A Seamless Murder

by Melissa Bourbon

  Coco had wandered off to chat with Zinnia James, and I headed straight for Jeremy Lisle. I’d been so busy worrying about speaking in front of the group that I hadn’t really looked closely at him. Now that I did, I saw that he was balding, but had the cool look of Bruce Willis or Vin Diesel. Tanned skin, even on the top of his head, slight stubble that gave him an edgy look, and one earring in his left lobe.

  Not your typical small-town Texas mayor. I wondered if he’d win the election in the fall, or if the incumbent, Richard Radcliffe, would.

  Jeremy Lisle wore khakis and a white button-down shirt, undone at the top. No tie. No jacket. I couldn’t tell if this state of casual cool was really authentic or if he was trying hard to maintain his youth. I waited for an image of him to appear in my mind, some other attire that would help me define him, but nothing appeared. Peculiar. Part of my Cassidy charm meant that I saw images of people in my mind wearing outfits that would bring out some latent qualities and would help them discover more of their true selves. Either I just couldn’t get a read on the man, or what I saw was the true Jeremy Lisle and there wasn’t anything that I could make that would fit him better.

  Jeremy Lisle seemed to be an open book. No mystery. No deep wants or desires.

  “Ms. Cassidy,” he said, pumping my hand up and down. “Congratulations on the historical designation.”

  “Loretta Mae would be so happy,” I said, editing would to will in my head. When I told her, I wondered if she’d become a little more corporeal for a few moments, or if she’d be so happy she’d flit around like a mad ghost, leaving just a trail of glitter in her wake.

  “And do you like being back in Bliss? Loretta Mae was thrilled you were coming home.”

  I laughed. “I think she knew I was coming back before I did and told the whole town.”

  “She had a way of knowing things like that.”

  I looked up at him sharply, feeling even more curious than I’d been a minute ago. “Did you know her well?”

  He stood straight, his cowboy boots placed firmly on the ground. “Everyone knew Loretta Mae,” he said, but hesitated. He frowned slightly, then added, “As much as anybody could really know her, that is.”

  I considered Jeremy. He was perceptive. Loretta Mae had been affable and approachable, but he was absolutely right in his assessment. She let people see what she wanted them to see, let them know what she wanted them to know. And generally, she didn’t want a whole lot of strangers knowing much about her. She had the Cassidy charm to protect, after all.

  Tears pricked my eyes. Suddenly I felt a deep longing. I wanted Loretta Mae, in the flesh, back in my life. I missed her sense of humor, her voice, which I hadn’t heard in so long, the zippy sound of her sewing machine as she flew through different projects. These things existed only in my memories now.

  I took a deep breath and blinked hard to clear my eyes. “Such a shame about Delta Mobley,” I said, changing the subject. Not subtle, but when death struck our small town, there didn’t need to be a preamble.

  “Sure is. Murder, I heard.”

  I watched him closely, looking for a twitch, a fidget, or anything that might make me think he carried a little guilt in him. But his expression held steady, he stayed rooted to the ground, and he stood tall.

  “That’s what I heard, too. She’s my . . . I mean, she was my neighbor. I still can’t believe it. Poor Jessie Pearl. There can’t be anything worse than losing a child, and violently to boot.”

  We both paused for an automatic beat of silence. When Jeremy spoke again, there was a hint of sympathy in his tone. “I feel for her mother.”

  “Do you have any ideas on who could have done this to her?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I didn’t know her well.”

  I frowned, letting my confusion show. “I thought she was on the council with you.”

  “Well, sure. But so are a lot of people. This is work, though, not social hour.”

  “Oh, I know. Important work. Loretta Mae taught me early how important preserving history is,” I said.

  He nodded solemnly. “Not everyone thinks so, but you’re right.”

  “I love that both my house and the Mobley house are designated historical landmarks,” I said.

  Instead of agreeing, like I thought he would, he pursed his lips.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  He looked around, then lowered his voice. “Look, between you and me, Delta was on the council and even had the house designated, but she didn’t really believe in preserving history.”

  I hadn’t had to work hard to get him to talk, which was not what I’d expected. “What do you mean? Isn’t wanting to preserve history sort of a requirement of being part of the council?”

  He glanced around again before speaking. I followed his lead, looking at the people milling around after the meeting. Will stood nearby, talking to an old cowboy with silvery white hair and a lanky figure. He could talk to anyone, and everyone loved to chat him up.

  He caught my eye, and I knew he was giving me space to talk to Jeremy, but I was also one hundred percent confident that, at the same time, he was listening to our conversation with one ear. “Delta liked to bend the rules, shall we say? There was a lot of gray area when it came to right and wrong.”

  That was interesting. Over the years, I’d come to realize that people almost always acted in their own self-interest. If Delta bent the rules, my guess was that it benefited her somehow. “You mean when she was on the council here?”

  “Definitely.” He lowered his voice. “Between you and me, there are people in this town who don’t see things the way you and I do. When I’m mayor, I’ll make our Historic District and the preservation of our town’s history a priority.”

  I wasn’t sure how he knew what my personal perspective was, since we’d just met, but I assumed it was based on my application for the historic designation. I went with it, aligning myself with him for the sake of Jessie Pearl. “I know what you mean. Too many people don’t seem to care about the Historic District or the history of Bliss.”

  “Right! They’d be perfectly happy if Bliss looked like Any Town, USA. I’ll fight that till my dying breath. We’ve had to fight the city over tearing down some of the old houses in the area. They’d be happy to demolish them and build parking garages. Fair warning, Ms. Cassidy, the Historic District’ll turn into a cement city if the restrictions are lifted.”

  “But Delta didn’t feel that way, did she? I mean, she just had her house designated as historic, so . . .”

  I left the sentence hanging there so he could expand on it and tell me what he knew. As Meemaw had taught me long ago, when you leave empty space for people to fill, they will talk. Jeremy Lisle was no exception.

  “It’s Jessie Pearl’s house,” he said, “and she did the work,” he said. “If it had been up to Delta, I’d bet money that she would have bulldozed that house and sold the lot for a commercial property.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said, surprised. “So she didn’t submit the application?”

  “She’s in real estate, right? So she knows the value of property, but she’s not . . . I mean, she wasn’t a home owner.” He leaned closer, lowing his voice. “Between you and me, I think she didn’t want the old house designated, so that when she inherited it, she wouldn’t have had to jump through hoops to do what she wanted with it.”

  Which, if I believed Jeremy Lisle, was to tear it down and build something that could make her money.

  Jeremy continued. “The difference was that your great-grandmother wanted your house to be a historic landmark, while Delta wanted to block her mother’s application.”

  “But she was on the council,” I said, not understanding. How could she not support something she was part of?

  “Sometimes I think she was only on it to play devil’s advocate. She didn’t value the past like the rest of us do.”

  All along, I’d thought Delta and I had at least one thing in common—love for
our history-filled homes. She had all those antiques! Or at least Megan did. But it seemed as though I’d been wrong. I wondered whether Coco and Sherri knew that their sister had tried to thwart their mother’s efforts. They hadn’t said anything, so either they were protecting their family—trying to keep their dirty laundry from airing—or they didn’t know.

  My money was on the latter.

  “Reality is harsh,” Jeremy said, one corner of his mouth lifting in a slight smile. It was as if he were proud to have been the one to take Delta down a notch in my eyes. He needn’t have worried. There was no love lost between Delta and me, and her death didn’t change that fact. We hadn’t gotten to the point where we’d really put our past behind us. We may have gotten there had she lived, but now that possibility was gone. My goal in nosing around was to alleviate some of Jessie Pearl’s suffering at having lost her daughter. Nothing more, nothing less. But this manipulative side of Delta came as a surprise.

  “It can be,” I agreed. “I was over there the other day—”

  “At their house?”

  “Yes. I’m making aprons for the Red Hat group Delta was part of.”

  His gaze darted over my shoulder, and I started to get the feeling he was scoping the place out for campaigning. Looking to see whether someone more worthy of his time had moseyed in with an ear to bend. If I wasn’t careful, I’d lose his attention. But I needed more information. I waved away the words I’d just uttered, continuing with, “I saw the plaque in the entryway.”

  His attention came back to me. “What do you mean? Inside?”

  I nodded. “On a table in the hallway.”

  The muscles of his face tightened. “She never put it up?”

  “Um, I guess not.”

  “I dug around in the basement for that plaque,” he said, clearly disgruntled.

  “The basement?”

  “Of the city offices here. We’d run out of them up here, but Delta said that her mother would be beside herself if she didn’t get that plaque. She said Jessie Pearl wanted it so badly. Todd and Megan had been here helping sort some things in the basement, and Todd told Delta he’d seen one down there. Damned if he wasn’t right. I searched with them and actually found one.” He shook his head. “But they never put it up. That just beats all.”

  “I’m sure they probably just didn’t get to it yet, and now—”

  But his mild head shake had turned almost violent. “Oh, that’s not it at all. Delta intentionally didn’t put it up. I did everything possible to make that designation happen, despite her trying to stop it at every turn. She voted against it at the meeting, did you know that?”

  “Against what, the designation of her own house?”

  “Her mother’s house,” he corrected, “and yes. And then, when she lost, she was a poor sport. I shouldn’t say it, but I’m glad—”

  He stopped suddenly, as if he remembered where he was and whom he was talking to. “You’re glad about . . . ?” I prompted. I felt pretty certain he’d been about to say that he was glad she was dead, but I secretly hoped I was wrong.

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I’m glad the designation is done. I’m going to give Todd a call so he can put the plaque up for Jessie Pearl. That sweet woman needs something positive in her life. The plaque isn’t much, but it’s something.” He held out his hand for me to shake. “Great meeting you, Ms. Cassidy. Congratulations on the house. I could use your vote come election time,” he added.

  I nodded noncommittally. “It’ll be a tough race.”

  “But one I intend to win.” He gave me a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Stop by my office anytime to pick up the plaque for your house. And I certainly hope you’ll hang it up.”

  “I will, Mr. Lisle. Thank you.”

  He walked away, leaving me wondering why Delta would vote against a historical designation for her mother’s house, why she’d been voted off the Historic Council, and just what lengths Jeremy Lisle would go to to win the mayoral election. There had clearly been animosity between him and Delta, but I didn’t feel as if I fully understood why they hadn’t gotten along.

  Was it possible that Delta had been an even bigger thorn in someone else’s side—and had that person stooped to murder?

  Unfortunately that was a question that I wasn’t anywhere closer to answering.

  Chapter 8

  Aprons were a completely different beast compared to garment design. It was like playing with Play-Doh verses making brioche. The former was simplistic, while the latter was complex and multilayered.

  Or at least that’s what I’d thought before I started trying to create the perfect apron for each woman in the Red Hat group. Turns out my charm only seemed to conjure up images of full outfits, and aprons were more like accessories. I was going to have to rely on what I knew of the women to come up with the best designs. Not an easy task, since I didn’t know them very well at all.

  I’d whipped up Delta’s apron in record time, and she’d ended up in the bottom of a freshly dug grave. Not a confidence booster. I had a vision for Georgia’s apron, but part of me wondered if some ill fate would come to her if I made the apron I envisioned. Surely Delta’s death had nothing to do with the charmed apron I’d made for her . . . had it?

  That thought circled around my brain for a good long while, until finally, gathering up my wherewithal, I chased it away. I couldn’t let my doubts get the better of me. Sure, Delta had had the apron with her when she died, but the two things weren’t related. Coincidence, pure and simple. I likened my sudden insecurity to falling off a horse. I was reluctant to try again for fear of the same result, but I knew I had to get back in the saddle. The Cassidy women were made of strong stuff, and giving in to fear wasn’t an option.

  I had an idea for Georgia’s apron, so I went with it. I’d been debating the half apron verses the full apron for her. Thinking again about the design I’d envisioned, I decided to go with the full apron.

  I searched my fabric stash, wondering if I had anything remotely close to what I’d pictured. I knew a trip to the fabric store was going to be necessary for the rest, but if I could get started on Georgia’s today, I felt as if it would help me get back in the saddle.

  As it turned out, the perfect fabrics—or a close enough approximation—were already in my possession. I got to work cutting out the contrasting fabrics, using a base design pattern I’d created, adapting it for the ruffles and accent pieces. The pale green cotton with bright pink flowers became the skirt, the dropped band that fell mid-thigh, and the neck ties. I used a bright pink and white polka-dot fabric for the contrasting bands and decorative pocket on the apron bodice. I’d create a large flower out of fabric last, attaching it to the left seam connecting the skirt to the big ruffle.

  I set to work, and in a matter of hours, I had the apron complete. There was only one way to describe the finished product: adorably whimsical. Pretty, yet quirky and fun at the same time. It was a little more fanciful than I imagined Georgia to be, but I wanted to push her boundaries a little bit. Make her stretch and summon up some part of herself that she didn’t normally access.

  I couldn’t predict how she’d respond to the design, but I called her up and invited her over to take a look at the finished apron. I was hoping she’d adore it and that it would help her see something in herself. I also wanted a chance to visit with her one-on-one. People often possessed information they didn’t realize they had.

  She was as excited to see it as I was to show it to her. Forty-five minutes later, Georgia glided into Buttons & Bows, the grosgrain strand of bells hanging from the door handle jingling softly as she opened and closed the door. Not for the first time, I saw the beauty queen quality in her. She kept her figure in perfect shape, her hair had the sheen and volume of someone much younger, and she looked as if she could have been on a hit television show twenty-five years ago.

  I invited her into the shop, ushering her to the small sitting area. She took the red ve
lvet settee. Most people opted for the sofa or loveseat. The settee required someone with feline posture and presence, and few had those qualities. But Georgia did. I often debated if I should keep it or get rid of it, but it had belonged to Loretta Mae and I couldn’t bear to part with it.

  “I should have asked this before I made your apron,” I said as I sat across from her, “but nothing’s changed, has it? Is the progressive dinner still on?”

  She waved away my concern. “Oh heavens, yes, it’s still on. We won’t cancel it, Harlow. It’s a tragedy, what happened to Delta, but like we said the other day, she’d be the first to say that she’d want us to go on. Life doesn’t stop. I wouldn’t say that was her motto, but if one of us had unexpectedly passed on, she would have insisted the dinner go on as planned.”

  “So the aprons . . . ?” I trailed off, but let my voice lilt at the end.

  “Proceeding was the right thing to do,” she said, answering my unspoken question.

  I sighed in relief, partly because I wanted her to love the apron I’d made for her, but also because I wanted the excuse of meeting with the other Red Hatters in case any of them could shed some light on Delta’s untimely death and who might be behind it.

  “I made her apron first,” I said. “Brought it to her the morning she died. It’s a small thing, but if it gave her any bit of pleasure, then I’m glad she was able to see it.”

  “And mine was next on your list? Hope that means I’m not next to die.” She laughed, playing off the comment as innocuous, but it cut through me like a knife nonetheless. Because of course, I’d just wondered the very same thing.

  I hopped up, scurrying to my workroom behind the French doors. I’d left the apron neatly folded on the worktable in the center of the room, but now it was hanging from a hook on the old wooden screen I’d used to create a makeshift dressing room. The apron was filled out, as if someone were wearing it. I stopped short, peering more closely at it, and at the space around it. The air rippled—Meemaw was playing her games. In her ghostly incarnation, she’d reverted to her childhood sensibilities, pulling pranks just for a good, otherworldly chuckle. Her passing had shaved seventy-plus years off her mental age.