A Seamless Murder (11 page)

Will cleared his throat. “Pastor, could I talk to you for a minute?” He flashed a meaningful look my way, silently communicating to the pastor that I couldn’t hear whatever it was he needed to speak about. “Privately.”

The pastor nodded, and they stepped into the hallway. As soon as Will closed the door behind him, I leaned forward on the sofa, meeting Coco’s gaze. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t understand, Harlow. What did that old sideboard have to do with anything?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe nothing. But is Cynthia in charge of all the tag sales?” I asked. If she didn’t have anything to do with the last one, she might not have known that Megan had bought the furniture from the basement. That still wouldn’t explain why she’d been so quick to implicate Delta as a thief, but it was a start.

But Coco nodded, and my heart lodged in my throat. “She’s been in charge of the tag sales for as long as I can remember. She runs the office.”

“And Delta used to volunteer here at the church?”

“For about three years or so. I don’t know why she stopped.”

From what the pastor had said, he didn’t know, either. Which meant I needed to find out from the one person who seemed to know a lot more than she was letting on. Cynthia Homer.

Will and the pastor came back in looking a touch conspiratorial, which had me wondering just what they’d been discussing. They shook hands, and Will waited by the door. “Ready?” he asked us.

I was. I had a new theory swimming in my head, and I needed time to think about it.

Half an hour later, Coco had gone to work, and Will and I had left Mama and Nana to their volunteer time at the tag sale. As we were walking back through the cemetery, passing by Delta’s gravesite, the figurines, overalls, and jeans packaged up in a bag strung over my forearm, I asked, “What was the powwow with the pastor about?”

Will held my free hand, pulling me along at a quick clip. “Just giving you time to talk with Coco and poke around the office.”

I stared at him. Oh Lord, I’d missed a perfect opportunity to snoop! “I might need to go back,” I said sheepishly.

“You didn’t poke around?” he asked, an amused tone in his voice.

I hung my head, thinking that a real detective would never have missed such a prime opportunity. “Not even a little bit. I was preoccupied thinking about how Cynthia Homer might be involved. Snooping wasn’t even on my mind.”

“You probably wouldn’t have found anything, anyway. The pastor seems like a stand-up guy to me. Not the type to resort to murdering anyone. I didn’t get any hint of a motive, either.”

I had to agree with him. I hadn’t gotten the impression
that the pastor and Delta had been close, or even friends, but I also hadn’t sensed any animosity toward her from him. More than anything, he’d seemed genuinely concerned about Coco, wanting to help her cope with his counsel.

“Who else could have done it?” Will asked as we entered the parking lot.

I was going to keep the idea of Cynthia as a suspect to myself until I could give her more consideration. “Jeremy Lisle,” I said, revisiting the candidate for mayor and the president of the Historic Council.

He leveled his gaze at me. “I’ve known Jeremy for a long time,” he said.

“Do you think he has it in him?”

He shrugged. “Anybody probably has it in them if they’re pushed enough and something snaps. But that doesn’t mean either of those things happened with Jeremy.”

“They argued about something,” I said, before I remembered that Cynthia had been my source for that information. Had Jeremy and Delta really argued, or was that something Cynthia had said to throw the scent away from her?

“They had a difference of opinion,” Will said. “She never should have been on the council in the first place.”

“But she was voted off.”

Will opened the driver’s door of Buttercup for me, but we both stood alongside it, not ready to end our speculations. “Which means
he
had
her
voted off the council,” he said. “That gave her reason to do
him
in, not the other way around.”

That was a very good point. “But there could be more to the story. They didn’t get along. She supported Radcliffe for
mayor. Donated money to Radcliffe’s campaign, even. She didn’t believe in preserving the history of the town.”

“Jeremy may be a lot of things—driven, a hard-ass, and competitive—but a murderer? I don’t know about that, Harlow.”

He’d used my given name, which meant he was serious. “Maybe you’re right, but he had a motive. We already know that it doesn’t take much to bring a person to murder in the heat of the moment. If Jeremy Lisle has any violent tendencies, Delta might have pushed too far, and he might have unleashed on her.”

Will didn’t look convinced, and frankly neither was I, but we couldn’t rule him out. The motive was there. It was early enough in the morning—or late enough at night—that surely he’d had the opportunity, even if the pastor hadn’t identified his car as one he’d seen that morning. Maybe he’d called Delta, asking her to meet him to talk things out. He might have chosen the cemetery as a secluded location, knowing she wouldn’t be found until much later.

“He has my historical landmark plaque at his office. He said to stop by anytime. We could go get it.”

His expression was grim. “You need to be careful, Cassidy. Someone killed Delta. You poking around and asking questions could get the killer, whoever it is, pretty riled up.”

“Only if I ask the
right
questions,” I said. “And I’m always careful, Will.”

He gave my hand a squeeze before I got into Buttercup and headed to the city offices to pay a visit to Jeremy Lisle, Will right behind me in his truck.

We found the mayoral hopeful in his office in between meetings. He was dressed just like he’d been when I’d met him at the Historic Council. Khakis and a button-down shirt made him seem approachable, but there was something about him that put me on edge. It very likely could have been that I suspected he might be a suspect in Delta Lea’s murder . . . or it could have been my imagination. I just wasn’t sure.

“Thanks for seeing us,” I said, after he ushered us into his office. The space was masculine yet minimalistic in décor. The furniture felt vaguely old and utilitarian. It fit what I knew about Jeremy and his love for the history of Bliss. A framed map of the town, circa 1890, hung on the wall behind his desk. In the corner of the office were boxes of files. All historic information, I imagined.

“Here for your plaque?”

I clapped my hands. “Yes! Will’s going to put it up for me. Meemaw’s dream come true.”

He rifled through a drawer, emerging a moment later with a black box. He opened it to reveal a round bronze and gold plaque. It was about five inches in diameter with an
HL
in the center. Around the perimeter, it read:
PRESERVING THE PAST FOR THE
FUTURE
. “Here you go,” he said, presenting it to me.

I thanked him, admired it, and tucked it into my shoulder bag. “Are you already campaigning?” I asked, gesturing to the yard signs toward the back of the office.

“A politician is always campaigning. Look at Hillary Clinton. She didn’t have to announce her candidacy, yet she led the race as the democratic candidate. Her entire existence is in the spotlight. There’s no distinction between her public and private life. Everything is part of her campaign, even when she’s not running for anything. That’s the life of a politician.”

“That sounds intense,” I said.

He sat behind his desk and steepled his fingers under his chin. “That’s what it takes to win.”

“Would you like me to take an election sign for my yard?” I asked, glancing at the signs again.

“It’s a little early, but hell’s bells, if Delta Mobley can have one in her yard even after she’s gone from us, then you can have one in yours.” He ambled over to the stack and brought one back for me, the red, white, and blue design subtle yet effective. Jeremy Lisle was a patriot, and that message came across loud and clear.

Ever the Southern gentleman, Will took the sign for me.

“Have you been in Delta’s house?” I asked, fishing for more information.

“Once upon a time, she was my Realtor. Drove me around the Historic District and pointed out her place.”

So their relationship extended beyond the Historic Council. Interesting.

“Look,” he said. “I know you’re trying to find out what happened to Delta. She was a lot of things, but she sure wasn’t subtle. If she didn’t like you, she went out of her way
to show you just how deep her dislike ran. If she thought she knew something about you but couldn’t prove it, she found a way. If she wanted something, she took it whether it belonged to her or not. She had everyone fooled, but the truth is, she only followed her own rules.”

I let this sink in. So far, only Delta’s family had made me question who Delta really was, but Jeremy Lisle had some pretty firm beliefs about her character, too. “What do you mean she’d find a way to prove something?”

He clasped his hands in front of him, looking calm, but I wasn’t fooled. His left eye twitched, just barely, and inside, I suspected that his emotions were going haywire. “Let me preface this by saying that I didn’t kill Delta Lea Mobley. We weren’t friends, but I’m not a murderer.”

Will and I shot a glance at each other. Unless Jeremy was a master manipulator and was using reverse psychology on us to throw us off the trail, I suspected that whatever he was about to say was the truth.

“Okay,” I said, nodding reassuringly.

He took a deep breath, and then said, “She didn’t just switch to the Radcliffe camp. She wanted to discredit me.”

“How?” I pressed, wondering to myself if he would be willing to discuss with us something that could possibly be perceived as a motive for murder.

“I think she wanted to get some dirt on me. Help the Radcliffe campaign. For about a week, I know I was being
followed. Everywhere I went, this silver Monte Carlo would show up. It’d be driving behind me, or parked across from my house. It was everywhere.”

I leaned forward in my chair, fascinated. I thought people in Bliss were much more transparent than they apparently were. My neighbor had been a total and complete mystery to me. Vengefulness. Secrecy. Detective work. What else would I discover about her? “And you’re sure it was her?”

“She wasn’t actually in the car, if that’s what you mean, but there isn’t a doubt in my mind that she hired someone to do her dirty work.”

“But why are you so sure? What was she hoping to discover?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? I’m sure she wanted to catch me in an impropriety of some sort. Discredit me in the election.” One corner of his mouth went up in a satisfied smile. “Like the pot calling the kettle black, if you ask me.”

I inched closer to his desk, certain some big revelation was coming. “How d’you mean?”

“There aren’t many secrets ’round here.”

That seemed to be a running theme. No one thought anything could be kept on the down low in Bliss. “No?”

“No. She thought nobody knew why she stopped volunteering at the church.”

“But people did?” I asked, thinking back to Coco and the pastor. Neither one had seemed to know. Or at least they hadn’t offered up the information.

He paused, seeming to consider how to respond. “Even a pastor has to have someone to talk to,” he finally said. “He’s a good guy. Came to me knowing I worked with Delta and needing advice.”

Will and I sneaked another surreptitious glance at each other. The pastor hadn’t mentioned that he knew Jeremy Lisle, let alone that he’d gone to him for counsel. “What kind of advice?”

“He felt bad for her, about her husband’s affair, but she used her place at the church to snoop into other people’s business.”

My jaw dropped. “Her husband was having an affair?” I asked.

“You’re going to catch a fly like that, Ms. Cassidy,” he said, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling. My blatant surprise seemed to amuse him.

“I just . . . I never suspected . . . I’m stunned is all,” I finally said, but as the words left my mouth, something Cynthia had said came back to me. Delta had told her that you should be able to trust your husband. “So she knew?” I asked after a beat.

“From what I gather, she told Pastor Kyle that not all husbands could be trusted, and that she’d get her proof delivered to her by a private investigator. I do believe she was inherently untrusting of all the people around her.”

“But why?”

“That I do not know,” he said, frowning. “I thought about hiring a PI myself. Prove that Delta was up to no good. Catch her on the wrong side of the law, but she was a pro. She manipulated people, but didn’t actually cross any lines, you know?”

“What would you have done with the information if you’d gotten it?” Will asked.

Jeremy shrugged. “Use it as leverage. Get her to back off on the election sabotage. She was ready and willing to take
the campaign negative on behalf of Radcliffe. And he was ready and willing to let her do the dirty work. I wanted to stop her at the gate. But,” he added, wagging his finger at us as if he realized the implication of what he was saying, “I didn’t kill her. I didn’t like her, I’ll admit that, but I’m not about to ruin my political career for some meddling woman who couldn’t keep her nose out of other people’s business.”

We said our good-byes and thanked Jeremy for the plaque. On the way home, Will carried the election sign while I carried the unease of knowing that the man we’d just spoken to had a pretty clear motive for killing Delta Lea Mobley. I wanted to believe him when he said he didn’t kill her. He seemed on the up and up, and his political aspirations were great. He’d handed us his own motive, for heaven’s sake. How much damage could Delta have done when she didn’t have anything on him?

But there was a new concern that really had me worried after Will and I parted and I drove home—the fact that if Delta had confronted her husband about him having an affair, then it was very possible that Anson Mobley may have killed his wife.

I loved everything vintage, including the rounded fenders and domed cab of the old Ford truck that I had inherited from Meemaw, and if I had my way, I’d drive it forever. Will and I had gone our separate ways from the church’s parking lot. The town was building a new library, and he was the architect in charge of the project. I, on the other hand, still had aprons to make and only four days until the progressive dinner.

I drove through town, unable to escape the unease settling in me. One murder and too many suspects. So far Cynthia Homer, Jeremy Lisle, and Anson Mobley were neck and neck to my thinking in terms of motive, means, and opportunity. With the exception of Cynthia, they each could have had their own reasons for wanting Delta dead. Again, with the possible exception of Cynthia, they each would have had the strength to wield the rock that killed her. And they each could have easily created the opportunity. They all lived in town, plus she died in the early hours of the morning when few
people were out and about, especially at the cemetery, so truly, it could have been any of them.

And then there were the rest of the Red Hat ladies. I didn’t want to believe it could be any one of them, but I also couldn’t rule them out.

The one person whose name had come up quite a few times but I hadn’t yet met with was Mayor Radcliffe. I couldn’t summon up a motive for him—after all, Delta had been on his side in the election antics—but who knew what lay beneath the surface? I added him to my mental list of people I wanted to pay a visit to.

I pulled onto the pebble driveway of my house under the possumwood trees. Mama’s much newer, but still old, truck was parked there, too. I glanced through the yard. Sure enough, she sat on one of the white rocking chairs on the front porch, gently moving back and forth. The chair next to her swayed, too. Meemaw was right there beside her.

Mama had taken to coming over daily. It used to be that she’d come just to see me, but I’d begun to suspect that now she came just to be in the presence of her grandmother. As a ghost, my great-grandmother hadn’t mastered the art of communication, but the Cassidy women all felt her around us. Unless she was playing parlor tricks, being in her presence was like being enveloped in a cocoon of warmth, bolstering us up and lifting our spirits.

I threw the truck into park
,
and in seconds, I’d joined Mama on the porch, leaning against the railing so as not to disturb Meemaw. Having the three of us, or better yet, the four of us (when Nana was here) in the same place was always a treasured moment. “Where have you been?” Mama asked. “Out sleuthin’?”

“Guilty as charged.”

She kept both cowboy-booted feet on the ground, pushing with her toes to move the chair back and forth. “And?”

Mama made a good show of looking chagrined that I was involved in yet another murder investigation, but I knew she was just as curious about the crime as I was, and the mother in her had untold sympathy for Jessie Pearl’s loss. I filled her in on my thoughts, including my suspicions about Cynthia Homer, Jeremy Lisle, Mayor Radcliffe, and the newly discovered information about Anson Mobley.

“Maybe you need to go have a little chat with Jessie Pearl.”

“Yes, but under what pretense?”

A gust of wind suddenly swirled around us, rustling the plastic shopping bag I’d set on a little red table next to me. It held the jeans and figurines from the tag sale.

We both looked at the bag, then at each other, finally both turning to the empty rocking chair. Meemaw was a smart cookie.

“I can return these to Jessie Pearl,” I said, taking up the bag. And there was no time like the present. I paused at the bottom of the porch stairs. “Are you coming?”

Mama stopped rocking and practically jumping off the chair like a child from a swing. “Sure am.” She winked. “When I said
you
, you know I really meant
we
. And I reckon it’s time I paid my condolences to Jessie Pearl.”

I stifled a smile as she threaded her arm through mine, and together—feeling a little bit like Dorothy and the Scarecrow from
The Wizard of Oz
as we walked arm in arm up the brick path in my front yard—we went next door to the Mobley house. Although I had seen Todd pulling weeds and
mowing the small lawn since Delta’s death, their yard looked sad somehow. As if the garden could sense the mourning happening inside the house and responded. The colors of the grass and flowers seemed muted, and the stems of the shrubs had grown leggy and drooped in a way they hadn’t just a week ago.

As we walked to the front door, I looked back over my shoulder, knowing that Mama’s charm had kicked in. The colors were brighter. The flowers bloomed, petals opening wide to reveal vibrant reds, yellows, and purples. Even the grass was greener.

“Nice, Mama,” I said, nudging her with my elbow.

She grinned and gave a small shrug. “It’s the least I can do.”

Todd opened the door after we knocked. He greeted us, stepping aside so we could enter. He glanced past us at the yard, then did a double take, his brows knitting together. “What the . . . ?” he muttered.

“Sorry to come by unannounced,” I said quickly. “Is Jessie Pearl here?”

He shook his head, as if he were clearing away cobwebs, looked one more time at the yard, then focused on me. “No problem, she’s here.”

We stepped inside, and he shut the door behind us. I knew the way, so I wove through the furniture, moving toward the kitchen. Behind me, I heard the sharp intake of Mama’s breath as she took in the array of knickknacks and antiques. I hadn’t prepared her for what to expect in the house. She murmured under her breath, in awe. She wasn’t a collector, but Nana was. Mama had grown up in a house where every
piece of furniture, every vase, picture frame, and trinket had a story.

Todd led us inside to the dining table where Jessie Pearl sat, her crutches leaning against her chair. She was looking at a sketch of their front yard. We offered our condolences to her before Todd continued. “I was thinking of putting paper lanterns out for the progressive dinner,” he said. “Make it more festive.”

Jessie Pearl patted his hand as he sat down at the table next to her. “It’s a fine idea, Todd. It’ll be a nice way to honor Delta.”

He slid the sketch toward me. “This is what I was thinking. White lights in the trees. The lanterns along the walkway. And if I have time after work this week, Megs and I thought we’d plant some flowers in the pots by the front porch.”

Now Jessie Pearl’s chin quivered in earnest. She squeezed her hands tighter together to control the shaking. “Lovely,” she said, but her voice was tight. “Delta would have enjoyed that.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” I said to Todd.

He grinned, turning the gold band on his finger. He was shy, I realized, and self-conscious from the praise. “Should have skipped law school and gotten into landscape architecture instead.”

Just then, Megan came out of the kitchen. She wound a white and red ticking dishcloth in her hands. She came up next to him, rubbing her hand on his back. “You can do both.”

“And a chef, right? A man of many talents,” I said.

Mama ran her fingers over the yellowed leaves of a neglected houseplant. “Do you work in Bliss?”

He shrugged modestly. “Bliss already has its fair share of attorneys. I would have to consider working in Fort Worth. Maybe as far as Dallas. But that would mean moving, and Megs is settled here. So, no, I’ve given up on the law.”

“You just have to put your resume out there,” Megan said. “Something’ll turn up.” She looked at us. “In the meantime, he keeps busy around here, and he’s doing some special projects for the church. Plus he’s cooking Friday night. The array of desserts will be awesome!”

“I thought Bennie was helping y’all with that,” I said, thinking maybe I’d misunderstood Bennie at the fabric store.

“She wanted to. In fact she asked me to show her how I made my cream puff pastry. Said she could make those for the dinner to help me out.”

Megan laughed. “He told her it was a trade secret.”

He put his hands out, palms up. “It is. And I don’t need any help, thank you very much.” He turned back to Mama and me. “I told her I could handle it.”

“Where did you go to cooking school?” I asked, but he was already out of his chair. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few seconds later with five coffee mugs. He disappeared again, this time returning with a coffee pot, and started pouring.

“He went to the culinary institute in Chicago,” Megan said, answering for him. “Then to law school here in Texas. That was all before I met him, can you imagine?”

“But none of it meant anything till I met you,” he said, squeezing her hand.

“But your true calling is landscape architecture?” I
glanced again at the sketch he’d done of the front yard. It looked like something out of
Southern Living
magazine. If he could pull it off in a matter of days
and
make cream puffs, I’d be impressed.

Megan ran her hand up his arm, beaming. “He’s amazing. You can just show him a picture of something you want built, and he’ll build it. Just like that,” she added, snapping her fingers. “Show him a picture of some fancy meal, and he can make that, too.”

“I’m sure the yard will look great and the desserts will be delicious,” I said, wanting to get back to the reason for my visit.

Mama perked up, suddenly finding a way to jump into the conversation. “If y’all need any help with the flowers, I can get most anythin’ to grow.”

My gaze instantly flew to the plant she’d been touching. The yellow leaves had turned a vibrant green, perking up as if they’d just had a much-needed drink of water. They looked plump and renewed. I quickly pushed the plant out of the way, blocking it from view before any of them noticed. People might not be able to keep secrets in Bliss, but we could still try.

Todd considered her, a little twinkle in his brown eyes. “I’ve heard that about you, Mrs. McClaine.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when Mama scooted back on her chair, looking for all the world like she’d
been struck across the cheek. “I don’t know who you think you’re talkin’ to, but there ain’t no Mrs. McClaine around here—”

“Mama!” What had gotten into her?

Todd’s eyes flew open wide, and he looked shell-shocked. “I—I’m sorry? I’d heard you were married to the sheriff.”

“She is,” I said, just as Mama sat up straight in her chair and said, “Oh, I’m his wife. But I will always be Tessa Parker Cassidy. I did not take the sheriff’s name, but I sure welcome him to take mine.”

I stared at my mother, flummoxed. She wasn’t usually so combative with folks she didn’t know well. She saved that particular personality trait for her loved ones. Her name was clearly a sensitive subject.

“You’re one of those feminists, aren’t you?” Jessie Pearl asked, narrowing her eyes as she looked at Mama.

“No,” Mama said. “I’m a Cassidy.”

Jessie Pearl seemed to consider this for a moment before responding. “Taking your husband’s name doesn’t make you less of a Cassidy. I took my husband’s name proudly. He passed goin’ on twenty years now, but I kept his name just as surely as I kept my own. The name doesn’t define me, Tessa.”

“Maybe not,” Mama said, “but we’ve got a strong and unique family history. Butch left us a legacy that is part of who we are. I carry his name because it is a daily reminder of the love he and Texana shared. The love that survived, against all odds, and resulted in our family line.”

Jessie Pearl shrugged her hunched shoulders, waving away Mama’s defense. “A name is just a name. Cassidy wasn’t even that man’s real name. It don’t mean anything.
Hell’s bells, I could call Megan by her middle name, but it don’t change who she is. Would it, Isabel?”

Megan and Todd looked at each other, hiding smiles.

Jessie Pearl continued. “I could up and decide to call Todd, I don’t know, Zachary, but he’s the same young man he was before, isn’t that right, Zachary? Er, I mean Todd?”

“Call him George, like Rebecca always does,” Megan said with a laugh. “She thinks he looks like a blond-haired George Clooney.”

Todd rolled his eyes, but nodded. “That’s right. Call me Zach or Michael or George. I can be someone different every day, if you like.”

Mama grinned, and suddenly I saw through her. She might well believe everything she was saying, but more than anything, she was getting Jessie Pearl to talk and think about something besides her dead daughter. I caught her eye and winked.

“There you have it,” Jessie Pearl said. “You can call a zebra a horse, and we might all believe it, but the truth of the matter is that a zebra can’t change his stripes. He’s still a zebra at the end of the day. I can call you McClaine, but you’ll still be a Cassidy. I just don’t know what difference it makes, but there you go.”

She struggled to stand, nodding to the bag I held. “What do you have there?” Todd hurried forward, helping her into the nearest chair, an antique American armchair. It rested on three turned, button-footed legs, and one front cabriole leg with a pad-style foot. She collapsed again, the effort at the short walk taking its toll.

Coco might have wanted to handle it differently, but she also wanted me to find out the truth, so I went with my gut.
“Ma’am,” I said, lifting the sack I carried. “I found these at the tag sale. They looked like the ones you collect,” I said, pointing to the curio cabinet. “I thought maybe they were added to your donation by mistake?”

I snuck a look at the figurines on the glass shelves as I unwrapped the first one from the church sale. The Dressmaker that had been in Jessie Pearl’s collection a week ago was gone. A layer of dust covered the shelves, several clean spots evident where figurines had recently been. I hesitated handing it over, not wanting to upset her.

“Give it here,” she said, her gnarled hand reaching for the Dressmaker. She was elderly and looked frail, but she was a spitfire. “You got this at the tag sale, you said?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding as I handed her the bag.

She took it, her shoulders hunched, and then patted the chair seat next to her. “Harlow, sit.”