Pleating for Mercy (23 page)

Everything was about appearances to them, right? I gave her a good once-over. Tasteful hyacinth blue gown skimming over a well-maintained figure, diamond choker to match the rock on her finger, perfectly applied makeup, immobile hair.

Lori Kincaid could win a Mrs. Texas pageant any day of the week.
That
part of Gracie’s theory was definitely true.

Was it possible that Mrs. Kincaid’s brain was so soft that she would choose murder over the public slight of having her daughter absent from the wedding party?

God, I hoped not.

If there was a bright side to making a bridesmaid dress for Miriam, it was that I’d get a chance to find out what she, and maybe Nate, knew about Nell’s pregnancy. “I’m sure Nate’s glad you’re here,” I said.

Mrs. Kincaid threaded a possessive arm through her husband’s as she spoke to me. “You’ll be able to do it all on time?”

Nice of her to ask.

I nodded, maybe a tad more confidently than I actually felt, but I was already planning how to tackle the additional dress. Aside from Nell’s funeral tomorrow, I didn’t have to leave Buttons & Bows at all. If Mama could do the muslin mock-up and the slip . . . “Definitely,” I said, but I sensed the beginnings of a headache coming on—the tension in my neck, the pressure at my temples.

Mrs. Kincaid looked me up and down again like she was taking mental snapshots of the beading, ruching, and pleating of Orphie’s dress. “That’s a lovely ensemble.” she said.

My hands instinctively ran down my sides. I started to say, “Thank you,” but an appreciative male voice from behind me cut me off. “Very lovely . . .”

I turned to see Will Flores wearing a hint of a smile and looking spiffy in his Sunday best—black jeans, white dress shirt, and black leather cowboy hat. Men’s formal wear, Texas style. He pulled it off expertly.

Keith Kincaid untangled himself from his wife’s arm and thrust his hand out. “Will, appreciate the help with the bags earlier,” he said, giving him an enthusiastic handshake. “Jet-lagged and gin. Could be worse. Lemme get you a Coke.”

Will laughed. “Sure.”

“What kind do you want?” Keith asked.

“Dr Pepper,” Will said with a wink.

That had to be a joke only a Texan could appreciate. I smiled as Mr. Kincaid let out a belly laugh and slapped Will on the back. “Good to see you, young man,” he bellowed. “You clean up real good. Glad to see those old houses aren’t breaking your spirit.”

He took Will by the elbow with a firm grip. “How’s that girl of yours?”

“Doing real well, sir,” Will said, showing his good manners. Yes, sir. No, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. No, sir. We’d all been raised with manners like our mamas taught us.

“Good, good, glad to hear it. Got a minute?” he asked, leading Will a few steps away from us. “Got something to talk to ya about.”

The phrase triggered something in my brain. A surreal image of Mr. Kincaid leading me by the elbow and steering me out the door and over the bridge played in my mind. It was like watching myself in a dream. “Thank you, sir,” I heard myself say, though I didn’t know why I was thanking him. He looked over his shoulder, hollered for Nate, then snarled, “Got something to talk to ya about.” My legs buckled under me. He did? But like a flash, I was in the backseat of a car, driving, driving, driving . . . until the whole scene disappeared into a cloud of smoke.

My breath caught in my throat as the conversations and people around me came back into focus. “Historical society business, or something else?” Will was saying.

“Little of both,” he said with a wink. “Miriam’s got some cockamamy idea about a bookstore.” He backhanded Will’s shoulder. “Don’t know why we need that. Digital, I told her. E-books, now, that’s the wave of the future, but she wore me down. She found a site off the square. I happen to have a little extra capital to play with, so . . .”

Interesting. Mr. Kincaid was so buddy-buddy with Will Flores, yet according to what Gracie had said, Miriam had been shunned when Will had tried to help her. And if he and Miriam had been involved, it shouldn’t have mattered since there was no Mrs. Flores.

Another knot in Bliss’s tangled social web.

I looked up to find Will back and studying me. It wasn’t what I’d call a slow, steamy look, but it came darn close and had the same effect. I shifted my weight uneasily, raising my glass to my lips before I remembered how I’d so ungracefully finished my wine.

He took the crystal stemware right out of my hand. “Let me get you a refill, Cassidy. Anyone else?” The Kincaids both shook their heads no and Will sauntered off. Mere seconds later, he was back with a fresh glass of ruby red wine.

I thanked him, scrunching my nose to edge my glasses back into place. Then my stomach rumbled and all I could think was that I should have stayed home because I was much better
behind
the scenes, dressing people for their parties, than being one of the partygoers myself. Another reason it had been so easy to leave New York.

Keith Kincaid had launched back into talking about the new project he was cooking up with Miriam, shifting Will’s attention again. Which was fine with me. I wanted to find Josie. My stomach growled again, but I ignored it, taking another sip of wine as I looked around. I hardly knew anybody at this shindig. I’d been born and raised in Bliss, but at this moment I felt like a stranger in a strange land.

I scanned the room looking for Karen or Ruthann, or even Zinnia James, the only other people I
did
sort of know, but I couldn’t spot any of them.

Will’s voice snaked into my consciousness again. “Better slow down there, Cassidy. From the sound of it, your stomach isn’t gonna like all wine and no food.”

I’d hoped no one could hear my complaining tummy, but no such luck. Instead of food, I swallowed my embarrassment. There was something about the sound of his voice that wound right through me and gripped my insides in a bear hug. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I’d heard slow Southern drawls all my life, so I didn’t think it was that. Maybe it was the gritty undertone of his tenor, or the way he somehow infused his words with a smile. Or maybe it was all three converging in a perfect storm.

Whatever it was, I kind of liked the feeling it created inside me.

“Will, my boy, you’re the man for the job.” Keith Kincaid’s John Wayne voice snapped everything back in place, including my fuzzy head. “Let’s talk details.”

He led Will away just as a waiter approached with a tray of appetizers. “Flatiron steak martini, miss?” he asked. I traded my wineglass for a martini glass as he rattled off the ingredients. Toasted juniper berries, Spanish olives, pickled onions, crumbled blue cheese, and thinly sliced grilled flatiron steak.

It could have been Froot Loops, for all I cared. Anything to stop the ruckus in my belly. One bite of the vermouth-marinated steak and my stomach quieted, my head cleared, and I knew I could make it through the rest of the evening.

Will threw me a glance over his shoulder, followed by an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. I responded by fluttering my fingers in a way that said he didn’t owe me a thing. I never expected anything from any man, and I was never disappointed. Early lesson from my father.

“There’s Josie,” Mrs. Kincaid said, pointing to a cluster of people next to the bar.

Josie stood slightly apart from the others, looking drawn and sallow, and like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Worry . . . or guilt? “I’m going to go—”

A familiar-looking woman edged between Mrs. Kincaid and me, cutting me off. “Lori, you look stunning, as always,” she said in a syrupy voice.

“Me?” Mrs. Kincaid pressed her diamond-bejeweled hand to her chest and batted her eyelashes. “Look at
you
, Helen. You look simply divine.”

I couldn’t place her after a minute or two, so I gave up. Twice I tried to interject, but twice I was cut off. I stood there, half listening, feeling like a third wheel while they chatted, waiting for an opening so I could break away. It was harder than it should have been.

“Such a tragedy,” Mrs. Kincaid was saying.

“I couldn’t believe it when I heard,” the woman said. “I can only imagine what you and Keith must have felt. Buddy said . . .”

I tried to catch Josie’s eye, which was impossible since her back was to me.

“. . . paying for the funeral . . .”

That caught my attention. I had figured that without next of kin, Nell would be cremated without a service, which had struck me as so . . . so . . . sad. When I’d heard there would be a funeral, I’d wondered who was footing the bill.

“. . . least we could do for Josie,” Mrs. Kincaid was saying. “She’s broken up over it.”

As the conversation shifted to the church rummage sale, I turned my attention to the details of the room. There was an emphasis on flowers everywhere I looked. Floral upholstery on the overstuffed sofas. Both print and solid-colored pillows with elaborate trim and tassels artfully accented the room.

The women droned on.

“. . . or Nate will bring them by . . .”

“. . . too many dishes and books . . .”

“. . . whatever’s left to the 4-H for the girls to practice with . . .”

Mrs. Kincaid had a thing for dried flowers. Arrangements decorated the fireplace mantel, the center of the glossy mahogany coffee table, and a matching side table in the corner of the room.
She should donate one of those to the rummage sale
, I thought.
Or all of them
.

“. . . nice to have the Lincoln,” the woman was saying. “Buddy won’t let me buy a new . . .”

Cars? I had to escape. Now. “Excu—” I started, but Lori Kincaid tittered. “You know Keith’s rules. No exceptions. The Lexus comes home to mama tomorrow.”

Lincoln and Lexus. Those were two car makes I would never own. I had Meemaw’s beat-up old Ford pickup, but with a dead battery, it didn’t do me any good. In a pinch, I had a bicycle, but I’d spent enough time in New York that I preferred walking anyway.

I debated my options: stay put or slowly walk away. Finally, I realized I might never find a pause in their conversation. “Ahem.” Clearing my throat seemed like a cliché, but it worked. Mrs. Kincaid stopped talking about who could drive which car and they both focused on me. A lightbulb seemed to go off in Mrs. Kincaid’s head. “Oh, my stars, I do apologize, Harlow,” she exclaimed a little overzealously. “Helen, you were asking about the dressmaker.”

“I was,” she said in true East Texas form. “Was” became
waaa-uz
. She tilted her chin down, eyeing me through her lashes. Just like everyone else in town, Helen gave me a good once-over, from the streak in my curly Cassidy hair to my zipper-adorned heels. “Is this . . . ?” “This” sounded like
the-is
.

Mrs. Kincaid beamed, looking like she’d discovered her own personal diamond in the rough. “Yes, it is. This,” she said, sweeping her arm toward me, “is Harlow Cassidy. Harlow,” she said, “meet Helen Abernathy.”

Of Abernathy Home Builders. Another high-powered Bliss woman. So why did they both come off as mere seconds to their husbands? “Nice to meet you,” I said, holding my hand out.

“I hear you’re making all the dresses for the wedding of the year,” Mrs. Abernathy said, leaving my hand dangling.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, lowering my arm. “I—”

She cut me off, saying, “I seem to recollect Miriam taking sewing lessons once upon a time.”

Mrs. Kincaid scoffed. “Once upon a long time ago. That machine hasn’t seen the light of day in years. She thinks Holly might take it up one day. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“A bit of good fortune for you that there’s a dressmaker in town now.” Mrs. Abernathy turned back to me with a thin smile. “Coleta Cassidy’s granddaughter, come back home to roost. Your grandmother and I go way back, you know. We were in school together.”

A lot of people went way back with Nana, I was discovering. Mrs. Abernathy. Mrs. James, the senator’s wife. Nana had some highfalutin friends once upon a time.

I gave a polite response, sneaking a glance at the bar. The spot where Josie had been standing was filled with a new group of people. Drat.

“Harlow?” Mrs. Kincaid snapped.

“I’m sorry. What?”

Helen Abernathy pinched her lips, but repeated the question she’d apparently asked me. “Maybe you can get your grandmother to sell that land? It’s prime location.”

I caught a glimpse of Josie heading upstairs. “She, um . . .” I inched away from them.

“You know the city wants to build a park there.”

“Over her dead body, she always says.” Mrs. Kincaid and Mrs. Abernathy didn’t get the joke. I wiped the smile off my face. “She’s not selling.”

“All those goats,” one of them said.

“It’s a crazy hobby,” the other responded.

“It’s not a hobby,” I said, keeping one eye on the stairs, but Josie wasn’t in sight anymore. “I’m sorry. If you’ll excuse me,” I said, backing away.

I left them muttering about Nana’s goats and the value of land off the square. Weaving through the mess of people, I dashed up the stairs as fast as my three-anda-half-inch heels would take me.

It wasn’t until I was at the top that I remembered where I’d seen Mrs. Abernathy before.

In Buttons & Bows, alongside Zinnia James, balking when Nell had held up my Escher-inspired black-and-white textile dress.

I didn’t find Josie, but I did find Karen. She was leaning against the banister overlooking the gathering room, watching the people below with the focus of a master artist committing a scene to memory so he could interpret it on canvas later. She wore navy slacks and a conservative powder blue blouse and looked more business casual than glitzy. Not the right choice for an evening with the first family of Bliss.

My little pep talk hadn’t worked.

She jumped when I greeted her, clutching her hand to her heart. “Oh, God, you scared me, Harlow.”