Pleating for Mercy

do it.”

He didn’t mention it again, just folded the paper back into a square and tucked it away in his shirt pocket. “The application to make this house part of the historical society is almost processed,” he said, turning to go.

I blinked with surprise. “What?”

He stopped at the front door. “You didn’t know?”

Slowly, I shook my head. Good Lord, what other land mines had Meemaw set?

“Loretta Mae showed up at the Bliss Historical Society about a month before she passed. Not only is this house one of the original dwellings off the square and one of the oldest homes in town, but when Bonnie and Clyde went on their rampage through the county, they hung out in Bliss, robbed the bank on the square, and hid out in your backyard.”

I gawked in disbelief. “I’ve never heard that story.” I folded my arms over my chest and tapped my foot. “Is that really true? They hid out here?”

“It’s true, Cassidy. This house is going on the registry. The society sent your great-grandmother letters for years, but she never answered them. Then one day, she just showed up and asked what in tarnation we’d been waiting for,” he said with a chuckle.

“Well, I’ll be. Do I need to do anything?”

“I’ll bring the final documents by when they’re done. At some point, we’ll have our photographer come out. The society’s making plans for a calendar and a book of Bliss history and unforgettable characters. This house will be in both.”

Out back, the slap slap slap of the gate banging in the breeze sounded like raucous clapping. Meemaw—she was up to her usual tricks. Once again, she’d gotten what she’d wanted. “Do you have that gate latch on your list?” I asked. If Meemaw kept messing with it, Thelma Louise, or one of Nana’s other feisty goats, was sure to find the way back into my yard.

“Yep.”

“Good. Maybe it can move to the top?”

He nodded. “Gracie’s going to stop by this afternoon,” he said as he headed out.

So I had a few hours. I needed a break from my workroom. And I needed to talk to Hoss McClaine. I grabbed my purse, stepped onto the porch, and locked up. On a little hook to the right of the door, I hung up a little custom chalkboard sign I’d had made.

The Dressmaker’s on a fashion errand.

Back at ______.

I filled in the blank with “3:00 p.m.,” then hightailed it down the steps to the sidewalk. I turned left on Mockingbird Lane and started walking toward the Sheriff’s Department.

Before I’d accompanied Josie, the last time I had been in the sheriff’s office was when I was eighteen. I’d been accepted at UT-Austin. I’d packed my bags and I’d been itching to shake the dust of Bliss off my boot heels and strike out on my own, but my brother, Red, had persuaded me to go joyriding through a field of Longhorns out on Old Hickory Road one last time. Too bad the rancher who owned that land and those cattle hadn’t thought our riding through was a joy. He’d called the sheriff, then come out to play chicken with us. Red drove Nana’s beat-up old pickup, and Old Man Poindexter manned a brand-spanking-new Ford 4x4. “There’s no way he can win,” Red yelled. He revved the engine, then gunned it, dirt spewing from beneath the back tires as they spun.

But he’d underestimated the rancher’s gumption. He didn’t want teenagers messing around on his ranch, troubling his cattle. “He’s not turning!” I shrieked, squeezing my eyes shut and ducking my head.

“Shit!” Red cranked the steering wheel to the left, round and round and round. I braced myself, waiting for the impact of the crash, but instead, we spun out, and then finally jerked to a stop.

Poindexter was already out of his truck, bearing down on us, the barrel of his rifle steady. We stayed like that till Deputy Sheriff Hoss McClaine came to haul us away.

It took everything I had not to slip back into the memory of being read the riot act by McClaine before he’d been sheriff. That was then, this was now. I was years wiser than my eighteen-year-old self. Hopefully, he realized that.

We sat opposite each other, his monstrous oak desk like a battlefield between us. I had the sudden feeling that he knew that I knew about him and Mama, though how he’d know, I didn’t know, and it was a big ol’ white elephant in the room. But Mama’s words had stuck with me. She was making her own happiness. I might not like that Hoss McClaine was keeping their relationship on the down-low, but it wasn’t my business.

“What can I do for ya, Harlow?” His gravelly voice was like sand under my bare feet. It was warm and soothing, despite the roughness.

“I have some information about Nell Gellen that I think you should know.” The weight of the promise I’d made to Ruthann pressed on my heart, but I’d deal with that later. If it helped bring Nell justice, surely Ruthann would understand.

McClaine listened, his hands laced together on the desk, while I told him about Nell’s reckless love life, the fact that she thought she’d finally found love, and her pregnancy. “If Nate is the killer, Josie can’t go through with the wedding. And if Josie’s the killer, then . . . then . . .” Then my faith in old friendships, my judgment of character, and maybe of humanity, would be totally shattered.

McClaine waved one of his weathered hands around in front of him. “It’ll be okay. You always did go straight for the drama.”

My hands gripped the arms of the chair. “What?”

“This is good information, Harlow,” he rumbled.

I breathed slowly, letting his comment slide away. “So you’ll look into it?”

I half expected him to respond by saying something like “Is a gopher happy in soft dirt?” Instead, he nodded solemnly. “Oh, I’ll be lookin’ into it, don’t you worry.”

I thanked him and started to leave, but stopped at the door. “Sheriff?”

He leaned back, the front legs of his chair lifting from the ground. “Yes, ma’am?”

“I’m making Josie’s wedding dress.”

“I heard tell about that. Heard it’s bad luck to make another woman’s marriage gown.”

Ah, he’d been talking to Mama. “That’s silly, and I don’t believe it. I was just wondering, do I keep working on it? If she or Nate did—”

The front legs of his chair dropped to the ground. “You keep working on it, Harlow. We don’t know yet what happened to that woman. As of now, the Sandoval-Kincaid wedding is on, which means that girl needs a dress. You stop working on it, they’ll wonder why, and that won’t help my investigation none.”

Hoss McClaine was a straight shooter. Had to appreciate that about him. I thanked him again and stepped back into the hallway . . . and bumped right into Madelyn Brighton.

“Harlow!” Her eyes darted to McClaine’s door. “Everything okay?”

I grabbed her sleeve, pulling her down the hallway with me. “It’s nothing. He’s, uh, seeing my mother, but shhh.” I held my finger to my lips. “It’s a secret.”

She pressed her lips together, turned an imaginary key with her fingers, and smiled. “Got it.” We walked together down the hall toward the exit. “I was just about to ring you up,” she said.

I lifted my shoulders and smiled. “You were?”

“Yes.” She bounced slightly as she walked, like she was bubbling over with excitement. “The Kincaid family’s having a big gala for their foundation.”

“Uh-huh.”

“My husband can’t make it. He’s got a committee meeting at the college. Scholarships, you know. There’s so much administrative work to be done. Anyway, I have an extra ticket if you want to come along.”

My stomach instantly knotted. I was more a behindthe-scenes kind of person. I made garments for other people to shine in while I steered clear of the limelight. Being front and center at a Kincaid event wasn’t my style. “I have a lot to do, what with the wedding—”