Pleating for Mercy

skirt’s fine, but thanks. Actually,” she said, growing serious again, “I’m wondering if you had a personal relationship with Mr. Vance, and if so—”

“I don’t know any Mr. Vance,” I said, cutting her off.

“Macon Vance? The golf pro here at the club,” she repeated.

I shrugged. “I’m not a member here.”

“That’s right. You’re here . . .” She paused and tilted her head to the side. “Why are you here?”

“I’m a dressmaker,” I said. “I’m making a gown for one of the Margarets.” Or three if you counted the one I’d finished and Gracie’s, even if she wasn’t officially a debutante. Yet. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m looking for someone.”

As I approached, the sheriff suddenly stood, his voice raised. “Dust it,” he said to one of his lackeys. Rebecca Quinones watched me. Behind her, the cameraman was still rolling. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the sheriff wants to take a closer look at your sewing supplies, Ms. Cassidy,” she said. There was a snarky little edge to her tone that made me think she knew something I didn’t.

“Why?” I said, hesitating. Why was the sheriff here, anyway, and what needed dusting?

Rebecca Quinones stared at me. “You mean you haven’t heard?”

I looked around, noting the odd mix of somber voices and bustling activity. Suddenly, I felt like I’d been transported back to the porch of 2112 Mockingbird Lane, watching a crime scene unfold in front of me. The same feeling I’d had then—one of helpless shock—came over me. It couldn’t happen twice, could it? Not another . . . murder? “Heard what?” I said, my voice as somber as the newscaster’s expression.

“The golf pro, Macon Vance.” She pointed a perfectly manicured acrylic nail in the direction of stage left. “He was found murdered and I believe the sheriff was just about to take your bag, and everything in it, into evidence.”

The breath suddenly left my lungs, heat spread to my cheeks, and a wave of dizziness slipped over me. “Murdered?” I looked back toward my bag of supplies, and noticed something I hadn’t seen a minute ago. My inexpensive orange-handled Fiskars were on the ground, a good couple of feet from my bag, like they’d been dropped in a hurry. I started, a lump catching in my throat. They didn’t look right. The blades were open and stained with something dark. “How?” I asked, barely choking the words out.

Rebecca Quinones had followed my gaze. From the corner of my eye, I saw her wave her microphone. The cameraman moved in closer, getting a tight shot of me. I tried to turn my back, but Rebecca said, “Stabbed,” and I froze. Because I suddenly knew what the dark substance on the shiny blades of my sewing shears was.

Blood.