“She was on past a hundred. No surprise that the old house needs some TLC. I’m sure she knew you’d take care of it. She did have someone come in to do odd jobs every now and again,” she added. “He’ll be by before too long, I’m sure.”
Mama pointed to the lines angling up the bodice of Josie’s dress. “Is this pleating?”
I nodded. “At first I thought I’d do inset seams or darts, but the more I looked at Josie and saw what she liked in my design books and the bridal magazine she brought, the more I thought the inset seams would be completely wrong. This is so her. I feel it in my bones.”
“It’s fine work,” Mama said, “even if it is a weddin’ gown.” She ran her fingertips across the fabric swatches I’d stapled onto the page with the final design. I’d selected White French satin, Diamond French silk, Ivory organza, and Ivory Duchess taffeta. “Which one do you like?”
I leaned over and touched each one, feeling the differences in texture and weight and noticing the variations in sheen. “The silk,” I said finally. It would drape beautifully, and the tone of the ivory would make Josie’s skin glow. I glanced at the clock. 8:03. “Josie and her maid of honor are coming by again at eight thirty. If she likes the design and picks a fabric, I’ll do a rush order on it while I work on the pattern and the mock-up.”
She nodded with approval. “It’s perfect for her. She’ll look like a million bucks.” She turned the page. “What about the bridesmaids?”
“They’re so different. One’s really tall and thin. One’s shorter and a little round. And one—” I conjured up an image of Nell, trying to reconcile her incarnation as Daisy Duke, her pricey accessories, and the fact that she was Josie’s boss and a business owner. “One I haven’t quite figured out yet. I decided to go with different looks for each of them.”
Mama flipped through the next few pages, commenting on the details of the designs.
“I just hope Josie likes the idea.” We’d brainstormed styles, but left the bridesmaid dress designs undecided.
“She’s easygoing,” Mama said. “She’s always mighty friendly. With the weddin’ so near and no other options, she probably won’t care all that much what it looks like.”
My head snapped up. This was the third time she’d made a reference to Josie as if she knew her.
“Mama,” I said, “how exactly did you say you know Josie?”
Her olive irises clouded and her eyes narrowed into what I could only describe as an expression of alarm. She snapped her gaze to the vase of flowers and started rearranging them, pulling stems out, then jamming them back into the same place. “I don’t believe I said I know her, other than when she came around as a child.”
“You said the wedding gown would be perfect for her, that she’s so friendly and easygoing, and you said something about running into her . . . somewhere.”
She poked another flower stem back into the vase, turning the thick-bottomed glass before plucking out yet another. “Bliss is a small town. People know one another’s business,” she said. “It’s impossible to keep a secret, and impossible not to know the basics about a person.”
That was the truth, but I didn’t buy her answer.
As I was deciding how to respond, voices from outside drifted through the open window. The sink and the window above it faced Mockingbird Lane. I glanced at the oven clock. The predigital readout—white numbers on a black background—said 8:05. The motor made a faint scratching noise as the numbers rotated, changing to 8:06. The oven and clock might be archaic, but they worked. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, Meemaw always said.
Josie wasn’t supposed to be back for another twenty-five minutes or so.
Mama said something about college kids and frozen yogurt.
I blinked. “Sorry. What?”
“I said it’s probably just some kids. You’re frowning. What’s wrong?”
“It sounds like they’re arguing, doesn’t it?”
We both sat perfectly still, our ears cocked to the window. One of the voices belonged to a woman and seemed angry and agitated. Whoever she was talking to was much quieter. Men and women . . . their emotions were like oil and water.
I got up, flipped off the lights, and leaned over the sink to peer out the window. I cupped my hands above my eyes to cut the glare of the streetlights, but couldn’t make out any figures on the sidewalk. The pecan tree to the left of the window blocked my view of the front flagstone walkway and the gated arbor leading from the sidewalk into my yard. The voice I could hear seemed to be coming from that direction.
I listened, picking out pieces of the angry woman’s words: “. . . what’s mine . . . owes it to me . . .” It went on for at least another thirty seconds. My heart beat faster the longer I listened. But then, just as quickly as the row had started, it was over.
“A lovers’ spat,” my mother said with a knowing nod. “Probably kissing and making up.”
With her on my heels, I went to the front room and peered out the picture window. The street was partially blocked by the honeysuckle-covered fence. The bright pink miniature rosebushes lining the walkway also obscured my view of my own yard. I looked both ways, but from what I could see, which wasn’t much, the street and sidewalk looked deserted. “I don’t know . . .”
“You’ve always been too curious for your own good. I’m sure it’s fine,” Mama said.
We both collapsed onto the love seat, putting our feet up on the coffee table. “I know.” When I hadn’t been sewing with Meemaw as a child, I’d been reading Nancy Drew or spying on the townsfolk, even going so far as to hide under a table to watch Red getting a good what-for from Mama.
Ten minutes later, the door was flung open, sending the jingling bells flying off the doorknob once and for all. Startled, I sprang up from the couch like a gymnast. Josie collapsed in the doorway, tears streaming down her face, her breath coming in gasping sobs.
“C-call 911,” she blurted.
I raced to her while Mama ran to the kitchen for the phone. “What is it?” I did a quick once-over, looking for an injury, but she looked fine. No blood. “Are you hurt?”
She slapped the tears off her face and gathered herself up. Grabbing my hand, she pulled me out the door, across the porch and down the steps. “It’s N-Nell,” she choked out. “I—I felt for a pulse. N-nothing. Oh, my God.” She pointed to the arbor and gate welcoming people into the garden, and into Buttons & Bows. There, to the right and nestled amid a patch of bluebonnets, was Nell Gellen’s motionless body. “Harlow,” she said in a harsh whisper, “Nell’s d-dead.”
We didn’t need 911. We needed a coroner.
Chapter 7
A slow shiver wound its way through my body and took hold of my senses. It started at my toes and worked all the way up to the hair on my head. It was hard to wrap my brain around the fact that someone I knew, even only slightly, had been murdered. I could only imagine how her friends and family would feel.
The mayhem that soon arose on Mockingbird Lane had me wondering if I’d brought New York City chaos back with me to Bliss. Leading the pack was Sheriff Hoss McClaine. He stood on the sidewalk just outside Meemaw’s arbor, shouting orders, directing the powerful rigged lighting setup, and jotting things down on a little notepad. He kept one eye on Josie, who stood at the end of the porch talking on the phone to her soon-to-be mother-in-law. He also kept an eye on Mama and me, I noticed. Over the years, the Cassidy women had been blamed for plenty of things that had gone wrong in Bliss. When people didn’t need something from us, they were quick to judge. I prayed Hoss McClaine didn’t start a witch hunt.