I touched my fingers to my nose. “Yeah, ow.”
“Okay, what was that about?” she said, notching her head toward the house.
“If we’re going to investigate, we’ve got to get moving.”
“We’re really going to investigate?” she asked, her mouth forming a surprised O.
“Of course. Mama and Hoss are getting married, if it’s the last thing I do.”
She looked unsure, but after a few seconds she nodded. “Okay. Where do we start?”
“At Seven Gables.”
“The models?”
“No, Hattie,” I said.
One eyebrow rose in skepticism. “And who is Hattie?”
“She and her sister own the inn. It’s where Mama and Hoss are having their reception, but,” I added, a conspiratorial tone seeping into my voice, “it’s also where Beaulieu was staying.”
“And you want to look in his room?”
I nodded, and a slow smile slid onto her face. “Diabolical, Harlow Jane Cassidy. Let’s go.”
I laughed as she dug her keys from her pocket. Ever prepared. It was one of the things I loved most about Orphie. “Now who’s diabolical?”
With a quick look behind us, we raced back through the arbor and gate, hopped into the sedan Orphie had road-tripped from Missouri in, and sped away from Mockingbird Lane.
Bliss isn’t a big town. We arrived at Seven Gables in about six minutes. I didn’t want to see Quinton, Lindy, or any of the models who were staying here. We had to get in and get out without them catching sight of us.
“Will Hattie and Raylene let you see the room?” Orphie asked as we crept through the cottage garden, making our way to the back entrance of the house.
“I helped them out pretty recently, so I think so.” At least I hoped so.
We mounted the brick steps leading to the kitchen door. I peeked through the window, making sure none of the guests were in the kitchen before I knocked. All clear. I quietly rapped my knuckles on the door and we stood back and waited.
It was utterly silent.
Orphie peered through the window. “Maybe they’re not here.”
“One of them is always here,” I said. They wouldn’t leave the inn unattended. I knocked again, a little louder this time, but still there was no answer.
“Should we go in?” Orphie asked.
I hesitated, but only for a minute. I didn’t think Hattie and Raylene would mind us coming in. They were counting on the reception, so they’d want me to find a way to make sure the wedding was a go.
I turned the doorknob, slowly opened the door open, and entered the kitchen.
Orphie tiptoed in behind me.
“Hattie?” I called quietly. “Raylene?”
It was utterly quiet.
“You’re friends, right?” Orphie whispered, stepping around the boxes and the center island and stopping at the door to the dining room. “You sure they’re not going to get mad at us and call the police?”
“I hope not,” I said. More than anything, I was pretty sure Deputy Gavin McClaine wouldn’t like us sticking our noses into his investigation. But that’s precisely why we’d come, so we had to be very careful.
“Hattie? Raylene?” I called to them one more time before pulling Orphie by the arm, dragging her away from the swinging door between the dining room and kitchen. “There’s a back staircase,” I said. “Let’s just take a quick gander.”
We crossed to the opposite end of the kitchen and hurried up the stairs, keeping our footsteps quiet. I had no idea which room had been Beaulieu’s. In a crime drama television show, there’d be yellow crime scene tape still strung across the threshold of the room. That was too easy, and this was a small town. I was pretty sure crime tape wasn’t something the sheriff’s department stocked up on.
I was right. Nary a clue in sight as to which room the designer had stayed in while in Bliss. Only one door was cracked open. Voices drifted into the hallway. I crept forward, motioning for Orphie to follow me. I felt like the Pink Panther, creeping down the hallway, pausing to listen, moving forward a few more steps, pausing again . . .
We stopped at the first door, leaning close and listening. The low sound of the television came from inside. Hattie and Raylene had named each room after a famous Texan. They ranged from the fashion world, ironically, to politics. Texans had infiltrated every major industry, and we were proud of each and every one of them. The Tom Ford Room. Former creative director of Gucci. Apropos for this particular group of guests. But with the sounds from inside, this one couldn’t be Beaulieu’s room. I crooked my finger and we tiptoed across the hallway and listened at the next door, the Dwight D. Eisenhower Room.
We could hear the steady rumbling sound of snoring. My first thought was that this had to be Quinton’s room, but women snored, too, so it wasn’t necessarily the photographer. Whoever’s it was, it wasn’t Beaulieu’s room, so we moved on, stopping at the next door. Complete silence. Orphie and I looked at each other, both of us nodding. This one was a possibility.
The door of the room across the hall was cracked open, the voices louder. The Farrah Fawcett Suite. Women’s voices. Southern drawls. “Zoe and Madison,” I whispered to Orphie. “The Dallas models,” I added, thinking that they’d ended up in the right room. Farrah had been Texas’s own favorite gal, and always would be. We stood completely still, barely daring to breathe, trying to make out what they were talking about.
Snippets of sentences drifted out to us. “. . . some nerve . . . ,” one of them said. The other murmured something we couldn’t hear, and then the first, Zoe, I thought, said, “They think working with him—those photos are like fashion porn—”
“Shhh.” Madison this time. They fell silent, but I heard a slight rustling and the light padding of feet slapping against the hardwood floor. Orphie clawed my arm. I froze. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. If they whipped open the door and looked into the hallway, we’d be caught eavesdropping, no ifs, ands, or buts.
I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath, waiting for the indignant outburst. Instead there was a faint click and the voices started again, too muffled now to understand.
I opened my eyes, clutching at my chest as I drew in a ragged breath. “That was close,” I whispered.
Orphie nodded, her face pale. “Too close,” she said under her breath.
We tiptoed past the door and listened at each of the other three rooms. Another TV played, cartoons, if I wasn’t mistaken, and the others were silent. No way to tell if someone was inside sleeping or if the rooms were vacant.
Orphie’s gaze traveled over each of the rooms, one by one. “How are we supposed to know which one was Beaulieu’s?”
I racked my brain for an answer. The best option was waiting until Raylene and Hattie showed up to ask. I motioned for Orphie to follow me and I hurried to the front staircase. I paused at the top, listening for sounds from below. Nothing. Hugging the wall, we scurried halfway down, stopping again to listen. This time, I heard Raylene’s distinct twang, followed by Hattie’s equally twangy response.
The registration desk was our destination. “Let’s go,” I said, my voice still a whisper as if someone from upstairs might hear us.
Orphie’s voice floated softly from behind me. “Right behind you.”
We skirted down the steps, staying close to the edge to avoid the creaking stairs in the old house, then tiptoed across the entryway to the L-shaped counter. Raylene had her back to us, chatting with Hattie, who sounded as if she was in the kitchen.
“Raylene,” I said.
She yelped, spinning around and clutching her chest. “Harlow! Lord a’mighty, you startled me.”
“Sorry.” I smiled sheepishly. I’d gone to school with Raylene and her sister, Hattie, and we’d become fast friends recently. I’d even become honorary godmother to Raylene’s son, Boone. “How’s the little guy?” I asked.
“Home with Grandma,” she said, an automatic grin sliding onto her face, “and preci
ous as ever.”
I introduced her to Orphie, but before I could say what we’d come for, Raylene launched into an overview of the wedding reception plans, detailing the menu. “We’re makin’ braised barbecue chicken wings, coleslaw, fried okra, potato salad, baked beans . . .” She went on, rattling off every last dish she and Hattie were planning to make. “Your mama is goin’ to love it,” she said.
“She certainly will.”
Orphie tilted her head, looking puzzled. “But didn’t your mother say—”
I flashed her a hush-up look. I planned on saving the wedding, not giving in to Mama’s foolishness about canceling. Which meant Raylene needed to go forward, as planned. “You may never get Hoss to go home, what with all that good food,” I said to her.
She smiled, looking mighty pleased. I wanted Seven Gables to be a hot spot in Bliss. Hopefully this would be the first of many wedding receptions Raylene and Hattie would plan.
“What brings you here?” Raylene asked after another few minutes of chitchat.
Automatically, my gaze lifted to the old-fashioned cubbies behind the counter. The unit looked like a turn-of-the-century apothecary, with notes and keys sticking out from each slot. Hattie and Raylene had wanted to create the entire old-fashioned experience at Seven Gables, and they’d succeeded.
I cleared my throat, suddenly a little less confident that she’d just open up Beaulieu’s room and let us search.
“Harlow? Are you feelin’ poorly?”
“No, no. I’m just fine.” I tended to slip further into my Southern drawl when I was around folks who dropped their “g”s and had a strong twang. And also when I was nervous. “I’m just pokin’ around . . . er, that is to say, I’m investigatin’ what happened to the designer who died in my house.”
Her eyes widened. “You are? I’m not surprised, you know. Did you know she helped solve another murder not so long ago?” she said to Orphie.
Orphie shook her head, looking at me as if I were a mystery to her. “Did she?”
“It was nothing,” I said, waving away Raylene’s praise.
“It was not nothin’. She fell off a roof and discovered a dead man. And now she’s happened across another one. She’ll solve it,” Raylene said. “Just as sure as I’m standin’ here, she’ll get to the truth.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Orphie said.
“Yeah?”
No point in dillydallying now, so I charged ahead. “We’d like to take a look at Beaulieu’s room. Do you think we might could do that?” I hurried on, quieting my voice and offering an explanation. “See, we think he might have been blackmailing someone, and I thought maybe we’d find some evidence of it.”
Raylene hesitated, chewing on her lower lip. “I don’t know, Harlow. What if I’m not supposed to? Gavin didn’t say not to, but . . .”
“Did he tell you no one could go in?”
Slowly, she shook her head. “No, he didn’t say anythin’ like that.” She hesitated again, but finally pulled her lip from her mouth and straightened up. “I guess it’ll be okay.
“He’s in the Cynthia Ann Parker Room.”
The famous Texans Raylene and Hattie had chosen to name their rooms after included the tenacious Cynthia Ann who’d been kidnapped and raised by Comanche Indians early in the 1800s. She’d endured her childhood and had grown up to become the mother of the last Comanche chief. Some might think naming the room after Cynthia Ann was an odd choice, but I saw the little girl, and the woman she’d become, as a survivor. Beaulieu hadn’t been so lucky.
Raylene slid the key from a cubby and handed it over. “Thank you,” I said. “We’ll be back in no time.”
Orphie and I hightailed it back up the stairs, stopping in front of the room marked with a Cynthia Ann Parker placard. The coast was still clear. Before I could change my mind about what we were doing, I plunged the key into the lock and we slipped inside.
I collapsed against one wall while Orphie pressed her back against the opposite wall, listening for Lindy or Quinton or any of the models. Breaking and entering, even though we had Raylene’s permission, wasn’t something I did every day. “This is crazy,” I whispered.
“Maybe,” Orphie said, “but we’re on a mission to save your reputation and your mother’s wedding.”
Just the right thing to say. “Right.” I pushed off the wall and surveyed the room. Floral wallpaper gave it a period look, but the style was slightly contemporary, so it didn’t feel too froufrou.
A queen-sized four-poster bed, a tower dresser, one nightstand, and a small table and chair were the only pieces of furniture in the room. Beaulieu’s suitcase wasn’t in sight. We’d left in such a hurry, we hadn’t thought to bring gloves, and its being summer meant Orphie and I were both wearing short sleeves. “Just look,” I said. “We shouldn’t disturb anything.”
“Right.”
“Use your hem,” I told her. Even though I knew Gavin and his team had already been here and done their thing, one could never be too careful. “Let’s don’t touch anything.”
“Got it.” She started with the dresser drawers, hiking her sundress up and using the fabric to pull open each one. While she did that, I headed for the satchel lying flat on the writing table. It was lying flat, was made from heavy navy wool with a thick red stripe down the center, and, as luck would have it, the top zipper was undone. I was wearing jeans and a light linen short-sleeve jacket over a beaded tank top. No hem to pick up and use like a glove. I grabbed a tissue from the box on the nightstand, using it to lift the top open enough to peer inside.
Behind me, I heard the dresser drawers sliding open and closed. “Anything?” I whispered over my shoulder. If there was anything to find, the deputy would have discovered it already, but I didn’t let that stop me from continuing the search.
“Not yet.” She left the dresser, heading to the closet.
I grabbed a second tissue and riffled through the bag, pulling a sketchbook halfway out, followed by a printed catalogue of Beaulieu’s fall collection, and a few loose papers. I quickly flipped through them, but nothing struck me as important. My nerves coiled and twisted as I held on to the sketchbook. It could hold a clue as to what Beaulieu was up to. Or it could simply hold his sketches. Did I dare take it all the way out and look through it?
We’d come this far. One little peek might ease my mind, or it might point me in the right direction. I wouldn’t know unless I looked.
Out it came. At the same time, a dresser drawer closed and Orphie came up beside me. “Nothing. He unpacked a few things, but just clothes, scarves, socks. He brought only an overnight bag—it’s in the closet. It doesn’t look like he planned on staying for very long.”
“And nothing that could give us a clue about who might have wanted him dead?”
She shook her head. “Not that I can see, but I’m no detective. No note from the murderer or anything like that.”
“Yeah, that would be a little convenient. Maybe this will give us something,” I said.
She swallowed in an audible, loud gulp when she saw what I was referring to. “Do you think we should?”
“If there’s a clue, it’s not going to be out in the open, is it?”
Her gaze stayed glued to the book and I could see her mind whirling. She’d stolen one designer’s sketchbook. Looking through another was another step down a slippery slope, and from the suddenly green patina of her skin, she didn’t relish revisiting her crime.
I didn’t blame her, and I didn’t want to force her. “I’ll look,” I said. “Did you check the bathroom?”
She nodded. “Nothing. He probably just dropped his stuff off and headed to your shop.”
Of course she was right. He and the others had come to Buttons & Bows first thing that morning, so he wouldn’t have had time for anything else. Not to mention that what little I knew of Beaulieu told me he wouldn’t have wanted to spend his time holed up in an old-fashioned inn.
Orphie didn’t budge, so I opened the book, c
areful to only touch the corners and only with the tissue wrapped around my fingers. The book itself was a low-budget version of Maximilian’s. It had a coated cardboard cover, nicer than what you’d find at an office store, but certainly not custom-made. No embossed monogram on the cover. The pages inside were off-white and slightly textured. The grain added additional depth to the sketches.
One by one, I turned the pages. I recognized many of the drawings from Beaulieu’s most recent collection. Some pages had two drawings: a smaller sketch in the top left corner, and a larger sketch, with some key elements modified, but overall quite similar to the smaller drawings. “Was he copying these?” I mused aloud, tapping on the two similar drawings of a tailored jacket.
“It sure looks like it.”
I kept turning the pages, stopping once or twice when I noticed words or phrases jotted down. They seemed to be notes about fabric and color or pattern choices, though, nothing that gave a hint about who might have killed him.
“I don’t think this is going to help,” Orphie said as I turned to the next page.
“Maybe not.” I started to agree with her, but stopped. The next page held a small design in the corner, a modified sketch in the center. Close-up drawings of French seams, an attached lining on a jacket, and a wide hem were also highlighted on the page.
But the thing that struck me the most was the color-blocking and slightly asymmetrical design. It was a signature style. And it sent shivers dancing over my skin.
Oh boy.
“Midori,” we both said at the same time.
Chapter 17
“Those look like some of Midori’s designs from last season,” Orphie whispered.
I agreed. Beaulieu’s renditions were modified enough that, while there was a definite resemblance, saying he’d stolen a design would be difficult to prove.
But that’s just what it looked like That was definitely what it looked like from where I was standing.
I tucked the book back into the satchel, not really sure what to do with the ideas forming in my head. I had too many questions, first and foremost: Did Midori know that Beaulieu had been using her designs as inspiration?
A Custom Fit Crime Page 13
