Deadly Patterns (14 page)

Chapter 19

My position in the town’s hierarchy was somewhere between that of a ranch hand out on FM Road 31 and Josie’s new role as wife to one of Bliss’s favorite sons. And I was happy with that. I felt comfortable flying under the radar. All of the Cassidy women did. Most of the time we succeeded in remaining there, but occasionally, being lower on the totem pole got my dander up.

Being haughtily summoned by Mrs. Helen Abernathy put me in a mood. Having Zinnia James request the pleasure of my company was one thing. After all, she was my unofficial benefactor and the business she sent my way was going a long way toward keeping Buttons & Bows afloat—no small feat in a small town prone to polyester and corduroy.

To ignore Mrs. Abernathy’s call would lead to trouble, seeing as how she and Mrs. James were . . . I’d been about to finish that thought with the word “friends,” but really, I wasn’t so sure “friendship” hit the mark. They were cordial, sure, but there always seemed to be a thread of tension between them.

But more than anything, I was curious. I wasn’t sure why she had summoned me, but it had piqued my interest. Telling Will about my charm and my recent criminal activity would have to wait.

I left Will and Madelyn to stare at each other, offering them both a quick wave and an “I’ll see you later!” Then I leaned into the icy wind as I hurried back home. Why hadn’t I driven to the town offices?

A few minutes later, I sat in the old truck I’d inherited from Meemaw. “Come on, Bessie,” I said, holding my breath as I turned the key. It took three tries, but it finally sputtered to life. I blasted the heat first thing. It didn’t do much to thaw my frozen fingers and toes, but it was a start.

I rumbled north toward the ritzier part of town the Abernathys called home. The house sat amidst grassy fields and slightly rolling hills. Horses meandered across the large properties, and occasionally, a Longhorn, its horns looking far too heavy to be held up by its head, popped into view.

The truck lurched to a stop in front of the Abernathys’ sprawling stone house. I didn’t dare park in the driveway for fear old Bessie would leak oil and tarnish the pristine cobbled drive.

Instead, I parked along the road, tightened my coat around me, and fought the wind as I walked up the stone path, past a little pond, over a mini bridge to the other side of the pond, and up the front steps. I stopped long enough to tilt my head back and stare up at the turrets and faux balcony just above the entry.

The Royal Abernathys.

I reached the massive, hand-scraped wood door, used the door knocker, then stood back, shivering, while I waited. And waited. Finally, as I raised my hand to knock again, the enormous door swung open and Mrs. Abernathy stood there. I stared, my breath catching in my throat. She was wearing the exact outfit I’d imagined her in the day I’d fallen from the widow’s walk at the Denison mansion. The asymmetrical lavender sweater was darker than the one I’d imagined, but it buttoned at the top and hung beautifully. A white tailored blouse with darts and a flared hem peeking out at the bottom of the sweater made it a bit whimsical. The look was finished off with coordinating lavender pants.

“Goodness gracious, Harlow, what is it now? Didn’t your mother teach you any manners? Every time I see you, you stare in horror.”

Mama taught me plenty of manners, but they flew out the window in the face of a memory. Or maybe it had been a premonition. Was my charm evolving? I clamped my mouth shut, trying to school my expression. “I—I’m sorry, Mrs. Abernathy. I just . . . that outfit . . .” I shook the cotton from my thoughts. “You look lovely,” I finally said.

She stepped aside, allowing me to pass into the massive front entry. The floor was a continuation of the stone from outside and the whole place reminded me of a medieval castle.

Beyond the foyer was an enormous gathering room that spilled into the kitchen, divided by a long work surface of glossy granite. In the living area, heavy neutral-hued furniture sat in stark contrast to the distinctive stonework of the house. The only bit of homeyness came from a neatly folded stack of throws and a large dark wood antique ladder leaning against a corner wall, with quilts hanging from each of the ladder’s rungs.

I recognized a Colonial-era whole-cloth quilt and a broderie perse, a time-consuming project in which flowers and motifs were cut from expensive pieces of fabric and tiny seams were turned before they were appliquéd to a solid piece of cloth. Hung haphazardly on the bottom rung, like the runt of a goat herd, was a traditional pioneer patchwork.

The pieces of women’s history lent a personal touch to the room, but they weren’t enough to soften the general atmosphere.

She held out her hand to me. The formality sent me reeling—I was so out of my league here. The Cassidy clan had always hung out in the kitchen, no one thought a thing about padding around with their shoes off, and I was pretty sure no one really knew the definition of the word “formal.”

Sure, I could sew for the rich and famous all day long, but mingle with them? Um, no. I was a behind-the-scenes kind of girl—the very reason I created clothing rather than modeling it. Well, that and the fact that I had an innate talent for it, and at five seven and size eight, next to a posse of five-foot-ten-inch, size zero women, I was vertically and weight challenged.

I summoned up my Cassidy pride and gumption. Nana had gone to school with Mrs. Abernathy, and Meemaw had probably seen the woman in diapers. I could hold my own with one of Bliss’s elite.

I drew off my red suede gloves and started to shake her hand, but she yanked it back as if she’d been burned by my touch. “Your coat, Harlow.”

“Oh.” The heat of embarrassment rose up my neck. “Oh, sorry. I thought . . .”

Uh-uh. I wasn’t going to let three little words zap my confidence. I slipped out of my coat—and the sweater I had on underneath my jacket—and gave them to her. “Never mind.”

After she handed them off to a maid, she turned back to me. Her lips pursed. “Thank you for coming. You’re looking none the worse for wear after your fall.”

“Still a trifle sore, but I’m fine.” There was no point harboring resentment because the woman didn’t like me. I reminded myself that whatever she felt stemmed from the falling-out she, Mrs. James, and my grandmother had had years ago. It had nothing to do with me.

“Fashion emergency?” I asked, letting my lips curve up.

She didn’t return the smile, nor did she deign to answer the question, making it clear that I wasn’t on her speed dial even if she were in fashion crisis. Instead, she gestured to the high-backed gray velvet couch. “Have a seat, Harlow.”

Again with the formality. A checkered NASCAR flag went up in my head, but I scooted toward the sofa—by way of the quilts, just to take a closer gander at the fine stitching and intricate details—finally perching on the edge of the sofa and clasping my hands in my lap. “Love the quilts,” I said. “Are they family heirlooms?”

“Of course. Why else would I keep them?” she said snootily. “Quilting bees. Underground railroad. Marriage quilts. My family did it all.”

“I just saw one at the Historical Society that’s part of the Texas Quilt Project—”

She held up her hand, silencing me. So much for idle chitchat and Southern hospitality. I knew why I’d come, but good Lord, why had she called me here? Maybe she wanted to pump me for information about Zinnia James. Or was I about to be chastised for not having the outfits complete for the Winter Wonderland fashion show? What if she wanted to coerce me into helping her convince my grandmother to sell her property to the city? Or . . .

I tried to wrangle my spiraling thoughts, but finally I decided to just let them all go and cut to the chase. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Abernathy?”

Her heels clicked against the wood floor as she walked around the seating area and lowered herself onto a black linen slipper chair. The accent pillow behind her back made her posture perfect and I wondered if the woman ever slouched. Or relaxed. Perhaps she was missing that particular gene. “Harlow,” she said, followed by a weighty sigh, “that man plunging to his death has put quite a damper on the fashion show.”

It was a big downer for Dan Lee Chrisson, too, I thought grimly.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued. “It was a tragedy. Thank heavens you weren’t hurt.”

“Thank you,” I said, seizing the opening. “Did you know him well?”

“Well enough to know he didn’t belong on that widow’s walk. What in heaven’s name he was doing up there we may never know, but he was, and now he’s dead. But, Harlow, we’ve put too much time and money into the renovations of the house to let this stall the reopening.”

“I don’t think it will,” I said.

“We need to do some PR. The Winter Wonderland starts tomorrow, and we have just days until the fashion show and the grand reopening of the Denison mansion. All the kids think Santa’s dead. Or at least the man who was to play Santa.”

“But Will Flores is taking over,” I said. “The suit’s just about done and he’ll be ready to hear all the toy wishes of the boys and girls.”

Her chin drifted down. “Is he, now?”

“Yes. I told Mrs. James. It’s all worked out.”

She folded one arm over her chest, angling the other up to cup her chin with her hand. “Splendid. That saves you scads of time. No need to scramble to find someone to fill in. Will Flores,” she said, more to herself than to me. “Not robust, but yes, he’ll do.”

I bristled. Mrs. James had put me in charge of all the events leading up to the fashion show. Mrs. Abernathy’s criticisms at this late date rankled me. “He’ll more than do, Mrs. Abernathy. He’s going to make a great St. Nick.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, but I wasn’t sure she’d actually heard me. “So he’ll be ready for pictures this afternoon then?”

I sputtered. “What pictures?”

“PR, Harlow. I just got off the phone with Mrs. Brighton, that amateur photographer who seems to work just about everywhere. She’ll take them. She was the best I could do on short notice. We’ll meet at the Denison mansion at three o’clock sharp, do the photo op, and make sure that everyone in town knows that Santa is alive and well.”

“Will has a job, you know—”

“You say he’s agreed to play the part, so he’ll have to make the time for this,” she said, waving away my objection. “We’ve invested far too much time and money to let this event collapse because that man was nosing around and fell to his death.”

“Mrs. Abernathy!” I exclaimed, but her words sent my thoughts reeling. What made her think Dan Lee had been nosing around, and what did she think he was looking for?

“Oh, come now. I’m not going to mince words with you. I know far too much about the Cassidys and how you all love to be coy.”

I stared at her, struggling to stay seated and not simply storm out. “Why do you think he was nosing around?” I asked after my anger passed.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, he was paid to work on the renovations.” She leaned forward, just enough to punctuate her words and leave me wondering what else she knew. “It’s too bad he fell, but he had no business out there on the widow’s walk.”

“He fell, Mrs. Abernathy,” I said slowly, “but it wasn’t an accident.”

She didn’t bat an eye, but the line of her lips drew thinner. “Is that so,” she said, more of a statement than a question. “That is unfortunate.”

“He had a baby—”

“And a girlfriend, from what I hear,” she snapped. “Don’t paint him as some saint, Harlow. He was a coward. He left his wife and child and took up with a pretty young thing who’d stroke his ego.”

I couldn’t argue with any of that, but there was something about Mrs. Abernathy’s intensity that gave me pause. “That doesn’t mean he deserved to die.”

“Well, of course not, but it’s not your business.”

She was right, of course, but images of Raylene’s tearstained face and her little baby, Boone, were permanently stamped in my mind. I was determined to do what I could to help her, if that was even possible.

“The sheriff says the railing was tampered with. Will looked at it too. The screws were stripped. They couldn’t be tightened.” I met her gaze. “Someone pushed him, Mrs. Abernathy, and I’m trying to figure out who.”

Chapter 20

Design school had taught me that a dart is a short jab into a pristine piece of cloth. Maximilian taught me that garments can be founded on the concept of darts, and with the right fabric and perfect fit, they can make a piece of clothing beautiful.

But Meemaw taught me that a dart is nothing but an incomplete line. “A painter uses color, Harlow. A composer uses notes. A writer creates images with words. We use lines in the same way—to express ideas and thoughts and evoke emotions.”

A carefully placed dart gives a designer control. The Santa suit had no darts. No lines to control. And walking into the Denison mansion with the suit draped over my arm, I felt my lack of control spill into the whole Winter Wonderland event.

Yes, the halls of the old Victorian were decked with evergreen boughs, poinsettias, sheer wire-rimmed red ribbon, and shimmery glass ornaments delicately piled in a silver bowl sitting on the occasional table. But a frenzy of angry words came at me, batted back and forth from two voices I recognized all too well.

“This is absurd.”

“It’s necessary. The man died. We need to—”

“You are a manipulative—”

“No, pragmatic.”

“You’ve turned this into a circus.”

“Zinnia Hecker James, so help me,” Mrs. Abernathy said, a thread of venom in her voice. “We need to do this damage control, and we need to do it now.”

I slung the garment bag over my arm and looked for a way to slip past the parlor where they were arguing, but it was impossible. The kitchen was straight ahead, and the stairs were to the right. They’d see me no matter which way I turned.

I did the only thing I could think of. As quietly as I could, I turned the doorknob and backed outside into the brittle cold.

“Where are we sneaking off to?”

“Lord almighty!” I gasped, spinning around.

Will stood just behind me, a wicked little grin on his face. “Mexico? The Bahamas? Somewhere warm.”

“Why, Mr. Flores,” I said, doing my best Scarlett O’Hara, “I do believe you’re proposing something indecent and immoral.” And tempting. “But if we leave,” I said, playing along and giving a pointed look at the door, “who’ll make sure Mrs. James and Mrs. Abernathy don’t kill each other?”

“Let Gavin McClaine earn his keep ’round here.”

I had a fashion show to put on and kids who needed to sit on Santa’s lap. “I don’t think Deputy Gavin has the gumption to handle those two women. They’re at each other’s throats in there.”

“Ah, hence the sneaking out.” He took the garment bag from me. “My new duds?”

“All ready for your debut as St. Nick.”

“Great,” he said, but the enthusiasm in his voice didn’t reach his eyes.

He started to open the door, but I put my gloved hand on his, stopping him. “Will?”

I’d escaped a full confession earlier, but the urge to tell him everything kept surfacing inside of me and I couldn’t tamp it down. Meemaw always told me that piecing together a quilt was like figuring out how the different parts of your life worked together. Sometimes things clashed, but mostly you ended up with something warm and comforting, even if it wasn’t what you’d planned. But there was nothing comforting about the argument going on inside the mansion, or about the death of Dan Lee Chrisson, aka Charles Denison. There was nothing warm and fuzzy about suddenly being wrapped up in another suspicious death. And there was nothing comforting about keeping secrets from Will.

Now was not the time or the place to talk about my charms, but I needed to tell him about what Madelyn and I had discovered.

He paused, his hand on the door handle.

Quickly, and through chattering teeth, I filled him in on what Madelyn and I had done after he’d left the night before, ending with, “So it looks like Dan Lee Chrisson was really Charles Denison.”

He lost his smile altogether. “You broke in?”

“The door was unlocked. I figured the Sheriff’s Department left it open, or maybe Maggie went back there and left again in a hurry.” I’d come up with several possibilities, but really, did it matter?

Will put his hand on the back of his neck, looking down at me with humorless eyes. “That was risky, Harlow.”

I’d been around Will enough to know that he used my given name only when he was ultra-serious. Usually it was Cassidy or Darlin’. He’d called me Sugar once or twice, but I could count the number of times he’d called me Harlow on one hand.

Harlow was my great-great-great-grandmother Texana’s maiden name, but it didn’t sound quite right spilling from Will’s mouth.

“I know,” I admitted, “but I thought we might find something, and I was right. He wasn’t who he said he was. Maybe Raylene figured that out. Or Hattie and Arnie. Or maybe Mrs. Abernathy did. One of them could have been blackmailing him.”

“That assumes he had some important reason for keeping it a secret,” Will said.

“He must have. Why else change your name?”

He frowned. “You need to tell Hoss,” he said.

Relief flowed through me. He didn’t look thrilled, but he didn’t look horrified either. “Do I?”

“If it’ll help their investigation, then hell yes.”

He was right, of course. I’d have to tell the sheriff. I’d just leave Madelyn’s name out of it.

“There’s something else,” I said, the cold seeping into my bones. My fingers and toes had turned numb and I was sure my nose had to be as red as Rudolph’s.

He waited, not looking the least bit chilled by the thirty-five-degree weather. “Mrs. Abernathy . . .” I hadn’t really put into words what had been bothering me since the day I fell from the roof, but . . .

“What about her?” he prompted.

“Mrs. James and I met her here just after Dan, er, Charles Denison died. The thing is, Mrs. Abernathy and Mrs. James are like clones of each other.”

“Don’t let them hear you say that,” he said with a wry smile.

“Oh, I won’t. But they are. Always dressed to the nines. Completely tuned to what others think, say, and do. And punctual. They grew up the same as Loretta Mae and they have her same philosophy.”

“You mean about showing respect to whoever you’re meeting by being on time?”

I soundlessly snapped my gloved fingers, frozen through the knit. “Exactly. If you’re late, then it’s a slap in the face to the other person, saying you don’t respect their time.”

“Don’t know if I agree with that,” he said. “Sometimes things are out of a person’s control.”

“Right, but that’s just it. Not to them. Mrs. Abernathy was late that day. Granted it had been raining, but she said the traffic light was out on Henrietta.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I’d just come over Henrietta and the light was fine—”

“It could have gone out after you were there.”

“Maybe, but there wasn’t any traffic. Not a soul. So even if it was out, she wouldn’t have been late.”

“So what are you getting at?” he repeated.

I hesitated. “It’s nothing I can put my finger on.”

“What? Spill it.”

“It’s just . . . what if she was the one to have a fight with him? She was late, and I don’t think it was because of the light. Something was on her mind.”

He dropped his hand from the doorknob. “Did they know each other?”

I didn’t know the answer to that. “Just through the project here, I think, but that’s another thing. Isn’t it strange that Abernathy Home Builders did the renovations for the house? They usually build new homes, not remodel old ones.”

“Yeah, we were surprised they bid on it with Barnett,” he said. “They came in pretty low. But that has nothing to do with Charles Denison, or whoever he was.”

“Mrs. Abernathy told me that Dan Lee was nosing around where he shouldn’t have been. What could he have been looking for?”

“It’s an old house,” he said with a shrug.

“That used to belong to his family. What if . . .” I struggled to put the idea that had been formulating at the back of my mind into words. “What if something’s hidden here? What if Mrs. Abernathy knows and that’s why they bid on the job? And what if Mrs. Abernathy wanted to stop Dan Lee from finding whatever it is?”

His eyebrows lifted as he followed my train of thought. “And you think she really could have pushed him off the widow’s walk?”

“Maybe that’s why she was late. Maybe she’d already been at the house, but then had to leave and circle back to meet us outside.”

The door flung open and I jumped, ramming into Will. “Harlow,” Mrs. Abernathy said. She leveled her gaze at me, her dark eyes narrowing as if she knew exactly what I’d been saying. “I thought I heard you come in a few minutes ago.”

I swallowed the lump of nerves that had climbed to my throat. “I was—”

“Never mind.” She stepped aside, letting us pass. “You can go upstairs and change,” she told Will.

There was no arguing with her. At the top of the stairs, Will shot me a backward glance, but then he disappeared into a room, garment bag in hand. In a few minutes he would emerge as Santa Claus.

Mrs. Abernathy beckoned me with her finger. “You come with me.”

I followed her into the parlor. Mrs. James stood at the window in her low-heeled navy pumps, trim navy skirt, and cream-colored blouse.

“Harlow, my dear.” Mrs. James strode toward me, her arms outstretched. She clasped my hand in hers. “Once again, you’ve saved the day.”

Mrs. Abernathy hadn’t shifted her attention and I felt the heat of her gaze on me. “How did I do that?” I asked nervously. If Mrs. Abernathy was a murderer and if she suspected I knew anything, there was nothing stopping her from doing to me what she’d done to Dan Lee.

“You’ve given the kids Santa Claus. This whole thing would have been a flop if your Mr. Flores hadn’t stepped up.”

“He’s not my—,” I started to say, but stopped as the front door opened and Madelyn bustled in, camera equipment in tow.

“It’s a bloody icebox out there,” she exclaimed as the strap of her camera bag slid down the puffy sleeve of her down jacket. She shifted her load, grabbing for it and setting it on the floor.

I rushed toward her, taking the tripod from her arms.

“Thanks, love. Put it over by the screen.”

I followed the direction of her extended arm.

And stared, slack-jawed.

Right there in the corner between the staircase and the entrance to the kitchen, big as day, was a dark fabric backdrop hanging from a horizontal bar that was attached to two light-stand supports.

A lush Christmas tree, fully trimmed with twinkling white lights and Victorian ornaments, an enormous overstuffed thronelike chair, and a painted open box filled with red-and-white-striped candy canes sitting on top of an antique side table created the holiday scene. So this was where Will would play his part as Santa Claus.

A dull pounding started in my temples, wending its way around to the back of my head. How had I missed seeing that whole setup? Maybe I had a concussion and the doctors had missed it.

Madelyn’s voice floated in my head like gauze in a summer breeze. She angled her head at me. “You okay, Harlow?”

“What? Oh, yeah, I’m fine.” I said, trying to swallow my worry. I’d just been distracted by Mrs. James and Mrs. Abernathy, that was all. My powers of observation were fine. They had to be. Fashion design is all about high standards, exact measurements, and precision when cutting patterns. I need to see the details . . . even non-sewing-related things.

Madelyn looked skeptical, but the clomping of footsteps on the stairs pulled her attention away from me. “Well, would you look at that,” Madelyn said.

If I hadn’t known it was Will, I never would have guessed it. The red suit fit him perfectly, the soft velvet shimmering against the folds of dark shadows that highlighted the sumptuousness of the fabric. The beard he’d affixed to his face completely masked his goatee, and with the fur-trimmed hat, the gleam in his eyes was like a beacon.

“As I live and breathe,” I said, placing my hand to my fluttering heart. There was something about a man who’d dress up as a jolly old elf. “It’s Santa Claus.”

At the bottom of the stairs, he gave me a mischievous smile. “Want to sit on my lap and tell me what you want for Christmas?” he said, the rogue.

Did I? I felt heat creep up my neck, settling on my cheeks in what I was sure was a scorching blush. I did.

Mrs. Abernathy, her attention thankfully off of me, clapped her hands in quick succession. “Let’s get started, shall we? Mr. Flores, you sit there.”

She directed him to the throne while Madelyn set up her tripod. “The light’s a trifle dim in here,” she uttered under her breath, but still loud enough for us to hear.

Mrs. Abernathy scowled. “Don’t you have a flash?”

“Of course I do,” Madelyn said. “But . . .” She put one finger to her cheek, thinking.

Mrs. Abernathy’s foot tapped impatiently. “What is it, Mrs. Brighton?”

Madelyn shook away whatever had been on her mind. Mrs. James cleared her throat and glided across the room, scooping up a potted poinsettia and the quilt from the rack. “Helen, Harlow has a long list of tasks to do for the fashion show, and I’m sure everyone else is plenty busy. Let’s get started, shall we? Harlow?”

“Ma’am?”

“Bring a few of those gifts over and place them around the tree.”

A pile of beautifully wrapped boxes tied with gold and red ribbon sat next to the settee. They were light as air. Faux gifts.

I carried a few over and arranged them on the tree skirt. Mrs. James handed me the quilt and then crouched to put the poinsettia among the gifts. “Drape that over the arm of the chair, would you?”

Adding the homespun element softened the scene. “It’s a nice touch,” I said. Will shifted as I arranged the old quilt. A section of stitching had come loose, a few pieces of the patchwork gaping to reveal the batting underneath.

As I refolded it, hiding the torn section, Will’s hands snaked around my back. “Oomph!”

I lost my balance, flopping onto his lap, the silky strands of his white beard tickling my cheek, his plump belly soft against my side. “I knew you’d end up here,” he said, a definite twinkle in his eyes. “Just where I wanted you.” And then more quietly, so only I could hear, he asked, “What do you want for Christmas this year?”