Pleating for Mercy (21 page)

“I couldn’t find anything wrong under the sink, but like I told you, I’m not a plumber.”

No, he was an architect and a historical society guy.

“You’ll have to hire yourself a real plumber for that problem,” he said.

“Okay, then,” I said, but I suspected there was nothing wrong with the pipes except Meemaw’s spirit hammering around with them. “What else is on the list?”

He reached one hand into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, handing it to me.

I got a mouthful of grief when I recognized Meemaw’s spindly handwriting. The list was at least fifteen items long, from sealing the window casements to refinishing the kitchen table. Looked like I’d be spending a lot of time with Gracie Flores as payment. “You can cross number ten off the list,” I said, handing the paper back to him.

His eyes scanned the list. “You don’t want help organizing the attic?” One eyebrow arched up. “I’ve been up there.”

I would honor as many of Meemaw’s wishes as possible, but the attic was personal. It was filled with family memories, heirlooms, and Cassidy history. I didn’t want to share that with a stranger. “It’ll be work, I know, but I’ll do it.”

He didn’t mention it again, just folded the paper back into a square and tucked it away in his shirt pocket. “The application to make this house part of the historical society is almost processed,” he said, turning to go.

I blinked with surprise. “What?”

He stopped at the front door. “You didn’t know?”

Slowly, I shook my head. Good Lord, what other land mines had Meemaw set?

“Loretta Mae showed up at the Bliss Historical Society about a month before she passed. Not only is this house one of the original dwellings off the square and one of the oldest homes in town, but when Bonnie and Clyde went on their rampage through the county, they hung out in Bliss, robbed the bank on the square, and hid out in your backyard.”

I gawked in disbelief. “I’ve never heard that story.” I folded my arms over my chest and tapped my foot. “Is that really true? They hid out
here
?”

“It’s true, Cassidy. This house is going on the registry. The society sent your great-grandmother letters for years, but she never answered them. Then one day, she just showed up and asked what in tarnation we’d been waiting for,” he said with a chuckle.

“Well, I’ll be. Do I need to do anything?”

“I’ll bring the final documents by when they’re done. At some point, we’ll have our photographer come out. The society’s making plans for a calendar and a book of Bliss history and unforgettable characters. This house will be in both.”

Out back, the
slap slap slap
of the gate banging in the breeze sounded like raucous clapping.
Meemaw—she was up to her usual tricks
. Once again, she’d gotten what she’d wanted. “Do you have that gate latch on your list?” I asked. If Meemaw kept messing with it, Thelma Louise, or one of Nana’s other feisty goats, was sure to find the way back into my yard.

“Yep.”

“Good. Maybe it can move to the top?”

He nodded. “Gracie’s going to stop by this afternoon,” he said as he headed out.

So I had a few hours. I needed a break from my workroom. And I needed to talk to Hoss McClaine. I grabbed my purse, stepped onto the porch, and locked up. On a little hook to the right of the door, I hung up a little custom chalkboard sign I’d had made.

 

The Dressmaker’s on a fashion errand.
Back at ______.

 

I filled in the blank with “3:00 p.m.,” then hightailed it down the steps to the sidewalk. I turned left on Mockingbird Lane and started walking toward the Sheriff’s Department.

 

Before I’d accompanied Josie, the last time I had been in the sheriff’s office was when I was eighteen. I’d been accepted at UT-Austin. I’d packed my bags and I’d been itching to shake the dust of Bliss off my boot heels and strike out on my own, but my brother, Red, had persuaded me to go joyriding through a field of Longhorns out on Old Hickory Road one last time. Too bad the rancher who owned that land and those cattle hadn’t thought our riding through was a joy. He’d called the sheriff, then come out to play chicken with us. Red drove Nana’s beat-up old pickup, and Old Man Poindexter manned a brand-spanking-new Ford 4x4. “There’s no way he can win,” Red yelled. He revved the engine, then gunned it, dirt spewing from beneath the back tires as they spun.

But he’d underestimated the rancher’s gumption. He didn’t want teenagers messing around on his ranch, troubling his cattle. “He’s not turning!” I shrieked, squeezing my eyes shut and ducking my head.

“Shit!” Red cranked the steering wheel to the left, round and round and round. I braced myself, waiting for the impact of the crash, but instead, we spun out, and then finally jerked to a stop.

Poindexter was already out of his truck, bearing down on us, the barrel of his rifle steady. We stayed like that till Deputy Sheriff Hoss McClaine came to haul us away.

It took everything I had not to slip back into the memory of being read the riot act by McClaine before he’d been sheriff. That was then, this was now. I was years wiser than my eighteen-year-old self. Hopefully, he realized that.

We sat opposite each other, his monstrous oak desk like a battlefield between us. I had the sudden feeling that
he
knew that
I
knew about him and Mama, though how he’d know, I didn’t know, and it was a big ol’ white elephant in the room. But Mama’s words had stuck with me. She was making her own happiness. I might not like that Hoss McClaine was keeping their relationship on the down-low, but it wasn’t my business.

“What can I do for ya, Harlow?” His gravelly voice was like sand under my bare feet. It was warm and soothing, despite the roughness.

“I have some information about Nell Gellen that I think you should know.” The weight of the promise I’d made to Ruthann pressed on my heart, but I’d deal with that later. If it helped bring Nell justice, surely Ruthann would understand.

McClaine listened, his hands laced together on the desk, while I told him about Nell’s reckless love life, the fact that she thought she’d finally found love, and her pregnancy. “If Nate is the killer, Josie can’t go through with the wedding. And if Josie’s the killer, then . . . then . . .” Then my faith in old friendships, my judgment of character, and maybe of humanity, would be totally shattered.

McClaine waved one of his weathered hands around in front of him. “It’ll be okay. You always did go straight for the drama.”

My hands gripped the arms of the chair. “What?”

“This is good information, Harlow,” he rumbled.

I breathed slowly, letting his comment slide away. “So you’ll look into it?”

I half expected him to respond by saying something like “Is a gopher happy in soft dirt?” Instead, he nodded solemnly. “Oh, I’ll be lookin’ into it, don’t you worry.”

I thanked him and started to leave, but stopped at the door. “Sheriff?”

He leaned back, the front legs of his chair lifting from the ground. “Yes, ma’am?”

“I’m making Josie’s wedding dress.”

“I heard tell about that. Heard it’s bad luck to make another woman’s marriage gown.”

Ah, he’d been talking to Mama. “That’s silly, and I don’t believe it. I was just wondering, do I keep working on it? If she or Nate did—”

The front legs of his chair dropped to the ground. “You keep working on it, Harlow. We don’t know yet what happened to that woman. As of now, the Sandoval-Kincaid wedding is on, which means that girl needs a dress. You stop working on it, they’ll wonder why, and that won’t help my investigation none.”

Hoss McClaine was a straight shooter. Had to appreciate
that
about him. I thanked him again and stepped back into the hallway . . . and bumped right into Madelyn Brighton.

“Harlow!” Her eyes darted to McClaine’s door. “Everything okay?”

I grabbed her sleeve, pulling her down the hallway with me. “It’s nothing. He’s, uh, seeing my mother, but
shhh
.” I held my finger to my lips. “It’s a secret.”

She pressed her lips together, turned an imaginary key with her fingers, and smiled. “Got it.” We walked together down the hall toward the exit. “I was just about to ring you up,” she said.

I lifted my shoulders and smiled. “You were?”

“Yes.” She bounced slightly as she walked, like she was bubbling over with excitement. “The Kincaid family’s having a big gala for their foundation.”

“Uh-huh.”

“My husband can’t make it. He’s got a committee meeting at the college. Scholarships, you know. There’s so much administrative work to be done. Anyway, I have an extra ticket if you want to come along.”

My stomach instantly knotted. I was more a behindthe-scenes kind of person. I made garments for other people to shine in while I steered clear of the limelight. Being front and center at a Kincaid event wasn’t my style. “I have a lot to do, what with the wedding—”

She dropped her voice to a whisper. “It might give you an opportunity to snoop around a little bit. Talk to people. Do a little of that sleuthing we talked about. What do you say?”

I wavered. I could dress up like Cinderella and snoop like Jessica Fletcher or Miss Marple. “On second thought, it sounds great, Madelyn. Thank you.”

“Excellent! Pick you up at six thirty. See you then. Ta-ta!” She pivoted on her practical, flat-heeled shoes and headed back down the hall, skipping every third step. Nell’s pregnancy, and her plan to announce it at the rehearsal dinner, had changed everything for me. Madelyn was right. Going to the gala would be a great opportunity to talk to people, but I no longer thought I was helping Josie by proving Nate innocent.

What I found as I searched my closet was that I had plenty of classic pieces, the foundation of any wardrobe, but not much that was really gala-worthy. I’d never had a need, so I’d never created a gown for myself. My best option was the little black dress I’d designed for my roommate and fellow Maximilian minion back in New York, Orphie Cates. I’d almost finished the dress, but before the final fitting, the pressure of Maximilian had gotten to her. She’d up and quit one day, packed her belongings, and left Manhattan. I hadn’t heard from her since.

To leave the dress undone was the equivalent of starting a book and not finishing it. I couldn’t leave characters hanging in my mind with no conclusion to their story. By the same token, I couldn’t leave an article of clothing I was working on incomplete, unable to realize its potential for the wearer, whoever that might be. I’d adjusted the sizing and finished the dress so it would fit me, but I’d never had an occasion to wear it.

Until now.

I’d kept Meemaw’s full-length mirror when I’d moved my things into her room. The buttercup walls and dormer windows made the room bright and warm, but that didn’t banish the feeling that this wasn’t really my room. And even though Orphie had never worn the little black dress, I still felt like it belonged to her, not me.

I looked at my reflection, remembering the hours and hours I’d spent on the beadwork tracing the deep V neckline. The inch-wide strip of black, silver, and gold iridescent beads caught the light as I turned. I’d used ruching on the bodice, a technique that brought the eye inward, slimming the body. Of course, the Spanx I wore underneath didn’t hurt in that department, either. When I paired the dress with transparent black tights patterned with tiny dots, I had to admit I was pleased as punch with it.

“It needs something, though,” I mumbled as I pulled my corkscrew hair up in back, securing it with a few bobby pins in an artfully messy bun.

The closet door slid open with a bang. I gasped. “Meemaw! You’re going to give me a heart attack!” I had accepted that she was still here with me, but dang if it didn’t still catch me by surprise every time she made her presence known. I padded toward the crammed closet and peered into the depths. I waited, but nothing happened. Maybe Meemaw was just bored.

But as I took a step back, my foot landed on something hard. I looked down. Lying on the floor, where it hadn’t been a few seconds ago, was a beaded cuff. The perfect accessory for my little black dress.

As I bent to pick it up, a warm pocket of lavenderscented air moved around me. My head snapped up. “Meemaw?” I held up the bracelet. “Thank you.” Who knew where it had come from, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to see her. To hear her voice. To hug her.

The closet door slowly slid closed behind me. I turned, my gaze drawn to a pair of black suede pumps I’d bought more than a year ago at one of Maximilian’s accessory sales. Even with the employee discount, they’d been pricey, but the edgy zipper detailing at the toe and heel had been such an unexpected twist that I’d splurged. “I forgot about these,” I murmured, slipping them on.

I suddenly knew just how Cinderella had felt after her fairy godmother had chanted, “Bibbity bobbity boo” and done her magic. I felt bathed in love and warmth.

The lingering floral scent was fading. “Are you still here?” I spun around, hoping to see the swirling air or her ghostly form, but I was alone.

Meemaw’s rocking chair sat in the corner next to the oval mirror. My dresser held photos of Orphie and me during Fashion Week in front of the fountain at Lincoln Center’s Damrosch Park, Nana surrounded by goats nipping at her pockets, and Mama and Meemaw, the spitting image of each other right down to the blond streak in their hair, on the front porch of this house. I picked up the frame. Mama’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. I’d never noticed that before. Meemaw gazed right at the camera, her head tilted toward Mama, her smile genuine and complete as she stood there with her granddaughter. It was all about family for Meemaw. It always had been. I suddenly understood how brokenhearted she must have been when I’d left Bliss.

My gaze went back to my mother, and I felt a little piece of my own heart fold in on itself. I’d been well into my twenties when it finally hit me that not only had my father left my brother and me, but Mama’s husband had walked out on her. The sadness was right there in plain sight. I’d have seen it if I’d only been looking.