But as much as I tried, I couldn’t get Meemaw and her wispy figure off my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that the Margaret pageant was going to be held where Macon Vance was murdered. And as these two things rattled around in my brain, it suddenly hit me.
Nana had never answered my questions about who’d worn the third Margaret dress from the armoire and what story it might tell.
I mulled it over on the drive to the country club, finally muttering, “What happened that night?”
I’d already gathered that there was some big secret that Nana didn’t want to talk about, and it was evident that Meemaw had appeared at just the right time to deflect attention away from the armoire and the Margaret dresses. What was the big deal about those dresses? I was determined to find out.
Chapter 12
I spotted Trudy and Fern Lafayette the second I pulled into the country club’s parking lot. They’d cornered two men just outside the pro shop. I immediately recognized them—Dr. Hughes and George Taylor—from meeting them recently at my house. Trudy Lafayette, in her white linen Bermuda shorts and pastel pink polo shirt, had one hand on the men’s golf cart, the other pinching the bridge of her nose.
My truck rumbled to a noisy stop next to a tricked-out silver Ford F-150, the Texas version of a sports car. My old pickup, compared to the pristine truck next to me with its custom rims, bumper bra, and taillight covers, rubbed in that I was a have-not in Bliss, and always would be. Seeing Will’s neighbor brought Gracie to mind. She was a have-not, too, but being in the pageant may help her find a place in the middle, between the two extremes.
I stepped out to hear the doctor saying, “This will be my son’s second year as a beau.” A proud smile crossed his lips. “I never would have thought he’d like the whole thing, but he does.”
“It’s a might hard not to like tradition,” Fern said. “Who’s Duane partnered with?”
“Elizabeth Allen,” Buckley said. “Quite a good family. I wouldn’t mind seeing that relationship bud, if you know what I mean.” He winked, but Fern frowned at him. Apparently she didn’t want to talk about young love, no matter how good the families were.
I took my time gathering my replacement sewing bag and sketchbook so I could walk into the country club with the Lafayette sisters. Finally, after a bit more pageant chitchat, the doctor cleared his throat. “Good to see you ladies,” he said. “We don’t want to miss our tee off. Miss Lafayette,” he said, looking at Trudy. “I’ll see you at seven.”
Trudy nodded. “Oh, yes. All the hullabaloo with the festival this year has done a number on my head. I’ll be there with bells on.”
Fern shook her head, her gaze moving from Trudy to the men. “Daggum risky, if you ask me.”
Trudy shot her a scathing look. “Good heavens, Ferny,” she said, turning her back on Fern. “It’s the only thing that works and you know it.” To the men, she said, “Fern doesn’t get headaches. They’re my burden.” She pressed her finger to the space between her eyebrows.
“Miss Trudy,” George Taylor said with a wink. “You sure you don’t want to have a night out on the town with me, instead? I just bet a little honky-tonk would take care of those headaches.”
A blush rose up Trudy’s neck, shading her cheeks the same soft pink as her shirt. She giggled like a school girl. “Why, Mr. Taylor, how you do go on,” she drawled. “But no, Dr. Hughes takes care of things just fine.”
“Well,” Fern said, the sternness back in her voice. “I’ll be home finishin’ the gowns for the pageant.”
Trudy swatted her sister on the arm. “Those dresses, much as I love ’em, are doing me in, Ferny.”
It hadn’t seemed like that when I’d toured their studio, but maybe Trudy’s headache hadn’t been quite as bad at that point.
Fern turned away, muttering under her breath as I approached. I lifted my hand in a wave. “Afternoon,” I said, hoping the conversation wouldn’t turn to Macon Vance being stabbed with my scissors.
It didn’t. George and Buckley waved as they directed the golf cart toward the course and slowly rolled away.
“You’re always welcome, Ms. Lafayette,” the doctor called over his shoulder to Fern. “You, too, Ms. Cassidy,” he added, waving.
“Okay,” I called, but I had no idea what he’d just invited me to. I raised my eyebrows at Trudy and Fern in a question.
“It’s a party,” Trudy said. “I go for my headaches, but you know how us Texas women like to be all prettied up. Took a while for people to warm up to the idea, but Dr. Hughes is up on all the latest beautification techniques. He usually has a masseuse for these parties, and once he even had a pedicurist there.” She glanced at her sister’s shoe-covered feet. “I enjoy a pedicure every now and again, but Ferny won’t go near them. Her feet are better off covered up,” she added.
Fern frowned. “Trudy, hold your tongue.”
“It is an open-door party,” Trudy said to me, ignoring her sister. “Come on over for a pedicure. It’ll get your mind off things.”
“Massages and pedicures help with your headaches?” I asked, feeling like I was missing something.
“Oh, lordy, no. It’s an injection. Botox. He gets the nerve right here,” Trudy said, touching a spot just under the inside of her right eyebrow. “It takes a few days, but it relaxes that nerve and I’m good for a long while.” She batted my arm. “Come on, now. Even your great-grandma, Loretta Mae, came around to a party every once in a while.”
I stopped in my tracks. Or I would have if I’d been walking. “Meemaw? She did?” Meemaw’d always said that she wore her signs of age like badges of honor. Each bit told a tale and to erase them would mean erasing a part of her life. Did she think we’d be able to read her secrets, whatever they were, right there on her face?
Trudy gave me a knowing smile. “I think she just liked to keep on top of the town gossip, you know.”
“You got that right,” I said, my mind wandering.
“Come on out tonight. Bring a friend. Maybe the darlin’ new Mrs. Kincaid…” She paused and gave my arm a squeeze. “Are you all right, dear?”
“What? Oh, I’m fine.” I laughed, but kept thinking about the dresses in the armoire. “I was just wondering what kind of secrets Loretta Mae wanted to keep hidden, is all.”
Trudy and Fern glanced at each other, a thread of silent thoughts traveling between them. “Sugar,” Trudy said after a beat, “your great-grandmother had a truckload of secrets.”
I started. “A… a truckload?”
“Maybe more.”
I was rendered speechless. Meemaw had deeded me her house, but had never told me. She knew she’d become a ghost, but she had never mentioned it. She hid the Margaret gowns from Mama, Nana, and me, and I had no idea why.
Trudy turned and started shuffling toward the country club. I fell in step beside her and Fern came up on my other side, looking ever the Southern gentlewoman. “Loretta Mae took her secrets to the grave with her. No need to worry about it now.”
Ah, but that’s where they were wrong. I gave a noncommittal, “Mmm-hmm,” knowing that I’d figure out some way to communicate better with Meemaw and figure out what story those dresses told that she didn’t want to share.
“So ya’ll will come to the party?” Trudy asked again.
“Mmm-hmm,” I said again, nodding.
“Wonderful!”
It dawned on me that I’d answered a question I hadn’t really paid attention to. “Wait. What?”
“Tonight, Harlow. My, but you’re distracted.” Trudy threw a look at Fern. “Sugar, are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
I waved away her concern. “Just fine, ma’am,” I murmured, wanting to kick myself for committing. “But just for a pedicure.”
“Bring your grandmother,” Trudy said as we reached the entrance to the country club. “Bet she has a wrinkle or two that need smoothing out.” She winked at me. “Secrets run in families, you know. Especially yours.”
“Tr
udy,” Fern snapped.
But Trudy ignored her sister and chuckled again. I forced a smile. I hoped to be happy and giggling when I was in my seventies, but right now it felt like Trudy Lafayette was laughing at me instead of with me.
“Aren’t you friends with William Flores?” she asked out of the blue, a little extra emphasis on the word friends. “I seemed to remember hearing somethin’ about that. He lives right next door to the doctor, you know.”
“Right,” I said, flipping one of my side ponytails back behind my shoulder.
“All your grandmother’s cronies will be there,” Trudy said.
Fern sniffed. “Except Zinnia.”
Trudy’s already slow gait slowed even more. “It’s just shocking, isn’t it? I still can’t believe that deputy arrested her—”
I stopped short, my heart instantly in my throat. “Mrs. James was arrested?”
“Held for questioning,” Fern said, clarifying.
“Why?” I asked, the single word like a lead weight in my mouth. I knew the answer.
“Murder, of course,” Fern said. “Sue Ellen Jacobs works at the dispatch station and she told Larry Winfred who told David Smelter next door who told me that her fingerprints were on the murder weapon and that she has no alibi for the time of the murder.”
Trudy shaded her eyes as she looked at me. “Your sewing shears,” she added.
Mrs. James’s drawn and haggard face flashed behind my eyes. Her words echoed in my head. “I just need you to run the final rehearsal.” She’d known she was going to be arrested.
“They can’t possibly think she killed that man,” I said, shaking my head, although I wasn’t at all sure I believed what I was saying.
Fern fingered the little pearl buttons on her soft green cardigan. “How long have you known her?”
“Since I came back to Bliss. Six months, give or take.”
“She’s a beautiful woman, isn’t she,” Trudy said, picking up the thread of conversation.
I nodded.
Fern tapped her foot. “And how did she look the last time you saw her?”
I’d never seen her looking less than perfect… except… “She looked a little tired,” I answered. The truth was, she’d looked desperate. I just hadn’t wanted to see it.
The Lafayette sisters nodded in unison. “See? Loretta Mae was right.”
Realization hit me like a brick to the head. Mrs. James’s wrinkles had been showing, which meant her secrets were coming out.
Chapter 13
Revisiting a crime scene was something I did every single day, like it or not. Whenever I walked through my yard and saw the exact spot where a bridesmaid in Josie’s wedding party had drawn her last breath, I was reminded of how fragile life is.
I’d put a fountain in the spot to be a lovely reminder of Nell. It softened the hard edges of the memory, but the fact remained that I’d seen a dead body in my yard and that was something I could never erase.
Now, walking through the country club for the first time since Macon Vance’s body had been discovered, the foreboding shiver of murder skimmed over my skin again. Until the pageant was over, the spot on the stage where the golf pro was found would be a constant reminder of the tragic side of the event.
“I still can’t believe Mrs. James could commit murder,” I whispered to the sisters as we entered the event room. “Why would she? She said she didn’t hardly know him.”
Fern spat out a spontaneous raspberry in the most unladylike manner. “Macon Vance was notoriously well known, Harlow.”
“You mean the affairs?”
She tapped her nose, as if I’d gotten a word in a game of charades. “Multiple affairs over the years. Too many Bliss women thought they’d stolen his heart, but Macon Vance didn’t have a heart.”
I’d heard his argument with Mrs. James. It had sounded like he had a heart to me. He’d argued over the girls in the pageant being objectified. That fact, coupled with the rumors of his romantic liaisons, was like a picnic with no fried chicken on the menu. Something just wasn’t right.
“Why would he be against the pageant?” I asked.
“Was he?” Trudy said.
“I heard something about that,” I said vaguely.
Fern reached around Trudy and pulled open the door, dismissing Macon Vance’s objection to the Margaret festivities. “He just liked to be contrary, that’s all. Now let’s get this show on the road. Without Zinnia, it’s up to us. We have a pageant to put on.”
Maybe Fern was right. Maybe Macon was just being difficult, but my intuition told me that it was more than that. His anger with Mrs. James had been strong and focused. It was about the haves and the have-nots in our town. Was he vocal enough about his objections that Mrs. James would have killed to keep him quiet and preserve the tradition she felt so strongly about? Did she believe he’d be a real threat to the pageant?
I thought back to the last time I’d seen her. Not a single fashion flash had come to me, which, now that I thought about it, was odd. Part of my Cassidy charm was that I could imagine the perfect outfits for people just by looking at them—at least that’s what had happened so far since I’d discovered my charm. The clothing I envisioned always made a person look their best, enhanced their feelings, and made them shine.
I’d gotten flashes of fashion for Mrs. James since I’d known her, but now? I had nothing. She was a big ol’ blank slate. Another shiver skittered over me. The only other time this had happened was when I’d met Nell Gellen, Josie’s maid of honor. She’d been a complete mystery. I’d had no sense of her style or what her bridesmaid dress should look like.
She’d ended up dead.
Did that mean…? I was suddenly terribly worried for Mrs. James’s safety.
I shook my head, one hundred percent sure she was innocent as I said, “She didn’t do it.”
The event room had been transformed yet again. The catwalk and lights were gone. In the runway’s place was a raised stage with a curved front. It took up about a quarter of the room, extending from the original stage and doubling its size. Enough room for the eighteen Margarets and their beaus to make their entrance and be presented.
The rest of the space was set up with round tables, with long rectangular tables off to the right for the buffet line. “I imagine the sheriff has some evidence,” Fern was saying as we mounted the steps to the stage. “You’re lucky they haven’t taken you in.”
Considering the murder weapon belonged to me.
I shook my head. “He’s got to be digging. Yes, she argued with him. Yes, her fingerprints were on the scissors. But… but…” I suddenly remembered something and snapped my fingers. “She must have handled them at my shop.”
Trudy and Fern’s faces grew tight. “She was in your shop?” Fern said, her voice clipped.
“Lots of times. Yes.” That had to be the answer. I’d go straight to the sheriff’s office when I was done here to tell him. “I’ve been working on Libby’s gown. She must have picked them up. It’s the only explanation.”
“No,” Fern said. “The other explanation is that her fingerprints are on them because she used them to kill the man—”
Why were they so ready to throw Mrs. James under the bus? “But why would she do that? And she’s smart enough to wipe her fingerprints off if she had done it.”
I couldn’t add that my Cassidy charm had convinced me of Mrs. James’s innocence. Madelyn Brighton would believe me. Nana and Mama would know I was right. But anyone else would laugh in my face. People believe in magic only when it helps them in some way, or when they’re scared. The Lafayette sisters and the sheriff didn’t want my help in proving Mrs. James innocence, and they weren’t scared.
“Sugar, you can believe Zinnia’s innocent all you want,” Trudy said, patting me on the arm and making me feel thirteen instead of thirty-something, “but Sheriff McClaine’s smart as a whip and he knows what he’s doing.”
I knew he was. We’d had plenty of differences over the years, w
hat with my teenage escapades. Cow tipping, climbing water towers, and playing chicken with cattle meant I’d seen the inside of his office more times than I cared to remember. But he loved my mama—a recent development that had thrown me for a loop or two—and that raised him up in my estimation. I’d helped him solve Nell Gellen’s murder and that had raised me up in his estimation. He’d let bygones be bygones where my past behavior was concerned and we’d moved on. “He’ll listen to me,” I said, sounding more confident than I felt.
“You have to tell him he made a mistake,” a girl’s thready voice said from behind us.
Fern, Trudy, and I all gasped and spun around. Libby Allen, looking pale and tired, stood on the right side of the stage, a young man by her side—Duane Hughes, from the way she leaned into him. A woman crouched just behind her in the exact spot Macon Vance’s body had been. The palm of her hand lay flat on the floor. As she lifted her gaze to us, I felt battling waves of sorrow and familiarity wash over me. I knew it was Sandra Allen, Mrs. James’s daughter. I’d seen her before, I was sure of it, but I couldn’t remember when or where. Instantly, I saw her in black mourning dress, the outfit like a shroud against long-buried emotions. Oh God, if I didn’t help Mrs. James, her daughter would be mourning over her mother’s loss of freedom.
When I closed my eyes, Libby floated in my vision wearing her Margaret gown, looking confident and lovely. The image eased my mind. Libby would be grieving in my vision if something was going to happen to her grandmother. Which meant maybe Zinnia James wasn’t destined for the electric chair. So why the conflicting images?
“Libby…” As I started toward her, the woman behind her stood. The resemblance was striking. She was a younger version of Zinnia, only the strong highlights in her dark mane differed from her mother’s silvery hair.
Libby’s face scrunched, the tip of her nose turning red, her mouth quivering. “She didn’t kill him,” she said through her sobs. “Ms. Cassidy, you know her. You know she didn’t kill him.”
A Fitting End: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery Page 10