A Custom Fit Crime (11 page)

Esmeralda faced Madison, her lips tight and her left eye twitching slightly. “Too late.”

Madison placed her hands on the table, palms down. “What do you mean, too late?”

Esmeralda held her gaze. “I mean, we already tried them on.”

“What?” This time Midori jumped up, her eyes blazing.

Esmeralda was fearless, and no petite designer was going to faze her. “She let us in,” the girl said, pointing to me.

“What!” Now I jumped up, swinging around to face Esmeralda. “I gave you permission to look at Beaulieu’s garments, not to look at, and certainly not to try on, Midori’s designs.”

She shrugged, clearly unconcerned with little details like that. “We’re stuck here now, and we want to be paid and we want to be in the magazine.” If she’d stood up and jammed her hands on her hips, she would have come across as a petulant five-year-old. Not what she’d been going for, I’m sure.

Midori leaned over the table, her voice laced with venom. “Those are my designs. You had no right.”

“They’re crappy, anyway,” Esmeralda said.

“They didn’t even fit,” Barbi said. She gestured to a heavy silk dress lying haphazardly over the gold velvet sofa in the adjacent parlor. “All that uneven weight and that one back at the shop with the beading. They’re too heavy.”

Midori seethed. Any second, steam would start pouring from her nostrils. “I don’t tell you how to walk the runway. How dare you tell me how to design clothing?”

Barbi stared her down, clearly not realizing—or not caring—that criticizing a designer’s work did not earn brownie points. She got up and in two seconds was across the room, her hands on the silk dress.

Madison picked up the attack for Midori, careening toward Barbi, plowing into her arms so she couldn’t take hold of the dress. “You are only here because of Beaulieu, and he’s dead. His clothes aren’t going to be showcased—”

Esmeralda flung her arm out, pointing at Lindy. “Didn’t you hear her? They might kill the story and none of the clothes will get to be showcased, but if they don’t kill the story, we want a chance to do what we were brought here to do.”

Zoe, the other Dallas model, leaned back in her chair. “It doesn’t matter what we want. They’re going to make the decision,” she said, lifting her chin toward me and then toward Midori. She and Madison leaned their heads together and she added in a harsh whisper, “But Midori made her samples based on us wearing them, so they shouldn’t even bother.”

Oh boy, this could get ugly. Being caught in the middle of a throw-down between the beautiful people wasn’t high on my list of things to do. I couldn’t make
D Magazine
run the article, and I couldn’t tell Midori what to do. Loretta Mae had always been full of homegrown wisdom, and one of her oft-repeated snippets came back to me now: The true test of a person’s character comes down to how she deals with a trying situation. I felt I was being tested right now. “If they go with the article, I’ll need models, too. Between Midori and me, I’m sure all y’all will get a chance.”

The back-and-forth continued until Raylene came back into the dining room carrying tiered trays of tea sandwiches, mini scones, fruit, crème frâiche, and a lightly sweet, soft pink poppy seed dressing. Hattie followed with individual teapots filled with steeping tea.

The models picked at the fruit, while Midori, Jeanette, and Lindy placed a sandwich and scone and spoonfuls of the condiments on their plates. Quinton, who I realized never said much of anything, piled his plate high.

I was somewhere in between, with a few of the dainty sandwich triangles, two of the mini scones, a pile of fruit, and healthy dollops of the cream and dressing.

“Enjoy!” Raylene said once everyone had been served their tea, but her voice was muted, her excitement forced. I caught her eye and she notched her head toward the kitchen.

“I’ll be back in a flash,” I said to the group. I might as well not have spoken for the response—or lack of response—I got, which was nothing more than a bunch of blank stares.

There was no abundance of Southern congeniality here. The kitchen felt a mile away, and my feet felt like lead as I trudged across the hardwood floor, but I finally got there. Stepping into the freshly painted mint green room was like drawing in a desperately needed breath. I dodged a precarious stack of boxes, circling the center island until I stood next to Raylene and Hattie. The resemblance between them was strong. They both had the same rosy cheeks, and their hair was Miranda Lambert blond. They looked sweet as apple pie, but while Raylene really was quiet and lovely, Hattie was a spitfire if there ever was one. I’d seen both of them riled up. Raylene’s emotions tended to get the better of her and she shut down while Hattie wound up like a coiled snake, ready to strike at the first opportunity.

“Bunch of fun-loving people out there,” Hattie said, uncharacteristically calm. Almost intentionally so.

I smiled. “Yep, a real barrel of monkeys.”

Hattie finished spreading a dill-infused mayonnaise on miniature pieces of pumpernickel bread, laid thin slices of cucumbers atop them, and then capped them with another square of the dark bread.

“Everything’s beautiful,” I said. “Y’all have done an amazing job with Seven Gables.”

The compliment fell on deaf ears. They had something else on their minds.

“Harlow,” Raylene said as she wiped her hands on her apron. Her expression grew slack, and for the second time in as many days, my heart dropped.

“What is it, Raylene? What’s going on?”

Hattie handed me one of the miniature pumpernickel cucumber sandwiches. Everything, right down to the small floral napkin she set it on, was coordinated. She hemmed and hawed, starting to speak and then stopping, starting, and stopping, but the cat held firm to her tongue. Which was so unlike Hattie. I’d known her since childhood and the girl never held back.

“For pity’s sake, Hattie, what is it?” I finally demanded.

She leaned back against the white-tiled counter and folded her arms, that defiant Hattie expression planted firmly on her face. “What’s the story with Gavin McClaine?” she asked.

Raylene was at the swinging door, heading back to the dining room with her loaded, tiered tray. She stopped with her shoulder against the newly refinished oak. “He was in here yesterday poking around, asking questions about your mama and the sheriff—”

“What kinds of questions?” A red flag went up in my head. Gavin had that effect on me. For whatever reason, he didn’t approve of his dad’s relationship with my mother. As if the McClaines were too good for the Cassidys. We were the Hatfields and McCoys to Gavin’s mind.

Hattie and Raylene locked gazes for a second before Raylene answered, “He wanted to know how many guests, the general plan for the reception, asked to see all the accommodations, seems worried that we can’t handle the guests if the . . . the . . . murder . . . er, if the other guests are still here.”

“Did he say how long he and his dad were going to request that they stay?” I asked, tilting my head toward the dining room. After all, either one of them could release the group from Dallas and New York. They didn’t have any evidence to hold anyone.

They both shook their heads. “No, but I got the impression they weren’t going to be set free any time soon,” Hattie said, “and I also got the feeling it wasn’t necessarily because of that man dying.”

My jaw tightened, right along with my fists. If Gavin McClaine was using Beaulieu’s murder to throw a wrench into the wedding plans, he had another think coming. All the more reason I wanted this resolved, even if I had to get involved to make sure that happened. Nothing was going to stop this wedding from happening, least of all a hotshot deputy with a wild hair in his craw.

The sheriff’s department, which used to be the old Baptist church, was part of Bliss’s historic registry, a plaque affixed to the outside entrance announcing the building’s importance in the town, since circa 1898. It was spittin’ distance from Buttons & Bows and was now home to the city offices. But being as old as it was, the devotion from years and years of prayer had seeped into every board, every brick, and every crack. It still looked like a church. Its faded brick siding and peaked roofline would never be changed, and entering the building made me feel more like praying than confronting my soon-to-be stepbrother, aka the deputy sheriff.

I walked into the vestibule, past the old sanctuary to the left with the pews still pushed up against one wall and the solemnness hovering in the air. I stifled my urge to hold out my arms in reverence, instead plowing down the hallways toward reception, searching for Deputy McClaine. I sucked in a calming breath, and walked up to the cutout window. “Hey, Dixie,” I said, throwing up my hand in a friendly wave. Meemaw always said you can catch more grain moths with apple cider vinegar, which was a spin on the catching flies with honey metaphor. It was another thing I never understood when I was a little girl, but now that I was grown and in my thirties, I got it. What’s sweet to one person may not tickle someone else’s taste buds. The trick was always getting to the nitty-gritty and finding what people responded to. It was true in fashion, in cooking, and in everything else, too.

I racked my brain for what I knew about Dixie. She’d been a few years ahead of me in school, had been the head cheerleader from Bliss High School, and had married Jake Stannis, her high school sweetheart, who’d been the star quarterback of the Bliss Bobcats. I knew she and Jake had three kids. She worked here to make ends meet while Jake coached football at the high school. I’d heard the catty women around town say that her receptionist job was so she’d have spending money for her spray-on tan and hair bleach, but I imagined she was good at her job.

“Hey yourself, Harlow,” she said, giving me a good once-over. I couldn’t tell if she was impressed by my outfit—a prairie dress, belted low on my hips, paired with my favorite red Frye boots—or if she was holding back a mocking smile.

Either way, I had to find some common ground with her. I smiled real big. “Did I hear that your daughter was in the play at the middle school?”

The hard lines on her face softened and she smiled. If the way into a man’s heart was through his stomach, the way into a woman’s was through her kids. “She sure was. Four days of auditions. She had the starring role,” she said.

“Wow, congratulations. If she’s anything like you, I bet she was great,” I said, completely sincere. From what I remembered, Dixie had starred in several of Bliss High School’s plays.

We chatted about her kids for a few minutes, my blood pressure finally getting back to normal. “I’ve been meaning to come by your shop,” she said after I’d been fully updated on Jake Junior, Heather, and Tiffany. She scrolled through pictures on her smart phone, bragging on her kids in true mother style. Dixie still had a cheerleader’s personality, but she’d also grown up and seemed like a great mother. “Fashion’s Night Out is coming in the fall. We don’t have a mall nearby that’s going to participate, but the town council wants Bliss to be part of it. Kind of a block party, all about fashion.”

I knew about Fashion’s Night Out. It was an annual event from Manhattan to Milan to L.A., and everywhere in between. The Galleria in Dallas always took part, I knew the suburban city of Southlake drew a big crowd, and the shops at Highland Village joined in, but I’d never imagined Bliss being in the mix. “Sounds like fun!” I said, a trifle too enthusiastically. I was calm, but still distracted by my desire to chew out Gavin McClaine. I’d waited a few hours to simmer down before coming to talk to him, but time hadn’t helped in this instance. I was still worked up. Taking on a new project like Fashion’s Night Out would have to wait until after my mother’s wedding, and after the weight of Beaulieu’s murder was lifted off the town.

“Great! I’ll come by real soon,” she said with a toothy smile. “Now, Harlow, what can I do you for?”

“Is Deputy McClaine around?”

“He’s right back in his office,” she said, pointing to the hallway behind her.

I hesitated. “Can I . . . ?”

“Sure thing.” She pressed a button underneath her desktop, and a buzzing came from the door, followed by a click.

I’d been to the department before, but I usually entered through the city offices side of the old church. Being buzzed through was a new experience. “Do you know where to go?” she asked once I’d passed through to the back.

“Sure do. Thanks a bunch, Dixie. Come on by anytime so we can talk.” I waved and headed down the hallway and into the maze of offices. Will had an office at the opposite end of the building with the other city employees. This side was the law enforcement side. I really wanted to take a hard left and go see Will, but I stayed my course, heading for Gavin’s office instead.

His door was cracked open slightly and his Southern drawl carried into the hallway. I paused long enough to listen to the snippets of conversation, suddenly recognizing the other voice. What was she doing here?

I’d been taught not to eavesdrop, so I lifted my hand to knock, but the sound of my name stopped me. My hand froze midair and all my good Southern breeding went out the window.

“I plan to win that Pulitzer one day,” Lindy said. “I’ve done some research, and I won’t stop until I have what I need.”

“And?”

“And yes, she has a name in the industry.”

There was a weighty pause. Gavin’s voice changed slightly, almost turning forlorn, as he said, “Does she, now?”

“At least she’s starting to. She left Manhattan and her job at Maximilian, but she’s still just starting out.”

My breath caught in my throat.
Why
were they talking about me? My thoughts hitched. I couldn’t possibly be a real suspect in Beaulieu’s murder, could I? Gavin and Hoss McClaine knew me better than that.

“That can’t be why she’s here,” Gavin said.

Lindy met Gavin’s refusal to believe head-on. “It certainly could be.”

I could supply her with the truth. What Loretta Mae wanted, Loretta Mae got. And she’d wanted me back home in Bliss, so here I was. I dropped my hand back to my side. Why in the world did they even care? I debated on what to do—tiptoe out of here and leave them to their discussion, or barge in and demand to know why they were talking about me.