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  Dressed in White

  Misadventures in the Wine Country #7

  Diana Stone

  Copyright © 2019 by Diana Stone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  1. The Wedding Cake

  2. The Ultimate Carriage Ride

  3. Regrouping

  4. Behind the Canoe

  5. The New Cake

  6. Search for the Cleaners

  7. The Necklace

  8. Oh, Look!

  9. Cubano Cigars

  10. The Text

  11. Chumash Casino

  12. Suits

  13. Quinn

  14. The Day After

  15. Lunch

  16. Ostrich Land

  17. Deviled Eggs

  18. Dinner at My Place

  19. Nice Day

  20. Tony is Missing

  21. Detective Kay

  22. The Day After

  23. Monica’s House

  24. The Proposition

  25. Decisions, Decisions

  26. Not Again

  27. Fun at Monica’s

  28. Kidnapping

  29. Thursday

  30. The Chase

  31. Not Just a Drink of Coffee

  32. Quinn’s place

  33. Planning

  34. More Plans

  35. The Flight

  36. Melani

  37. The Plan

  38. It Goes Awry

  39. Double Crossed

  40. They’re In

  41. Planning

  42. It’s Show Time

  43. And…

  44. The Finale

  45. After

  46. Goodbye Heather

  47. The Offer

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Diana Stone

  1

  The Wedding Cake

  “What happened?” I screech.

  “I’m sorry, Jess. I don’t know.”

  * * *

  Two weeks ago, Monica told us the good news—she and Charlie are getting married. I had 14 days to find the perfect place. That was easy. Monica loves Buttonwood Winery; they’re friendly, whimsical, and have the best peaches in a hundred miles. I arranged the festivities, the food, the wine, and I even remained calm with her out-of-town relatives.

  And now this. Why is the carriage horse standing on the wedding cake?

  The baker delivered it this morning. I helped get it safely in the refrigerator.

  The horse and carriage are rented. The horse isn’t mine—Juliette wouldn’t have stepped on it. She would have eaten it.

  The ceremony begins at 4:00, when sun is a bit lower in the sky. Fortunately, the oaks will give plenty of shade by the pond. It also gives the out-of-town guests more time to wine taste or. Or what? There isn’t much they’ll want to do, except sip. I don’t see her old-lady relatives hiking in Figueroa Mountain Park, or going to the ostrich farm to feed the birds. I have them pegged as imbibers.

  Why is this cake-situation my problem? Because I’m the bridesmaid. And the wedding coordinator. And now, the panicked cake-replacer.

  This isn’t my usual job. I moved to the Santa Ynez wine country to get a fresh start after divorcing my cheating husband. They say people cheat for a reason, such as they’re not getting it at home. Right, he was getting it from his flashy, appreciative secretary.

  No, I guess I don’t dress like her. I used to wear a police uniform when I worked for LAPD. I had plenty of excitement chasing gangsters through dark alleys, or kicking in doors to rescue little old ladies who had fallen and couldn’t reach the phone. I had five years of adventures patrolling the streets of Hollywood. Then I met him. He enticed me into getting married and joining him in his insurance business. It lasted four years, until she came along and rocked his world.

  After that, I needed to find myself again, so I moved my two horses up to Los Olivos. I use them to lead trail rides through vineyards and across the top of our golden, summer-time hills. I work as a code enforcement officer three days a week, and I also have a job at Monica’s bakery. She made me part-owner to thank me for helping fight a competitor laundering money through Aquamarine. It sounds like a boat repair shop, but it’s a bakery across the street.

  Anyway, the whole Aquamarine thing turned dangerous when one of the owners threw a Molotov cocktail at Monica’s bakery and then escaped. After a sting operation, the other owner went to jail for money laundering.

  And Freddie—he reappeared from the time I was a drug informant. I thought he had been shot and killed. Apparently he was shot, but someone (the government?) brought him back to work for them. He is tied in with the Aqua people, but he wasn’t arrested, and he knew about the sting, beforehand. He’s kind of sexy—even though he has a shaved head and has loads of tattoos. It’s not my thing. But I think there’s something more to him. He is amazingly brave and tries to keep me safe.

  That’s a good thing, because I tend to get in trouble. It’s a frequent occurrence.

  Back to the fiasco at hand. What is the cake doing on the ground, and how did it get out of the fridge?

  I have 3 1/2 hours to find another wedding cake. The problem is Monica specifically wanted this one. We discussed the flavor, the color, and the style. She is a Swiss trained baker, so I can’t drive to the market to pick up a flat cake from the bakery section. No, that won’t do at all.

  My mind is spinning like a hamster on a wheel. Where can I get a quality cake, instantly?

  Well… If I want quality ingredients—Monica has them in her bakery refrigerator, three miles up the road. Can I make a wedding cake in a few hours? Goodness knows how long it will take me to create one when I’m a more of a microwave and protein-powder girl. But I’ll give it a shot.

  The speed limit is 45 MPH, but I know I can push it to 50 without a ticket. Getting pulled over would slow me down.

  I unlock the back door, flip on the lights and—a wave of fear washes over me. What the hell am I doing in the kitchen, all alone? I take a deep breath on the way to the fridge. I know how to deal with tunnel vision; it takes centering and focus. I can do it. You may think it’s nutty to be like this. But you try recreating a beautiful wedding cake when you are an oaf in the kitchen.

  Ah, one thing that may help is a few sips of Monica’s homemade liqueur. She uses them in fillings for cakes, and actually—everything. I need to get creative and relax. A gulp of Kahlua should help. The coffee will counteract the effect of the alcohol.

  I’m standing in front of the fridge. I’ve just pulled out four loaves of pound-cake. Now what? There’s a container of un-whipped heavy cream. She also has jugs of jams and preserves—and that vast amount of alcohol.

  This could be a new cooking show… 1-Hour Wedding Cakes.

  But in my case… it’s Wedding Cakes for Dummies. I don’t know how to beat heavy cream into fluffy fabulousness. What the hell. I see her do it all the time. I think she turns on the beaters and walks away, then returns a few minutes later when it's magically perfect.

  It looks like my cream separated. The internet is my savior. It tells me I have to do something to cool it down. It seems I shouldn’t have left it out of the fridge while I played stacking games with the pound cake.

  I put the rest of it in the freezer for a few minutes to chill, then I decide how much sugar to add with a touch of brown coloring. The smashed cake had a light brown frosting I’ll try to recreate.

  My cake will have three flavors. I’ll take a cup of Kahlua and pour i
t on the first. The second will be amaretto, and the third is hazelnut. Fine, that’s settled. We’ll all be drunk on cake.

  Yikes, I have to make frosting pearls and flowers. I don’t have any idea how to do that, but we have beautiful roses growing next to the pasture.

  Everything goes back in the fridge, and I dash out the door. It’s only a few miles home. The ceremony is at 4:00, but I have to be in my summer dress, with the cake, looking like nothing happened. I don’t want Monica to stress out. She’s been holding up great, but between the problems with the arson, the wicked competitors at Aquamarine, and the stress of tying her future to another person… She doesn’t need to know about it until later.

  I’m astounded by my brilliance. I’ll make a cake that looks like a wine barrel on its side. I’ll tuck the roses around the side like it’s lying in a bed of flowers. That will look gorgeous. It’s fitting, since the wedding is at a winery.

  Back at the bakery, with my roses in the sink, I stack the loaves and run a rod through it to keep it from toppling over. We have crazy-sharp knives here. So I carefully shave the ends to round them just a little. If I shave off too much there will be less cake to eat.

  Next, I get the whipped cream smoothed on top. I need to make it look like slats of wood. So I slide a knife along its length. Several parallel lines make it look like a reasonable facsimile. I color the extra cream to steel-gray for the metal bands around the barrel.

  It goes on looking pretty good. Then I take the roses, snip off the stems, and gently tuck them under the cake. Wow, nice. It really does look like a wine barrel in a bed of roses.

  Now, what to do with the other loaf?

  I guess we’ll get drunk on this one too. Monica’s orange liqueur will work. Half a bottle should do the trick. Then I slice it and put it on its own platter with a dollop of cream on each piece. I place the remaining roses around the outside.

  I carefully drive back to Buttonwood. This time, they let me put it in the tasting room fridge. I don’t want it unsupervised. There’s no way I’d have time to make another one. This was a piece of luck that won’t happen again.

  I have ten minutes until Monica arrives. My clothes are in the truck. I’m parked in the lot that’s the off-limits for tasters, so no one sees me pulling off my shirt. In all of five minutes, I’m in my gauzy summer dress. My mascara is touched up, and I’ve twisted my pony tail into a bun.

  I’m stepping out in my flat sandals because I wouldn’t move well in stiletto heels in dirt. Monica wants this to be a summer-casual ceremony. I think I’m dressed perfect for a bridesmaid.

  The horse and carriage are waiting in the shade. I don’t see the driver. She has some explaining to do about her horse and the cake. Of course, it is also a mystery how it got out of the fridge.

  2

  The Ultimate Carriage Ride

  The oak

  I hear a car approaching in the gravel. A quick look, and I see it’s Monica. She parks in her special reserved space.

  Through the car window she looks radiant as she grins and waves.

  The first thing she asks is, “Have you seen Charlie?”

  “No, but I got a text saying he’s up there, waiting for his lovely bride!”

  “We’ve been texting all afternoon. But I’m keeping with tradition and not letting him see me.”

  “You look gorgeous, he’ll be thrilled!”

  It’s a white, off the shoulder dress. She has lace woven through her waved, upswept dark hair. For a feminine look, she left it down at the back. In fact, I’ve never seen it down. She always keeps it braided and secured to her head at work.

  “No veil?”

  “No, it felt like overkill for a second marriage. The lace mimics it without actually having one.”

  “How are you feeling?” She looks calm, but I thought I’d ask. I’d be happy to marry the vet, too!

  “I’m a little tense—just because. But no last minute worries,” she smiles a quick one.

  “Oh good. I’ll text Charlie to let him know you’re here. I told him I would, so he can relax.”

  “Does he think I might run out on him?” She’s horrified.

  “No, it was my idea. I think it calms everyone down. They’ll know we’re on time.”

  “Yes. I am prompt. I don’t like keeping people waiting.”

  “Yeah, me neither.” I glance down at my phone that just vibrated. “Charlie says everyone can’t wait to see you. They’re ready when you are!”

  “Alright, are you ready to do this?” I look at her with an eager expression.

  “Sure am, let’s go!” She links her arm through mine and we almost skip to the waiting carriage.

  Then she tugs me to a stop and looks at me with a panicked expression. “I just got nervous. It hit me like a falling brick. Should I be nervous?”

  “No, no. He’s perfect for you, don’t worry. You get along great, you respect him, and he’s nice to look at too!”

  “I forgot my lines. What do I say after ‘I promise to love you, to cherish and respect you?’ It just vanished.”

  “It’s okay, I have your cue card in my purse, right here.” I unzip my bag and pull it out.

  “Thanks!” She takes it, beginning to read aloud as we continue toward the white Victoria carriage. Her nose is buried in her writing, and she’s missing the beauty of the experience. The white horse is wearing peach-colored flowers like a necklace.

  The driver is sitting in the seat with her back to us, ready to go. The carriage doesn’t have a door, so we step up to the open-air seats. Since Monica isn’t wearing a long gown, I guess the driver didn’t need to assist us—but still, it would have been polite. She slightly turns and waves to us, “Welcome aboard. You’ll have a wedding to remember with Ultimate Carriages.” She clucks to the horse as soon as we’re seated—and our ride begins.

  It briefly pulls Monica out of her attack of nerves. Then, she’s back with her nose in the card as she murmurs her lines.

  It’s a shame to miss this. This is a memory she should treasure. Our ride passes the peach orchard. Each tree is heavy with her favorites. I nudge her and point, “Look, those are your peaches, still ripening.”

  “Pretty,” she sounds distracted, and looks down at her notes again.

  “Hey, we’re not doing this. Give it to me,” I reach over with my palm up.

  “What do you mean?” She looks confused.

  “You’re missing a great part of your wedding. The carriage ride is like an appetizer before the main course. Don’t be so concerned about what you’re going to say. Read from the card during the ceremony and enjoy this part. If you haven’t memorized it now, you won’t. It’s the adrenaline messing you up.”

  It’s like I’m in on a tour bus all alone.

  She sighs and releases her cue card to me. I tuck it back into my shoulder bag.

  “Alright. I’ll read it, but it won’t be perfect. I was busy last night. I had to make four pound-cakes for a retirement party.”

  Huh, she’ll soon find out she made the cakes for her own wedding. I’ll tell her later.

  The carriage rolls toward her future life, passing through the winery’s garden.

  “Look at all these herbs, and acres of fresh spices, right here.” I point to the peppermint, thyme, and a few others.

  The horse ambles along to the tomatoes. That perks her up. “Their vegetable gardens are amazing. I know how hard it is to make mine grow in pots.” There are row after row of summer vegetables and heirloom tomatoes. Mmm, purple ones, striped pink ones, and the little yellow ones. I don’t even have a tomato in a pot. Maybe I should get one.

  There’s a wide path between the tomatoes and the flower garden. It’s used for their tractor to load the harvest. There’s plenty of room for our carriage. But oh no—she just turned the horse way before she should, and now we’re smashing hundreds of yellow tomatoes beneath our wheels.

  “Oops—oh well,” the driver laughs and tugs on the reins a bit.

 
Monica looks at me with her mouth open. “I could turn a carriage better and I don’t know horses.”

  I raise my voice to the driver on her perch, “How long have you been driving?”

  She cracks up with laughter and admits, “This is my first time. I can’t believe how well I’m doing.”

  Monica whispers, “Who did you hire?”

  “I didn’t hire her, Charlie did. The horse is one of his clients. He told me he’s giving her a credit on future veterinary services.”

  “I didn’t realize it was so hard to control a carriage,” she whispers to me as the horse steps to the right—causing us to roll over plant after plant of the big, beefsteak variety.

  The driver is up there muttering to herself. I hear “Stupid horse,” among other things.

  Is the horse blind—or is the driver drunk? Maybe she was wine tasting while I was making the wedding cake. Maybe she drove over the original cake because she’s drunk, but that doesn’t explain how the cake was on the ground in the first place.

  I’m trying to enjoy the scenery, the company, and the perfect day… but this driver is an idiot.

  “Can you steer the horse a bit to the left, so she doesn’t smash the plants?” I carefully suggest.

  “Maybe you would like to come up here,” she snaps back. “It’s not as easy as it looks.”