The question that had continually run through my mind since last night was, Who had something to gain by Nell being dead? A while ago, I’d thought that any motive Josie might have had was flimsy at best. But if she was the benefactor of Nell’s will—well, that changed things.
I walked home, sipping my coffee, swinging my pastry bag, and thinking. I didn’t like that line of thinking, though. Josie was marrying Nate, after all, and Nate came from one of the wealthiest families in the county. Josie wouldn’t need to work if she didn’t want to. No, I felt sure there was someone with a stronger motive for killing Nell. If I wanted to help clear Josie’s name, then I had to search for a different answer. Someone else who had something to gain by Nell’s death.
Chapter 14
I studied the facade of Meemaw’s redbrick farmhouse as I approached. The garden was green and colorful with too many varieties of flowers to count. The arbor was like a welcome mat, telling people to step right through into the magical land of Buttons & Bows.
The only thing missing was a sign. And a group of customers clamoring to get into the shop. A sign wouldn’t bring instant business, but if I wanted people to stop by and commission couture fashion, they needed to know I was here. I added signage to my mental list of things to take care of.
I walked through the arbor and up the flagstone path. Like a magnet to steel, my gaze was drawn to the depression in the bluebonnets left by Nell’s body. I slowed down, pondering the woman who’d died there, but I was propelled up the porch steps as if pushed by two invisible hands. I barely managed to flip the wooden CLOSED sign to OPEN and unlock the door before I stumbled inside, muttering, “Who could have killed her?”
I realized that I half expected Meemaw to materialize and answer me. I thought I felt her presence more and more in the old house, but it was quite possible that I was simply losing my mind. “And why kill Nell here?” I asked, my voice louder this time.
“If not here, it would have happened somewhere else.”
My hands flew up, knocking my glasses clear off my face as I screamed. My heart thudded in my ears. I flung my pastry bag halfway across the room and my nearly empty coffee cup went flying.
Behind me, the door slammed shut.
That had not been Meemaw’s voice, which would have been freaky enough. But no, it was a man. Here, inside my shop. Inside my house.
I forced my heart out of my throat, mustered all my courage, and whirled around, brandishing my purse as a weapon. It made contact with someone. Without my glasses, and high on adrenaline, I saw the man only as a blur in my line of vision. Tall. Swarthy. Baseball cap turned backward. Wielding a hammer.
I held one arm out like I was Diana Ross singing “Stop in the Name of Love.” “Who are you?” I said in my best Sigourney Weaver kick-ass voice.
“Take it easy, Cassidy.”
Oh my . . . Meemaw was the only one who called me Cassidy instead of Harlow. Was this a home invasion? Had he already riffled through my personal journals to get to know his victim?
“Who are you?” I repeated, swinging my purse again at his fuzzy form. I wasn’t going down without a fight.
He took a step back, waving a hand in front of him. “Whoa, what’s in there? Bricks?”
“Ha, very original,” I scoffed. “The usual. Wallet. A paperback. Pepper spray.” I was lying about the pepper spray. I had some in a drawer upstairs. Never left home in New York without it, but I hadn’t thought it was necessary in Bliss.
I advanced on him, swinging my purse with intention this time, back and forth, back and forth. “Now,” I said, sounding much more confident than I felt considering this could well be Nell’s killer, “for the last time, who the hell are you?”
Chapter 15
“I’m Will Flores.” When I stared at him blankly, he continued. “I came by to fix a few things?”
The surprise of finding him in the house had me in a New York state of mind. By that, I mean hyperwary. “By breaking and entering?”
A look of indignation formed on his face. “Uh, no.”
My eyes narrowed. “Then how’d you get in here? I know I locked the door.”
My body tensed, my grip tightening on the strap of my purse, as he reached into his jeans pocket. His hand reappeared a second later holding up a key.
I darted forward to snatch it out of his hand, but he palmed it. “How’d you get a key to my house?”
“Loretta Mae gave it to me.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Uh, yes, she did.”
I peered at him, trying to focus my vision. Who did he think he was? “She would not have given some stranger a key,” I said slowly. He could not pull the wool over my eyes.
He raised one irritated eyebrow. “First of all,” he said, “I wasn’t a stranger.”
I could feel the dark, scorching look he had trained on me and it sent a chill up my spine.
“And second of all, it’s not like you’ve been around here the last”—he made a show of counting on his fingers—“fifteen years to know whether or not your great-grandmother gave me a key.”
The words slashed the air between us, carving a hole right through my heart. How did he know how long I’d been gone, or that Loretta Mae was my great-grandmother? My temperature skyrocketed. I sputtered, speechless.
But he went on, cool as a cucumber. “She would be horrified to see you’ve lost every ounce of whatever Southern grace you once possessed.”
I gasped, recoiling like I’d been slapped across the face. How dare he stand in my house and hurl . . . The truth dawned on me. Oh. My. God. This guy was one of those scammers who duped the elderly. “Get out.”
He spun around, muttering something under his breath that sounded an awful lot like, “There you go, right there, damn Yankee.”
“I am not a Yankee,” I said, shooting daggers at him. Like my long-departed Uncle Jimmy used to say, “Once a Texan, always a Texan.”
Will Flores, whoever he was, had planted a seed, though. A fissure of doubt opened up inside me. Could I have lost some of my Southernness? And why did the mere idea of it fill me with such sadness?
He threw up his hands, the hammer still gripped in one. “Let’s start again, shall we?”
I shook my head. “We’re not starting anything until you drop your weapon.”
He glanced at the tool, then at me, one side of his mouth curving up. “Por supuesto,” he said, then quickly added, “Sure.”
As he turned to set it down on the antique desk next to the workroom, I scrounged for my glasses, finding them on the seat of the settee.
When he turned, I got a clearer look at him. Still tall, maybe six feet one. Still wearing a rear-facing ball cap. A Longhorns cap, which meant he couldn’t be all bad. Still swarthy. Puerto Rican, maybe? No, Mexican. And a goatee.
One thing was for sure. He was handsome as all getout, but in an arrogant, Rhett Butler kind of way.
“I’m Will Flores,” he said again. “Your great-grandmother arranged a standing handyman appointment with me. Every Tuesday, I come by to do whatever repairs are needed.”
Right. Like I was going to buy that. I kept my purse at the ready. “I’ve been here for almost two months. That’s eight Tuesdays. So, where’ve you been?”
Before he could answer, I continued. “You’re pretty unreliable. Loretta Mae wouldn’t have tolerated that.”
“I’ve been out of town on business. Happens every now and then. Loretta Mae didn’t have a problem with it.”