Pleating for Mercy

by Melissa Bourbon

  “You know, just when things were going really well for her. It’s not fair,” Josie said.

  “I don’t think murder is ever fair.”

  Josie ran her index fingers under her eyes, wiping away the tears pooling there. “But she had a tough childhood, you know? She was a foster kid. God, the things she told me.” She sniffed, dabbing her red-tipped nose with a tissue. “I had it pretty rough as a kid. No dad. My mom worked two jobs. That’s why I glommed on to you, you know? I felt like we were the same. Neither one of us had a dad around, but you had your mom, your grandmother, and, of course, Loretta Mae. I used to wish I was part of your family. There was something so special about all of you.”

  Guilt wound through me. I hadn’t known then what Josie had needed from me. I’d just seen her as a shadow, a constant presence, and had never paid her any mind. “I’m sorry I wasn’t—”

  She flung up her hand. “Don’t. There’s nothing to be sorry for, Harlow. You were there for me, even if you didn’t know it. I remember thinking to myself: She made it without her father. So can I. And now look.” She spread her arms wide. “I’m marrying into a good family and I’m in love. I’ve been lucky.” Her smile faded. “Nell wasn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is it wrong to talk about her now?” The look she gave me sent me reeling back to when we were kids. Her big brown eyes would gaze up at me like I was her big sister. She’d thought I had all the answers back then, which I didn’t. And I sure didn’t have them now. I made it up as I went along, pulling pieces of wisdom from Mama, Nana, and Meemaw—my holy trinity. “Of course not. She died, but we aren’t going to forget her.”

  She dropped her chin, shaking her head as if she was disappointed with herself. “I just . . . I wish I could have stopped her from making mistakes.”

  I got up and moved in front of her, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. “It’s not your fault.”

  “I was running late last night, counting the RSVPs for the wedding. If I’d been on time . . .”

  “We don’t know why she was killed. If you’d been on time, you might have been a victim, too.”

  “She was hooking up with guys she met on the Internet. Exaggerdating, she called it. Not a single one of the guys she went out with was honest in his profile.”

  “Why’d she keep doing it?”

  Josie stared into space for a minute. “She never thought she was good enough, like being on her own for so long meant no one could really love her. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy, you know?”

  Oh, yeah, I knew. I’d met dozens of people in the fashion world who were on collision courses of self-destruction and they all had their warped, twisted reasons. Not enough love. Too much love. Power. Money. Jealousy. Binging and purging. Drugs instead of food. All the dirt comes out in the wash, as Meemaw would say.

  “She said she found Mr. Right, but I think he was just using her,” Josie continued.

  “What makes you think that?” I asked.

  “He just came and went as he pleased. She’d meet him every day for a few weeks, then nothing for a month. He couldn’t commit, but didn’t want to give up the fun.”

  I’d met plenty of that kind of man. “Why buy the cow when you’re getting the milk for free?” Meemaw said when I complained to her about the guys I was dating.

  “I’m not giving anybody any milk!” I’d been indignant, and also untruthful. I’m sure she knew I’d poured a glass or two over the years, but I’d learned my lesson. I was past the point of settling for someone who wasn’t in it for the long haul.

  “What if he’s the one that . . . that . . .” Josie looked at me and said, “What if he did this to her?”

  I was asking myself the very same question. “Did you tell the sheriff all of this?”

  She nodded. “He said they’d look into it. They’d search her apartment. Look through her computer.”

  “If they took her computer, I’m sure they’ll be able to find out who she dated and see if there’s a connection. Can I get you something?” Josie looked like she could use a stiff drink, but I offered tea or coffee.

  “Coffee,” she said.

  I went into the kitchen, grabbed a couple of black-and-gold Maximilian mugs from the cupboard, and opened my coffee drawer to contemplate the selections. Emeril’s Vanilla Bean, Extra Bold Dark Magic, Mudslide, and Southern Pecan were my favorites. I took a wild guess as to which Josie would prefer and went with Southern Pecan. I popped the sealed pod of flavored coffee into the machine, pressed a button, the coffeemaker purred to life, and thirty seconds later a steaming cup of brewed coffee was ready. I didn’t know if the wedding was on or off, but right now, it seemed Josie just needed a friend.

  I brewed the Dark Magic for myself, added cream, and carried both cups back to the sitting area. “Here you go,” I said, sounding much more chipper than I felt. Josie had painted a picture of Nell as a damaged woman. She’d never found the happiness she’d been searching for. This realization felt like a cold fist closing around my heart.

  We sipped in silence for a few minutes. Finally Josie set her mug down on the coffee table and reached for her purse. Hers was not designer like Nell’s had been, which made me curious. “Where did Nell get her Gucci purse? One of her boyfriends, maybe?”

  “From Mr. Right.”

  Even though Josie was marrying one of the richest bachelors in town, she carried an ordinary inexpensive cloth handbag. It had tiny little colorful flowers on a cream background—and it fit her, just like everything else she wore. Maybe it was like the engagement ring. Josie knew who she was and what she liked. It was all comfortable, casual, and understated. No pretense.

  Nell had not embodied the same philosophy with her accessories.

  Josie pulled out her checkbook and the next second she was tearing out a check and handing it to me. “We didn’t talk price,” she said, “but I hope this’ll be enough to get started on the dresses.”

  I faltered, recoiling as if the check was one of the hundred-plus varieties of snakes in Texas. “The wedding’s on?” I hated to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I was not an opportunist, either. One more reason I wasn’t a good fit in the cutthroat world of New York fashion.

  Her olive skin was sallow. “We can’t postpone it,” she said. “Nate’s brother and father have been gone for almost three months, on and off. His dad’s flying in from Angola to be here. Too many out-of-town guests coming, arrangements that can’t be canceled . . .” She sounded like she was repeating verbatim what had been drilled into her. “No, I talked to Nate this morning. We’re going ahead with the wedding.”

  I glanced at the check—a thousand dollars—and lost my breath. That, combined with the final bill for the gown and three—er, two—dresses, would be enough to keep Buttons & Bows afloat for a while. But the slip of paper felt like a lead weight in my hand.

  I handed it back to her, suddenly remembering what Nell had said about hoping Nate didn’t break Josie’s heart. Things happened for a reason. If Nell’s death was a way for Josie to have more time, she needed to take it. And if Nate loved her, he’d understand. “Josie, you don’t have to rush it.”

  She paled even more. Her lips quivered. “How can I smile and celebrate when she’s gone? She was going to be my maid of honor.”

  Right. Would Ruthann or Karen fill that role now?

  A rogue thought occurred to me. I remembered overhearing something about a shotgun wedding yesterday. If we were in the 1950s, I’d be wondering if Josie was pregnant and the hurried wedding was to save the family’s reputation.

  Of course we were in small-town Texas, so it was sort of the same thing. “You’re not . . . um . . . Are you . . .” I couldn’t figure out how to ask her tactfully.

  She leaned forward with each of my starts and stops like she could pull the words out of me.

  I cupped my hands over my belly. “You know—”

  She flung herself back on the couch. “God, no! We don’t want kids right
away. We want to be a family, him and me, before we add that to the mix.”

  I breathed out a sigh of relief. “So there’s no hurry. If you don’t feel right about it . . .” This time I trailed off. Who was I to tell her to postpone her fairy-tale nuptials?

  She laid the check on the coffee table. “Harlow,” she said, “I need you to make my bridal gown, and Karen and Ruthann’s bridesmaid dresses. The wedding is on.”

  As I hesitated, a gentle puff of air, nothing stronger than an afternoon breeze, swept under the check Josie had written. The paper fluttered off the coffee table and landed in my lap.

  A shiver stole through me. The windows in here were definitely closed. I had the sudden feeling that Josie and I weren’t alone in the house, that the check had been picked up and placed on my lap by some ghostly presence.

  Meemaw.

  Josie put her hand on mine. “Please, Harlow. I want to marry Nate.”

  I took her hand and nodded, hoping it was sincerity I felt emanating from her and not desperation. The dress I made for her would have to be beyond perfect. Every seam I stitched would hold together her dreams. Every bead I sewed would bring sparkle back into her life. And every pleat I added would help her fold her grief into manageable pieces.

  I went into the workroom, grabbed a package from a cardboard box I hadn’t had the chance to unload yet, and handed it to her. “Go put this on.”

  She flipped it over. “Spanx?”

  I’d become a shapewear convert when Maximilian gave a sampler pack to his employees for Christmas one year. I’d witnessed the before and after with my own eyes. My “now you see them” jiggles had been transformed into a sleek silhouette.

  She opened the envelope and pulled out the Hide & Sleek Hi-Rise Body Smoother, the perfect thing for her to wear under her strapless Empire dress. I’d be giving her the illusion of a longer, leaner line with the high waist. No regular hose or shaper would do.

  “Um, are you sure?” she asked skeptically.

  “One hundred percent.” I steered her to the distressed red wooden privacy screen off to the right of the room. The screen looked like old oversized window shutters hung together with antique hinges. Lengths of fabric draped over one side. Clothes hangers were hooked onto the slats, displaying samples of some of my favorite designs. “Even Jessica Simpson wears Spanx.”

  Her eyes popped wide. “Really?”

  Jessica was a Texan. That gave her extra credibility with other Texans.

  I winked. “It’s gonna be great. Trust me.”

  A minute later she came out from behind the screen practically glowing. “It works!”

  “Of course it does.” She went on, raving about how comfortable she was, that she’d still be able to dance, how much better it was than the girdle her mom had bought from Walmart, and how Karen and Ruthann, but especially Karen, were going to flip when they discovered these. “They’re always talking about their tummies. Karen’s got her husband, but Ruthann says she better find herself a man quick before her looks go. And Nell . . .”

  Her gaze darkened, but she pulled herself together. “Nell would have loved this,” she finally said. “She was forever complaining about her muffin top. Said there was no stopping it.”

  I’d noticed Nell’s midsection. She would have been a Spanx convert for sure. I’d decided long ago that every woman needed to feel good about her body, and if it took shapewear to accomplish that, then so be it.

  I spent the next hour measuring Josie’s beautifully compressed curves and going over the final design when she was dressed again. She peered at the sketch I’d done. “I don’t really get the pleating,” she said.

  I’d played with our original design and had come up with the perfect dress for her. The pleats ran horizontally. I’d changed the sweetheart neckline to a slightly scalloped cut. It would fit her beautifully, accenting her in all the right places. “The pleats give it structure,” I said. “The sketch is rough, I know, but it’s going to be fantastic, Josie. You’ll look like a princess. Trust me.”

  “But strapless?” Her shoulders hunched slightly, as if she was imagining herself in it right this minute, and she couldn’t quite picture it. “Are you sure? I’ll never do it justice.”

  I turned her around to face the full-length oval mirror in the corner. “Look at you! You’re beautiful.” One of Meemaw’s maxims came to me, another bit of wisdom I lived by. “This dress is going to complement you perfectly, Josie. It’s not meant to steal the show.”

  Her spine straightened and she threw her shoulders back. Bless her heart, she was trying her best to envision it and feel confident. After all, I was a designer. I could see the dress in my mind. It wouldn’t be so easy for someone who didn’t live and breathe fashion, clothing, and design. “So it’ll have beads?” she asked.

  “Plenty of sparkle,” I confirmed.

  She smiled—an honest-to-goodness grin—for the first time since she’d arrived here this morning. “I trust you, Harlow.”

  “Good,” I said just as a knock sounded on the front door.

  My ragtag appearance hadn’t improved over the last hour and a half. As I padded toward the door, I made a new rule for myself. Be presentable before I came downstairs, just in case this trend of early visitors continued.

  I peeked through the glass of the front door and gasped. Sheriff Hoss McClaine stood there, cowboy hat in hand, toothpick between his teeth, looking like he was ready to hang someone with a brand-new rope.

  Chapter 10

  I held the door open as Sheriff McClaine stepped inside. He greeted me, raising his bushy eyebrows when he noticed Josie. He nodded to her, a polite Southern gentleman to the core. “Ma’am,” he said, though he stretched the word out until it had an extra syllable and sounded like MAY-um.

  She jumped up, nearly crashing into the rustic coffee table. “Did you figure out who did it, Sheriff? Do you know who killed Nell?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  As he turned those slow roaming eyes of his to the main room of Buttons & Bows, I once again got the feeling that underneath the indifferent gaze, he was a sharpeyed officer of the law. What I couldn’t imagine was what he was looking for.

  The front door jerked under my hand, slamming shut, almost of its own volition. I spun around, half expecting to see Meemaw, her iron gray hair piled on top of her head in a loose bun. But of course she wasn’t there. My imagination—or simply the deep-seated wish that my great-grandmother was still with me—was getting the better of me.

  His gaze settled on me for a beat before landing back on Josie. “I need ya to come on down to my office, Miss Sandoval.”

  She rested her palm against her chest. “M-me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I got a few more questions for ya.”

  There it was again, that Southern charm that concealed a razor-sharp knife.

  Josie’s left eye twitched and she looked as if she’d been sucker punched and pushed into a hole that she would never manage to claw her way out of. “Do . . . do I have to?”

  The sheriff lowered his chin, his jaw working. “No, ma’am, ’course you don’t, but I’d be obliged if you would.”

  She reached for her purse and pulled out her phone. “I . . . uh . . . can I c-call Nate?” She tried to punch the numbers, but her hands trembled. Her cell dropped with a dull thud onto the pecan planks of the hardwood floor.

  I could feel her panic like it was rising up in me, and I stooped to pick up the phone. If she couldn’t form a coherent sentence in this house, there was no way she’d be able to manage under the manipulative charm of Sheriff McClaine on his home turf.

  A sudden pocket of cold air surrounded me, instantly growing warmer as it enveloped my body. I knew what I had to do. I couldn’t let Sheriff McClaine drag Josie out of here, scared half to death. I put my arm around her shoulder, hoping the warmth enveloping me would seep into her. “Why do you need her?”

  Hoss McClaine gave me a beady-eyed look. “Like I said, I got a few questions for her
, is all.”

  I channeled all the gumption I’d had to muster up every day when I lived in New York and leveled my gaze at him. “Can’t you ask your questions here?” I asked, hearing the South creep back into my voice.

  His dark brown hair was particularly dull this morning, and his thick mustache and soul patch gave him a weathered cowboy look. He didn’t waver, blast him. “No, ma’am, I don’t believe I can. I’d rather Miss Sandoval come on with me.”

  I felt all my Southern roots spread through me as if they were stretching through the soil, searching for water from a long-past thunderstorm. “Well, then, I guess I’ll come along. If it’s all the same to you, Sheriff.” My mama might well be dating the man, but I wasn’t. And at this moment I wasn’t too fond of him.

  Josie squeezed my hand. “Would you?”

  Wild horses couldn’t have stopped me. Josie needed a friend and here I was. “I was fixin’ to go out for a morning walk, anyway.” The lines on her forehead smoothed and her grip on my hand loosened.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Anytime.”

  The Sheriff’s Department, which used to be the old Baptist church, is within spittin’ distance of Buttons & Bows. Once the church had finished its new, modern building just off the main thoroughfare, the city bought the old building, gave it a minor facelift, and moved the city offices into it.

  I ran upstairs and changed out of my cutoffs. In record time, I slipped on the first thing I could get my hands on—a prairie dress, belting it on my hips—tethered my hair in two low ponytails, stuck on a cadet hat that I’d made years ago, and pulled on my favorite Frye burnt red harness cowboy boots. “Ready, Sheriff,” I called, hurrying back downstairs. Although what I was ready for I didn’t know.

  The sheriff looked me up and down, but whatever he thought, he kept it to himself. Smart man.

  Josie was facing the wall that held my display board, her cell phone pressed against her ear.