I jammed my hands on my hips. “Because I’m looking out for Gracie and Shane, and I don’t want anyone accused of something they didn’t do.” And because Gracie and Miss Reba had both asked me, and I couldn’t very well deny either one of them.
He swung his head to stare me down, looking more intense than I was used to seeing him. I’d gotten his dander up. “And you think I do?”
I could see why he was upset, but my self-appointed job was to protect Gracie. “Of course not, but I’m telling you, Shane’s innocent.”
“Because you said so, it must be true,” he said, sarcasm dripping from the words.
“That’s right.” I had a sixth sense—my charm—but that didn’t help me determine if a person was innocent or guilty. I had to listen to my gut, though, and it was saying Shane didn’t hurt his own father.
“You’re a dressmaker, not a detective,” he said, making it sound almost as if dressmaker was a dirty word. “You leave the investigatin’ to me, and I’ll leave the homecoming mums and dresses to you, sound good?”
I glared at him, my feathers officially ruffled. “No, that does not sound good,” I said, sounding more like a riled up Meemaw than like my normal, even-keeled self. “Gracie is one hundred percent positive that Shane didn’t have anything to do with what happened to his dad, and I believe her, which means I believe him.”
“Police work is based on more than a Cassidy gut instinct,” he shot back.
Will, bless his heart, had stood by watching and listening, not daring to leave me alone with Gavin, but not wanting to get wrapped up in the middle of our argument, either. But Gavin was rubbing him wrong, too, because he piped up with, “Shane didn’t have anything to do with this, McClaine, and I’ll tell you what. Harlow and I will prove it to you.”
Gavin seethed, the veins in his temples pulsing. “Oh no, you won’t,” he snapped. “This is police business, and you will both stay clear out of it.”
His response warranted a good, solid stomping of my foot followed by a resounding, “You’re not the boss of me!” But I was raised to have good manners, and that type of outburst, even if it was deserved and felt down to the marrow of a woman’s bones, wasn’t acceptable. “I can’t help it if people talk to me, Gavin,” I said sweetly.
As if on cue, Reba Montgomery called my name from the buffet table. “Harlow, come on over here for another second, would you?”
And so I did—with a backward glance, Will by my side, and Gavin left to stare at our backsides.
Chapter 4
“You start by adding ribbon loops all the way around the edge of the cardboard base,” I said, holding up the sample mum I’d created so the group of girls could see.
“So they’re like the petals of the mum?” Danica asked.
“Exactly.” I picked up a two-and-a-half-inch length of the red ribbon from the pile I’d precut, folded it with a little twist, and stapled it onto the cardboard.
Danica and Leslie, the two girls I was making homecoming dresses for, as well as Gracie and her best friend, Holly Kincaid, sat around the dining table, a circular piece of white cardboard in front of each of them. They each had a stapler and scissors, and piled in the center of the table were the black, white, and red ribbon pieces. Cutting them had been mindless work the night before, which I’d relished. I’d spent the time mulling over Chris Montgomery’s death and how in tarnation I was going to help figure out what had happened.
So far, I hadn’t come up with a plan. The sheriff and deputy were running their own investigation, and I didn’t have any information they didn’t already know.
The four girls concentrated on ringing their mum backings with the ribbon loops. Danica was slow and precise, sucking in her lower lip, clamping her teeth down each time she stapled a red ribbon along the outer edge. She switched to black and created a second ring. She was slow and meticulous, and I could tell she was imagining just what her mum would look like when she was finished with it.
Leslie, on the other hand, worked quickly, picking up a length of ribbon, twisting, stapling, then doing another one—boom, boom, boom—alternating colors. Red, white, black, red, white, black. At the pace she was going, she would have two or more mums done, none of them looking like the other, by the time the others finished their first.
Holly worked at a steadier pace. She used black first, then white, with just a few red pieces for accent. The contrast and pop of color was vibrant. I turned to Gracie, and what I saw made me suck in a breath. Her loops were different sizes, some twisted at the top, others not, and there was no rhyme or reason to her color choices. No pattern.
I sat in the open chair next to her, putting my hand on her knee. “It’s going to be okay, Gracie,” I whispered so only she could hear.
Her eyes glazed with tears, her lower lip quivering. “I don’t know why I’m making this,” she said, her voice sounding as tortured as she looked. “He says I shouldn’t go to homecoming with an accused murderer. He’s not going to take me.”
My heart broke for her. Just a few days ago, Shane Montgomery had been swinging Gracie around and hugging on her like any good sixteen-year-old boyfriend. Yesterday, after the funeral, he’d looked despondent. And now it seemed he’d moved on to anger, shutting out at least one of the people who cared about him. The thing I didn’t know was if it was guilt or helplessness talking.
“We all know he didn’t do it,” Danica said, stretching her arm across the table.
Gracie hesitated before reaching for it. She managed a nod, but her eyes still teared.
This would never do. I couldn’t let Gracie wallow, feeling powerless. A subtle movement of the curtains caught my eyes. Meemaw. And just like that, I knew what I had to do. Gracie would go to homecoming. She’d wear her mum. And she’d be on Shane’s arm.
I slapped my open palm on the table. Holly, Danica, Leslie, and Gracie all jumped in their seats.
“We’re not going to sit here and do nothing. We’ll figure out what happened, Gracie.” I’d already told Miss Reba I’d help, but there was no reason Gracie couldn’t lend a hand. After all, she knew Shane.
Gracie managed a smile. “I knew you’d help, Harlow.”
“We, Gracie. We’ll do it together. Now let’s think.” I waved my hand as if I were casting a spell. “Come on, girls, y’all, too. Mr. Montgomery’s car crashed on Saturday morning, right?”
Gracie, Danica, and Holly all nodded. Only Leslie seemed unsure of when the accident had actually happened. “Right,” Gracie said. “He was on the country road between Granbury and here.”
“Coming or going?”
She shrugged. “Going, I think. He was always driving out there to check on his second auto shop or something.”
“Did you hear how the crash happened?” Danica asked.
Leslie’s chin shot up. She put her mum down, dropping the strands of ribbon gripped in her hand. “I heard the brakes were cut, and that he lost control and drove into oncoming traffic.”
Danica gaped at her. “So, what, the sheriff thinks Shane tampered with the brake lines? That happens in the movies, but don’t you think that’s a dumb way to try to kill somebody?”
“Right!” Gracie bobbed her head in a vigorous nod. “Because you’d either cut the line, or whatever, all together, right? And then you’d know right away there were no brakes. Or you’d cut a little bit—can you do that? And it would drain slowly, but you’d probably have enough sense to figure out that something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”
Danica nodded. “I’d think so. And Shane would know that, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes,” Gracie said. “Since his dad owns—owned Bubba’s. He knows everything about cars.”
Holly frowned. “Maybe it wasn’t the brakes,” she said. “I heard some people talking about it in town. Steering maybe? Or transmission?” She shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
That
was more than I’d gotten out of Gavin McClaine. It wasn’t a lead, but it was something to look into. What, exactly, went wrong with Chris Montgomery’s car? Now I just had to figure out a reason to go have a chat with the people who worked at Bubba’s.
I went back to directing the girls on their mums. After the loops around the base were complete, we moved on to the streamers, which would be stapled to the bottom third of the cardboard circle and would cascade down like a multicolored waterfall.
“You can use as much of that ribbon as you like,” I said, pointing to the mound I’d piled into a rectangular basket sitting in the corner of the dining room. “You have to decide how long you want the strands to hang.” I’d seen them stop at the thighs, but I’d also seen them hanging down almost to the floor. It was all about personal preference.
They each stood, grabbed a handful of ribbon from the basket, and gauged how long they wanted it to be by holding the base to their chests and letting the ribbon fall.
Danica went for the shorter strands, Leslie for the longest, and Holly chose a clump that fell in between. Once again, Gracie seemed stuck.
“Maybe I should make Shane’s mum first? If I make it, he’ll have to come to the dance, right?”
The Cassidys had hidden their charms for generations, but on some instinctive level, people knew Cassidy women were different from everybody else. We all had charms, and Gracie had Cassidy blood in her, courtesy of Butch’s illicit affair with Etta Place. She couldn’t make things come true the way I could; instead, she saw images from the fabric of old garments, and sometimes it shook her to the core. Slowly, though, she was getting a handle on it. “If you want to, that’s fine, but it might not work.”
“But it might.”
I conceded. “Yes, it might.”
The boys’ mums were much smaller and had short ribbon strands. They were attached to a garter and the guys wore them on their upper arms. Most didn’t care about how many embellishments there were or the length of the mum as a whole. No, the mum mystique was for the girls, and the guys went along for the ride.
But Gracie dove into making Shane’s mum with both feet. The concentration she hadn’t possessed when working on her own mum was there in spades for Shane’s. In ten minutes, she had the short ribbons looped and stapled around the smaller base used for the boys. She moved right into attaching the longer strands, using the rough measurement from her shoulder to her elbow to determine how long to keep the ribbon.
She finished at the same time Leslie, Danica, and Holly wrapped up the last of their long strands.
“Time to add the embellishments,” I said, pulling out another basket, this one filled with miniature teddy bears, plastic football, volleyball, soccer, and cheerleading charms. I’d walked up and down the aisles at a local craft store, gathering up an array of goodies girls could attach to their mums. Digging through the basket was like diving for treasure.
Leslie didn’t have to search long. She chose a strand of miniature gold bells, one giant cowbell, a wide strand of red ribbon with BLISS HIGH SCHOOL printed down the front, and a handful of other silver and gold decorations. “The more bling, the better,” she announced, wasting no time in tying and attaching the items to the strands of ribbon.
Holly eyed it skeptically. “It’s going to be massively heavy.”
“Then Ms. Cassidy can make a harness,” Leslie said, “because nobody’s going to have a better mum than me.”
“Or a better dress,” Danica added.
“You’re going to be the belles of the ball,” Holly said. “I wish Harlow was making my dress.”
Leslie attached another plastic charm to her mum. “Why isn’t she?” She looked at me. “Why aren’t you?”
Holly grabbed the stapler, frowning. “My mother says she’s inspired by Harlow and she wants to make mine.”
I stifled a smile. The impression I’d had of Miriam Kincaid during high school was that of a privileged girl who didn’t have to do much of anything for herself. My opinion had changed when my good friend Josie had fallen in love with Miriam’s brother, Nate, and their family had fallen apart amidst a sordid mystery full of debauchery and secrecy.
Miriam, I’d learned, had a penchant for crafting her own jewelry, had opened up a bookshop on the square, and now, it seemed, she’d taken up sewing. I was afraid she’d find that sewing wasn’t as easy as it looked, and creating the right garment for a person was even more challenging.
Leslie swung her head to look at Gracie. “What about you? Is Harlow making your homecoming dress?”
Gracie shook her head, but kept her gaze down. “I’m making my own.”
Leslie and Danica stared at her, their mouths gaping. “By yourself?” Leslie asked.
After Gracie nodded, Danica said, “Is it fancy?”
Gracie looked up. A veil of shyness had slipped over her. She wasn’t confident in her dressmaking skills yet, although she was a natural and gifted beyond what I’d been at her age.
“It’s . . . different,” she said. I’d helped her with the design, but the way she spoke now made me wonder if she liked it or not, and if I’d led her astray.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, hoping my words would circle around her and bolster her confidence.
She nodded, almost to herself. “It is. It’s a cream-colored dress with spaghetti straps on top, and all these rosettes on the skirt in pink, rose, and red crinkled chiffon.”
And void of anyone else’s history.
In that way, she was just now starting to control her charm. She’d realized that making clothing from new fabric was a clean slate for her.
The girls plied her with more questions about the dress as they continued to add adornments to their ribbons. They talked about how Danica had ended up in Bliss after her mother passed away, how Leslie lived with her grandmother, and how Holly was an auntie to her uncle Nate and aunt Josie’s baby. Shane and the death of Chris Montgomery didn’t come up again, but despite the lightness that had come into the room, the likely murder of Shane’s father never left my mind.
Chapter 5
“Buttercup is due for her inspection,” I said to the mechanic on duty at Bubba’s. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, a hint of gray slowly working its way into the stubble of his beard and sideburns, his skin bronzed, but craggy. His blue oil-stained coveralls hung loosely, the company’s name emblazoned on a patch on the left side of his chest.
He wiped his greasy hands on a blue rag, cocking an eyebrow. “Buttercup? That what Loretta Mae called her?”
“You knew Loretta Mae?” I shouldn’t have been surprised. Meemaw had known everyone in Bliss, and everyone had known her.
“’Course. Everyone knew the old girl. Sure didn’t know she called her truck Buttercup, though. Most folks use Bessie, or somethin’ like that, ya know?”
We both turned to look at the ancient Ford with the rounded fenders and domed cab. “She’s the color of a buttercup, though, don’t you think?”
“I reckon she is at that,” he said.
“I’m Harlow.” I lifted my hand in a little wave instead of shaking his grease-streaked hand. “Loretta Mae is my . . . was my great-grandmother,” I added, but of course he already knew that.
“You’re the spittin’ image,” he said.
“Aw, thank you.” I threw my shoulders back, proud, and grinned. Every Cassidy woman had a tuft of blond hair sprouting from the left temple, and we all had hazel eyes, leaning toward green, with gold flecks. There was a striking resemblance between us, leaving no doubt we were related.
I smiled sweetly, knowing, as Meemaw always said, that you catch more flies with honey. “I didn’t get your name.”
He grinned, revealing slightly crooked, yellowed teeth. “Otis,” he said; then he gestured to the sign hanging from the roofline. “But you can call me Bubba. Everybody does.”
Everybody
called everybody Bubba in Texas, but Otis had a name patch with the name emblazoned on it and he worked at a shop with the same name. Not everyone could say that.
“You know how it is. Every tenth hombre’s called Bubba round these parts. Given name’s Otis, but I’s the last of seven kids and all anybody’s ever called me is Bubba. ’Cept my wife, ’course. Anyhow, I cain’t unstick it.”
“Working here is a good fit, then,” I said.
“Yup. Need an inspection, you say? Sticker says you got another month.”
He had good eyesight, and he was observant. Maybe he was that observant about everything, and he’d know something about Shane that could help clear him. “I like to be ahead on things,” I said. “You know, in case I run out of time later on, it’ll already be done. Loretta Mae taught me that.”
Pay bills when they arrive, put things away where they belong, and plan ahead so you won’t ever be caught unprepared. Those were three of the many rules she’d lived by, and she’d passed those rules on to me.
“She was a good woman. Smarter than most.”
He shifted his weight, looking antsy to get back to work. It was now or never.
“Such a shame about Mr. Montgomery,” I said, my gaze downcast.
He stilled. “Sure is. He was real well liked, ya know? Everybody’s friend. Weren’t afraid to get his hands dirty.”
“Did you know him for a long time?”
“Oh, sure. He hired me to work the Granbury Bubba’s when it first opened what, goin’ on nineteen years now? That was before either of us got saddled down with wives.” His lips curved into a tepid smile. “He found love. Mine, well it was a shotgun weddin’ and all that, but Sally’s a good woman, all the same.”
Sounded like the makings of a passionate relationship, I thought dryly, but I kept quiet and let him continue.
A Killing Notion: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery Page 4