Pleating for Mercy (34 page)

Gracie peered up at Will with a coquettish smile. “Daddy?”

“Uh, no.” He read the one word like a psychic. “First comes a camera, then a bag. Maybe.”

She rolled her eyes.

Madelyn had taken her Canon out, removed the lens cap, held the camera up, and focused. “Smile,” she directed.

I put my palm out. “Oh, no, not for us,” I said. Her finger depressed a button and the camera clicked.

Too late.

“No?” She lowered the camera and shot me a puzzled look. “You don’t want your picture taken? But you all look splendid together.”

“No—”

Gracie frowned. “We don’t?”

“What I mean is—”

“She means yes,” Will said.

I stared at him. “I do?”

He pulled Gracie next to him and put his arm around my shoulder. “You do.”

Madelyn went into photographer mode. About a hundred pictures later, she finally got one she liked.

Gracie started to wander off, but Will called her back. “Let me hold your purse for you,” he said.

“I got it, Dad,” she said just as Holly called to her from across the room. She held up a cup of sparkling pineapple punch.

“Harlow wants to take another look,” he said. A hasty nod of my head and a wink convinced her. She handed the purse over and, with a wave, hurried over to Holly.

Quick thinker, that Will Flores.

When Gracie was out of earshot, I told Madelyn my theory. “I know patterns and design,” I said. “The braid on this purse has the same sort of scheme as the markings found on Nell’s throat. The
strangulation
markings,” I added.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise as she took a closer look. “You may be right.”

A rush of heat swept through me. I was one hundred percent sure I was right. “Do you still have the pictures of—” I lowered my voice to a whisper and finished, “Of Nell’s neck?”

I tapped my foot impatiently. Will and the sheriff had been gone only five minutes, but already it felt like hours.

“How long will it take to know for sure?” Madelyn asked.

I had no idea. “I guess the sheriff’ll have to—I don’t know—take it to some forensics lab. In Fort Worth, maybe? Doesn’t it take a while to run fiber tests?”

“It doesn’t on TV, but—”

“But this is real life.” So unless the killer stood up and waved a guilty hand, we’d have to wait for confirmation that the murder weapon was from the same torn fabric braid Gracie used for her purse, and that could take days.

Josie and Nate worked the room, gliding from table to table, greeting, hugging, and chatting with all two hundred of Nate’s parents’ closest friends. Lori Kincaid had schmoozing down to an art and she was teaching it, on the fly, to Josie. She led the newlyweds, made introductions, said something witty, and stepped back as her son and new daughter-in-law spread their social wings.

She whispered to Josie as they moved to the next cluster of guests. But Josie hung on every word Nate uttered, gazing at him with adoring eyes.

“He really loves her,” Madelyn commented.

Nate looked at Josie with equal adoration. “He sure does.”

There was still no sign of Derek.

Josie’s mother and aunt were already seated. They each had their hands primly folded and resting on the table. The aunt looked like she wished she could be anywhere else, but Mrs. Sandoval’s expression was filled with hope. Just like Mrs. Kincaid’s dreams for Nate, or any mother for that matter, it was clear that Mrs. Sandoval wanted nothing more than for her daughter to be happy.

If Derek’s indiscretions came to light, the Kincaids would be dethroned, forced to relinquish their title as first family of Hood County. I hoped the love Josie and Nate had for each other would be enough to weather the storm Nate was bringing on them, as well as the news that his brother, Derek, was a murderer.

Madelyn touched my shoulder. “My husband beckons,” she said, pointing to her own personal professor. “Let me know when Will gets back, will you?”

“Definitely,” I said. She headed off in one direction and I made a beeline for Dulce Sandoval to offer a little reassurance that Josie had done good.

But Zinnia James sidelined me. “Sugar, you look spectacular,” she gushed. “When word gets out about Josie’s gown and the bridesmaids’ dresses—and the next Kincaid wedding—you’ll be turning customers away at the door . . .”

Her voice slipped to the background as I quickly scanned the room looking for Derek. I didn’t see him anywhere, but noticed that Ruthann had found herself a handsome man. With her posture, her dress, and her demeanor, she reminded me of a politician’s wife. Or an oil tycoon. That girl needed to get out of Bliss. She seemed destined for bigger things.

“Mark my words, your designs are going to be featured in
D
magazine,” Mrs. James was saying. “The festival and pageant this summer, followed by the fashion show in the fall, will put you on the map. I can see it now.”

I hoped she was right. “Thank you, Mrs. James,” I said, then asked, “Who’s that with Ruthann?”

She peered at the table I indicated. “That is George Taylor.”

“Ah,” I said. “So
that’s
what an eligible bachelor looks like.” I’d hoped Ruthann would find someone classier than a man who talked about his conquests.

She raised one eyebrow. “If you say so.”

I laughed. “Ruthann told me how he’s one of the most eligible bachelors in town. Maybe they’ll start dating.”

“Hmm. Young people don’t give it much time, these days, do they?”

“What do you mean, Mrs. James?”

“Oh, it’s just that I thought she was involved with someone.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Odd. I must have been mistaken, then,” she remarked.

“Mrs. James, remember how you told me you’d seen Nell at Reata?”

Her sharp eyes flashed. “Of course.”

“I know you said you couldn’t tell who she was meeting, but do you think it might have been Derek Kincaid?”

“Until the day that poor girl died, I hadn’t laid eyes on Derek Kincaid in more than six months.”

Did I hear her right? “You saw him the day Nell died?”

“Twice, actually. He was driving his mother—so thoughtful. He sat in the car while everyone gathered in your shop. I did see him talk to his brother for a few minutes, and Jeanette McDaniels’s daughter, Ruthann, over there, she chatted with him for a while. Then I saw him later that night, you know. Very odd.”

She started to sashay off, but I stopped her. “Are you sure it was the same day?”

Someone called to her, but she turned, holding a finger up, then said to me, “I specifically remember it was that night because I heard about the murder the next morning.”

“Where did you see him?” I asked, hoping it was near the crime scene. He could have taken that braiding from his parents’ house, met Nell at Buttons & Bows, taken care of his mistress and blackmailer all at once, and been done with it.

“He was down at the Stockyards.”

“In Fort Worth?”

“That’s right,” she said, and my theory flew out the window. “The senator and I met some friends at Billy Bob’s. We walked in as he stumbled out with a group of people.”

My hopes sank. Drinking and dancing at the biggest honky-tonk in Texas meant Derek had not been alone, and he’d also been nowhere near the crime scene.

Which meant he couldn’t have killed Nell.

 

After the bombshell dropped by Zinnia James, I needed a cold drink. I sidled up to the portable bar, set my clutch on the stool, keeping my cell phone out in case Will texted about his status, and ordered a red wine. Two men leaned against the counter, ice tinkling in their tumblers. I sneaked a peek . . . Keith Kincaid and a tall scarecrow of a man. Their voices were low, but I edged closer after the bartender handed me my glass of wine.

Once again I put a snippet of Meemaw’s advice to practical use:
Be quiet and listen
.

“Didn’t think any of ’em would take the plunge,” Mr. Kincaid was saying in his John Wayne voice. “Knew right after Derek graduated from high school that
he
wasn’t the marrying kind. Strings plenty of ’em along, though, that’s my boy! Got one practicing over there.”

I couldn’t turn around to look behind me, but my heart went out to whoever Derek Kincaid was stringing along.

“Even gave her a ring, the fool,” his father said. “I almost did that. Stopped myself just in time, but she wound up with it anyway and, good God, it bit me in the ass.”

They guffawed. Then the gangly, ginger-haired man said something, his voice so low I had to strain to hear. Something about betting on how long the Kincaids’ marriage would last. “We all lost,” he said. “You and Lori have stuck it out.”

Mr. Kincaid gave a bitter snort. “It would cost me more to divorce her than just deal with her. No prenup. She’d take me to the cleaners. Hell, she’d sell me up the river. A few too much between us to just call it quits. Now I’m trading a homegrown hellhole for an African one. Damn money. It’s an addiction.”

He had a lifestyle to maintain. Once you had money, I imagined it was hard to give it up.

The redheaded friend moved right along in the conversation, never missing a beat. “Derek might fall in love someday, and if he does, he may settle down yet.”

I sipped my wine. Derek Kincaid wasn’t going to any chapel; he was going to jail for his smuggling activities.

“You got Nate out of the nest—”

“Only took thirty-four years,” he said with a scoff.

“And Miriam—”

Mr. Kincaid saved his most bitter laugh for his daughter. “Lasted all of, what? Three years? Lori and me, least we know we’re stronger together than apart.”

Stronger together than apart. If they’d been spoken by someone else, those words would have been poignant and meaningful. As it was, they fell flat and made me feel just a tiny bit sorry for Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid. Whatever was between them didn’t sound like love. That was not the type of marriage I wanted to be in . . . if marriage was in my future.

I caught a glimpse of a silver-haired couple. They held hands, and as he leaned over to whisper something in her ear, she giggled and batted his arm.

I smiled to myself.
That
was the kind of marriage I wanted. One that would make me laugh and smile well into my nineties.

The minutes turned to hours. I’d chatted with Josie’s mother and aunt, gotten a second glass of wine, and strolled the perimeter of the hall, listening for any snippets of conversation that might contain a clue that would help me unravel the final threads of Nell’s murder.

I had nothing but a bunch of details that didn’t seem to add up to any cohesive answer. I checked my cell phone, thinking I’d missed another text from Will. Why was he taking so long?

Josie, Nate, and the wedding party, sheltered from the potential discovery of the murder weapon, laughed and danced to Waylon, Willie, and the boys, easily transitioning a while later to the Macarena.

Mama ambled over to where I sat with Madelyn, who was splitting her time between me and her tweedjacketed husband, Bill. She plopped a plate of food down next to the Easter lily centerpiece. As we picked at the chunks of fruit and cheese, I filled her in on the torn fabric braid Gracie had used on her purse and how the uneven pattern looked like a match to the odd strangulation marks on Nell’s neck. “The thing is,” I finished, “if Derek’s alibi is true, and Nate’s definitely not a suspect, who had access to the bins—and who else would have wanted Nell dead?”

“From what I know, that house is a fortress. Nobody’s gettin’ in who wasn’t invited in,” Mama said.

That was right. Josie had told me about the gate and how she hadn’t been able to get in to give her mother the glass cleaner. For the briefest second, I entertained the idea that Mrs. Sandoval had killed Nell. She would have had access to the fabric bins with the probable murder weapon, she knew Nell was coming back to my shop that night, and she lived alone, so most likely had no alibi. But I couldn’t pin a motive on her. Nell had been good to Josie, even leaving her share in the bead shop to her.

Unless . . .

Could she have somehow known Josie was in Nell’s original will and killed her so Josie would inherit the equal partnership?

Karen and Ruthann came up on either side of me, wrapped their arms around me, and squeezed. “We can’t thank you enough,” Karen cooed. “I don’t know what it is, but Ted is a changed man tonight.” She stood, twirled, and grinned. “I think it’s the dress.”

“Definitely,” Ruthann said. She pulled her arm from my shoulder, her ring catching on a particularly curly loop of my hair. “Sorry!” She freed her finger and did her own spin, dropping her shawl. “I just made a date with George Taylor,” she gushed.

“No!” Karen giggled. “Wait till the wine wears off, Ruthie.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she said. Gathering up her shawl, she grabbed Karen’s wrist. “Come on. There’s Derek. Now
he’s
a catch.”

They fluttered their fingers at us and scurried off toward Derek, who’d been watching them, that same smug smile on his lips that he’d had at the church when he’d seen Ruthann glide down the aisle.

My stomach turned watching Ruthann fall against him, as Karen scooted back to Ted. I followed Derek’s arm as it snaked around Ruthann’s waist. Soon they melted into the crowd.

“Which leaves Mr. or Mrs. Kincaid,” I said, picking up where I’d left off.

I glanced at the chair next to me where I’d put my clutch as Mama said, “Or their daughter.”

My mind screeched to a halt. “Where’s my purse?” I bent down to peer under the table. I searched around my chair, even lifted my napkin up in case it had shrunk and was now a miniature version of its former self. But I didn’t see the purse.

It hadn’t.

“It’s gone?” Mama asked, her accent deepening so that “gone” sounded like
ga-won
. “Is the . . . you-knowwhat still in it?”