A Custom Fit Crime (16 page)

“And your mother can’t marry a man who could think you’d be capable of murder?” Jeanette said, her lower lip quivering. “More tragedy from one man’s death.”

Orphie regained her balance. She spun around, searching the room for something, finally landing on her purse. She grabbed it, took me by the arm, and steered toward the front door. “You did not kill an enemy designer.” She scoffed. “He said he’d never even met you, so what’s the motive, huh? No. No way. Let’s go, Harlow. I’m serious, we need to have a talk with that
deputy
and set the record straight.”

I pulled back. “No. Gavin’s going to think and do what he wants. I’m not going to beg him to cross me off the suspect list. What I
need
to do is figure out what really
did
happen so Mama and Hoss can get married, as planned.”

Orphie hesitated, but Jeanette surged forward. “I’ll help you, Harlow.”

Midori waved her hands. “Wait. Ladies, you are not detectives. Won’t you get in trouble for interfering? Is it not an official investigation, or something like that?”

“I’m not going to interfere,” I said, “but I’m not going to sit around and let my mother’s relationship with the sheriff fall apart and I’m also not going to just do nothing while the deputy suspects I killed a man.”

Jeanette threw out possibilities, rattling them off as if she’d been making lists in her head, just as I had. “What about the models? Maybe the Dallas girls were so upset about not getting to wear his clothes that one of them did it? Or maybe it was the other girls. I mean, they’re tough. They’re from New York. Maybe . . . Oh! Maybe Beaulieu was going to give the Dallas models a chance, the New Yorkers got mad, and”—she drew her finger across her neck—“did him in.”

“Maybe.” They were the same thoughts I’d already had, and they were as good a guess as anything else.

“What about Quinton or Lindy?” I asked.

Jeanette tapped her finger against her lip, thinking. After a hefty pause, she finally answered. “I don’t know about Quinton. I don’t think he runs in the same circles as Beaulieu. At least I’ve never seen him around. But Lindy’s written articles for the
Dallas Morning News
. I know she’s interviewed Beaulieu once or twice before.”

That fact jettisoned to the front of my mind. “Really? So she knew him?”

Jeanette lifted her shoulder slightly. It wasn’t quite a shrug, but wasn’t
not
a shrug, either. “She’s definitely met him before.”

I wondered if Lindy had shared that with the deputy, and I made a note to myself to find out.

Orphie was quiet. She put down her purse and went back to the sweetheart dress.

“I think the wedding will go forth,” Midori said optimistically. And to prove it, she picked up my maid of honor dress to keep working on it. Jeanette and I kept throwing out ideas. Finally Orphie threw down Gracie’s dress and blurted, “How are we supposed to prove you didn’t kill Beaulieu and figure out who actually did?”

Her questions were so basic, and so direct, and yet I didn’t have answers. “I don’t know yet,” I said. “But I’m working on it.”

I picked up my sketchbook and flipped it open to a blank page. I could get lost in my drawings, thinking and processing through any dilemma. It was mental therapy for me.

Start with the basics.
The idea circled in my head, over and over again.

“Really?” Orphie demanded. “You’re going to draw?” She threw down the dress, marched over to me, and grabbed the sketchbook from my hands. “You don’t have time to sit there and sketch, Harlow. We can’t hole up here and sew!”

“It helps me think,” I said, taking the book back from her.

She huffed, but didn’t try to fight me for it. Instead she perched on the edge of a stool and watched.

I started sketching and before long I had the most basic design for a sheath dress. Nothing fancy. Nothing complicated.

Meemaw used to say,
Got a dilemma? Make dilemmonade
. She was right, but everything felt wrong at the moment. Sour. I was hoping that with a little creativity, I could figure it out and make everything sweet again.

“We can’t go off willy-nilly, trying to solve a crime without having a clue about what we’re doing,” I said when she didn’t budge.

But patience wasn’t one of Orphie’s strengths. “We have to figure out something, Harlow, and quick. We can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

I sighed and nodded because she was right.
Start with the basics.
And suddenly I knew the first thing we could do to try to figure out the truth. Just the two of us.

“I need some fresh air,” Orphie said.

Good girl. I’d caught her gaze and flicked mine toward the door, giving a slight notch of my head, hoping she’d get the message that we needed a powwow.

Without another word to us, she headed outside.

“Poor thing,” Jeanette said after the front door had opened and closed.

Orphie deserved an A-plus in acting. She’d been pitch-perfect. I waited a few minutes, the second hand on the clock moving excruciatingly slow. Finally, after I thought enough time had passed, I put down my sketchbook. “I better go check on her. Jeanette, would you mind?” I picked up Gracie’s unfinished dress and handed it to her, not waiting for her to reply. If I didn’t give her a choice, she couldn’t refuse.

“Oh, sure, er, no, I’d be happy to.” She took it from my outstretched arm, but she couldn’t hide the disappointment on her face. I got the feeling she wanted to check on Orphie, too. Either that or she couldn’t stand the idea of being left out.

“I’m going to make her walk around the square,” I said, and before either Midori or Jeanette could argue, I escaped outside, leaving them with their projects.

Orphie wasn’t on the porch. I walked to either end, looking to the side yards for her. She was nowhere to be found. “Orphie?” I called, and then I waited, listening.

I hurried down the porch steps, across the flagstone path, and through the arbor and gate to the sidewalk beyond. “Orphie!”

Once again, I cocked my head and listened. “Where’d you go?” I muttered under my breath. I whipped around to head back into my yard, calling her. “Orphi—oomph!”

Orphie had come up behind me and I’d plowed right into her, knocking my nose against her shoulder. She rubbed her shoulder. “Ow.”

I touched my fingers to my nose. “Yeah, ow.”

“Okay, what was that about?” she said, notching her head toward the house.

“If we’re going to investigate, we’ve got to get moving.”

“We’re really going to investigate?” she asked, her mouth forming a surprised O.

“Of course. Mama and Hoss are getting married, if it’s the last thing I do.”

She looked unsure, but after a few seconds she nodded. “Okay. Where do we start?”

“At Seven Gables.”

“The models?”

“No, Hattie,” I said.

One eyebrow rose in skepticism. “And who is Hattie?”

“She and her sister own the inn. It’s where Mama and Hoss are having their reception, but,” I added, a conspiratorial tone seeping into my voice, “it’s also where Beaulieu was staying.”

“And you want to look in his room?”

I nodded, and a slow smile slid onto her face. “Diabolical, Harlow Jane Cassidy. Let’s go.”

I laughed as she dug her keys from her pocket. Ever prepared. It was one of the things I loved most about Orphie. “Now who’s diabolical?”

With a quick look behind us, we raced back through the arbor and gate, hopped into the sedan Orphie had road-tripped from Missouri in, and sped away from Mockingbird Lane.

Bliss isn’t a big town. We arrived at Seven Gables in about six minutes. I didn’t want to see Quinton, Lindy, or any of the models who were staying here. We had to get in and get out without them catching sight of us.

“Will Hattie and Raylene let you see the room?” Orphie asked as we crept through the cottage garden, making our way to the back entrance of the house.

“I helped them out pretty recently, so I think so.” At least I hoped so.

We mounted the brick steps leading to the kitchen door. I peeked through the window, making sure none of the guests were in the kitchen before I knocked. All clear. I quietly rapped my knuckles on the door and we stood back and waited.

It was utterly silent.

Orphie peered through the window. “Maybe they’re not here.”

“One of them is always here,” I said. They wouldn’t leave the inn unattended. I knocked again, a little louder this time, but still there was no answer.

“Should we go in?” Orphie asked.

I hesitated, but only for a minute. I didn’t think Hattie and Raylene would mind us coming in. They were counting on the reception, so they’d want me to find a way to make sure the wedding was a go.

I turned the doorknob, slowly opened the door open, and entered the kitchen.

Orphie tiptoed in behind me.

“Hattie?” I called quietly. “Raylene?”

It was utterly quiet.

“You’re friends, right?” Orphie whispered, stepping around the boxes and the center island and stopping at the door to the dining room. “You sure they’re not going to get mad at us and call the police?”

“I hope not,” I said. More than anything, I was pretty sure Deputy Gavin McClaine wouldn’t like us sticking our noses into his investigation. But that’s precisely why we’d come, so we had to be very careful.

“Hattie? Raylene?” I called to them one more time before pulling Orphie by the arm, dragging her away from the swinging door between the dining room and kitchen. “There’s a back staircase,” I said. “Let’s just take a quick gander.”

We crossed to the opposite end of the kitchen and hurried up the stairs, keeping our footsteps quiet. I had no idea which room had been Beaulieu’s. In a crime drama television show, there’d be yellow crime scene tape still strung across the threshold of the room. That was too easy, and this was a small town. I was pretty sure crime tape wasn’t something the sheriff’s department stocked up on.

I was right. Nary a clue in sight as to which room the designer had stayed in while in Bliss. Only one door was cracked open. Voices drifted into the hallway. I crept forward, motioning for Orphie to follow me. I felt like the Pink Panther, creeping down the hallway, pausing to listen, moving forward a few more steps, pausing again . . .

We stopped at the first door, leaning close and listening. The low sound of the television came from inside. Hattie and Raylene had named each room after a famous Texan. They ranged from the fashion world, ironically, to politics. Texans had infiltrated every major industry, and we were proud of each and every one of them. The Tom Ford Room. Former creative director of Gucci. Apropos for this particular group of guests. But with the sounds from inside, this one couldn’t be Beaulieu’s room. I crooked my finger and we tiptoed across the hallway and listened at the next door, the Dwight D. Eisenhower Room.

We could hear the steady rumbling sound of snoring. My first thought was that this had to be Quinton’s room, but women snored, too, so it wasn’t necessarily the photographer. Whoever’s it was, it wasn’t Beaulieu’s room, so we moved on, stopping at the next door. Complete silence. Orphie and I looked at each other, both of us nodding. This one was a possibility.

The door of the room across the hall was cracked open, the voices louder. The Farrah Fawcett Suite. Women’s voices. Southern drawls. “Zoe and Madison,” I whispered to Orphie. “The Dallas models,” I added, thinking that they’d ended up in the right room. Farrah had been Texas’s own favorite gal, and always would be. We stood completely still, barely daring to breathe, trying to make out what they were talking about.

Snippets of sentences drifted out to us. “. . . some nerve . . . ,” one of them said. The other murmured something we couldn’t hear, and then the first, Zoe, I thought, said, “They think working with him—those photos are like fashion porn—”

“Shhh.” Madison this time. They fell silent, but I heard a slight rustling and the light padding of feet slapping against the hardwood floor. Orphie clawed my arm. I froze. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. If they whipped open the door and looked into the hallway, we’d be caught eavesdropping, no ifs, ands, or buts.

I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath, waiting for the indignant outburst. Instead there was a faint click and the voices started again, too muffled now to understand.

I opened my eyes, clutching at my chest as I drew in a ragged breath. “That was close,” I whispered.

Orphie nodded, her face pale. “Too close,” she said under her breath.

We tiptoed past the door and listened at each of the other three rooms. Another TV played, cartoons, if I wasn’t mistaken, and the others were silent. No way to tell if someone was inside sleeping or if the rooms were vacant.

Orphie’s gaze traveled over each of the rooms, one by one. “How are we supposed to know which one was Beaulieu’s?”

I racked my brain for an answer. The best option was waiting until Raylene and Hattie showed up to ask. I motioned for Orphie to follow me and I hurried to the front staircase. I paused at the top, listening for sounds from below. Nothing. Hugging the wall, we scurried halfway down, stopping again to listen. This time, I heard Raylene’s distinct twang, followed by Hattie’s equally twangy response.

The registration desk was our destination. “Let’s go,” I said, my voice still a whisper as if someone from upstairs might hear us.

Orphie’s voice floated softly from behind me. “Right behind you.”

We skirted down the steps, staying close to the edge to avoid the creaking stairs in the old house, then tiptoed across the entryway to the L-shaped counter. Raylene had her back to us, chatting with Hattie, who sounded as if she was in the kitchen.

“Raylene,” I said.

She yelped, spinning around and clutching her chest. “Harlow! Lord a’mighty, you startled me.”

“Sorry.” I smiled sheepishly. I’d gone to school with Raylene and her sister, Hattie, and we’d become fast friends recently. I’d even become honorary godmother to Raylene’s son, Boone. “How’s the little guy?” I asked.

“Home with Grandma,” she said, an automatic grin sliding onto her face, “and precious as ever.”