“Anna!” Wine sloshed over the top of the glass, spilling onto the pine table. I grabbed the bottle, setting it upright, then darted to the kitchen.
Even in her discombobulated state, she could keep up most of her appearances. Her kitchen was immaculate, though not my style. Roosters and more light pine, cowboy paraphernalia, and a big copper Texas star defined the decor. There was an unspoken rule in the Lone Star State: every house must be adorned with the Texas star. My old farmhouse had had one hanging on the porch just between the rocking chairs for as long as I could remember.
I grabbed the roll of paper towels from the counter and hightailed it back to the living room, quickly mopping up the spilled wine. Anna was bent over the table, her lips over the rim of the glass, slowly sipping the wine down.
“Thanks,” she said when she came up for air.
“No problem.”
Anna’s eyes had grown glassy and her shoulders hunched slightly. The alcohol daze settled over her like a woolen blanket.
“Can I get you some coffee, Anna?” Before she could answer, I had the wineglass in one hand, the bottle in the other, and was once again headed for the kitchen. A knot of unease settled in my gut as I dug around in the cupboards looking for coffee and a filter. Anna needed to sober up real quick, so I kept up the search. Finally, I found what I needed and started a small pot of coffee brewing.
“So what was in the notebook that interested you,” I asked, coming back a few minutes later with a steaming mug of java.
Anna was slouched on the couch, a glazed look in her eyes. “My husband played golf with Macon Vance. Did you know that?”
I sat on the edge of the chair this time, my elbows on my thighs, chin propped on my fists. I just wanted the dang book. “No, I didn’t.”
“I didn’t want him to. Macon Vance had a reputation,” she said.
“So I’ve heard.”
“I was always afraid he’d say something he shouldn’t, or that maybe Buck would start having affairs on me if he heard how easy it was.” She leaned back, closing her eyes, her head lolling to one side.
“Being a philanderer’s not contagious,” I said, trying to lighten things up.
When she opened her eyes again, tears welled in her eyes. She shook them away, sitting up, taking a few sips of her coffee, and pulling herself together. “No, but men talk, you know? If he made it sound easy, why wouldn’t another man try it? And what if it got back to Duane?”
A rogue thought ricocheted through my mind. Was it possible that Anna had followed Macon Vance to the country club and killed him to keep her husband from being influenced by his cheating ways? As far as motives went, it seemed like a pretty flimsy one, but what did justify murder?
I fell back on what Meemaw had always taught me. “Any man can be tempted, Anna. It’s what they do in the face of temptation that speaks to their character.”
She’d loosened her grip on the notebook and must have felt my stare because she sat up and held it out to me. “Guess you want it back.”
Does an armadillo wear armor? I took it before she changed her mind, and once it was safely in my hands, I asked, “Why’d you take it?”
She sat back against the firmly stuffed couch again and crossed her legs. With the back of her hand, she brushed a long strand of hair away from her face, following up by combing her bangs back down over her forehead. Stalling, getting a handle on her alcohol-blurred mind, or gathering up her gumption? Maybe all three.
“She’s meddlesome…”
“Trudy?” I asked, working to keep my voice steady. It was quite possible I was sitting in a room with a killer, and that didn’t make me feel very calm and collected.
“It’s just… I hate to spread rumors about someone who’s in ill health.”
Too late now. She’d already planted the seed. I looked at the notebook, the edges of the cover worn and frayed from use. What was in here that had set Anna off? What did Trudy know?
The tone in her voice had an edge to it that made my spine stiffen. Trudy was lying in a hospital bed, her face swollen and her mind muddied, after being drugged and injected with— My mind screeched to a halt. With Botox.
A chill seized me. What if the break-in here had been fake? And furthermore, what if Anna had been the one to stage it, all to cover her tracks as she attacked Trudy? But I came back to why?
I started to stand, itching to get the heck away from Anna and back to the club with the notebook, but she leaned forward and she patted the air so I’d sit back down.
Anna closed her eyes, and for a moment, I thought she’d fallen asleep. They popped open suddenly, and I jumped, startled. “She did it.”
I stared at her. “She did what?”
“Trudy Lafayette killed Macon Vance.”
Chapter 32
Anna couldn’t explain why she thought Trudy had killed Macon Vance, so I waved her proclamation aside and told her I had to get back to the club to get ready for the pageant.
But once I was out of the Hughes’s house, I knew I had to take a few minutes to look at the notebook more closely. I pulled my truck forward until I was parked on the grassy shoulder in front of Will Flores’s house instead of the Hughes’s. My hands shook and blood pulsed in my ears. What in tarnation was going on with this town. In two seconds, I’d practically convinced myself that Anna had killed Macon Vance so her husband wouldn’t be influenced by the golfer’s promiscuity, and that she’d attacked Trudy to keep her quiet about… something.
Ridiculous, it turned out.
But it was more ridiculous to think that Trudy Lafayette could have done it. Stabbing a man with a pair of sewing shears had to require some strength, didn’t it? Trudy couldn’t have overpowered Vance. And would she have broken into the Hughes’s house, stolen a vial of Botox, drugged her sister so she’d be none the wiser, and then injected herself enough to send her to the hospital? That seemed terribly risky to me.
“Assuming the two incidents are related,” I muttered, but I felt sure that they were.
As I opened the notebook to scour it for information, I felt the force of someone’s stare. I looked up to see Will, a length of rope in his hand, sidling along the cattle fence of his property, his gaze curious. I gave a little wave. “Hey,” I said through the open passenger window.
“Hey, yourself.” He looked around, as if he could read the environment to see why I was sitting in front of his property, finally arching an eyebrow at me when the answer didn’t come to him. “Wanna come inside? You look a little hot.”
My breath hitched and a wave of self-consciousness floated over me about how the curls of my hair were weighed down by the humidity. It was tough to weather well during July in Texas.
“Inside your house?”
One side of his mouth quirked up. “Unless you’d rather melt in that old truck.”
He didn’t wait for me to agree. He moved around the hood of the truck, grabbed the handle of the driver’s door, and yanked. It stuck for the briefest moment, then jerked open. “Come on. I don’t bite.”
“Of course you don’t,” I said with a self-conscious laugh. I knew Josie and Mama were handling things at the club and by now the girls had gone home and wouldn’t be back until four o’clock for a last minute rehearsal. I had a little time, but I sure hadn’t planned on spending any of that time at Will Flores’s house. “I have a few minutes. Very few,” I added, telling him I needed to get back to the club.
Grabbing my Michael Kors bag and Trudy’s moleskin notebook, I hopped out of the cab. I schooled my expression, pretty sure I looked calm and collected, but on the inside, my nerve endings were firing double time. I needed to see what had caught Anna’s attention in the notebook.
I walked with him down his asphalt driveway, along the cement sidewalk leading to the front porch, and into his ranch house. I stopped short just inside the door. The entry opened up into a big family room. The largest table I’d ever seen sat on the right side of the room, covered in tiny houses and buil
dings.
I moved toward it as if an invisible rope, just like the real one in Will’s hand, had lassoed me and was pulling me forward. “What is this?” It looked like Bliss’s town square, and beyond, all done in miniature.
He came up behind me, not so close that he was touching me, but close enough that I could feel him. “It’s for the historic society. It’ll go in the new section of the museum.”
I pointed to the center of the display where the hundred-and-something-year-old limestone building sat smack in the center of the square’s grassy lawn. “There, in the courthouse?”
He was beside me now, only a breath of air between his right arm and my left. “The third floor is going to be devoted to Bliss’s architectural history.” His voice took on a hint of excitement as he pointed to the different buildings, telling me about the new plastic composites and Taskboard he’d used to represent the limestone exterior of the courthouse.
“It looks exactly like it.” He’d re-created every last element, from the pillars to the stone steps and domed roof.
He folded his arms over his chest, a hint of pride in his expression. “The devil’s in the details.”
Like the finish work of a garment.
“The square doesn’t have a pergola there,” I said, pointing to the northeast corner of the grassy lawn near a cluster of miniature trees.
“It will.” He indicated the walkway from the pergola to a flower garden. “The model includes current elements, as well as pieces of the long-term plan for town improvements.”
Around the perimeter were replicas of the quaint restaurants and shops that made Bliss an up-and-coming destination town. I recognized Villa Farina and Seed-n-Bead on Elm Street, just a hop, skip, and a jump away from my farmhouse on Mockingbird Lane.
“I’m working on Loretta Mae’s house now,” he said, following my gaze to the empty spot where my house should have been. He pointed to a second table, off to one side of the room. Right there, smack in the center on a smaller piece of Taskboard, was the red brick farmhouse I’d practically grown up in. Once again, every detail, from the taller roofline and dormers on the left side of the house to the yellow siding and wood porch leading to the front door was perfect. He’d even made a miniature replica of the Buttons & Bows sign I’d recently had hung from the eaves.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
“The garden’s next.” He picked up a replica of the arbor leading from the sidewalk to my front yard, bending the material a bit to adjust the curve.
I realized, suddenly, that Will and I weren’t so different. My passion centered around fabric, clothing, texture, and color, while his revolved around the structure, shape, light, and environment of buildings. The thing we had in common was our love of design.
Oh boy. A warm feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. I felt like Alice, weightless as she fell down the rabbit hole into Wonderland.
“Is Gracie home?” I asked, to distract myself from the moment as much as anything else. “I’d, um, love to see her latest sewing project.”
Will turned to me, quirking that eyebrow again. “She’s on her way back from the dress rehearsal that never happened,” he said as he set the small-scale arbor down on the worktable.
I held up the book. “I was a little stymied without this. It has all the names of the girls and their corresponding dresses.” I turned to head back to the front door, but Will had other ideas. He took my hand, stopping me and giving me a thoughtful, serious stare. “Let me ask you something, Cassidy.”
His touch sent a zing up my arm, straight into my heart. “I really should go,” I said, my words catching. I had to escape now, before it was too late. I gripped Trudy’s notebook, lifting it in explanation.
“One question. It’s been on my mind, and I need to know.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. Was he going to ask about the magic in my family? Did he suspect the truth about Gracie? “S-sure,” I said, but all I could focus on was the feel of his skin against mine.
He paused for the briefest second, like he was debating whether or not to ask his question. Then he said, “Did you… know Macon Vance?”
Just like that, my skin went cold and my hackles went up. He didn’t trust me. “No!” I pulled my hand away and backed up a few steps. “Before I walked into the country club that morning, I’d never even heard of him.”
A quick shadow of doubt crossed his face before he chased it away, but not before the truth dawned on me. He was wondering if I’d been a notch on the golf pro’s bedpost. And if I had been, was I really the kind of person he wanted hanging around his daughter?
“Let me set the record straight,” I said. “I didn’t know him. I never saw him alive.” I ticked my statements off on my fingers. “I didn’t sleep with him. And I didn’t kill him.”
“I had to ask, Harlow.”
There he went, using my first name. I’d become so accustomed to him calling me Cassidy, that when he called me Harlow, it just felt wrong. And serious.
“No, you didn’t.” I skirted around him, wanting nothing more than to leave. Now. If he believed I was capable of any of those things—from sleeping with Macon Vance, player extraordinaire, to murder—there wasn’t much to talk about. “You have no reason to believe I’d do any of that.”
“People are talking.”
I sucked in a shaky breath. “What do you mean?”
“He was killed with your scissors, and you know his reputation. I just needed to hear it from you, Harlow.”
I spun around. “Stop calling me that.”
He stared at me. “What?”
“Harlow.” Tears pricked behind my eyelids. I blinked them away, trying to get myself under control.
It was hard enough knowing half the town thought I might have had something to do with Macon Vance’s death, what with the murder weapon belonging to me, and all, but Will? How could he think I’d be involved with someone who slept around, or who had lived in the same town as his only child, but hadn’t tried to get to know her? “Just stop.”
“It’s your name,” he said, looking completely baffled by me.
“He was a player and blackmailer.” I laid my palm against my chest, indignant. “You’ve known me since… since…” Since April, which really wasn’t all that long and took the wind out of my sails. “You really think I’d go out with someone like that?”
In the blink of an eye, he was in front of me. Every step he took toward me sent me shuffling backward. Finally, my back was against the front door, his lean, cowboy body angled to my left, leaning against the door. He trailed his fingers up my right arm, sending a little shiver over the surface of my skin. He bent his head slightly, murmuring in my ear. “I don’t.”
“Then why…”
He moved closer, his body against mine, his lips brushing the side of my neck. My breath hitched and my eyes fluttered.
“I had to hear it from you.” He shifted his weight, resting his hand on my shoulder. My purse slipped down my arm, and Trudy’s notebook dropped with a thump.
I jerked, startled, and looked down. It lay open on the tile floor, just like Anna said it had been on my coffee table. Will murmured something into my neck, but my eyes were glued to the notebook. Something about it…
“Cassidy,” he said, his voice louder, his breath no longer on my skin.
I grabbed his forearm, grateful he’d gone back to calling me Cassidy, and equally grateful to be distracted by Trudy’s book. “Look.” I bent down and scooped it up, keeping it open. “There are pages gone.”
“Uh huh.” He bent his head again, his breath like a whisper against my hair.
My eyes fluttered again, and I froze, trying hard to stay in control. “Will Flores,” I said when I found my voice again. “You just questioned whether I could have killed a man—stabbed him with my sewing shears—and now you’re… you’re…” I sucked in a breath, chasing away the zinging reaction my body was going through.
“Righting that wrong,” he
finished.
“Yes, but… but…” I put one hand against his shoulder, pushing him back. “Anna Hughes…”
“I don’t want to talk about Anna Hughes,” he said, his fingers trailing up my arm again.
“But she… t-took th-this from m-my house…”
“Not surprised,” he said. “Loretta Mae was always right.”
My mind hiccuped. I pushed him back again, another chill racing over my skin as air passed between us. “What do you mean?”
His eyes smoldered as he looked down at me. “She told me the day she met Anna to watch out for her, and she was right.”
“She was?”
“It’s like Loretta Mae was a little psychic.”
I started, my temples pulsing, partly wondering what Meemaw knew about Anna Hughes that we didn’t, and partly wondering if Will’s comment was purely innocent. “Yeah.” I swallowed another mouthful of nerves, hoping I’d sounded noncommittal.
He went on. “Anna’s come on to me more times than I can count, always with some rationale.” His voice took on a sarcastic edge. “She deserved better than she got. She was a prisoner in her own life. If she was going down, she might as well go down with a smile on her face.”
My hackles went up. How dare Anna make a move on my— My mind screeched to a halt. My what? A minute ago I’d been up in arms that Will could think I’d have anything to do with Macon Vance. And now I was ready to march right back over to the Hughes house and give Anna a good what for.
“Let’s not talk about that.”
“But the notebook,” I said, holding it back up. I flipped through it. All the dress notes seemed to be there, from what I could tell, so who knew what the missing pages smack in the middle of the book had on them.
“These weren’t ripped before,” I said, realizing that I did have to march back over to Anna’s house, but instead of telling her to back off Will Flores, I had to find out what was on the missing pages. From the way my gut clenched, I suspected it was the reason Trudy was in the hospital… something to do with whatever prison Anna Hughes felt she was in.
A Fitting End: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery Page 21