“Eddy offered me the job here at the Bliss shop and it was perfect back then. Sally ’n’ me, we separated for a while, ya know.”
“Eddy Blake from the Granbury shop?”
“Eh?”
“You said Eddy offered you the job here.”
“Right. Got me outta Granbury when me ’n’ Sally was havin’ troubles. But then Chris came along, ’n’ I stayed here. Sally ’n’ me finally bit the bullet and moved the family to Bliss just a few months ago.”
“So you came here and Chris worked at Granbury with Eddy so you could have some space from Sally?”
He nodded. “Yup. That’s about it. Chris saw her every now ’n’ again. She’d bring her car to Bubba’s over there. He had a run of seeing her every week for eight weeks in a row. I told him I could take his place again, you know? But he said he didn’t mind Sally, and he liked driving back ’n’ forth between the shops.”
“I guess it’s not too far,” I said. “And they’re all country roads.”
“Thirty-five miles, exactly. We stay open late a few nights a week. He’d stay over at the shop those nights.”
“With Mr. Blake?”
Bubba shifted on his feet. “Come again?”
I thought back to Teagen Montgomery finding her father’s business partner’s phone after the funeral, but maybe I’d misunderstood. “Eddy Blake runs the Granbury shop and Chris Montgomery ran this one, right?”
He blinked, real slow. “Right. Eddy don’t come round here much. Granbury’s a busier shop. Chris slept in a little room off the office whenever he stayed the night over there. Home away from home,” he used to say. “Didn’t like being on the roads real late. I wouldn’t neither. Awful glad we’re livin’ in Bliss now. Easier to see the kids, ya know?”
He pulled out his worn, curved leather wallet and slipped out an equally worn and curved picture of two teenagers. The girl had a dimple in her smile and shoulder-length dark hair. The boy had the same dimple, but his hair was more of a dishwater blond. “Best things me ’n’ Sally ever did,” he said before tucking the picture away again for safekeeping.
It wasn’t a ringing endorsement of love, but there was a sweetness to it, nonetheless. Whatever else they’d done together, Sally and Otis were still making it through on the same side of their marriage and they loved their kids.
I figured now was as good a time as any to dive in and just ask about Shane. “Otis, I heard someone say that maybe the brake lines were cut in Mr. Montgomery’s car. Or something. Is that what you think happened?”
He scoffed. “You’ve been watchin’ too much bad TV. Tampering with the brakes of someone’s car, especially a mechanic’s car, is the dumbest way to kill someone.”
“I heard the deputy sheriff say they were looking at the car, though. And I heard some people saying that his son, Shane, might have—”
“That’s what I been hearin’.” His temples pulsed and his skin had taken on a red hue.
“Do you think he could have done it?” I asked, afraid of the answer for the first time.
Blue veins popped just under the surface of his skin, but he just shrugged. “Hell if I know.”
“What do you think happened?”
His gaze darted left and right before settling back on me. “Gavin McClaine came by.” He moved a little closer and lowered his voice a tad, as if there other people milling around and they might overhear. “Said their inspection showed steering linkage sabotage.”
My eyelids fluttered and I stared at him. He might as well have been talking about catalytic converters and transmissions. It would be akin to me talking pleating and ruching and scalloped hemlines. Bubba would feel my bewilderment.
“Steering link what?”
“Steering linkage sabotage. If someone sheared through the linkage—messed with the steering—the driver would lose control.”
“He wouldn’t have felt it coming?”
Bubba shook his head, frowning. “Nope. It’d be sudden. Total loss of control and way more likely to cause an accident than messing with the brakes. Anyway, way I hear it, he was forced off the road. Steering went, he was chased down, and then he crashed.”
Forced off the road. That was something I hadn’t known. It still seemed like an imprecise way to kill somebody, but if someone knew Chris Montgomery had been driving to Granbury—or back to Bliss—they could have lain in wait, following from a safe distance until the steering started to go.
But the question was why? Why would anyone do that?
If Gavin was right and someone had tampered with the steering linkage, or whatever, that someone would have had to know the inner workings of a car. Unfortunately, that drew a straight line to Shane.
Bubba wiped his hands with his oily rag, antsy as he moved his weight from one heavy black-booted foot to the other. Had his eyes grown small and beady . . . or was that my imagination?
My goal was to prove that Shane wasn’t involved in his dad’s death, but the realization hit me that whoever had sabotaged Christopher Montgomery’s car might well be an employee at one of the two Bubba’s Auto Repair shops.
My heartbeat ratcheted up in my chest and I took an uneven step backward.
It could even be the Bubba standing in front of me.
* * *
“It’ll take about twenty minutes, give or take.”
I blinked, chasing away the flurry of nerves in my stomach. Sociopaths excepted, murderers always had a motive that made perfect sense to them. Even if Bubba here had tampered with Mr. Montgomery’s car, he had nothing against me. And he had fond memories of Meemaw, so I was 99.9 percent sure I was safe.
I handed over my keys, placing them in his upward-facing palm. “Perfect, thanks.”
As he clomped toward Buttercup, he turned and called over his shoulder, “There’s coffee inside.”
The sidewalk up to the building was emblazoned with a large stamped outline of the state of Texas. I smiled to myself at Texan pride. I couldn’t think of another state that had so much love for itself.
I stepped into the lobby, the bought air instantly sending a chill all the way to my bones. I’d dressed for the ninety-degree late-summer weather, not thinking Bubba’s would be more like an igloo than a sauna. I stifled a shiver and rubbed the goose bumps from my arms as I took in the details of the shop.
The lobby was merely a grimy sitting room with aluminum-framed chairs, an oak-and-glass coffee table that had seen better days, and a stack of mostly men’s magazines. Anyone interested in cars, sports, and fishing had their pick of reading material.
I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I seized the opportunity to snoop. Keeping one eye on Bubba through the glass window, I peeked behind the counter. The computer was in sleep mode. I tapped the mouse, bringing the screen to life. Bubba’s logo of a cartoon mechanic holding a stethoscope to the hood of a car appeared, along with a password box. I left it to fall asleep again, and turned to look at the wall. A few thank-you notes addressed to Bubba’s hung on an inexpensive bulletin board. Next to it was the framed business license for Bubba’s with Eddy Blake as the proprietor. Odd, since they’d owned it together, but maybe Chris’s partnership was more the silent kind.
Next to the license was a metal Texas star, the quintessential symbol of love for the Lone Star State. I spun around looking at the shop, but nothing struck me. No handy slip of paper lay on the counter or floor with a name and motive scribbled on it, squarely pointing the finger at the killer. Not that I expected there to be, but it would have been nice.
I sat in one of the cloth-seated chairs, opened my bag, and withdrew my sketchbook. In fashion school, I’d learned to find inspiration all around me. From the steel beams and cranes at a building construction site. From people bustling on the street. From the trees at the city park.
But Bubba’s wasn’t doing it for me. The Cassidy women ha
d taught me to surround myself with things I love—and I’d taken that to heart. My yellow farmhouse and Buttons & Bows were filled with fabrics, color, trims, Meemaw’s old dishes, an old milk bottle chandelier, and retro appliances. All things that made my heart swell with comfort, history, and memories.
But no matter how I tried, no visions circled in my head from Bubba’s Auto Repair Shop. I flipped through the first half of the book, bypassing the faces and bodies and pastel designs I’d painstakingly drawn, until I got to a blank page. I dove right in without thinking, sketching the lobby, more as a distraction than anything else.
My pencil flew over the page and before long, I had the entire lobby finished and shaded. I stood, peering through the glass window in the door separating the waiting area from the garage. Bubba crouched beside Buttercup, holding the hose from the air compressor to one tire. After a moment, he moved to the next. I leaned against the counter, cradled the sketchbook on my forearm, and drew the garage next, adding a rough outline of Buttercup, the empty car bay at the opposite end of the garage, the tools scattered across a workbench in the back. Socket wrenches, air guns, ratchets, screwdrivers. Tools to a mechanic were like notions to a seamstress, which made me realize that Bubba and other mechanics were artists in their own way. They problem-solved, created, fine-tuned, and loved cars in the way that I used thread and a sewing machine, an iron, and other notions to design, create, and execute the perfect garments.
I flipped the page, an image of a dress with hard lines and edges, a sharp bodice, and pencil skirt forming in my mind. The sketch came quickly, the lines long and precise. Bubba’s had inspired me after all. But before I could add any details, the door from the garage opened. Bubba walked behind the counter, brought the computer to life, and in seconds, had printed out an invoice for Buttercup’s state inspection.
“Thanks, Otis,” I said, handing over my credit card. “It was nice to meet you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a nod. “Glad to see you takin’ care of Loretta Mae’s truck.”
“Buttercup,” I said with a smile.
I felt his eyes on me as I walked to the door. Stopping, I turned back to him. “Tell Shane I said hey.”
“Shane ain’t been ’round since the accident,” he said. “Before, even.”
For a split second, I had a glimmer of hope that that would somehow prove his innocence. But it vanished with a pop. Anyone who knew how to tamper with a car would do it covertly, and certainly not for everyone to see right at an auto repair shop. “Of course not. I imagine being here would remind him too much of his dad.”
Otis arched a bushy eyebrow at me. “I think you got it all wrong, Ms. Cassidy.”
I arched an eyebrow right back at him. “How so, Bubba?”
“I’d bet my own life that Shane did it. He had the know-how. He woulda had the opportunity. And with the way he fought with his old man, he might coulda snapped.”
Chapter 6
I’d gone to Bubba’s hoping to find something that would help Shane. Instead I’d come away with Bubba’s parting statement weighing heavily on my mind. The way he fought with his old man, he might coulda snapped.
Three staccato blasts from a horn sounded behind me. I jerked out of my thoughts, glancing at the stoplight—still red—and then in the rearview mirror. Will’s truck was directly behind me at the light. He raised his hand in a wave, then pointed to the side of the road.
I pulled into the first parking lot I ran across. He rolled to a stop behind me, exiting his truck and ambling up to my door as if he’d pulled me over for a traffic violation.
“Fancy meeting you here, darlin’,” he said, leaning down to the open window, one side of his mouth lifting in a small grin.
I smiled right back. “Mr. Flores, are you followin’ me?”
“I’ll follow you wherever you wanna go.”
“What if I told you I was heading to Granbury,” I said, batting my eyes coquettishly. “Would you still follow me?”
He tugged on the bill of his Longhorns ball cap, considering me. “I’d ask you what you were after in Granbury.”
“Ah, so you have conditions on your attention,” I said.
His grin widened. “Nope, no conditions, just curiosity.”
“Then it doesn’t matter what I’m after in Granbury,” I said. He knew I was looking into Mr. Montgomery’s death, but I had a niggling feeling he wasn’t fully on board with the idea.
“It only matters so I can decide if I should follow you”—he stood up and pointed his keys at his truck. It beeped twice in quick succession. He came around to Buttercup’s passenger side and got in—“or if I should just drive with you. But I figure you’re up to something. . . .”
I swung my body to face him, stifling my smile. “What makes you think I’m up to something?”
“If you weren’t, you’d be back at your shop sewing something.”
I started to object, but closed my mouth instead. He was right.
“Cassidy, you’re an open book. You’re heading to Granbury to see what you can dig up at Montgomery’s auto shop—am I right?”
My shoulders slumped. “That obvious, huh?”
He leaned toward me, his smile still in place. “Only to me,” and he kissed me, slow and tender. It was the kind of kiss Elvis would have sung a ballad about.
“So you’re coming with me?” I asked, my voice muffled against his mouth.
He smiled, his lips curling against mine. “So happens I have some free time, so I guess I will.” He sat back as I started Buttercup, threw her into gear, and headed west.
It took forty minutes to get to Granbury on the one-lane country back roads. At one point an enormous truck bore down on me, laying on his horn until I was able to pull onto the dirt shoulder and let him pass. A short time later, a teenage driver passed a car coming the other direction, nearly plowing into me head-on. By the time we got to Granbury, my hands were shaking and my heart was in my throat. I could see Chris Montgomery wanting to stay off the roads and spend the night when he’d been really tired. Even if he wasn’t really tired. Texas back roads could be treacherous.
We took a few minutes to drive around the historic town square with its Old West picturesque shop facades and restaurants, and the courthouse smack in the center. It was just like Bliss, only bigger and a little bit grander. More tourists came to Granbury than to Bliss, and with good reason. The square oozed character, and from the looks of things, they hosted town celebrations more than they didn’t.
“The Bliss Historical Society wants us to become a mini Granbury,” Will said. He’d taken out his cell phone and was snapping pictures out the passenger window. “I came down here a few months back to look at the playhouse and the outdoor amphitheater.”
“Is Bliss getting a playhouse and amphitheater?” We didn’t have a movie theater, so somewhere local to see plays would be fun.
Will shrugged. “Anything’s possible. Just takes money.”
Like anything else. I had taken on the homecoming mums to earn a little extra money just to make ends meet, and I was constantly thinking of what else I could do to keep Buttons & Bows afloat.
Will seemed to sense the thoughts flitting through my mind. He stretched his arm across the back of the seat and gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. I smiled at him, relaxing in the comfortable silence between us. Neither one of us needed to fill it with idle chitchat, and once again I had to hand it to Meemaw for her matchmaking skills. What Loretta Mae wanted, Loretta Mae got. She’d wanted Will and me to be a couple, and darned if it hadn’t happened. But more than that, it was a good match, and I was grateful to my great-grandmother for knowing what I needed even before I did.
A few minutes later, we’d found the side street Bubba’s called home. Bedding flowers lined the walkway to the lobby door, and the parking lot and the repair bays were full of cars. Bubba’s Granbury l
ocation did a brisker business than its sister site in Bliss. It looked nicer. It was kept up. And I knew better than anyone how important first impressions were. My first impression of a person often sent a vision into my head, and more often than not, the outfit I pictured revealed something about the person, something I might not discover in any other way.
My first impression of Bubba’s in Bliss was that it catered to the town’s locals and old timers who’d been born and raised in Bliss. On the other hand, my first impression of the Granbury Bubba’s was that Suburban-driving moms were just as big a part of the clientele as the good ol’ boy network who spent their Saturday afternoons at the barber shop. Flowers told a specific story, and the knock-out roses planted by the door and the beds packed with marigolds said that someone took the time to care for the landscape. Bubba’s in Bliss had no such flora love.
A bell dinged as we entered the lobby. Right away we were greeted by a thin man who stood behind the counter. His name patch read MAC. Curly brown hair framed his head and wispy ringlets dusted his sideburns. A gold chain hung at his neck, and I could picture him in a shirt with the collar gaping open. The chin dimple made him look a touch older than he probably was, but he still looked like he was fresh out of high school. He seemed vaguely familiar and I tried to place him, but if I’d met him before, my mind was blank. Aside from Gracie, her friends, and the kids who came into Buttons & Bows, I didn’t have much occasion to be around high school kids.
Maybe he just had one of those faces.
“What can I do for you?” Mac asked. His voice was thin and high, and I had an image of him wearing snakeskin boots and a charming grin when he wasn’t in his oil-stained coveralls.
Since Bubba from Bliss had already done the annual inspection, I said, “I’m due for an oil change.” Buttercup was going to be in tiptop shape by the time this investigation was over.
The young man grabbed a clipboard and pen and ambled out to the parking lot, Will and me on his heels. “No problems with it?” he asked as he wrote down the make and mileage.
A Killing Notion: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery Page 5