Pleating for Mercy

And to top it off, a dressmaker did not a detective make. My chest felt heavy, like one of the Kincaids’ oil derricks sat right on top of it, a drill bit steadily boring a hole straight through to my pounding heart. What was I thinking? Miss Marple. Ha.

Madelyn stopped at the summit of the bridge. “Are you okay?”

A couple sauntered up one side of the bridge. I waited until they passed, then whispered, “I . . . I don’t know if I can go in there.” Somebody had killed Nell. This was no game. I certainly didn’t want to be the next victim. And I was having flashbacks to my brief, and less than pleasant, stint as Derek Kincaid’s girlfriend. “I shouldn’t be here.”

Back at Buttons & Bows, I’d taken control and reoutfitted Madelyn. I’d had no choice but to stick with her camel-colored skirt, but I’d paired it with a sheer black blouse from the rack of clothes in the front room. Two rows of white-trimmed vertical ruffles ran up the center of the blouse and around the neck, the same ruffles mirrored on the edges of the extralong sleeves. It was a little snug on Madelyn, but with the right body shaper underneath, she pulled it off.

The practical pumps were another story. “What size shoe do you wear?” I’d asked.

“Six,” she said.

“I’m an eight and a half.” She’d walk right out of my shoes. I’d tapped my finger against my cheek, thinking. There had to be something.

The floorboards had creaked right next to us. We both whipped our heads around. No one was there. When I leaned against the cutting table, thinking and gripping the edge with my hands, the scent of lavender wafted past. A pocket of warm air suddenly hovered around us.

Madelyn’s brows pulled together like she thought something was off, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. When the heel of my right hand brushed against something soft and plush, I knew without looking that Meemaw had come to the rescue. Bows. Of course!

“Give me your shoes,” I said after I’d heated up the glue gun. A minute later, lovely velvet bows had transformed her pumps from plain Jane to chic. I pulled back one lock of her hair, securing it with a subtle bow. “Voila!”

But that was then, and this was now.

“What you’re doing,” she said, her confidence bolstered, “is helping your friend clear her name.”

She was right, of course, but I didn’t want to hear it. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Let’s just go in and check things out. Maybe you’ll find something helpful or maybe you won’t. You’ll figure it out as you go.” This time she grabbed my arm, pulling me over the bridge and through the front door.

The second I crossed the threshold, someone thrust a drink in my hand. Heavy crystal stemware filled with red wine. I closed my eyes and took a sip, letting the warmth of the alcohol ease my mind. A few seconds later, I looked up. “Holy mother of . . .” We’d been transported to a fancy Fashion Week reception in New York, Texas style. The men wore blazers, dark jeans, big silver belt buckles, and boots, and the women had bling on their fingers, wrists, necks, and anywhere else they could get away with it.

Madelyn whipped her camera out and started snapping pictures. One minute she was by my side, the next minute she’d been swallowed by the crowd. And I was left to . . . to see if I could learn anything at all about Nell and Nate and Josie and the whole sordid mess.

I took another bolstering sip of my drink and moved through the crowd. After ten minutes, I was clear about one thing. I had no idea where, or how, to begin.

“My future daughter-in-law’s dress must be done if you’re here,” a voice said from behind me.

I turned and smiled at Lori Kincaid. She was perfectly coiffed, from her hair—expertly ratted, molded, and sprayed into place—to her halter-topped shimmery dress. I was pretty sure the word “understated” was not in her vocabulary. “Not quite,” I said, “but I’m getting there.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “It is a surprise to see you here.”

She hadn’t actually asked a question, but it was implied. Why, exactly, was I here?

“A friend asked if I’d like to come with her.” I had no intention of getting said friend in trouble for bringing an uninvited guest, so I zipped my lips, not giving Madelyn’s name.

I felt Mrs. Kincaid’s scrutiny as she took in every detail of my attire. I must have passed because finally her lips curved up. If she was worried about Nate and Josie having been questioned by the sheriff that morning, I sure couldn’t tell. Her smile seemed as genuine as could be. She didn’t seem to be harboring any ill will toward me from my past with her elder son, either. I breathed a little easier.

“I’m sure Josie will be glad to see you. We’re so blessed to have someone with your talent right here in Bliss. And the timing was perfect,” she said.

I bristled. Yes, Meemaw’s death had come at the right time, allowing me to move back home and set up shop just in time to make Josie’s dress. I forced a smile, managing not to point out that I’d rather never sew another stitch in my life if I could only have Meemaw back.

“Keith, dear,” she said to the man by her side, “do you remember Harlow Cassidy? Harlow, my husband.” She waved her hand between us with the introduction, the sparkle on her ring finger almost blinding me. That was no artificial bling. Just another perk of the oil business. Whereas I had rhinestones—not even cubic zirconia—Lori Kincaid had the real thing.

Keith Kincaid, who couldn’t have been more than five feet ten inches, pushed six feet with his taupe suede cowboy hat on. He had his own bling on the ring finger of his right hand—a two-pound Texas A&M ring. Even his turquoise inlaid belt buckle screamed money.

Minus the bling, he and Nate were clearly cut from the same cloth. Same dirty blond hair. Same chin dimple. Same height. The only difference was the good-ol’-boy attitude Keith exuded, from his biscuits-and-gravy accent to the pat on the behind I caught him giving Lori. Her flinch was barely noticeable, but enough to show she didn’t relish the public show of affection. I didn’t blame her.

“Pleasure to meetcha,” he said, shaking my hand with a firm, double-handed grip, his beefy palm dwarfing mine. A sudden look of understanding crossed his weathered face. “Ah, wait just a sec. Harlow Cassidy. Derek’s old . . .”

“The dressmaker, dear,” his wife interrupted.

He gave a slow nod, releasing me from his clammy grip. “Where Josie’s friend was . . .” He trailed off, scratching his head like he didn’t quite know how to put it.

I nodded, shifting uncomfortably. Nell was going to be the maid of honor in their son’s wedding. Did the Kincaids even know her name?

He found his way. “Quite a sad story. Poor girl. Does the sheriff have any suspects?”

I wanted to say, You mean aside from your son and future daughter-in-law, who I’m sure, by the way, is innocent, but I’m not so sure about the fruit of your loins? I’d been uncomfortable since Madelyn’s car had rolled onto the property, but now my head swam. If I had any hand in proving Nate guilty, I’d be betraying the oldest friend I had in Bliss.

Not that I would have a hand in it. I was a dressmaker, not a detective. I gave a small shrug of my shoulders. “They don’t keep me updated.”

“No, no, I guess they wouldn’t,” he said thoughtfully.

“Keith, dear,” Mrs. Kincaid said, “now’s not the—”

“Right,” he said with a curt nod. “But the details have been sketchy. Did she have money? Assets? Enemies?”

Lori’s jaw clenched as she gritted her teeth. Keith reminded me of Meemaw. It seemed that whatever he wanted, he got, even if his wife put her foot down. “I only met her for the first time the day she died,” I said.

Lori Kincaid glanced around, then lowered her voice to a gossipy whisper. If you can’t beat ’em, join’em. “I heard that she bought that little bead shop a few months ago. What I’m curious about is where she got the capital.”

I dove in with both feet. If Mrs. Kincaid could gossip, so could I. “I heard she made a will.”

Mrs. Kincaid nodded her head approvingly. “Good for her. So her heirs will get her money, not the government.”

“Oh, yes, but I got the feeling she didn’t have any family.” Unless you counted the baby she was carrying.