“Pastor?” I called.
He stopped, his arm outstretched. His car beeped, the locks releasing. When he turned to face me, a chill danced over my skin. His nostrils flared and his jaw was tight. But it all changed in an instant, as if a pale yellow light slipped over him to soften his features, and I wondered if the streetlights and the darkness were playing tricks on me. Still, my nerves were on edge. I slowed down, staying back so I could cut and run if I needed to.
“I wish you’d stay,” I said.
“Cynthia’s heart was in the right place inviting me. She’d hoped to help Delta mend some of her broken fences, and I’m a peacemaker, but this night should be for her family and friends.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But so many of them attend your church. You offered everyone a lot of comfort. Just your presence made a difference tonight.” He didn’t seem to know what to say. “Pastor, are you okay?” I asked.
He stared up at the night sky. There wasn’t anything to see there. The stars were obscured by a thin layer of clouds, but he was lost in it anyway. “It’s always hard to bury someone in the community, especially someone who’s been a fixture for as long as Mrs. Mobley was,” he said finally. “People take it hard when a loved one is taken from them of natural causes, but something like this, well, it’s just all the harder to make sense of it.”
“Delta and I, we were neighbors. I saw her, even from a distance, nearly every day. It’s such a shock that she’s gone.”
“She was rough around the edges, but the thing is, she admitted it when called on it. She bent the rules in her favor, and she didn’t have any qualms about it. Cynthia caught her red-handed, rifling through the employee records at the church, but do you know what she said?”
I shook my head.
“Well, of course, first she gave an excuse. She’d come prepared with it. Said she was filing Megan and Todd’s resumes. That she’d found them on the desk. Of course that was a lie. We don’t ask for resumes, and Cynthia is an excellent office manager. She doesn’t leave things lying around.”
“What do you think she was really doing?”
“I never did figure that out. She said God knew all of our secrets. Every last one of them. She said that nothing was confidential to Him, and we all worked for God, didn’t we?”
He laughed, shaking his head at the memory. “As if that justified breaking the rules. How in the world do you argue with logic like that?”
How indeed? “Pastor,” I said, just wanting to get to the nitty-gritty. “You know the community so well. Who do you think killed her? Who would have wanted to?”
But he just shook his head, looking up at the dark sky again. “I wish I knew, Ms. Cassidy, but I sure don’t.”
“And you don’t know what secret she was talking about?”
“All she ever said to me was that she wouldn’t lay down like a dog and let people cheat and lie and hurt the people she loved.”
“Was it about her family? Her sisters?” I said, thinking again about Sherri and wondering how close they actually were, and if an old rift had resurfaced.
But the pastor quashed that idea. “I don’t know, Harlow. I think Coco and Sherri would have done anything for Delta. And hearing those stories about how she helped her friends, I think she would have done a lot for them, too. But really, do any of us know what goes on inside someone else’s head?”
He considered me carefully. “Why are you so interested, Harlow?”
“Coco asked me to help,” I said. “To try to figure out what happened to Delta.”
“Isn’t the sheriff doing that? Someone killed that woman. Murdered her. You should stay out of it.”
“Are you friends with Gavin McClaine?” I asked, a little flippantly. They were singing the same tune.
Pastor Kyle’s brows pulled together, puzzled. “The deputy sheriff? No, why?”
I waved it away. “It’s nothing. He’s my stepbrother and tells me to leave crime solving to the professionals.” In fact, he’d told me more than a few times that I was not on the city of Bliss’s payroll, so I should stick with solving sewing crises.
“Good advice,” Pastor Kyle said. “We all have our expertise. From what I understand, you’re quite the seamstress.”
“Fashion designer,” I clarified, keeping quiet about the luck I’d had solving crimes in Bliss since I’d moved back home. Maybe there was one secret still left in Bliss if he hadn’t heard those stories.
“Of course, fashion designer.” He smiled, but it felt placating rather than sincere, and a warning signal went off in my head again. I needed to be careful, and I suddenly realized that I wasn’t one hundred percent convinced that the pastor wasn’t involved.
“I should go,” I said, taking a step backward.
He took a step forward, closing the gap I’d just created. “I think his point is that you’re not in law enforcement. Best leave finding Delta’s murder to the sheriff.”
My heart raced, and I forced a smile. “I will. Thank you, Pastor.”
He slid his hands into his pants pockets. “Will is quite fond of you, you know.”
Was he trying to throw me off guard? “I’m fond of him, too.” I threw up my hand in a quick wave and took a few steps in the opposite direction.
“We’re going to Cynthia’s house next,” I said. “If you change your mind and want to come back.”
“Thank you, but I won’t.” He got into his SUV, turning back to me before he shut his door. “Someone killed Delta, Miss Cassidy, and I reckon that whoever it is wants nothing more than to keep that under wraps. You might find yourself in danger if you’re not careful.”
As he drove away, another chill slithered through me. I didn’t know whom to trust, was no closer to figuring out the truth, and the pastor had just put the fear of God squarely in my chest.
Chapter 21
When the evening started, Will’s prediction that I could have the murder solved by the end of the night had seemed possible. But now, having a light tomato basil soup and a small spinach salad at Cynthia Homer’s house, the next stop of the progressive dinner, it seemed entirely unrealistic. I needed some sudden new insight into Delta’s character, or her relationships with the people around me, to lead me to the answer.
Instead I had too much information, and no real direction for my sleuthing. It was like the piles of fabric Randi had selected at the fabric store. Alone each bolt was fine, but together it was a hot mess.
“What d’ya learn?” Will asked me on the way to Cynthia’s house.
I thought about how to answer him. “I feel like I learned something, only I’m not sure what,” I finally said.
He gave me a sly grin. “Well, darlin’, fear not. I got some good information.”
My heart surged, and I grabbed his arm. “What did you find out?”
“Did you know that Delta went to college with Jeremy Lisle? Aggies, both of them,” he said, a hint of competitive disdain in his voice. Will was a Longhorn through and through.
“Wait,” I said, realizing what he’d just said. Radcliffe had said something about Delta questioning where Jeremy had gone to college. “Did they know they were both Aggies?”
Will lowered his chin, giving me a look that said, “You’re kidding, right?”
Your college alma mater in Texas was a very big deal, especially the rivalry between the Longhorns from UT and the Aggies from Texas A&M.
I let this sink in. If Delta knew perfectly well that Jeremy Lisle had gone to A&M, then what had Mayor Radcliffe been talking about? Had he gotten it wrong? Was there someone else she suspected was lying about their college degree, and why did it even matter?
My head spun, my thoughts more jumbled and confused than ever. Delta was just as much a mystery to me today as she’d been before she died, and I couldn’t make heads or tails of what had been on her mind before her death. I’d never even thought of her as having a soft side. But I was being proved wrong. She’d been looking out for someone. The question was st
ill who.
Cynthia was the perfect hostess. The gathered front panel of the apron I’d made for her and the wide waistband complimented her figure beautifully. She had to admit that she loved it, even if she hadn’t wanted it at first.
Cynthia and her husband whisked away the bowls as soon as the last spoonfuls of soup were gone, and the salad plates before the last lettuce leaves were speared. “This isn’t turning out like it was supposed to,” she said to the room, not speaking to anyone in particular. “I thought it might offer some comfort to talk about Delta. To still come together, but I think that was a mistake.”
“We were right to hold the dinner,” Randi said quietly.
But Cynthia shook her head. “Not like this. What Sherri said—”
“Sherri was wrong,” Bennie said. “We’re all thinking something horrible must have happened, but why does it have to be that way? Megan said it earlier. Delta was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
It was a good thought, but too simplistic. Sure, random crimes happened, but more often than not murderers killed for a specific reason. As the Red Hat ladies had already talked about, most people were killed by someone they knew. Hoss McClaine believed in that statistic, too.
“Come on, y’all. We haven’t even had the main course yet. Let’s go to Bennie’s house and continue with the dinner.”
The husbands looked at one another with expressions that said they’d each rather wrestle a passel of cottonmouths than hash out whatever had happened to Delta Mobley. But, almost like synchronized swimmers, the women made eye contact with their husbands and the men straightened up, pulled out keys, and led their wives to their respective trucks. Will and I met each other’s gazes, our own smiles playing on our lips. Would we be that way one day? I tucked that thought away for another time and followed the group back outside, and just like before, we caravanned to the next house on the progressive dinner route.
As we drove, I considered the husbands. Could one of them be behind Delta’s death? But just as quickly, I dismissed the idea. Not one of them seemed to have any connection with her beyond the friendships she’d had with their wives.
The trip was a quick five minutes, and, as it turned out, Bennie Cranford lived just three blocks away from me in a house nearly as old as mine. It was a restored Victorian, a painted lady done up in blue with red and pink trims. Gables and gingerbread trim gave it a dollhouse effect, and walking inside felt like stepping back in time. Every visible wall was papered in a classic Victorian pattern of some sort. The entryway was a blue geometric pattern with metallic ink running throughout. The parlor and dining room, on the other hand, were burgundy with three feet of horizontal borders running round the ceilings.
Heavy burgundy drapes hung from the windows under ornate valances, a deep gold trim along the edges making it feel just a bit like what I imagined a turn-of-the-century bordello might have been like. A heavy, ornate crystal chandelier hung above the dining table. The dining table itself was set with cream-colored china and crystal goblets and wineglasses. Gold-bordered cream cards sat at each place setting, telling us where to sit. Bennie had gone outside the down-home theme with her table décor. Her vintage ruffled apron added a little bit of whimsy, but still fit the period house, looking like it came from the same era as the wallpaper and drapery. The only difference was that the apron I’d made had a modern, contemporary touch to it that the house didn’t.
“It looks beautiful,” Georgia said, a slight hint of envy in her voice. “Like walking straight out of the present day and into the past.”
There was a murmuring of agreement as we all found our places. Personally, I found the decorations stifling. Owning a Victorian house didn’t mean every bit of it had to be historically rendered. It wasn’t a setting I’d want to live in. I loved my own historical house, and I especially loved the vintage features that gave it so much character, but I liked having my own sensibility throughout, with modern touches and conveniences.
Bennie had intermixed the couples, separating the husbands and the wives, and me and Will. I ended up sandwiched between Jeremy Lisle and Jessie Pearl.
Bennie stood behind me, elaborating on the details of her house. “We had an architectural historian help us. She knows everything there is to know about the era. All the window coverings are custom, the wallpaper Bradbury and Bradbury. The floors are the original pine. I did the kitchen myself. It’s redone with a custom island kit. Of course Delta never did like it,” she said under her breath, “but that’s not a surprise.”
I turned to glance through the door, inwardly cringing at the blue Formica and traditional oak cabinets. The architectural historian couldn’t have had a hand in those design elements. The style looked straight out of the 1980s, rather than 1900, and was completely at odds with the rest of the house. In a set of drawings asking which room didn’t belong, there’d be no doubt that the kitchen was the sore thumb.
But everyone murmured politely. No one would burst Bennie’s bubble by saying the kitchen was an eyesore. We were all too politely Southern for that. Only Delta would have been the unimpeded voice of opposition about the kitchen, but of course she wasn’t here to say anything.
The question of whether Bennie could have killed Delta over some decorating slight crossed my mind, but I nixed it just as fast. Sure, murder happened for less rational reasons than that, but I couldn’t see Bennie bashing a rock into Delta’s head over a criticism of her kitchen.
Then again, at this point, I couldn’t discount anyone. I needed a lead. Delta had rubbed too many people wrong and had made too many people angry along the way.
Bennie served the main course: pot roast with carrots and onions served on a bed of mashed Yukon gold potatoes. Next to me, Jessie Pearl moved the strands of beef around her plate, mixing it into the potatoes, but not eating. I also noticed Megan taking birdlike bites. The other women picked at their food as well, but the men . . . the men dug in and ate with gusto. Delta Mobley’s demise hadn’t interfered with their appetites.
Jessie Pearl’s left hand curled into a loose fist next to her plate. It trembled, the thin skin and veins making her look more fragile with each passing glance. She’d been tough as nails just a week ago, but her drawn face, her unsteady hands, and her sad eyes gave away her sorrow. Her daughter was dead, and she was showing the signs of the trauma. I rested my hand on hers. “Do you need anything?” I said, my good Southern breeding front and center. I may have grown up Texan, a breed in and of itself, but Southernness ran through my blood and always would.
“Besides Delta back from the dead, I guess you mean?” she said, not looking up from her plate.
My hand wavered from the bite in her tone, but I tried not to let it show. “Yes, ma’am, besides that.”
She turned, looking at me head-on. “I need to know what happened.” She lowered her voice, and it turned hoarse. “What did she do that made someone kill her?”
Jeremy Lisle leaned my way, talking over me. “Ms. Lea, Delta thought a great deal of you. The way I see it, you need to focus on the good memories, ma’am. There ain’t no use in anything else. Nothing’s gonna bring her back.”
Jessie Pearl raised her eyes to him. They were blazing with fire. “There’s plenty of use for the truth, Mr. Lisle.”
He gawked at the force of her words but recovered quickly. Jeremy was a politician, and I suspected the truth was more of a vague idea to him rather than something set in stone. “There is, you’re right, ma’am. That was thoughtless of me.”
“My daughter didn’t support you for mayor. You’ll see the sign for Radcliffe in our yard. But did you ever wonder why, exactly? Don’t you want to know why she turned away from you and toward the mayor?”
Jeremy drew back, but again, his expression turned sour only for a split second before it was placid again. The consummate politician, well versed at masking his true emotions. I already knew that Jeremy was bitter over Delta’s decision not to support his campaign. She was well known and respected
as an institution in town. Not having her endorsement could have had a negative effect on his campaign. I’d already pondered whether this was enough of a reason for Jeremy to eliminate Delta from the political equation. Suddenly Sherri was being pushed to the side and I was leaning toward yes as the answer to that question. “She didn’t respect the Historic District,” he said, “or believe in preserving the past. Or at least not to the degree that the Historic Council does.”
“That’s right. She cared more about tearing down the old and putting up new. Pretense and perception,” Jessie Pearl said, taking her hand back. And then her eyes brightened, as if she’d just realized something. “I’ve come to know my daughter better in death than I did in life. She didn’t do anything without a reason.” She turned back to Jeremy. “She either wanted something from the mayor, or she wanted to thwart you for some reason.”
Jeremy’s face clouded, but before he could respond, we were distracted by a brouhaha from across the room. Pastor Kyle was back, and he had Sherri with him. “I shouldn’t be here,” she said, her voice low and desperate.
Coco was on her feet, ushering her sister to a vacant seat. “It’ll all be okay, Sher. I’m glad you’re here.”
“It won’t bring her back,” Sherri said, not bothering to mask her despair.
But was it guilt rather than grief that spawned the tears? Family rivalry wasn’t a strong motive in and of itself, but who knew what skeletons were in the Lea sisters’ closet? But one look at her face told me that her anguish was real. Palpable. Family was family, no matter the depth of the complexities or the scars that remained from days gone by.
I shook my head. It sounded perfect for a Lifetime movie, but too melodramatic for real life, and I was muddying the waters by putting my own thoughts about family onto the Trapper/Mobley group.
A Seamless Murder Page 19
