Still, I couldn’t discount it as a possible motive, and as much as I liked Miss Reba, I knew that how she presented herself to the town of Bliss might not be anywhere close to who she really was. Anyone was capable of anything. Even adultery. And worse, even murder.
* * *
The next morning, Buttercup bounced along the bumpy country roads and before long I was back in Granbury and parking in front of Mrs. Blake’s mobile home. Things felt different since the last time I’d been here. The Mustangs looked forlorn and unloved. The thatch of grass and flowers had turned scraggly and brown.
I’d come alone this time, hoping Mrs. Blake might be more open to talking without Will looking on. She answered the door after the first knock, as if she were waiting by the door, on edge for some bad news to be delivered. Her skin was sallow, her eye sockets sunken and dark from lack of sleep and worry. “No sign of your husband?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not a word.” Any trace of anger was gone and all that remained was the fear that maybe Eddy Blake wasn’t going to be coming home.
“Did you report him missing?”
She slow blinked instead of nodding, but the message was clear. She’d reported it, but there’d been no luck in finding him. Anybody who chose to disappear simply could, and it seemed as if Eddy Blake didn’t want to be found.
“I have his phone,” I said.
Instead of blocking the entrance to her home as she’d done last time I’d been here, she stepped back and ushered me in. A pall of grief infused in the walls and linoleum of the small house. A lost daughter. A missing husband. Mrs. Blake had experienced too much sadness. She was living the same experience as Miss Reba, the details of the losses slightly different, but the emotions the same.
My gaze was drawn to the framed photos on the small table just inside the door. It was a shrine to the red-haired girl smiling in the large center frame, the rest of the smaller photos showing the mother and daughter at a park, standing in front of a Christmas tree, and with the girl as a toddler.
Something about the pictures bothered me. I looked at each of them again, studying the smiling faces, and then it hit me. Eddy Blake wasn’t in any of them. “Is your husband always the photographer?” I asked.
She looked at the array of photos and nodded. “He doesn’t like to be in front of the camera. Doesn’t like to have his picture taken at all. Told me he wouldn’t be one of those men who have their faces on display on park benches, billboards, or even at his own funeral.”
“Maybe that’s a male thing,” I said, remembering the pictures I’d seen at the Montgomery house. The photos had been of Teagen and Shane, a few with Miss Reba, but I couldn’t remember any of them showing Chris Montgomery.
The hairs rose on the back of my neck. Something was off; I just couldn’t put my finger on what. I looked around the living room. The place was small, but clean and kempt. Mrs. Blake’s distress over her missing husband hadn’t stopped her from keeping things picked up. She was like me. Nervous energy always meant I had a clean house.
I plunged my hand into my bag to retrieve Mr. Blake’s cell phone. A question crowded into my head. The home number on the phone rang the Montgomery’s house. “Did your husband and Chris Montgomery always get along okay?” Teagen had said her dad was a prankster and played jokes on his friend, but the families didn’t mingle. The wives didn’t know each other. Did Chris Montgomery and Eddy Blake really have an easy, joking friendship, or could that be completely wrong? Maybe Eddy had disappeared because he’d killed his business partner. Maybe they hadn’t gotten along at all.
“As far as I know,” she said. “They mostly stayed in their own shops, so it’s not like I saw them together, or anything. But I’d say that, yes, they get . . . er, got along fine.”
“But they each did go to the other’s store sometimes, right? I heard Mr. Montgomery came here and spent the night at the shop sometimes. Same for Eddy?”
“Sure, but mostly they handled their own stores. Eddy’s place is here in Granbury, and Chris managed Bliss.”
Something else I’d been thinking about popped back into my mind. I’d already checked with Gavin and as far as anyone knew, there wasn’t a will. Which meant probate, and ultimately a determination of ownership going to Miss Reba and her children as the next of kin.
But what if there was a will? And what if that will bequeathed the actual ownership not to Miss Reba, but to Mr. Blake?
I made a mental note to talk to Otis about it. I knew Gavin probably already had, but as Meemaw said, you got more bees with honey, and I was definitely sweeter than the deputy sheriff.
“Do you go to Bubba’s very often?” I asked, this time meaning the shop here in Granbury.
She half shook, half nodded her head. “Occasionally. I used to go more often than I do now.”
“See, this is why I was wondering if Chris and Eddy got along. Don’t you think it’s strange that you never met Chris?”
Now she fully shook her head. “No. Eddy doesn’t like to mix home and business. When I come, we usually go sit at the picnic table outside. And it’s not like I go often. An auto shop isn’t where I want to spend my time. I stayed away in the heat of the summer, and in January on through early March. The window of nice weather is pretty small in Texas, I’m sure you know.”
“I sure do,” I said. Most people thought Texas didn’t get all that cold, but they were wrong. The temperature dropped below freezing a good many times during the winter, and we even got snow flurries on occasion. And during the summer, thunder and lightning storms released the humidity that hung heavy in the air, often helping drop the temperature from 100 degrees to a more tolerable 90. But no matter how you sliced the pie, it was hot, and often miserable.
I revisited the thing that had been bothering me since Mr. Montgomery’s funeral. “What about company gatherings? Do y’all have those?”
“The holiday parties are usually separate for the two shops. The people here don’t know the people in Bliss. Eddy always manages to go down there and make an appearance, but Chris never did come our way, which I didn’t like. If Eddy could do it, he ought to have been able to, too, right? One-sided partnership, if you ask me. Eddy deserves the business. I want him to buy out Chris’s wife, but of course I haven’t had a chance to tell him that.”
No, because he hadn’t been home. Whenever he finally did show up, I didn’t envy him. I got the impression that Mrs. Blake wasn’t going to let him off the hook too easily at this point.
Once again, I started to hand over the phone, but for the second time, I stopped. I wished I could put my finger on what was troubling me. Meemaw and I had spent long, lazy summer afternoons creating collages on squares of watercolor paper. Most of the time I found inspiration all around me, particularly with scraps of French fabrics, bits of lace, and figures I’d drawn on text-heavy scrapbook paper. But once in a while, I looked at a page and didn’t have a clue what to fill it with. That big question mark I’d felt in those moments was just what I was feeling now. My mind was drawing a big blank.
With my hand curled around Eddy Blake’s cell phone, I let my gaze wander the house again. On a back hallway wall, I saw another grouping of photographs. “Mrs. Blake,” I said before I could even think, “could I use the restroom?”
“Down the hall to the right,” she said. “I’m going to make a cup of coffee. Do you want one?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.
“Milk? I only have coconut milk, if that’s okay.”
“Sure,” I said absently, heading off in the direction of the bathroom before she changed her mind and kicked me out. She didn’t know me from Sam Houston, after all.
In three steps, she was in the kitchen, removing a sealed carton from the refrigerator, coffee from a can, and pouring water into the receptacle of a Mr. Coffee machine on the counter. I turned and a few seconds later, I was halfway down th
e hallway. I looked over my shoulder. She had her back to me as she pulled two mugs from the cupboard to the right of the sink. I hurried past the bathroom door, stopping when I got to the pictures on the wall.
The first several weren’t all that different from the ones in the nonexistent entry. They were all of mother and daughter, one or two of just daughter, but once again, it appeared that Mr. Blake was the photographer.
A wedding photo caught my attention at the edge of the collection. I checked on Mrs. Blake again, but I needn’t have worried. She was sitting at the small, round dining table, her head down and resting on her crossed forearms.
If she minded me looking at the family pictures, she wasn’t saying. Not that she would mind. She’d hung them on the wall in the first place, after all. It wasn’t as if I was digging around or intruding where I didn’t belong.
I raised my gaze back to the wedding picture. Mrs. Blake wore a skirt that fell just above the knees and a tailored white jacket. No froufrou wedding dress for her. I wondered if it had been a shotgun wedding, if they’d been pinching pennies so had opted for something less traditional, or if they just weren’t the gregarious types.
I looked at the picture again. Mrs. Blake was fresh-faced and laughing, her new husband nuzzling her neck. Young and in love. It was a natural pose, and I felt a pang of distress at what Mrs. Blake must be going through right now, worrying over where he was and why he’d vanished. Surely the thought that Eddy had had a hand in Chris’s death had at least crossed her mind.
I moved on to the rest of the pictures, but nothing jumped out at me that could help me figure out what was going on and where Mr. Blake had gone off to.
After a cup of coffee with Mrs. Blake and no more information to be had, I left, deflated and no closer to any answers.
Chapter 11
It was after noon as I drove away from the Blake home. Something niggled in my thoughts, but I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was that was bothering me. I dialed Will, knowing that running the events of the morning and all my thoughts by him would help untangle the threads in my head, but the call went to voice mail. Architecture, I’d realized since meeting him, was a lot like dressmaking. It was controlled creativity, and ultimately, it was about sharing something creative with others.
The function of a space or building didn’t define the form, just as the style of a garment didn’t define the details. No, we both worked to create balance between form and function, and this very philosophy consumed every one of our projects. Will had recently finished a major renovation of the courthouse on the square, bringing the upper floors, which now housed historic Bliss memorabilia, into focus. He was on to the next pressing town project, a redesign of the building on the east side of the square where Sweet Temptations, a new specialty cupcake bakery, had opened up, and where Riley’s Furniture, an orthopedic practice, and a high-end clothing store also had their businesses.
“Trouble with the permits,” he’d said the night before. He had to work within the parameters of a blueprint, needed permits to proceed, and, in the case of historic buildings, he had to consider the integrity of the building.
With dressmaking, I had to take into consideration what the client wanted, body shape, and character, but ultimately, it was up to me to decide what would work for a woman’s comfort, blending her aesthetic and personality with mine.
I started driving, but pulled over again when I couldn’t think straight. Otis kept rising to the top of my thoughts. The girls at the mum party had planted a seed, and it was taking hold. Mr. Blake might be the killer, but what if he wasn’t? Otis could be a disgruntled employee. Any motive I could think of for killing his boss was sketchy. Except one.
I dialed Miss Reba on my cell phone, forcing myself to make a little small talk before launching into my question. My mama taught me better than to forgo manners, no matter the situation. She didn’t adhere to a lot of Southern rules for ladies like never letting anyone see you cry or always crossing your legs, but compassion, consideration, and chitchat were what she called the three Cs and they were nonnegotiable.
Finally, I was able to ask Miss Reba what I’d called for. “Is Bubba’s in good shape financially?”
There was a pause, as if she were trying to figure out just how to answer that. Finally, she said, “It’s not a million-dollar business, if that’s what you mean, but it does okay. We live pretty well and don’t want for anything.”
They didn’t, but from what I could see, the Blakes didn’t live near as well and they might want for quite a bit, comparatively.
“Miss Reba,” I asked, broaching the subject I was really interested in, “who inherits your husband’s business?”
“His portion, you mean,” she said, more as a statement than a question.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I do, of course. A percentage of it is in trust for the kids, and Otis Levon owns ten percent,” she added. “I know Chris was thinking about giving him a little more of his ownership, but I honestly don’t know if he did.”
My thoughts slowed and the threads rearranged themselves in my head. With that one sentence, Otis and Miss Reba were on equal footing as far as motive, as well as Mr. Blake, and possibly even Mrs. Blake. Miss Reba, the Blakes, and Otis all had a stake in the business. So did Shane, for that matter.
I had another thought. “Miss Reba, have there been any withdrawals from your bank account? Could someone have been blackmailing your husband?”
She scoffed. “That’s downright absurd, Harlow. Blackmail over what? Chris was an honest man. An upstanding citizen. No one could have had anything on him.”
“Have you checked?” I pressed.
She heaved a sigh. “Yes. And, no, there’s nothing unusual. No withdrawals. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
And yet someone had murdered him. Something wasn’t adding up.
I drove without thinking, wondering how to get one of the suspects to rise to the top of the list. A short while later I found myself in front of the Granbury location of Bubba’s. One word kept circling in my mind. Proof. Maybe I could poke around and find some proof inside that Otis was behind his boss’s death. Or maybe I could find something to exonerate him.
Of course I didn’t have a deputy’s badge or a title, so chances were, no one would let me snoop around in the shop or answer my questions. “I should just go tell Hoss my suspect list,” I said under my breath. I started to drive on past Bubba’s, but at the last second, I cranked the steering wheel hard to the right and whipped my truck into the parking lot—as much as a vintage Ford can whip. I couldn’t simply give Hoss and Gavin a list of people who might have killed Chris Montgomery. Not that they wouldn’t have already compiled the same list, anyway, but I didn’t want to be responsible for throwing innocent people under the bus.
I channeled Meemaw and her determination, and a moment later I walked up the sidewalk. From the corner of my eye, I spotted the picnic table Mrs. Blake had told me she and her husband sat at when she visited the shop.
It was far enough away from the building that no one could hear them talk, yet close enough for Eddy Blake to keep an eye on things.
I drew in a deep breath, grabbed the door handle, and walked into the air-conditioned lobby. A woman about my age sat at the end of one line of chairs, her head bent over her smartphone, her thumbs tapping more quickly than I could spell. A balding man with heavy jowls sat at the opposite end of the chairs, flipping through a car magazine. And at the counter, a young woman, no more than twenty-five, leaned on her elbows, her thumb and her forefinger rubbing her eyelashes.
None of them looked up as I entered.
Maybe the customer service at Bubba’s had gone down since one of the owners died.
I cleared my throat as I approached the counter, waiting for the clerk to look up. Finally, she did, peering at me as if I were disturbing her afternoon. “Yeah?” she said. �
��Help you?”
“I’m looking for Otis,” I said, hoping that Otis was in Bliss today and not here at the Granbury store.
She stared blankly at me, as if I’d asked for a ticket to Mars or service for my flying carpet.
“You know, Otis Levon? He works for Bubba’s?”
“I know who you mean,” she said. “He don’t work here. He owns here. Or at least part of here.”
The hairs on the back of my neck went up, but I smiled and played it off. “Oh?”
“Yep. That’s what he says, anyway. Says when everything’s settled, he’ll collect his part of the business, and it’s about time. It’s owed me,” she added in a deep voice, mimicking what Otis must have said over and over.
“I would have thought Mr. Montgomery’s wife would have inherited it. . . .”
I trailed off, hoping she’d fill in the blanks. If Miss Reba didn’t inherit the majority, it would be big news to her.
“He says he owns it now, but I dunno. Nobody tells me nothin’. And,” she continued, “if Mr. Blake don’t show up real quick, I heard Otis say he’s gonna claim his portion, too.” Her gaze skittered to the two people in the aluminum-framed chairs, then back to me. “Can he just do that?” she asked quietly, looking back down at the glass counter.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “At least not until the police are sure he’s not coming back, and not unless it’s in the will, but I heard there isn’t a will, so . . .”
She shrugged at that and my mind scuttled around the fact that the motive for Otis was growing by the second. People do what they have to do, when they have to do it. Those were words Meemaw had lived by, and I believed them. Whatever the reason, people believed they had to murder. It was justified in their minds. A shiver crept up my spine. If Otis had killed Chris Montgomery to claim his portion of the business, he might well have killed Eddy Blake, too.
A Killing Notion: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery Page 9