Deadly Patterns

by Melissa Bourbon

  Michele hadn’t noticed the window or the gate, but she didn’t look convinced that the pulley above us was stable. She backed out of the workroom and joined Diane and Olive in the seating area. A love seat snuggled in one corner near a matching sofa. I’d brought a red velvet settee and a rustic coffee table made from an old door into the grouping and used it as the consultation area of the boutique.

  I started back toward my sewing machine, but stopped short, staring. The machine was zipping along on its own, the motor purring as the side seams of the jacket were sewn together.

  Bless her heart. She had good intentions and was just trying to help out.

  Nana and Mama grinned, looking completely content, and the sudden sensation of the four generations of Cassidy women together in one room sent a wave of prickles over my skin. When Meemaw died I’d never thought I would see her again—which, technically, I hadn’t—since she was a ghost and all and hadn’t taken on an opaque figure. And I certainly never thought we’d all of us be together in one room. But here we all were. And sewing, to boot.

  Working with fabrics and cloth, designs and notions—it was the thing that connected me to all the women in my history. Our stories were woven together, intertwined and inseparable.

  “That’s a fancy machine you have there,” Olive said from the threshold of the workroom.

  I whipped my head around to face her. The sewing machine stopped. Meemaw had enough sense not to advertise her presence, thank heavens.

  I placed Olive at fifty or so, give or take, but her height, cropped ginger hair, and the confidence she exuded made her almost ageless. Her elegant black slacks and forest green sweater set, a string of pearls around her neck, probably helped too.

  I laughed, passing it off as best I could. “Sometimes the pedal sticks,” I said vaguely.

  She nodded, but I couldn’t tell if she believed me or if she thought something otherworldly was going on. I didn’t wait to find out, instead surging forward and ushering her back to the dining room. Just then, as if on cue, the bells jingled, the front door opened, and Mrs. Eleanor Mcafferty waltzed in.

  Chapter 9

  We all stopped and stared. I’d been under the impression that Mrs. Mcafferty would never set foot in Buttons & Bows. She’d been friends with Nana and Zinnia James once upon a time, but they’d had a falling-out the size of the Grand Canyon over my granddaddy’s affections and who knows what else.

  She ran her hand over her hair, a few of the blond-highlighted strands lifting from the contact. She cleared her throat. “I saw a flyer about a dollmaking class,” she said.

  I tried my best not to gape. “You . . . you’re wanting to make a Santa doll?”

  “If it’s not too late to sign up,” she said. She paused at the steps to the dining room, turning to take in the shop. “I haven’t been here in ages,” she said. “Not since . . . well, not since I was a young woman.”

  Nana’s lips quivered. She and Mrs. James had made amends, but as far as I knew, there was still some bad blood between the two of them and Eleanor Mcafferty. “It’s been a good long time, Eli,” she said.

  The other women in the class all seemed to sense that something important was going on. They stood by, quietly watching, as Eleanor Mcafferty solemnly lowered her chin. “It sure has, Coleta.”

  And just like that, with two simple sentences, the feud between them seemed to slip away. Nana moved forward in her stocking feet and took Mrs. Mcafferty’s hand. “She knows it didn’t mean anything,” Nana said.

  “It happened before they were married. She’d been so sweet on Dalton, I never imagined her with Jeb, but then they got together—”

  There was only one Jeb, at least that I knew of, in Bliss. And only one Jeb in the circle of friends Nana and Mrs. Mcafferty had been part of.

  Senator Jebediah James. Zinnia James’s husband.

  So that’s what their falling-out had been about. Zinnia had crushed on my granddaddy Dalton before he’d married Nana, and Eleanor had been sweet on Jeb before he’d married Zinnia.

  Good Lord, what a hot tangled Southern mess.

  “You and Rudy fell fast and hard, Eli. He’s been good to you,” Nana said.

  Mrs. Mcafferty nodded, but the color hadn’t returned to her face. “He has. Never batted an eye about—”

  She broke off, turning to face the other women in the shop as if she’d just remembered they were there. “I’m so sorry, ladies. Old history.” Her Southern accent separated the syllables of the words like bacon grease and black coffee separating in a bowl of red-eye gravy.

  She brought her gaze back to me. “I’d like to make a doll,” she said. “If that’s all right with you. I know I didn’t call ahead, but I thought—”

  I shooed away her apology. How she and Nana had mended fences in a minute flat had my head spinning, but I wasn’t going to question it. I led her up the steps to the dining room. “We’re just getting ready to start.”

  Inside, I rushed through silent thanks that Gracie had no plans to come by the shop today. She’d found out recently that the Mcaffertys were her grandparents, but that had to be one of the best-kept secrets in Bliss. I’d heard it from Zinnia James—who knew everything about everything—and Gracie had figured it out, but no one else seemed to know who her mother was. From what Mrs. James said, Mrs. Mcafferty didn’t have a clue that Gracie was her granddaughter.

  Mama scurried off to the workroom to gather another Baggie of materials for Mrs. Mcafferty, and before long, everyone, including Nana, was seated around the table. Mama escaped back to the workroom to finish the hem of Josie’s blouse.

  I held the sample Santa up and was talking through the steps we’d be taking over the next several days, when the bells on the door of the shop jingled again.

  Madelyn Brighton strode in, looking smart in South American–inspired gauchos she’d found at a thrift store in Fort Worth. She’d paired them with a full-sleeved blouse and had a definite Argentinean cowboy look going. All that was missing was a wide-brimmed hat and the bolero jacket and she might have looked like a heavyset black Jacqueline Kennedy from the sixties.

  “Cheeri-o,” she said in her very British accent, the same accent that I’d had trouble understanding at first, but that now always made her sound chipper to me. Except for right now. The cheeri-o fell flat as she looked at the table, the sewing machines, and the boxes of trims. “What’s all this?”

  “Dollmaking 101.” Olive piped up from the table. “Plenty of room.” She whispered something to Diane, and then they both scooted down.

  “You know you’ve always wanted to make a Santa,” I said, ushering Madelyn to the table.

  She arched one brow at me. “Have I?” But whether or not she really had, she took her camera out—Madelyn was never without her camera—before tossing the favorite Epiphanie camera bag aside and taking the spot Olive and Diane had opened up for her.

  She immediately snapped pictures of the two samples. “So I can see what my doll is supposed to look like,” she deadpanned. Next she turned the Nikon on her classmates. Diane made an effort to turn her back, but Madelyn snapped away. Michele waved her hands in front of her face, blocking any attempt Madelyn made at getting a decent photo. But Olive posed, throwing back her shoulders, angling her head to the left, and lifting just one side of her lips in a mischievous smile.

  “Nicely done,” Madelyn said, looking at the digital screen on the back of her camera. She wagged her finger at the sisters. “You two. There’s nothing wrong with having your picture snapped, you know.”

  “There is if you haven’t primped first,” Diane said.

  Michele shook her head at this, sending her sister a scolding look. “The sisters prefer very few photographs.”

  Diane scoffed. “You’re not a nun—”

  “Did I say I was a nun?” Michele said, lifting her gaze to her sister.

  “You sure talk about it enough.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Hadn’t I just envision
ed Michele in a nun’s habit? “Are you planning on—” What was the right terminology? Joining up? Crossing over? “Taking your vows?” I asked as I unclasped the lids to the containers of trim, laying out some of the loop and tassel fringe.

  I’d had no idea you could be in your forties and join a convent. My holy trinity was Mama, Nana, and Meemaw.

  Michele chuckled. “No, I just like messin’ with my sister. Although,” she added, the corners of her mouth pulling into a frown, “I live a chaste enough life.”

  My head was spinning. “So you’re not joining the convent?”

  “She probably will one day, just you wait. Either that or she’ll end up like the Lafayette sisters.”

  “We’ll end up like the Lafayette sisters,” Michele corrected. “I don’t see a husband in your bed either.”

  But I’d pictured her in a nun’s habit. Either she was going to become a nun, or my charm was going haywire. I turned to Nana, but she and Eleanor had their heads bent together as they whispered. Catching up on years of estrangement.

  Michele had blushed the color of a ripe strawberry from all of the attention. “Come on, now, let’s make some Santa dolls!” she said. “I want to set mine up at our Winter Wonderland table.”

  Diane explained to Madelyn and Olive, “There’s going to be a section of the tent dedicated to crafters. You can rent a table and sell your wares. Michele makes gorgeous felt hats and beads.”

  “I’m hosting a table,” Madelyn said. “I want to add a few more photographs, but otherwise, my portfolio is together. I’m featuring the pictures I took at the Margaret Moffette Lea Pageant and Ball a few months ago.”

  Nana and Eleanor glanced up at the mention of the pageant. The brouhaha between them had happened years ago at the very same pageant we’d just had in Bliss.

  “There’s a stunner of Libby James,” Madelyn continued, “and the one of Gracie Flores and Holly Kincaid is gorgeous.”

  I couldn’t help but beam. I’d designed the gowns Libby and Gracie had worn, stitching confidence into every seam, weaving poise into each pleat, and breathing the vision of their futures into the layers of fabric. The Cassidy magic had surrounded them—especially Libby, since she was part of my family. I knew that whatever Madelyn saw in the photographs was enhanced because of my charm.

  “Seed-n-Bead will have a table, too,” I said, although since Josie was in the fashion show, she wouldn’t be running it. “Villa Farina is catering the pastries, and Pick-a-Lily will have a table and is doing the centerpieces for the buffet table. And of course Santa will be there.”

  “I still can’t believe that man fell from the roof. Such a tragedy,” Olive said. “He worked there, isn’t that right?”

  I nodded. “With Barnett Restoration.”

  She shook her head sadly. “Such a shame.”

  Michele threaded her sewing machine with the black thread I’d provided. “I heard he left his wife and baby for a younger woman.”

  And the gossip was off and running. “Lots of marriages don’t work out,” I said, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose. The last thing I wanted during our festive dollmaking class was to start slinging mud about other townsfolk, but then again, maybe one of them knew something about Dan Lee that would stop me from wondering whether Hattie had anything to do with his death.

  “I heard Raylene was holding a pretty good grudge against him on account of his philandering,” Diane said.

  No Southern hedging here. Diane had cut right to the chase. “Was he philandering?” I asked. “I ran into Hattie and she mentioned he had a girlfriend, but I thought maybe that happened after he left Raylene.”

  Nana stopped whispering with Mrs. Mcafferty and piped up, defending Maggie. “You got that right, Ladybug. It happened after.”

  Diane didn’t back down, though. She met Nana’s gaze head-on. “You’re the goat woman, right? Sundance Kids, is that your place?”

  Nana nodded, just once. “Yup.”

  “I heard the girlfriend works for you over there.”

  “She’s a fine cheese maker,” Nana said. “And she’s not a homewrecker.”

  “If you say so.” Diane went back to threading her machine, but I wasn’t so sure she believed my grandmother’s endorsement of Maggie. I hardly knew her, so I wasn’t so sure I believed it either.

  Or maybe that was just my wishful thinking that someone other than Hattie and Raylene was involved.

  “Hattie’s a nice girl,” Michele said, as if she’d read my mind and wanted to put me at ease. “I see her at church most Sundays. But she was a hot mess at the Denison place the other day. I heard that her and Raylene showed up and Dan Lee was there and it just wasn’t pretty.”

  “The day he died?” Olive asked, finally finding a way to join the conversation.

  Michele hunched over her machine, squinting as she tried to thread the needle. “That’s right. The day it stormed.”

  My heart sank to my stomach. So Raylene had been there.

  Michele peered up at Diane. “Isn’t that what Martha Crenshaw said?”

  Diane nodded. “That she did. Said she thought she saw Raylene on the porch, then when she looked again, she was gone.”

  “So Raylene didn’t go inside?”

  Michele flattened her palm against her chest. “I wasn’t there, Harlow Jane, so I wouldn’t know. Mrs. Crenshaw told me that she’d been talking to Arnie Barnett over at the hardware store and he told her how heated his wife got.”

  “She’s not normally like that,” Diane said. “Sweetest thing you ever did see, but you mess with a woman’s sister, and you better watch out. Dan Lee shouldn’t have cheated.”

  “But did he cheat?” I asked again. “And even if he did, that doesn’t mean he deserved to die.”

  All eyes turned to me. “’Course not, Harlow,” Diane said. “All I mean is that if Hattie was stirred up, it was because Dan Lee up and left Raylene.”

  “It’s too bad Dan Lee didn’t love Raylene like Arnie loves Hattie,” Diane said. “They’re forever going on dates to all those gun and coin shows down in Fort Worth. I see them around the square, holding hands. I heard that he even went with her to the Dallas Design Center,” she added, whispering the last part as if she were revealing a big secret.

  Nana used the scissors she held to slice through a square of heavy tapestry. “I’m sure he does, and I know she’s a peach, but y’all just remember, none of us are inside their marriage, just like we weren’t inside Dan Lee and Raylene’s. That man is dead and someone’s to blame, but I don’t reckon it’s Maggie Pagonis.”

  As if Nana had asked them to utter silent prayers, the women all bowed their heads. “God rest Dan Lee’s soul,” Michele said as she touched her index and middle finger to her forehead, chest, left shoulder, then right shoulder.

  Our voices pooled together as we muttered, “Amen.”

  “Who’s going to play Santa for the kids?” Olive asked after a moment of respectful silence had passed. She leaned to the right, trying to get a better look into the workroom. From here, you could barely see the Santa pants hanging from the dress form.

  “We have a replacement lined up,” I said.

  “He’s perfect for the job,” Nana said, looking up and winking at me.

  Mama came out of the workroom. I imagined she’d heard the whole conversation we’d just had, but if she had, she didn’t let on. “The hem is done,” she told me, “and I finished stitching Santa’s jacket. I didn’t want to mess with the fur—”

  “Knowing how persnickety you are,” Nana said to me. Her eyes twinkled, and she looked happier than I’d seen her since she and Zinnia James had made up. She stood, giving Mrs. Mcafferty’s hand a pat. “See you later, y’all. I’m off to Fort Worth. Need supplies for a new type of lotion I’m working on tomorrow. Pomegranate. Don’t you be a stranger,” she added.

  Eleanor Mcafferty smiled wanly. “I’ve missed you, Coleta.” They both seemed to slip into reminiscing for the briefest moment before Nana h
eaded through the kitchen. At the Dutch door, she slid her boots on. “How do I get me one of them tables at the Winter Wonderland, Ladybug?” she called to me.

  “For your goat products?” Michele asked. “That will be wonderful!”

  “They’ll do really well there,” Mrs. Mcafferty added.

  Diane bobbed her head. “Mmm-hmm. Pomegranate lotion. Intriguing.”

  I gave Nana the sponsor form, and poof! she was gone to tend to her babies. Mama, however, picked up one of the sample Santa dolls and turned it over in her hands. “I want to make me one of these,” she said, marching over to the table to take Nana’s vacated seat. She folded her hands like a perfect little schoolchild. “What do we do first?”

  I gathered the gallon-sized Baggies with the pattern pieces for the dolls and handed them out, instructing them to pin and stitch the body first, then the arms. Next came the filling. “Take little bits at a time so it doesn’t get lumpy. Each doll will use almost an entire bag of batting,” I said, demonstrating.

  “Dang, a whole bag?” Olive asked, staring at the stack of bags next to the staircase.

  “Yup. It takes a lot of fluff to make old St. Nick.” I kept stuffing the shell of a body I’d prepared. Before long, it was filled, but I took tufts of batting and worked them into every nook and cranny of the doll, filling the Santa out until he was nearly rock solid.

  Michele had opened and closed her mouth a few times, like she wanted to ask me something but wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject. Finally, with her doll halfway stuffed, she just blurted it out. “Is it true,” she said, looking at me, then at my mother, “that the Cassidy women are magically charmed? Because—”

  I felt my face go hot. “W-what?”

  Mrs. Mcafferty and I both sputtered, and I remembered the pact she’d had with Nana and Mrs. James. She’d probably kept the secret all these years.