Deadly Patterns

by Melissa Bourbon

  Finally, I got up, pulling on a fleece jacket and slippers, and padded downstairs. I made a mug of herbal tea, dribbled in a touch of honey, and sat down at the computer. I started Googling, starting with Meemaw’s name. I got a few hits, but nothing that dated back to when she was a young married woman. Bobby Whittaker didn’t come up at all.

  I sat back, sipping my tea, the warmth of the cup spreading to the chilled tips of my fingers. Eventually it also spread to my brain, making me more alert. Meemaw’s message in the mirror came back to me again. Help her. She thought Raylene was innocent.

  Which meant Hattie rose to the top of the list, and Helen Abernathy a distant second, if only I could fathom a motive.

  I came back to the idea that Dan Lee wanted something in the Denison house, something that, perhaps, Bonnie and Clyde had hidden there. But wouldn’t anything hidden have been found by now?

  The door on that thought process slammed shut. Absently, I typed in Charles Denison’s name, sitting back to see what magic Google could come up with.

  Plenty on Charles Denison, the first, as it turned out, but nothing on my Charles Denison. I scanned the articles, but nothing struck a chord. It was the same information I already knew.

  But he’d lived for who knew how long as Dan Lee Chrisson, and Madelyn and I had found at least one newspaper clipping of an article he’d written. I Googled his pseudonym, scrolling through the listings that popped up. No Facebook page. No LinkedIn profile. But several links to articles he’d written.

  I cleaned the lenses of my glasses on my jacket and zeroed in on the results. He’d written for different regional magazines and newspapers. One, for the Dallas Morning News, was about hobbyists, just like the article we’d seen in the accordion file in his apartment. Another, for a coin collectors magazine, talked about coins President Roosevelt had the U.S. Mint produce and then melt down. Finally, there was one opinion piece that had been run in several different regional magazines. I clicked on each one, ending on the editorial “Take Back Your Family History.”

  And suddenly I knew what I had to do.

  * * *

  It was still too early for the courthouse square to be swarming with people, but Villa Farina, Bliss Square Donuts, and the mom-and-pop coffee shop just down from the Sheriff’s Department were plenty busy. “Excuse me. Pardon me. Ow!” I made my way slowly through each one, checking for either Hoss or Gavin McClaine. They hadn’t been at the town offices, and they didn’t seem to be on the square.

  I didn’t know Gavin well enough to guess at where he might be, but I did have an inkling about Hoss. I pulled my cell phone out of my bag and dialed Mama. She answered before the first ring had finished, but her voice was groggy. “Harlow Jane, what in tarnation?”

  “Sorry, Mama. I need to talk to your boyfriend.”

  “Usually you call him the sheriff, but today he’s my boyfriend? What do you need, sugar?”

  “Mama, is he there?”

  A loud rustling sounded in my ear followed by muffled voices. “Mama?” I waited. More low talking. “Mama!”

  The rustling stopped and a gruff voice sounded in my ear. “Simmer down, Harlow. What is it?”

  “Hoss! Thank goodness. I was wondering if, well, if maybe I could take a look at something that’s probably in your office?”

  “My office,” he repeated, but not as a question.

  “Right. In your office. Or somewhere at the Sheriff’s Department.”

  “And just what would we have over there that you’d be interested in?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but got tongue-tied. “Let me guess,” he said, and I realized that that the question was more rhetorical, anyway. “Might it be a brown accordion file belonging to one Dan Lee Chrisson, born as one Charles Denison, that you’re interested in?”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Could be.”

  “Uh-huh. And do I want to know how you know about this folder?”

  “Mmm, probably not.”

  “You’re probably right. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “And, Harlow?”

  “Yes, Sheriff?”

  “Just so we’re clear, my Christmas present to you is your freedom. Can’t wrap a shiny red ribbon around that and stick it under your tree, but it’s my gift just the same.”

  I got the message loud and clear. He wasn’t going to throw me in the hoosegow for my crime. “Thank you, Sheriff,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief, but I wasn’t sure he’d heard me. The line was already dead.

  * * *

  I’d given up trying to figure out what happened to Dan Lee purely to keep Raylene and Boone, mother and son, together. Now, more than anything, I just wanted to know the truth. I’d fallen from the very same balcony as Dan Lee had. If not for dumb luck—and the fashion show tent breaking my fall—I’d be dead too.

  Someone was responsible for that.

  I felt a smidgen closer to the truth after meeting with Hoss, but the pieces still didn’t all fit together.

  I milled around the house, getting dressed in gray wool pants I’d designed and made and a red cashmere V-neck sweater that Orphie Cates had bought for me at a clothing shop in SoHo one year. As I pulled my hair into a loose bun, I stared at the blond streak sprouting from my temple. It fairly glowed. Or at least seemed five shades lighter than it had the night before.

  I gasped, remembering flashes of Libby and Gracie from my dream. It was just like theirs. Or theirs was just like mine.

  I fluttered my fingertips over the thick lock, wondering what in the world it could mean.

  Just as I was leaving, my cell phone pinged. A text message from Mama.

  Meet me at Villa Farina before the fashion show.

  I’d finished the garments for the fashion show, but even so, could I spare the time? I’d have to do final tweaks once the women were in their outfits, and I wanted to make sure Will hung up the Victorian kissing balls. Not to mention that the temperature had finally dropped to well below freezing. Mrs. James’s theory that buying the salt would prevent the freeze hadn’t worked, but thank God she’d stocked up. It would help avoid any spills if the sidewalk grew treacherous.

  And, truth be told, I wanted to take another gander at the widow’s walk now that I had an inkling about what Dan Lee had been looking for. Walls couldn’t normally talk, but maybe, just maybe, these ones would.

  But a hot pumpkin spice latte and a giant gingerbread cookie sounded mighty tasty as a pick-me-up treat. Maybe I could spare a few minutes . . .

  My thumbs went to work, texting back to Mama.

  Meet you there at 1:30.

  That gave me an hour and a half to get everything together. Josie would be here before too long. Her fitting felt like a monumental litmus test for my designing ability. If she liked the two outfits I’d made for her, not only would whatever her big dream of the moment was come true—as long as it wasn’t an unlimited supply of Chubby Hubby—but I’d have made a pregnant woman very happy.

  I unzipped the garment bag and stood back to give Mrs. James’s ensemble one final look. A few wrinkles interfered with the presentation. It needed pressing, I decided.

  I plugged in my upright steam iron, then took the outfit out of the bag, hanging it on the iron’s attached garment hook.

  “It’s perfect,” I said aloud. And really, it was.

  I’d debated sleeveless or not for the senator’s wife, but had gone with the former, topping it with a complementary tailored jacket that fit together with the dress like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The nipped-in waist and straight-cut skirt with a zippered back would give an hourglass shape to Mrs. James, all the while maintaining her classic style.

  I preened, just a tad. The dress, in cranberry red, was really a design feat. I’d created origami pleats along the neckline and topped the dress with the collarless jacket fitted underneath the edge of the neckline.

  I didn’t know what the garment for Mrs. James might help her acc
omplish—I’d already created several pieces for her over the last few months, and each had served a purpose in her life, but I wondered, would my charm ever wear out and no longer work for a given person? Was there a limited amount of magic to go around? Or maybe it would help her come to peace with the fact that before long her husband would know he’d sired a child with Eleanor Mcafferty and that he had another granddaughter . . . Gracie Flores.

  A minute later, the steam iron was heated and ready to go. I ran the brush along the fabric, letting the steam do its job. Once the wrinkles were gone, I bagged the garment again, hanging it on a long, sturdy hook just inside the French doors of the workroom.

  One down, one to go.

  I scooted around the boutique portion of my shop, straightening pillows, organizing the samples on the rolling wardrobe cart I kept in the back corner, tucking the rest of the gifts I’d wrapped under my Noble pine tree, and generally tidying.

  I dusted Meemaw’s old Singer and swept up the cuttings in the workroom. Nervous energy. Will had agreed to take the mistletoe decorations Gracie had finished up to the Denison mansion, but I needed to be there to make sure everything else was in order, that the kissing balls were hung in the right places, and to check the final fittings for the fashion show.

  I was regretting my decision to postpone Josie’s visit until the last possible moment. She’d be here any minute to try on the outfit I’d made for her, an eleventh-hour fitting since I couldn’t stand the idea that she might nix it out of the gate as she had the others. She was going to be stuck with this outfit whether she liked it or not. Working with a temperamental and emotional pregnant woman was less than typical—and even less enjoyable—for me from a dressmaking standpoint. The outfit had to fit now, but I also wanted it to fit her in three months when she was ready to pop, and it would be extra good if she could transition the outfit to wear after baby Kincaid was born.

  I picked up a throw quilt, folding it in half, then in half again. A frayed seam caught my attention and I headed into the workroom with it instead of laying it over the back of the sofa. Letting things sit around and pile up wasn’t my style. If I could squeeze in a quick repair while I waited for Josie, that’s what I would do.

  The perfect color of thread sat on the cutting table in the center of the room—a brand-new spool of crimson red. “Thank you, Meemaw,” I said to the air, because I knew she was being helpful.

  I pulled a needle from the special section of my pincushion, threaded it, and set to work, folding the smallest bit of fabric over to create a finished edge, then using an invisible stitch to close up the pocket the tear had created.

  A second later, the front door was flung open. Josie’s voice boomed, “Harlow!” before she actually set foot in Buttons & Bows, but then she scooted in, as fast as a five-months-pregnant woman can scoot. She slammed the door behind her, sending the bells hanging from the knob into a jingling frenzy.

  The tip of her nose was pink and the olive skin of her cheeks flushed from the cold chill outside. “I’m starving,” she announced, stopping at the steps leading to the dining room and kitchen.

  “Uh-uh. I’m fresh out of okra,” I said. Not to mention it was way too early in the morning for fried vegetables.

  She fluttered her hand, shooing away the very idea of the vegetable. “I’m over okra.”

  What? Had Texas gone back to being a republic? Was the earth off its axis? “Now you’re just talking crazy,” I said, staring at her. A Southern woman couldn’t ever truly be over okra. It was cornmeal-covered candy. It was better than popcorn. It was a delicacy, maybe not on par with, say, escargot, but still tasty fare for Texas.

  She sighed, looking momentarily dreamy. “Well, maybe not entirely over it, but I’ve moved on.”

  I was afraid to ask what was currently tickling her culinary fancy, but I posed the question anyway.

  “Brussels sprouts cut in half, cooked in olive oil, and salted,” she answered. She licked her lips, and I could almost see the miniature cabbages dancing like sugar plums in her head.

  “Sorry, Josie. I’m fresh out of brussels sprouts, too.” I’d dropped the quilt and thread, and now I hightailed it over to her, cutting her off before she could detour to the kitchen and start rummaging through the refrigerator for some other tasty morsel.

  She frowned. “You have nothing for a pregnant woman?”

  I steered her toward the workroom. “Nothing.”

  “Harlow Cassidy, you’re a coldhearted woman,” she said, but her eyes sparkled and she laughed.

  “You’ll thank me after you see the outfits I have for you.”

  Before I even finished speaking, her laugh turned to a growl. She looked down at her protruding belly, drawing her eyebrows together in a sharp V. “I’m sure the outfit is great. It’s this body that could use some help—Wait. Did you say outfits? As in more than one?”

  I pushed up my glasses before putting my hands on her shoulders and looking her square in the eyes. “Yes, plural.” Finally coming up with the pencil skirt and the jacket concept had been a huge boon to my maternity clothing confidence, so I’d taken another idea that had been rattling around in my head, stayed up well past midnight every single night, and managed to produce a second outfit for Josie to try on. If it didn’t work, all I’d lost was sleep. But if she liked it . . .

  Making a pregnant woman happy was worth the red-rimmed eyes and the yawns that escaped from me every now and then.

  I took the first outfit—a maxi dress in a flowing floral chiffon, flutter sleeves, cut on the bias with a décolleté neckline, and a coordinating maxi coat—down from the hook just inside the French doors. And then I held my breath. Designing maternity clothing, I’d decided, was more difficult than menswear, and menswear presented a lot of challenges.

  I needn’t have worried. The second Josie laid eyes on the maxi dress, her jaw dropped and she clapped her hand to her mouth. Her face lit up, her rosy cheeks as bright as strawberries on her olive skin. “That’s a maternity dress?”

  I nodded, handing it to her to try on. She took it and slipped behind the privacy screen. A minute later she was flinging her T-shirt and stretch-paneled pants over the top of the wood-slatted partition, and then she floated out from behind the screen, the skirt of the maxi hanging beautifully, flowing around her like cascading silk. I held my breath, watching her walk across the workroom. I’d cut the front to hang longer, compensating for how Josie’s round stomach would pull the fabric up, especially as it continued to grow.

  She stopped in front of the oval mirror and gazed at her reflection.

  The bells on the front door jingled, followed by a low whistle and a “Wow.”

  We both turned as Nate came into the shop.

  From the growing rouge on Josie’s cheeks, and the pointed way their eyes met, I got that Nate liked the maxi dress. Or rather Josie in the dress.

  “She’s a miracle worker,” Josie said, after the spell between them broke.

  “You’re the miracle,” he said. Ah, Mr. Romance. I never would have pegged him as that, but Nate loved Josie, I had no doubt about that.

  “I have another outfit,” I said, taking the other ensemble from the hook.

  She slapped her hand over her open mouth. “Is that tweed? I love tweed!”

  Nate looked to the ceiling. “You know,” he said, a pillar of patience, “I offered to take you shopping in Dallas for maternity clothes, but—”

  Her choked squeak stopped his words on his lips. “Nate Kincaid, why on God’s green earth would I go shopping in Dallas when Harlow is right here? If she can’t design something that makes a person look good, then no one can.” She gestured to the maxi dress she still wore. “I haven’t felt this good in . . . in . . . I don’t know how long. I don’t even want any Chubby Hubby.”

  I smiled to myself. My design had won out over Ben & Jerry’s. That was a monumental success.

  He gave her a kiss before she moved back behind the privacy screen to try on the second outfi
t. Five minutes later, she emerged no longer looking like a stunning pregnant bohemian woman. Now she looked like she could hold her own with the muckity-mucks in their super-posh suites at Cowboys Stadium. The wide flap lapels of the jacket and the curved hemline were fresh and stunning.

  Josie floated across the floor, her head held high, her belly front and center, and an air of contentment I hadn’t seen on her face since her morning sickness had started. I felt flushed and satisfied, as if a ribbon of warm air were circling the room, leaving swirls of comfort in its wake.

  The phone rang, so I left them alone and went to answer it in the kitchen.

  Michele Brown’s Southern drawl came from the other end of the line. “Harlow, I’m real sorry for callin’ so early, but I thought you’d wanna know.”

  “Would want to know what?”

  “I was reading through the Texas Monthly.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I leaned against the kitchen counter. “Mmm-hmm?” I prompted when she hesitated.

  “It’s just that, well . . .”

  “Michele, you can tell me. What do I need to know?”

  “I was flipping through a back issue and, well, there’s an article and do you know, it’s by the man who died. Dan Lee Chrisson.”

  “Yeah, I discovered a few of his articles online.”

  Michele hemmed and hawed for another few seconds before saying, “I’m just wonderin’ if this story might be . . .”

  “If it might be what, Michele?”

  “About you,” she finally spit out. “It’s dated a few months back. If you want, I can e-mail you the link.”

  “Yes, please,” I said, giving her my e-mail address. I sat down at the computer in the corner of the dining room, hearing the tap, tap, tapping as she typed. By the time I opened my e-mail, a message was there.

  “Got it,” I said. I thanked her and we hung up.

  I clicked on the link and was taken to the permalink page with another article written by Dan Lee Chrisson. I hadn’t seen this one when I’d Googled him the day before. I read the title: “Spreading the Magic: How One Man’s Wish Can Impact Multiple Families.”