A Fitting End: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery (31 page)

“Don’t do it, Duane,” Will said.

I skirted around the far side of the bed and hurried to Trudy’s side, looking to see if Fern’s chest was moving up and down. I exhaled in relief as I saw it rise and fall.

Will let the pneumatic door
whoosh
closed behind him as he walked farther into the room. He reminded me of a wary animal stalking his prey. “Just stop, Duane. You don’t want to do this.”

“He wouldn’t stop.”

“Who? Your dad?”

Duane stared bleakly, his eyes glassy.

Will moved closer. “Son, your dad—”

“Not my dad. Vance! Why couldn’t he just leave us alone?” A quick sob escaped his mouth, and he jammed
his fists on his hips, turning slightly and looking up at the ceiling.

“Put the syringe down,” Will said.

Trudy’s skin was warm to my touch, but her breathing was shallow and labored. I studied her face, looking for a trace of life. A pinprick of blood on her cheek caught my eye. I reared back, glaring at Duane. “What did you do to her?”

He shrugged. “I’ve seen my dad do it. I had to stop her. She told people—”

Oh, God, no. He’d injected more of the poison into her. The area around the pinprick of blood was puffy. I wanted to squeeze the stuff out of her, but I knew from what the doctor himself had told Trudy after her injection at his house and from reading the newspaper article online that massaging the area could spread the toxins… and the paralysis.

“Told people what?” I asked, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. I backed away, ready to make a break for the door to summon a
real
doctor.

But Duane didn’t answer directly. “First Vance blackmails my dad, then she”—he glared down at Trudy— “she starts saying my mom’s having an affair with the guy. Why can’t people just leave us alone? It was an accident! He didn’t mean for that lady to die.”

As Will moved toward him, I read between the lines of what Duane was saying. Dr. Hughes was being blackmailed, but had he killed Vance over it? Duane would have had access to the country club and the stage area. He would have been able to steal a Botox vial from his own home, put something in the lemonade at the club to make Trudy and Fern both drowsy enough to sleep through the break-in. And he would have been able to inject Trudy.

“Your dad wasn’t charged, but your family was chased out of Amarillo,” I said to Duane, everything suddenly making sense. “You didn’t want that to happen again.”

He nodded, his arms limp by his side, the syringe dangling from his fingers. I moved with as much stealth as I could muster. Almost to the door. Three more steps.

Will moved closer to Duane as I lunged for the door, careening into the hallway and right into Sheriff Hoss McClaine as Will tackled the teenager to the ground like a good ol’ Friday night Texas football player.

“It’s not the doctor. It’s Duane Hughes,” I managed, all the fear I’d been keeping at bay bubbling up. “In there.” I pointed, then I hurried on, stopping the first nurse I saw, begging her to come help Trudy and Fern Lafayette.

“That poor misguided boy,” Nana said. We sat on the front porch of 2112 Mockingbird Lane—Mrs. James, Mama, Nana, Libby, Sandra, and me. All the Cassidy women, together at last.

“Too many secrets. He just couldn’t handle it?” Sandra asked after she’d heard the whole story.

My rocking chair started rocking, slowly, but with a force I wasn’t controlling. Meemaw. She was here with us, too.

I nodded, realizing that Meemaw had probably turned the pages of Trudy’s book so I’d see the truth. But Anna and Duane had happened by first. I didn’t know which of them had actually taken the book, but it didn’t matter. Duane had seen Trudy’s scribblings about his mother and Vance and that was enough to send him over the edge again. He’d already crossed that line when he’d confronted Vance. The second time was far easier.

My thoughts drifted to Will and Gracie. He was taking her over to meet her grandparents, at long last. I wanted to be here for her when the meeting was over. If I knew Gracie, and I thought I did, she’d be back to sew. It was her comfort.

Libby would be here for her, too. She sat at the bottom of the porch steps. “When do I tell her?” I whispered under my breath so only Meemaw would hear me.

My chair squeaked as I rocked back and forth.
Now
,
now
,
now
, it seemed to say.

Now. Was Libby ready to hear the truth?

The chair creaked some more.

“Ladybug?” Nana said.

“Bless your heart, you look flushed,” Mrs. James said.

Mama tilted her head, a look of concern flitting across her face. “You all right, darlin’?”

“I am.” I smiled at the circle of women around me. I cleared my throat. “Y’all?” All eyes turned to me, even Thelma Louise, who was tethered to the pecan tree in the yard. “I have some Cassidy family business to discuss, and I think you’ll all want to hear it.”

Sewing Tips

1. Using tearaway stabilizer, particularly when working with sheer fabric, can help avoid gathering and puckering during machine stitching.
   
2. When hand stitching, use an embroidery hoop instead of tearaway stabilizer to keep the fabric taut.
   
3. Always start each project with a new needle. A sharp needle means less chance of damage to your fabric.
   
4. Thimbles come in different sizes and materials; if you do handwork, find a thimble that fits the middle finger of your sewing hand.
   
5. Take things a step at a time and never rush!
   

Mrs. James, Mrs. Abernathy, and I stood in the foyer of the Denison mansion, the centerpiece of Bliss’s historic district. “The traffic light on Henrietta Street is out,” Mrs. Abernathy said.

“Really? I just came over on Henrietta. Not a soul on the street and the lights were working just fine,” I said.

She leveled her cool gray eyes at me. “You know how it is around here. The power goes out so randomly. It can be on at our house, but the neighbors next door are on a different grid and theirs will be off.”

Zinnia notched her thumb toward the general direction of the backyard and Henrietta. “Are you listing a house over there?”

Mrs. Abernathy gave a restrained little laugh. “My, but aren’t the two of you inquisitive. We’re doing renovations on a place over there, Zinnia. Still in the early stages,” she added, “but by late spring they ought to be all set.” She slipped her raincoat off and hung it on one of the hooks on the antique coat tree, pausing to look in the mirror and smooth her windblown blond hair. Her black slacks and boxy cream blouse did nothing for her robust figure. I had a flash of her wearing an asymmetrical
lavender sweater, buttoned at the top, lavender pants, and instead of the square blouse, a tailored cut with darts and a flared hem.

“Something wrong?” Mrs. Abernathy’s voice shook me out of my designing mode and back into the present. She gave me a good once over, her gaze hitching on the light streak in my chestnut hair, a Cassidy family trait.

“Not a thing,” I said, smiling, wishing I could make a garment for her that would soften her uptight demeanor. But my Cassidy charm would never benefit Helen Abernathy, if she had anything to do with it. Which was just as well. When I designed a garment for someone, it transformed them, letting their heart’s desire be realized. The problem was that there were no checks and balances for my gift. If someone wanted something badly enough, I couldn’t stop it from happening any more than I could stop a tornado from brewing in an otherwise silent sky.

She frowned, but didn’t say anything else, instead turning her attention back to Zinnia James. “All the floors were redone—”

“Hand-scraped pecan.” Mrs. James ran the tip of her boot over the grain of one plank.

“Just like we discussed.”

As part of Bliss’s Historic Society, Mrs. James, along with Will Flores, had been overseeing some minor renovations of the Denison Mansion. Abernathy Home Builders had done the work, and the bills had been paid by one of the town’s most prosperous families, the Kincaids. The house would go back on the market after the holidays, but in the meantime, Nate and Josie Kincaid were letting the Historic Society use it for the annual holiday event.

Mrs. Abernathy headed to the staircase, laying her
hand on the wood banister. “Come up here. I want to show you the bathtub.

We followed her up the mahogany staircase to the second story. The click of our heels against the newly redone floors echoed, the rolling thunder outside getting louder as we ascended, and a draft circling down the hallway. My great-grandmother’s ghost had taken up residence in my old yellow farmhouse off the town square and I’d recently discovered that all the Cassidy women hung around for a good long while after their passing. Were we an anomaly? I looked down over the railing and into the open space below, wondering if the spirit of Charles Denison, or of his wife, Pearl, were hanging around this old place.

“Quite a house, isn’t it, Harlow?” Mrs. James whispered from behind me.

No signs of any ghosts. Just my imagination at work.

I rejoined Mrs. James and Mrs. Abernathy at the door to the bathroom. A brand-new claw tub replica was the highlight of the big, square room. “Perfect,” Mrs. James said. She went in to take a closer look, stopping to examine the pedestal sink, the ornate mirror, and the silver vanity looking-glass–and-brush set on display on an antique dresser.

I was more enamored with the Victorian dressing gown hanging from a crystal knob on the back of the door. I moved closer to fawn over the details. Hand embroidery along the yoke, a shirred front panel with fine, hand-embroidered scalloped edging sensuously left open from the breastbone tie to the waist, and a cherry-blossom damask pattern in the silk skirt. It was beautiful.

“I’d like to see the runway for the fashion show,” I said, following Mrs. James and Mrs. Abernathy back into the hallway.

“The walkway to the tent will start just outside the kitchen,” Mrs. Abernathy said, but Mrs. James interrupted. “First the widow’s walk.”

Mrs. Abernathy shook her head. “The rain…” She trailed off as Mrs. James, not waiting for Mrs. Abernathy to lead the way, headed for the second flight of stairs and started up.

Mrs. Abernathy turned back to me with a thin smile. “To the widow’s walk,” she said, then turned on her flat heel and followed.

Good thing I’d left my coat and hat on since we’d be stepping back out into the cold.

“Was it repaired?” Mrs. James asked.

“Of course it was,” Mrs. Abernathy said, speaking slowly for emphasis and stretching out the one syllable words into two.

“Strange.”

Mrs. Abernathy turned, stopping Mrs. James before she could open the door to the platform. “What?”

“From down below, it didn’t look like it.”

Mrs. Abernathy’s cheeks paled. “Impossible.”

She reached past Mrs. James, turned the doorknob, and pulled. A gust of freezing wind shot through the opening. I folded my arms over my chest as I pushed forward, outside, and braved the cold. Mrs. James had her jacket on, too, but Mrs. Abernathy shivered.

Out on the small platform, Mrs. James immediately stopped short. She quickly turned back to look at Mrs. Abernathy. “Doesn’t look fixed to me.”

“But…” Mrs. Abernathy shoved past me and looked at the banister. An entire section was missing, the jagged edges of the painted wood all that remained. Just below the flooring where the roof sloped downward, shingles
were torn off. The white tent covered the majority of the yard. A narrow enclosed walkway led from the house, connecting it to the tent. My gaze kept going down, down, down, suddenly stopping.

I spotted a mound of red, half hidden under a shrub to the side of the walkway.

I pointed. “What’s that—?”

The women leaned forward to see what I’d spotted. Mrs. Abernathy let out a high-pitched choking sound. Her hand flew to her mouth and she turned her back on the sight.

I peered through the downpour, trying to see what had upset her. “What is it?” I shouted over the
rat-a-tat-tat
of rain on the roof above us and the booming thunder in the distance.

Mrs. James pressed in next to Mrs. Abernathy. “Is that a boot?” She leaned further over the gaping hole in the banister.

A boot? My heart shot to my throat. “No,” I said with a moan, just as Mrs. James’s foot slipped on the wet wood. She lost her balance and lurched into Mrs. Abernathy. Mrs. Abernathy careened forward, grabbing hold of the ragged end of the banister.

“Help!” She teetered on the edge of the widow’s walk. Mrs. James had regained her balance and gripped Mrs. Abernathy’s arm. I stepped to the right, trying to edge my body in front of hers to stop her from falling, but her foot slipped out from under her. Her body tumbled against mine, knocking me forward as she fell backward. She landed with a thud on her behind, but her legs jutted out in front of her, kicking my feet out from under me.

I felt myself flying, my legs in the air for a brief second
before they crashed against the roof, tearing shingles away. Someone screamed. Me? Mrs. James? I couldn’t tell.