I pushed the slats open wide enough to reach my hand through to shut the window—“Odd.” I bit my lip. It was closed and locked tight. So what had disturbed the shutters?
Josie pounded on the door again. As I turned away, I caught a distorted glimpse of my reflection in the window. Oh! I was not a pretty sight at the moment. Two hours of fitful sleep had that effect on a person. I combed my fingers through the tangles in my hair trying to get it to lie a little flatter. Finally I just gave up. What I looked like at the moment had no bearing on my design and sewing abilities. Josie wouldn’t even notice anyway.
I yanked open the front door and caught Josie with her fist raised, ready to pound on the door again. “I didn’t expect you,” I said.
She dropped her arm to her side. “I know. I’m sorry.”
I brushed her apology away, closing the door after she stepped inside. “Did you get any sleep?” I asked, though from her disheveled hair and red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes, I already knew the answer was no.
She shook her head and collapsed on the sofa, in the exact spot where she’d sat the day before. She buried her face in her hands and her shoulders heaved. I reached for a box of tissues, thinking she was going to break into sobs, but her body stilled and she suddenly sat up straight and looked me in the eye. “How could this have happened?”
My hackles went up. It almost felt like an accusation, and I’d had enough of that from the sheriff and the deputy. I didn’t even know Nell, for pity’s sake. “I, um . . . Josie . . . don’t know. I hope you don’t think—”
She looked at me, horrified. “Oh, God, no!” She wedged herself into the corner of the sofa, pulling her knees up. “It’s just . . . I mean . . . I can’t believe she’s dead.”
That made two of us. The deputy’s questions the night before had focused on why Nell would have been killed on my property. I had no answers to any of her questions. “I only met her today,” I’d told the officer, to which she’d replied, “Interesting.”
“You know, just when things were going really well for her. It’s not fair,” Josie said.
“I don’t think murder is ever fair.”
Josie ran her index fingers under her eyes, wiping away the tears pooling there. “But she had a tough childhood, you know? She was a foster kid. God, the things she told me.” She sniffed, dabbing her red-tipped nose with a tissue. “I had it pretty rough as a kid. No dad. My mom worked two jobs. That’s why I glommed on to you, you know? I felt like we were the same. Neither one of us had a dad around, but you had your mom, your grandmother, and, of course, Loretta Mae. I used to wish I was part of your family. There was something so special about all of you.”
Guilt wound through me. I hadn’t known then what Josie had needed from me. I’d just seen her as a shadow, a constant presence, and had never paid her any mind. “I’m sorry I wasn’t—”
She flung up her hand. “Don’t. There’s nothing to be sorry for, Harlow. You were there for me, even if you didn’t know it. I remember thinking to myself: She made it without her father. So can I. And now look.” She spread her arms wide. “I’m marrying into a good family and I’m in love. I’ve been lucky.” Her smile faded. “Nell wasn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is it wrong to talk about her now?” The look she gave me sent me reeling back to when we were kids. Her big brown eyes would gaze up at me like I was her big sister. She’d thought I had all the answers back then, which I didn’t. And I sure didn’t have them now. I made it up as I went along, pulling pieces of wisdom from Mama, Nana, and Meemaw—my holy trinity. “Of course not. She died, but we aren’t going to forget her.”
She dropped her chin, shaking her head as if she was disappointed with herself. “I just . . . I wish I could have stopped her from making mistakes.”
I got up and moved in front of her, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. “It’s not your fault.”
“I was running late last night, counting the RSVPs for the wedding. If I’d been on time . . .”
“We don’t know why she was killed. If you’d been on time, you might have been a victim, too.”
“She was hooking up with guys she met on the Internet. Exaggerdating, she called it. Not a single one of the guys she went out with was honest in his profile.”
“Why’d she keep doing it?”
Josie stared into space for a minute. “She never thought she was good enough, like being on her own for so long meant no one could really love her. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy, you know?”
Oh, yeah, I knew. I’d met dozens of people in the fashion world who were on collision courses of self-destruction and they all had their warped, twisted reasons. Not enough love. Too much love. Power. Money. Jealousy. Binging and purging. Drugs instead of food. All the dirt comes out in the wash, as Meemaw would say.
“She said she found Mr. Right, but I think he was just using her,” Josie continued.
“What makes you think that?” I asked.
“He just came and went as he pleased. She’d meet him every day for a few weeks, then nothing for a month. He couldn’t commit, but didn’t want to give up the fun.”
I’d met plenty of that kind of man. “Why buy the cow when you’re getting the milk for free?” Meemaw said when I complained to her about the guys I was dating.
“I’m not giving anybody any milk!” I’d been indignant, and also untruthful. I’m sure she knew I’d poured a glass or two over the years, but I’d learned my lesson. I was past the point of settling for someone who wasn’t in it for the long haul.
“What if he’s the one that . . . that . . .” Josie looked at me and said, “What if he did this to her?”
I was asking myself the very same question. “Did you tell the sheriff all of this?”
She nodded. “He said they’d look into it. They’d search her apartment. Look through her computer.”
“If they took her computer, I’m sure they’ll be able to find out who she dated and see if there’s a connection. Can I get you something?” Josie looked like she could use a stiff drink, but I offered tea or coffee.
“Coffee,” she said.
I went into the kitchen, grabbed a couple of black-and-gold Maximilian mugs from the cupboard, and opened my coffee drawer to contemplate the selections. Emeril’s Vanilla Bean, Extra Bold Dark Magic, Mudslide, and Southern Pecan were my favorites. I took a wild guess as to which Josie would prefer and went with Southern Pecan. I popped the sealed pod of flavored coffee into the machine, pressed a button, the coffeemaker purred to life, and thirty seconds later a steaming cup of brewed coffee was ready. I didn’t know if the wedding was on or off, but right now, it seemed Josie just needed a friend.
I brewed the Dark Magic for myself, added cream, and carried both cups back to the sitting area. “Here you go,” I said, sounding much more chipper than I felt. Josie had painted a picture of Nell as a damaged woman. She’d never found the happiness she’d been searching for. This realization felt like a cold fist closing around my heart.
We sipped in silence for a few minutes. Finally Josie set her mug down on the coffee table and reached for her purse. Hers was not designer like Nell’s had been, which made me curious. “Where did Nell get her Gucci purse? One of her boyfriends, maybe?”
“From Mr. Right.”
Even though Josie was marrying one of the richest bachelors in town, she carried an ordinary inexpensive cloth handbag. It had tiny little colorful flowers on a cream background—and it fit her, just like everything else she wore. Maybe it was like the engagement ring. Josie knew who she was and what she liked. It was all comfortable, casual, and understated. No pretense.