A Custom Fit Crime (6 page)

Gavin measured in at about five ten, and while there was no spark between us, he was handsome, khaki deputy uniform and all. Whenever I saw him, he was clean shaven, but I was sure he let his whiskers go scruffy when he was off duty. Another thing I knew from experience that Orphie would like about him.

Normally I could quickly picture a person’s ideal outfit to help make his or her dreams come true, but I had been unable to get a vision of him in anything other than his khakis—I’d come to wonder if he ever took a day off.

He adjusted his cream-colored straw cowboy hat, flashed a smile that irritated me to the bone, and cleared his throat, continuing in his heavy Southern drawl. “So he just up and died, is that it?” he said, as if there was more to it than what we’d all already said.

“For pity’s sake, Gavin, I told you everything I know. We were all here for the first of two photo shoots. We were getting ready to break for lunch before coming back for the second part of the day. He went to the bathroom, and then he . . . he died.”

“Just like that.”

“Yes, just like that.” Oh, how I wished someone had been with him . . . that we’d had enough time to try to resuscitate him. We could be talking weddings instead of death.

“And you have no idea what happened?”

If only I did. “Maybe he was sick and we didn’t know?” I suggested, making a mental note to myself to ask Jeanette if he had an illness. For my own peace of mind. I wanted to get to the bottom of what had happened to Michel Ralph Beaulieu.

“Did you hear anything? Did he cry out in pain? Anything at all?”

“Gavin—”

“Deputy,” he said, correcting me.

“Deputy,” I said, letting the word slide real slow from my tongue. “I just told you everything I know. He was fit to be tied at having to be here in Bliss, but he didn’t seem sick. If I knew anything else, I’d tell you. He. Died.”

Gavin dipped his chin and glared at me, and despite the grim situation, I had to smile to myself. The man was too big for his britches and he hated it when I called him by his given name instead of Deputy McClaine. It was a power thing. Being the son of a sheriff his whole life meant Gavin had some big shoes to fill, something he worked mighty hard at doing. “So he did, Harlow. Bad luck for the guy.”

“Bad luck for Harlow,” Orphie said. “That it happened in her shop, I mean.”

Gavin turned toward her, dipping his chin to acknowledge her. “Got that right. But Harlow has a way of attracting death.” He winked. “Best watch yourself, little lady.”

Little lady? Oh, brother. I ignored his attempt at flirtation with Orphie because something he’d said had taken up residence inside me and I didn’t like it. “It was a horrible accident,” I said, hoping to God I was right, because no matter how I looked at it, having a man die in my shop was not going to be good for business.

• • •

It felt like forever, but finally Gavin McClaine had gotten every bit of information we had to give on the unfortunate death of Michel Ralph Beaulieu. Orphie walked him to the door, where they chatted for another few minutes, him leaning up against the doorjamb, and her with her shoulders curled in and looking at him through her eyelashes. Country courting was sweeter than a thick, creamy bite of pecan pie.

I didn’t know if the magazine article was still a go. The models left the second Gavin gave the go-ahead, and Quinton and Lindy Reece had been next to hightail it out of Buttons & Bows, so I couldn’t ask them. Plus it didn’t feel right to be worrying about it on the heels of Beaulieu’s death. As I moved the dress forms to the back of the room next to the portable clothing rack, a hungry stomach growled. I pinpointed it to Jeanette. Her boss had died, but the poor girl was starving. Midori heard it, too, and took Jeanette by the arm. “I am hungry, too. Come on.”

“Fried chicken,” Mama said from the dining room. “No need to go anywhere. I was fixin’ to whip some up.”

“Sounds good,” Orphie said, closing the door after Gavin finally left.

But Midori shook her head. “No, no. I think we all need a change of scenery.”

Jeanette nodded, her face ashen, her lips drawn down on either side of her mouth. I could almost hear every thought going through her head.
What do I do now? Where will I work? Will I be paid? Who’ll take care of Beaulieu’s appointments and affairs? Why did he have to die?

This last question was the one that weighed on my mind. I was sure Gavin must have asked it already, but not in front of me—and I wanted to know the answer. “Jeanette, was Beaulieu sick?”

But instead of the answer I’d been hoping for—something along the lines of “Yes, he had a history of heart problems” or “Of course, he’s been in poor health for years”—she shook her head emphatically, what little color was left on her cheeks draining altogether. “No. That man was healthy as a horse.”

Midori guided Jeanette toward the front door. She still looked like a lost child, wide-eyed and helpless, and I thought Midori might be right. We’d all suffered a loss today, Jeanette most of all. Getting out of Buttons & Bows and going someplace neutral would hopefully help her state of mind.

And then there were four. Mama gathered up the Mason jars, Nana picked up the pitchers, and they headed to the kitchen and Orphie moved around the front room straightening pillows, all of them avoiding the white elephant in the room.

But I couldn’t avoid it in my head. Death had knocked on the door of my world since I’d been back in Bliss, but now it had made its way inside.

I’d known Orphie’s visit to Bliss would be filled with wedding craziness. What I hadn’t figured on was death darkening my door. We’d escaped the somber veil hovering over 2112 Mockingbird Lane by walking to Villa Farina for coffee and pastries. Now we sat across from each other, the stolen book from Maximilian on the table between us.

“So I guess Bliss isn’t so blissful,” she said, her expression grim. “Kind of puts things in perspective.”

Death had a way of doing that. “It does. Things aren’t as bad as we think they are. Let’s mail the book back to Maximilian’s studio,” I said, nodding toward it.

She chewed on her lower lip, finally nodding. “But what if—”

“If they trace it back here, we’ll deal with it. Orphie, it’s the right thing to do.”

She hesitated another few seconds, finally running her fingers across the bumpy cover of the book. “Maybe.”

Relief flowed through me. At least she was thinking about it. One crisis almost resolved. The other—Beaulieu’s death—however, still weighed on my mind. “I still can’t believe he’s dead,” I said, turning the conversation.

“I guess his time was up.”

I’d been trying to convince myself of that for the last hour, but something didn’t add up. “I don’t think it’s that simple,” I said.

She cradled her white ceramic cup in her hands, steam wafting off the surface of the cappuccino. “What do you mean?”

“Remember when you were packing up your bag to take it back upstairs?” I said.

She nodded. “With those designers around, I was worried about this,” she said, dropping one hand to lay it on the book between us. “What if one of them saw it?”

“They wouldn’t have recognized it,” I said, but even as the words left my mouth, I wasn’t so sure I was right. Maximilian’s logo was front and center on the book. Most people in the fashion world probably
would
recognize it.

An idea sparked. “Orphie, you haven’t told anyone else about the book, have you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, did you tell anyone else that you have this book?” I asked again, not really able to rephrase the question a different way. I wanted to know if I was the first person she’d come to with her problem. If I wasn’t . . . well, I didn’t know what that might mean, but I still had to know.

She waggled her head as she said no, a sure sign she was lying.

I pressed. “Orphie . . . ?”

“I haven’t told anyone.” She sounded more sure this time, but I still wasn’t convinced. Before I could dig deeper, she smiled and clasped my hand. “Tell me about your man.”

I laughed. “My man . . . that might be overstating it.” Will Flores and I had been victims of the otherworldly matchmaking of Meemaw. She’d laid the groundwork before I came back to Texas, trading my sewing services to teach Will’s daughter, Gracie, in return for handyman work around the little yellow farmhouse. “But it’s good.” I couldn’t elaborate to say that he was still adjusting to the realization that Gracie was a Cassidy, too, on her mother’s side, and that she, too, had a charm.

Orphie grinned at me, nodding as if she had a secret. “Yeah, I can see it’s good from your smile.”

I felt a blush heat my cheeks, but before I could change the subject, a hand came down on my shoulder. At the same moment, Orphie tilted her head back, gazing up behind me. “Hey, darlin’,” a baritone voice rumbled.

“Speak of the devil,” I said, turning to look up at the best-looking man this side of the Brazos River. Will Flores. My heart skittered for just a moment at his smile. Meemaw’s matchmaking had hit a home run. Things were definitely good. He was a six-foot-one-inch modern-day rugged cowboy. Goatee, black suede cowboy hat, T-shirt that hung perfectly on his broad shoulders, jeans and Ropers. A tall drink of water, and the longer I knew him, the thirstier I got.

He leaned down and brushed my lips with a light kiss. From across the table, I heard Orphie draw in a breath. “Is this—?”

“Will Flores, meet Orphie Cates.” She closed her mouth again and I added, “Orphie, this is Will.”

Will took her hand in his, flashing a smile that lit up the dark complexion of his face. “Roommates in New York, right?”

“Right,” she said, catching my eye and giving a quick wink. Her approval.

He grabbed a cup of coffee from Gina at the counter, and then turned back to us. “The rumor mills are churning,” he said. “A designer died in your shop?”

“Technically, he died in the bathroom off the kitchen,” I said. “In my house, not the
shop
.” I added air quotes as I said shop, as if the semantics of where I worked versus where I lived made Beaulieu’s death better or worse. It didn’t. He’d died in my little farmhouse and that was horrible no matter how I looked at it.

I filled Will in on the details of the morning.

“Maybe he drank a lot of coffee,” Will said when I commented about Beaulieu rushing to the bathroom.

“But an overactive bladder doesn’t cause death.”

“Deputy McClaine seemed to think it was a heart attack or something like that,” Orphie said. “And I get the impression he has a pretty good handle on things.”

There it was again. The flirtation. I guess it went both ways. Sparks between the deputy and my old friend. I sure hadn’t seen that one coming.

He pulled up a chair and we chatted for a while, revisiting life in Manhattan. “I had to get away,” Orphie was telling Will. Which brought Orphie’s problem back front and center.

“Small-town life is a little simpler,” I said, pushing my worry away and not mentioning the murders I’d gotten wrapped up in since I’d been home.

“She had a few things waiting for her here,” Will interjected. The implication was clear.
He’d
been here waiting for me.

“People are more real in small towns,” Orphie said, as if it were a God-given fact.

“I don’t know about that. We have plenty of secrets.”

She angled her chin down, threading her thick black hair behind her ears. “Do tell.”

I dropped my voice to a whisper, leaning forward so only she and Will could hear. “Murder.”

Her brow furrowed and she rolled one hand in the air, prompting me to continue.

I filled her in on the darker side of life in Bliss in the time since I’d been back.

“Harlow’s quite the amateur detective,” Will said, a little edge slipping into his voice. He thought I needed to steer clear of murder, and I agreed, but I couldn’t help it if dead bodies wound up in my vicinity. I had to help the people I cared about. I was a doer, not a watcher.

“At least Beaulieu’s death wasn’t murder,” Orphie said, and just like that, my breath hitched. I glanced down, then around, a coil of nerves settling in my chest.

“Cassidy?” Will had leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. He looked at me as if he could read every last thought spiraling through my mind. “Don’t tell me . . .”

I smiled sheepishly. “I’ve been thinking about it, and some things aren’t adding up.”

“Like he used the bathroom,” Orphie said with a sarcastic laugh. “That’s a sure sign of murder.”

“I think it is,” I said.

I might not be a detective, but I’d had some luck helping to solve the recent crimes in Bliss. Will knew this and paid heed to my instincts. “What’s not adding up?” he asked.

How could I put it without sounding as if I was reaching? I racked my brain, finally giving up. Maybe I was reaching, but I ran through my thoughts anyway. “His stomach was upset. He was breathing hard. And he was extra ornery.”

“That was probably his normal level of orneriness,” Orphie said, but I shook my head.

“No, Jeanette told me he’s not usually as bad as all that. Something had set him off.”

Will nodded, as if he understood. “Maybe he was hungry. When I need to eat, I’m as grumpy as all get out.”

“Or maybe he just didn’t feel well,” I suggested.

Orphie started, her eyes widening as if she’d remembered something. “Didn’t he say he felt sick?”

I nodded. He had. I’d chalked up the comment to how he felt about being stuck in Bliss for the photo shoot, but maybe he’d really been sick.

Orphie stared. “Wait a second, Harlow. You don’t think—”

I shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what I think. I just know something doesn’t feel right.”

“Cassidy, you have a wedding to put on,” Will said, not looking convinced that my theories had any merit. “Don’t be getting involved in this guy’s death.”

He was right. And practical. And I knew he wanted me safe and sound and not mixed up in another murder.

The nerves stayed firmly coiled in my chest, but I tamped down my worry while we chatted. After a few minutes, Orphie checked her watch. “I’ll go for a walk,” she said.