A Fitting End: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery amdm-2

by Melissa Bourbon

  I gasped, as all the threads came together into a solid strand. Just like Mrs. James had done when she’d told me about the Amarillo scandal. Lightning doesn’t strike twice.

  Or does it, when the same doctor is involved? Meemaw had been trying to tell me. She’d known about it. That’s why she’d gone to the Hughes’s party. I pieced together my thoughts. “Maybe Macon Vance and Anna weren’t having an affair at all.” I snuck a look around, making sure Anna hadn’t suddenly materialized to eavesdrop, then dropped my voice to a whisper. “Maybe he was blackmailing her, too, but over this.” I tapped the computer screen.

  The deputy already had his cell phone out, thumb hovering over the SEND button. “Go on.”

  “They’re all three from Amarillo. If Macon Vance remembered the scandal, maybe he was trying to get hush money out of her so he wouldn’t blow the lid on them and ruin Buckley’s practice in Bliss.”

  As the deputy pressed SEND on his cell phone, retreating to a quiet corner of the lobby, I backed away from the computer, grabbed my cell phone and Will’s arm, and ran outside to call Fern Lafayette.

  Chapter 38

  I paced up and down the cement slab in front of the country club’s automatic sliding doors. They zipped open, then closed, open, then closed. “How’s Trudy?” I asked Fern when she answered the phone.

  “The doctor’s here now,” Fern said. “Hold the line for a minute.”

  The doctor had been there when I’d left and that had been hours ago. Presby had good service. I heard a man talking to Fern, but the voices both became muffled as the automatic doors zipped open again and Deputy McClaine stepped outside. “Anna Hughes has an alibi for Vance’s murder,” he announced. “Seems she was in Dallas picking up her son’s Victorian britches.”

  My face fell. “Oh.”

  “And during the attack on Miss Lafayette?”

  “We’re checking it out now, but twelve women at a neighborhood bunco party is a pretty tight alibi, so there you go.”

  I began pacing again, pushing against the thickening wall of humidity. “If it’s not Anna, then who?” I muttered.

  Fern’s voice on the other end of the cell phone caught me by surprise. “He said the police don’t have any clues about who might have broken into his house—”

  I stopped short, barreling right into Will. “What?”

  “What? What? Harlow Cassidy, has your mind gone soft?”

  “Doctor Hughes!” I whirled around and flung my arms out, nearly sending my cell phone flying. “But he’s here, isn’t he?”

  “I saw him before the waltz started,” Will said, but Gavin shook his head. “He left just after.”

  Oh Lord. If Macon Vance blew the whistle on what had happened in Amarillo, Buckley’s reputation in Bliss would have been blown to bits. He was the one who’d silenced the golf pro. And if Trudy had pieced it all together, the doctor wouldn’t let her live to ruin his life. “It’s not Anna,” I breathed. The words caught in my throat. “It’s Buckley. Where is he now?” I said into the phone.

  Fern hesitated, and I knew she was trying to figure out what had me all worked up. “He just left. Goin’ back to the pageant to see his boy. Why?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get there, Fern, but don’t leave Trudy alone.”

  I told Deputy Sheriff McClaine that Buckley Hughes was on his way back to the country club. In seconds flat, the deputy had texted God knows who, and was on his phone, alerting the rest of Bliss’s law enforcement team, bringing in the cavalry to stake out the club.

  “I’m going to check on Trudy,” I said. The deputy nodded, waving me off as he filled in the sheriff.

  Will dug his key out of the pocket of his black slacks. “Let’s go.”

  We raced to the parking lot. I had anticipated being able to go home to change before the big pageant, but that also hadn’t happened. Now I was grateful for my flats, capris, and chiffon summer blouse. I was no track star, but I managed to stay with Will. He deactivated the alarm and unlocked his truck’s doors without breaking stride. That was more coordination that I could have mustered. And keeping a car in the right lane? There wasn’t a chance I would have been able to drive in a straight line.

  Will revved the engine, backed out, and in seconds flat, we were barreling off the golf course property, down the country road, and heading straight for Presbyterian Hospital.

  Chapter 39

  “I can’t believe Buckley could do this. You really just can’t ever know a person, can you?” Will mused. He pressed a button on the elevator control panel and the doors slid closed. I explained everything to Will during the NASCAR drive to the hospital, including the fact that Macon Vance was Libby’s father and that he was apparently a serial blackmailer, but he was still having trouble accepting it all.

  “But it makes sense,” I said. “They’re both from Amarillo. Maybe it took a while, but Vance must have realized that Buckley was the same doctor who’d been accused of malpractice in the Panhandle. A woman died. That’s a big deal. Who in their right mind would get Botox treatments from a doctor who’d killed a woman getting the same treatment?”

  “What about Trudy? She couldn’t have known.”

  I’d been wrestling with that. “I don’t think she did. She just thought Anna and Vance were having an affair.”

  We watched the buttons light up as we ascended, stopping to take on passengers on the fifth floor.

  “But there’s no proof of any of it,” he muttered. “He might get away with it.”

  If he’d managed to turn out Trudy’s lights, he just might.

  “What if we’re too late? He might could have done it already,” I said, the sound of my thumping heart drowning out everything else.

  “As long as he wasn’t alone with her, he couldn’t have hurt her.”

  “Murdered her,” I corrected, shuddering at the idea that Trudy had very nearly been killed.

  The passengers on the elevator sidestepped away from us, glancing at each other with raised eyebrows. I had to admit, murder wasn’t your typical elevator conversation.

  I held on to a strand of hope. I’d seen Trudy earlier. She’d been fuzzy, but talking. And Fern wasn’t leaving Trudy’s side, so the doctor wouldn’t have had an opportunity to do anything more to her. Surely that meant she’d be fine. My insides had twisted into a thousand knots. “But why would he have come if it wasn’t to make sure he finished the job? That was bold,” I mused.

  He didn’t have a chance to answer me. The elevator stopped on the eighth floor, the doors opened with a whoosh, and we stepped out. I checked the hallways, feeling very spylike. Nurses walked from a room to the nursing station, taking care of patients. Other than their bustling, the floor was quiet.

  “She’s in 21A,” I said, channeling the nurse’s focused attention and hurrying toward Trudy’s hospital room.

  But Will pulled me to a stop. “You can’t go barging in there, scaring them half to death. You’re not the sheriff, Cassidy.”

  No, I was just a dressmaker. “Right. Be calm.”

  I left him pondering that. There was no time to waste. I just prayed we weren’t too late.

  I sucked in a deep breath, stopped in front of room 21A and pressed my ear to the door. To make sure Buckley really was gone. Or to hear Fern and Trudy talking. Either one would have eased my mind. Instead there was complete silence. My heart sagged. Did that mean…

  Will reached down, cranked the handle down, and pushed the door open.

  As we walked in, a man turned to face us. I drew in a sharp breath. It wasn’t Buckley Hughes… it was his son, Duane.

  Fern slouched in a chair in the corner of the room, a knot on her forehead, blood trickling down her temple, and thick shards of broken green glass mixed with bent flower stems scattered on the linoleum floor.

  Duane was hunched over Trudy, syringe loaded and pricking into her skin, his head cranked to the side as he stared at us. The next instant, he reacted, jabbing the syringe toward us as if it were a swit
chblade.

  “Don’t do it, Duane,” Will said.

  I skirted around the far side of the bed and hurried to Trudy’s side, looking to see if Fern’s chest was moving up and down. I exhaled in relief as I saw it rise and fall.

  Will let the pneumatic door whoosh closed behind him as he walked farther into the room. He reminded me of a wary animal stalking his prey. “Just stop, Duane. You don’t want to do this.”

  “He wouldn’t stop.”

  “Who? Your dad?”

  Duane stared bleakly, his eyes glassy.

  Will moved closer. “Son, your dad—”

  “Not my dad. Vance! Why couldn’t he just leave us alone?” A quick sob escaped his mouth, and he jammed his fists on his hips, turning slightly and looking up at the ceiling.

  “Put the syringe down,” Will said.

  Trudy’s skin was warm to my touch, but her breathing was shallow and labored. I studied her face, looking for a trace of life. A pinprick of blood on her cheek caught my eye. I reared back, glaring at Duane. “What did you do to her?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve seen my dad do it. I had to stop her. She told people—”

  Oh, God, no. He’d injected more of the poison into her. The area around the pinprick of blood was puffy. I wanted to squeeze the stuff out of her, but I knew from what the doctor himself had told Trudy after her injection at his house and from reading the newspaper article online that massaging the area could spread the toxins… and the paralysis.

  “Told people what?” I asked, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. I backed away, ready to make a break for the door to summon a real doctor.

  But Duane didn’t answer directly. “First Vance blackmails my dad, then she”—he glared down at Trudy— “she starts saying my mom’s having an affair with the guy. Why can’t people just leave us alone? It was an accident! He didn’t mean for that lady to die.”

  As Will moved toward him, I read between the lines of what Duane was saying. Dr. Hughes was being blackmailed, but had he killed Vance over it? Duane would have had access to the country club and the stage area. He would have been able to steal a Botox vial from his own home, put something in the lemonade at the club to make Trudy and Fern both drowsy enough to sleep through the break-in. And he would have been able to inject Trudy.

  “Your dad wasn’t charged, but your family was chased out of Amarillo,” I said to Duane, everything suddenly making sense. “You didn’t want that to happen again.”

  He nodded, his arms limp by his side, the syringe dangling from his fingers. I moved with as much stealth as I could muster. Almost to the door. Three more steps.

  Will moved closer to Duane as I lunged for the door, careening into the hallway and right into Sheriff Hoss McClaine as Will tackled the teenager to the ground like a good ol’ Friday night Texas football player.

  “It’s not the doctor. It’s Duane Hughes,” I managed, all the fear I’d been keeping at bay bubbling up. “In there.” I pointed, then I hurried on, stopping the first nurse I saw, begging her to come help Trudy and Fern Lafayette.

  Chapter 40

  “That poor misguided boy,” Nana said. We sat on the front porch of 2112 Mockingbird Lane—Mrs. James, Mama, Nana, Libby, Sandra, and me. All the Cassidy women, together at last.

  “Too many secrets. He just couldn’t handle it?” Sandra asked after she’d heard the whole story.

  My rocking chair started rocking, slowly, but with a force I wasn’t controlling. Meemaw. She was here with us, too.

  I nodded, realizing that Meemaw had probably turned the pages of Trudy’s book so I’d see the truth. But Anna and Duane had happened by first. I didn’t know which of them had actually taken the book, but it didn’t matter. Duane had seen Trudy’s scribblings about his mother and Vance and that was enough to send him over the edge again. He’d already crossed that line when he’d confronted Vance. The second time was far easier.

  My thoughts drifted to Will and Gracie. He was taking her over to meet her grandparents, at long last. I wanted to be here for her when the meeting was over. If I knew Gracie, and I thought I did, she’d be back to sew. It was her comfort.

  Libby would be here for her, too. She sat at the bottom of the porch steps. “When do I tell her?” I whispered under my breath so only Meemaw would hear me.

  My chair squeaked as I rocked back and forth. Now, now, now, it seemed to say.

  Now. Was Libby ready to hear the truth?

  The chair creaked some more.

  “Ladybug?” Nana said.

  “Bless your heart, you look flushed,” Mrs. James said.

  Mama tilted her head, a look of concern flitting across her face. “You all right, darlin’?”

  “I am.” I smiled at the circle of women around me. I cleared my throat. “Y’all?” All eyes turned to me, even Thelma Louise, who was tethered to the pecan tree in the yard. “I have some Cassidy family business to discuss, and I think you’ll all want to hear it.”

  Sewing Tips

  Using tearaway stabilizer, particularly when working with sheer fabric, can help avoid gathering and puckering during machine stitching.

  When hand stitching, use an embroidery hoop instead of tearaway stabilizer to keep the fabric taut.

  Always start each project with a new needle. A sharp needle means less chance of damage to your fabric.

  Thimbles come in different sizes and materials; if you do handwork, find a thimble that fits the middle finger of your sewing hand.

  Take things a step at a time and never rush!

  Read on for a preview of the next

  captivating mystery in the

  Magical Dressmaking series,

  DEADLY PATTERNS

  Available in October 2012 from Obsidian

  Mrs. James, Mrs. Abernathy, and I stood in the foyer of the Denison mansion, the centerpiece of Bliss’s historic district. “The traffic light on Henrietta Street is out,” Mrs. Abernathy said.

  “Really? I just came over on Henrietta. Not a soul on the street and the lights were working just fine,” I said.

  She leveled her cool gray eyes at me. “You know how it is around here. The power goes out so randomly. It can be on at our house, but the neighbors next door are on a different grid and theirs will be off.”

  Zinnia notched her thumb toward the general direction of the backyard and Henrietta. “Are you listing a house over there?”

  Mrs. Abernathy gave a restrained little laugh. “My, but aren’t the two of you inquisitive. We’re doing renovations on a place over there, Zinnia. Still in the early stages,” she added, “but by late spring they ought to be all set.” She slipped her raincoat off and hung it on one of the hooks on the antique coat tree, pausing to look in the mirror and smooth her windblown blond hair. Her black slacks and boxy cream blouse did nothing for her robust figure. I had a flash of her wearing an asymmetrical lavender sweater, buttoned at the top, lavender pants, and instead of the square blouse, a tailored cut with darts and a flared hem.

  “Something wrong?” Mrs. Abernathy’s voice shook me out of my designing mode and back into the present. She gave me a good once over, her gaze hitching on the light streak in my chestnut hair, a Cassidy family trait.

  “Not a thing,” I said, smiling, wishing I could make a garment for her that would soften her uptight demeanor. But my Cassidy charm would never benefit Helen Abernathy, if she had anything to do with it. Which was just as well. When I designed a garment for someone, it transformed them, letting their heart’s desire be realized. The problem was that there were no checks and balances for my gift. If someone wanted something badly enough, I couldn’t stop it from happening any more than I could stop a tornado from brewing in an otherwise silent sky.

  She frowned, but didn’t say anything else, instead turning her attention back to Zinnia James. “All the floors were redone—”

  “Hand-scraped pecan.” Mrs. James ran the tip of her boot over the grain of one plank.

  “Just like we discussed.�
�

  As part of Bliss’s Historic Society, Mrs. James, along with Will Flores, had been overseeing some minor renovations of the Denison Mansion. Abernathy Home Builders had done the work, and the bills had been paid by one of the town’s most prosperous families, the Kincaids. The house would go back on the market after the holidays, but in the meantime, Nate and Josie Kincaid were letting the Historic Society use it for the annual holiday event.

  Mrs. Abernathy headed to the staircase, laying her hand on the wood banister. “Come up here. I want to show you the bathtub.

  We followed her up the mahogany staircase to the second story. The click of our heels against the newly redone floors echoed, the rolling thunder outside getting louder as we ascended, and a draft circling down the hallway. My great-grandmother’s ghost had taken up residence in my old yellow farmhouse off the town square and I’d recently discovered that all the Cassidy women hung around for a good long while after their passing. Were we an anomaly? I looked down over the railing and into the open space below, wondering if the spirit of Charles Denison, or of his wife, Pearl, were hanging around this old place.

  “Quite a house, isn’t it, Harlow?” Mrs. James whispered from behind me.

  No signs of any ghosts. Just my imagination at work.

  I rejoined Mrs. James and Mrs. Abernathy at the door to the bathroom. A brand-new claw tub replica was the highlight of the big, square room. “Perfect,” Mrs. James said. She went in to take a closer look, stopping to examine the pedestal sink, the ornate mirror, and the silver vanity looking-glass–and-brush set on display on an antique dresser.

  I was more enamored with the Victorian dressing gown hanging from a crystal knob on the back of the door. I moved closer to fawn over the details. Hand embroidery along the yoke, a shirred front panel with fine, hand-embroidered scalloped edging sensuously left open from the breastbone tie to the waist, and a cherry-blossom damask pattern in the silk skirt. It was beautiful.