A Custom Fit Crime

by Melissa Bourbon

  But it wasn’t up to me to call a meeting, so Lindy Reece’s call came at just the right time. She wanted to get the models and designers together for an update about the article she’d planned to write. Perfect. An hour later, I dropped Gracie off at home and rumbled to the Historic District of Bliss in Buttercup. When I got to Seven Gables, Midori, Jeanette, the New York models, Barbi and Esmeralda, and the Dallas models, Zoe and Madison, were milling around the parlor of the bed-and-breakfast. “Looks like there’s no article,” Esmeralda said as I walked in.

  That wasn’t a huge surprise, and while I’d hoped it would still be a go, I’d prepared myself for the whole thing being called off. “Is that what Lindy said?”

  Jeanette interjected, “Not yet, but why else would she call us all here? It makes sense, right? With Beaulieu dead and all, I mean.”

  Midori’s eyes were black-rimmed and bloodshot, and I wondered if she’d slept at all. For all we knew, whoever had killed Beaulieu could be targeting designers in general. My instincts told me that wasn’t the case, but maybe I was wrong. “If he was really murdered, one of us could be next,” she said, echoing the very thoughts I’d just had.

  “I’m not going to sit around here and wait to be killed,” Esmeralda said. “I’m leaving. They can’t seriously keep us here, can they?”

  “Actually, I think the sheriff can,” I said. “If someone killed him, it stands to reason it could be one of us, and he wouldn’t want the suspects scattering in the wind.”

  Madison, the blue-eyed, fresh-faced model from Dallas, shook her head, her hair-sprayed blond hair staying firmly in place. “I thought he had a heart attack.”

  “The sheriff said there was no history of heart disease, or any other illness. So far, there’s no cause of death at all.”

  She looked at me, puzzled. “So do they think it’s murder, or do they just not know?”

  Oh boy. I’d already said more than Hoss probably would want me to. I shrugged helplessly. “I think they just want to be sure about what killed him,” I said as noncommittally as possible.

  “This is stupid. I want to go home,” Esmeralda said, pouting. “I miss my mom.”

  Those last four little words shook me to the core and were a reality check. Esmeralda and Barbi were teenagers. With their heavy makeup and staying here on their own, I’d forgotten how young they really were. The heavy makeup Esmeralda wore was a mask, I realized, and I wondered who she was when she took it all off and was alone. Did she go back to being a normal teenager, missing her mom and her regular life?

  The Dallas models were a few years older, not typical, but not unheard of, either. Zoe spoke for the first time, sweeping her honey-hued hair behind her shoulders and looking like the savvy older sister next door. “The man is dead,” she said. “We should help if we can. If that means we’re stuck here for a few days, that’s the way it goes.”

  “The sheriff will get to the bottom of things.” Or maybe I’d get there first.

  “I need to get back to my studio,” Midori said. “I have projects and deadlines.”

  “No assistant?” Jeanette asked, her raised eyebrow making it clear she’d take the job—if there was one.

  Midori scoffed. “No one touches my designs but me.”

  “Really?” Buttons & Bows was a small business, but even I had Gracie. I couldn’t do it all myself, and Meemaw had taught me the beauty of many hands working together. We were stronger together, and looking around the room punctuated that very idea. Someone here had to know something.

  “Midori, you can use my atelier,” I offered. A sewist without a machine and a space to work was like an addict without a fix. I could only imagine how she had to feel, especially if she did it all herself.

  Before she could reply, Lindy Reece and Quinton walked in. Lindy instantly commanded the room, her voice loud and confident. “Thank you all for meeting us here,” she began, gesturing toward the table. Hattie and Raylene had it decked out with doilies and silver-plated forks, spoons, and knives. The tearoom itself was done up with floral wallpaper, complete with a border running around the top of the wall at the ceiling in lieu of crown molding to give the room an old-fashioned look. Lace curtains and doilies dotting the furniture added to the feeling that we’d all stepped out of twenty-first-century Texas.

  As if on cue, Raylene bustled in wearing an outfit I’d made for her. Sweet girl—I knew she’d liked it, but it was thoughtful of her to wear it when she knew I’d be visiting. She stopped at one end of the group, cleared her throat, and addressed us all.

  “I’d like to welcome y’all to Seven Gables, so named for the seven peaks in the roofline. What with all the hoopla yesterday over at Buttons and Bows, none of you had a chance to see the grounds. I’m happy to give a tour later for anyone who wants it.”

  If there was an upside to Beaulieu’s murder, which was a stretch even to my optimistic way of thinking—it was that Seven Gables had no vacancy for the first time since it opened. All the people clustered around the tables were staying at the bed-and-breakfast.

  A few people nodded, another couple of them murmuring an unenthusiastic “Sure.” The out-of-towners were not here to partake of Bliss’s history, that much was clear.

  Raylene picked up on the mood in the room and carried on. “We have a good variety of tea. Go on and help yourself to a cup and saucer.” She pointed to a heavy metal-and-oak baker’s rack against the far wall. It fit into the old Victorian setting perfectly with its antique bronze finish and turn-of-the-century style. Dainty teacups and saucers in different shapes and styles sat on two of the shelves, while large clear glass canisters held an array of loose-leaf tea.

  Nobody moved. It was as if they’d never been to high tea before, or if they had, they’d only experienced it at places like the Ritz-Carlton or the Hyatt. This was tea, Southern-style. “Looks amazing, Raylene,” I said, leading the charge. I bypassed the rack of tulle and flowered hats and boas Raylene and Hattie had set up for little girl tea parties, stood in front of the rack, and chose a delicate cup and saucer. I told her which tea I wanted and went back to my seat. One by one, the others followed suit, picking their cup and their flavor.

  “I’d like to talk about the fate of the article,” Lindy continued as we all settled back at our places.

  “Oops,” Esmeralda said. “Fate, as in finished. We’re stuck here, we’re not even going to get to be in the magazine, and we have to sit here around all this food.”

  Barbi frowned, immediately pressing her finger to the space between her eyebrows as if the pressure could stave off a future wrinkle. “The tea looks okay.”

  Esmeralda, even with her plastic made-up skin, looked more like a Tawny or a Tiffany. There wasn’t anything exotic about her other than her name. She shook her head at Barbi, who fit her name perfectly, right down to her disproportionately tiny feet. “Not the tea. Being stuck here.” She wagged her finger between them. “It’s not like either of us had anything to do with this. We didn’t kill anyone. We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but will that hillbilly sheriff and his deputy dog listen? I can’t wait to leave.”

  The disdainful look she gave the room Raylene and Hattie had spent days on end decorating made my gut clench. “I mean, seriously, I didn’t want Michel dead! He helped us create our portfolios. He worked with that photographer until he got it all right. I didn’t want him dead.” She looked at Barbi. “Did you?”

  Barbi shook her head. “Not me, no way.”

  All of us moved our attention from Esmeralda to Barbi and back.

  Lindy caught my gaze and raised her eyebrows. I got the feeling she didn’t know if she should let them continue ranting, or if she should rein them in.

  I voted for reining them in. “Someone killed him,” I said. “Maybe someone here knows something.”

  “We didn’t want him dead,” Esmeralda said. “He made his samples for us.” She whipped her head Midori’s way. “And everything he designed hung perfectly. No weird hemline
s or heavy stuff. None of those weird frogs,” she said, referring to the closures Midori often favored on her Asian-inspired pieces. “And no kimono wraparound things. Michel was hip.”

  Midori’s jaw went slack for a split second, and then she stood up, tossing the gown she’d been doing handwork on to the back of the Victorian couch. She looked ready to spit fire at the teenage models. “How do you—”

  I jumped up. “Everyone just needs to take a deep breath and simmer down,” I said, wanting to throttle Esmeralda myself. She’d crossed a line when she and Barbi had been in my workroom, and now she was destroying the line altogether with her attacks. Midori’s designs blended cultures and styles. They could be worn by every woman, not just rail-thin seventeen-year-old twigs who had to have a minimum height requirement of five ten. “Beaulieu’s death is horrible,” I said, trying to simmer down myself, “but getting ugly with each other isn’t going to bring him back, and it’s not going to change the fact that you have to stay here awhile longer. The article—”

  A guttural noise from Lindy cut me off. “My editor’s thinking of killing the article,” she said.

  There it was. Nana’d asked me if they’d go with the story given that one of the designers was now dead. The answer was no.

  Midori flattened both of her hands on the table, her porcelain skin blushing an angry red. “That is not fair. It’s not our fault Beaulieu died! I’ve worked too hard for this.” She flapped one hand in the air, vaguely waving at me. “We’ve worked too hard for this. I am very sorry this happened to him,” she continued, her gentle Japanese accent coloring her words slightly, “but I do not think I—we—should be punished because of it. Make the article about the two of us. Women designers taking on the DFW Metroplex fashion world.” She rolled her hand, directing her attention to Lindy. “You’re the journalist, surely you can figure out how to keep the story alive. Don’t you write for other papers and magazines?”

  Lindy scribbled in a spiral notebook. “I do, and believe me, I’m trying. I like that idea, too,” she said. “It’s a good angle. Michel said he had some other leads for me, but now those are gone.”

  It hadn’t occurred to me until now that Midori, the models, and I weren’t the only ones losing out from Beaulieu’s death. Lindy and Quinton lost the opportunity, too.

  “That could work,” Lindy muttered. “You have to have something unique to be noticed.”

  “Same with modeling,” Esmeralda said.

  “You could do a tribute to Beaulieu,” Zoe suggested. Bless her heart, she was a true Southern woman, trying her best to be conciliatory. Problem was, while Beaulieu’s work was good, I didn’t think it would fly as a special feature.

  Lindy shook her head. “I can do a mention, but D isn’t in the habit of doing in-memoriams. It’s about what’s hot and exciting in the city now.”

  Midori hadn’t simmered down. She stared at Lindy as if she could send laser beams right through her.

  Jeanette sat motionless, looking from one person to the next, her lip quivering. “Beaulieu’s dead and you’re all talking about the article. That’s not . . . not . . . it’s just not respectful of the dead.”

  Jeanette’s voice trembled, her emotions just on the surface. “She’s right,” Midori said. “You’re right,” she said to Jeanette, patting her hand.

  “You’re right, of course,” Lindy said, “but the rest of the world doesn’t stop because one designer died, as heartless as that sounds. If I can get an article out of this, I’m going to try.”

  In unison, the models’ spines seemed to crackle and they lifted their chins in attention. “So we’ll still get to model? Will there still be a photo shoot?” Esmeralda asked, looking at Quinton. “We flew out here for Michel, but if he’s dead, will we still be part of the shoot?”

  “I’ll photograph whoever she tells me to,” he said, notching his thumb toward Lindy.

  Madison, one of the Dallas beauties, spoke up. “We’re Midori’s models. She makes her samples for us, so you’re not getting in them.”

  Esmeralda faced Madison, her lips tight and her left eye twitching slightly. “Too late.”

  Madison placed her hands on the table, palms down. “What do you mean, too late?”

  Esmeralda held her gaze. “I mean, we already tried them on.”

  “What?” This time Midori jumped up, her eyes blazing.

  Esmeralda was fearless, and no petite designer was going to faze her. “She let us in,” the girl said, pointing to me.

  “What!” Now I jumped up, swinging around to face Esmeralda. “I gave you permission to look at Beaulieu’s garments, not to look at, and certainly not to try on, Midori’s designs.”

  She shrugged, clearly unconcerned with little details like that. “We’re stuck here now, and we want to be paid and we want to be in the magazine.” If she’d stood up and jammed her hands on her hips, she would have come across as a petulant five-year-old. Not what she’d been going for, I’m sure.

  Midori leaned over the table, her voice laced with venom. “Those are my designs. You had no right.”

  “They’re crappy, anyway,” Esmeralda said.

  “They didn’t even fit,” Barbi said. She gestured to a heavy silk dress lying haphazardly over the gold velvet sofa in the adjacent parlor. “All that uneven weight and that one back at the shop with the beading. They’re too heavy.”

  Midori seethed. Any second, steam would start pouring from her nostrils. “I don’t tell you how to walk the runway. How dare you tell me how to design clothing?”

  Barbi stared her down, clearly not realizing—or not caring—that criticizing a designer’s work did not earn brownie points. She got up and in two seconds was across the room, her hands on the silk dress.

  Madison picked up the attack for Midori, careening toward Barbi, plowing into her arms so she couldn’t take hold of the dress. “You are only here because of Beaulieu, and he’s dead. His clothes aren’t going to be showcased—”

  Esmeralda flung her arm out, pointing at Lindy. “Didn’t you hear her? They might kill the story and none of the clothes will get to be showcased, but if they don’t kill the story, we want a chance to do what we were brought here to do.”

  Zoe, the other Dallas model, leaned back in her chair. “It doesn’t matter what we want. They’re going to make the decision,” she said, lifting her chin toward me and then toward Midori. She and Madison leaned their heads together and she added in a harsh whisper, “But Midori made her samples based on us wearing them, so they shouldn’t even bother.”

  Oh boy, this could get ugly. Being caught in the middle of a throw-down between the beautiful people wasn’t high on my list of things to do. I couldn’t make D Magazine run the article, and I couldn’t tell Midori what to do. Loretta Mae had always been full of homegrown wisdom, and one of her oft-repeated snippets came back to me now: The true test of a person’s character comes down to how she deals with a trying situation. I felt I was being tested right now. “If they go with the article, I’ll need models, too. Between Midori and me, I’m sure all y’all will get a chance.”

  The back-and-forth continued until Raylene came back into the dining room carrying tiered trays of tea sandwiches, mini scones, fruit, crème frâiche, and a lightly sweet, soft pink poppy seed dressing. Hattie followed with individual teapots filled with steeping tea.

  The models picked at the fruit, while Midori, Jeanette, and Lindy placed a sandwich and scone and spoonfuls of the condiments on their plates. Quinton, who I realized never said much of anything, piled his plate high.

  I was somewhere in between, with a few of the dainty sandwich triangles, two of the mini scones, a pile of fruit, and healthy dollops of the cream and dressing.

  “Enjoy!” Raylene said once everyone had been served their tea, but her voice was muted, her excitement forced. I caught her eye and she notched her head toward the kitchen.

  “I’ll be back in a flash,” I said to the group. I might as well not have spoken for the resp
onse—or lack of response—I got, which was nothing more than a bunch of blank stares.

  There was no abundance of Southern congeniality here. The kitchen felt a mile away, and my feet felt like lead as I trudged across the hardwood floor, but I finally got there. Stepping into the freshly painted mint green room was like drawing in a desperately needed breath. I dodged a precarious stack of boxes, circling the center island until I stood next to Raylene and Hattie. The resemblance between them was strong. They both had the same rosy cheeks, and their hair was Miranda Lambert blond. They looked sweet as apple pie, but while Raylene really was quiet and lovely, Hattie was a spitfire if there ever was one. I’d seen both of them riled up. Raylene’s emotions tended to get the better of her and she shut down while Hattie wound up like a coiled snake, ready to strike at the first opportunity.

  “Bunch of fun-loving people out there,” Hattie said, uncharacteristically calm. Almost intentionally so.

  I smiled. “Yep, a real barrel of monkeys.”

  Hattie finished spreading a dill-infused mayonnaise on miniature pieces of pumpernickel bread, laid thin slices of cucumbers atop them, and then capped them with another square of the dark bread.

  “Everything’s beautiful,” I said. “Y’all have done an amazing job with Seven Gables.”

  The compliment fell on deaf ears. They had something else on their minds.

  “Harlow,” Raylene said as she wiped her hands on her apron. Her expression grew slack, and for the second time in as many days, my heart dropped.

  “What is it, Raylene? What’s going on?”

  Hattie handed me one of the miniature pumpernickel cucumber sandwiches. Everything, right down to the small floral napkin she set it on, was coordinated. She hemmed and hawed, starting to speak and then stopping, starting, and stopping, but the cat held firm to her tongue. Which was so unlike Hattie. I’d known her since childhood and the girl never held back.

  “For pity’s sake, Hattie, what is it?” I finally demanded.