A Custom Fit Crime

by Melissa Bourbon

  I wanted to believe her.

  I braced myself to dig a little deeper, thinking maybe I’d missed something.

  But blackmail was a powerful motive, and if Beaulieu knew about her opium scheme, she had every reason to want to eliminate him from the picture.

  Lindy set three glasses on the coffee table before sinking down onto the Victorian golden couch in the Seven Gables parlor, taking the pitcher of tea from Jeanette, and pouring. She sipped as Jeanette sat opposite us, laying her sketchbook on the table next to her glass. Her eyes were wide, still looking dumbstruck by everything that had happened. “And then there was one,” Lindy said. She frowned. “Sorry. Bad joke.”

  But she was right. Beaulieu was dead. Midori was cooling her heels in the Bliss County Jail while awaiting a court appearance. And I was the only designer left.

  “Not the way either of them expected it to turn out,” I said, turning off my cell phone and setting it on the couch next to my leg.

  She gave a dry laugh. “No, I imagine not.”

  “The article,” Jeanette started. “Are you still writing it?”

  Lindy nodded. “I’m taking a different angle. New York fashion designer comes home to Texas and makes a name for herself and her town. It’ll showcase more of your fall collection,” she said to me.

  I made myself smile. I didn’t want to be ungrateful, but the truth was, Beaulieu was dead and Midori was heading to prison. Not the way I wanted things to end up and certainly not how I wanted to end up as the sole focus of Lindy’s article. I’d rather have shared the spotlight with both designers, but I couldn’t change the choices either one had made—or the result.

  “Michel always thought he’d end up on top,” Lindy said. “And Midori? I still can’t believe she could have killed him.”

  “But I told you,” Jeanette said. “Who knows how many other people he had dirt on?”

  “But here’s the thing,” Lindy said, looking at some invisible spot over my shoulder. “People thought he was stealing from other designers, but he always denied that. I started investigating that.”

  I thought about the garments and sketches I’d seen since the designers had descended on Bliss. A few of Beaulieu’s resembled Midori’s. He’d had drawings of some of my designs in his pocket when he died. Madison’s—or was it Zoe’s?—dress at the wedding had similarities to Midori’s, too.

  My eyes strayed to the coffee table, to the sketchbook lying there, and something tugged at my memory. It was the one Midori had had with her the day before when she’d come to Buttons & Bows with my maid of honor dress. Jeanette’s, she’d said. The same one that had a page torn out.

  My breath caught in my throat. Midori’s words as she’d been led away repeated in my head. I did not kill him. What if she’d been telling the truth? She was guilty as sin with the opium smuggling, but did her crimes actually extend to murder?

  “What if . . . ,” I started, but I trailed off, still making sense of this new idea. I was relieved to hear the distant sounds of someone bustling about in the kitchen. The creaks and groans of the old Victorian were disconcerting. The sounds couldn’t be attributed to Meemaw, and every noise felt like nails on a chalkboard as I tried to untangle the mess of threads surrounding all that had happened.

  Lindy and Jeanette waited, Lindy tapping her pencil eraser and Jeanette’s foot swinging back and forth in a frenzied motion. “What if what?” Lindy asked.

  I thought about the time frame of Beaulieu’s designs compared to Midori’s. “What if it wasn’t Beaulieu who was copying Midori?” I said slowly, wondering if it was possible. “What if Midori had copied his designs?”

  Lindy smiled, nodding. “Possible.”

  She had questioned the very idea that Beaulieu was the one stealing intellectual property. To her, I was definitely on the right track.

  But Jeanette balked. “But you saw the dresses. They’re too close to not be stolen designs.”

  “You said you and Midori just met recently, right?” I asked her.

  Jeanette reached for her sketchbook and iced tea. “That’s right.”

  Lindy’s chin snapped up. “No, that’s not right. I interviewed you both almost a year and a half ago for an article on Japanese fabrics when you were interning for her. And again about a month ago when I started investigating this article.”

  Jeanette’s foot started moving faster than the wheel on a freight train. “Met her again, I guess. I didn’t know her well back then. You know how interns are treated,” she said, offering a self-deprecating smile.

  One by one, small, seemingly insignificant details I’d overlooked began to take on greater importance. It was Jeanette’s dress that Madison had been wearing, and that I’d mistaken for Beaulieu’s work. I’d assumed that Beaulieu was stealing from Midori, but now something Meemaw said came back to me. Whenever I’d tell her about trouble at school and what different girls would say behind my back, she’d say, “There’s a lot of jealousy, ladybug, and quite often, what you hear and think is actually the opposite of the truth.” What if Midori and Jeanette had both been the ones stealing ideas from Beaulieu, instead of the other way around?

  “You said you overheard his conversations about blackmail,” I said to Jeanette.

  I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, my hands cupped under my chin. “The page of my designs he had on him when he died . . . it was from your sketchbook, wasn’t it? Was he blackmailing you?”

  She sputtered, shaking her head and saying, “No! Of course not!” but her shaking foot gave away her agitation.

  “You did everything for him, didn’t you?” I’d been shocked by how she’d hurriedly stopped picking up the things spilled from her purse to take the magazine from Beaulieu’s hand. How he’d ordered her to fetch him water. “When you stopped for coffee on your way to Bliss, did you get it for him?”

  She scoffed. “Of course. He didn’t want to step foot in a bourgeois coffee shop. I was his assistant. That’s what I did.”

  The baggie of spices Nana had found and tucked away in my kitchen. I suddenly realized that they’d probably fallen from Jeanette’s bag when she spilled the contents. The murder weapon.

  I continued to rearrange the ideas in my head, placing Jeanette at the center of everything instead of Midori. “He’d turned his blackmail to you, hadn’t he?” I asked her.

  “You’d been taking his abuse. Being his assistant was far worse than interning for Midori. Did you know about her drug smuggling? Did you tell Beaulieu? Try to play his game and get the upper hand?”

  A red splotch spread up her neck, turning her cheeks ruddy. Her knuckles turned white as they gripped her glass, and her lips thinned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she spit. “He was blackmailing her, but it had nothing to do with me.”

  Lindy cocked her head to one side, as if she could hear every detail of what was transpiring better that way, filing it away for the article I was sure she planned to write.

  “You copied one of his designs,” I said, thinking again of Madison’s dress. “Did he find out? Was he blackmailing you, too?”

  She seemed to realize that she had no way out, and she also knew the police weren’t here at the moment. Anything she said now she could deny later. “He turned the tables on me,” she snapped. “Trying to blackmail a blackmailer isn’t so easy. He said he’d ruin me.”

  Just as he’d told Orphie.

  And just like that, my brain hitched. Not only had she killed Beaulieu, putting poison in the coffee she’d gotten for him on the way into Bliss; she’d also tried to kill my friend. This was the one thing I had no answer to. “Why did you poison Orphie?”

  Her eyes skittered around the room, settling once or twice on Lindy before straying again. That was all it took for me to realize the truth. “Lindy invited Orphie here for tea to flesh out her interviews, but the poison wasn’t meant for her, was it?”

  Lindy’s eyes narrowed from behind her heavy-framed glasses. She glared at Jeanette. “You i
ntended to poison me?”

  “The cups were switched,” she said tightly. “I asked Raylene which cup was for which of you, and when she had her back turned, I put in a little of the powder. But those stupid sisters switched them somehow. You drank the wrong one.” She shrugged. “After it happened, though, I thought it might give me another chance to look for Maximilian’s book.”

  “Which you knew about because—”

  “I knew everything Beaulieu had his hands in,” she said flippantly.

  “And you wanted it to help you with the creative part of designing.” She’d told me that was her weakness. I’d seen her tailoring and sewing skill with Gracie’s sweetheart dress. It was the conceptualization she struggled with.

  Lindy clamped her hand to her throat, staring at Jeanette as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. There was no remorse. No sense that she regretted killing Beaulieu, attempting to kill Lindy, and accidentally poisoning Orphie.

  I gripped my own glass of tea in my hand, the beads of condensation dampening my skin. From the kitchen, I could hear the faint sound of Raylene’s west Texas drawl mixing with Hattie’s. I willed them to come to the door, hear what was going on, and call Gavin. But they didn’t come and their voices faded away as Jeanette spoke again.

  “Have some tea,” Jeanette said, nodding toward the glass I held. “You look a little peaked.”

  I felt pale and drawn and, frankly, more than a little frazzled. I’d already raised the glass to my lips, but stopped suddenly. Had she managed to sprinkle some of that poison powder into our tea?

  “Oh God, you poisoned it, didn’t you?” Every bit of color drained from Lindy’s face. “Stupid. How could I have been so stupid?”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw a movement at the registration desk. Either Raylene or Hattie. My skin grew cold and clammy, the breath leaving my body as I realized another truth. “It was you,” I said to Jeanette, my voice barely more than a breath. “You ransacked my shop to find Maximilian’s book.”

  She sat there, still as a trapped lioness ready to pounce, but I kept going, slamming the glass of tea down on the table, the amber liquid sloshing over the edges. “Is this poisoned, too?”

  “You should just leave well enough alone,” she said. “I like you, Harlow, but I like being free more.”

  I stood, skirting away from the old-fashioned furniture and backing away. Lindy looked too pale to move. If the tea was poisoned, was it working on her already, or was she just stunned into immobility?

  Jeanette’s hands clenched by her sides, she grew completely still, and I knew she was going to pounce. She did, moving with speed I wouldn’t have imagined she had. But she didn’t fling herself toward me. She bolted for the door, barreling through it, careening down the porch steps and across the flagstone pathway, and hurling herself into one of the cars parked along the curbside.

  I was on her heels, but stopped short as she fired up the engine. The tires squealed against the asphalt, and she tore off. An urgent call to the sheriff’s department was all I could do. Dixie picked up.

  “Harlow, honey, Raylene Lewis already done called. Said she was overhearin’ a conversation between you and the deceased’s assistant and that it sounded like the murder was being discussed. One of our deputy sheriffs was on her way when she just intercepted the suspect. Backup’s on the way and they’re fixin’ to bring the woman in.”

  “Send an ambulance,” I said, praying that Lindy would be okay.

  I collapsed on the porch steps of Seven Gables to wait for help, all the adrenaline that had coursed through me during the confrontation with Jeanette seeping away. Midori was still guilty of plenty, but at least she wouldn’t be accused of murder. And once again, Bliss was safe.

  Chapter 38

  “Is the reporter going to be okay?” Gracie asked.

  I pulled her in for a hug. “She is. She didn’t ingest enough to . . . to . . .”

  “To kill her like Beaulieu,” Gracie finished. She trembled. “It could have been you.”

  I gave her another squeeze before letting her go. “But it wasn’t. And you . . . you are a crime solver extraordinaire. Without your visions, we wouldn’t have figured out Midori’s smuggling scheme.”

  Earl Grey squealed in her arms and she laughed, releasing him. He scampered away to the workroom window. On the other side, several of Nana’s La Mancha and Nubian goats milled about. Thelma Louise, however, had her nose pressed up to the glass.

  “But you have the real knack,” she said. “Jeanette? Wow. Just wow.”

  Will nodded his agreement. “I don’t think anyone even suspected her.”

  Gracie’s head bobbed up and down. “She’s cray-cray. Blackmail and poison and dressmaking. It’s like Project Runway behind bars,” she said. “But are they sure?”

  “Sure about what?”

  “Is Deputy McClaine sure Midori had nothing to do with it?”

  “Nothing to do with the murder,” Will said, “but she’s plenty guilty.”

  Gracie had on the sweetheart dress—which I still couldn’t believe. “No visions?” I asked her.

  She shook her head. “I realized something. Once I see the vision the first time, I can control it. I can close my eyes and sort of, like, summon it up, or I can . . . not.”

  “She doesn’t know how or why, but it’s a start,” Will said. He looked as though a burden had been lifted, and I knew that was just what he felt. I felt it, too. Gracie had been plagued with images since before any of us knew her relation to Butch Cassidy or that she was charmed. But now she was figuring out how to control the charm rather than having the charm control her.

  “Where’s the bouquet?” she asked just as Orphie and Gavin came in from the porch.

  Orphie went straight for the antique armoire that stood against the back wall of the gathering room. Inside, I’d hung the bouquet upside down so it would dry. I planned on making a potpourri from the petals. “It’s not what I imagine you carrying down the aisle,” she said.

  Will reached in and took it off the hook. “Me, either.”

  I laughed, ignoring the implication that he’d imagined me carrying any kind of bouquet. “I think I’d go for a more natural arrangement, but you know Mama and her flowers. Go big, or go home.”

  “And would you have the cowboy hat with the veil like she did?”

  “Mmm, I think not,” I said. There was no harm in playing along. Love was step one on the possible path to marriage, and if Loretta Mae got what she wanted, Will and I would be there before too long.

  Orphie joined Gavin on the paisley love seat, laying her hand on his knee. It had taken her a while to garner up the courage, but she’d finally done it. Mailing Maximilian’s book back was a step in the right direction for her, phase one of getting her life back on track. What would happen between her and the deputy was anyone’s guess. She was heading back to Missouri in a few days, but long-distance love was not impossible. “We’ll enjoy the time we have together,” she told me when I’d asked. “I’ve got nothing but time.”

  Nothing but time, just like Will and me.

  Gracie scooted off in search of Earl Grey as her dad launched another question at me. “Day or night?”

  “Day or night what?”

  “Wedding.”

  “Night,” I said, “with lots of twinkling lights.”

  “Veil or cowboy hat?”

  “Ah, tiara!” I said, laughing. “On my wedding day, I know I’ll feel like a princess.”

  “So no bluegrass and barbecue?” he said with a chuckle.

  I grinned at him, pushing my slipping glasses back into place. “I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”

  “No, Cassidy,” he said, pulling me close, his voice playful. “We’ll cross that particular bridge together.”

  Make Your Own Felt Beads

  Try making these fun, easy felt beads! You need just a few grams of carded wool or wool roving and some warm, soapy water. Combine them with more traditi
onal beads, like glass, metal, or ceramic, to make fun, whimsical and one-of-a-kind jewelry.

  Instructions

  1. Fill a bowl with warm water and add a small amount of liquid dish soap.

  2. Gather up a tuft of the wool roving, approximately 4 to 5 inches long. This amount will result in a small, cherry-sized bead. Once you get the hang of it, make beads in all different sizes. For size consistency, weigh each tuft of wool before beading.

  3. Roll up the tufts, tightly, until they’re shaped like a ball.

  4. Submerge the ball of wool into the soapy water, then add a small amount of dish soap.

  5. Roll the ball between your palms, coating it with the soap. Do not apply pressure or compress the ball. If you do, you’ll wind up with a matted, unshapely form rather than a nice, round bead.

  6. The ball of wool will begin to shrink slightly, hardening as you continue to roll it between your palms.

  7. The completed bead will be firm, but soft enough that you will be able to poke a hole through it. Rinse the excess soap from the bead and allow it to dry, pushing a darning needling through the center to create the hole.

  Watch for Harlow’s adventure

  in the next book in the Magical Dressmaking series,

  A KILLING NOTION

  Coming from Obsidian in April!

  “A weekend getaway, Cassidy. You. Me. The hill country.” Will Flores leaned against the archway between the dining area and the kitchen of 2112 Mockingbird Lane, his arms folded over his chest, a cream-colored straw cowboy hat on his head. He looked like a cross between Toby Keith, with his bandanna biker look, and Tim McGraw, goateed and lean. “The place is called Biscuit Hill. You’re going to love it.”

  “Do they have homemade scones?” I asked. No bed-and-breakfast would be complete without sweet biscuits, British style.