Deadly Patterns

by Melissa Bourbon

  And then there was Will. I liked him. I liked him like sweet potatoes like marshmallows. Like corn bread likes honey. Like pecans like pie. I just liked him. There, I admitted it.

  My fear that falling for him might zap my charm into smithereens was just that . . . a fear. I didn’t know if achieving my own happiness would mean I wouldn’t be able to help other folks find theirs. Meemaw seemed hell-bent on bringing us together. Maybe I could take a chance.

  I strapped the belly onto one of the dress forms in the corner of the workroom. I had plenty of time to think about Will Flores later. Right now, I had to admit that he was right. I had a lot on my mind, and a little help would go a long way to easing my stress.

  As I turned back to them, I rattled off the tasks on my To Do list, tapping the pads of my fingers as I went. “Not including solving a murder,” I said. He frowned, and I continued. “I have to drape and pattern and make Josie’s outfit, ruffle some fabric to make scarves, set up for the Santa doll class I’m teaching, decorate the tent for the Winter Wonderland . . .”

  Will’s eyes glazed. There wasn’t a thing on my list that involved a hammer, muscles, or fixing things.

  I groaned. “And that darn newsletter Mrs. Abernathy wants . . .”

  I leaned back against the worktable, grateful that I didn’t have any spurs on. How was I going to get it all done?

  “I can do that,” he said, nodding succinctly.

  “Do what?”

  “The newsletter.”

  I stared. “Really?”

  “Sure. I can’t solve a murder, at least not this instant. I can’t sew a straight line. I’m not a dollmaker. And we can’t decorate right now, so, yeah, out of your list, I can do a newsletter.” He held out his hand. “Where’s the flash drive?”

  I felt a ray of light shine down on me as I dug it out of my jeans pocket and handed it over. “Are you sure?”

  “Cassidy, you go do what you do best. Go sew something.”

  Chapter 23

  I put my sketchbook on the worktable and took stock of how I felt. The worries careening through my mind had settled. “You’re right, Meemaw,” I said to myself. “Will’s a good guy.”

  The lights overhead flickered in response. I made a mental note to check out a book on Morse code from the library. Maybe that would help us communicate better.

  “I know,” I whispered quietly to the lightbulb so Gracie wouldn’t hear me—it made me feel a little ridiculous. “You’re always right.”

  The light flickered again, faster this time. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a filmy white cloud. Cataracts . . . ? No. Meemaw was trying to show herself to me.

  “Um, Harlow?” Gracie said behind me, her voice lilting.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She stared at the flickering light, but as I took a step toward her, the whisper in the air vanished and the room went still. The light glowed steadily and not a ghostly form was in sight.

  “N-nothing. This house . . .”

  I sighed. “I know. Loose wiring,” I said, making my voice breezy through the ache in the pit of my stomach.

  Most of the time, having Loretta Mae around me was like walking into a room of old friends. That feeling of love and acceptance fills every space. But sometimes, I thought, as I took one last glance over my shoulder, it was more like a favorite jacket that was missing a one-of-a-kind button, or the empty space in your mouth after you’d lost a tooth.

  Gracie shrugged away whatever she’d been thinking and sat at the serger in the workroom. She tugged at one of the four large spools of thread. “I’ve seen these at the fabric store,” she said, a hint of awe in her voice. She drew her hand away. “Are you sure . . . ?”

  “Every seamstress has to learn how to use one eventually.”

  She grinned up at me, her sixteen-year-old enthusiasm reminding me of how I’d felt sitting next to Meemaw while she sewed. I’d watched every stitch she made, absorbing her love of fabrics, buttons, and trims, not knowing that my unique ancestry would someday give me a magical sewing talent and that one day it would become my whole world.

  I showed Gracie how to work the machine and set her on her way, ruffling the red strips of fabrics that she would attach to the white ruffles she’d do next. She pressed her foot against the pedal and the machine zipped along, slicing off the excess fabric, creating a tidy edge.

  She tilted her head back and looked up at me. “So cool!”

  It was serger love. I knew it well. I’d bought a used Baby Lock when I was in high school and had made sweatshirts and fleece throw blankets and pillowcases until they were bursting out the windows of my bedroom.

  I watched her to make sure she had it figured out, smiling as she murmured happily to herself. She was a natural. Next I peeked out the French doors of the workroom. Will sat at the little computer table in the dining room, tapping away on the keyboard. His lips moved as he worked. And he’d laughed at me for talking to myself.

  A blanket of warmth washed over me, and honestly, I couldn’t say if it was Meemaw, back again—or the fact that Gracie and Will were here with me, each of us working on our own projects, but like we belonged together.

  From the coffee table, the pages of the Victoria magazine I’d picked up in Fort Worth fluttered. Another message from Meemaw.

  I snuck a glance at Will to see if he’d noticed, but he was intent on the computer screen. As casually as I could, I moved to the seating area, perching on the edge of the love seat. The magazine was open to an article on Victorian decorations. Blown glass, balls of mistletoe, and handmade gift embellishments were featured.

  The packages I’d wrapped for Mama, Nana, and Granddaddy and placed under my small Christmas tree were wrapped in plain brown paper. I’d drawn delicate white Japanese cherry blossoms and dark branches on the packages and tied the gifts up with black iridescent ribbon. “What?” I said under my breath as I flipped the magazine closed. “You don’t like my gift-wrap style?”

  In one quick motion, as if someone had grabbed the pages and flipped them open, the glossy was opened to the very same page.

  “I’ll look later,” I said quietly.

  “You okay?”

  I jumped at Will’s booming voice. “Yeah, great!” I said, hopping up and scurrying into the workroom. I got to work on Josie’s outfit, the sound of the serger and the tapping of Will’s fingers on the keyboard fading to the background. With each passing second, I was sucked deeper and deeper into the draping and pattern creation of the jacket, like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole, emerging in a different world. It came together effortlessly—now that I had a clear vision of what I was doing.

  Time seemed to slow as I marked the muslin with fabric chalk to create a mockup of the piece, measuring, tracing, cutting, and pinning until I was satisfied with the result.

  After a while, Gracie’s voice drifted into my consciousness. “So I totally want to get that for the baby.”

  I blinked, realizing that the serger had stopped, and slowly came back to the here and now.

  “Is this enough?”

  I turned to face Gracie—and a mountain of red ruffles that was as tall as the sewing table. Maybe taller. “Good Lord, that’s a whole lotta ruffles.”

  “Yeah, I got a little bit carried away.” She frowned, patting the top of the pile like she wanted to push it down. “Too much?”

  “We do need three scarves,” I said. “I bet it’s just enough.”

  As she scooped the pile aside, I sat at the table and started the tedious process of changing the serger thread from red to white. For two solid years, I’d had to use the manual to remember exactly how to do it. Now it was old hat, but it took a while.

  Gracie pulled up a stool and watched me as I worked, absorbing every detail. She was so intent, I wondered if she was holding her breath. Finally, as I started on the last spool of thread, she snapped out of her fascinated daze. “You know everything, don’t you?” she said, not really asking me if I did, but m
ore in awe.

  I laughed. “Not hardly. I don’t think you can ever know everything about sewing and design. You just keep educating your taste, experimenting with patterns, and developing your style.”

  She nodded, and I could almost see her filing away my words to recall and think about later on.

  “So what do you think about the quilt for Josie and Nate’s baby?”

  I threaded the last needle, tested the tension by ruffling a scrap, and then moved aside so she could start on the white fabric. “What quilt?”

  “I saw it at Vintage Baby on the square. It’s got zippers and buttons and all these cloth compartments.”

  “On a baby quilt?”

  “Well . . .” She hesitated. “Maybe for when he . . . or she . . . is a toddler?”

  “I’m sure Josie will love it,” I said, “and babies need interactive toys. It sounds great.”

  She perked up. “Oh, it is! It’s got all these toys tucked into hidden spots and it’s so colorful. Not really vintage at all, so I don’t know why they carry it, but it’s really cute. And it’s on sale because of the festival.” She turned and started on the white ruffles.

  “Done,” Will announced. He came into the workroom carrying two sheets of paper.

  I looked at his handiwork while he went over to check out Gracie’s project. “Think you have enough ruffles?” he asked.

  She looked up at him, wrinkling her nose. “Got a little serger crazy. I’m going to make scarves for everyone!”

  He gathered up a handful of the red ruffles and held them under his chin. “I’ll wear it everywhere,” he deadpanned.

  “For my friends,” she said, batting him away.

  They stayed another hour, Gracie finishing her white ruffles and Will tinkering with the loose board on the stairs. I continued to work on Josie’s jacket, my mind still processing everything that had happened in the past few days.

  My thoughts drifted to the holiday decorations from the magazine on the coffee table and I realized Meemaw thought I should make some. In all my spare time, I thought. I’d already strung garlands on the front porch and the banister. Surely that was enough.

  Then again, a few mistletoe balls scattered through the rooms would be an easy final touch, and it would give me another opportunity to take a look around the mansion. I’d been lucky, discovering something potentially important at Dan Lee Chrisson’s apartment. With any luck, lightning would strike twice.

  Chapter 24

  The next morning came quicker than a Texas thunderstorm. Day one of the Winter Wonderland festival was in full swing, but for now the women in the Santa doll class were toasty warm inside Buttons & Bows, sipping steaming cups of coffee, grazing on sugared pecans, and rubbing the pomegranate goat’s milk lotion Nana had brought over onto the backs of their hands.

  “You’re gonna sell this at the festival later, right?” Olive asked.

  Nana shook her head. “Only at the fashion show.”

  Michele dipped two fingers into the container and took another dollop. “What’s in it? My skin feels like silk,” she proclaimed.

  Nana beamed. “That there is like my own secret potion. It took a whole year before I perfected it, but now it’s ready.”

  The five women—Diane, Michele, Olive, Madelyn, and Eleanor—sat at the dining table with stacks of trimming materials in front of them. Mama hadn’t made it back yet. I gave Nana a finished Santa body and slid into the chair next to Mrs. Mcafferty.

  “Now do we get to decorate?” Olive asked.

  “Yes. And that’s the fun part!” I pointed at the bins I’d lined up on the other side of the railing that divided the raised dining room from the main room of Buttons & Bows. Faux and real fur, beaded trims, lace, yarn, ornate buttons, and more filled the plastic boxes. “I’ve put out even more materials for you to choose from. Use whatever you like.”

  Diane and Michele whispered to each other with the closeness shared between sisters.

  Madelyn held up her lopsided figure, frowning. “This is why I take pictures.”

  Mrs. Mcafferty turned to look at Madelyn’s Santa. She’d been sitting quietly, but now she spoke up. “He’s actually quite adorable. He has character.”

  Madelyn spun the doll around and studied him. She placed him on the table, let go, and he toppled over. Over and over she tried, but he was just too top-heavy to stay upright.

  “Give him a few good squeezes,” Nana said, snatching him up and digging her fingers into the form. Her hands were strong from all the goat milking she’d done over the years, but it didn’t make a difference. Madelyn’s Santa wasn’t going to stand upright.

  “We need to unstuff him and try again.”

  Madelyn arched one thin black eyebrow at me. “Unstuff him? You can’t be serious.”

  I put my hands on my hips and tried to look stern, not an easy task with my hair in braids, the bruises from my fall off the roof turning a mottled yellow, worn jeans, and a plaid snap-front blouse that would have made Meemaw proud. “He won’t stand upright if we don’t.”

  “I’ll just lean him up against a candle. Or something.”

  “But, Madelyn, we have to fix him.”

  “Uh-uh.” She scooted her chair to the right. “I like Mrs. Mcafferty’s take on him. He’s got character. A bloody lot of character,” she added.

  A wallop of giggles went around the table.

  “Y’all are loopy.” I laughed, then said, “And we only just started.” But I had to admit, Madelyn’s Santa did look whimsical. He’d be the one giving out whoopee cushions to all the kids on his list.

  The town gossip started as each of the women rustled through the bins. “I got a newsletter in my inbox last night about the Winter Wonderland,” Olive said.

  Diane and Michele both raised their gazes from their dolls. “Me, too,” Diane said, and Michele nodded, adding, “We both did.”

  “It was done quite well,” Mrs. Mcafferty said, throwing a wink in Nana’s direction. “I didn’t know Helen had those skills.”

  “Will Flores did the newsletter,” I said.

  Mrs. Mcafferty’s cheeks paled. “Naomi told me some time ago that she was sweet on him for a while.”

  Oh boy. Will didn’t think the Mcaffertys knew that he’d dated their daughter. Wrong.

  “He’s here all the time,” Nana said. “Of course, Gracie, his daughter, works here now. Eleanor, do you know her?”

  I waggled my eyebrows at Nana, trying—in vain—to get her attention. I didn’t want her talking about Gracie.

  Mrs. Mcafferty sputtered before answering. “I don’t . . . know her, but I . . . I’ve seen her around town.”

  “She’s quite a seamstress,” Nana continued, completely oblivious to my silent pleas.

  “She’s quite . . . lovely,” Mrs. Mcafferty said, and darn it if she didn’t sound wistful.

  This time I froze. And if she knew about them dating, was it possible . . . ? Oh no. Could she know that Gracie was her granddaughter? Why, oh why, hadn’t Will simply insisted on introducing Gracie to her grandparents instead of letting her decide when she was ready?

  I stared at Mrs. Mcafferty, wishing that my gift included reading minds. It didn’t, so I was left trying to read her expression instead. She’d managed to hide whatever it was she’d thought when she’d heard Will’s name, but she couldn’t hide the sadness in her voice. I’d heard it.

  She knew.

  And I didn’t want to let on that I knew she knew.

  “Eleanor,” I heard Nana say, “we’re collecting a few things for Raylene Lewis and her baby. They’ve been through the wringer.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Diane said.

  “I heard that Hoss McClaine questioned her,” Mrs. Mcafferty said. “In fact, I heard that he and his deputy son think she might have pushed Dan Lee.”

  The gossip mill was in full swing. I gave a deep sigh. Or at least I thought about giving a really deep sigh, but I kept it in. I just wanted to listen, so I tried to t
ake a step back and be quiet.

  Michele tied off her knot. “Let me tell you, I’ve been praying for that mother and child both night and day. And that poor man. Even if he was . . .” She leaned in, dropping her voice. “Even if he left Raylene, and even if his girlfriend stole that baby, he didn’t deserve to die.”

  I couldn’t agree more. “Dan Lee kept to himself, didn’t he?”

  “How he ended up with a sweet girl like Raylene is beyond me,” Diane said.

  Ah, but was she sweet, or was she a murderer?

  Nana cleared her throat, getting back to the original subject. “I’m fixin’ to make the rounds and pick up donations from folks.”

  Mrs. Mcafferty’s brow furrowed in thought. “Naomi left behind a closet full of clothes, and I have a stack of quilts I picked up a long time ago from Ethel Bishop.” She paused, tapping one finger on the table. “No, I guess I can’t pass along the quilts. Rudy is sure the name Bishop on them means they’re worth a fortune, but . . . ah, never mind. All that’s old history. Everyone likes the shiny version of those old stories, anyway—”

  She broke off, heaving a sigh. She turned to Nana and then to me. “I’ve always wondered something.”

  “You’ve never been a shy one, Eleanor,” Nana said. “Spit it out.”

  “It’s no secret that you come from Butch Cassidy’s line, but that wasn’t even his real name.” She tilted her head to one side. “Why do you all keep Cassidy as your name?

  That was something we’d been asked over the years by discerning historians. Butch Cassidy had been born Robert Parker. Harry Longabaugh was the real name of the Sundance Kid. Even Etta Place was thought to have been born under a different name.

  “Let me tell you,” Nana said. She loved the old stories. “Texana Harlow fell in love with Butch. She never knew him as anything else, and when Cressida was born, they agreed that she would be a Cassidy and not a Parker. It’s been that way ever since.”