A Seamless Murder (7 page)

“I’m sure they probably just didn’t get to it yet, and now—”

But his mild head shake had turned almost violent. “Oh, that’s not it at all. Delta intentionally didn’t put it up. I did everything possible to make that designation happen, despite her trying to stop it at every turn. She voted against it at the meeting, did you know that?”

“Against what, the designation of her own house?”

“Her mother’s house,” he corrected, “and yes. And then, when she lost, she was a poor sport. I shouldn’t say it, but I’m glad—”

He stopped suddenly, as if he remembered where he was and whom he was talking to. “You’re glad about . . . ?” I prompted. I felt pretty certain he’d been about to say that he was glad she was dead, but I secretly hoped I was wrong.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I’m glad the designation is done. I’m going to give Todd a call so he can put the plaque up for Jessie Pearl. That sweet woman needs something positive in her life. The plaque isn’t much, but it’s something.” He held out his hand for me to shake. “Great meeting you, Ms. Cassidy. Congratulations on the house. I could use your vote come election time,” he added.

I nodded noncommittally. “It’ll be a tough race.”

“But one I intend to win.” He gave me a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Stop by my office anytime to pick up the plaque for
your
house. And I certainly hope you’ll hang it up.”

“I will, Mr. Lisle. Thank you.”

He walked away, leaving me wondering why Delta would vote against a historical designation for her mother’s house, why she’d been voted off the Historic Council, and just what lengths Jeremy Lisle would go to to win the mayoral election. There had clearly been animosity between him and Delta, but I didn’t feel as if I fully understood why they hadn’t gotten along.

Was it possible that Delta had been an even bigger thorn in someone else’s side—and had that person stooped to murder?

Unfortunately that was a question that I wasn’t anywhere closer to answering.

Aprons were a completely different beast compared to garment design. It was like playing with Play-Doh verses making brioche. The former was simplistic, while the latter was complex and multilayered.

Or at least that’s what I’d thought before I started trying to create the perfect apron for each woman in the Red Hat group. Turns out my charm only seemed to conjure up images of full outfits, and aprons were more like accessories. I was going to have to rely on what I knew of the women to come up with the best designs. Not an easy task, since I didn’t know them very well at all.

I’d whipped up Delta’s apron in record time, and she’d ended up in the bottom of a freshly dug grave. Not a confidence booster. I had a vision for Georgia’s apron, but part of me wondered if some ill fate would come to her if I made the apron I envisioned. Surely Delta’s death had nothing to do with the charmed apron I’d made for her . . . had it?

That thought circled around my brain for a good long while, until finally, gathering up my wherewithal, I chased it away. I couldn’t let my doubts get the better of me. Sure, Delta had had the apron with her when she died, but the two things weren’t related. Coincidence, pure and simple. I
likened my sudden insecurity to falling off a horse. I was reluctant to try again for fear of the same result, but I knew I had to get back in the saddle. The Cassidy women were made of strong stuff, and giving in to fear wasn’t an option.

I had an idea for Georgia’s apron, so I went with it. I’d been debating the half apron verses the full apron for her. Thinking again about the design I’d envisioned, I decided to go with the full apron.

I searched my fabric stash, wondering if I had anything remotely close to what I’d pictured. I knew a trip to the fabric store was going to be necessary for the rest, but if I could get started on Georgia’s today, I felt as if it would help me get back in the saddle.

As it turned out, the perfect fabrics—or a close enough approximation—were already in my possession. I got to work cutting out the contrasting fabrics, using a base design pattern I’d created, adapting it for the ruffles and accent pieces. The pale green cotton with bright pink flowers became the skirt, the dropped band that fell mid-thigh, and the neck ties. I used a bright pink and white polka-dot fabric for the contrasting bands and decorative pocket on the apron bodice. I’d create a large flower out of fabric last, attaching it to the left seam connecting the skirt to the big ruffle.

I set to work, and in a matter of hours, I had the apron complete. There was only one way to describe the finished product: adorably whimsical. Pretty, yet quirky and fun at the same time. It was a little more fanciful than I imagined Georgia to be, but I wanted to push her boundaries a little bit. Make her stretch and summon up some part of herself that she didn’t normally access.

I couldn’t predict how she’d respond to the design, but I
called her up and invited her over to take a look at the finished apron. I was hoping she’d adore it and that it would help her see something in herself. I also wanted a chance to visit with her one-on-one. People often possessed information they didn’t realize they had.

She was as excited to see it as I was to show it to her. Forty-five minutes later, Georgia glided into Buttons & Bows, the grosgrain strand of bells hanging from the door handle jingling softly as she opened and closed the door. Not for the first time, I saw the beauty queen quality in her. She kept her figure in perfect shape, her hair had the sheen and volume of someone much younger, and she looked as if she could have been on a hit television show twenty-five years ago.

I invited her into the shop, ushering her to the small sitting area. She took the red velvet settee. Most people opted for the sofa or loveseat. The settee required someone with feline posture and presence, and few had those qualities. But Georgia did. I often debated if I should keep it or get rid of it, but it had belonged to Loretta Mae and I couldn’t bear to part with it.

“I should have asked this before I made your apron,” I said as I sat across from her, “but nothing’s changed, has it? Is the progressive dinner still on?”

She waved away my concern. “Oh heavens, yes, it’s still on. We won’t cancel it, Harlow. It’s a tragedy, what happened to Delta, but like we said the other day, she’d be the first to say that she’d want us to go on. Life doesn’t stop. I wouldn’t say that was her motto, but if one of us had unexpectedly passed on, she would have insisted the dinner go on as planned.”

“So the aprons . . . ?” I trailed off, but let my voice lilt at the end.

“Proceeding was the right thing to do,” she said, answering my unspoken question.

I sighed in relief, partly because I wanted her to love the apron I’d made for her, but also because I wanted the excuse of meeting with the other Red Hatters in case any of them could shed some light on Delta’s untimely death and who might be behind it.

“I made her apron first,” I said. “Brought it to her the morning she died. It’s a small thing, but if it gave her any bit of pleasure, then I’m glad she was able to see it.”

“And mine was next on your list? Hope that means I’m not next to die.” She laughed, playing off the comment as innocuous, but it cut through me like a knife nonetheless. Because of course, I’d just wondered the very same thing.

I hopped up, scurrying to my workroom behind the French doors. I’d left the apron neatly folded on the worktable in the center of the room, but now it was hanging from a hook on the old wooden screen I’d used to create a makeshift dressing room. The apron was filled out, as if someone were wearing it. I stopped short, peering more closely at it, and at the space around it. The air rippled—Meemaw was playing her games. In her ghostly incarnation, she’d reverted to her childhood sensibilities, pulling pranks just for a good, otherworldly chuckle. Her passing had shaved seventy-plus years off her mental age.

“Loretta Mae Cassidy, I need that,” I said, scolding her as if she actually
were
a young child, and not a ghost with arrested development.

In the blink of an eye, the apron lost its shape and the
rippling air settled back to normal again. A pipe in the ceiling groaned, but it was a happy sound, almost like laughter, and I knew Meemaw was going to move on to some other parlor trick. I took the apron from the hook she’d somehow gotten it on (I had no idea how she managed to maneuver tangible items to and fro in the house, but she did), carrying it out to Georgia.

She’d been running her index finger over the cuticles on her left hand, but looked up as I came toward her. “Is that it?” she asked, her eyes narrowing, and for just a moment, I saw a crack in Georgia’s perfect veneer. Could she have had a grudge against Delta? And if so, was it enough for her to have killed over?

I nodded and handed the apron to her, tucking the thought aside for now. As I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose, I could see the uncertainty on her face. She took it from me, gently spreading it out across her lap.

Instantly, I felt the need to defend my design and fabric choice, but inside I was kicking myself. I was off my game. I’d gotten it wrong. Oh God, these aprons might well do me in. “Ms. Emmons, let me start by saying that I don’t know you well, but from what I’ve seen of you, you’re a sophis—”

“Harlow,” she said, cutting me off. “Is this how you see me? Flowers and polka dots?”

“Not exactly,” I said, wanting to explain, and not at all sure that I could, “but that’s the point. You’re a sophisticated
woman with style and poise. I wanted to create something that honored those things about you, but I also wanted to offer you something a little bit out of your comfort zone. The flowers in the main fabric are classic and traditional, while the polka dots are just fun. They’re meant to channel something whimsical within you, if that makes sense.”

She sat up on the settee, her back straight, and gazed at the apron in her lap. Slowly, she lifted her chin and met my gaze. “You do realize this is not something I would ever choose on my own?”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact. All I could do was nod. I opened my mouth, ready to apologize for misjudging things, but I heard Meemaw’s voice in my head telling me to never apologize for what I believed. So I stopped myself from defending my choices. This was the apron I’d seen for Georgia Emmons. This was how my charm worked, and I couldn’t second-guess myself now. I had to stand by my creativity and my designs, as well as my pattern choices. “If you wanted something you’d simply choose on your own, you never would have come to me to make something. You could have gone to a big-box store, or a kitchen store, or shopped online. You and your friends wanted something different. You wanted something individualistic. You wanted something only I could envision for you. And that’s what I’ve given you, Ms. Emmons. If it’s not to your liking—”

“Whoa!” Her stern expression cracked as she smiled. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it, only that it wasn’t what I pictured for myself. It reminds me of something I might have wanted in my twenties or thirties if things had been different.” Her voice grew quiet. Contemplative. “I just wonder . . .”

She trailed off, looking out the front window. I remained quiet, waiting for her to finish her thought. Finally, she did.

“When did I lose the fun side of myself?” she mused.

“I don’t think you’ve lost it,” I said, answering her even though I knew it was more of a rhetorical question. “I think sometimes we just have to be reminded that there’s more to us than we sometimes realize or permit the world to see.”

Her lips drew together and she nodded. “Truer words were never spoken, Harlow. I love it. I absolutely love it!”

I heaved a silent sigh of relief. Despite my attempt at being strong and determined to be true to my charm, my insides had been coiled up in a knot. “I’m so glad.”

“The girls aren’t going to believe it. It’s so unlike me, yet it’s completely perfect in every way.”

“The girls?”

“Randi, Cynthia, Sherri, Bennie, Coco,” she said, naming the Red Hatters.

“How long have y’all been together?” I asked.

“Going on six years now, give or take, as a group, but of course we’ve known each other much longer than that.” She tapped the pads of her fingers with her thumb, counting. “Yes, that’s right, this is the sixth year. Time goes too quickly.” We fell into a moment of silence, recognizing Delta’s passing without saying a word. Time went too fast, and life was unpredictable. Death, and especially murder, had a way of putting a pall over a room.

“Who’s next?” she asked after the moment passed.

“I haven’t decided yet. Maybe Randi.” Randi Martin taught yoga, was as skinny as a summer day was long, and I had no idea what her apron should look like or what magic I’d be sewing into the seams. “I’m going to take a class from
her tomorrow. Thought that might help me learn something about her, so I can come up with the right design.”

“I’ve taken her yoga classes. She’s good. A little earthy, if you know what I mean, but I’m sure you’ll like it.”

I’d never taken a yoga class, so I didn’t know what to expect, but I was excited, both for the sun salutations and for the chance to learn about Randi. If I learned anything about Delta in the process, all the better.

Georgia Emmons stood, folding her apron over her arm. “Can we pay you when all the aprons are finished?” she asked.

“Oh, definitely. I know where to find you,” I with a smile.

“I guess you do. I don’t think I realized you lived right next door to Delta. She rarely, if ever, had us over to her house, you see.”

“Why is that?” They’d been friends for such a long time, so why wouldn’t they spend time at one another’s homes?

She thought for a moment, as if contemplating how to answer. “Delta knew everyone in town. If you met her, you’d feel as if you’d known her forever.”

I thought about that. Delta and the Cassidy women had never been close, but it was true that, even within the framework of a feud, there was something about her that made it feel like we had history that went beyond our ridiculous argument.

“So you’re saying she wasn’t as friendly as people thought?” Once again, I came back to the idea that people wore masks, presenting what they wanted others to see. Delta was in real estate and a visible member of the community, as was Coco. With their connections to the university and the people they’d worked with, everyone seemed to know them.

But was the friendly persona Delta showed people the real her, or was it simply calculated? It seemed pretty clear that Delta had an agenda of her own, and that manipulation may have been part of her MO.

Georgia’s voice brought me out of my thoughts. “I stopped by her house once to drop off some church receipts. She didn’t invite me in, but I caught a glimpse of the interior through the open door.”

“They have a lot of interesting things in there, don’t they?”

But Georgia shook her head. “They do,” she agreed. “Delta’s always been into antiques, but it’s not that. I mean, it is, but it’s more than that. I saw some things that I’m not sure . . .” She trailed off, letting the sentence drift away.

“You can tell me,” I said, encouraging her to share her observation.

She hesitated for another minute, then nodded. “There was a sideboard that I
know
I’d seen in the church basement. And on top of that, there was a lamp that I’m almost positive belonged to Cynthia. She’d donated it to a church tag sale last year.”

“Maybe Delta bought it at the sale?” I suggested, not quite following what she was trying to say.

“Maybe,” she said, but I could hear the doubt in her voice. “But the thing is, something just didn’t feel right, so I checked. There was no receipt for it, and no one remembers selling it. We all just chalked it up to shoddy record keeping with the sale, but when I saw it through the door, and when Delta didn’t let me in, well, I wondered.”

“Do you think she stole the lamp?” I asked, trying to get to the root of Georgia’s suspicions.

She shrugged. “I never wanted to believe that, but maybe . . . I guess so.”

“The sideboard, too?” Logistically, how would Delta steal a piece of furniture from the church basement? That was one question, but the more obvious question was why. Why steal it when the theft could easily be found out? What would her motive have been?