A Fitting End: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery

Jameses over this very information. It would be bad for the senator’s career—or so Vance thought—to be related to outlaws and folks like you—from the wrong side of town.”

Related to? I barely stopped my mouth from gaping open. What he was saying dawned on me. It was common knowledge that Zinnia James’s husband, Jebediah, was a descendant of Etta Place, but if Etta had been with Butch Cassidy, then…

Gavin seemed to see realization on my face. “That’s right, Harlow. Young debutante Libby Allen, the James’s granddaughter, is your cousin thanks to Butch Cassidy and his philandering ways.”

“And Mrs. James knows?” I asked once my voice returned.

“Oh yeah. She confessed it all. Don’t make her guilty of nothin’, of course, but a lot of ugly truths.”

Lord almighty. Could it really be true?

Deputy Gavin McClaine folded his arms across his chest, tucking his hands close up under his armpits. “I’m bothered by somethin’.”

Outside, the clouds had finally released their water and a light rain fell. As if on cue, thunder cracked and jagged lightning lit up the darkening sky. I dragged my attention back to Gavin, trying not to take the ominous summer storm as a sign of worse things to come. “What’s that?”

“How would Vance know so much about Etta and Butch and their family line?”

It was a good question, and one I was pretty sure Mrs. James hadn’t considered whenever she’d fessed up to the deputy.

I hopped up from my chair to pace around, suddenly too antsy to sit still. “She may have thought it was true, but what if he made the whole thing up?”

Gavin’s jaw worked as he thought, and I got the feeling his mind was processing through the ifs, ands, and buts of the blackmail scenario. “Right, because how would a guy from Amarillo know who in Bliss descended from some old outlaws? See, I don’t think he would.”

“He wouldn’t. And anyway, Etta was the Sundance Kid’s girlfriend, not Butch’s,” I said, although I knew that didn’t amount to a hill of beans. “Did the Jameses pay the blackmail?” I asked.

Gavin pushed off the desk and headed toward the door. “As far as we can tell, no, they didn’t, but they do make considerable donations to the club and Jeb James is on the board. We’re lookin’ into where donations go. Specifically.”

As in fraud? Oh boy. That wouldn’t look good for the Jameses. I was left with a saddlebag full of questions and no answers. Did Mrs. James make the whole blackmail scenario up, or had Macon Vance really tried to wring money out of them over Libby’s paternity? Was the story about Etta and Butch having another child even true? I had another troubling thought. Why was Gavin telling me any of this? I’d thought I was more a thorn in his side than anything else, so why the sudden confidence? I had a slight suspicion that I was being used… I just didn’t know how I was being used.

Gavin stopped at the door and gripped the doorjamb. “See you around the waterin’ hole, Ms. Cassidy,” he said.

Who knew what watering hole he was talking about. I didn’t much take to the local bar scene, and riding the mechanical bull at Billy Bob’s in Fort Worth wasn’t high on my list of things to do. I skirted around him, giving a quick wave good-bye. “Yeah,” I said. “See you.”

It wasn’t until I was halfway to the country club that I realized I’d forgotten to say hey to Madelyn and to dig deeper into what, exactly, Gavin McClaine knew about the Cassidy charms.

Chapter 25

Just as I was pulling into the country club parking lot to meet Trudy and Fern Lafayette, my phone beeped. I pulled over, dug my cell phone out of the vintage purse I’d made using a kiss lock frame and some Maximilian remnants, and read the incoming message.

Can’t meet. Trudy’s in the hospital.

It was signed: Fern

The hospital?! I texted back, Is she okay?

With the truck in PARK but still running, I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel, nervously waiting for Fern’s response. After three long minutes, my phone was still quiet. “Hell’s bells,” I muttered, channeling Meemaw. “Why aren’t you texting back?”

Instantly, the phone beeped and a message appeared.

Send prayers.

Oh, Lord. My foot jerked, hitting the gas pedal, revving the truck’s engine. I threw it into reverse, backed out, and two seconds later was racing to Presbyterian, Bliss’s one and only hospital.

Long, jagged spears of lightning crackled in the sky as I raced through the hospital parking lot. By the time I got to the main entrance, I was soaked through. Caught without an umbrella in July. Go figure.

As I shook the rainwater off, I wondered about death. Did where a person died have anything to do with how easy it was to come back? What if Meemaw had died in a hospital, for example, instead of peacefully asleep in her own bed. Would she still have been able to hang around 2112 Mockingbird Lane as the resident ghost?

Of course, there was no way to find out and I wasn’t anxious to discover the truth for myself, so I just chalked it up as a random question I’d probably never know the answer to and promptly forgot about it.

A very sweet, snowy-haired woman at the information desk gave me Trudy Lafayette’s room number and I rode the elevator to the fifth floor. The thing about hospitals is, once you smell the mingling of antiseptic and sickness, you never forget it. It clings to you the way morning dew clings to individual strands of grass.

As I stepped off the elevator, I sucked in three or four deep breaths just to get used to the smell; then I searched for Trudy’s room. I stopped outside the door, peeking in so I’d know what to expect. Fern’s text hadn’t said why Trudy was here or what her condition was, so I prepared myself for the worst. “You comfortable?” I heard Fern’s voice as she fussed over her sister, propping pillows under her head.

From where I stood, I could see Trudy’s hands flailing as she swatted at Fern. “Jus’ wike Louisha,” she said, her words nearly unintelligible.

“I warned you,” Fern retorted, sympathy heavy in her voice. “But that’s been a long time ago now. It’s not your time yet.”

“Good heavensh, no it’sh not,” she said, but her voice was muffled, as if her cheeks were stuffed with cotton balls and her lips were numb and swollen. I closed my eyes. Oh no, had Trudy had a stroke?

She was lucid enough to gossip about someone, though, I told myself, so that had to be a good sign. I gathered up my skittish nerves, knocked on the door, and poked my head in. “Hello!” I said brightly.

“Who’sh that?” Trudy said, her hands flailing again. “Fern, move outta the way, would you? Come on in, honey.”

One side of her face was swollen and discolored, her right eye nearly swollen shut. Air caught in my throat and I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans, concentrating all my efforts on keeping my expression perfectly… expressionless. “Are you sure? I can come back—”

She mumbled something unintelligible. “Ah, it’s the dressmaker,” Fern said, translating. Trudy squinted her eyes, peering at me after Fern finally stepped out of the way. She chuckled, but with half of her face frozen, she looked twisted and maniacal. She spoke slowly, trying to enunciate her words, but it came out sounding like gobbledygook.

“I’m sorry—what?”

She slowed it down even more. “Twying… to wid yourself… o da… competition?”

I filled in the blanks, then stared at her. “Wh… aaat?”

Fern squeezed Trudy’s hand. “Never mind her. She’s a little loopy.”

“What happened?”

“Someone broke into our house and injected her while she slept.”

“With what?”

“That vile stuff. Botox,” Fern said.

I started, the conversation I’d had with Gavin McClaine at the jailhouse slamming into my brain. Two break-