Pleating for Mercy (7 page)

“Miss Sandoval,” I heard the sheriff say, “would you step over here?”

Josie looked at Mrs. Kincaid for reassurance, her brown eyes rimmed with red. Nate’s mother nodded. “Okay,” Josie said, but she looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

“Where’s her fiancé?” Mama mused as Josie stumbled down the porch steps and over the flagstone path away from the little group gathered on and around the porch.

Good question.

The sheriff turned back to me. “We’ll need statements from all of you,” he announced to the group. To me, he drawled, “I’ll need to ask you a few more questions, and we’ll be searching the premises. A deputy’ll be up here in a minute. The rest of you,” he said with a wave of his hand, “go out the way you came and give your names and contact information to the deputy with your statement.”

He flagged down a woman dressed in an identical beige uniform, minus the off-white cowboy hat, and gestured to her. She nodded at him, took out a small pad of paper, and intercepted Karen and her husband as they headed toward the sidewalk.

Mrs. Kincaid threw a look over her shoulder, her gaze seeking her future daughter-in-law. “She’s had a terrible shock. It was her maid of honor. What’s he asking her?” she demanded when she got to the deputy.

“It’s routine, ma’am,” the deputy said.

“Routine.” She scoffed. “It’s not like she had anything to do with this . . . this . . .” She waved her arm toward Nell’s body. “With
this
,” she finished.

“Like I said, it’s routine,” the deputy said. “Now, if I can get your name and address.”

Mrs. Kincaid’s voice turned curt. “Mrs. Keith Kincaid,” she said, then rattled off her address.

The deputy didn’t seem fazed by the fact that she was talking to a member of Bliss’s founding family. She wrote the information in her notepad. “Thank you. Now, if you’ll wait for your son’s fiancée outside the gate, we’d certainly appreciate it.”

“You’d best find out who did this,” she challenged, wagging her finger at the deputy.

“We’ll do everything we can.”

The breeze kicked up as Mrs. Kincaid glided through the arbor, turned left on the cracked sidewalk, and waited at her car for Josie.

From where I stood, I could hear the gruff rumble of Hoss McClaine’s voice, but couldn’t make out the words.

“I was coming back to do measurements,” Josie said, and I could picture her putting her hand on her heart as she spoke.

The sheriff’s voice was muffled, but Josie’s grew louder. My skin turned cold as she said, “She was dead when I got here!”

I perched on the edge of the rocking chair, my chin on my fist, trying to keep my worry at bay. Mama sat next to me. We both tried to ignore the commotion in the street with neighbors and passersby stopping to stare.

“She’s the one who discovered the body. He’s got to ask the questions,” Mama said.

I stared at her. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“How do you always know what I’m thinking? You’re not a mind reader.”

“Harlow Jane,” she said, “I’m a mother, and that, sweetheart, comes with a whole ’nother set of abilities.”

I sat back and rocked. All I could think about was the fact that Josie was in a mighty precarious position being questioned by Dirty Harry. “Josie couldn’t have done it,” I said.

“You don’t know that. She discovered the body.”

I amended my statement. “I don’t believe she could have.”

But we both knew that since no one had been with Josie when she discovered Nell’s body, she had no alibi.

The next morning I sat at the kitchen table, my arms folded and serving as a pillow for my head.
Now
sleep wanted to come? It figured.

The sheriff and his crew had stayed until nearly one in the morning. They’d searched the yard and then I’d let them into the shop. Big mistake. They’d riffled through every last drawer and cupboard, leaving things in worse disarray than they’d already been in.

I was up until three a.m. cleaning up the shop and trying to push away the thoughts running rampant through my mind. To say I was spooked was an understatement. A woman had been killed on my property, after being in Buttons & Bows, and the sheriff and his deputies had searched high and low for clues. What if Nell had been killed before seven forty-five when Mama got here? I would have no alibi. Would I become a suspect?

I’d tossed and turned the rest of the night. But the roosters at Mr. Higgins’s place directly next door didn’t care that I needed to sleep in. That was a peculiarity about Bliss. Zoning restrictions were basically nonexistent. We had tiny farms in the middle of town. You needed an acre for a horse, but a chicken coop was fair game on our quarter-acre lots. By six o’clock, I gave up trying to sleep through the cacophony and crawled out of bed. Not even coffee could perk me up.

A fervent knock on the door of Buttons & Bows made me jump. I rubbed my eyes and looked at the redfaced vintage wall clock hanging exactly where it had been, on the brick column next to the kitchen sink, for the last thirty years. For a moment I wondered if, just maybe, it had finally stopped working because according to the hands, it was six fifty in the morning, and that was
way
too early for someone to be needing designer clothes. But it sounded like I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been able to sleep.

The pounding on the door repeated itself, followed by a voice. “Harlow! It’s Josie.”

I jumped up. If there was anyone I desperately wanted to see right now, it was Josie Sandoval. Mrs. Kincaid had whisked her away after the sheriff had interrogated her, so we hadn’t had a chance to talk again. “Coming!” I called.

I’d brushed my teeth and pulled on a pair of cut-off jeans and a sleeveless plaid blouse before coming into the kitchen, none of which painted a picture of a fashion designer. Now I darted a glance around the farmhouse kitchen looking for a way to see my reflection. It might be early and the visit unexpected, but I still figured I should look presentable since Josie was a client.

I spun around. No mirrors. Meemaw had been a purist. A kitchen was for cooking and gathering, not primping. The white plantation shutters at the window above the farm sink suddenly rattled. A wave of panic flowed through me. The murder in my front yard had put me on edge. I’d checked all the window latches before going to bed, hadn’t I? Or maybe I’d just imagined I had.

I pushed the slats open wide enough to reach my hand through to shut the window—“Odd.” I bit my lip. It was closed and locked tight. So what had disturbed the shutters?

Josie pounded on the door again. As I turned away, I caught a distorted glimpse of my reflection in the window. Oh! I was
not
a pretty sight at the moment. Two hours of fitful sleep had that effect on a person. I combed my fingers through the tangles in my hair trying to get it to lie a little flatter. Finally I just gave up. What I looked like at the moment had no bearing on my design and sewing abilities. Josie wouldn’t even notice anyway.

I yanked open the front door and caught Josie with her fist raised, ready to pound on the door again. “I didn’t expect you,” I said.

She dropped her arm to her side. “I know. I’m sorry.”

I brushed her apology away, closing the door after she stepped inside. “Did you get any sleep?” I asked, though from her disheveled hair and red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes, I already knew the answer was no.

She shook her head and collapsed on the sofa, in the exact spot where she’d sat the day before. She buried her face in her hands and her shoulders heaved. I reached for a box of tissues, thinking she was going to break into sobs, but her body stilled and she suddenly sat up straight and looked me in the eye. “How could this have happened?”

My hackles went up. It almost felt like an accusation, and I’d had enough of
that
from the sheriff and the deputy. I didn’t even
know
Nell, for pity’s sake. “I, um . . . Josie . . . don’t know. I hope you don’t think—”

She looked at me, horrified. “Oh, God, no!” She wedged herself into the corner of the sofa, pulling her knees up. “It’s just . . . I mean . . . I can’t believe she’s dead.”

That made two of us. The deputy’s questions the night before had focused on why Nell would have been killed on
my
property. I had no answers to any of her questions. “I only met her today,” I’d told the officer, to which she’d replied, “Interesting.”

“You know, just when things were going really well for her. It’s not fair,” Josie said.

“I don’t think murder is ever fair.”

Josie ran her index fingers under her eyes, wiping away the tears pooling there. “But she had a tough childhood, you know? She was a foster kid. God, the things she told me.” She sniffed, dabbing her red-tipped nose with a tissue. “I had it pretty rough as a kid. No dad. My mom worked two jobs. That’s why I glommed on to you, you know? I felt like we were the same. Neither one of us had a dad around, but you had your mom, your grandmother, and, of course, Loretta Mae. I used to wish I was part of your family. There was something so special about all of you.”

Guilt wound through me. I hadn’t known then what Josie had needed from me. I’d just seen her as a shadow, a constant presence, and had never paid her any mind. “I’m sorry I wasn’t—”

She flung up her hand. “Don’t. There’s nothing to be sorry for, Harlow. You were there for me, even if you didn’t know it. I remember thinking to myself:
She made it without her father. So can I
. And now look.” She spread her arms wide. “I’m marrying into a good family and I’m in love. I’ve been lucky.” Her smile faded. “Nell wasn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it wrong to talk about her now?” The look she gave me sent me reeling back to when we were kids. Her big brown eyes would gaze up at me like I was her big sister. She’d thought I had all the answers back then, which I didn’t. And I sure didn’t have them now. I made it up as I went along, pulling pieces of wisdom from Mama, Nana, and Meemaw—my holy trinity. “Of course not. She died, but we aren’t going to forget her.”

She dropped her chin, shaking her head as if she was disappointed with herself. “I just . . . I wish I could have stopped her from making mistakes.”

I got up and moved in front of her, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. “It’s not your fault.”

“I was running late last night, counting the RSVPs for the wedding. If I’d been on time . . .”

“We don’t know why she was killed. If you’d been on time, you might have been a victim, too.”

“She was hooking up with guys she met on the Internet. Exaggerdating, she called it. Not a single one of the guys she went out with was honest in his profile.”

“Why’d she keep doing it?”

Josie stared into space for a minute. “She never thought she was good enough, like being on her own for so long meant no one could really love her. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy, you know?”

Oh, yeah, I knew. I’d met dozens of people in the fashion world who were on collision courses of self-destruction and they all had their warped, twisted reasons. Not enough love. Too much love. Power. Money. Jealousy. Binging and purging. Drugs instead of food. All the dirt comes out in the wash, as Meemaw would say.

“She said she found Mr. Right, but I think he was just using her,” Josie continued.

“What makes you think that?” I asked.

“He just came and went as he pleased. She’d meet him every day for a few weeks, then nothing for a month. He couldn’t commit, but didn’t want to give up the fun.”

I’d met plenty of that kind of man. “Why buy the cow when you’re getting the milk for free?” Meemaw said when I complained to her about the guys I was dating.

“I’m not giving anybody any milk!” I’d been indignant, and also untruthful. I’m sure she knew I’d poured a glass or two over the years, but I’d learned my lesson. I was past the point of settling for someone who wasn’t in it for the long haul.

“What if he’s the one that . . . that . . .” Josie looked at me and said, “What if he did this to her?”

I was asking myself the very same question. “Did you tell the sheriff all of this?”

She nodded. “He said they’d look into it. They’d search her apartment. Look through her computer.”

“If they took her computer, I’m sure they’ll be able to find out who she dated and see if there’s a connection. Can I get you something?” Josie looked like she could use a stiff drink, but I offered tea or coffee.

“Coffee,” she said.

I went into the kitchen, grabbed a couple of black-and-gold Maximilian mugs from the cupboard, and opened my coffee drawer to contemplate the selections. Emeril’s Vanilla Bean, Extra Bold Dark Magic, Mudslide, and Southern Pecan were my favorites. I took a wild guess as to which Josie would prefer and went with Southern Pecan. I popped the sealed pod of flavored coffee into the machine, pressed a button, the coffeemaker purred to life, and thirty seconds later a steaming cup of brewed coffee was ready. I didn’t know if the wedding was on or off, but right now, it seemed Josie just needed a friend.

I brewed the Dark Magic for myself, added cream, and carried both cups back to the sitting area. “Here you go,” I said, sounding much more chipper than I felt. Josie had painted a picture of Nell as a damaged woman. She’d never found the happiness she’d been searching for. This realization felt like a cold fist closing around my heart.

We sipped in silence for a few minutes. Finally Josie set her mug down on the coffee table and reached for her purse. Hers was not designer like Nell’s had been, which made me curious. “Where did Nell get her Gucci purse? One of her boyfriends, maybe?”

“From Mr. Right.”

Even though Josie was marrying one of the richest bachelors in town, she carried an ordinary inexpensive cloth handbag. It had tiny little colorful flowers on a cream background—and it fit her, just like everything else she wore. Maybe it was like the engagement ring. Josie knew who she was and what she liked. It was all comfortable, casual, and understated. No pretense.