But not today. Instead I headed straight for the workroom, but as I passed the staircase, I heard a series of grunting sounds, followed by a loud thump, that echoed through the house. I stopped short. My first thought was that Meemaw was up to no good, rattling the pipes or some other such ghostly activity, but the sounds came again and the hair on the back of my neck rose. Men. My heartbeat revved. There were
I didn’t have anything valuable except a legendary and elusive trinket Butch Cassidy had supposedly sent to Texana Harlow, my great-great-great-grandmother, but no one had ever seen hide nor hair of it, so who knew if it even existed.
Panic raised goose bumps on every ounce of my flesh. Frantic, I searched for a weapon, trying to stay calm, but this was Bliss. I dealt with armadillos, snakes, and goats—not intruders. Maybe Bliss wasn’t as insulated as I’d thought.
I spotted my collapsible umbrella in the corner by the front door. That was as good as it was going to get. I snatched it up, flourishing it in front of me as I tiptoed up the stairs. Stopping at the landing, I peered up. A man’s back came into view. I caught my breath. I had nothing valuable to steal—unless you were a seamstress—but from the heaving and groaning, whoever was up there had his eyes on a big ticket item.
I wielded the closed umbrella, wishing Meemaw would somehow provide me with something slightly more threatening. Instead I heard the faint
“The sheriff,” I muttered. As much as I didn’t want to talk to the man right now, what with Gavin McClaine’s thinly veiled suspicion about the presence of my sewing bag and scissors at the crime scene, calling him was my best option for rescue. I turned to race for the phone, but it was too late to make a call. The man at the top of the stairs came fully into view. There was something about him…
He turned and saw me, his surprise instantly morphing into wry mirth as his gaze zeroed in on my umbrella.
“Will Flores,” I said with as much indignation as I could muster, jamming one hand on my hip. “What are you doing here?”
I had my answer the next second as his burden came into view. Meemaw’s armoire! “Moving this for you,” he said, straining under the weight. “I told you I’d come by today.”
What with the summons by Mrs. James and the murder, I’d completely forgotten I’d asked him. He took the deal he’d made with Meemaw seriously, coming by nearly every day to tackle something on my to-do list.
I knocked my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Right! Sorry—”
He set his end of the armoire down, carefully turning it so it could be maneuvered down the stairs. He notched his chin at the umbrella I still wielded like a sword. “What are you planning to do with that?”
I looked from him to the umbrella and back to him, a sheepish grin on my face. In one lightning quick move, I tossed it down the stairs. It landed with a thump by the olive-green-painted antique dining table. “You know Texas weather. Wait five minutes and it’ll change. You never know when the rain’ll hit.”
“I guess you don’t,” he said, barely stifling a laugh.
“We doing this, or what?” someone said, and on the count of three, the armoire was up and being moved again.
“Oh,” I screeched, backing down the stairs. My feet, tucked snugly in my burnt red Frye harness cowboy boots, tangled under me. I stumbled, catching myself on the banister.
Will, a navy bandana wrapped around his head, shot me a look over his shoulder. “You okay?”
Besides the fact that he and his homies had nearly given me a heart attack, I was peachy. “’Course. I just didn’t expect to find you here—”
The antique armoire banged against the wall, knocking down the picture of Butch Cassidy and his gang. It crashed, the glass from the frame shattering against the hard wood of the stairs.
Will lurched back, slamming his back against the wall, his muscles straining as he somehow managed to stabilize the armoire. “They were available early,” he said through his teeth, “so we came over. I tried to call you —”
One of the men held tight to the right side of the piece, but growled. “Jesus, Buck. You got it now?”
“It slipped. Sorry ’bout that.”
“That’s George Taylor,” Will said, his neck still straining as he nodded toward the man on his right. “And that’s Buckley Hughes.”
They grunted at me as they started back down the stairs. “Oh!” I backed up. “Watch your step. You’re almost to the landing. That’s right.” I took another step backward. “Two more. One more—”
“Harlow.” Will followed up the warning with another low guttural sound. He rarely used my first name, and truth be told, it sounded strange when he did.
My turn to say sorry. “Just be careful,” I pleaded, my arms outstretched. As if
Not without a little otherworldly help.
Buckley, better known as the town’s dermatologist and Will’s neighbor, cursed under his breath.
“You got it?” Will said through his clenched teeth.
“Fine,” Buckley managed, but the pulsing vein in his forehead sent another jolt of worry through me. I didn’t know how the armoire had gotten into the attic in the first place, but I’d been bound and determined to have it back downstairs where it belonged. For as long as I could remember, it had stood sentry in the front room of 2112 Mockingbird Lane. The room didn’t feel complete without it. If they dropped it…
Buckley’s foot slipped on the next step. He stumbled and the armoire wobbled.
“Damn it!” George barked. “Do you have it?”
They all found their balance again and steadied their grip. “Damn thing’s a whale,” one of them muttered.
At the landing, Will set the bottom down. The other men pushed the armoire upright and they turned it. A minute later, Will’s muscles strained under his white T-shirt as he lifted the base again, tilted the whole thing until it leaned on its side, and George and the doctor found their hold.
I backed down the rest of the stairs, palms out, trying to stay out of their way, not wanting to look lest they drop it, but afraid to turn my gaze away. “Careful,” I said as one of them stumbled again and they lurched, the armoire rocking unsteadily.
“Is there a clear path?” Will said, his jaw tensing from the extra effort of speaking.
I scurried from the stairs to the front room, checking to make sure there were no obstacles. “All clear,” I called. “Meemaw,” I whispered beseechingly into the room. If my great-grandmother was around, now was the time for her to make her presence known to me. I’d seen her move pages in a book, slam doors, rattle pipes, work the sewing machine, and a slew of other mysterious ghostly activities. She hadn’t moved heavy antique furniture as far as I knew, but the armoire was hers. Surely she could help.
“Shit,” one of the men said. They lurched again, struggling under the weight. Will lost his footing and listed to the right. A warm breeze, not comforting on a hot July morning, swirled around me. “Help them,” I muttered under my breath so only my great-grandmother could hear.
“What the hell is in here?” George’s voice strained under the exertion. Scuttlebutt was that he was one of the most desired bachelors in town, rising in status since Nate Kincaid married Josie a few months back. Blond hair. Sun-bronzed skin. And a wicked smile that I didn’t trust for a second. I could see why women were attracted to him, but I much preferred the solid, rugged good looks of Will Flores. Swarthy, goatee, the barest hint of gray in his sideburns, and a devoted father, to boot. He was the whole package. Meemaw had nailed that one.
“Watch it, Buckley,” he said through his teeth.
“I’m going to drop it—,” Buckley blurted, but a split second later, he stopped short. The warm breeze blew past me and I could almost see it encircling them. They all breathed easier and Buckley said, “Whew! That’s better.”
They made it to the bottom of the stairs, setting the massive piece down to regroup. “Man, this thing is a monster,” George said.
Buckley ran his hand down the side of the aged wood. “But beautiful.”
