce commodities.

Even so, the work of the Hemlock Ladies League must continue. Right now, it’s more important than ever for everyone’s mental health. This meeting is the last one before the Christmas festival in the park. We’re responsible for planning, organizing, and pulling off the annual event.

Val is this year’s league president. I’m chairing the festival in addition to my duties as league secretary.

Mom couldn’t make it to the meeting because she had back-to-back appointments scheduled, as well as a fitting that would require both her and Alicia to be at the shop. I told her I’d bring a full report. I slide into my seat at the officers’ table, next to Tess, just before Val bangs her gavel and calls the meeting to order.

“Thank you all for being here today,” she says. “Before we get started. I know I speak for all of us when I say I’m shocked and saddened to hear about the passing of Riley Buxston. I’m sure you can understand why Patricia isn’t here. Tess Harrison has graciously agreed to step in and fulfill Patricia’s treasurer duties for the duration of the festival. Also, Patricia asked me to let you know that they’re holding a memorial service for Riley on Wednesday. I’ve arranged for flowers to be delivered to the funeral home from the league, but I thought it would be nice if we could arrange for meals to be delivered to their home for the rest of the week.”

Val holds up a stack of small papers.

“This is the URL for an online scheduling service where you can sign up to provide a meal. Stop by the table before you leave and Jenna will give you a paper with the details.”

I think of all the food not eaten at the reception and wonder why they need more, but preparing meals is a way for everyone to do something when they don’t know what else to do. Plus, they’ll have a lot of people in and out of the home over the next few days for the memorial service. They can freeze what they can’t eat now.

After we skate through a few bits of housekeeping, Val asks me to read last month’s minutes. When I’m done, she asks for a motion to accept.

“I’ll move to accept,” Tess says.

“Do I have a second?” Valorie asks.

No one says a word.

I look up from my computer where I’m poised and ready to record the name of the member who moves to second the motion. A sea of unsmiling faces glare at me.

I zero in on Marge Harney and Lona Gott, who are looking at me and whispering. I can imagine what they’re saying. “Look, there’s that murderer Jenna Bell. The town isn’t safe as long as she’s on the loose.”

“Ladies?” Val looks around. “Do I have a motion to accept? Or, if not, do we have an amendment?”

Stone cold silence answers her.

What is going on? Usually, approving the minutes happens as fast as I move to accept; second; off to the next topic.

Suddenly, I have a sinking feeling that this isn’t about the minutes. I picture the Frankenstein scene where the angry villagers come after the monster with torches and pitchforks. I want to scream, I didn’t do it! But I don’t because I can’t force a single sound around the knot in my throat.

“What’s the problem?” Valorie directs the question to the group in general. “Because I detect some tension. If we need to talk about something, let’s do it now, because we have a lot of work ahead of us between now and the festival and we need to clear the air ASAP.”

One of the many things I love best about Val is her direct way of addressing issues that most people tiptoe around.

“Come on.” She folds her arms. “We’re wasting time.”

“If no one else is going to speak up, I will.” Marge Harney stands. She was one of the main voices behind the campaign that Riley should’ve married me and not Grace Marie. Now, it appears she’s changed her tune. She squares her shoulders and raises her chin before holding up a piece of paper. “I have a copy of the chapter’s bylaws right here.” She clears her throat. “It states that all members must be of good moral character to maintain membership in the league. I hardly think Jenna Bell, a person who has been accused of murder, meets these requirements.”

She sniffs.

“Excuse me?” I ask. “Exactly what are you saying, Mrs. Harney?”

“I’m saying you’re a murderer and I will not sit in the same room with someone so cold and callous.”

My jaw drops.

“That’s enough, Marge,” Val says. “Riley Buxston’s murder was sad and unfortunate. But may I remind you that no one has been charged in the case, certainly not Jenna.”

“Are we really going to wait for that?” Phyllis Stephens asks. “Bertha Wimberly said she saw Jenna and Riley together moments before Riley turned up dead. She heard them arguing. What more proof do we need?”

“I heard that the two were carrying on smooching before they started arguing. I heard from a very reliable source that Jenna was resentful that Riley was marrying that girl from out of town. And you know what they say about a woman scorned.”

Everyone starts talking at once.

I can’t help it. My eyes well with tears.

Val bangs her gavel. “Ladies! Come to order right now. I am going to say it again. No one has been charged in this case.”

“But they brought her into the police station yesterday,” Marge says. “They dragged her away from her brunch at the White Owl.”

“They did not drag her anywhere,” Val says. “I was sitting there with her. So, I know what really happened. She agreed to go to the police station of her own free will and then Chief Bradley released her. Need I remind you that every person who has been questioned is innocent until proved guilty by a court of law? In the meantime, I don’t want to hear another word of gossip about Jenna. Because I’ll rule it an ethics violation, which will result in immediate dismissal from the league. Do I make myself clear? We are all here for the good of our community. Let’s remember to treat each other with kindness and respect.”

I draw in a deep breath, willing the tears not to spill over. Not in front of these insufferable gossips. Who knows how they’d spin it?

“I suggest we take a five-minute break and collect ourselves before we resume the meeting.” Val says. “As I said, we have a lot of work to get done between now and the festival. We will reconvene in five minutes.” Val hammers her gavel again.

I stay in my seat until most of the other members get up and start moving around. I feel like I’ve been flogged.

Tess squeezes my shoulder. “You okay?” she asks.

“I will be,” I say. “It’s times like this that make me wonder why I came back to Hemlock.”

“Don’t say that.” Val touches my arm. “We need young blood to offset the Gossip Brigade.”

“Times like this help me understand why most people move away to start their lives rather than staying here.” Right now, I realize how alone a person can feel when they live in a tiny fishbowl of a town.

Tess leaves and returns with a plate with two chocolate chip cookies and a ceramic mug of coffee. She sets it in front of me.

“I know you love chocolate chip,” she says. “I baked these fresh today. I think you deserve some chocolate right now.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I could eat about a dozen.”

“Come by the bakery for a never-ending supply,” Tess says. “Don’t let them get you down. Some people only feel alive when they’re creating drama.”

“No kidding,” I say. “Just last week, they were all rooting for Riley to break up with Grace Marie and marry me. Now they think I killed him.”

“You’re the talk of the town.” Tess laughs. “But you don’t seem like a murderer to me.”

I inhale sharply and then I laugh, too. It’s all frightfully absurd. “I guess that’s one thing I have going for me. It helps to know that not everyone in town thinks I’m a coldblooded killer.”

Valorie bangs her gavel again, calling the meeting back to order. I feel remarkably better.

I’m going to hold up my head and look them in the eyes. Well, as best as I can since they won’t look at me.

“Let’s move on to the festival,” Valorie says. “Jenna, the floor is yours.”

The festival revolves around the lighting of a huge Christmas tree in the park. The festival will kick off with the illumination of a dozen Tiffany stained glass windows that will be set up in Hemlock Park, a green expanse that borders Main Street and Violet Avenue.

A stretch of shops are positioned across from the park on Main Street. When the park ends at Columbus Street, which intersects Main Street and Violet Ave, more shops continue on both sides of the street.

The Tiffany glass windows will be lit and then local dignitaries will flip the power switch to the Christmas tree, which will remain illuminated at night until the end of the first week in January. On the night of the Christmas festival, the perimeter of the park will be lined with booths that offer holiday themed food, drink, art, and gifts.

First, I call on the heads of the various festival committees give their reports.

Tess volunteers to go first and delivers her report on festival music. “I’ve secured various musical groups ranging from solos to choruses and ensembles. I have groups from the local schools and other amateur musical groups scheduled to perform at intervals on the gazebo stage.”

The gazebo sits in the center of the park, to the right of the cobblestone walkway that runs through the center of the green. The tree sits to the left of the walkway. The Tiffany windows, which are protected by sturdy wooden stands, will be evenly distributed on either side of the tree and gazebo.

“As you know, we don’t have a budget to pay professional groups, but we have some nice entertainment lined up.”

After Tess, Hallie Gold reports on refreshments. “In an effort to try something different, we’ve contracted with several food trucks, which will be located in the Cruder parking lot behind the park. On the night of the festival, only foot traffic will be allowed in the parking lot and people will be able to purchase whatever they wanted to eat from the trucks.”

“What about the restaurants along Main Street?” Marge asks. “Aren’t we cutting into their business?”

The downtown Hemlock merchants’ association had a rule that all shops and restaurants along Main Street would remain open during designated business hours and special events unless there was an official proclamation stating otherwise.

“I don’t know if you remember, Marge, but last March we took a survey asking restaurant owners if they wanted to be responsible for providing food and beverage for sale or if they wanted the opportunity to enjoy the festival. The response was overwhelmingly in favor of bringing in the food trucks so that the merchants could have a year off to enjoy the festival.”

Hallie’s unspoken message seems to be, We’ve discussed this numerous times, Marge. Where have you been?

I’m sorely tempted to say, If you’d keep your nose out of people’s business and focus on league matters, you would’ve known that. But Marge is a sustaining member, which means she has served the league for at least twenty-five years and she’s entitled to more relaxed membership. Basically, she just has to pay her dues. She isn’t required to participate in the heavy lifting. It also means the sustaining members are prone to coming in midway and asking a lot of questions they would’ve known the answer to had they been fully involved. But the prevailing rule is that the board and active members in charge of committees have the last say.

In other words, sustaining members can ask questions, but rarely do they effect change. I wish they were just as ineffective in spreading gossip.