A Seamless Murder (3 page)

“I’ve been flipping the mattresses for years and years. Longer than you’ve been in the world,” she said. “Haven’t I asked for help? Good thing for me Megan and Todd showed up when they did or I might still be under that bed and you’d all be talkin’ about me at Christian Brother’s Mortuary instead of talkin’ with me right here, right now.”

“We’re glad we showed up, too!” a man’s voice called from the kitchen.

So Todd was in the kitchen.

Jessie Pearl grinned, exposing the outline of her dentures. Her smile was contagious. “This time the dang thing felt like it was alive. I thought I was going to be smothered. Todd was trying to help, and I couldn’t even hear him. Megan screaming at him to hurry gave him the gumption he needed to heft it off of me.”

“It is a good thing they got here when they did,” I said.

“And now they’re makin’ supper for us tonight. Sweet, right?
They’re
the ones who need aprons. They’d actually use them.”

I ignored that hint, not wanting to take the apron count up to ten, and instead I focused on Delta’s hyperattentiveness to the kitchen. Had Todd and Megan been in the kitchen the whole time, or had they come in from a back door?

More than wondering when Todd and Megan had started cooking, I was curious about Delta’s attentiveness to them. Did she not want a mess left after they were done? Was she
trying to learn what was on the menu? My own interest was piqued. If there was anything that could help me pinpoint the style and fabric choice for Delta’s apron, it was a glimpse into her kitchen.

“Very sweet,” I said, wishing someone would come over next door and make me dinner. With all the tasks on my plate, cooking was going to go by the wayside. At least I had the progressive dinner to look forward to.

Jessie Pearl continued on as if there hadn’t been a break in the conversation. “You’d be surprised at what I can do, but this time . . . this time it was different.”

“You’re eighty-three years old, mother,” Delta said. “You had no business trying to flip it.”

“I was a suffragette, I’ll have you know. I’ve always been a doer, not a watcher. I know what matters, and I’m not afraid to stand up for what I care about.”

Miss Jessie Pearl directed a stern glare at her eldest daughter. I’d wondered a few times how in the world she could have given birth to Delta, but for a moment, I saw the likeness between them. Jessie Pearl had gumption, just like Delta did, and they were cut from the same cloth in a way I had never noticed before.

“Like I said, there wasn’t anyone to help. If you want somethin’ done, do it yourself. That’s a rule I’ve always lived by, and I ain’t about to change it now.”

“’Course she has so much money, she couldn’t spend it all if she tried,” Delta said to me, but to Jessie Pearl, she said, “Good for you, Mother. Now, do you want Harlow to make you an apron or not?”

The wrinkles on her forehead deepened as she slipped into thought. “I don’t know if true suffragettes wore aprons.”

“You were born too late to be a real suffragette, Mother,” Delta said, rolling her eyes.

Jessie Pearl drew her lower lip up and over her upper lip, ignoring Delta, so I jumped in. “I bet a good many of them did,” I said. “Women don’t like to be defined by just one part of themselves. They shouldn’t be. We’re layered, right? Complicated. We can wear aprons and still believe in equality.”

Another of Meemaw’s tidbits of wisdom.

“That’s true enough,” Miss Jessie Pearl mused. “I suppose so, then. I’ll have plenty of people to cook for during the holidays. Coco can help. She’s the only one who can cook worth anything—”

Delta scoffed, but she didn’t rebut by saying that she herself actually
could
cook.

“Her corn-bread dressing is every bit as good as mine,” Miss Jessie Pearl said to Delta, “and didn’t she decide to add dried cranberries to it? Perks it up with a special something, do you know? Todd’s gonna help this year, too. Learn the family recipes. I’d bet a turnip and a dollar that he won’t catch the oven on fire,” she added, looking directly at Delta. The sentiment was clear. Apparently at some point, Delta
had
caught the oven on fire. I couldn’t even imagine how that could happen, so I left it alone.

Delta pinched her lips together, but she held her tongue.

My stomach grumbled. Loudly. “Sounds delicious,” I said. I made a mental note to add dried cranberries when I made my own corn-bread dressing at Thanksgiving.

I looked around for Anson Mobley, just wanting a glimpse
of him, but he was nowhere to be seen. He must have come through the kitchen and snuck down the hallway to the bedrooms before I’d come in. I masked my disappointment at the missed opportunity. I’d have to meet him another time.

“Have I shown you my runner collection?” Jessie Pearl continued.

Delta sighed. “Mother, for pity’s sake, Harlow doesn’t want to see some old, stained runners. She’s here to talk aprons.”

I waved a hand in the air. Textiles were my passion. “Actually, I’d love to see them. Loretta Mae had embroidered runners. I have a few of them tucked away for safekeeping.”

Delta threw her hands up and turned her back on us. “Great,” she muttered, but she indulged her mother, disappearing and returning a minute later, her arms laden with a stack of folded white cloth. “These are just a
few
from her collection,” she said, as if she couldn’t believe how many runners her mother had made over the years.

I touched the first one, letting the pads of my fingers gently rest on the soft cotton. Images of the past didn’t fly at me like they did for Gracie Flores, the newest discovered member of the extended and convoluted Cassidy clan and my boyfriend, Will Flores’s, daughter. Will, who just happened to be the man of my dreams, had adjusted to both of the women in his life having magical charms. He was a keeper, as Meemaw would say.

Even though I didn’t have Gracie’s charm of reading the fabric, an overall peaceful feeling enveloped me. I could feel the love Jessie Pearl had woven into the runners she’d embroidered.

“Take a look,” Jessie Pearl said. She took the top runner
by one of the embroidered ends and spread it out over her lap. “These are May baskets,” she said, pointing to the designs on either end of the cloth. “This was one of the first pieces I ever completed on my own. My aunt taught me. Once I got going, I didn’t stop.”

“Ha. That’s the understatement of the century,” Delta said.

I could hear low voices coming from the kitchen, followed by the faint rustling of plastic bags and the slamming of cupboard doors. “But I needed olives,” a young woman’s voice said.

“Go get them for her, Todd,” came another woman’s voice. “Megs and I need some girl time without you.”

So someone else was in the kitchen, too. My guess was that it was Megan’s friend and business partner.

A man’s voice said something in response, and then the reverberation of another slammed door, followed by giggling. So Megan had won the olive argument, and Todd was going out to the market.

“If I had to count, I bet I’ve made a couple hundred over the years—”

“At least.”

“You appreciate the art of handwork, Harlow, don’t you?”

“I sure do, ma’am. And these look like they were made with a lot of love.” I picked up another runner. The stitches were smaller and more precise on this one. They were also varied, a mix of lazy daisy stitches, back stitches, traditional straight stitches, outline and blanket stitches, herringbone and broken chain, and even bullion knots. Not a piece made by a beginner.

I folded the runner and started to lay it on top of the stack, but she pushed it back toward me. “Take it.”

“Oh, but I can’t. These should go to your daughters. Your granddaughter.”

Jessie Pearl laughed, waving away the very idea. “What are they going to do with them? There are hundreds of them. Sure, Coco and Sherri might keep some, but Delta and Anson don’t want any, do you, Delta?”

Delta shook her head.

“And Megan might keep one, but she’ll put the rest in an estate sale or sell ’em at the flea market, like everything else around here.”

“But—”

Jessie Pearl pressed her chin to her chest, looking up at me through her thinning eyelashes. “These are yours,” she said, and I knew she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

I nodded, holding my hands out so she could hand me a few. She took a few minutes to look at the folded stack on her lap, finally withdrawing eight runners and handing them over to me. “You take good care of them, Harlow.”

I blinked away the sudden dampness in my eyes and nodded. “I sure will, ma’am.”

“Finally,” Delta said. “Can we talk aprons now?” She’d been standing sentry in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. When I stood, she turned abruptly and walked out of sight.

I gave Jessie Pearl a little wave, but she was already back to her runners, muttering to herself as she looked at each one. If she was like me, then each design told a story and each runner represented a moment of time in her life. I wanted to stay and hear what she had to say, to listen to her stories, but Delta was done waiting. As I entered the kitchen, she was
already talking. “I want something dramatic,” she told me. “Something that will go with my kitchen and will . . .”

She ran her hands down her sides, but trailed off. An image suddenly popped into my head of her in her signature black pants and a patterned blouse, her standard outfit as a realtor. She must have a closet full of pretty blouses, and another full of the exact same pair of pants. In the vision, she also wore a frothy apron made with silk organza, a silk dupioni, and ruffles out of tulle and chiffon. I actually had every single one of the fabrics I was picturing. None had enough yardage to do anything significant with, but an apron? It could work.

Not the most practical of fabrics, either, but I got the feeling from looking around her dramatic black and white kitchen, and from what her mother had said, that she didn’t actually do a lot of cooking, so impractical could work.

Megan greeted me, introducing me to her friend. “Harlow, meet Rebecca Masters. Rebecca, this is Harlow Cassidy. She runs the dressmaking shop next door.”

On the surface, they were opposites. Megan’s shoulder-length blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, she had on minimal makeup, and she wore jeans and a T-shirt. She looked ready to dig in and work. Rebecca, on the other hand, had applied a heavy layer of foundation, blush, and mascara. She had short curly brown hair that looked artfully messy. It worked on her, giving her the look of a pixie or fairy with her delicate features and petite frame.

“We’re going to sort through the back room today,” Megan added, looking at her mother.

Delta glanced from Megan to her friend. “You’re going to work in that?” she said to Rebecca. She wore a flirty dress
with a full skirt. It hit her mid-thigh, and her flats had pointy toes. She could have been dressed to go out on a date rather than to work in the kitchen or sort antiques.

“We have Todd to do the dirty work,” Rebecca said, nudging Megan with her elbow. “Right?”

Megan laughed. “Right.”

Delta looked skeptical. “Doesn’t he have a job to find? Resumes to pass out?”

“Bribery does wonders to motivate a person,” Rebecca said, giggling again. Megan joined in and they both collapsed against the counter, their giggles turning to full on laughter.

Delta stared at them. “Bribery,” she said. “Is that right?”

Rebecca waved her hand in front of her. “No, Mrs. Mobley. We’re just playing around. Nobody’s bribing anyone. Todd said he’s happy to help if we take another load of donations to the tag sale. He loves antiques. Maybe as much as you do.”

Delta didn’t look appeased. She gave both girls a stern look, and they each straightened up, stifling their still bubbling laughter. “Y’all just steer clear of my things. There’s a lifetime of treasures in this house, and I don’t want to find anything missing.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they said in unison.

Megan and Rebecca went back to their cooking, and Delta pulled open a bottom drawer, showing me the aprons she had. None of them looked worn—or even like they’d ever been washed. “And you’re sure you want me to make you a new one?” I said after I’d taken her measurements.

She tucked her current aprons back in a bottom drawer, then turned to look up at me. “I’m sure. And I fully expect it to be the best of the bunch.”

So that was that. Delta Lea Mobley wanted a showpiece—an apron that would transform her figure and make her curves look a bit more like Jane Russell in her heyday. She wanted her apron to make a statement, and I knew I could deliver.

I climbed the steps to my porch, pausing at the front door—the entrance to both my home and my dressmaking shop—lost in thought. The details of Delta’s apron were coming together, but something else had stopped me short the second I crossed the threshold. I sensed something. Not chaos, exactly, but a disturbance in the air. I shut the door behind me, walking around slowly, looking at the sitting area, the coffee table made from a vintage door, its old-fashioned handle still intact. Nothing was awry there. My lookbook of fashion designs lay undisturbed. The retro magazine rack, filled with fashion magazines, sat untouched. Meemaw hadn’t left a trail of messages for me to decipher by following the open pages and circled words, as she has been known to do.

My gaze traveled to the far side of the room. The corkboard displaying current and past designs I’d sketched was just as I’d left it. The rack of prêt-à-porter clothing I kept on hand was overstuffed, but it had been like that for the last few weeks as I’d continually designed, sewed, and completed new projects.

But still, I knew
something
was amiss. “Meemaw?” I called out to my great-grandmother as I headed toward my
atelier, which at one point in time had been the dining room. I had more use for a sewing and designing workroom than I did for formal dining. It was filled with my Pfaff sewing machine, as well as Loretta Mae’s ancient Singer, the machine I’d learned to sew on and would never part with, as well as a large, tall cutting table in the center of the room, and a makeshift dressing area with an antique privacy screen that displayed some of my creations. Along the left wall was a freestanding shelving unit lined with Mason jars, each glass container filled with buttons, closures, bows, and other sewing notions. Jar after jar after jar was lined up.

Upstairs in the attic, another set of shelves held even more jars. A good many of them held vintage trinkets once owned by Texana or Cressida. Each was a treasure trove to be savored and cherished.

On the shelf in the atelier, one jar was turned on its side, buttons spilled out across the shelf like a can of spilled paint. Meemaw. Who knew what she was up to? Since it was already dumped out, I spread the contents of the jar across the shelf, taking a quick look. Nothing unusual jumped out at me. This particular jar held an array of vintage glass and rhinestone buttons. A few pewter, heart-shaped buttons drew my eye, one in particular. It had a pale pink center, and I knew it would be a perfect addition to Delta’s apron. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Meemaw couldn’t have known what I was up to with the aprons, and yet . . .

“Just coincidence,” I muttered as I set it aside and cleaned up the rest, replacing the buttons, setting the jar back in place.

“Meemaw!” I called. “I’m home.”

The sheer drapes on either side of the one window in the atelier rustled, catching my attention. I looked—and jumped. Thelma Louise, the granddam of my grandmother’s goat herd, stood just outside the window, nose to the glass, her dark eyes watching me, her mouth pulled back to reveal her teeth, as if she were grinning. “Skedaddle!” I said, waving my hand to shoo her away.

But Thelma Louise never did anything I told her to do. She’d gone and nearly destroyed a handmade mum during homecoming season, consistently ate her share of my flowers, and generally kept me on my toes. Not the ideal neighbor, but Thelma Louise was a package deal with Nana. Wherever my grandmother was, so were her goats.

I wagged a scolding finger at the naughty animal, warning her to be good, then headed upstairs to the attic to find the fabrics for Delta’s apron. The attic was really a big, unfinished room on the second floor. The entrance to it was in my bedroom. And the door was wide open.
Not
how I’d left it. I poked my head inside, drawing in a sharp breath.

Just inside the door were more shelves and more Mason jars filled with more buttons, trinkets, notions, and bows. Several had been tipped over, the contents scattered over the shelves. Further in, stacks of fabric had been tossed to the ground. The drawers to the ancient dresser were pulled open, and all of its contents scattered about.

Meemaw could clean up when she wanted to, but
apparently picking up after herself wasn’t high on her list of things to do at the moment.

“Meemaw, what in tarnation?”

Once I spoke, the energy I’d sensed when I’d walked in stilled. The air stopped moving. It was as if Meemaw was holding her breath, waiting for me to leave. I couldn’t even fathom what she was up to.

“Meemaw, I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what you’re doing,” I said. On a really good day, and when she seemed rested and full of energy, she could almost take a corporeal form. Her shape became clear, sometimes her clothing was discernable, and I could almost see a teasing smile on her face.

But it never lasted long, and the effort seemed to wipe her out. She was great at making lights flicker on and off, excelled at clanking pipes, could steam up and write a mean message in a bathroom mirror, but actual physical tasks were more challenging. Once she’d managed to make a tornado inside the house with all sorts of my things, and another time she cleaned up a huge mess, but these incidents were few and far between. When they happened, they exhausted her and I saw neither hide nor hair of her for twenty-four hours.

I didn’t expect her to suddenly appear before me, but that’s just what she did. Sort of.

The air in front of me rippled, and I grew warm, as if a heated blanket had been thrown around my shoulders. Slowly, a form took shape, the body distorting the air enough that I could tell it was Meemaw.

“Oh my,” I breathed. This had happened only when Mama and Nana had been with me—four generations of Cassidy women in the same room. But now Loretta Mae was trying
to appear before me. Just me. “Meemaw, what is it? Are you okay?”

A million thoughts raced through my head, beginning and ending with,
Was she saying good-bye?
Was her time on this plane up for some reason, and was this her way of making her presence known before she was gone for good?

The translucent air moved, and the next second I realized she was shaking her head no. I knew instantly that she was answering the question I hadn’t asked, and just as quickly I felt relief flow through me. Having her as a ghost might not be as good as having her here fully, but I’d take it if the only other option was not to have her at all.

“Are you looking for something?” I asked. As I asked the question, I suddenly knew just what she was doing.

Cassidy legend held that Butch Cassidy had sent something special to Texana, his wife and my great-great-great-grandmother, from Argentina, but no one knew whether the stories were true, or whether such a treasure really existed. All the Cassidy women, and even my brother, Red, had looked for the mysterious trinket, but no one had ever found it.

When I’d first moved back into 2112 Mockingbird Lane, I’d searched through a good many of the Mason jars, imagining where the notions had come from or how they’d come into my ancestors’ possession.

It looked to me like Meemaw was still on the hunt. And why not? She couldn’t leave the house, so looking for the elusive gift from Butch to Texana probably kept her ghostly mind occupied.

She opened her mouth, emitting a haunting sound.
“Willll.” Her voice echoed, sounding more like a moan than any discernable word.

Trying to talk wasn’t something she did very often. My heartbeat skittered. “What? Meemaw, what do you need?”

She tried again, but her form in front of me faltered, flickering like a faulty lightbulb. “Wiiiiilllll.”

“You need Will?”

“Yyyyyyyy . . .” The distorted air holding onto her shape smoothed, the image of her disappearing.

“Yes? You need Will?”

But before she could answer, and just as suddenly as she’d appeared to me, she was gone. It was as if the light switch had been turned off. I knew she needed to recharge after the effort of appearing to me.

“I’ll get him for you,” I said to the empty room. I took my cell phone from my back pocket so I could call him once I got back downstairs. Back in the corner, a drawer slammed and something squeaked. In a strange, distorted way, it sounded like she was saying,
Thank you
.

Hopefully, I thought as an aside, she’d get her strength back and clean up the mess she’d made throughout the attic while I sewed. If not, it was going to be a late night for me. Knowing things in the attic were awry would weigh on me. I rifled through the cupboard of fabric next to the shelves of Mason jars, finding two of the pieces I needed for Delta’s apron, then I headed back downstairs so I could get to work. It would take a good chunk of my evening, I knew, but I was bound and determined to finish it in one sitting. I wanted her to
ooh
and
ahh
, but I didn’t want to spend umpteen hours on the project. I had the other Red Hatters to get to know, so I
could make their aprons for them, not to mention the other commitments on the calendar.

I knew I needed to allot my time efficiently because I was recommitted to a fulfilling personal life with Will. I also wanted to build a Web site for the business, to help with expansion, but I never seemed to find the time to work on it. When I came to the bottom step, the sharp scent of chopped onions and garlic wafted to me from the direction of my kitchen. I knew from experience that Meemaw didn’t have the ghostly skills to actually cook, try as she might, which meant either Mama or Nana was here, and they had just started making something delicious to eat.

“How did you know? I’m starving!” I said. I half walked, half hopped as I headed toward the kitchen, pulling off my favorite burnt-red Frye harness boots and dropping them along the way. I stripped out of my asymmetrical Ultrasuede jacket, which I’d made for myself in between other projects, and hung it over the ladder-backed chair in what I now used as the dining room. The smoky scent of the paprika and onions hung in the air, and I knew what was on the menu. Chili. My stomach grumbled in response as I passed through the archway to the kitchen . . .

And stopped short.

It wasn’t Meemaw—no surprise—but it also wasn’t Mama or Nana standing at the pale yellow cast iron stove.

It was Will.

And he wore an apron.

And not just any apron. He wore a manly canvas apron with
I
BEEF
emblazoned on it. We were in Texas, after all.

“Speak of the devil,” I said, tucking my cell phone away.
No need to call him since he was already here. “Meemaw’s looking for you.”

“Is she now?”

“She’ll have to wait, though.” I sidled up to him, leaned in, and kissed him as he turned to greet me.

He gave me a cockeyed grin and pulled me close. “Tough day at the office?”

“I wish. Tough day at the neighbor’s house.”

He returned to the stove, stirring the concoction of ground beef, beer, onions, garlic, tomato sauce, and spices. As the ingredients cooked, we chatted, catching up on the routine parts of our day. When the beef had cooked, he scooped up a spoonful and, with one hand cupped under it, offered it to me for a taste.

Gently, I blew on it, and then took a tentative bite. Will liked his food spicier than I did, but he was learning my taste and accommodating my preferences, adding his own extra spice after the fact so we could both enjoy a meal. “That’s so good,” I said.

“Imagine it over a bowl of Fritos and then topped with cheese and sour cream.”

Frito chili pie. A Texas staple, if there ever was one. I for one discarded all the brouhaha about Frito pie originating in Santa Fe. They served something similar on a bed of lettuce. Lettuce? That was just wrong.

I glanced around the kitchen. No lettuce in sight, although I had noticed right away that Will’s chili had beans, and lots of them. Black, kidney, pinto, and one other that I didn’t recognize. Tomatoes and corn, too. In general, the accepted Texas chili was bean free, but I’d take Will’s version any day.

He served me up a bowl before serving himself, topping
his with a healthy dash (or three) of cayenne pepper, and we sat at the kitchen table to eat. “No Gracie tonight?” I asked when I finally forced myself to stop for a breath.

“She’s out with Shane.”

I dipped my chin and gazed at him through my lowered lashes. “So you thought you’d wine and dine me and then take me—”

The sentence was left hanging when the bag of Fritos suddenly flew off the counter, the contents spilling across the hardwood floor. Will and I looked at each other, at the chips, then at each other again. “Loretta Mae?” he asked.

“That’d be my guess.”

“Guess she doesn’t want me to take you . . . anywhere,” he said, cracking that sideways smile again.

“Whatever are we to do?” I asked, placing the back of my hand against my forehead in manufactured Scarlett O’Hara angst.

“Well, I just happen to have my own house—”

The bag of Fritos skittered across the floor, the mess of chips scattering farther and wider. A low, haunting sound came from nowhere and everywhere at once and sounded like a ghostly voice saying, “Uh-uh, uh-uh, uh-uh.”