Murder of a Wedding Belle Read Free

and struggled to stand. At eighty-five, she had buried a husband, two stillborn babies, and a teenage grandson. Up until Halloween, she’d made a batch of her famous Parker House rolls nearly every Sunday, but she hadn’t been feeling well for the past few weeks.
    Skye rushed to Cora’s side and helped her to her feet, then handed her the cane that had been leaning against the wall. Skye’s heart sank. Having lost both her grandfathers and Grandma Leofanti, she wasn’t ready for her last remaining grandparent to die, but it was clear that Cora was failing.
    Once she was steady, Cora said, “I’d really like you to be in Riley’s wedding.”
    Skye opened her mouth to explain why she couldn’t, but a movement near the door drew her attention. Her father, Jed, was standing on the threshold, his faded brown eyes pleading with Skye to agree to her grandmother’s request.
    What could she do? Skye knew a lot of people thought she needed to grow a spine where her family was concerned, but there was no way she could disappoint her grandmother or her father, both of whom rarely asked her for anything.
    She forced a smile to her lips. “If you want me to, Grandma, I’d be happy to be Riley’s maid of honor.”
    As she gave Cora a hug, Skye mentally shrugged. How bad could it be? All she’d have to do was buy a few gifts, throw a bridal shower, and attend the rehearsal dinner, the ceremony, and the reception. The wedding planner would do the rest.
    Suddenly a shiver ran down Skye’s spine. She wasn’t sure whether it was brought on by the thought of an eighth ghastly bridesmaid’s dress hanging in her closet or the idea of a swarm of strangers descending on Scumble River. Considering her experiences, she had a theory that mixing a horde of out-of-towners with a crowd of Scumble Riverites nearly always produced a lethal concoction. She sure hoped this wedding didn’t turn out to be the event that proved her hypothesis correct.

CHAPTER 2
    The Belle of the Ball
    May
     
    S kye frowned as she peered through the peephole of her front door. What was a fashionista clutching a Chanel umbrella doing on her porch? What possible reason could a woman who looked like this have for showing up at an isolated old house along a barely paved farm road in Illinois on a rainy Saturday afternoon?
    Her visitor wore Couture Couture tuxedo-style pants, a silk blouse with a ruffled bib, and a blond mink shrug. Skye had seen the exact same outfit in Elle and knew it cost more than a year’s tuition at the local community college. The woman’s blue-black hair was held back at the temples with Swarovski crystal–bow barrettes that emphasized a dramatic widow’s peak. Her bright red lips pursed as she rang the bell a second time.
    Bingo, Skye’s black cat, was sitting by her feet, and she whispered to him, “What do you think she wants?”
    He twitched his tail and meowed sharply, perhaps trying to remind Skye of stranger danger—a lesson most children had learned by age six, but one Skye often ignored.
    “I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical reason why a woman dressed for lunch at Spago has shown up at my house.” Another ding-dong made Skye reach for the knob. “She probably has car trouble and needs to use the telephone.”
    Bingo’s ears flattened, and he seemed to shake his head.
    “A lot of cell phones don’t work around here,” Skye informed him. “I can’t just let her stand out there in the rain.” Keeping the chain on, she opened the door a few inches—she was ready to help someone in need, but she wasn’t totally naive. “Yes?”
    “I’m Belle Canfield.”
    Skye was taken aback by the woman’s high-pitched voice. She’d been expecting a throaty purr. “Nice to meet you.”
    Belle looked Skye up and down, a faint sneer on her perfectly made-up face. “Are you Skye Denison?”
    “Yes,” Skye admitted, wishing she had on something other than ratty sweatpants and a faded orange Illini T-shirt. “Can I help