Jeanette stood beside her. Midori muttered something to Jeanette as they turned to wait for me.
“Did you get some lunch?” I asked, mounting the porch steps.
“Oh yes, at the cute little bed-and-breakfast off the square. It’s where we’re staying, too. We had scones and tea and these amazing little sweet potato fries.”
I knew just the place she was talking about. Hattie and Raylene had bought the old house and spruced it up. Now Seven Gables was the nicest bed-and-breakfast slash teahouse in Bliss. “And that homemade poppy seed jelly?” I said. “It’s delicious, isn’t it? It’s Raylene’s specialty.”
We made idle chitchat, stalling before stepping inside and into the pall of death that still hovered in the house. When we couldn’t wait any longer, I opened the door, stepping in, Midori and Jeanette close on my heels. We all seemed to move slowly, knowing that going back inside would bring Beaulieu and his death right back to the forefront of our minds. As if it had gone anywhere but there.
Everything was in order, but I couldn’t shake the sinister feeling of knowing that a man had died right here.
There was no sign of Lindy or Quinton, but Orphie showed up a few minutes later. “Got what I needed,” she said, patting the shopping bag she held under her arm.
Good girl. After Midori and Jeanette went back to Seven Gables, we could package up the stolen book and drop it at the post office. Signed, sealed, and delivered.
“No sign of the models?” I asked. If the shoot was off and the article was nixed, there was no reason for any of them to come.
“They came this morning,” Midori said. “Too many people for this little shop, so we left them at the bed-and-breakfast.”
So they were here whether they wanted to be or not.
Midori scurried around, packing up her garments to keep them safe and sound. “No photo shoot today,” she’d told me. “I ran into Ms. Reece at the bed-and-breakfast. She said she has a call into her editor for further instructions.”
We all nodded, not surprised. How could they run an article about three up-and-coming designers when one was now dead?
Jeanette roamed around aimlessly, lost without barked orders from her boss. “You can pack up Beaulieu’s garments, too,” I suggested. I picked up his messenger bag.
“He never lets anyone hold this,” she said, taking it from me.
“I understand.” I didn’t like anyone handling my sketchbooks or sewing kit. They were as personal to me as Madelyn’s camera and her Epiphanie camera bag.
Orphie and I sat at the dining table making felt beads for the wedding party while Midori and Jeanette moved around like zombies. “Ask them to leave,” Orphie whispered after a solid thirty minutes passed.
I tilted my head and frowned. Mama had raised me better than that. No good Southern woman would kick out her guests, especially ones who’d just suffered a shocking loss.
Orphie read my expression and shrugged. “Southern hospitality, yes, but you’re also a martyr,” she said. “Suffering in silence.”
She had a point, but I couldn’t change my upbringing any more than a zebra could change its stripes. Instead of answering her, I pushed the wool rovings, bits of unprocessed combed and carded wool from New Zealand sheep, toward her. I had them in every color of the rainbow. We gathered them in small chunks, saturated the tufts with warm soapy water, and rolled them into tight balls between the palms of our hands. We made different sizes, laying them out on the dining table as they’d be strung on a strand of yarn. “This is all there is to it?” Orphie asked as she finished another round.
“Once they’re dry, we attach decorative beads to them, then use a thick needle to string them onto the necklace.” I put down the tuft of raw wool I’d been ready to dip, went to the old secretary desk just outside my workroom, returning a second later with a finished necklace. “They’ll all look like this,”
“Did you get some lunch?” I asked, mounting the porch steps.
“Oh yes, at the cute little bed-and-breakfast off the square. It’s where we’re staying, too. We had scones and tea and these amazing little sweet potato fries.”
I knew just the place she was talking about. Hattie and Raylene had bought the old house and spruced it up. Now Seven Gables was the nicest bed-and-breakfast slash teahouse in Bliss. “And that homemade poppy seed jelly?” I said. “It’s delicious, isn’t it? It’s Raylene’s specialty.”
We made idle chitchat, stalling before stepping inside and into the pall of death that still hovered in the house. When we couldn’t wait any longer, I opened the door, stepping in, Midori and Jeanette close on my heels. We all seemed to move slowly, knowing that going back inside would bring Beaulieu and his death right back to the forefront of our minds. As if it had gone anywhere but there.
Everything was in order, but I couldn’t shake the sinister feeling of knowing that a man had died right here.
There was no sign of Lindy or Quinton, but Orphie showed up a few minutes later. “Got what I needed,” she said, patting the shopping bag she held under her arm.
Good girl. After Midori and Jeanette went back to Seven Gables, we could package up the stolen book and drop it at the post office. Signed, sealed, and delivered.
“No sign of the models?” I asked. If the shoot was off and the article was nixed, there was no reason for any of them to come.
“They came this morning,” Midori said. “Too many people for this little shop, so we left them at the bed-and-breakfast.”
So they were here whether they wanted to be or not.
Midori scurried around, packing up her garments to keep them safe and sound. “No photo shoot today,” she’d told me. “I ran into Ms. Reece at the bed-and-breakfast. She said she has a call into her editor for further instructions.”
We all nodded, not surprised. How could they run an article about three up-and-coming designers when one was now dead?
Jeanette roamed around aimlessly, lost without barked orders from her boss. “You can pack up Beaulieu’s garments, too,” I suggested. I picked up his messenger bag.
“He never lets anyone hold this,” she said, taking it from me.
“I understand.” I didn’t like anyone handling my sketchbooks or sewing kit. They were as personal to me as Madelyn’s camera and her Epiphanie camera bag.
Orphie and I sat at the dining table making felt beads for the wedding party while Midori and Jeanette moved around like zombies. “Ask them to leave,” Orphie whispered after a solid thirty minutes passed.
I tilted my head and frowned. Mama had raised me better than that. No good Southern woman would kick out her guests, especially ones who’d just suffered a shocking loss.
Orphie read my expression and shrugged. “Southern hospitality, yes, but you’re also a martyr,” she said. “Suffering in silence.”
She had a point, but I couldn’t change my upbringing any more than a zebra could change its stripes. Instead of answering her, I pushed the wool rovings, bits of unprocessed combed and carded wool from New Zealand sheep, toward her. I had them in every color of the rainbow. We gathered them in small chunks, saturated the tufts with warm soapy water, and rolled them into tight balls between the palms of our hands. We made different sizes, laying them out on the dining table as they’d be strung on a strand of yarn. “This is all there is to it?” Orphie asked as she finished another round.
“Once they’re dry, we attach decorative beads to them, then use a thick needle to string them onto the necklace.” I put down the tuft of raw wool I’d been ready to dip, went to the old secretary desk just outside my workroom, returning a second later with a finished necklace. “They’ll all look like this,”
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