Deadly Patterns

by Melissa Bourbon

  “What are you going to do?” I asked Will, wishing for all the world that I hadn’t been the one to take his smile away.

  “I’m not sure, Cassidy. I have to think about it.” He walked me to my truck, holding the door open for me, then shutting it after I slid into the driver’s seat. I cranked the handle, rolling down the window. “Thanks for the heads-up,” he said.

  All I could do was nod. Being thanked for warning him about a big upset in his family felt wrong.

  But Will wasn’t about to shoot the messenger. No, instead he leaned in, his lips lightly brushing mine, heating the air between us.

  “Anytime,” I said, feeling my cheeks blush.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” he said.

  “I’ll be around.” The engine rumbled and I backed out, turning the truck toward the Denison mansion. I couldn’t do anything to smooth the coming bumps between Will, Gracie, and the Mcaffertys. I couldn’t find out the truth about Loretta Mae and my great-grandfather—at least not this second. But I could make sure that everything was set at the old Victorian, that the fashion show went off without a hitch, and that I did everything I could to save Raylene from any more heartache. I amended that last goal. I wanted to save her from heartache . . . if she was innocent. At the very least, I aimed to get to the truth about whatever had happened to Dan Lee.

  Chapter 26

  When I arrived at the Denison mansion, the door was unlocked. I was sure Mrs. James was here somewhere. There were too many last-minute tasks for her not to be in and out.

  I looked around, making mental notes of what needed to be done, but pulled up short in the kitchen. Raylene Lewis stood at the island busily chopping celery and red onions on a cutting board, her eyes dry, but red-rimmed.

  Nana had been right. Raylene had been through the wringer—but was any of it her own fault?

  When I looked at her, a multitude of images flashed in my mind. Not one of them rose to the surface. I saw her in different outfits, but there wasn’t an orange prison jumpsuit in the mix.

  I peered into one of the bowls set on the counter. “Chicken salad?”

  “Mmm-hmm. I offered to help Mrs. James with the appetizers. I need to do something to keep busy. Hattie’s got Boone for a little while.”

  Another bowl held egg salad dotted with red pimientos, and a third had thinly sliced cucumbers. “Tea sandwiches?”

  “My specialty,” she replied.

  She spooned a dollop of chicken salad onto a pumpernickel round and handed it to me. I popped the whole thing into my mouth, groaning as I swallowed. “Delicious,” I said, remembering that she’d said she wanted to open a bed-and-breakfast and serve high tea.

  “Can I ask you something?” I spooned another bit of chicken salad onto a bit of crust.

  “About Dan Lee?”

  I nodded. “I’m pretty sure his name was actually Charles Denison.”

  She stopped in mid-chop, the knife trembling in her hand. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “How’d you find out?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, hoping she’d drop the question. “Did you know?”

  She set down the knife and leaned against the counter. She brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen over her forehead. “I knew his family was from these parts,” she finally answered. “After we were married, I found out his father had changed the family name. Not that he told me, mind you. I found his birth certificate.”

  At last, some bit of truth. Probably the same one I’d found. “Why’d he change his name? Do you know?”

  But she shrugged. “All he ever said was that his father thought it would be easier on them not to have to live up to any expectations about being Denisons, or falling from grace. It’s hard enough just being a normal person, forget about trying to live up to the Kincaids. That’s what he always told me.”

  “Because Charles Denison lost the house to Justin Kincaid?” I asked. I could understand it, in a way, but I didn’t think anyone would care nowadays.

  “Dan Lee told me the family never forgave Charles Denison for gambling away their home. I reckon they’re the ones who didn’t want to be reminded about what had happened.”

  I could understand that, though I would never deny who I was or the blood that pumped through my veins.

  Raylene’s eyes glazed and she slipped into a memory. “I remember I told Hattie when I found out his real name. I didn’t know what to do. Arnie was headin’ out to Fort Worth for a collectors show, but my sister, bless her heart, she knew I was beside myself. I couldn’t see straight. I just couldn’t forgive him, you understand? He lied to me. We have a child who’s a Denison, and I didn’t know nothing about that family except from the stories the old-timers around here tell. You know that Miranda Lambert song ‘Baggage Claim’?” she asked, blinking away her daze.

  “Of course.” Miranda was a fellow Texan—a hometown girl who’d made good.

  “That line in the song, about her dragging around some guy’s sensitive ego? Well, it made me realize that Dan Lee maybe had a whole lotta baggage that I sure as hell didn’t know about. If he lied about that, what else was he keeping from me?”

  She definitely had that right. I came back to my other theory, the one that explained why he was so interested in the old family house. Maybe something was hidden there.

  It would explain why he kept on living as Dan Lee instead of Charles Denison, and it would also explain why he spent so much time on the renovation.

  My ideas expanded, sprouting and developing. If someone, like Helen Abernathy, for instance, knew he was related to the Denison family, and he was seen poking around at the mansion, would they put together that he was searching for something? And if someone like Mrs. Abernathy, who had had kin around the time the original Charles Denison had lost the house to the Kincaids, noticed his actions, would she know what he was looking for?

  Raylene knowing about Dan Lee’s real identity was not really the answer I’d been hoping for. If she hadn’t known the truth about him, her motive wasn’t as strong. But she did know. Could she or Hattie have planned how to get revenge? One of them could have arranged to meet him here, lured him up to the widow’s walk, and shoved him off.

  Good Lord, I hoped not.

  I left her to arrange her tea sandwiches, another idea tickling the edge of my brain. I hadn’t been able to figure out what Dan Lee might have been looking for, but then a possibility hit me like a bolt of lightning. The article at the museum! Bonnie and Clyde had robbed Bliss blind. The stories those old-timers talked about had the outlaws staying right here in this house. What if they’d stashed something here and Dan Lee had known about it?

  The front door swung open, with an accompanying burst of north wind swirling in. I was startled, but my rush of nerves simmered down as Gracie dashed in, grabbing hold of the door, positioning her body behind it, and walking backward until she’d pushed it shut. “Harlow! Where are you? Harlo—”

  “Here,” I said, coming out of the parlor.

  She yelped, jumping and slapping her hand to her chest. “Oh!” Then, as if the fright was just a minor blip, she scurried toward me. “Look! I bought it. My dad said it could be from both of us and he gave me the money and I went and bought it.”

  “Bought what?” I asked, eyeing the hand-sewn shopping bag she’d made swinging by her side.

  She plunked down on the step below us and pulled her treasure out of the bag. “The baby quilt for Josie’s baby.”

  It was about three by three and was just like Gracie had described it. Each patch had a different activity—zippers and buttons and pouches—all made to keep a baby entertained. “She’ll love it, Gracie,” I said, pulling down one of the jumbo plastic zippers to see the hidden teething ring tucked away inside.

  “I know the baby’ll have to be older, but Josie’s gonna get tons of those onesies and you’ll probably make the baby a whole wardrobe, so she’ll need something for later on, right? My dad said it was a good idea.”

  “You an
d your dad are absolutely right,” I said. “It’s a great idea and Josie’ll love it.”

  She heaved a relieved sigh and ran her fingers through her hair. Raylene popped her head out of the kitchen and Gracie yelped. “Oh!” Her cheeks stained red. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you were here.”

  “It’s okay,” Raylene said after I introduced them. “My baby’s not old enough for that yet”—she pointed to the activity quilt, which Gracie had refolded and was sliding back into her shopping bag—“but when he’s a little older, he’ll love it.”

  Realization dawned on Gracie’s face. Her eyes grew round and her mouth followed. “Your baby was the one found at the goat farm, wasn’t it? Boone, right? That’s a really great name. I might, like, name my own baby that one day. Would you mind?”

  Raylene brushed her wool skirt down over her legs, trying to keep her smile light. “What is it people say? Imitation is the best form of flattery, or something like that, right?”

  Gracie clapped, nearly bouncing up and down. “Good!” She looked around, like she’d lost something. “Is he here?”

  “He’s with his aunt for a little while,” she said.

  Gracie, with typical teenage exaggeration, scrunched her lips to one side and dipped her chin in disappointment. “Darn.”

  “You’ll get another chance to meet him, I’m sure,” I said, hoping I was right and that Boone wasn’t about to be whisked off to foster care while his mom went to the pokey.

  Raylene went back to her cooking while Gracie and I headed outside to the covered tent to check on the setup for the fashion show and the tables for the craft fair. I didn’t dare turn on the outdoor patio heaters with their bronze bases and heated glass tubes. I had no idea if Mrs. James had lined up extra propane tanks along with her bags of salt, but the biting cold meant we’d need the heaters nonstop during the festival, and I didn’t want to risk running low on propane by using up the heat now.

  Gracie and I managed to make sure everyone on the master list, as well as those stragglers—like Nana—who’d signed on late, had a space to showcase their wares. Our fingers were numb and our lips blue by the time we were done. Which was just when Mrs. James poked her head in to see how we were doing.

  “Would you look at that,” she said, nodding with approval. “It looks perfect.”

  I chuckled to myself, thinking Mrs. James had impeccable timing, just like my granddaddy’s sister, the one we called Aunt Babe. Whenever it came time to wash up the dishes, she mysteriously disappeared, returning again just when the task was about finished. “I was just gettin’ ready to come help you!” she always proclaimed, as if we worked too darn fast.

  “Harlow,” Mrs. James said after Gracie and I moved the last table into place and were finishing stringing the twinkling white lights and running a strand of holly-dotted garland down the center of it. “About my outfit for the fashion show—”

  I froze. She hadn’t even finished her sentence, but it felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room. She’d stopped by to pick it up the day before. Had something happened to it? Had she ripped the hem?

  The feeling that there was a problem with one of my creations was akin to telling a baker that her cake was lopsided. And tasteless. “What’s wrong?”

  She seemed to sense my concern. “Relax, Harlow. Goodness. Nothing’s wrong. I just took the wrong bag, that’s all.”

  I blew out the breath I’d been holding, slapping my hand to my chest. “Oh, Mrs. James, you scared me!”

  She pulled her scarf around her neck to ward off the chill, but her cheeks were already pink from just a minute in the tent. “Good heavens. I just brought it back for you, is all. If you’ll bring mine to the event, I’d be forever grateful.” She beckoned us toward the house. “Tomorrow the heaters will make this place nice and toasty, but for now, come on out of the cold.”

  As we followed her inside, I handed Gracie two enormous woven bags filled with mistletoe and Styrofoam balls. “Wanna tackle this quick little project?”

  She pulled out the sample—a round ball of the green plant, topped with a glittering gold ribbon.

  “It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed, looking up at me in awe.

  I hated to burst her bubble, but I couldn’t take the credit. “It’s a Victorian kissing ball,” I said. “I saw it in a magazine.” Thanks to Meemaw. I knew it was the perfect addition to the holiday decorations, and being a glutton for punishment, I had to include them even if I didn’t actually have time to make them.

  Her expression turned soft and romantic. “Victorian kissing ball,” she said dreamily, as if she could feel the words floating away from her.

  I’d gotten the traditional plants from Mama. It didn’t matter the time of the year, how much rain we got, or if it froze every night. She could grow anything, and with a simple glance, she could make a plant double or triple in size. I couldn’t do anything at a glance, except read a person’s color palette based on how dark or light their hair, skin, and eyes are, and whether or not the underlying tone is warm or cool.

  But Mama? She could start with seeds and before long, she’d have a garden full of luscious plants.

  Gracie reached into the second bag and took out clusters of rosemary, sage, lavender, lemon geranium, boxwood, anise hyssop, and oregano. These would fill out each of the balls, but the mistletoe, which my granddaddy had cut from the cedar elm and hackberry trees Mama had concentrated on, would be the centerpiece of each one.

  Libby, Stephen, and Sandy Allen had already hung greenery throughout the house for me, draping it around the outside of the front door and over the archways and banisters inside, and wrapping long evergreen boughs around the fence and porch railing out front. I’d made an enormous wreath for the front door and a full evergreen swag dotted with red berries adorned the fireplace in the parlor.

  The kissing balls were the final touch.

  “So do they work just like regular mistletoe?” Gracie asked after she’d sorted through the different types of greenery and had organized the materials. She’d left all but one of the six-inch floral foam balls in the bag, but she’d taken out the twenty-four-gauge florist’s wire, a pile of pretty little bells to hang from the bottom of the ornaments, and yards and yards of shimmering gold ribbon.

  “They sure do. The article said that during Victorian times, a gentleman would try to waltz under the kissing ball so he could steal a kiss from his lady.”

  “But we don’t waltz,” she said, frowning.

  “We don’t need that pretense anymore. People aren’t quite so uptight as they were in the 1800s.”

  “Thank God,” she said, more to herself than to me. I watched her for a second, trying to decide if the comment meant she had a boy she’d like to meet under the kissing ball. But I couldn’t tell.

  “Just stick the mistletoe in? Is that it?” she asked, jamming a sprig of lavender into the ball.

  “That’s pretty much it, yup. Simple.”

  She plopped down, diving into the task. She poked the sprigs of mistletoe into the foam ball, filling it in until it was a jumbled mess. “It doesn’t look like the sample,” she complained after a few minutes.

  Boy, oh boy, was that the truth. Fronds sprang this way and that, with no rhyme or reason. Gracie had a gift with fabric and sewing. She was just discovering it, true, but it was evident. Not so much with floral design, I thought.

  She huffed, jabbing another sprig of rosemary into the ball.

  “You have to work with the stems, not against them,” Raylene said.

  She’d finished the food preparation—at least for the time being—and sidled over to the table, sinking down in the chair next to Gracie. She picked up the sample, holding it by the sparkly gold ribbon. “It’s like a garden. You can’t force the sprigs in. You have to feel where they go, piece by piece.” She paused and cracked a smile. “And then you trim it.”

  “I put shears in one of the bags,” I said.

  Gracie picked through the pile she’d
dumped out onto the table, but came up empty-handed. She pulled the other bag between her legs, bending over and rummaging through it, finally straightening up, holding the garden shears up like a trophy. “Got ’em.”

  As she offered them to Raylene, I had a flash of protectiveness. If Raylene had shoved Charles Denison off the widow’s walk, then Gracie was in the company of a murderer. I didn’t want to believe it, but hell’s bells, we all were. My doubt turned to straight-up anxiety, as pure and harsh as a batch of freshly brewed Texas moonshine.

  My mind raced through my options. (1) Gather up Gracie and the mistletoe and hightail it out of the Denison mansion; (2) pretend that everything was grand and that Raylene wasn’t a suspect in a murder (not really a feasible option given that I was a Cassidy and Cassidys faced everything head-on); or (3) go fishing.

  I opted for number three. In my heart of hearts, I didn’t believe Raylene could have done anything to Charles Denison, so I truly believed she was innocent. But as Meemaw always said, an ordinary person—meaning anyone but her—couldn’t wish something into being. And even with her sheer force of will, she couldn’t make people do something they weren’t inclined to do. I hadn’t come back to Bliss only because Loretta Mae had wanted me to. I’d come back to Bliss because it was my home, and somewhere deep inside, I’d wanted to return to my roots and my family.

  It was the same for my charm. When I sewed for someone, their desires rose inside them and were realized. But the consequences of those desires sometimes had a sharp edge; things didn’t always work out the way I expected them to.

  If Raylene did, in fact, have a hand in Charles Denison’s death, it had been personal. She wouldn’t turn on us, would she?

  I chastised myself for even questioning it. Of course she would. Anyone would do anything to protect a secret like murder. So maybe number three, going fishing for more answers, trying to gather information from Raylene to clear her, at least in my mind, wasn’t the smartest thing to do. And I could almost guarantee that Will didn’t want Gracie in the proximity of a potential murderer.