Somewhere in Crime: A Minerva Biggs Mystery, #5

By Cordelia Rook

Wedding bells are ringing for Minerva Biggs, but they hit a sour note when an heirloom music box vanishes on her watch. What's a girl to do when Something Borrowed becomes Something Stolen?

For Minerva, the answer can always be found in Something Old. The siren song of yesteryear leads her to an impossible photograph of both the music box and one of the suspects—years before either is supposed to exist. Past and present seem to have fallen out of time, and the mysteries are multiplying with every beat.

The groom's ex-girlfriend is sabotaging, the bride's grandmother is scolding, the ring bearer is slobbering, and now the maid of honor is swearing there's time travel afoot. Can Minerva restore harmony and walk down the aisle on a high note? Or will her wedding march become a funeral dirge?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cordelia Rook
• Release date: Apr 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224944132

Cordelia Rook

Writer, reader, tireless champion of the Oxford comma. I can quote 80's movies with startling accuracy, and name all the Plantagenet monarchs in order. I'm for dogs and donuts. I have no feelings either way about scones. I am terrified of Mrs. Danvers. I write clean, lighthearted dog cozies under the name Cordelia Rook, and clean traditional fantasy under the name J.R. Rasmussen. I live in Charlotte, North Carolina, where my household is run by a galumphing fool of a bulldog. Visit me online at cordeliarook.com.

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Chapter One

Wasn’t it William Faulkner who said that thing about the past not being past? I’m with him on that one. I don’t believe in a bygone era. I’m not at all convinced that bygone is a thing.

We’ve all heard the stories about seeing ghosts when the veil is thin. But what if that veil isn’t the boundary between this life and the next, but the boundary between time? What if those ghosts aren’t dead people, but very much alive ones, at the same place in a different moment?

Maybe you think I’m daft, and you wouldn’t be in terrible company there, but the fact remains that anybody can see a ghost, whether they believe in them or not. Case in point: me, standing out on the terrace at Baird House the morning after the annual Baird ball, facing the Ghost of Girlfriends Past.

Mrs. B was throwing a brunch for the out-of-town family and a few select friends, before they started trickling back whence they came. It was a gorgeous September day—still summer in North Carolina, even in the mountains—so most of the tables were outside. Plantagenet (my dog), Percy (my fiancé), and I were just heading back to ours when Paisley Grant thrust herself between us and it.

"There you are! she cried. I never got a chance to catch up last night!"

I barely had time to register that she was, bizarrely, talking to me and not the dark-haired, broad-chested object of both our affections before she threw her arms around me and hugged me like we were old, dear friends. We were not old friends. We were not dear friends. We were not any kind of friends. There was a reason she hadn’t gotten a chance to catch up: I hadn’t given her one. I’d managed to avoid Percy’s ex-presumptive-fiancée not only at the ball, but in the two days leading up to it when she’d been at Tybryd—the Baird family estate-turned-resort—on some business with Percy’s sister Elaine. I should’ve known my luck couldn’t hold forever.

I am just so happy for yoooou, she went on, drawing out the last word, Southern style, as she patted my arm. She’d be blessing my heart in a second. See if she didn’t.

While I murmured my thanks, she aimed her veneered smile at Percy, who visibly flinched from it. I assumed he was regretting his shallow youth. "And for you too, obviously. Great catch. She’s so sweet. That fake smile faltered a little as she glanced down at Plant. And you even get a free dog as part of the deal!"

Paisley hardly had to bend to pat Plant’s big square head, much as she’d patted my arm a moment before. He accepted the attention, but gave her a very judgy look. He knew a fake dog person when he met one. He’s adorable. So handsome! He was handsome, with his glossy black coat and confident—one might even say regal—bearing, but I didn’t believe for a second that Paisley Grant thought so. It’s the same dog you had before, right?

Yep, same one. I looked over her shoulder at the table we’d been aiming for, where my sister Sophie was sitting with Elaine and Elaine’s husband Phil. My family had come for the ball at the insistence of Mrs. B, who said they were her family too now. (Technically, they weren’t. The wedding was still over a month away.) My parents had left that morning to beat the traffic, because beating the traffic was one of my dad’s primary struggles in life. The rest of us had privately agreed to put He beat the traffic on his headstone.

Sophie was staying on for another week. She said she needed a vacation. What she really needed was an excuse to stick her nose into my wedding preparations. I gave her a look that clearly communicated, via the sort of telepathy unique to sisters, that if she was so eager to stick her nose into something I had a situation right here that would greatly benefit from it.

He’s bigger than I remember him, Paisley was saying. And twice as adorable, of course. And bless your heart—See? I told you—for taking on such a big dog when you’re such a little thing. He must drag you around all day long.

He certainly does not, I said. He’s well trained. And also pretty lazy.

Paisley shrugged. If you say so. So, I was thinking⁠—

I very much doubted that, but I was spared the details. Sophie—who had walked around in a big circle so as to appear to be coming from inside—squeezed herself between Percy and me, slinging one gangly arm over his shoulder and the other over mine. Sophie was like a taller, prettier, louder version of me, if I read too many romance novels and always said the first thing that popped into my head the second it popped. Hey, sorry to interrupt, but I saw your cousin Gary in the hall and he was looking for you guys. He is your cousin, right? Gary Woods or something.

Woodrow. Percy looked at me. Is he my cousin? He was terrible at the cousin numbering and times-removed thing. And sometimes at knowing who his relatives were at all.

Which was fine, because division of labor is important in a partnership, and I was fizzing at those things. Actually, you guys aren’t related by blood. He’s the great-nephew of Oscar Woodrow, who was married to your grandfather’s cousin Viola. I went on, describing the Baird family tree down to the twigs until Paisley’s eyes glazed over. When I was sure I’d made her just as desperate to exit this conversation as I was, I gave her a fake smile of my own. Excuse us.

The four of us—Percy, Plant, Sophie, and I—turned as one unit and headed across the terrace for the nearest door, which led into the ballroom. You’d never know the room had been used for its named purpose the night before; the extra staff Mrs. B had hired in for the ball must have been up all night, first cleaning, then setting up buffet tables and a bit of indoor seating for today’s affair. The only decorations they’d reused were several floral centerpieces, and I was glad to see they’d reused that much at least. Despite the fact that I was shortly to become one (a circumstance I was not yet fully square with), there were times when the wastefulness of rich people astounded me.

So that wasn’t actually a lie, Sophie said as we crossed the room. Gary really did ask me if I’d seen you. But it was a while ago.

How long is a while? I asked.

At least half an hour. I got distracted by those little tarts.

Understandable. I, too, had been distracted by those little tarts. I sent up my thanks to the heavens that Dante was my friend as well as the Bairds’ private chef. As his gift to me, he was overseeing the catering for the wedding, using only his personal recipes. I was mildly considering divorcing Percy immediately afterward, so we could turn around and get married again, and have another reception full of Dante’s food. Maybe we could repeat the process yearly.

But he was looking for Mrs. B too, Sophie went on. He said she’d promised to show him some more of those old pictures.

We should check the office then. Percy stopped walking and reversed his direction. (By then we’d made it out of the ballroom into one of Baird House’s labyrinthine hallways.) She’s been dragging people in there all morning to show them obscure snapshots of relatives they hardly remember. He gave me a gentle elbow. I’m sure they’re all very grateful.

As they should be, frankly. Digitizing, indexing, and archiving all the Baird photos—going back to the nineteenth century, thank you very much—had been a massive project, one I’d taken on purely out of the kindness of my heart. Well, that and the fact that I was incorrigibly nosy, as long as the objects of my curiosity were long dead. Genealogy and family histories were a hobby of mine, and the Baird family offered almost endless fodder for it.

Sounds like Gary was asking to be dragged. I gave Percy a pointed look and a haughty sniff. At least somebody appreciates me.

Don’t be ridiculous. He stepped aside so Sophie and I could precede him into the office. Always the gentleman. I can think of at least, like, three people who appreciate you. My mother definitely does. Let me amend that: always the gentleman, unless there was an opportunity to tease me.

Gary and Mrs. B were indeed there, along with a handful of others, including Gary’s brother Gavin, their sister Gloria, and Gloria’s husband … Rob or Bob or Knob or something, I didn’t know. He was only related to the Bairds through marriage to a woman who was herself only distantly related through marriage, so he didn’t get a box on the genealogy chart for me to memorize. As for the Woodrow siblings’ names, I didn’t judge. I was a woman called Minerva with a sister called Sophronia. Who was to say alliteration was any sillier than Victorian chic?

Also present was Chris Bevan, like the answer to one of those Which of these things is not like the others? puzzles from elementary school. Where the siblings G were all related to Viola Baird, Chris was the great-grandson of a different cousin of Percy’s grandfather. He was also probably half the age of everybody else in the room.

I caught Sophie checking him out, whether because she hadn’t noticed him at the ball the night before, or for an encore of appreciation. Either way, I couldn’t really blame her. His relaxed shirt and khakis didn’t hide what was clearly a fit body. And he had dimples like Percy, marred only by a nasty-looking scar running down one side of his chin. It was a flaw that worked for rather than against him, giving him a roguish and slightly dangerous look. His features were on the delicate side, and he might have been a little too pretty without it.

Everybody was gathered in front of the walnut desk that had once belonged to Percy’s father, and his father before him, collectively staring at an enormous, curved monitor. And when I say enormous, I mean the thing took up more than half the desk. Mrs. B had recently acquired it, and was quite proud. She warned me almost daily that it (along with the desk itself) would be going with her when she moved out, which she was scheduled to do while Percy and I were away on our honeymoon. I felt kind of bad that my marriage meant displacing my mother-in-law from her home, but what could I say, rich people with legacy mansions were weird. It was just how things worked with them.

There’s our Minerva now! Mrs. B announced with her usual enthusiasm, beaming all the while. "We were just saying what a wonderful job you’ve done with the family archives! Gloria called it astounding, and I don’t think she’s one bit wrong. I think that’s just a perfect word."

I believe it was Chris who used that word. Gloria gave me a tight smile. Everything about Gloria was tight: her hair bun, her closely spaced teeth, her overly injected forehead. I’m sure you worked very hard though.

It was me, all right. Chris shot me a nod and a grin. I can’t even imagine how much work that was.

I thanked everybody for the compliments while Plant shoved past most of the guests so he could get his drooly jowls on the antique desk as quickly as possible. I hissed at him, and he grudgingly returned to my side and sat on my foot. Percy reached down to scratch his head, to show him there were no hard feelings. Easy for him to be magnanimous—it wasn’t his foot.

With a hearty chuckle, Rob-Bob-Or-Knob came over and knelt beside Plant to scratch his side. I started to warn him that this was a mistake, but it was already too late; Plant immediately covered his face in kisses. Percy and Chris both laughed, but I cringed. Plant and the recipient of his kisses generally had different views on how much of a gift they were.

Rob-Bob-Or-Knob clearly didn’t mind though. He’s fine. I guess he wanted to see what we’re all looking at! Plant thumped his tail furiously in agreement.

Pictures of Viola and Oscar? I guessed. It was an easy one. Oscar Woodrow was the only connection to the Bairds four out of five of these folks had.

Yes. Gary, who’d been leaning over the monitor (as if getting closer to that monstrosity were required to see it clearly), straightened up and stretched his back, which audibly popped in response. He was a wiry, prim sort of man with bushy eyebrows and a bushy mustache, but no hair at all on his head. His glasses seemed out of place; he looked and acted like he ought to be wearing a monocle. And it’s serendipity that you came in here right when we were looking at them, because I wanted to talk to you about them.

I wasn’t sure it qualified as serendipity when I’d known both that he wanted to talk to me and that he was probably in the office, but who was I to argue? ‘Them’ Viola and Oscar, or ‘them’ the pictures? I asked instead.

Viola and Oscar. Actually, I have something of theirs for you. Gary waved his hands at me, as if to fend me off from attacking him to get at whatever this thing might be. Not to keep, you understand! But I thought you might like to wear it on your wedding day. It could serve as both something borrowed and something old.

As he spoke, he reached into his jacket pocket. (Why was he wearing a jacket? It was far too warm for it, even in the house. No wonder his bald pate was a little shiny.) When his hand came back into view, it held a thick, oversized gold locket. He dangled it from its hefty chain, the cameo pendant swinging like a pendulum.

My mouth dropped open. Surely that wasn’t … surely this man, a stranger to me, wasn’t offering …

He gave me a smug smile and flipped the locket open. The room was silent but for the tinny notes of a familiar melody.

I stared from the locket to him. Is that …?

It is. Gary closed the locket and stepped forward to press it into my hand.

Odsbodikins, it was. Not just a locket, but the locket. Or more properly, the music box that had been fashioned into a locket. I stared at the delicate peach-and-ivory cameo, then turned it over, running my thumb across an inscription on the back. Your song is always in my heart, I read aloud.

Oh! Mrs. B pressed her hand to her chest. "How lovely! Isn’t that just lovely? So romantic."

It was romantic, if not really wedding romantic. Viola Baird had a tragic story that involved a fairy-tale wedding followed by a horrific stillbirth from which she’d never recovered. They hadn’t known much about postpartum depression back in the forties, and my not-a-doctor’s general sense of the situation was that her depression had snowballed unchecked until it became a permanent, incapacitating mental illness.

Out of all that came Bid Time Return, the song Oscar had written in all his yearning for a time and a Viola gone by. The lyrics were sweet and melancholy and dripping with love, and the tune was quite catchy. As fate would have it, several famous crooners of the day did versions of it, and the song went on to become a classic. Everybody knew it. It was just one of those songs you learned through osmosis before you even knew the word song.

But before any of that, when he first finished it, Oscar had put the tune into a music box—this one. He’d presented it to his wife in the hope that it would somehow draw her out, and his love would magically heal her. Foolish but, like Mrs. B said, romantic.

And like I said, not really wedding romantic, given the tragedy of it all. Still, as a gesture it was beyond generous. I didn’t know