Deadly Patterns (23 page)

“I imagine so,” I said, wrapping my hands around my coffee mug, but it was long cold. What I wouldn’t have given for something homemade from Sandra right then. Or for Meemaw to cocoon me in a comforting, warm hug.

Will’s lips thinned under his goatee. “And Gracie . . . ?”

“I’m not entirely sure how it works, but I think she gets flashes of the past when she touches old fabric.”

He angled his head, looking at me with disbelief. I didn’t blame him. Magic was a hard pill to swallow, especially when you were being told your daughter possessed it. “What, like reverse clairvoyance?”

“Yeah, that’s a pretty good way of describing it.”

“What makes you think she sees the past?” he said tightly.

“Remember back in July when we found the Margaret dresses in the wardrobe?” He nodded, and I went on. “It was like she’d had an electric jolt. It happened again the night Madelyn came over to take her picture for the Margaret Festival. She put on the dress—Etta’s dress.” I emphasized that it was her great-great-grandmother’s gown. “And she went into a sort of daze.”

I could see his mind working to remember the moments I was talking about.

I hesitated to give him more examples, but finally said, “There have been a few times where I think she’s sensed Meemaw around. She’s heard something, or felt her presence—”

“Hold on.” He closed his eyes for a beat, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck. “The creaky pipes and the drafts . . . Are you telling me that all that is Loretta Mae?”

I nodded sheepishly. “Yes.”

“And Gracie senses that it’s more than old plumbing or a poorly fitted window.” It was a statement, not a question, so I sat silently while he worked his way through it. He muttered to himself, assigning a different meaning to some of the things he’d noticed. “So her ability to sew like she does, with hardly any lessons . . . that’s because of Butch Cassidy and his wish?”

“I don’t know, Will. Maybe. Loretta Mae taught me to sew when I was a little girl. Some people just have that talent. I did. I do. Maybe Gracie does too. That might be separate from having Cassidy blood run through her.”

“Seeing flashes of the past isn’t much of a gift,” he said, grumbling almost as if Gracie had gotten gypped.

“Neither is goat whispering,” I said.

He snapped his head up. “That’s Coleta’s charm? Talking to the goats?” He grew quiet for a minute, thinking, then slowly nodded. “Makes sense. I knew she had some special connection with ’em when I saw her coax Maggie Sue away from my horses and out of the yard.”

Everyone in Bliss knew Nana had a way with goats, and I knew Will had gone to her for help when his neighbor’s goat got through the fence of his property and harassed his horses.

Lots of so-called cowboys in Texas were all hat and no cattle. Not Will Flores. He was the real deal. Yes, he was an architect, but he also kept a Longhorn and horses and knew his way around a stable.

“Let me guess. Tessa’s got a magical green thumb.”

“Right.”

“And Loretta Mae?”

One by one, he was working through the Cassidy clan. “Whatever she wanted, she got.”

“But you’re saying she’s not really gone.”

“Not in the traditional sense,” I said after a weighty pause. “But her charm doesn’t seem to work the same as it did when she was here. A little less direct, I guess.”

I filled him in on a few more details. “The charms can be passed on through the men in the family line, but they’re only bestowed on the girls for some reason. No one knows why.”

“Your brother?”

I shook my head. “Nope. He always wished he had some magical gift, but neither he nor his boys have it. He used to beg Meemaw for one, like she could wave an enchanted wand and make him magical.”

He took a deep breath, his coffee long forgotten. “And you, Cassidy?”

That had been the million-dollar question since I’d been a child. For a long time I was the Cassidy without a gift. “Meemaw used to always say that my gift was my dressmaking.” I smiled, remembering. “I would get so mad at her because dressmaking isn’t a charm. It’s just what I do. What I’ve always done.”

“So you’re a talented designer—that’s your Cassidy charm?”

“No. It’s more than that,” I said, remembering how it had finally surfaced as I’d worked on Josie’s bridal gown and the bridesmaids’ dresses for her wedding. I closed my eyes and let my mind wander.

One by one, images of each of them, perfectly turned out in the garments I’d created, had come to me and I’d realized that my gift was to be able to imagine and design the perfect garment for someone, helping them realize their deepest desires in the process.

“I’m listening.”

He was, with full, undivided attention, but he still didn’t look happy about it. A hard edge had materialized and he looked big and tough enough to hunt down a bear with a switch. “When I design something for someone, it helps them . . .”

I trailed off, not quite sure how to put it into words. Having a sense of what happened when I designed an outfit was one thing. Expressing it so it didn’t sound all woo-woo was something else entirely.

“Get what they want or need.”

I snapped my gaze up. Something in the tone of his voice struck me, as if he were speaking from experience. “How did you know?”

“Putting two and two together,” he said. “You made Josie’s wedding gown and she got her happily-ever-after. At least so far. You made Karen’s bridesmaid dress and now I actually see her around town with Tom. Mrs. James got out of the jailhouse.” He tapped his fingers on the table, lost in thought for a moment. “But what about—”

“Nell’s killer?” I asked, finishing his sentence.

“Exactly. Surely being arrested for murder isn’t a person’s deepest desire.”

“There seems to be a checks and balances system.” I’d given a lot of thought to just how my charm worked, and I hadn’t come up with any definitive answers. All I had was speculation, so I went with it. “Sometimes people want things, but what we want comes with a price. I don’t think Butch realized that making that wish for his descendants would mean we’d have to stay on the down low and protect our secret against people who’d just as soon string us up if they knew the truth. And I also don’t think he realized that people wouldn’t always stick around once they found out. Like my father,” I added quietly.

He contemplated that for a second, pushing his cowboy hat back on his head. Most Texans had two hanging in their closet, but so far I’d seen Will in at least three different ones: a cream-colored straw hat, another in black, and a black felt one just like Tim McGraw and Toby Keith wore. Today he had on the black felt. His eyes softened. “He left after he found out?”

“Yup.” I spit out a bitter laugh. “Name’s Tristan Walker. Guess it suits him. Mama told him and that was that. He walked right on out and never looked back.”

I studied my fingers splayed on the steering wheel, preferring that to the wariness I might see in his eyes.

But then he spoke, clear and reassuring. “My last name’s Flores. Which has nothing to do with walking.”

I lifted my gaze as he put his hand over mine, and suddenly I didn’t long for Meemaw’s cocoon of warmth, or a refill on my coffee.

Mama had been right. No secrets. I’d told Will everything, and he wasn’t running away.

Chapter 31

“Red!”

Mama’s voice boomed. Anywhere else, people might have looked at her like they were wondering if she was identifying the color of Santa’s sleigh or declaring her favorite color.

But this was Texas and nicknames were a way of life. Red had been born ginger-haired. Our father, who’d still been around at that point, had nicknamed him Red and it had stuck.

Mama hurried down the long arm of the runway toward Red and his wife, Darcie. “Take a look at you younguns,” she cooed, crouching to love on her grandbabies. “You look five years old,” she said to Cullen. “And aren’t you the cutest little guy around?” she added, wrapping Clay into a bear hug.

“Cullen’s holding himself a little taller since his birthday last month,” Darcie said, laying her hand on the top of her son’s ginger head. “And Clay, well, he’s about as rowdy as a boy can be.”

Red gave me a good once-over as I approached. “You don’t look any worse for wear,” he said. “I was expecting more scrapes and bruises.”

I was still a little sore, but not noticeably to anyone looking. “The fall was a few days ago. You shoulda seen me just after.”

Will was inside the mansion hanging up the Victorian kissing balls, focused on his task and, I’m sure, lost in thought. I’d left him to come out and see what more needed to be done in the tent. Telling him about the Cassidy charms had lifted a weight from my shoulders, and I felt lighter and freer.

I spent the next hour making sure that the evergreen garlands adorned every crafter’s table around the perimeter of the tent, that the poinsettia plants lined the steps to the house, and that the mistletoe balls were all hung with care. Cheery Christmas music played in the background, the heaters blazed, and everything was coming together.

Nana had her goat milk lotion packaged in pretty tubs, her dancing goat logo and the name of her farm stamped on classy circular labels and stuck to the top of each container. She’d brought brochures about her award-winning cheeses, as well as a cooler filled with samples and a Crock-Pot filled with her special Dr Pepper, apple, and cinnamon-stick mulled cider. “I’ll put them out whenever the shindig starts,” she’d said, and then she’d gone off in search of Granddaddy.

I’d managed to scoot upstairs for a quick peek at the widow’s walk. It was locked up tight and no revelations came to me. Eventually I went back down to the tent.

Holly Kincaid, Nate’s niece, flagged me down from the Seed-n-Bead table Josie had set up. “Harlow!” She waved me over. “What did you do to Josie?!”

My conversation with Will about my charm and making people’s dreams come true came crashing back to me. Checks and balances and knowing that people often wanted things that weren’t good for them rose to the top. “What’s wrong?” My voice rose in a panic. “Is she okay?”

Her jaw dropped open and she stared at me. “Nothing’s wrong! I’ve never seen her so happy. She’s ratted out her hair and put on lipstick. Lipstick! Uncle Nate asked her if she wanted to stop by the market for another pint of Chubby Hubby and do you know what she said?”

I shook my head, smothering my relieved smile. “What?”

“She said no thank you. No thank you! She hasn’t said no to Chubby Hubby since she found out she was pregnant.”

“Wow.” Another Cassidy Designs success story. “That’s what a good outfit can do for a person,” I said.

I thought about adding a testimonial page to the Web site I was going to develop. I could title it “Lives Cassidy Designs Has Changed.” I filed the idea away to think about later just as I caught a glimpse of Raylene Lewis. She stood at the door to the kitchen, Boone in her arms, her feet rooted to the spot as she stared out the plastic window of the tent toward the very place Charles Denison had lain just a few days ago.

Hattie sidled up and put a protective arm around her shoulders. Hattie had known the truth about Dan Lee Chrisson’s identity. Arnie probably had, too. But who had known what he’d been looking for? She, Hattie, and Boone moved into the tent and wandered through the booths.

A hand came down on my shoulder and I jumped. I whirled around to face Hoss McClaine. Sheriff Hoss McClaine. Fiancé to Mama. My future stepdaddy.

“Howdy,” he said.

“Howdy yourself.” I smiled up at his weathered Clint Eastwood face, not sure if I was ready to hug the man. “Mama told me the news. Congratulations.”

“Thank you kindly.” He looked more contemplative than I’d ever seen him. “I’d say you had somethin’ to do with her finally giving me the thumbs-up.”

“I doubt it. She doesn’t need me to help her make up her mind about anything.”

“Maybe not,” he said, “but she’s content now, what with you being back in Bliss. Way I see it, I reckon she feels like she can let herself be happy now that she sees you nearly every day and knows you’re doin’ just fine.”

I narrowed my eyes, furrowing my brow and giving him a mock stern look. “Hoss McClaine, you better treat her right, is all I have to say.”

He glared right back down at me, but a twinkle lit up his eyes. “You got an ‘or else’ to add to that sentence?”

“Nope. Mama’ll give you the or else.”

He cracked a grin and nodded at me as if to confirm that he wasn’t going anywhere and that I didn’t need to worry a lick about him and Mama.

Will sauntered up beside me in full Santa regalia. “Trouble over here?”

“No trouble,” Hoss said. “Harlow here was just doing some woolgathering is all.”

“No, I was not!” I said.

Hoss raised his bushy eyebrows. “Oh yeah, little lady, you most definitely were.”

“I was just thinking. That’s not the same thing as woolgathering.” At least I didn’t think it was. “Woolgathering” was one of those Southern expressions that didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me.

“Thinking about what?” Will asked.

“Raylene. Charles Denison. Their baby.”

Hoss leveled his gaze at me, the playfulness gone. “Gavin’s convinced that Raylene Lewis isn’t as innocent as she looks, Harlow,” he said, his voice low enough so that only Will and I could hear. “You keep out of it, you hear?”

“But what about the articles?” I said. “I know he was after something hidden here.”

“She was his wife, so she probably knew. All the more reason why she’s the prime suspect.”

“But what about Mrs. Abernathy?” Not that I wanted her to be a murderer, but I didn’t want Boone ripped from Raylene’s arms.

“Right now, Harlow, we don’t have enough to piss on,” Hoss said, “no matter who’s guilty. Just stay out of it.”

“Yes, sir,” I grumbled, only moderately relieved that Raylene wasn’t actually on the verge of being arrested.

I checked my watch and nearly lost my balance. “The fashion show starts in thirty minutes!” Good Lord, I
had
been woolgathering, and for far too long.

I left Hoss and Will and hurried up the center aisle, cutting left to the backstage area. The time flew by as I checked each woman’s outfit, made last-minute adjustments, and did a quick microphone test.

Libby and Gracie, dressed in their whimsical elf costumes, complete with ruffled candy cane scarves, came to lead Will inside. His Santa session was starting.

A few minutes later, I stood at the beginning of the catwalk, mike in hand, quaking in my boots. I loved fashion but would never have been a model. Behind the scenes was a better place for me, not in front of the audience.

I mustered up an even voice, cleared my throat, and began. “Good afternoon,” I said once the models were lined up.

Mrs. James wriggled her fingers at me from the front row. She was an old pro at this, but she’d wanted me to take the reins this time.

I practiced good public speaking technique by focusing first on someone to my right, then on someone to my left, and finally someone in the back center. “My name is Harlow Jane Cassidy, owner of Buttons and Bows and Cassidy Designs. Welcome to our first annual Winter Wonderland fashion show!”

Applause filled the tent, dying down after a few seconds. I went on to thank Mrs. Zinnia James, the Bliss Historical Society, and the city of Bliss for letting us use the Denison mansion, and all the local businesses that had sponsored the event.

“The fashion show you’re about to see was inspired by winter. We started with the idea of a winter wonderland and the magic of the season. Enjoy!”

The first strains of “Winter Wonderland” sounded, the spotlights trained on the catwalk shone, and the first model glided down the runway. I introduced each woman, giving a brief description of the outfit—a female version of a Prussian collar coat inspired by the narrow standing collars of nineteenth-century garments, a trumpet dress with a flared flounce hemline paired with a tailored top, lightweight wool cuffed trousers with a ruffled top—as the models strutted up and down the catwalk.

Every now and then I glanced at the audience to gauge the reception. The women were enthralled. Husbands of the models were watching their wives in awe. And a few of the men were completely tuned out. Hoss McClaine sat next to Mama, but had his phone out and seemed to be texting. Arnie Barnett flipped through a newspaper, going back and forth to a bookmarked page. And Senator Jeb James looked like he’d rather be anywhere than where he was, sitting next to his wife, Zinnia. Politics didn’t take a break for the holidays.

I caught a couple glimpses of Santa poking his head out through the kitchen door. I knew Will had Gracie and the bomb I’d dropped on his mind, but he was doing an award-winning job of keeping it to himself.

Josie made the first trip down in her multihued tweed, then disappeared to change into her bohemian maxi dress. She glided out the second time looking more lovely than ever. I glanced at Nate. His attention never wavered as he watched her every step.

Newlyweds.

Madelyn Brighton snapped picture after picture of each model until, finally, the last one sashayed down the aisle, pivoted at the end, and then sashayed back up, pivoted once again, and headed back down. Each of the models fell into step behind her until the runway was lined with the complete design collection.

The audience stood, clapping and hollering. I grinned, totally satisfied with how it had turned out. Mama was right. I was doing just fine.

But my good mood was dampened when, from the corner of my eye, I saw Raylene dash up the steps and slip into the kitchen. Something was going on, and she wasn’t just fine—not by a long shot.