Deadly Patterns (2 page)

“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.

She frowned, but didn’t say anything else; instead, she turned 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.”

“I made a list of what still needs to be done,” Mrs. James said as we headed toward the kitchen.

We stopped, turning around when the front door blew open, a crack of thunder sounding and the howl of the wind spreading through the downstairs of the old Victorian. Two men barreled in, slamming the door closed and shaking the rain off their coats. “Christ almighty, now that there’s a storm,” one of them said. Arnie Barnett. I didn’t know him well, but I’d gone to school with his wife, Hattie, and her sister, Raylene.

The men surged forward, leaving a trail of water on the floor. Another reason to hope for clear weather. Dan Lee Chrisson, the man who accompanied Arnie Barnett and had worked with him on the restoration, would play Santa right here in the foyer. We wanted happy kids, not kids slipping, sliding, and twisting ankles.

The handle of the front door rattled and then the door flew open again. Speak of the devil. Hattie Barnett stood there, pausing long enough to pocket her keys and call down to someone on the sidewalk. “Wait for me in the car!” she yelled, her voice getting lost in the wind.

I waved to her as she closed the door and then I detoured to the powder room to find a towel. But the pedestal sink and commode were the only things in the tiny water closet—no towels. I finally made it into the kitchen, checked under the antiqued white cupboard, and found a stack of thick blue disposable towels just as the howling of the wind sounded again, followed by a high-pitched screech and a thud.

I hurried back to the foyer just as Arnie grabbed Hattie’s forearm and yanked her up from where she’d fallen with one quick movement. “Hattie, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Why in tarnation is there water on the floor?” she said, glaring at Arnie and Dan. Hattie couldn’t have been more than five feet three inches. She didn’t look all that tough at first meeting, but we’d been in the same graduating class at Bliss High School, and while she looked sweet as apple pie, she was a spitfire if there ever was one.

“That’s going to leave a bruise,” I said, unfolding the towels and scattering them on the floor to soak up the rainwater. “We best get a throw rug for the entry here,” I called back to Mrs. James.

Hattie arched her back to look behind her, as if she had X-ray vision and would be able to see the black-and-blue mark through her jeans. “Dang,” she said.

That pretty much said it all.

Dan Lee Chrisson skirted around Hattie, crouching to help me dry the spatters of water. I vaguely remembered him from Bliss High, too, but he’d been a few years behind me. He’d kept to himself back then, and he still did. Lately I’d seen him around at Sundance Kids, Nana’s goat farm, where he was friendly with Maggie, a twentysomething woman who helped my grandmother with her cheese making. He had his head tilted like he was trying to gauge how hurt Hattie was, his gaze directed toward the staircase.

“Did you bring the Santa suit?” I asked him. He’d bought it somewhere in Fort Worth, and I’d agreed to take a look at it, just in case it needed alterations.

He started, bringing his attention back to me. “Uh, yeah,” he said, but before I could ask him what he thought of it, he’d turned his head again, intently focused on something else. Whatever was on his mind, he didn’t want to talk Santa suits right now.

“What are you starin’ at, Dan?” The sharpness in Hattie’s Southern drawl drew me up short.

“Nothin’, Hattie. Cool your engines.”

Her cheeks tinged red and her fists clenched. “Don’t you talk to me like that. You have no right—”

“Jesus, Hattie,” Arnie said, squeezing her arm. “Give it a rest. It ain’t your divorce.”

Divorce? I knew Dan Lee had married Raylene Lewis a couple of years back, but had they already split? My ears perked up at their conversation, but I lowered my head, trying to focus on the cleanup. I had no business listening, but they kept at it and I couldn’t help it if they chose to air their dirty laundry right in front of me, now, could I?

Hattie had a look in her eye that I’d never seen before. She jerked free of her husband’s hand. “No, it’s not, but she’s my sister and he . . . he—”

I could practically see the steam billowing from her ears, her dainty nostrils flaring.

“It just ain’t right, not with Boone so little.” She angled her glare back at Dan Lee. “Don’t you go thinkin’ that playin’ Santa’ll make you come off as some nice, misunderstood guy. While you’re playing at the North Pole, cavortin’ with that no good little elf you’re shackin’ up with, I’ll be comfortin’ Raylene.”

The color drained from Dan Lee’s face, but his voice stayed firm and matter-of-fact. “Me and Ray have been talking, Hattie, or didn’t she tell you that?”

Hattie stood stock-still, staring at him, and if her eyes could have shot daggers, Dan Lee Chrisson would have been dead. “No, you have not.”

“Yeah, we have. It’s our business, not yours.”

“She’s my sister. That makes it my business.”

“She’s a grown woman—”

“Unlike your little friend,” she shot back.

Dan Lee’s neck turned red, the color spreading up to his cheeks. “Dammit, Hattie, things ain’t always simple.”

“Marriage is. You love someone, you get married, you stay married. Doesn’t get much simpler than that.”

Dan Lee’s lips parted and he breathed in like he was readying himself for a response, but then he seemed to think better of it and closed his mouth.

Hattie plowed on. “You have Boone, or did you forget about him?”

“’Course not. I know what it’s like to not know your parents. I’m not a fool, Hattie. I’m gonna give Boone everything I never had.”

“Except parents who are married.”

Dan Lee looked like he had another comeback, but this time he kept his mouth shut, just shaking his head instead.

“Never mind her,” Arnie said as he grabbed Hattie’s arm and started pulling her toward the kitchen, but she swung around, pointing and scowling at Dan Lee. “Mark my words, Dan Lee—hurting Raylene was a mistake.”

* * *

Yikes. I sat back on my heels, stunned into silence. I’d known Hattie a long time, but I’d never seen her riled up like that before. Guess her sister being hurt so badly had brought out the mama bear instinct in her.

“Sorry, man,” Arnie said to Dan Lee as he came back into the foyer. “She has to be loyal to Ray, you know—”

Dan Lee threw up a hand. “You’ve been real fair, Arnie, but you don’t have to pick sides. All the time telling me she’s gonna keep me from seeing Boone and . . .” He paused, just long enough to let loose an uncomfortable laugh. “Look, ain’t nothin’ gonna stop me from being with my boy, so maybe you should stay out of it. Don’t wanna cause no trouble with you and Hattie.”

There didn’t seem to be any more to say after that, so Arnie headed to the parlor to start gathering up his tools, and Dan Lee headed upstairs to try on the Santa suit for me.

“Tell Hattie to lock up when she leaves,” Arnie said to me from the archway. I nodded, but the only thing I could think was I suddenly regretted our choice for Saint Nick. I didn’t want any drama from Dan Lee’s divorce putting a damper on the winter festival. But there was nothing to be done about it now.

As I went into the kitchen to throw the towels in the garbage can, I heard the low rumble of Dan Lee’s voice. No one else was upstairs, so he must have been on the phone. A few words floated down to where I stood. “Everything’s gonna be fine, Mags,” he said, and then he said good-bye and seemed to end the call. Overhearing that bit of his conversation, presumably with Maggie from Sundance Kids, reminded me to keep an open mind. Just because he and Raylene weren’t good together didn’t mean he was all bad.

I leaned against the restored wood counter when I saw that Mrs. James was in full instruction mode. “Harlow Jane, the decorations need to be finished the night before the fashion show. We don’t want to leave a single thing to chance. I’ll have some folks coming in with the portable heaters, your friend Josie is making the wire-rimmed bows to be placed at the end of each row, and . . .”

She went on and I listened, making mental notes of all the tasks to be done over the next few days. The Winter Wonderland would be in full swing, but I’d be entirely focused on every last detail of the fashion show, making sure the designs were perfect.

I gave Mrs. James an update on the ensembles I was making for the fashion show, while Hattie and Mrs. Abernathy chatted. “I still don’t quite have Josie’s figured out, but I will,” I said, hoping it was true. My pregnant friend was throwing me off my game.

“We’ll be out of here today,” I heard Hattie say, with a barely audible “Thank the Lord” under her breath.

“The widow’s walk railing?” Mrs. Abernathy said. “Has it been fixed?”

“Arnie tightened the bolts again yesterday, but he said they’re stripped. He’s replacin’ them today. It’s the last thing he has to do.”

Mrs. James nodded, satisfied, then covered a few more items before clapping her hands and turning to face all of us. “It’s going to be just perfect, ladies! I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done to make the Winter Wonderland a smashing success.”

A door slammed from somewhere in the house, reminding me that I had one thing to take care of before I could get back to my sewing. “I’ll just be checking the fit on the Santa suit; then I have to get back to my shop. Lots to do!” Maybe too much, I thought, but I knew that seeing the kids sit on Santa’s lap and watching the magic of the fashion show unfold would make it all worthwhile.

When Mrs. James went out the kitchen door to check on the tent and Mrs. Abernathy headed to the parlor, I was left in the kitchen with Hattie. “It’s too bad about Raylene’s divorce,” I said.

“Yeah, too bad,” she said. “Having a baby’s supposed to be a joyous and happy time. They were a new family.” She fell silent for a spell before adding, “I don’t get how he could just up and leave like that. You think you know someone . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head.

“Sounds like he plans to be there for the baby, though,” I said.

“Yeah, so he says. He’s always talking about the number his parents pulled on him, but you know? They mighta been crappy parents, but they stayed married, and that’s more than Dan Lee was willing to do. He got himself a nice little girlfriend, and she’s at his beck and call. And Raylene don’t want her baby anywhere near either of ’em. She wants full custody. Dan Lee doesn’t have the sense of a cockroach if he thinks we’re not goin’ to war over it.”

I couldn’t say I blamed Hattie for sticking up for her sister, or Raylene. I came from a long line of strong, single women. Aside from my grandmother, none of the Cassidy women had hung on to a man for very long, and we were fine with that. Maybe Raylene and Dan Lee weren’t meant for each other, but I couldn’t see a woman giving up her baby without a fight.

There wasn’t much more to say and we were both busy, so Hattie left a couple of minutes later. “I’ll be back. Gotta get the cleaning supplies to finish up in here.” She was still limping from her fall, and appeared distracted, but I imagined working kept her mind off worrying over her sister and nephew. It was exactly what I would do. Immerse myself in my sewing, getting lost in my own world.

From somewhere nearby another door slammed, and then Mrs. James’s voice echoed through the creaky house. No matter how much the place had been refurbished, it was a century old, after all.

After another few minutes, Dan Lee still hadn’t reappeared. Where was he? I was starting to get impatient for him to come down and show me the Santa costume. “Two more minutes,” I muttered. That was all the time I was going to give him before I snuck out and headed home, leaving him to fend for himself in his red velvet suit. The sewing projects at my little yellow farmhouse beckoned.

Chapter 2

Mrs. James stood at the base of the staircase, her hand resting on the wood banister. The front door opened, the wind howled, and Mrs. Abernathy and Hattie practically blew inside. “That’s an old story,” Mrs. Abernathy snapped.

“If you say so—”

Another gust of wind flung the door toward the wall. Hattie gasped, dropping the plastic tote full of cleaning supplies and lunging to catch it before it hit the floor. She quickly closed the door, shutting out the storm.

I wrapped my coat tighter against the cold, but it didn’t seem to make much difference. No matter how much insulation and updating an old house had, it was still drafty and held on to a chill.

“Pshaw. Enough old stories. This town is full of them.” Mrs. James’s sharp tone pulled them both up short. “Come up here, Helen. I want you to see the bathtub.”

Mrs. Abernathy sidestepped into the parlor, picking up an old quilt that had fallen to the floor. She folded it, hung it over a chair, and came back to the foyer just as Hattie disappeared into the kitchen lugging her cleaning supplies. Mrs. Abernathy climbed the staircase to the second story while I drummed my fingers on the banister. Where in the devil was Dan Lee Chrisson? Truth be told, I couldn’t skip out without an inspection of the Santa suit. I was nothing if not a perfectionist.

“You, too, Harlow,” Mrs. James said.

I peered up and started to say, “Oh, it’s okay—” but I figured if Dan Lee wasn’t coming down to me, I’d just go up to him. “Sure,” I said, and I fell in behind them.

The click of our heels against the newly redone steps as we mounted the wood stairs echoed, the rolling thunder outside getting louder as we ascended. I looked down over the railing and into the open space below, wondering if the spirit of Charles Denison, or his wife, Pearl, was hanging around this old place. But there were no signs of any ghosts. Loretta Mae Cassidy, my great-grandmother, was a ghostly presence in my old farmhouse, purely a Cassidy thing, I knew, but still, sometimes I wondered if other houses had spirits that lingered and tried to stay connected to the living.

“Quite a place, isn’t it, Harlow?” Mrs. James said from behind me. “I’ve never seen it looking so lovely.”

It really was. “Mmm-hmm.” From what I remembered, the Denison family had long since left Bliss and no one had seen hide nor hair of them for decades. Would they be pleased to see their house brought back to its original glory?

Mrs. James and Mrs. Abernathy paused at the door to the bathroom. A brand-new claw-foot 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 atop an antique dresser.

I was more enamored with the silk 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 and a shirred front panel with fine, hand-embroidered scalloped edging. When worn, the dressing gown would be sensuously open from the breastbone tie to the waist, with a cherry blossom damask pattern in the silk skirt. It was beautiful.

“Found that tucked away in a secret closet,” Mrs. James said. “I just love old houses. So many nooks and crannies. You never know what you’ll find hidden.”

I followed Mrs. James and Mrs. Abernathy back into the hall. “The walkway to the tent will start just outside the kitchen,” Mrs. Abernathy said, but Mrs. James interrupted. “I want to see the widow’s walk. If it’s not fixed, we’ll need to lock the door and keep people off.”

Mrs. Abernathy shook her head. “The rain . . .” But she trailed off as Mrs. James 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 heel and followed.

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

Mrs. James turned the crystal 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 slowly turned to look at Mrs. Abernathy. “Look at that railing. What in the devil? Where is Arnie Barnett?”

“Should I call Hattie?” I offered, peering through the door to get a better look at the problem. “If it can’t be fixed in time, we can make sure the door is locked.”

“He’ll fix it. With the amount of time he and his workers have spent here, nothing should be left undone,” she said tersely.

Mrs. Abernathy shoved past me. I followed, nearly plowing into her as she came to an abrupt stop. Suddenly I realized that the railing wasn’t loose at all. An entire section of it 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 where the fashion show would be held 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, and then hitched suddenly on a patch of red and black peeking through the leggy winter brush, half hidden along 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 and the booming echoing in the sky.

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

A boot? My heart shot to my throat. “No,” I said and tried to get a better look, 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 railing.

“Help!” She teetered on the edge of the widow’s walk. Mrs. James had regained her balance and gripped the other woman’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 jostled into mine, knocking me forward as she fell backward. She landed with a thud on her behind, but her legs stretched out in front of her, kicking my feet out from under me.

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

Rain pelted my face. The back of my head thudded against the roof and everything went fuzzy. And then I was falling, headed straight for the red mound below.

Faces flashed like an old-fashioned picture show. Meemaw. Nana. Mama. Granddaddy. My brother, Red. Gracie Flores. Will.

The people who loved me and who I loved . . .

And then I crashed. It wasn’t the hard, bone-breaking collision of a body against the ground, but a soft landing against something pliable, almost like a trampoline, and it cradled me, cupping my body as I sank into it.

“Harlow!”

I tried to shake away the clouds in my head, peering up at Mrs. James’s horrified face. Her arm was stretched over the broken railing, as if she were still trying to catch me.

Just as I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Abernathy behind her, her back pressed against the door, I lurched, the fabric of the tented walkway that held me giving way. It pitched and a second later I was sliding, then falling, until I hit the ground.

Right next to the lump of red we’d seen from above.

I gasped for air, afraid to move. Blinking away the veil of fear from the fall, I peered up at the widow’s walk. Mrs. James and Mrs. Abernathy were gone.

Everything was fuzzy, but I tried to take inventory. I wiggled my toes in my boots. Moved my fingertips. Shifted my hips. Everything seemed to be working. Finally, I turned my head, just a touch, to look at what I was lying next to. Or rather, who.

I registered the fur-lined coat, the red and white hat, and the black belt. Dan Lee Chrisson hadn’t come back downstairs for me to fit his Santa suit because he’d slipped off the widow’s walk and—

My gaze traveled down the length of red until I saw black boots twisted awkwardly, and a wave of nausea filled my gut. Poor Dan Lee Chrisson was dead.