I peered at him, my protection mode kicking in. “So you’re not interested in the models?”
“As suspects? Of course. Other than that? Hell, no. What kind of man do you think I am?”
Maybe a better one than I’d given him credit for. “And Orphie . . . ?”
“I ain’t talkin’ about my personal life with you. Unless you wanna start sharin’ about you and Flores?” He winked because he knew good and well that I wasn’t about to tell him a thing about my relationship with Will, which meant whatever he might or might not feel about Orphie was going to stay his business. My only fear was that he was making nice with her only to ferret out more information, but deep down I didn’t believe that.
He grinned, looking like a cat who’d swallowed a canary. “Tell me about Midori.” He paused. “Isn’t that a drink?”
I’d have to deal with whether or not to open Orphie’s eyes about Gavin later. For now, I stayed zeroed in on the murder. “Midori sour,” I said, nodding.
“Does she have a last name? Or maybe that is her last name?”
I sat back, trying to relax a little bit. He was doing his job, nothing more, nothing less. If you didn’t count the fun he wanted to have along the way. “I don’t know, actually. All I know is that she’s from Japan, she goes back pretty often, the other models here are from Dallas and she uses them regularly, and she’s known for being very . . .” I hesitated, thinking about how to phrase it. “Persnickety,” I finally settled on, “when it comes to her designs, who’s showing them, and who buys them.” And who makes them. She was a bit of a control freak, I realized.
“So she’s high-strung. Great.” He gestured with his hand so I’d go on.
“Jeanette works for—” I stopped and regrouped. “Worked for,” I corrected, “Beaulieu. She was his assistant.”
“And you just met her.”
I nodded. “Yes. She’s staying at Seven Gables, too. Seems pretty lost right now. On top of her boss dying, she’s lost her job. I sort of got the feeling she’d love it if Midori hired her, but Midori doesn’t use an assistant.”
“Anything else about Jeanette”—he glanced down at his notes, then back up— “Braden?”
“I like her,” I said, and I did. She was what we Southerners called a sweet gal. “I hope she can find a job with a better boss than Beaulieu has been. Someone who doesn’t chew her out and—” I stopped when the conversation, if you could call it that, between Jeanette and Beaulieu came back to me.
“Spill it, Harlow.”
“Spill what, Gavin?”
He pointed his finger at me. “You’re a dang open book. I can see it in your eyes. You’re thinking something, but you’re not sure you should tell me. Look here, darlin’, your allegiance should be to the sheriff’s department, not to some girl you just met, who you don’t know, and who might could have killed that man.”
I was brimming with turmoil. On the one hand, he was right. I needed to let the sheriff’s department do its job. Let Gavin do his job. But I liked Jeanette and maybe my wayward thoughts meant nothing at all.
“Harlow . . . ,” he said, his voice heavy with warning.
“Okay,” I said, making up my mind. I was a fashion designer, not a detective, and I didn’t have any business getting involved. “Beaulieu was pretty rough on Jeanette. He humiliated her, right there in front of all of us.”
Gavin nodded, encouraging me to go on.
“He chewed her out for wrinkling a garment and he told her to press it. She was pretty upset about it.”
He jotted down some notes. “Interesting. Good. Now, tell me what you know about the models.”
“I don’t know anything about them,” I said, and then added, “Except that they’re like oil and water.”
“The Dallas girls don’t get along with the Yankees?”
“Exactly.”
“A little friendly competition between them?”
“Competition, yes. Friendly? No. We all had tea a little while ago at Seven Gables. Let’s just say the Dallas girls aren’t too happy to have Beaulieu’s girls here, and Beaulieu’s girls think they’re better models than the Dallas girls. Not much love lost between them.”
“I got that from them, too,” he said, “but do you know if there was love lost between any of them and Beaulieu?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“We can’t forget the D Magazine people. Quinton Holstrom and Lindy Reece.”
I hadn’t really given them serious consideration. They’d been sent to do a job, but weren’t connected to Beaulieu. At least not that I knew of. But I nodded anyway. They had been present, after all. But with Beaulieu dead, their story was out the window. Neither one of them had a motive that I could see.
He hesitated, writing something on his piece of paper before raising his gaze to me again. He hesitated and his lips curved downward as if he didn’t want to ask his next question. But finally he did. “And that brings us to your friend Orphie. Do you keep in touch with her?”
Instantly the coils in my stomach tightened. “Orphie didn’t have anything to with this.”
He nodded, and I knew he agreed with me. “But it was mighty bad luck for her to show up just before a murder.”
“All the more reason to think she wouldn’t be involved. Why would she conspicuously show up only to kill someone?” I shot back. “That makes no sense.”
“That’s the thing about murder, Harlow. It never does make much sense, now, does it?”
He had a point and my shoulders sank. “No, I guess it doesn’t.”
I didn’t have anything more to offer, and he had the good sense not to hurl accusations at my mother and grandmother for being present, so I stood to go. Back to Buttons & Bows. Back to the wedding plans. And back to talk to Orphie about Maximilian’s book, because the more I thought about it, the more I thought the deputy had a point. The timing of Orphie’s arrival in Bliss could be seen as oddly coincidental, and I didn’t want Gavin McClaine digging around and finding a way to connect her to Beaulieu.
Chapter 12
I arrived back at Buttons & Bows to find both Midori and Jeanette sitting on the white rocking chairs on my front porch. They were rocking in unison, but as I parked my truck and came through the side gate from the driveway, they fell out of sync with each other. Midori rocked forward as Jeanette rolled back. I’d get dizzy if I watched them for too long.
They were each dressed just as they’d been earlier. Midori wore a sleeveless red silk blouse that hung loosely over a fitted black skirt. Jeanette still looked harried—but who wouldn’t after their boss had been murdered? She had on jeans and a hand-done silk-screened T-shirt, the design on the cotton colorful and abstract.
My boots crunched against the granite footpath, the sounds of my footsteps finally quieting as I turned onto the flagstones that led to the house. “We had to get out of Seven Gables,” Jeanette said as I mounted the porch steps.
So they’d escaped to the dressmaking shop. I’d offered Midori the workspace, so it made sense. I’d have done the same thing.
I blinked and just like that, my charm kicked in, as if a switch had been flipped, illuminating a pitch-black room. Images of them came to me in different outfits. Midori’s was a raglan-sleeved blouse in black and white, and tailored, tapered slacks. Jeanette, true to her more casual style, but also in black and white, had black jeans and a white sleeveless blouse embellished with silver strands of shimmery cording. In my mind, the draped cording flowed artfully as she moved, looking fluid and sleek.
I blinked again and they were back in their original outfits, my vision gone. It was just as well. With the wedding, I had no time to begin planning outfits for the two of them.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, but given the fact that they were at my shop instead of in their rooms at the inn, I had a pretty good idea.
“Those girls,” Midori said, shaking her head. “They fight and bicker and I cannot stand it another minute.”
; I didn’t think I’d be able to bear it, either. I nodded, gesturing toward the door. “I bet. Come on in.”
They stopped rocking, nodding at the same time, like mirror images of each other. They might not have known each other before they’d come to Bliss, but murder had a way of bringing people together.
They followed me inside. Midori glanced around, her gaze continually drawn to the kitchen where Beaulieu had died. Jeanette set about tidying the throw pillows in the seating area. Nervous energy. I could put that to good use.
“Did you know my mother’s getting married soon?” I said, but I stopped, a red flag shooting up in my mind. Something was off inside the shop. Had Meemaw been nosing around? I looked around but didn’t see anything out of place, but the feeling stayed with me.
“To the sheriff, right? Gossip in a small town,” Jeanette said with a faint smile. “The Seven Gables sisters were talking about it. They’re having the reception?”
I nodded. We’d tossed around a passel of ideas for the reception, finally deciding on the bed-and-breakfast. Their outside space was landscaped and lush and would make the perfect backdrop for the party. “I’m finishing my mama’s dress. Then I have to make mine still, and I’m designing a special outfit for a . . . for my . . .” I stumbled on how to describe Gracie. The daughter of the man I was dating. A friend. My half cousin once removed—or something like that.
“For my assistant,” I finally settled on. “You’ll meet her later.”
Midori’s attention zeroed in on me, her brown eyes widening, the slight curve of a smile touching the corners of her lips. “Let me design your dress for the wedding.”
Me, in a Midori design? “Oh no, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t ask me, and you didn’t ask for this . . . situation. We’ve all descended on your life—”
“Beaulieu dying wasn’t your fault,” I said.
“But we’re stuck here, and if I can help . . .” She twisted her hands together, and I understood. The corner of Midori’s sketchbook peeked out of the oversized bag she hauled around. A designer could have a million sketches, but to take one and bring it to life, to choose fabric, cut the pattern pieces, stitch the seams, and breathe life into it, all for one specific person, well, that was what brought out my Cassidy charm, and for Midori, I got the feeling it brought her a sense of peace and purpose.
“Tell me about the wedding,” she said, pulling her sketchbook out and opening it to a clean page.
Maybe this was where my hesitation came from. Midori’s designs were stylized, full of angles. Her aesthetic was completely different from mine. I had no doubt I’d like what she created, but would it fit in with the overall style of the wedding? I wasn’t so sure.
She sat on the settee and looked expectantly at me as Jeanette sat opposite her on the love seat. She held a mechanical pencil poised over the paper, a thin piece of graphite poking out from the tip.
Everyone brainstormed design ideas differently. I had no idea how Midori worked, so I just launched into the background. “The bride is Tessa Cassidy. The groom is Hoss McClaine.”
She nodded. “And your mother was here yesterday?” She was the one making tea and lemonade?”
“Right,” I said. “She and my grandmother.”
Midori looked past me in thought. “Are they very, how do you say it, lovey-dovey?”
I laughed. “Hoss McClaine is a curmudgeonly man who’s a lot of gruff and a little bite.”
She stared at me, blank-faced, so I tried again. “They’re plenty lovey-dovey,” I said. “Hoss is a good ol’ boy who loves my mother.” They were the perfect match. Tessa could give as good as she got, and Hoss could take it. He didn’t put up with any shenanigans from her, but they’d found a way to balance each other’s personality.
“You must get to see them all the time. How nice.”
The slight melancholy tinge to her voice gave me pause. “Do you have family here?”
“No, no, all in Japan,” she said. The tip of her pencil danced along the surface of the paper, the faint outline of a shape taking form. “I go back each season.”
I smiled to myself. Just like a designer to think in terms of seasons rather than months.
“I’m sure that’s got to be really hard. My great-grandmother passed,” I said, “but she used to say that she’d always live in my heart. It’s true. I feel her with me.” I was instantly surrounded by a warm cocoon of air. Meemaw was present and accounted for. “Sometimes quite literally,” I added. A little inside joke between Meemaw and me.
“My mother died a few years ago.” Jeanette’s lips quivered, but she managed a smile and flattened her palm against her chest. “I do feel her with me.”
We sat in silence for a moment, holding on to the memories of our families. Finally Midori cleared her throat, blinking away the glaze that had surfaced in her eyes.
“Is the wedding inside or outside?”
The question was a good segue back to our shared passion. “Outside, in the bluebonnet field at the church off the square. Unless we get a summer storm, in which case we’ll go inside.”
“There’s nothing like a good summer thunderstorm,” Jeanette said, her voice steady and even again. “My daddy sits outside with a cigar, a jigger of scotch, and a book, and if there’s thunder and lightning, he forgets all about the book and watches the show.”
In my mind’s eye, I could see Will sitting out on his back porch with a set of blueprints or a war novel, breathing in the summer air. Must be a guy thing. Me, I’d always rather be in my atelier, sewing or designing or crafting. “I’m making felt beads for the bridesmaids and the flower girl,” I said, getting back to the wedding. “And Mama had a pretty good idea of what she wanted for her dress.”
I went into the workroom, lifting the dress form with Mama’s dream gown on it. The fitted bodice had a lacy top, and the lightweight taffeta sprang from the waistline, ending in an angled hem that was shorter in the front than in the back. “She’ll be wearing these underneath,” I said, holding up one of the bedazzled boots.
“Interesting,” Midori said.
It was only one word, but it set me on the defensive. “Tessa Cassidy is stubborn as a mule, and when she sets her mind on something, there’s no changing it. This fits her to a tee.”
She waved one hand apologetically. “Sorry. I did not mean anything. I think it’s quaint. A real country wedding.”
“I don’t know if it’s everyone’s idea of country, but it’s certainly my mother’s.”
“And you need something to complement the wedding gown, but a little more . . . you?”
“Exactly. No small order.”
“And you’re a bridesmaid?”
“Maid of honor,” I corrected. Mama had plenty of friends, but having a secret like a magical charm tended to bring you closest to the people who knew about it, and further from those who didn’t. We were mother and daughter, but we were also best friends.
She lifted the tip of her pencil from her notebook. “And she didn’t pick out a dress for you? That’s very trusting of her.”
“That’s my mother. She wouldn’t dare try to tell me what to wear, just like I wouldn’t tell her what flowers to grow in her garden. She’ll grow what she wants to grow, and I’ll make what I want to make.”
Midori narrowed her eyes slightly, nodding. “I see. She sounds like an interesting woman.”
“All the Cassidy women are,” I said brightly.
“So, will you let me design a dress for you?” she asked.
“Midori, I appreciate—”
I stopped when she held her finger to her lips. “I want to,” she said, setting her sketchbook on the table and standing. “I can’t sit around and do nothing while I’m here in Bliss. I’ll go crazy.”
“You can read,” I suggested. “I have stacks of books upstairs.”
She looked at the floor for a beat. “Reading in English? No. I need to sew.”
Her voice had grown
thin and desperate, and I understood.
Usually I was the one creating for other people. To have the tables turned was exciting. “I’d be honored,” I said.
She nodded, just once and very formally, but I could see the faint smile appear again. “Good.” She perched back on the edge of the settee, picked up her sketchbook again, and went back to her drawing. In the matter of a minute, she was lost in her imagination, her pencil flying across the page.
I noticed the design book lying open on the coffee table and drew in a breath. A minute ago, it had been closed, the red cover with the blogger who’d written it on the front cover. Earlier it had been in the workroom, and before that, I’d found it in the kitchen. Meemaw. She’d been moving the thing from one room to another. She had a message to give me.
I peered at the page, a vintage design for a sweetheart sundress staring back at me. I inhaled sharply, but this time it was because of a revelation. This was the perfect outfit for Gracie! It had a simple bodice, and it could be worn strapless, but for Gracie, I wanted straps. A halter was an option, too. It might not need boning if it had straps, but to hold it in place, the bodice would need some sort of structure.
“She’s an old soul,” Jeanette said, picking up the book.
“She sure is.” From what I knew of Gertie, she was a contemporary woman enthralled by the history of design and clothing. A girl who could have walked off the set of Mad Men, and a girl after my own heart.
Jeanette stayed with me as I took Mama’s gown and the dress form back to the workroom. She shot a quick glance over her shoulder. “Can I ask you something?” she said quietly.
“Sure.” I situated the dress form next to Meemaw’s old Singer and the privacy screen, keeping it safe and out of the way, but near enough that I could look at it, contemplate the design, and see what else needed to be done to it. There was something . . . I just couldn’t put my finger on it.
She fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other in her sensible navy flats. Another reason Beaulieu probably hadn’t liked her. She didn’t dress with the keen sense of fashion one would expect a designer to have. She dressed for ease and practicality, from her plain slacks to her thin cardigan sweater set. I was all for feeling comfortable, but I liked my outfits to express my fashion sensibilities as well.
A Custom Fit Crime Page 10