Deadly Patterns

by Melissa Bourbon

  Will, on the other hand, looked like he was getting more agitated. This was the thing about the Cassidy charms. They weren’t always a blessing. Just the aroma of the food Sandra had made heightened Will’s emotions, and right now he seemed to be pretty worked up over my fall. His hands clenched and he finally stepped inside, sucking in a deep breath before he said, “You could have died.”

  “Right,” Sandra said. “She’s lucky she lived to tell the tale.”

  “Yes, she is,” Will said. He still hung back, shoving his hands in his pockets. I got the feeling he wanted to move closer, to inspect my injuries, make sure I was okay, but he stopped himself, letting his shoulders hunch in as he leaned against the molding at the door.

  “It was an accident—”

  “Doesn’t matter. You’re damn lucky,” he said. “I’m going over to that house today to see exactly what happened.”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want him spending his time at the Denison mansion. “Don’t the police have it cordoned off, or something? Are we even allowed in?”

  “They were in and out of there. I’m pretty sure Mrs. James got the senator to pull a few strings and make sure the Winter Wonderland festival and fashion show could go on as planned.”

  “You don’t have to go, Will. The railing came loose. Hattie said it had been giving Arnie and Dan trouble,” I said. “I slipped is all.” Maybe it was denial, but I didn’t want to believe something sinister was behind Dan Lee’s death. Bliss had seen enough of murder in recent months.

  “But it shouldn’t have come loose,” he said.

  “Dad.” Gracie stretched out the word, her message clear. She wanted him to drop it.

  Sweet girl. When I’d first met her, it had taken all of five minutes for her to grab hold of a piece of my heart. Already I knew she wasn’t ever letting go, and I didn’t want her to. She was like a little sister, or a close friend . . . or even a daughter.

  But Will wasn’t going to be placated by Gracie. His normally mischievous, sparkling eyes were dark and brooding. “You fell off a second-story roof, Cassidy,” he said, and suddenly he pushed away from the wall and strode to where I sat at the table. He flipped his baseball cap around to face backward and bent down beside me, laying a hand on my knee. Then he touched his fingers to my cheek. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, part of me wanting to convince him that I wasn’t shaken up from the fall, and a smaller part of me wanting to lean against him and feel safe.

  Before I could do either, the pipes in the ceiling moaned. Which could mean only one thing: Meemaw was nearby. My great-grandmother had gotten what she wanted when I returned to Bliss—it was her Cassidy charm—and while her passing had made that happen, she hadn’t let go of this life yet. Her ghostly presence had lingered in the old farmhouse, flipping pages of books, causing warm patches of air to encircle me, and occasionally trying to materialize, but mostly she just made the pipes creak. It was her most reliable means of communication. Right now she was probably worried about me, too, and that concern might well work her into a ghostly tizzy. Not something I wanted to deal with at the moment, since only Nana and Mama knew that my house was haunted.

  “Mrs. James called while you were sleeping,” Sandra said. “She’s awful worried about you.”

  I made a mental note to phone her later, to reassure her that I was fine and to let her know that I would still be able to finish everything for the Winter Wonderland festival.

  The bells on the front door of the house, which doubled as the entrance to Buttons & Bows, jingled, the hard clomp of cowboy boots sounded against the scraped pecan wood floors, and Deputy Gavin McClaine and his father, my mother’s boyfriend, Sheriff Hoss McClaine, appeared. They traipsed through the front room of my shop, up the three steps to the little dining area, and through the archway to the kitchen. “Well, well,” the deputy said. “Got yourselves a nice little party here.” He nodded to me. “Harlow. Good to see you up and about after your tumble yesterday.”

  Gavin McClaine had an ego the size of Yosemite Sam’s ten-gallon hat and then some, and while he said the right thing, his words dripped with sarcasm. He seemed anything but glad to see me up and about, mostly fallout from the fact that he didn’t like that his daddy and my mama were sweet on each other.

  Will stood and leveled his gaze at the deputy. “The same fall killed a man. I’d say that was more than a tumble.”

  The deputy folded his arms over his chest, eyeing Will’s UT hat. Gavin was an Aggie, a natural rival to a Longhorn, and the scowl on his face made it clear he didn’t like the burnt orange Will was sporting. “I reckon you’re right,” he said. He let his gaze slip to me for just a second as he added, “Harlow always was a little bit charmed.”

  Oh Lord, there it was. We all worked so hard to fly under the radar and keep our charms mostly to ourselves. None of us wanted to be on the receiving end of a witch hunt. But try as we might, people saw the flowers Mama grew, and they witnessed Nana’s connection with her goats. The rumors were there, and Gavin had dropped more than a few hints about my family’s gifts. What I didn’t know was if he was just spouting off, or if he really knew something about our magic.

  Hoss, bless his heart, had a mite more sense under his cream-colored suede cowboy hat than his son had under his black one. The sheriff ran his thumb across the tuft of hair just below his lower lip, but stopped to pat the air with the palms of his hands. “All right, now. Let’s just simmer down. Harlow, your mama was worried sick. Glad to see you’re all right.”

  The sheriff and I had had our share of run-ins years ago. Tipping cows and outrunning trains in the dark were not just rural activities done by country kids in the movies. They were real-life happenings in a small town like Bliss, and my brother, Red, and I had done our fair share of troublemaking. But we’d reached a truce, which was more than I could say about me and Gavin. “Thank you kindly, Sheriff,” I said.

  For a good while, I thought I’d lost all my Southernness, but bit by bit it crept back into me. You could take the girl out of Texas, but you couldn’t take Texas out of the girl. “What can I do for you?” I asked as Libby handed a mug of coffee to Will and another to Gavin. The sheriff shook his head at her, so she went back to her plate of biscuits and gravy.

  “Have a few questions for you. Figured it’d be a mite easier on you if we came here instead of having you come on down to the Sheriff’s Department.”

  The Sheriff’s Department was a converted Baptist church just a hop, skip, and jump away from Buttons & Bows, but the idea of walking there, or trying to climb into my old truck, sent a shock wave through my body. I didn’t think I could walk to my workroom without grimacing from the pain.

  “Mighty peculiar that you happened to be in the vicinity of yet another dead body, don’t you think, Harlow?” Gavin hadn’t taken his eyes off me, and now he set his lips in a hard line. “Mighty peculiar.”

  “More bad luck,” I said, although to be truthful, I didn’t think he was that far off the mark.

  Hoss sent his son a look that said to zip his lips, and then turned back to me. “We have reason to believe that the railing on that widow’s walk was tampered with, Harlow. Did you know Dan Lee Chrisson? The deceased,” he added.

  And we were off to the races. “Depends how you define the word ‘know,’ Sheriff. I’ve met him a few times. He’s been working on the renovations, and I’ve been there working on the fashion show plans.”

  “He was playing Santa at the festival, is that right?” Gavin sounded more like he was cross-examining me than doing a friendly post-accident follow-up.

  “Right. He’d tried on his Santa suit so I could check the fitting and do any alterations.”

  Gavin gave a single nod. “Mmm-hmm. Like I said, peculiar.”

  That was it. Hoss’s son was officially a thorn in my side. And from the pulsing vein on Will’s temple and the strain in his neck, it was clear the annoyance didn’t stop with me.

  “Gavin
McClaine,” I said before Will said something to get under the deputy’s skin, “do you want me strung up for murder?”

  “Just simmer down, Harlow,” Gavin said. “It’s far more likely to be the ex-wife or the girlfriend, but you know I have to ask. You were one of the last people to see him alive. We’ve questioned the senator’s wife and Helen Abernathy. We’ve talked to the Barnetts. We’ve interviewed a few folks who live on Mayberry. So far, no one knows much of anything.”

  “And did you hear that Arnie had been having trouble with the railing?”

  “Stripped screws,” Gavin said. “Yup, we heard that. The question is, how’d they get that way?”

  You could have heard a sewing pin drop in the kitchen. Sandra, Libby, Gracie, and Will listened with rapt attention, watching us more intently than die-hard Mavericks fans watching the NBA play-offs.

  “Maybe they were just bad.” I said it, but I wasn’t sure I believed it. I knew enough to understand that screws didn’t just strip themselves. They’d been turned and turned and turned enough to lose the threads. The question was, who kept unscrewing them in the first place?

  Gavin snarled, and I could tell that he didn’t believe my unlikely scenario either. “Let’s take a walk through the events. Chrisson changed so you could do a fitting, or whatever. Where did he change?”

  “He went upstairs, so in one of the bedrooms, I guess.”

  “And where were you?”

  “Downstairs. In the kitchen.”

  Gavin made some notes in a little black notebook before he leveled his dark eyes at me. He didn’t have his dad’s oddly amiable, grizzly bear looks. No, Gavin was lanky, angular, and looked like he was ready to laser me with an invisible beam. “Why do you reckon he went out onto the widow’s walk. Why’d you, for that matter?”

  I felt everyone’s eyes on me, as if I could supply all the answers and let Bliss go back to being a sleepy little town. But with growth, which had been happening slowly but surely around here, came problems. In this case it was an unfortunate death. “I don’t know, Gavin. I. Did. Not. Know. Him.”

  “He went to school with us.”

  “Years ago.”

  “What’s your best guess, Harlow?” he asked, not willing to cut me even the tiniest bit of slack.

  I pushed my plate back, my appetite all but gone. “Maybe to check the screws? Same reason Mrs. James and Mrs. Abernathy went out, to see if the railing was finally fixed.”

  Hoss, with his pure Southern charm, patted the air again. “Okay now. He’s just askin’, Harlow. No need to get riled up. Did you happen to see Raylene while you were there?”

  Oh boy. Gavin had said it was likely to be the ex-wife or the girlfriend, but did they really suspect Raylene of having something to do with Dan Lee falling?

  Libby, Gracie, and Sandra had been looking at the sheriff, but now their eyes were back on me. “Hattie and Arnie were there, but no, I didn’t see Raylene.” I thought about telling him what Hattie had told me about Dan Lee leaving Raylene and their custody battle, but I decided it just wasn’t my place. It sounded to me like poor Raylene had been through enough without me sending the sheriff—or worse, the deputy—after her. Although she already seemed to be on their radar.

  Hoss McClaine nodded, looking satisfied. I didn’t put much stock in that, though. He was smooth as molasses, but underneath, he was sharp as a cactus thorn—and Gavin was just thorns all the way. “You let me know if you hear anythin’, y’hear?” Hoss rumbled, the pad of his thumb passing over the soul patch under his lower lip once more.

  I didn’t know Hattie or Raylene well anymore, but I couldn’t imagine either of them messing with the railing’s screws so Dan Lee Chrisson would fall. Unless someone had followed him out onto the widow’s walk and actually pushed him—

  No. I shoved that thought right out of my head. Bliss was a quaint Southern town where ordinary people didn’t become murderers. “Yes, sir, Sheriff. I sure will,” I said.

  Chapter 5

  I’d learned to drape fabric long after I’d learned to use a pattern, but now I relied on the art of draping whenever I started a new dress design. I could see a garment take shape in my hands. The feel of the fabric, the flow of a line in a piece of cloth, and the inspiration that comes from color and texture all help me create just the right piece.

  When I was employed at Maximilian, patternmakers and drapers worked with sketches, interpreting the designs. I’d fitted plenty of women for garments, mostly models, but in my spare time, I’d learned to refine my eye of detail, balance, line, and proportion. I’d learned to coax fabric into doing what I wanted it to do. I’d developed the courage it took to take a draped design and turn it into something real. Something tangible. Something inspirational.

  One thing I’d never done was make a Santa suit. In fact, aside from mending and one plaid shirt I’d made for Will, I hadn’t handled men’s clothing at all.

  “I don’t know about this,” Will said. He stood on the milk crate that I was still using for a fitting platform, looking down at me, none too happy about what he’d been roped into doing.

  “You’ll be great, Daddy,” Gracie said, batting her eyes at him.

  He angled his chin down. “You think so, huh?”

  She grinned. “I know so. You’re saving Christmas.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said, but I heard the smile in his voice. “You sure you’re up for this?” he asked me.

  “I’m fine. Getting back to work’ll be good.”

  “Falling off a roof is not like falling off a bike, Cassidy. And now you’re going to make something else—”

  “If you’re going to play Santa, I have to make you a suit.”

  “I can head into Fort Worth and try to find one.”

  I flipped open my sketchbook, pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose, and peered at him. “It’s not like there’s a Santa store, and anything at one of those party places is going to be—” A shudder passed through me at the very thought of the cheap, thin polyester fabric, plastic belt, and black booties. That’s what Dan Lee Chrisson had been wearing and I wanted Will to wear something that was miles away from that. I shook my head. “No. Kids need to sit on the lap of a real Santa. If necessary I won’t sleep for three days, but I’ll find the time to make the best Santa suit you’ve ever seen.”

  “I know you will, Cassidy,” he said, giving in, but one side of his mouth quirked up. He never looked completely innocent, what with his dark olive skin, his goatee, and his mischievous grin, but when he smiled, his eyes lit from behind and I always felt like I was getting a glimpse into his soul.

  I wondered if making a Santa suit for Will would make his deepest desires come true. I’d made him the one shirt, but as far as I could tell, his life hadn’t changed as a result of it. As I jotted down “Chest,” “Inseam,” “Arm Length,” “Waist,” “Neck,” my mind wandered. Maybe my charm worked only with women.

  Gracie bounced through the French doors separating the front room of Buttons & Bows from the workroom, which once upon a time had been Meemaw’s dining room. She grabbed a cloth measuring tape from around the neck of one of the dress forms. “You look like you’re in pain, Harlow. Want me to take the measurements?”

  I nodded, cringing at the very thought of crouching down to measure Will’s inseam. I picked up my sketchbook to hand it to Gracie, but I stopped, suddenly feeling the heat of Will’s gaze on my back. I looked up at him. His gaze was glued to me, waiting, as if how I answered Gracie was a test. Something brushed against me and I jerked, my fingers loosening. Before I could stop it, the sketchbook fell with a thud onto the hardwood floor. I whipped my head around, looking for evidence of a ghostly presence. And then I saw it. The sleeve of a blouse hanging from the wood-slatted privacy screen gently moving as if a breeze had passed through the room. Which it hadn’t.

  Meemaw.

  So she was up to her antics, playing matchmaker between Will Flores and me. Again. Or still. “I don’t think so,” I muttered
. I didn’t need my ghost of a great-grandmother making love connections for me. Getting me to move back to Bliss and orchestrating Gracie and Will’s presence in my life had been enough.

  Gracie sucked in a sharp breath. “I—I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Not you, Gracie!” I glared in the direction of the innocent blouse before gingerly turning to face my protégé, softening my expression when I looked at her. “I’m not going to let any aches and pains stop me from doing my job, that’s all.”

  She breathed out a relieved sigh. “Oh, phew. I thought . . .” She trailed off, waving her hands in front of her face. “Never mind.” Her smile brightened. “What can I do to help?”

  “I’ll measure, you write.”

  I started toward my runaway sketchbook, but Gracie scurried in front of me and snatched it from the floor. She handed me the measuring tape, found the page I’d started, and tapped the pointed tip of a pencil against the paper. “Ready.”

  I shuffled back to Will. With my hands on my hips, I looked up at him. “Are you ready to play Santa?”

  “I’m reprising the role,” he said.

  Gracie piped up. “He played Santa every year when I was in elementary school. All my friends have pictures with him in a furry white beard.”

  I tilted my head to one side, considering. “So you’re experienced? But you don’t have the Santa costume?”

  He chuckled. “Uh, no. It belonged to the school.”

  “It wouldn’t fit him now, anyway,” Gracie said.

  I looked Will up and down. Usually when an old outfit didn’t fit, it was because someone had gained weight, but Will Flores didn’t look like he had even an ounce of extra padding. He looked like a cowboy Cassanova, with a Rhett Butler smirk and just enough of a down-home accent to make a girl melt. “Oh?”