I’d known Orphie’s visit to Bliss would be filled with wedding craziness. What I hadn’t figured on was death darkening my door. We’d escaped the somber veil hovering over 2112 Mockingbird Lane by walking to Villa Farina for coffee and pastries. Now we sat across from each other, the stolen book from Maximilian on the table between us.
“So I guess Bliss isn’t so blissful,” she said, her expression grim. “Kind of puts things in perspective.”
Death had a way of doing that. “It does. Things aren’t as bad as we think they are. Let’s mail the book back to Maximilian’s studio,” I said, nodding toward it.
She chewed on her lower lip, finally nodding. “But what if—”
“If they trace it back here, we’ll deal with it. Orphie, it’s the right thing to do.”
She hesitated another few seconds, finally running her fingers across the bumpy cover of the book. “Maybe.”
Relief flowed through me. At least she was thinking about it. One crisis almost resolved. The other—Beaulieu’s death—however, still weighed on my mind. “I still can’t believe he’s dead,” I said, turning the conversation.
“I guess his time was up.”
I’d been trying to convince myself of that for the last hour, but something didn’t add up. “I don’t think it’s that simple,” I said.
She cradled her white ceramic cup in her hands, steam wafting off the surface of the cappuccino. “What do you mean?”
“Remember when you were packing up your bag to take it back upstairs?” I said.
She nodded. “With those designers around, I was worried about this,” she said, dropping one hand to lay it on the book between us. “What if one of them saw it?”
“They wouldn’t have recognized it,” I said, but even as the words left my mouth, I wasn’t so sure I was right. Maximilian’s logo was front and center on the book. Most people in the fashion world probably would recognize it.
An idea sparked. “Orphie, you haven’t told anyone else about the book, have you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, did you tell anyone else that you have this book?” I asked again, not really able to rephrase the question a different way. I wanted to know if I was the first person she’d come to with her problem. If I wasn’t . . . well, I didn’t know what that might mean, but I still had to know.
She waggled her head as she said no, a sure sign she was lying.
I pressed. “Orphie . . . ?”
“I haven’t told anyone.” She sounded more sure this time, but I still wasn’t convinced. Before I could dig deeper, she smiled and clasped my hand. “Tell me about your man.”
I laughed. “My man . . . that might be overstating it.” Will Flores and I had been victims of the otherworldly matchmaking of Meemaw. She’d laid the groundwork before I came back to Texas, trading my sewing services to teach Will’s daughter, Gracie, in return for handyman work around the little yellow farmhouse. “But it’s good.” I couldn’t elaborate to say that he was still adjusting to the realization that Gracie was a Cassidy, too, on her mother’s side, and that she, too, had a charm.
Orphie grinned at me, nodding as if she had a secret. “Yeah, I can see it’s good from your smile.”
I felt a blush heat my cheeks, but before I could change the subject, a hand came down on my shoulder. At the same moment, Orphie tilted her head back, gazing up behind me. “Hey, darlin’,” a baritone voice rumbled.
“Speak of the devil,” I said, turning to look up at the best-looking man this side of the Brazos River. Will Flores. My heart skittered for just a moment at his smile. Meemaw’s matchmaking had hit a home run. Things were definitely good. He was a six-foot-one-inch modern-day rugged cowboy. Goatee, black suede cowboy hat, T-shirt that hung perfectly on his broad shoulders, jeans and Ropers. A tall drink of water, and the longer I knew him, the thirstier I got.
He leaned down and brushed my lips with a light kiss. From across the table, I heard Orphie draw in a breath. “Is this—?”
“Will Flores, meet Orphie Cates.” She closed her mouth again and I added, “Orphie, this is Will.”
Will took her hand in his, flashing a smile that lit up the dark complexion of his face. “Roommates in New York, right?”
“Right,” she said, catching my eye and giving a quick wink. Her approval.
He grabbed a cup of coffee from Gina at the counter, and then turned back to us. “The rumor mills are churning,” he said. “A designer died in your shop?”
“Technically, he died in the bathroom off the kitchen,” I said. “In my house, not the shop.” I added air quotes as I said shop, as if the semantics of where I worked versus where I lived made Beaulieu’s death better or worse. It didn’t. He’d died in my little farmhouse and that was horrible no matter how I looked at it.
I filled Will in on the details of the morning.
“Maybe he drank a lot of coffee,” Will said when I commented about Beaulieu rushing to the bathroom.
“But an overactive bladder doesn’t cause death.”
“Deputy McClaine seemed to think it was a heart attack or something like that,” Orphie said. “And I get the impression he has a pretty good handle on things.”
There it was again. The flirtation. I guess it went both ways. Sparks between the deputy and my old friend. I sure hadn’t seen that one coming.
He pulled up a chair and we chatted for a while, revisiting life in Manhattan. “I had to get away,” Orphie was telling Will. Which brought Orphie’s problem back front and center.
“Small-town life is a little simpler,” I said, pushing my worry away and not mentioning the murders I’d gotten wrapped up in since I’d been home.
“She had a few things waiting for her here,” Will interjected. The implication was clear. He’d been here waiting for me.
“People are more real in small towns,” Orphie said, as if it were a God-given fact.
“I don’t know about that. We have plenty of secrets.”
She angled her chin down, threading her thick black hair behind her ears. “Do tell.”
I dropped my voice to a whisper, leaning forward so only she and Will could hear. “Murder.”
Her brow furrowed and she rolled one hand in the air, prompting me to continue.
I filled her in on the darker side of life in Bliss in the time since I’d been back.
“Harlow’s quite the amateur detective,” Will said, a little edge slipping into his voice. He thought I needed to steer clear of murder, and I agreed, but I couldn’t help it if dead bodies wound up in my vicinity. I had to help the people I cared about. I was a doer, not a watcher.
“At least Beaulieu’s death wasn’t murder,” Orphie said, and just like that, my breath hitched. I glanced down, then around, a coil of nerves settling in my chest.
“Cassidy?” Will had leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. He looked at me as if he could read every last thought spiraling through my mind. “Don’t tell me . . .”
I smiled sheepishly. “I’ve been thinking about it, and some things aren’t adding up.”
“Like he used the bathroom,” Orphie said with a sarcastic laugh. “That’s a sure sign of murder.”
“I think it is,” I said.
I might not be a detective, but I’d had some luck helping to solve the recent crimes in Bliss. Will knew this and paid heed to my instincts. “What’s not adding up?” he asked.
How could I put it without sounding as if I was reaching? I racked my brain, finally giving up. Maybe I was reaching, but I ran through my thoughts anyway. “His stomach was upset. He was breathing hard. And he was extra ornery.”
“That was probably his normal level of orneriness,” Orphie said, but I shook my head.
“No, Jeanette told me he’s not usually as bad as all that. Something had set him off.”
Will nodded, as if he understood. “Maybe he was hungry. When I need to eat, I’m as grumpy as all get out.”
“Or maybe he just di
dn’t feel well,” I suggested.
Orphie started, her eyes widening as if she’d remembered something. “Didn’t he say he felt sick?”
I nodded. He had. I’d chalked up the comment to how he felt about being stuck in Bliss for the photo shoot, but maybe he’d really been sick.
Orphie stared. “Wait a second, Harlow. You don’t think—”
I shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what I think. I just know something doesn’t feel right.”
“Cassidy, you have a wedding to put on,” Will said, not looking convinced that my theories had any merit. “Don’t be getting involved in this guy’s death.”
He was right. And practical. And I knew he wanted me safe and sound and not mixed up in another murder.
The nerves stayed firmly coiled in my chest, but I tamped down my worry while we chatted. After a few minutes, Orphie checked her watch. “I’ll go for a walk,” she said.
“I can go with you,” I said.
“No, no. I’ll give you two lovebirds some time together. I’ll meet you back at the house, Harlow.”
Will put his elbows on the table and leaned closer to me, winking. He liked Orphie’s plan. With good reason. He and I hadn’t had much time alone lately. He’d been traveling for his job as city architect, and I’d been wrapped up in my collection and Mama’s wedding. “Can you find your way back?” I asked her.
She waved away the question. “Of course. I’ll probably be there before you.”
I laughed. That almost sounded like a challenge. “I don’t think so.”
She smirked. “Uh, Manhattan, remember? I can walk a ten-minute mile . . . in stilettos.”
Slight exaggeration, but probably not by much. I liked to stroll, but Orphie kept a rapid pace, and even did half marathons, something I’d never even thought about doing.
We agreed, both of us uncertain if the models would show, if the photo shoot would go on, or what else might happen that afternoon. “See you in a little while,” I said as she put Maximilian’s book in her oversized bag.
“Yep, in a little while.” She threw up her hand in a quick wave, her high heels clicking against the bakery’s floor as she walked out, leaving Will and me alone, the pall of death still hovering over us.
Chapter 7
Will left to go back to work and I walked home, waving to my friend Josie through the window of Seed-n-Bead, the bead shop she owned as I passed. The shop was a-buzz with customers, so I kept walking, lost in thought. The fact that Orphie had taken Maximilian’s book still bothered me. Was she a kleptomaniac? Had she discovered some secret about our former boss? Or maybe she was a woman scorned. Oh no. Surely she hadn’t had an affair with him?
I strode down the sidewalk of Mockingbird Lane, heading for my house. I passed under the arbor that was the focal point of my front yard. The wisteria was leafing, fuzzy pods forming and sprouting from the branches, swaying as I walked under it and along the flagstone path. Midori was at the front door, one hand on the doorknob. Jeanette stood beside her. Midori muttered something to Jeanette as they turned to wait for me.
“Did you get some lunch?” I asked, mounting the porch steps.
“Oh yes, at the cute little bed-and-breakfast off the square. It’s where we’re staying, too. We had scones and tea and these amazing little sweet potato fries.”
I knew just the place she was talking about. Hattie and Raylene had bought the old house and spruced it up. Now Seven Gables was the nicest bed-and-breakfast slash teahouse in Bliss. “And that homemade poppy seed jelly?” I said. “It’s delicious, isn’t it? It’s Raylene’s specialty.”
We made idle chitchat, stalling before stepping inside and into the pall of death that still hovered in the house. When we couldn’t wait any longer, I opened the door, stepping in, Midori and Jeanette close on my heels. We all seemed to move slowly, knowing that going back inside would bring Beaulieu and his death right back to the forefront of our minds. As if it had gone anywhere but there.
Everything was in order, but I couldn’t shake the sinister feeling of knowing that a man had died right here.
There was no sign of Lindy or Quinton, but Orphie showed up a few minutes later. “Got what I needed,” she said, patting the shopping bag she held under her arm.
Good girl. After Midori and Jeanette went back to Seven Gables, we could package up the stolen book and drop it at the post office. Signed, sealed, and delivered.
“No sign of the models?” I asked. If the shoot was off and the article was nixed, there was no reason for any of them to come.
“They came this morning,” Midori said. “Too many people for this little shop, so we left them at the bed-and-breakfast.”
So they were here whether they wanted to be or not.
Midori scurried around, packing up her garments to keep them safe and sound. “No photo shoot today,” she’d told me. “I ran into Ms. Reece at the bed-and-breakfast. She said she has a call into her editor for further instructions.”
We all nodded, not surprised. How could they run an article about three up-and-coming designers when one was now dead?
Jeanette roamed around aimlessly, lost without barked orders from her boss. “You can pack up Beaulieu’s garments, too,” I suggested. I picked up his messenger bag.
“He never lets anyone hold this,” she said, taking it from me.
“I understand.” I didn’t like anyone handling my sketchbooks or sewing kit. They were as personal to me as Madelyn’s camera and her Epiphanie camera bag.
Orphie and I sat at the dining table making felt beads for the wedding party while Midori and Jeanette moved around like zombies. “Ask them to leave,” Orphie whispered after a solid thirty minutes passed.
I tilted my head and frowned. Mama had raised me better than that. No good Southern woman would kick out her guests, especially ones who’d just suffered a shocking loss.
Orphie read my expression and shrugged. “Southern hospitality, yes, but you’re also a martyr,” she said. “Suffering in silence.”
She had a point, but I couldn’t change my upbringing any more than a zebra could change its stripes. Instead of answering her, I pushed the wool rovings, bits of unprocessed combed and carded wool from New Zealand sheep, toward her. I had them in every color of the rainbow. We gathered them in small chunks, saturated the tufts with warm soapy water, and rolled them into tight balls between the palms of our hands. We made different sizes, laying them out on the dining table as they’d be strung on a strand of yarn. “This is all there is to it?” Orphie asked as she finished another round.
“Once they’re dry, we attach decorative beads to them, then use a thick needle to string them onto the necklace.” I put down the tuft of raw wool I’d been ready to dip, went to the old secretary desk just outside my workroom, returning a second later with a finished necklace. “They’ll all look like this,” I said.
Jeanette came to the table and sank down. She fingered the marble-sized wool beads I’d laid out. “These are so cool,” she said, lifting the necklace and holding it around her neck. Her fingers trembled, the only sign that she was upset about what had gone on today.
“Jeanette? Are you okay?”
She fumbled with the handmade clasp on the necklace, her lower lip beginning to quiver, her eyes tearing. “I . . . I can’t believe he’s really d-dead.”
I couldn’t, either, but there it was.
Before I could say anything else, the clinking of glass against glass drew my gaze upward. My chandelier was a handmade Southern contraption made of a dozen old, clear-glass milk bottles. Each one was capped with a galvanized top and perched in a circular galvanized frame. Lightbulbs clustered in the center; the glass of the bottles, embossed with the words “farm-fresh milk,” diffused the light. Meemaw had her tricks . . . and this was one of them. Sure to get my gander every time, but I couldn’t very well call her out in front of the women in the shop. So I ignored the clinking of glass. Ignored the hairs rising on the back of my neck. The old glas
s bottles were irreplaceable. If Meemaw broke them, so help me . . .
“Meemaw!” I said under my breath.
“Beaulieu’s probably haunting this place,” Orphie said, eyeing the swinging chandelier.
Jeanette gasped, her pallor more ashen than it had been a moment ago. “Do you think so?” she asked softly.
I flashed a scolding glance at Orphie. “It’s not haunted,” I said. But inside, I thought that if Beaulieu was hanging around from the afterworld, he’d be in good company.
We finished all the beads, laying them on a folded bath towel to dry, and Jeanette and Midori finally left. I put the extra wool away, rinsed the bowl of soapy water, and took a few minutes to straighten the kitchen. Mama had left out the pitcher of lemonade, glasses from the morning littered the butcher-block counter, and fingerprints smudged the butter yellow front of the replica vintage refrigerator.
When I returned to the front room, Orphie was chewing on her thumbnail, Maximilian’s book lying on the table in front of her.
“Are you ready to mail it back?” I asked her, hoping she’d come to her senses.
She shook her head. “I want to show you something first,” she said, sliding the book toward me, the embossed “M” with a gold circle around it like an eye on a magic tome.
I laid my own hand on the cover, half expecting a jolt of energy to zap me.
Her guilty expression vanished, but she cast her eyes down toward the book, skittering them to one side, then the other. As if the fashion police were going to make a sudden appearance right here in Buttons & Bows and arrest her for theft. “Take a look,” she said.
I lifted open the smooth black cover and braced myself for whatever big reveal I’d find, but the first page held simple pencil sketches of a costumey bustier. It looked like something Lady Gaga might wear, but not the average woman. Still, there was nothing earth-shattering. Nothing that filled me with concern.
I turned the pages and reveled in Maximilian’s creative mind. The book wasn’t all that different from my own sketchbooks. I recognized a lot of the designs. As Orphie had said, this particular book had to be a few years old. Anything worth producing had been done, and now Maximilian, like every designer, was probably pushing his boundaries and figuring out how to stay fresh and relevant with new designs.
A Custom Fit Crime Page 5
