Deadly Patterns (4 page)

“Right. He’d tried on his Santa suit so I could check the fitting and do any alterations.”

Gavin gave a single nod. “Mmm-hmm. Like I said, peculiar.”

That was it. Hoss’s son was officially a thorn in my side. And from the pulsing vein on Will’s temple and the strain in his neck, it was clear the annoyance didn’t stop with me.

“Gavin McClaine,” I said before Will said something to get under the deputy’s skin, “do you want me strung up for murder?”

“Just simmer down, Harlow,” Gavin said. “It’s far more likely to be the ex-wife or the girlfriend, but you know I have to ask. You were one of the last people to see him alive. We’ve questioned the senator’s wife and Helen Abernathy. We’ve talked to the Barnetts. We’ve interviewed a few folks who live on Mayberry. So far, no one knows much of anything.”

“And did you hear that Arnie had been having trouble with the railing?”

“Stripped screws,” Gavin said. “Yup, we heard that. The question is, how’d they get that way?”

You could have heard a sewing pin drop in the kitchen. Sandra, Libby, Gracie, and Will listened with rapt attention, watching us more intently than die-hard Mavericks fans watching the NBA play-offs.

“Maybe they were just bad.” I said it, but I wasn’t sure I believed it. I knew enough to understand that screws didn’t just strip themselves. They’d been turned and turned and turned enough to lose the threads. The question was, who kept unscrewing them in the first place?

Gavin snarled, and I could tell that he didn’t believe my unlikely scenario either. “Let’s take a walk through the events. Chrisson changed so you could do a fitting, or whatever. Where did he change?”

“He went upstairs, so in one of the bedrooms, I guess.”

“And where were you?”

“Downstairs. In the kitchen.”

Gavin made some notes in a little black notebook before he leveled his dark eyes at me. He didn’t have his dad’s oddly amiable, grizzly bear looks. No, Gavin was lanky, angular, and looked like he was ready to laser me with an invisible beam. “Why do you reckon he went out onto the widow’s walk. Why’d you, for that matter?”

I felt everyone’s eyes on me, as if I could supply all the answers and let Bliss go back to being a sleepy little town. But with growth, which had been happening slowly but surely around here, came problems. In this case it was an unfortunate death. “I don’t know, Gavin. I. Did. Not. Know. Him.”

“He went to school with us.”

“Years ago.”

“What’s your best guess, Harlow?” he asked, not willing to cut me even the tiniest bit of slack.

I pushed my plate back, my appetite all but gone. “Maybe to check the screws? Same reason Mrs. James and Mrs. Abernathy went out, to see if the railing was finally fixed.”

Hoss, with his pure Southern charm, patted the air again. “Okay now. He’s just askin’, Harlow. No need to get riled up. Did you happen to see Raylene while you were there?”

Oh boy. Gavin had said it was likely to be the ex-wife or the girlfriend, but did they really suspect Raylene of having something to do with Dan Lee falling?

Libby, Gracie, and Sandra had been looking at the sheriff, but now their eyes were back on me. “Hattie and Arnie were there, but no, I didn’t see Raylene.” I thought about telling him what Hattie had told me about Dan Lee leaving Raylene and their custody battle, but I decided it just wasn’t my place. It sounded to me like poor Raylene had been through enough without me sending the sheriff—or worse, the deputy—after her. Although she already seemed to be on their radar.

Hoss McClaine nodded, looking satisfied. I didn’t put much stock in that, though. He was smooth as molasses, but underneath, he was sharp as a cactus thorn—and Gavin was just thorns all the way. “You let me know if you hear anythin’, y’hear?” Hoss rumbled, the pad of his thumb passing over the soul patch under his lower lip once more.

I didn’t know Hattie or Raylene well anymore, but I couldn’t imagine either of them messing with the railing’s screws so Dan Lee Chrisson would fall. Unless someone had followed him out onto the widow’s walk and actually pushed him—

No. I shoved that thought right out of my head. Bliss was a quaint Southern town where ordinary people didn’t become murderers. “Yes, sir, Sheriff. I sure will,” I said.

Chapter 5

I’d learned to drape fabric long after I’d learned to use a pattern, but now I relied on the art of draping whenever I started a new dress design. I could see a garment take shape in my hands. The feel of the fabric, the flow of a line in a piece of cloth, and the inspiration that comes from color and texture all help me create just the right piece.

When I was employed at Maximilian, patternmakers and drapers worked with sketches, interpreting the designs. I’d fitted plenty of women for garments, mostly models, but in my spare time, I’d learned to refine my eye of detail, balance, line, and proportion. I’d learned to coax fabric into doing what I wanted it to do. I’d developed the courage it took to take a draped design and turn it into something real. Something tangible. Something inspirational.

One thing I’d never done was make a Santa suit. In fact, aside from mending and one plaid shirt I’d made for Will, I hadn’t handled men’s clothing at all.

“I don’t know about this,” Will said. He stood on the milk crate that I was still using for a fitting platform, looking down at me, none too happy about what he’d been roped into doing.

“You’ll be great, Daddy,” Gracie said, batting her eyes at him.

He angled his chin down. “You think so, huh?”

She grinned. “I know so. You’re saving Christmas.”

“Yeah, right,” he said, but I heard the smile in his voice. “You sure you’re up for this?” he asked me.

“I’m fine. Getting back to work’ll be good.”

“Falling off a roof is not like falling off a bike, Cassidy. And now you’re going to make something else—”

“If you’re going to play Santa, I have to make you a suit.”

“I can head into Fort Worth and try to find one.”

I flipped open my sketchbook, pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose, and peered at him. “It’s not like there’s a Santa store, and anything at one of those party places is going to be—” A shudder passed through me at the very thought of the cheap, thin polyester fabric, plastic belt, and black booties. That’s what Dan Lee Chrisson had been wearing and I wanted Will to wear something that was miles away from that. I shook my head. “No. Kids need to sit on the lap of a real Santa. If necessary I won’t sleep for three days, but I’ll find the time to make the best Santa suit you’ve ever seen.”

“I know you will, Cassidy,” he said, giving in, but one side of his mouth quirked up. He never looked completely innocent, what with his dark olive skin, his goatee, and his mischievous grin, but when he smiled, his eyes lit from behind and I always felt like I was getting a glimpse into his soul.

I wondered if making a Santa suit for Will would make his deepest desires come true. I’d made him the one shirt, but as far as I could tell, his life hadn’t changed as a result of it. As I jotted down “Chest,” “Inseam,” “Arm Length,” “Waist,” “Neck,” my mind wandered. Maybe my charm worked only with women.

Gracie bounced through the French doors separating the front room of Buttons & Bows from the workroom, which once upon a time had been Meemaw’s dining room. She grabbed a cloth measuring tape from around the neck of one of the dress forms. “You look like you’re in pain, Harlow. Want me to take the measurements?”

I nodded, cringing at the very thought of crouching down to measure Will’s inseam. I picked up my sketchbook to hand it to Gracie, but I stopped, suddenly feeling the heat of Will’s gaze on my back. I looked up at him. His gaze was glued to me, waiting, as if how I answered Gracie was a test. Something brushed against me and I jerked, my fingers loosening. Before I could stop it, the sketchbook fell with a thud onto the hardwood floor. I whipped my head around, looking for evidence of a ghostly presence. And then I saw it. The sleeve of a blouse hanging from the wood-slatted privacy screen gently moving as if a breeze had passed through the room. Which it hadn’t.

Meemaw.

So she was up to her antics, playing matchmaker between Will Flores and me. Again. Or still. “I don’t think so,” I muttered. I didn’t need my ghost of a great-grandmother making love connections for me. Getting me to move back to Bliss and orchestrating Gracie and Will’s presence in my life had been enough.

Gracie sucked in a sharp breath. “I—I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Not you, Gracie!” I glared in the direction of the innocent blouse before gingerly turning to face my protégé, softening my expression when I looked at her. “I’m not going to let any aches and pains stop me from doing my job, that’s all.”

She breathed out a relieved sigh. “Oh, phew. I thought . . .” She trailed off, waving her hands in front of her face. “Never mind.” Her smile brightened. “What can I do to help?”

“I’ll measure, you write.”

I started toward my runaway sketchbook, but Gracie scurried in front of me and snatched it from the floor. She handed me the measuring tape, found the page I’d started, and tapped the pointed tip of a pencil against the paper. “Ready.”

I shuffled back to Will. With my hands on my hips, I looked up at him. “Are you ready to play Santa?”

“I’m reprising the role,” he said.

Gracie piped up. “He played Santa every year when I was in elementary school. All my friends have pictures with him in a furry white beard.”

I tilted my head to one side, considering. “So you’re experienced? But you don’t have the Santa costume?”

He chuckled. “Uh, no. It belonged to the school.”

“It wouldn’t fit him now, anyway,” Gracie said.

I looked Will up and down. Usually when an old outfit didn’t fit, it was because someone had gained weight, but Will Flores didn’t look like he had even an ounce of extra padding. He looked like a cowboy Cassanova, with a Rhett Butler smirk and just enough of a down-home accent to make a girl melt. “Oh?”

“I was pretty young when Gracie was little,” he said. He patted his stomach. “I’ve filled out.”

In mighty nice ways. I walked behind him to hide the blush I was sure had tinged my cheeks. Darn Meemaw for knowing just what I found attractive in a man, even before I realized it myself.

One by one, I took measurements, calling out the numbers to Gracie, who scribbled them down. “What kind of fabric will you use?” she asked after I’d finished the shoulder to waist and waist measurements. She was like a sponge, absorbing every detail of everything I did in my workroom.

My cell phone beeped from the cutting table in the center of the workroom as a text came in. I reached for it, raising my eyebrows as I read the message.
How are you?
From Zinnia James. Whereas my mother didn’t know thing one about sending or receiving texts, Mrs. James had taken to communicating this way with me quite often. She was a twenty-first-century Southern matron if there ever was one.

Doing fine
, I texted back.

Gave us all quite a scare.

My fingers flew over the touch pad.
No need to worry.

Spare no expense
, came the next message.

I quickly typed a response.
For what?

Will Flores. Santa suit. I’ll drop a check off today
, she responded.

I stared at the phone for a beat. How in the world did she know Will had stepped in to play Santa and that I was making the suit?

Yes, ma’am
, I texted, thinking that maybe Meemaw wasn’t the only one who knew what I needed before I did. Did I wear my every thought on my sleeve?

I didn’t have an answer to that, so I went back to Will. With Mrs. James footing the bill, inexpensive, cheap-looking material wasn’t necessary. “Red velvet upholstery fabric for the coat, pants, hat, and bag,” I said, answering Gracie’s question. “We’ll trim the bottom of the pants and arms, up the center of the coat, around the collar, and the brim of the hat with a winter white long-hair fur fabric. And the belt will be black vinyl.” I eyed my sewing machine, hoping it could handle the heavy-duty fabrics. Once business really started to boom, I would invest in an industrial machine. “The kids will love it,” I added, leaning forward to wrap my arms around Will’s waist. My cheek brushed against his stomach as my left hand grabbed hold of the tape measure, and a jolt of electricity pulsed through me.

I sucked in a quick, stabilizing breath before rattling off the number, dropping the measuring tape, and bending down to take the inseam. I stretched the cloth tape from the top of Will’s shoe to the crotch, my hand trembling just a touch at how intimate this process was with someone you were sort of dating. It would be like him measuring my chest, keeping the tape measure snug as he brought the ends together at my breasts.

I swallowed, and once again I felt heat spread from the soles of my feet to the tips of my ears. I quickly took a second measurement from crotch to the back of his heel, telling Gracie the number as I moved my hands safely back to my own space.

But as I stood and wrapped the cloth tape around his neck, our gazes met and he smiled, and darn it if that twinkle in his eye didn’t tell me that he knew exactly what was going on in my head.

“Bend your elbow and put your hand on your hip,” I said, looking away. I stepped behind him again and measured from the middle of his neck, around the shoulder and elbow, ending at the wrist bone for the sleeve.

The clatter of dishes and chattering in the kitchen distracted me as I did the final measurement, wrapping the tape measure around the fullest part of his hips. “Done,” I said after I’d told Gracie the number.

“Or just getting started,” Will said, that sparkle still in his eyes. “I’ll have to do a fitting, won’t I?”

I leaned against the stool at the worktable, nodding. “I’ll go into Fort Worth today to get the fabric. You’ll have to find black boots and white gloves. And suspenders. I can do an elastic waist, but with the padding, suspenders will look better. Can you do that? Oh! And a beard. And make sure it’s not a cheap one.” He barely nodded as I continued. “I’ll buy a pattern for the coat and can make one for the pants. It’ll work for pajama bottoms, too.” I gulped. “If you ever, you know, wanted me to make you some, I mean.”

“You’re in no condition to drive to Fort Worth,” Will said, stepping down from the milk crate. The thunderstorm had lagged during the night, but was back full force. If I hadn’t known better, I would have guessed that Meemaw had done it, but she didn’t have control over the weather. At least I didn’t think she did. “And just so you know, I’m going to make you a platform. That crate is dangerous.”

“I’m fine to drive,” I said, “and you don’t have to make a platform.” Although I knew he could probably whip one out with hardly a smidgen of effort. I looked up at the dress pulley he’d built and installed for me a few months ago during the Margaret Moffette Lea Pageant and Ball. I’d conceived the idea, but he’d executed it. Beautifully. Anytime I worked on a gown or a wedding dress, I no longer had to worry about the train or skirt of it dragging along the floor. It stayed on the pulley at the ceiling when I wasn’t working on it.

Gracie handed me the sketchbook and I passed through the French doors, leaving the workroom. I held on to the railing as I mounted the three steps leading from the main room of Buttons & Bows, cringing with every step I took, a steady pounding in my head.

Behind me, I heard Gracie whisper something to her dad. He answered, the low rumble of his voice wrapping around me like a warm blanket. Or maybe that was Meemaw.

Rain pounded against the windows. “You plan to drive to Fort Worth in your old jalopy?” He looked outside as another bolt of lightning flashed, shaking his head as he surveyed the ancient truck I’d inherited from Meemaw. “Uh-uh. I’m driving you,” he said. “No argument.”

I turned, ready to refuse again, but the concern in Gracie’s eyes and the firm set of Will’s jaw stopped me. “Okay,” I said without further argument, and ten minutes later, we’d said good-bye to Sandra and Libby, I’d flipped the
CLOSED
sign hanging just outside the front door to my shop, filling in the chalkboard space—
BACK AT 3:00
—and Gracie, Will, and I hurried through the rain to Will’s truck. Before long, we were traveling down Loop 820 toward the Berry Patch in Fort Worth.