“Gotta be, what, a hundred and fifty years old, right?” Will asked. He pulled the left door open, stopping abruptly. “What the devil—? The dresses are still in it? Jesus, no wonder it’s so heavy.” He turned, looking at me like I’d duped them. “You didn’t take them out?”
“You didn’t check first?” I retorted. “If I’d known you were coming over to move it, I would have,” I said. “I’ve been a little distracted by murder, this morning.”
George and Buckley both turned to stare at me. “Murder?” they said, echoing each other.
I nodded, feeling a little like the town crier. My only consolation was that the whole thing would be reported by Rebecca Quinones on the midday news. “The golf pro from Bliss Country Club. They found him dead this morning.”
“Are you sure it was murder?” George asked, rubbing his biceps. I got the distinct impression he was trying to make me look at them, like I’d find the bulging muscles enticing. I rolled my eyes and he stopped, apparently getting the message that he wasn’t my cup of sweet tea. “Damn murder epidemic around here,” he said. His eyes glinted and his lips twitched. “Too bad he didn’t leave a grieving widow.”
Will leveled a disbelieving look at George. “Nice, Taylor. Guy’s not even six feet under yet.”
“I don’t have women flocking to me to get their damn wrinkles annihilated like Buck,” he shot back. “Or repair work to be done.” He winked at me and I bristled. Will and I weren’t even officially dating, but apparently George Taylor thought we were. “I have to seize every opportunity that comes along.”
“Get off it. You have no shortage of female companionship,” Buckley said lightly, but his eyes were wide and he looked shaken. “Poor bastard.”
I was pretty sure he was talking about Macon Vance, and not George Taylor.
Buckley cleared his throat and gave George a crooked, if sad, grin. “And if you ever want to learn to give treatments to women—”
George scoffed, good and loud. “No thanks. I’ll take ’em when you’re done with ’em.”
I shook my head, amazed at men and their ability to bury their emotions, as I raised puzzled eyebrows at Will.
“Cosmetic surgery,” he mouthed.
Ahhh. Now I understood what I was missing. George liked the women after Buckley was done making sure they were wrinkle free. My fingers fluttered over my forehead. I was still relatively wrinkle free, but one day I wouldn’t be. I preferred the unadulterated face, but I filed away Buckley Hughes’s name… just in case.
Will bent down to grab hold of the armoire again. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get this done.” The three men tilted the antique to its side again. “One. Two…” On three, a warm breeze swirled past me for the third time and encircled them as they lifted.
“Did it get lighter?” George asked, sounding puzzled.
“Sure seems to have.” Buckley took away one hand to prove the point. “Much lighter.”
I smiled to myself. Meemaw to the rescue.
The men practically glided through the dining room, down the two steps into the front room of Buttons & Bows, and in no time they’d situated the armoire against the north wall. Anyone coming up the walk to my shop who happened to glance in the picture window would see the stately nineteenth-century pine piece. Every time I looked at it, I’d think of my great-grandmother.
“How’d Vance die?” the doctor asked after I’d offered them iced tea.
Guilt at being connected to the murder weapon wound through me. “He was stabbed,” I said after swallowing the lump in my throat. I kept on the down low the fact that my sewing shears had been used.
“We just played a foursome last week. Poor bastard,” he muttered again.
We sat in silence for a good minute, each of us thinking about poor Macon Vance. Player or not, he surely hadn’t deserved to die.
“Anything else you need moved while we’re here?” Will asked after a spell.
I hadn’t planned on imposing anymore, but since he’d asked… “Texana’s old trunk is up there,” I said. It was a conversation piece, as well as a bit of my family’s history. From what I remembered of the stories, it was possible it had belonged to one of the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang, if not Butch Cassidy himself.
They hightailed it back upstairs, and within a few minutes, they were situating the oak-slatted, flattopped trunk next to the front door.
“Stabbed,” George said to Buckley, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it.” They’d both downed glasses of sweet tea and were walking down the porch steps toward the flower-covered archway leading to the sidewalk.
Buckley shook his head. “What a way to go. Must be a lot of sad women in Bliss,” he added. “A lot of sad women.”
“But a lot of happy husbands,” George quipped.
As their voices drifted away, Will opened the door and started to usher me inside. Before I could thank him for his help, a white Mercedes screeched to a halt in front of my vine-covered arbor. A woman tumbled out of the car and flew up the flagstone walkway. “Harlow,” she called, waving me down. “My dear, wait.”
“Mrs. James.” I scrambled down the porch steps, Will on my heels. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything,” she said, her voice shakier than a hive of buzzing hornets. “Absolutely everything.”
Chapter 8
Will and Mrs. James sat at the round pine table in the kitchen while, ever the Southern hostess, I busied myself pouring glasses of lemonade and laying out a plate of shortbread cookies. Mrs. James cleared her throat and flicked her wrist to look at her watch. “I suppose it’s a little early, yet, but I might could use a splash of vodka in that lemonade.”
I bit my lower lip, two thoughts racing through my head. It definitely was early in the day to be adding anything alcoholic to a glass of lemonade, but she was clearly agitated and if it would help calm her down, she was probably right. She could use it.
The second thing was that she’d slipped from her careful senator’s wife diction to the down-home country girl she’d grown up as. “Might could” was a verb construction that I bet no other state in the union understood or used. Texans, though, could pull it off… and with finesse.
“Will,” I said, waving him over as I shoved my glasses on top of my head to hold back my hair. “Would you…” I pointed to the cabinet above the buttercup-colored refrigerator. He was a good five inches taller than I was, which put him around six feet. Tall enough to rifle through the few bottles of spirits I’d stashed away for special occasions.
He tilted the bottle over the glass of lemonade, his back to Mrs. James, pretending to pour more than he actually did. He met my eyes and I gave a little nod. It was A-OK with me that he’d added only the smallest splash to the drink. Mrs. James had gone pale since she’d arrived. Half a shot of alcohol wasn’t going to fix whatever was troubling her.
Will and I sat down at the table, sipping our own, straight lemonade. “What’s wrong, Mrs. James?” I asked. “Is it something with the pageant?” She didn’t answer, so I rambled on. “I plan on working on Libby’s dress all afternoon, and Will’s here so we can write up that pedigree thing for Gracie.”
He raised his eyebrows at me and I shrugged. We’d have to wing it if Mrs. James didn’t find her voice pretty soon.
She nodded absently. Her glass was already empty, only a few melted ice cubes skimming the bottom. “What is it?” I asked again. “Did something happen…? Is the senator—”
She waved away my concern. “Jeb’s just fine,” she said, her accent softening the vowel and drawing out her words. “No, it’s worse…”
I snuck a glance at Will, imagining for a second that he was my husband. I’d be devastated if anything happened to him. What could be worse than something being wrong with your spouse—? Oh no. “Is it one of your children? Did something happen—”
She nodded, but said, “N-no… it’s just…” Poor woman. She didn’t know up from down at the moment. Will took her glass and refilled it, adding another splash of vodka. I leaned forward, cupping my hands over one of hers. There was only one other thing that could be upsetting her, at least that I could think of. “What is it? You can tell me,” I urged.
