“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 I could catch the armoire the three men were maneuvering down the stairs if they happened to lose their balance—again—and drop the monstrous antique.
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.”
“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 Quiñones 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.