A Fitting End: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery (27 page)

He came up behind me, not so close that he was touching me, but close enough that I could
feel
him. “It’s for the historic society. It’ll go in the new section of the museum.”

I pointed to the center of the display where the hundred-and-something-year-old limestone building sat smack in the center of the square’s grassy lawn. “There, in the courthouse?”

He was beside me now, only a breath of air between his right arm and my left. “The third floor is going to be devoted to Bliss’s architectural history.” His voice took on a hint of excitement as he pointed to the different buildings, telling me about the new plastic composites and Taskboard he’d used to represent the limestone exterior of the courthouse.

“It looks exactly like it.” He’d re-created every last element, from the pillars to the stone steps and domed roof.

He folded his arms over his chest, a hint of pride in his expression. “The devil’s in the details.”

Like the finish work of a garment.

“The square doesn’t have a pergola there,” I said, pointing to the northeast corner of the grassy lawn near a cluster of miniature trees.

“It will.” He indicated the walkway from the pergola to a flower garden. “The model includes current elements, as well as pieces of the long-term plan for town improvements.”

Around the perimeter were replicas of the quaint restaurants and shops that made Bliss an up-and-coming destination town. I recognized Villa Farina and Seed-n-Bead on Elm Street, just a hop, skip, and a jump away from my farmhouse on Mockingbird Lane.

“I’m working on Loretta Mae’s house now,” he said, following my gaze to the empty spot where my house should have been. He pointed to a second table, off to one side of the room. Right there, smack in the center on a smaller piece of Taskboard, was the red brick farmhouse I’d practically grown up in. Once again, every detail, from the taller roofline and dormers on the left side of the house to the yellow siding and wood porch leading to the front door was perfect. He’d even made a miniature replica of the Buttons & Bows sign I’d recently had hung from the eaves.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“The garden’s next.” He picked up a replica of the arbor leading from the sidewalk to my front yard, bending the material a bit to adjust the curve.

I realized, suddenly, that Will and I weren’t so different. My passion centered around fabric, clothing, texture, and color, while his revolved around the structure,
shape, light, and environment of buildings. The thing we had in common was our love of design.

Oh boy. A warm feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. I felt like Alice, weightless as she fell down the rabbit hole into Wonderland.

“Is Gracie home?” I asked, to distract myself from the moment as much as anything else. “I’d, um, love to see her latest sewing project.”

Will turned to me, quirking that eyebrow again. “She’s on her way back from the dress rehearsal that never happened,” he said as he set the small-scale arbor down on the worktable.

I held up the book. “I was a little stymied without this. It has all the names of the girls and their corresponding dresses.” I turned to head back to the front door, but Will had other ideas. He took my hand, stopping me and giving me a thoughtful, serious stare. “Let me ask you something, Cassidy.”

His touch sent a zing up my arm, straight into my heart. “I really should go,” I said, my words catching. I had to escape now, before it was too late. I gripped Trudy’s notebook, lifting it in explanation.

“One question. It’s been on my mind, and I need to know.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. Was he going to ask about the magic in my family? Did he suspect the truth about Gracie? “S-sure,” I said, but all I could focus on was the feel of his skin against mine.

He paused for the briefest second, like he was debating whether or not to ask his question. Then he said, “Did you…
know
Macon Vance?”

Just like that, my skin went cold and my hackles went up. He didn’t trust me. “No!” I pulled my hand away and
backed up a few steps. “Before I walked into the country club that morning, I’d never even heard of him.”

A quick shadow of doubt crossed his face before he chased it away, but not before the truth dawned on me. He was wondering if I’d been a notch on the golf pro’s bedpost. And if I had been, was I really the kind of person he wanted hanging around his daughter?

“Let me set the record straight,” I said. “I didn’t know him. I never saw him alive.” I ticked my statements off on my fingers. “I didn’t sleep with him. And I didn’t kill him.”

“I had to ask, Harlow.”

There he went, using my first name. I’d become so accustomed to him calling me Cassidy, that when he called me Harlow, it just felt wrong. And serious.

“No, you didn’t.” I skirted around him, wanting nothing more than to leave. Now. If he believed I was capable of any of those things—from sleeping with Macon Vance, player extraordinaire, to murder—there wasn’t much to talk about. “You have no reason to believe I’d do any of that.”

“People are talking.”

I sucked in a shaky breath. “What do you mean?”

“He was killed with your scissors, and you know his reputation. I just needed to hear it from you, Harlow.”

I spun around. “Stop calling me that.”

He stared at me. “What?”

“Harlow.” Tears pricked behind my eyelids. I blinked them away, trying to get myself under control.

It was hard enough knowing half the town thought I might have had something to do with Macon Vance’s death, what with the murder weapon belonging to me, and all, but Will? How could he think I’d be involved
with someone who slept around, or who had lived in the same town as his only child, but hadn’t tried to get to know her? “Just stop.”

“It’s your name,” he said, looking completely baffled by me.

“He was a player and blackmailer.” I laid my palm against my chest, indignant. “You’ve known me since… since…” Since April, which really wasn’t all that long and took the wind out of my sails. “You really think I’d go out with someone like that?”

In the blink of an eye, he was in front of me. Every step he took toward me sent me shuffling backward. Finally, my back was against the front door, his lean, cowboy body angled to my left, leaning against the door. He trailed his fingers up my right arm, sending a little shiver over the surface of my skin. He bent his head slightly, murmuring in my ear. “I don’t.”

“Then why…”

He moved closer, his body against mine, his lips brushing the side of my neck. My breath hitched and my eyes fluttered.

“I had to hear it from you.” He shifted his weight, resting his hand on my shoulder. My purse slipped down my arm, and Trudy’s notebook dropped with a thump.

I jerked, startled, and looked down. It lay open on the tile floor, just like Anna said it had been on my coffee table. Will murmured something into my neck, but my eyes were glued to the notebook. Something about it…

“Cassidy,” he said, his voice louder, his breath no longer on my skin.

I grabbed his forearm, grateful he’d gone back to calling me Cassidy, and equally grateful to be distracted by
Trudy’s book. “Look.” I bent down and scooped it up, keeping it open. “There are pages gone.”

“Uh huh.” He bent his head again, his breath like a whisper against my hair.

My eyes fluttered again, and I froze, trying hard to stay in control. “Will Flores,” I said when I found my voice again. “You just questioned whether I could have killed a man—stabbed him with my sewing shears—and now you’re… you’re…” I sucked in a breath, chasing away the zinging reaction my body was going through.

“Righting that wrong,” he finished.

“Yes, but… but…” I put one hand against his shoulder, pushing him back. “Anna Hughes…”

“I don’t want to talk about Anna Hughes,” he said, his fingers trailing up my arm again.

“But she… t-took th-this from m-my house…”

“Not surprised,” he said. “Loretta Mae was always right.”

My mind hiccuped. I pushed him back again, another chill racing over my skin as air passed between us. “What do you mean?”

His eyes smoldered as he looked down at me. “She told me the day she met Anna to watch out for her, and she was right.”

“She was?”

“It’s like Loretta Mae was a little psychic.”

I started, my temples pulsing, partly wondering what Meemaw knew about Anna Hughes that we didn’t, and partly wondering if Will’s comment was purely innocent. “Yeah.” I swallowed another mouthful of nerves, hoping I’d sounded noncommittal.

He went on. “Anna’s come on to me more times than
I can count, always with some rationale.” His voice took on a sarcastic edge. “She deserved better than she got. She was a prisoner in her own life. If she was going down, she might as well go down with a smile on her face.”

My hackles went up. How dare Anna make a move on my— My mind screeched to a halt. My what? A minute ago I’d been up in arms that Will could think I’d have anything to do with Macon Vance. And now I was ready to march right back over to the Hughes house and give Anna a good what for.

“Let’s not talk about that.”

“But the notebook,” I said, holding it back up. I flipped through it. All the dress notes seemed to be there, from what I could tell, so who knew what the missing pages smack in the middle of the book had on them.

“These weren’t ripped before,” I said, realizing that I
did
have to march back over to Anna’s house, but instead of telling her to back off Will Flores, I had to find out what was on the missing pages. From the way my gut clenched, I suspected it was the reason Trudy was in the hospital… something to do with whatever prison Anna Hughes felt she was in.

“I have to go.” I grabbed my bag from the ground, shoved the notebook inside it, and threw open the door, but something stopped me. I turned and looked at him, compelled by a sudden desire to run my hands through his hair. To feel his touch again. To gather energy from him.

“You’re not—”

Before he could finish, I acted, quicker than a rattlesnake, catching him off guard. I put my hands on his shoulders, arched onto my tippy toes, and kissed him square on the mouth. Just like that.

A charge of electricity ran through us both. When we separated, I flung my hand up in a wave, starting down the walkway to my truck. “See you, Flores.” I felt suddenly empowered and ready to face both Anna Hughes, and the eighteen girls waiting for me at the country club.

Sometime between when I’d left and the time I’d spent next door at Will’s, Anna Hughes had left her house. Now what? I sat in front of the Hughes’s house, the truck’s windows down, idling. My mind immediately set in on thinking about everything that had happened since the day Macon Vance died, starting with the fact that my sewing shears had been somebody’s chosen murder weapon.

If only I could unravel all the threads of this convoluted mystery, maybe Bliss would lift up the dark veil that floated over it and be able to enjoy the Margaret Festival. No small feat considering the pall of death in the air. But moving forward was part of life, and celebrating the values and life of one of Texas’s finest women was a fitting end to a horrible situation.

Being a visual and tactile person, the creative side of my brain battled with the logical side. Creativity usually won. I dug my sketchbook out of my tote, jotting down notes as I processed to help me weave the errant threads together.

I thought through everything I knew about Macon Vance, beginning with Josie and me overhearing Mrs.
James’s argument with him. What had I discovered from that conversation? “That Macon Vance is Libby’s father,” I said aloud. My voice was lost in the rumble of the old Ford’s engine.

What else? Mrs. James clearly didn’t like Macon Vance, and she may have tried to pay him off, but he was, after all, her granddaughter’s biological father. She had an alibi, so she was off the hook. Thank the Lord.

Which led me to Steven Allen. For all intents and purposes, he was Libby’s father, but the truth was that he was her stepfather. “Could he have killed Macon Vance to protect that secret?” I said, once again speaking out loud.

“Given your reputation, talking to yourself probably isn’t a great idea.”

I jumped in my seat, flinging my sketchbook out the driver’s window… and right into Deputy Gavin McClaine’s cowboy hat. “Lord almighty, Gavin! You scared the living daylights outta me!”

He cracked a grin, bending to retrieve my sketchbook from where it had landed at his feet. “Sorry ’bout that.”

“The Hughes aren’t home,” I said, pretty curious about what had brought him out to their house.

He nodded, once, as he ambled around the front of my truck, yanked open the sticky passenger’s-side door, and slid in. “Actually, I’m here to see you.”

My nerves flared up again, an image of Mrs. James in the tiny brick cell of the jailhouse popping into my head. Was I next? Was he hauling me off to jail in my own truck? I flattened my anxious palm against my chest. “Me? How’d you, um, know I was here?”

He cocked an eyebrow at me as he grabbed hold of the deputy sheriff badge sewn onto his uniform and
tugged it. “Just had to ask the right people the right questions,” he said, the smallest bit of snide lacing his voice.

“Oh.” It was all I could think to say.

“Why are you musin’ over Macon Vance’s murder?” he asked, looking me square in the eyes.

I felt my hackles go up as he stared me down. How dare he just slide right into my truck, unasked, and start questioning me. Wasn’t it enough that I’d endured his accusations at the jailhouse when I’d visited Mrs. James? “Because he was killed with my scissors, you held my friend—”

“Mrs. James has been released.”

“I know but…”

I tucked a wayward strand of my hair back behind my ear and peered at him.

“Which means I’m back to square one.”

“Maybe you’re missing something.”

He scoffed. “What in the devil would I be missin’? I’ve covered every aspect of this case from every possible angle.”

I debated what to tell Deputy Sheriff Gavin McClaine, but in the end, I decided I needed to spill the whole truth, come what may. I took a deep breath before saying, “Did you know that Macon Vance was Libby Allen’s biological father?”