Easton Island (Easton Island Family Saga #13)

Chapter 1

Morgan braced as the seamstress pulled tightly on the bodice of her gown—an exquisite plum tulle creation. “I’m glad this is the final fitting.”

“It had better be the last,” her grandmother sighed. “It’s almost crunch time.”

“Crunch time” being the homestretch leading up to the big day, Elizabeth Easton’s marriage ceremony to Gerard Ainsworth, followed by a gala reception, both of which would take place at Easton Estate.

From the moment she and Gerard had bumped up the wedding date, it was all hands on deck, or in this case all hands on land, to begin putting together a lavish affair, a celebration of one of Easton Island’s most prominent residents.

No expense had been spared, not that Morgan was surprised. When her grandmother did something, she did it on a grand scale.

Being privy to the details and even giving her two cents when asked for an opinion, Morgan couldn’t wait for the celebration, kicking off with the pre-wedding surprise party she was hosting at Locke Pointe Bed-and-Breakfast that evening.

Which was why she was eager to wrap up the fitting and head out. She had an entire laundry list of last-minute tasks to take care of. “Don’t forget, you and Gerard need to be at Locke Pointe at six on the dot.”

“You and Ronni don’t have to host a special dinner for us, although it is a thoughtful gesture.” Elizabeth’s brows knitted as she tugged on the strap of her wedding gown. “I had better not gain an ounce from here on out or you’ll have to grease me up and slide me in.”

“The gown is stunning,” the seamstress remarked. “You’re one of the most beautiful brides-to-be I’ve ever met.”

“Grandmother is positively glowing.”

Elizabeth waved dismissively. “More like sweating bullets.”

Tink. Her cell phone chimed. She glanced at the screen. “It’s Quinn again. She’s on her way to the gallery.”

“I’m done with the alterations,” the seamstress announced. “You’re free to take the dress off.”

“And me?” Morgan asked.

“Both of you. I have a few small nips and tucks to make, which means I’ll be done within the hour.”

Morgan made quick work of carefully removing her gown, swapping it out for jeans and a pink cotton blouse. She traipsed past the counter and into the art gallery’s exhibition room to wait for her grandmother, who appeared a short time later.

“The gowns are in the office for you to work your magic,” Elizabeth said. “Thank you for making the special trip here to the island for the fittings.”

“You’re welcome. I’ve loved Easton Island since I was a child.” The woman’s expression grew wistful. “It’s a magical place…a wonderful spot to host a wedding.”

“I hope so. We’ll soon find out.”

“While we wait for Quinn, I’ll help you rearrange the wall art,” Morgan offered. “I noticed you’ve been selling quite a few pieces lately.”

“Even a Pietro Chardeux piece,” her grandmother said. “I do miss seeing it, though. It was one of my favorites.”

“As soon as Quinn gets here, I need to run a few errands before tonight’s party.”

“Party?”

“I-I meant to say dinner.” Morgan quickly changed the subject and began helping her grandmother unwrap several pieces, strategically filling in the blank wall space. After finishing, she stepped back to admire their handiwork. “I like this piece. It reminds me of Locke Village.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “You’re right. If you squint your eyes, you can almost see Elin’s bakery.”

The overhead bell chimed. Morgan’s best friend and gallery employee breezed in, carrying a bulky shopping bag. “Sorry if I’m late.”

“Not at all.” Elizabeth dusted her hands. “The seamstress is wrapping up the final alterations. Morgan has helped me fill the blank wall spaces and you…look like you’ve been busy.”

Quinn tapped the top of the bag. “I picked up Morgan’s arrangement from the flower shop on my way here.”

“Thank you.” Morgan reached inside and gingerly removed a bountiful bouquet of fall flowers—deep burgundies, burnt oranges, and golden yellows with sprigs of lush green foliage.

Tucked in between the flowers were snapshots…black and white photos of Elizabeth and Gerard from when they were young, along with a trio of more recent pictures of the couple. “This turned out exactly as I’d envisioned. They did a great job on the centerpiece.”

Elizabeth craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse.

Morgan playfully blocked her view. “No peeking. It’s décor for tonight’s dinner table.” She slid the arrangement back inside the bag. “I’ve been meaning to ask…how is your new place working out?”

“I love it,” Quinn said. “I’m able to walk to work, to the grocery store and restaurants. If I need to make a quick trip to the mainland, I can even walk to the ferry docks.”

“Although I miss having you living at Looking Glass Cottage, I’m glad you’re settling into a home of your own.” Morgan chatted for a few more minutes while slowly making her way toward the door.

Not paying attention, she nearly collided with a tall, dark-haired man holding a bulky framed piece of art.

She stumbled back, an apologetic smile on her face. “Whoops.”

“Watch where you’re going,” he growled.

“Good morning, Mr. Ryze.” Elizabeth stepped out from behind the counter. “If I remember your name correctly.”

“You remember, and I’m hoping you remember our conversation from the other day when I purchased this Pietro Chardeux from your gallery.”

“I do,” she coolly replied. “The piece is one of my favorites. I gave you the papers, and you left.”

“Do you also recall me questioning its authenticity? You told me it was, and I took your word for it,” Ryze said.

“Along with the paperwork,” Elizabeth reminded him. “Is there a problem?”

He slid the painting onto the counter. “The artwork you sold me is a fake. I’ll have you know I was so upset that I decided to report it to the local authorities.”

Quinn made a choking sound. “Fake?”

“As a two hundred dollar bill.”

Morgan immediately recognized the look in Elizabeth’s eyes as she squared her shoulders. “I stand by my gallery’s reputation. If this piece is a forgery, I can assure you I will cooperate with the authorities to ensure those responsible are brought to justice.”

“I knew it was a mistake buying this piece from you.” Ryze ranted and raged, all the while hurling vague threats.

Elizabeth, having finally heard enough, cut him off. “As I stated before, I will help get to the bottom of this.”

“You owe me a refund. Don’t think for a second that you’re going to sweep this under the rug. Every piece in here needs to be evaluated and rated by legitimate authenticators.”

“Th-that’s ridiculous,” Quinn sputtered. “Surely, this is an isolated incident. We’ve sold hundreds, possibly even thousands, of pieces to collectors without a single incident or issue.”

Ryze muttered under his breath.

“What did you say?” Elizabeth asked. “Did you say we should rename the gallery the Art of Deception?”

“I think it would be more appropriate considering the circumstances,” he haughtily replied.

Elizabeth’s expression grew thunderous. “Get. Out.”

“We were discussing you refunding me the money I paid for this piece.”

“Until you insulted me, insinuating we’re not a legitimate gallery,” she snapped. “I’ll wait to hear from the authorities. In the meantime, I want you off my property.”

“Lady, you don’t know who you’re messing with.” Ryze snatched the painting off the counter. “You’re not getting away with this.”

“Leave!”

He flung the door open and stormed out.

Morgan watched as he passed by the window, moving at a brisk pace. “What was that all about?”

“I knew he was going to be trouble.” Elizabeth explained the man had come in the previous weekend and spent a great deal of time perusing their inventory. “He finally settled on the Pietro Chardeux piece.”

Quinn picked up. “I was here too. He kept asking if it was real. Elizabeth gave him the authenticity papers. He paid for the artwork and left.”

“And now he’s back.”

Elizabeth briefly closed her eyes. “Refresh my memory…where did we get that particular piece?”

Quinn hurried over to the computer, her fingers flying over the keys. “We got the Chardeux on consignment from the Artisan Shore Gallery in Port Huron.”

“Marti’s gallery. I’ll call her to find out what she knows.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Morgan asked.

“No. I’m sure we’ll sort it out,” her grandmother said. “Although I appreciate your offer.”

After leaving, Morgan swung by the harbor to pick up her special order of fresh seafood packed in dry ice, one she’d placed for the party. The dockworker promptly loaded the boxes in the back of her SUV.

Double-checking to make sure she had everything—jumbo shrimp, Maine lobster and king crab, she lowered the hatch and started to climb into her vehicle when she noticed a familiar figure limping along the dock toward the parking lot.

As the person drew closer, Morgan realized it was Priscilla Finkpin, a woman who had been a thorn in the Easton family’s side for decades.

She leaned heavily on a cane, a look of pain etched on her face. With each step she took, she slowed even more. Clearly, the woman was struggling.

Thinking Priscilla’s ride was somewhere nearby, Morgan scanned the parking lot, only to realize there was no one else around. She reached for the door handle and whispered under her breath, “I hope I don’t end up regretting this.”