Deadly Patterns

by Melissa Bourbon

  “I was pretty young when Gracie was little,” he said. He patted his stomach. “I’ve filled out.”

  In mighty nice ways. I walked behind him to hide the blush I was sure had tinged my cheeks. Darn Meemaw for knowing just what I found attractive in a man, even before I realized it myself.

  One by one, I took measurements, calling out the numbers to Gracie, who scribbled them down. “What kind of fabric will you use?” she asked after I’d finished the shoulder to waist and waist measurements. She was like a sponge, absorbing every detail of everything I did in my workroom.

  My cell phone beeped from the cutting table in the center of the workroom as a text came in. I reached for it, raising my eyebrows as I read the message. How are you? From Zinnia James. Whereas my mother didn’t know thing one about sending or receiving texts, Mrs. James had taken to communicating this way with me quite often. She was a twenty-first-century Southern matron if there ever was one.

  Doing fine, I texted back.

  Gave us all quite a scare.

  My fingers flew over the touch pad. No need to worry.

  Spare no expense, came the next message.

  I quickly typed a response. For what?

  Will Flores. Santa suit. I’ll drop a check off today, she responded.

  I stared at the phone for a beat. How in the world did she know Will had stepped in to play Santa and that I was making the suit?

  Yes, ma’am, I texted, thinking that maybe Meemaw wasn’t the only one who knew what I needed before I did. Did I wear my every thought on my sleeve?

  I didn’t have an answer to that, so I went back to Will. With Mrs. James footing the bill, inexpensive, cheap-looking material wasn’t necessary. “Red velvet upholstery fabric for the coat, pants, hat, and bag,” I said, answering Gracie’s question. “We’ll trim the bottom of the pants and arms, up the center of the coat, around the collar, and the brim of the hat with a winter white long-hair fur fabric. And the belt will be black vinyl.” I eyed my sewing machine, hoping it could handle the heavy-duty fabrics. Once business really started to boom, I would invest in an industrial machine. “The kids will love it,” I added, leaning forward to wrap my arms around Will’s waist. My cheek brushed against his stomach as my left hand grabbed hold of the tape measure, and a jolt of electricity pulsed through me.

  I sucked in a quick, stabilizing breath before rattling off the number, dropping the measuring tape, and bending down to take the inseam. I stretched the cloth tape from the top of Will’s shoe to the crotch, my hand trembling just a touch at how intimate this process was with someone you were sort of dating. It would be like him measuring my chest, keeping the tape measure snug as he brought the ends together at my breasts.

  I swallowed, and once again I felt heat spread from the soles of my feet to the tips of my ears. I quickly took a second measurement from crotch to the back of his heel, telling Gracie the number as I moved my hands safely back to my own space.

  But as I stood and wrapped the cloth tape around his neck, our gazes met and he smiled, and darn it if that twinkle in his eye didn’t tell me that he knew exactly what was going on in my head.

  “Bend your elbow and put your hand on your hip,” I said, looking away. I stepped behind him again and measured from the middle of his neck, around the shoulder and elbow, ending at the wrist bone for the sleeve.

  The clatter of dishes and chattering in the kitchen distracted me as I did the final measurement, wrapping the tape measure around the fullest part of his hips. “Done,” I said after I’d told Gracie the number.

  “Or just getting started,” Will said, that sparkle still in his eyes. “I’ll have to do a fitting, won’t I?”

  I leaned against the stool at the worktable, nodding. “I’ll go into Fort Worth today to get the fabric. You’ll have to find black boots and white gloves. And suspenders. I can do an elastic waist, but with the padding, suspenders will look better. Can you do that? Oh! And a beard. And make sure it’s not a cheap one.” He barely nodded as I continued. “I’ll buy a pattern for the coat and can make one for the pants. It’ll work for pajama bottoms, too.” I gulped. “If you ever, you know, wanted me to make you some, I mean.”

  “You’re in no condition to drive to Fort Worth,” Will said, stepping down from the milk crate. The thunderstorm had lagged during the night, but was back full force. If I hadn’t known better, I would have guessed that Meemaw had done it, but she didn’t have control over the weather. At least I didn’t think she did. “And just so you know, I’m going to make you a platform. That crate is dangerous.”

  “I’m fine to drive,” I said, “and you don’t have to make a platform.” Although I knew he could probably whip one out with hardly a smidgen of effort. I looked up at the dress pulley he’d built and installed for me a few months ago during the Margaret Moffette Lea Pageant and Ball. I’d conceived the idea, but he’d executed it. Beautifully. Anytime I worked on a gown or a wedding dress, I no longer had to worry about the train or skirt of it dragging along the floor. It stayed on the pulley at the ceiling when I wasn’t working on it.

  Gracie handed me the sketchbook and I passed through the French doors, leaving the workroom. I held on to the railing as I mounted the three steps leading from the main room of Buttons & Bows, cringing with every step I took, a steady pounding in my head.

  Behind me, I heard Gracie whisper something to her dad. He answered, the low rumble of his voice wrapping around me like a warm blanket. Or maybe that was Meemaw.

  Rain pounded against the windows. “You plan to drive to Fort Worth in your old jalopy?” He looked outside as another bolt of lightning flashed, shaking his head as he surveyed the ancient truck I’d inherited from Meemaw. “Uh-uh. I’m driving you,” he said. “No argument.”

  I turned, ready to refuse again, but the concern in Gracie’s eyes and the firm set of Will’s jaw stopped me. “Okay,” I said without further argument, and ten minutes later, we’d said good-bye to Sandra and Libby, I’d flipped the CLOSED sign hanging just outside the front door to my shop, filling in the chalkboard space—BACK AT 3:00—and Gracie, Will, and I hurried through the rain to Will’s truck. Before long, we were traveling down Loop 820 toward the Berry Patch in Fort Worth.

  Chapter 6

  “Hard to believe Dan’s dead,” Will said as we took the Hulen Street exit off the highway, the windshield wipers barely keeping up as they slapped the rain off the glass.

  Gracie sighed from her seat in the extended cab of the truck. “He was a nice man.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “I met him a few years back. He did some work with the Historical Society every now and then. A real history buff. Liked the old outlaw stories, just like you,” Will said with a wink.

  I angled my chin down and gave him a little smile. “I am kin to Butch Cassidy.”

  “That you are.”

  I turned, trying not to grimace from the stiffness in my bones. “It’s awfully sad,” I said, returning to the subject of Dan Lee.

  “I saw him all the time at the Denison mansion. He was a good worker. Whenever I inspected the historical elements of the house for the city, he was there.” He shook his head sadly. “It’s a shame.”

  Will pulled into the parking lot of Heritage Square across from Hulen Mall and parked in front of the Berry Patch. He covered Gracie and me with an oversized umbrella and we hurried inside. Immediately, I felt like a contestant on Project Runway. I didn’t want to spend more than a half hour in the store. We also had to stop by J&D Interiors for the velvet upholstery fabric, so the clock was ticking. Will and Gracie trailed behind me, talking about Dan Chrisson’s tragic fall, then shifting to discuss the records Will had been tracking down so the Historical Society could officially include the Denison mansion in the town’s directory of historic buildings.

  Just last month Madelyn Brighton, one of my new best friends and the city of Bliss’s official photographer, had taken pictures of my old farmhouse to include in the directory,
as well as in a calendar for the upcoming year and a book about Bliss’s history and unforgettable characters. It was rumored that Bonnie and Clyde had hidden out in my backyard after they’d gone on one of their rampages.

  Bliss had no shortage of outlaw history, and Dan Lee wasn’t the only one fascinated by it. Folks came from all over to take ghost tours of the historic buildings on the square, and the old outlaws would have a place of honor once the new museum opened in the courthouse.

  I hurried up and down the aisles of the store, scooping up a pattern, snaps, buttons, thread, batting to pad Will’s midsection, and other notions for the Santa suit project. I pointed to a bolt of the perfect white fur. “Will you grab that?” I asked Will.

  He carried it, along with the black vinyl for the belt, to the cutting area. At the checkout counter, I spied a copy of Victoria magazine. The cover’s headline said HOLIDAY BLISS in bold lettering. Red drapes created the backdrop and a gingerbread trifle was prominently pictured. Next to it lay an assortment of Victorian-era ornaments and decorations.

  Holiday bliss . . . it echoed our hopes for the town festival. An omen? Good fortune? It didn’t matter. The magazine spoke to me, and I couldn’t pass it up. I added it to my pile and, ten minutes later, we left the Berry Patch and headed to J&D’s on Main Street. “What else do you have to do for the fashion show?” Gracie asked once I’d bought four and half yards of red velvet fabric and we were on our way back to Bliss.

  “I’m finishing Josie’s outfits,” I said, and then added, “And hoping she doesn’t get any bigger in the next few days.”

  Gracie laughed from the backseat. “Holly said she’s ODing on Chubby Hubby.”

  I peered at her through the vanity mirror on the truck’s sun visor, a question mark in my expression. Holly was Josie’s niece, but I didn’t get it. Josie was nuts for Nate, but the guy wasn’t chubby, so . . .

  “Ben and Jerry’s,” Gracie said, answering my unasked question. “Chubby Hubby. Holly said Josie is dreaming about fudge and peanut butter pretzels.”

  “Oh boy.” Good thing the fashion show was just days away or I’d be pulling some all-nighters to make sure Josie’s clothes fit her come runway time. There was only so much waist I could let out to accommodate a growing stomach.

  We spent the rest of the ride talking about the Winter Wonderland festival. “I’ll help decorate,” Gracie said.

  “That would be fantastic,” I said, making a mental note to myself.

  “Is the house all finished, Dad?” she asked. “Did they fix the railing?”

  Will darted a glance at me, then at her through the rearview mirror. “Shh.”

  “What?” she said, and I could almost hear the shrug of her shoulders in her tone. “I’m just saying. Someone needs to fix it, right?”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “She’s right. Let’s stop by, Will. We should make sure it’s repaired before the festival. Either that, or make sure that door is bolted shut. I don’t have a key, but maybe someone’s there.”

  “We don’t have to, Cassidy,” Will said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You had a big scare. If you’re not up to it—”

  I gritted my teeth, twisting in my seat enough to face him. It was the best I could do under the circumstances. “Will Flores, I am not an invalid. It was an accident, the hospital released me, and I’m just fine, thank you very much, so if you’ll stop pussyfooting around me and acting like I can’t do anything, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

  He arched an amused eyebrow at me and I took stock. With my glasses, curly long hair with the crazy blond streak in it, and yoga pants, I was hardly the epitome of a tough Texas woman. But he just nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am,” not bothering to hide the little half smile tickling his lips.

  A few minutes later we took the first Bliss exit and drove down a country road leading to town, finally passing through the square with its quaint shops. The Opera House, Villa Farina—the best Italian bakery this side of the Rio Grande, Seed-n-Bead—the bead shop Josie owned and operated, Two Scoops—the old-fashioned ice cream parlor with red and white awnings and curlicue chairs, and a little antique shop were only some of the businesses ringing the courthouse in the center of the square.

  I breathed in the scent of the small town. The rain had finally stopped and the blue sky brightened the whole place. Visiting Fort Worth, or Dallas, or even Austin, where I’d gone to college, was a treat, but being back in Bliss made me realize just how much the little town had become home to me again.

  Two minutes later, Will parked behind a ragtop Jeep on Mayberry, right in front of the Denison mansion. On the wet sidewalk, Gracie tilted her head back to look up at it. “Is that where you fell from?” she asked, pointing to the far right corner of the roof.

  A shiver wound through me at the visual reminder, but I threw my shoulders back with as much strength as I could muster and anchored my sore body, planting my feet on the ground. “Sure is,” I said. I led the way through the little gate and up the porch steps, trying the handle on the front door. Locked.

  “I was afraid of that. No one has any reason to be here.”

  But Will had pulled out his key ring and slid a key into the lock.

  I stared. “How did you . . . ?”

  “The city offices have keys to all the houses on the historical registry.”

  That one simple sentence sent my mind into a tizzy. The sheriff and deputy had said the screws on the railing might have been tampered with, which meant someone must have been able to come in and out of the house. Who else had a key? I ran through the possibilities. The workers on the construction crew had to be able to get in and out. And I remembered Hattie bursting in that day. Calling down to someone on the sidewalk. Pocketing her keys.

  My heart thumped in my chest. The deputy had his eye on Raylene, but Hattie’s last remark to Dan Lee shot to the front of my mind. Mark my words, Dan Lee—hurting Raylene was a mistake. Could Hattie have come into the house without her husband and loosened the screws of the railing on the widow’s walk? Did she want to get back at her sister’s ex-husband that badly?

  Will held the door open and let Gracie and me pass into the foyer as he said, “You’re off on a rabbit trail again, Cassidy.”

  I blinked, coming back to the moment. “Hattie has a key.”

  “Right.”

  “But why?”

  He gave me a look like I’d lost my marbles, but answered anyway. “Because they did the restoration. Helen Abernathy has one, too, since Abernathy Home Builders did the renovations.”

  Another memory flashed in my mind. Mrs. James and I had had to wait for Helen Abernathy to show up before we could get inside the Denison mansion because—“Mrs. James lost her key.”

  “Right,” Will said again. “She came by my office a few days back to see if we had an extra copy.” He pulled a small paper envelope from his pocket and held it up. “Had one made for her, but I haven’t seen her to give it to her.”

  “Maybe she didn’t lose her key,” I mused. “Maybe it was stolen. Which means maybe the sheriff is right. Maybe the screws really were loosened on purpose.”

  “Or maybe she really did lose the key and nothing sinister is going on,” he said as he closed the door.

  “Maybe.” But I suddenly didn’t think so. Still, it didn’t hurt to look at the other possibilities. “Did Helen Abernathy know Dan Lee Chrisson?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  I pushed my glasses up to the top of my head. “If the sheriff is right, someone had to loosen the screws—”

  “Hoping that Dan Lee would just happen onto the widow’s walk, lean against the railing, and fall to his death? Not really a foolproof plan, if you ask me.”

  He had a point, but I still felt as if I were on to something. I couldn’t think of a single reason why Helen Abernathy would want Dan Lee dead, though. The man had lived and worked in Bliss, but as far as I’d heard, he hadn’t ruffled any feathers.

  Gracie prowled arou
nd, peeking into the parlor, running her fingers over the diamond-shaped fabric pieces of a neatly folded antique quilt done up in a Lone Star pattern. She moved on to the secretary desk, rolling up the cover and riffling through a stack of old books.

  “Gracie,” Will said with a hiss. “No toques.”

  My high school Spanish was rusty, so I didn’t know what he said, but Gracie snatched her hand away from the books as if her fingers had burned from their touch. Her shoulders lifted and her cheeks tinged pink. “Sorry. All this old stuff is just so . . . so cool.”

  She was right, only I couldn’t appreciate the intricacies of the antiques and the history of the house at the moment. My thoughts were crowded with the nightmare of the fall from the roof, and worse than that, I worried that the loose railing had been intentionally tampered with. But Will was right. Loosening screws on a railing was hardly a foolproof plan for murder, unless—

  I gasped. “What if someone pushed him?”

  Gracie whirled around, but Will held his hand out to her. “Just simmer down.” He turned to me. “You’re assuming the sheriff and deputy are right. That someone tampered with the railing. But that doesn’t make sense.”

  I didn’t agree. “It does if they planned to sneak up behind him and give him a good shove.”

  His eyebrows pulled together, and I could tell he couldn’t argue that point. “Okay, but Dan Lee was a pretty decent guy, far as I know. Why would anyone do that?”

  It all came back to motive. Who would have wanted him dead? Other than Raylene and maybe Hattie, neither of whom I wanted to believe could have been involved, no one had a reason to kill Dan Lee. At least none that I knew of. I had no answer to Will’s question.

  Gracie had gone pale, so I pushed the thought of murders and motives out of my mind and turned to her. “You’d love this old dressing gown I saw yesterday.” I ushered her toward the stairs, gritting my teeth against the stiffness in my body and the sore spots where bruises ran up and down my side, using the handrail to climb up behind her.