I knew I needed to allot my time efficiently because I was recommitted to a fulfilling personal life with Will. I also wanted to build a Web site for the business, to help with expansion, but I never seemed to find the time to work on it. When I came to the bottom step, the sharp scent of chopped onions and garlic wafted to me from the direction of my kitchen. I knew from experience that Meemaw didn’t have the ghostly skills to actually cook, try as she might, which meant either Mama or Nana was here, and they had just started making something delicious to eat.
“How did you know? I’m starving!” I said. I half walked, half hopped as I headed toward the kitchen, pulling off my favorite burnt-red Frye harness boots and dropping them along the way. I stripped out of my asymmetrical Ultrasuede jacket, which I’d made for myself in between other projects, and hung it over the ladder-backed chair in what I now used as the dining room. The smoky scent of the paprika and onions hung in the air, and I knew what was on the menu. Chili. My stomach grumbled in response as I passed through the archway to the kitchen . . .
And stopped short.
It wasn’t Meemaw—no surprise—but it also wasn’t Mama or Nana standing at the pale yellow cast iron stove.
It was Will.
And he wore an apron.
And not just any apron. He wore a manly canvas apron with I BEEF emblazoned on it. We were in Texas, after all.
“Speak of the devil,” I said, tucking my cell phone away. No need to call him since he was already here. “Meemaw’s looking for you.”
“Is she now?”
“She’ll have to wait, though.” I sidled up to him, leaned in, and kissed him as he turned to greet me.
He gave me a cockeyed grin and pulled me close. “Tough day at the office?”
“I wish. Tough day at the neighbor’s house.”
He returned to the stove, stirring the concoction of ground beef, beer, onions, garlic, tomato sauce, and spices. As the ingredients cooked, we chatted, catching up on the routine parts of our day. When the beef had cooked, he scooped up a spoonful and, with one hand cupped under it, offered it to me for a taste.
Gently, I blew on it, and then took a tentative bite. Will liked his food spicier than I did, but he was learning my taste and accommodating my preferences, adding his own extra spice after the fact so we could both enjoy a meal. “That’s so good,” I said.
“Imagine it over a bowl of Fritos and then topped with cheese and sour cream.”
Frito chili pie. A Texas staple, if there ever was one. I for one discarded all the brouhaha about Frito pie originating in Santa Fe. They served something similar on a bed of lettuce. Lettuce? That was just wrong.
I glanced around the kitchen. No lettuce in sight, although I had noticed right away that Will’s chili had beans, and lots of them. Black, kidney, pinto, and one other that I didn’t recognize. Tomatoes and corn, too. In general, the accepted Texas chili was bean free, but I’d take Will’s version any day.
He served me up a bowl before serving himself, topping his with a healthy dash (or three) of cayenne pepper, and we sat at the kitchen table to eat. “No Gracie tonight?” I asked when I finally forced myself to stop for a breath.
“She’s out with Shane.”
I dipped my chin and gazed at him through my lowered lashes. “So you thought you’d wine and dine me and then take me—”
The sentence was left hanging when the bag of Fritos suddenly flew off the counter, the contents spilling across the hardwood floor. Will and I looked at each other, at the chips, then at each other again. “Loretta Mae?” he asked.
“That’d be my guess.”
“Guess she doesn’t want me to take you . . . anywhere,” he said, cracking that sideways smile again.
“Whatever are we to do?” I asked, placing the back of my hand against my forehead in manufactured Scarlett O’Hara angst.
“Well, I just happen to have my own house—”
The bag of Fritos skittered across the floor, the mess of chips scattering farther and wider. A low, haunting sound came from nowhere and everywhere at once and sounded like a ghostly voice saying, “Uh-uh, uh-uh, uh-uh.”
Seems my great-grandmother didn’t want to wait for Will to find her, so she’d come in search of him.
“Or we can stay here and clean up the kitchen,” Will finished, adding in a whisper so only I could hear, “and then we can skedaddle to my place.”
Instantly, Meemaw shifted to, “Mmm-hmm,” and Will and I burst out laughing. I was thirty-two—he had a year on me—and we couldn’t even snuggle up properly at 2112 Mockingbird Lane for fear of upsetting Loretta Mae. Not that I wanted a witness to my snuggling with Will, so going to his place always felt like a good idea. If we ever got married, I wasn’t sure what I’d do. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere besides this house, where I’d practically grown up and where I ran Buttons & Bows, yet Meemaw’s presence put a crimp in my romantic life. Plus Will and Gracie had their own home and wouldn’t want to uproot themselves any more than I wanted to.
Love was complicated.
Snuggle time with Will at his place would have to wait. We cleaned the kitchen, then Will went off to the attic in search of Loretta Mae. I left him to it, so I could get started on Delta’s apron. I plowed through the armoire in the sitting room, looking for the other specific pieces of organza and silk I had envisioned. Once I found them, I sketched out a rough pattern and went to work cutting the underskirt out of muslin. Next I cut the ties from a denim blue silk organza and the waistband out of a pale-rose-colored silk dupioni. I used another polyester organza, this time in cream, for the bottom ruffle, a subdued pink silk chiffon for the top ruffle, and finally, a pop of blue tulle for the center ruffle.
I marked each center point, hemmed each piece of fabric, and layered and pleated as I put them all together. Once the waistband and ties were added, I went on to the finishing touches to add some charm and whimsy. I attached puffy little rosettes at the waist, as well as putting them in a few strategic points on the front where the top layer of taffeta would be gathered and secured with a round puff of fabric with a hole in the middle. These yo-yos, placed every six inches along the lower edge of the taffeta layer, gave the ruffle a scalloped edge. The heart-shaped pewter button at the hemline was the final accent.
By the time it was finished, the apron was gorgeous. A showstopper, which was just what Delta wanted. If only my charm allowed me to sew something specific into the garments I made, weaving in a little compassion, or stitching in a little joy. From what I’d seen, Delta seemed preoccupied and a touch unhappy. But changing something specific wasn’t my charm. Once she wore the apron, her greatest wish would come true. I just hoped Delta wanted something honorable.
Will had long since said good-bye, lightly kissing my lips. “Did you find Meemaw?” I’d asked when he was on his way out a couple hours back.
He’d nodded, that crooked grin showing up again, for all the world looking like he was up to no good. “Can’t really talk to her, you know. I think she wanted my help fixing a squeaky drawer in one of the dressers. ’Course I could be wrong about that, since she disappeared again after a while. I did clean up the attic a little bit.”
He was a hero. He’d accepted not only my charm (and Gracie’s), but also the fact that a ghost lived here. Not many men could come to terms with that. My own father hadn’t been able to, walking out the moment he’d discovered my mother had a little magic in her.
By the time I placed the last stitch on Delta’s apron, it was nearly three in the morning. I could wait until morning to deliver it, or I could wrap it up and go put it on her doorstep. Finishing a project for someone was exciting. It always felt like Christmas morning when I’d discovered the perfect gift, which filled me with anticipation as I waited for the recipient to open it. I wanted Delta to see the apron first thing, so I decided to sneak over in the middle of the night when she was fast asleep. Patience was not my strong suit.
I wrapped the apron in a sheet of tex
tured ecru tissue paper, tying it with a rustic burlap ribbon. The temperature outside had finally dropped, so I threw on a BLISS CHOIR hoodie Gracie had left behind on her last visit, tucked my feet into my slippers, and headed next door. The house was completely dark—not surprising given the time of night. But the front porch, with its overhang, was especially black, and I hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight.
It took me all of twenty seconds to drop the pretty bundle on the doormat and hightail it back home. I lay down, exhausted but satisfied. The apron was gorgeous, and I hoped it would help me turn over a new leaf with Delta. No more family feud. No more animosity. I wanted to see the side of her that her friends knew and loved.
My little teacup pig, Earl Grey, was asleep in his bed beside mine, and I looked forward to nothing but six blissful hours of sleep ahead of me. The week ahead would be busy, but with Delta off my back, it would be nothing I couldn’t handle. I drifted off, dreaming of Meemaw and her antics, beautiful fabric, and aprons, and knowing the week ahead would be a good one.
Chapter 4
First thing the next morning I headed to Buffalo Bill’s Ranch House, a down-home restaurant on Bliss’s historic downtown square. My friend Madelyn had called me while I walked, canceling our breakfast plans. Left to my own devices, I decided it felt like a waffle kind of day. I ordered mine with a side of strawberries and ate slowly, in case my friend’s schedule changed and she showed, then paid and left when it became clear she wasn’t joining me.
My stomach full, I headed straight to the church to work my shift at the tag sale. The sale itself didn’t start until tomorrow, but we were nowhere near ready. “Thank heavens you’re here.” Georgia Emmons greeted me as I walked inside the enormous white tent that had been set up for the event. “Cynthia and Delta are both late, and the Red Hatters are supposed to be sorting the clothes. Randi’s here, but Bennie can’t make it, and Coco and Sherri both are scheduled to be here at eleven.”
Georgia drew in a breath and continued on. “I’m working on these jeans.”
She pointed to the massive stack of denim on the portable table in front of her. The jeans were folded and piled on top of one another. Two stacks, three feet high each. The grimace on her face made it clear she didn’t relish this particular job.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a full-length mirror leaning up at the end of the aisle. Jean skirt with a flouncy navy cotton ruffle, my red Fryes, and a white blouse I’d made several years ago, knotted at the waist. Clearly I had nothing against denim.
Georgia had on a floral wrap dress in a deep green pattern, and wide-heeled taupe pumps. She looked like she could have walked straight out of the pages of a 1940s magazine. Denim was not her style.
“I can take over,” I said, thinking she’d jump at the chance to be done with the jeans. But she surprised me. “No,” she said matter-of-factly. Without Cynthia or Delta here to take charge, she’d stepped into the role. Third in command, I reckoned. “It’s a dirty job, and I’m already invested in it.”
I glanced around to gauge where I should go to help. There were plenty of people sorting things, as well as other people standing around chatting, and I wondered if they might not need me after all. I could go home and start on the next apron. A vision of one for Georgia Emmons had popped into my head. It was flirty, with a ruffle that started mid-thigh. A large fabric flower accented a band of contrasting fabric, and the same pattern created the neck ties and a band around the front. The main fabric would be a pale green background with happy pink flowers, and the contrasting bands would be pink and white polka dots. Vintage, yet contemporary. It would be perfect for her.
“We need more price tags, but they’re in my car. I’m up to my elbows in these.” She gestured to the massive pile of denim. “Would you mind?”
“Not a bit. I’ll get them,” I said, already turning to head back to the parking lot. I didn’t want to interrupt Georgia’s system, and I didn’t mind being an errand girl.
“I parked in the east lot,” she said, handing me her key ring. “Behind the cemetery. If you cut through it, it’ll be faster.”
The cemetery was small, shaded by massive oak and pecan trees, and well kept. Tombstones stood sentry at the older graves, while the more contemporary flat markers intermixed on newer plots. Georgia had suggested walking through the graveyard, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to take the shortcut.
“Harlow!”
Georgia hollered my name from the tag sale tent. As I turned toward her, she pointed one finger and rotated it in the air, motioning for me to hurry up.
I held my hand up and nodded, telling her I understood. The cemetery shortcut it was.
A three-foot-high black wrought-iron fence that looked as ancient as the graves surrounded the cemetery. A shiver passed down my spine. I’d seen plenty of death, especially since I’d been back in Bliss, but that didn’t make the town’s graveyard my favorite place to be. If it had been night, instead of morning, dark instead of light, I would have thought twice about entering. But it wasn’t, so I cowgirled up. A tag sale waited for no one, least of all a ninny who preferred to take the long way round. I opened the gate and slipped through, walking along the pathways between the gravesites.
I felt confident in my planned design for the next apron, but I needed to search out the right fabrics. “The fabric store,” I said aloud. “We need a field trip.” It would be perfect! Each of the Red Hat ladies could pick out just what they wanted, which would help me hone in on the perfect design. Once I had those two elements in my head for all the Red Hatters, putting together the actual garments would be easy as pie.
I walked faster, hearing Georgia’s voice in the back of my mind urging me to hurry up with the tags. The parking lot was only ten yards away, but I had to skirt around a digger that was parked smack in the middle of my path. A newly dug grave meant a funeral was imminent. I gave a wide berth to the John Deere, stepping onto a small mound of fresh dirt. As I moved around the backhoe, I caught the first glimpse of a rectangular hole in the ground. Another shiver passed through me. It was one thing to think about death, but quite another to see an empty grave where someone would soon be buried. Someone who’d very recently been a living, breathing being.
More of the hole came into view and I stopped abruptly, gasping and suddenly short of breath. Because inside the hole was a body, and it wasn’t just any body.
Inside the fresh grave lay Delta Lea Mobley.
I scrambled down into the grave, slipping on the dirt and landing on my knees. Yanking my cell phone from my purse, I dialed 911, then bent over Delta.
“Is she breathing?” the operator asked after I told her what I’d found.
I’d put two fingers against the artery in Delta’s neck, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. Her face was smudged with dirt, her eyes wide-open, and her mouth agape. I crouched closer, calling her name, looking for signs of life. There wasn’t a single one. No breath coming in or going out of her body. No twitching fingers. No movement whatsoever.
“No,” I said into the cell phone. “I’m pretty sure she’s dead.”
Chapter 5
I called Hoss McClaine straight away, and seemingly moments later the whole of Bliss’s law enforcement team descended upon the cemetery. Work at the tag sale ground to a halt as the news of Delta’s death traveled over there.
“That’s everything?” the sheriff asked me after his team hoisted me out of the grave. I shook off the morose veil that had settled over me and told him what I’d seen. People often made the mistake of thinking he was nothing but a country lawman, assuming his thought process was as slow as his Southern drawl, but they were wrong. One too many cow-tippings, times climbing water towers, and trips joy-riding in the backs of pickup trucks on private property when I’d been a teenager meant I’d had my share of run-ins with Sheriff McClaine. I knew he was one of the sharpest knives in the drawer.
But we’d come to a peaceful understanding since I’d been back in Bliss, letting bygones be
bygones. I’d outgrown my childish antics, and he’d . . . well, he was still the same, but I’d come to respect him. And recently he’d gone and married my mother, making him not only the sheriff, but my step-daddy.
“Yes, sir.” I’d told him about sewing an apron for her and delivering it to her doorstep in the early hours of the morning.
“That apron there?” He pointed to another deputy sheriff who was pulling the half apron out of Delta’s discarded purse.
“That’s it,” I said. It was a small consolation to think that she’d liked the apron enough to take it with her to the tag sale, presumably to show her friends. In her last hours, I’d given her a bit of happiness.
“Interesting,” he said.
In that one word, I could tell he had prepared a good sampling of questions to start off his investigation. I certainly had questions of my own. Delta had been late showing up at the tag sale. Had she planned to meet someone in the cemetery, and that meeting had turned ugly? Or had she taken a shortcut and happened upon something she wasn’t supposed to see?
So far, the sheriff hadn’t indicated there’d been foul play, but a niggling in the back of my mind made me wonder. But, of course, I had no proof that Delta hadn’t died of natural causes, so I kept my mouth shut. My mind had gone straight to murder as soon as I’d seen the body, but it occurred to me now that it was more likely that she’d fallen. Hadn’t seen the hole, or had misjudged her footing, falling and hitting her head.
Madelyn Brighton snapped pictures of the scene. She was the town’s official photographer, and that meant she was called for in moments like these to document the evidence. She came up next to me, still focused on the scene. “You okay, love?” she said in her British accent as she took another series of shots.
I stood back from the grave taking it all in, one arm folded over my chest, the other angled up, my thumb running along my lower lip. “I’m okay,” I said, pushing away my worry. “Just thinking.”
A Seamless Murder Page 4
