A Fitting End: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery

I started, my temples pulsing, partly wondering what Meemaw knew about Anna Hughes that we didn’t, and partly wondering if Will’s comment was purely innocent. “Yeah.” I swallowed another mouthful of nerves, hoping I’d sounded noncommittal.

He went on. “Anna’s come on to me more times than I can count, always with some rationale.” His voice took on a sarcastic edge. “She deserved better than she got. She was a prisoner in her own life. If she was going down, she might as well go down with a smile on her face.”

My hackles went up. How dare Anna make a move on my— My mind screeched to a halt. My what? A minute ago I’d been up in arms that Will could think I’d have anything to do with Macon Vance. And now I was ready to march right back over to the Hughes house and give Anna a good what for.

“Let’s not talk about that.”

“But the notebook,” I said, holding it back up. I flipped through it. All the dress notes seemed to be there, from what I could tell, so who knew what the missing pages smack in the middle of the book had on them.

“These weren’t ripped before,” I said, realizing that I did have to march back over to Anna’s house, but instead of telling her to back off Will Flores, I had to find out what was on the missing pages. From the way my gut clenched, I suspected it was the reason Trudy was in the hospital… something to do with whatever prison Anna Hughes felt she was in.

“I have to go.” I grabbed my bag from the ground, shoved the notebook inside it, and threw open the door, but something stopped me. I turned and looked at him, compelled by a sudden desire to run my hands through his hair. To feel his touch again. To gather energy from him.

“You’re not—”

Before he could finish, I acted, quicker than a rattlesnake, catching him off guard. I put my hands on his shoulders, arched onto my tippy toes, and kissed him square on the mouth. Just like that.

A charge of electricity ran through us both. When we separated, I flung my hand up in a wave, starting down the walkway to my truck. “See you, Flores.” I felt suddenly empowered and ready to face both Anna Hughes, and the eighteen girls waiting for me at the country club.

Chapter 33

Sometime between when I’d left and the time I’d spent next door at Will’s, Anna Hughes had left her house. Now what? I sat in front of the Hughes’s house, the truck’s windows down, idling. My mind immediately set in on thinking about everything that had happened since the day Macon Vance died, starting with the fact that my sewing shears had been somebody’s chosen murder weapon.

If only I could unravel all the threads of this convoluted mystery, maybe Bliss would lift up the dark veil that floated over it and be able to enjoy the Margaret Festival. No small feat considering the pall of death in the air. But moving forward was part of life, and celebrating the values and life of one of Texas’s finest women was a fitting end to a horrible situation.

Being a visual and tactile person, the creative side of my brain battled with the logical side. Creativity usually won. I dug my sketchbook out of my tote, jotting down notes as I processed to help me weave the errant threads together.

I thought through everything I knew about Macon Vance, beginning with Josie and me overhearing Mrs. James’s argument with him. What had I discovered from that conversation? “That Macon Vance is Libby’s father,” I said aloud. My voice was lost in the rumble of the old Ford’s engine.

What else? Mrs. James clearly didn’t like Macon Vance, and she may have tried to pay him off, but he was, after all, her granddaughter’s biological father. She had an alibi, so she was off the hook. Thank the Lord.

Which led me to Steven Allen. For all intents and purposes, he was Libby’s father, but the truth was that he was her stepfather. “Could he have killed Macon Vance to protect that secret?” I said, once again speaking out loud.

“Given your reputation, talking to yourself probably isn’t a great idea.”

I jumped in my seat, flinging my sketchbook out the driver’s window… and right into Deputy Gavin McClaine’s cowboy hat. “Lord almighty, Gavin! You scared the living daylights outta me!”

He cracked a grin, bending to retrieve my sketchbook from where it had landed at his feet. “Sorry ’bout that.”

“The Hughes aren’t home,” I said, pretty curious about what had brought him out to their house.

He nodded, once, as he ambled around the front of my truck, yanked open the sticky passenger’s-side door, and slid in. “Actually, I’m here to see you.”

My nerves flared up again, an image of Mrs. James in the tiny brick cell of the jailhouse popping into my head. Was I next? Was he hauling me off to jail in my own truck? I flattened my anxious palm against my chest. “Me? How’d you, um, know I was here?”

He cocked an eyebrow at me as he grabbed hold of the deputy sheriff badge sewn onto his uniform and tugged it. “Just had to ask the right people the right questions,” he said, the smallest bit of snide lacing his voice.

“Oh.” It was all I could think to say.

“Why are you musin’ over Macon Vance’s murder?” he asked, looking me square in the eyes.

I felt my hackles go up as he stared me down. How dare he just slide right into my truck, unasked, and start questioning me. Wasn’t it enough that I’d endured his accusations at the jailhouse when I’d visited Mrs. James? “Because he was killed with my scissors, you held my friend—”

“Mrs. James has been released.”

“I know but…”

I tucked a wayward strand of my hair back behind my ear and peered at him.

“Which means I’m back to square one.”

“Maybe you’re missing something.”

He scoffed. “What in the devil would I be missin’? I’ve covered every aspect of this case from every possible angle.”

I debated what to tell Deputy Sheriff Gavin McClaine, but in the end, I decided I needed to spill the whole truth, come what may. I took a deep breath before saying, “Did you know that Macon Vance was Libby Allen’s biological father?”

He stared at me, his eyes narrowing. “Go on.”

“And he didn’t like that she’s a Margaret…” I stopped as I saw the wheels turning behind Gavin’s eyes and the realization that what I was saying wasn’t redirecting him to some other suspect, like Steven Allen, but was serving as another nail in Mrs. James’s coffin, alibi or not. A shiver worked up my spine. “And Anna Hughes says that Trudy Lafayette killed Macon Vance,” I said, hating that it was even a possibility.

He didn’t even blink. “That right,” he said matter-of-factly. “And how does she figure that little bitty old lady could thrust a pair of scissors into a man’s chest?”

Exactly my reaction. Not to mention the lack of motive, another hole in that scenario. Plenty of people could have wanted Macon Vance dead. Steven Allen. Sandra Allen. Any of his conquests, or their husbands, for that matter. The members of the country club’s board who wanted Vance gone because of his extracurricular activities. Anna Hughes, so the man wouldn’t corrupt her husband.

Trudy’s name circled in my head like a swirling funnel cloud, but I couldn’t come up with a possible motive for her to kill the golf pro.

Which meant Anna Hughes was lying.

Another idea hit me and I snapped my fingers together. What if Trudy had somehow found out about Vance being Libby’s father, had tried to blackmail him, but he turned against her? She could have summoned superhuman strength if he’d attacked her. “Trudy Lafayette is no weakling. If she felt threatened, she might could have done it. Don’t people do crazy things in the face of danger? What if he attacked her first?”

Even as I said the words, a wave of nausea crept up my throat. I felt like I was throwing Trudy under the bus.

“Uh-uh. There was no sign of struggle. Clean thrust, in and out. No scuff marks on the floor. Nothing that would lead us to believe there was a scuffle of any kind.”

“Right.” How would she have found out, anyway? Plus, there was still the issue of the home invasion and her