Wedding Planned to Death: Wedding Garden Cozy Mystery Series, #1

By Ellie Fields

WEDDINGS, WITH A SIDE OF MURDER

 

When introverted gardener Cicely Rue loses her job and learns she and her son (along with her dog, cat, and all her chickens) may have to move away from Cricket Creek, wedding planner Sabrina Mattingly—the town's former bully—tosses her a lifeline by offering a contract to host a wedding in Cicely's picturesque flower garden.

Cicely's at first reluctant (host weddings? with people?), but given the choice between losing her home or becoming more sociable, she soon agrees to turn her garden into a wedding venue. Even as Cicely grows increasingly nervous, the town vendors excitedly prepare for the big day. The plans are coming along beautifully . . . until the wedding planner turns up dead and buried in Cicely's compost heap!

Milo Levine may be a brilliant detective, but he's dead wrong when he makes Cicely his prime suspect just because her fingerprints are all over the murder weapon. Doesn't seem to matter that Milo had once been her friend, nor does it matter that Cicely has a blooming suspicion others in town have motive for murder.

Despite Milo ordering her to steer clear of the investigation, Cicely and her dog Otis dig for clues rooted deep in the town's history to prove she's not a murderer—and to find out who is before Cicely becomes the murderer's next victim!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomfield Publishing
• Release date: Aug 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201111847

Book preview

Chapter 1

"Cicely Rue, why on earth do you look like someone just died?"

The cheerful morning cacophony of Creeky Sweets Bakery slipped into unwanted and deafening silence. I looked up from my phone to see my best friend Josie staring at me from behind the counter, my muffin order in hand. I didn’t seem that freaked out, did I?

Apparently I did, given the level of concern etched on Josie’s freckled forehead and the way my dog Otis, a border collie/German shepherd mix with a nose like a bloodhound and a heart like a cocker spaniel puppy, leaned tight against my leg, whining softly.

I tucked a strand of hair back into my messy braid and glanced about, unhappily noticing all eyes in Josie’s bakery had turned to me. And when I say all eyes, I mostly mean those belonging to Nellie Greenberry and Irene Cranmore, two elderly women with an ear for gossip.

If I told Josie what the text said, news would be out on the streets within the hour because of those two inquisitive locals. Don’t get me wrong, I love them both—everyone in town does—but yowzers, do not try to keep a secret with either around.

Who was I kidding, though? News would be all over town within the hour even if I didn’t publicly announce I’d been fired. After all, this was Cricket Creek, a small town tucked away in northern California’s foothills, home to about eight thousand, two hundred people…and about zero secrets. Not with Nellie and Irene around.

You’re not getting these muffins until you tell me what’s happened. Josie dropped the bag at the cash register and came out from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her periwinkle blue apron.

With a soft sigh, Otis switched to leaning against Josie. I couldn’t blame him; Josie is utterly delightful. She and I have been best friends for twenty-three years, ever since the first day of our freshman year in high school when Everleigh Farise told me I couldn’t sit with her at lunch because—and I quote—you smell like a cucumber.

As I’d stood there trying to puzzle out if smelling like a cucumber was actually a bad thing, Josie, a complete stranger, upended her barely touched soda all over Everleigh’s head.

Everyone should have a best friend like Josie.

So yeah, that was the City Administrator. Funding ran out for all non-essential programs. My hand shook so much I almost dropped my phone as I squeezed it into the back pocket of my worn and grass-stained Levi’s. The heady, sweet scent in Josie’s bakery that usually made me smile now brought a wave of nausea. Her text said the City terminated my contract.

Josie’s freckled forehead wrinkled with worry. But that would mean—

I’m out of a job. Effective immediately. I fought back tears.

Cicely! Josie immediately wrapped me up in a tight hug.

I reeled. That one little text just turned my life upside down. For the last ten years, I’ve been under contract with the City of Cricket Creek. Once a week I go to the law library, grab a stack of dusty legal documents, then take them home to scan and upload. Sure, the job is part-time and the pay stinks, but it’s the only supplement to my widow’s benefits and allows me to work from home.

Josie patted me soothingly. I’m so sorry. I know what that job means to you.

I pulled back from her supportive embrace and smiled weakly. I can’t blame the administrators for their decision. My position is a luxury for the City, and when belts get tightened, luxuries get eliminated.

Given that Cricket Creek is too far from Sacramento to attract many tourists and too rural for reliable internet, we get little attention or industry. Our population has slowly shrunk over the last ten years, which meant a shrinking City administrative budget, too. So yeah, I got it. Still, the digital archivist position wasn’t some luxury or another nonessential program to me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Nellie and Irene with their gray heads together, both looking at me with compassion, making my tears harder to fight back and my worry notch up a level. Trying to act capable and confident, I took a step back and straightened my spine.

Will you be okay? Josie asked. Financially, I mean?

That part where I’d straightened my spine? Yeah, too much energy. I sagged again. We have enough to live on with my widow’s benefits, but there’s little left after I pay the bills. And I’d finally earned enough to begin saving for Zeke’s college fund. A freshman in high school, my son would soon be flying the nest, destined for great things. And being a widowed single mom, the responsibility for his college education rested entirely on my shoulders.

Nellie and Irene had left their corner table and now were gathered around me, both ladies offering condolences. Actually, Irene offered her condolences, and Nellie, well…

Cicely Rue, you know I’ll happily go get my old rifle and shoot your former boss in the foot, Nellie offered with a reassuring pat on my rather slumped shoulder.

Most people would think the eighty-year-old was joking, but to tell you the truth, I wasn’t quite certain. Thanks for the generous offer, I said, but it’s not my boss’s fault that funding ran out. The text said budget cuts happened because too many people have defaulted on their property tax payments county-wide, leaving holes in the small municipality budgets all up and down Foothill County.

A sucker-punch of realization hit. I let out a hollow laugh. It’s ironic, isn’t it?

What is? Josie asked.

Property taxes paid my salary. But now that I have no salary, I won’t be able to pay my own. I may have to sell. My sarcasm instantly faded as fear set in.

Sell Wildflower Farm? The thought pained me. Trent’s mother gave us the Pemberton family estate after we got married. The land and house had been in my husband’s family for generations, and I’d raised my son Zeke there for the last fifteen years.

The huge Queen Anne two-story house was in excellent shape and the property was extensive, complete with a red barn, a pond, an orchard, a wildflower meadow, a vegetable garden, and my pride and joy (besides Zeke): my gorgeous flower garden. So yes, I’d get a good price if I sold. Out-of-towners would salivate over a property like mine to use as a vacation home.

But it was my home. Mine and Zeke’s. Plus my dog Otis, my cat Arrietty, and all my chickens called it home, too. Well, except for Dimity, who keeps flying the coop. Literally. She’s a chicken. What kind of mother (human or otherwise) would I be if I gave up?

You can’t sell, Cicely, Irene said instantly, her lined face filled with compassion. We’d all hate to lose you, and Zeke, too.

Nellie nodded sagely. True. And we’d hate it even more if strangers bought Wildflower Farms.

Nellie! Irene gasped.

You’ll simply have to find another job, Nellie said pragmatically.

In a town as small as Cricket Creek, that would take some doing. We’re about an hour from Granite Hills, the Foothill County seat, where the community college, Walmart, and Costco exist—all easy places to find quick employment.

But the drive there offers a nail-biting challenge: the twists and turns on the two-lane highway rival to the County Fair’s rollercoaster, and bounding deer have an affinity for leaping into windshields. Not a drive for the faint-hearted (AKA me) or those who get carsick (AKA also me).

Moving was out of the question, as was not putting money aside for Zeke’s education. You don’t need an assistant here, do you? I asked Josie in vain hope. Maybe I could bake pies? I hate all kinds of baking except for pies, and I’m proud to say my blackberry-apple has won blue ribbons at the county fair ten years running.

Aw, hun, I wish I did. Josie cast a surreptitious look at the two community college kids who help her out behind the counter.

Both were working hard at eavesdropping, feigning cleaning the already-clean counter. They stopped staring at me and bustled about, making a valiant attempt to look busy but succeeding only in bumping into each other. Twice.

The soft tinkle of the little brass bell attached to the glass-paned door sounded, and suddenly my day went from wretched to unbearable.

I hadn’t seen her in fifteen years, but I instantly recognized Sabrina Mattingly.

We’re around the same age and both have long-ish hair, and that’s been about the extent of our similarities for as long as I can remember.

Sabrina is a pale and petite blonde, always dressed neatly in designer clothes and heels, always with her hair sculpted to perfection, and always wearing lipstick. She’s quite the contrast to me with my farmer’s tan, ample curves, constantly chapped lips, always wearing my streaky brown hair tangled in a braid, and always aware of the distinct lack of heels (given I rarely wear anything but my lace-up Doc Marten work boots).

Sabrina and I both attended Cricket Creek High, with her two grades behind me. She hadn’t been the nicest of people back then, making me feel...out of place. Awkward as all get-out. I overheard her once tell another student that I was a shy, awkward loser with no gumption.

Maybe she’d changed.

Although I hadn’t. Changed, that is. Not really. The reason her barb had stung so painfully was that it had been true.

Partially true, to clarify. I have gumption and I’m not a loser, and as far as being shy and awkward goes, I recognize my limitations. Happily socializing with strangers being such. But seeing Sabrina so soon after losing my job and worrying over losing my family farm did nothing to help me feel my usual confident (although dramatically shy) self.

Time for us to head back, Nellie muttered under her breath, jabbing Irene with her elbow and pointing to Sabrina. Irene’s eyes widened. She made a quick beeline back to their table, Nellie hot on her heels.

Is that my order, Josie? Sabrina snapped out, pushing past me without so much as an excuse me. She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the cheerfully decorated box in which one of the college kids was placing macarons.

Okay, so while some people change—and for the better—others remain the same. Sabrina clearly fit into the second group.

No, Josie said sharply. That’s an order for Calvin Doyle. He’s surprising his wife with macarons for their anniversary. I’ll have yours packaged up for you in a moment.

I need those macarons for my three-thirty meeting. I should take precedence over our old high school principal, Sabrina sniffed.

And yet you’d arranged to pick the order up at… Josie leaned over the counter and picked up an order form, pretending to scrutinize it. Three-fifteen. It’s ten after.

Sabrina rolled her eyes in disdain, then pulled out her phone and turned her back on us.

Josie leaned in close and murmured, She’s just as nasty as when we were in high school. I swear, someday she’ll get on someone’s nerves so much they’ll kill her. She headed back behind the counter and began to pull together the macaron order.

Before I could grab my bag of muffins and run from this mess of a morning, Sabrina noticed Otis. Ew. Dog. Josie? Could you have this dog removed?

Josie blew a springy red curl out of her eyes with an exasperated huff. Otis is a customer. He’s always welcome.

Sabrina looked at me, a disgusted expression on her face. You shouldn’t bring your dog to places where food is served. Wait—I know you, don’t I?

Shoot. The moment I laid eyes on Cricket Creek High’s former bully, I should have ducked out of the bakery’s back door.

I clenched my hands into fists to hide my bitten nails and casually crossed my arms over my chest to hide my T-shirt with I’m a Dirty Girl written over the image of a woman farmer proudly holding a shovel. Finding it amusing, I’d picked it up at an organic farming convention a year ago. At the time, I’d sworn to never wear the T-shirt in town in case someone got the wrong idea. Clearly, I’d forgotten that rule.

Um, yeah. Hi Sabrina, I garbled out. Josie caught my eye, then rolled hers. She grabbed tongs and began selecting macarons, keeping an eye on her latest customer.

It’s Cicely, right? Didn’t you marry Trent Pemberton? Sabrina continued, taking a step toward me.

Otis growled, uncharacteristic of him, and I put a hand on his head to reassure him I could deal with this sharp woman with the glittering eyes. I offered Sabrina the friendliest smile I could muster at the moment. Not a lot of glee in my grin, of that I was pretty certain.

"Cicely Rue, that’s me, I said gamely. It’s nice to see you again. I didn’t think you’d ever come back to Cricket Creek." Last I’d heard, she’d left town right after high school graduation, vowing never to return. She wasn’t alone in that vow: Trent had said the same thing more than once.

Didn’t ever plan to return. But when Daddy died six months ago, I came back and packed up his office. First time I’d been back since I left for college.

Mr. Mattingly had been a lawyer in town, following in his father’s footsteps and his father before him. I’m so sorry for your loss.

Save it. He was a stingy jerk.

I blinked. How on earth does one segue from a statement like that without sounding awkward? So, um, did you become a lawyer, like your dad? I asked. Awkwardly.

Good god, no. Following in Daddy’s footsteps and living in Cricket Creek was not part of my plans. She glanced out the window at the tree canopy-covered street with its whitewashed brick buildings, wine barrel planters bursting with a riot of flowers, and the cheerful tourists strolling along. She wrinkled her nose. I’d thought I’d see some improvement, but the town hasn’t changed at all. Too bad.

Didn’t sound as though that was a positive thing, in her book. Life is about the same as before, just with slightly better internet, emphasis on ‘slightly.’ What brought you back this time?

I’m a wedding planner, out of Sacramento. But I’m branching out, taking on clients regionally. One of my couples is moving to Cricket Creek in a couple of months and they want to get married here. This is the bride’s hometown.

How lovely. I meant it. I love weddings.

My weddings always are.

Must be an enjoyable business. Thoughts of flower bouquets, lace wedding gowns, and multi-tiered cakes filled my head. Who would have known Sabrina would become a wedding planner? Although in a way it made sense: from what I could recall of Sabrina back in high school, she was detail oriented, efficient, organized, and bossy. She’d also been quite the social bug, making prom queen and the cheer squad and whatnot.

Entirely the opposite of me.

Here you go, Josie graciously interrupted, putting a periwinkle blue box tied with a lovely ribbon and a sprig of fresh flowers on the counter.

About time, Sabrina said. She side-eyed a sly, nasty look my way. Although maybe if you weren’t too busy gossiping with the locals, Josie, you might have had the order ready when I arrived.

Josie stiffened, but her expression remained pleasant. Cicely lost her job this morning. I think taking a moment to comfort my best friend is always first in order. After all, with the loss of income, she might need to sell her home. It’s a pretty big deal. Maybe try practicing a little empathy next time there’s a wait.

Not my problem. Sabrina turned to leave, then paused. She cocked her head and gave me a penetrative stare. Wait—do you still own Wildflower Farm? I heard Blythe Pemberton gave it to you and Trent when you got married.

So much for empathizing. Yes, I do.

Does it look the same? I went to a few parties out there in high school and remember the place. Big wrap-around porch, oak trees, large grassy area. And the red barn with the pond nearby. Is it the same or all run down now?

Before I could answer, Josie chimed in. It looks even better than before. Cicely’s an incredible gardener and has made the place look like a dream. You should see her flower garden—it’s like a home for fairies.

And farm animals? Are there still cows? Chickens? Horses?

I frowned. Sabrina’s stare was piercing and her questions relentless. Neither cows nor horses. Not since Trent… I cleared my throat. Anyway. My son Zeke and I have a dog and a cat, and a flock of chickens. And there are some fish in the pond.

Or so I assumed, having felt something freaky touch my leg on more than one occasion as I swam there. Cricket Creek runs along the west border of my property, but it doesn’t make great swimming given that it’s chock full of crawdads and blackberry brambles.

Sabrina dug around in her purse and pulled out a business card. Handing it to me, she said, Listen, maybe we could help each other out. The venue for this upcoming wedding canceled yesterday. Like I said, the bride and groom want to keep the ceremony local, and they’d prefer an outdoor setting. I’ve been looking everywhere for a place to re-book, but I keep coming up empty.

I’m not sure what that has to do with Wildflower Farms.

She shrugged. If your place is as pretty as Josie says, then it would be an ideal spot to use as a wedding venue. What do you think? Want to host it?

I blinked. The perfectly polished Sabrina wanted me, the awkward woman trying to hide her dirty girl farmer shirt underneath clenched, sweaty fists, to host a wedding at my house? I…um…I don’t think I’m the right person for the job.

With a loud scoff, Sabrina said, You need the money, right?

Did I, though? Enough to be extroverted?

I realized Sabrina was still staring at me, waiting for a response. As was the rest of Creeky Sweets. I hate being the center of attention, and I absolutely hate being put on the spot. And right now, both things were happening.

You want me to host a wedding. On my property, I said flatly, my tone belying the nervous tension churning in my stomach.

That’s what I just said. I need a venue for a wedding and you have the perfect spot.

I shook my head. I just don’t think—

It’s seven thousand dollars.

I gulped. People paid that kind of money to get married outside? In the grass? With trees and grasshoppers and bees and chickens and—

Cicely, listen to Sabrina, Josie said, her smile wide and her eyes bright. Your house is beautiful and the property is exquisite, especially with your flower garden with the grassy lawn leading up to the roses and all those oak trees.

"But it’s just my home. Zeke and I live there."

It’s not like you’d have to move out, Sabrina said. The snotty tone had diminished somewhat and she seemed almost excited, tapping her fingernails on the glass countertop. Typically, for outdoor weddings at a private venue, the hosts stay on site. And besides, it wouldn’t require much work on your part. As the wedding planner, I’d handle most everything.

I frowned. My introverted side was waving a red flag. So I wouldn’t have to…um…interact? Like, with the guests? Or the wedding party?

Not much. You’d likely briefly meet with the wedding party once or twice, deal with a few vendors.

Thoughts swarmed around in my head, tangling up in that familiar ball of confusion. How many people are we talking about?

Sabrina shrugged. For Emmie’s wedding, she has a guest list of a little over a hundred. That doesn’t include the staff, like the catering crew, photographers, musicians, of course. The next wedding, however—

"The next wedding?"

Like I said, I’m extending my service area. I have three more weddings taking place in Foothill County, all scheduled for later this summer. Unfortunately, I’d booked them all at the same venue, which closed permanently. Of course, I’d need to come look at Wildflower Farm, and the other brides and grooms would need to approve of your place. Also, she said, leveling her gaze at me, this wedding would have to go well before I finalize contracts for the other three weddings.

I stared blankly at Sabrina. What was even happening? I’m just…I’m not…I mean…

Josie squeezed my elbow. Cicely, you need the money. This opportunity will make up for losing your City contract, and then some. And it’s not like there are a lot of job offers out there. You know how this town is.

Josie was right. Renting out my space for a wedding would be the answer to my sudden financial dilemma. And yet… People. At. My. House.

My head spun. I was still reeling from being fired only minutes ago, off-balance and overwhelmed. I’m not sure. There would be so much to figure out. Like, where would people park? And—

Your orchard, Josie offered cheerfully. Lots of room, and most of the trees aren’t fruit-bearing anymore, anyway.

What about bathrooms? I don’t want people traipsing in and out of my house, and my septic tank can’t handle all the additional…well…flushes.

I have a contact who rents out high class portable potties, Sabrina offered. She’d pulled out her phone and was alternately scrolling and thumb-typing.

Permits? I asked weakly. Seemed like all my arguments against the idea were being countered, and effectively, at that.

Sabrina shook her head and glanced up at me. Not a problem. I’ve done this sort of thing in this county before. It’s a simple permit and noise variance. She raised a finger and shushed me when I opened my mouth to protest. "Cicely, this is an excellent opportunity for you. Say yes, and I’ll overnight you a contract. And a two-thousand dollar advance."

I had no more arguments. Had plumb run out of reasons why I shouldn’t take this opportunity. All that stood in my way was my own need for solitude…and the fact that Sabrina had been an awful person in high school and didn’t seem to have changed. Did I really want to work with Sabrina Mattingly?

The bell over the door tinkled again, and suddenly my day grew brighter. When my son was younger, I thought he looked like me. As Zeke began to grew into his teenaged face, I started to catch glimpses of his father. This afternoon, it was almost as if Trent’s baby blue eyes were staring at me from under the same familiar floppy black hair.

You look so much like your father did at your age, I blurted.

Zeke rolled his eyes and tried to hide a small smile that snuck through. He bent and gave Otis a pat, the dog returning the greeting with an effusive face lick.

What’s up? Why aren’t you at rehearsal? Or is it baseball practice today? I asked my son.

Sabrina huffed. I’m waiting for an answer. Do you want this contract, or not?

I got a place on the drama competition team. There’s a big competition coming up and they want me to perform my Hamlet monologue, Zeke said, not picking up on the fact that the short blonde in the fancy clothes was talking to me. Usually seniors or juniors go, but since we’re such a small district, they made an exception.

I ignored Sabrina as pleasure swept through me. That’s amazing! I’m so proud of you! Zeke’s ADHD had a tendency to sideswipe him. Time after time he’d fallen short of achieving his goals, but not with drama. In the world of theater, he found success time and time again.

It’s in Los Angeles, he said. The whole competition drama team is flying there. It’ll cost $1,500 for the plane ticket, hotel, and food and I need to bring a deposit check by Monday. So can I go?

I gulped. Fifteen hundred dollars. I had three hundred left in my checking account and four hundred in my savings, and we still needed groceries. In two weeks I’d get paid for the last three weeks of work I’d done for the County, but after that…

I knew the moment Zeke realized we couldn’t afford the trip. His gaze dropped to the floor, and he