snapped her gaze to the vase of flowers and started rearranging them, pulling stems out, then jamming them back into the same place. “I don’t believe I said I
“You said the wedding gown would be perfect for her, that she’s so friendly and easygoing, and you said something about running into her . . . somewhere.”
She poked another flower stem back into the vase, turning the thick-bottomed glass before plucking out yet another. “Bliss is a small town. People know one another’s business,” she said. “It’s impossible to keep a secret, and impossible not to know the basics about a person.”
That was the truth, but I didn’t buy her answer.
As I was deciding how to respond, voices from outside drifted through the open window. The sink and the window above it faced Mockingbird Lane. I glanced at the oven clock. The predigital readout—white numbers on a black background—said 8:05. The motor made a faint scratching noise as the numbers rotated, changing to 8:06. The oven and clock might be archaic, but they worked.
Josie wasn’t supposed to be back for another twenty-five minutes or so.
Mama said something about college kids and frozen yogurt.
I blinked. “Sorry. What?”
“I said it’s probably just some kids. You’re frowning. What’s wrong?”
“It sounds like they’re arguing, doesn’t it?”
We both sat perfectly still, our ears cocked to the window. One of the voices belonged to a woman and seemed angry and agitated. Whoever she was talking to was much quieter. Men and women . . . their emotions were like oil and water.
I got up, flipped off the lights, and leaned over the sink to peer out the window. I cupped my hands above my eyes to cut the glare of the streetlights, but couldn’t make out any figures on the sidewalk. The pecan tree to the left of the window blocked my view of the front flagstone walkway and the gated arbor leading from the sidewalk into my yard. The voice I could hear seemed to be coming from that direction.
I listened, picking out pieces of the angry woman’s words: “. . . what’s mine . . . owes it to me . . .” It went on for at least another thirty seconds. My heart beat faster the longer I listened. But then, just as quickly as the row had started, it was over.
“A lovers’ spat,” my mother said with a knowing nod. “Probably kissing and making up.”
With her on my heels, I went to the front room and peered out the picture window. The street was partially blocked by the honeysuckle-covered fence. The bright pink miniature rosebushes lining the walkway also obscured my view of my own yard. I looked both ways, but from what I could see, which wasn’t much, the street and sidewalk looked deserted. “I don’t know . . .”
“You’ve always been too curious for your own good. I’m sure it’s fine,” Mama said.
We both collapsed onto the love seat, putting our feet up on the coffee table. “I know.” When I hadn’t been sewing with Meemaw as a child, I’d been reading Nancy Drew or spying on the townsfolk, even going so far as to hide under a table to watch Red getting a good what-for from Mama.
Ten minutes later, the door was flung open, sending the jingling bells flying off the doorknob once and for all. Startled, I sprang up from the couch like a gymnast. Josie collapsed in the doorway, tears streaming down her face, her breath coming in gasping sobs.
“C-call 911,” she blurted.
I raced to her while Mama ran to the kitchen for the phone. “What is it?” I did a quick once-over, looking for an injury, but she looked fine. No blood. “Are you hurt?”
She slapped the tears off her face and gathered herself up. Grabbing my hand, she pulled me out the door, across the porch and down the steps. “It’s N-Nell,” she choked out. “I—I felt for a pulse. N-nothing. Oh, my God.” She pointed to the arbor and gate welcoming people into the garden, and into Buttons & Bows. There, to the right and nestled amid a patch of bluebonnets, was Nell Gellen’s motionless body. “Harlow,” she said in a harsh whisper, “Nell’s d-dead.”
We didn’t need 911. We needed a coroner.
Chapter 7
A slow shiver wound its way through my body and took hold of my senses. It started at my toes and worked all the way up to the hair on my head. It was hard to wrap my brain around the fact that someone I knew, even only slightly, had been murdered. I could only imagine how her friends and family would feel.
The mayhem that soon arose on Mockingbird Lane had me wondering if I’d brought New York City chaos back with me to Bliss. Leading the pack was Sheriff Hoss McClaine. He stood on the sidewalk just outside Meemaw’s arbor, shouting orders, directing the powerful rigged lighting setup, and jotting things down on a little notepad. He kept one eye on Josie, who stood at the end of the porch talking on the phone to her soon-to-be mother-in-law. He also kept an eye on Mama and me, I noticed. Over the years, the Cassidy women had been blamed for plenty of things that had gone wrong in Bliss. When people didn’t need something from us, they were quick to judge. I prayed Hoss McClaine didn’t start a witch hunt.
The sheriff kept working as Mama and I sat on the front porch, moving back and forth in tandem on our wooden rockers watching the commotion. All I needed was to be chewing on a wheat stalk and the hillbilly look would be complete. It was dark out now, but it might as well have been broad daylight with the power of the artificial light gleaming down on the yard. For a small town, Bliss seemed to have some decent equipment.
A black woman marched through the arbor and straight over to the sheriff, clearly not intimidated by his deep growls and barks. He greeted her with a slight dip of his chin. She folded her arms across her ample chest and waited. After a short exchange, he let her pass through the rosebushes to the cordoned-off scene of the crime.
When she stood under the lights, I could see she was shorter than I was, full-figured, and had cropped hair that clung to her head. Something hung around her neck, but I couldn’t quite see what it was. I leaned forward, stopping my chair from rocking. “What’s she got?”
“A camera,” Mama said just as the woman lifted it to her face and started snapping. She took pictures of the arbor, the ground, and everything but the dead body. Mama kept on rocking and I suspected her attention was glued to the sheriff.
“So who is she?” I asked.
“That’s Madelyn Brighton,” Mama said. “She’s a transplant. Literally. She’s from England. Met her Texan husband over there and came back with him. He’s a professor at the University of North Texas and she works for Bliss.”
I never would have guessed that Bliss could support any more staff than the sheriff, a handful of deputy sheriffs, a few office employees, and the mayor. We were a spit of a town. Growing, yes, but not anywhere near the size of a metropolitan city. “Doing what?”
“Any photography that needs doing, she does. I reckon she’s taking pictures for the medical examiner, or whoever crime-scene photos go to.” Mama kept her eyes on Sheriff McClaine as she rattled on. “I hear she’s creating a tourist brochure for Bliss. There’s a master plan for the community now. Bike trails, horseback riding trails, parks. Things like that. They have an architect and a civil engineer on staff so we don’t sacrifice our historic, small-town feel.”
I gaped at my mother. This was not the same Bliss I’d grown up in. “You’re kidding, right? A tourist brochure? As in people coming here for vacation?”
Mama just shrugged. “A lot of people want small-town living. They like to see the old history. Plus we have the lake. You came back, didn’t you?”
She had a point. I was back, and I had to admit there was a lot to like about small-town life.
If you could overlook having a murder take place in your front yard.
I sat back and started rocking again. Madelyn Brighton looked like a force to be reckoned with. She was crouched next to the dead body in my front yard at 10:20 on a weekday evening, which told me she had bigger aspirations than taking pretty pictures of Bliss. Medical examiner, maybe? But one body did not make for a career in
