Read Online A Fitting End: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery by Melissa Bourbon - Free Book Online Page A

it was going to get. I snatched it up, flourishing it in front of me as I tiptoed up the stairs. Stopping at the landing, I peered up. A man’s back came into view. I caught my breath. I had nothing valuable to steal—unless you were a seamstress—but from the heaving and groaning, whoever was up there had his eyes on a big ticket item.
    I wielded the closed umbrella, wishing Meemaw would somehow provide me with something slightly more threatening. Instead I heard the faint
squeak
,
squeak
,
bang
of the gate out front as it whipped open, then slammed against the latch. It sounded almost like a… laugh. Meemaw?
    “The sheriff,” I muttered. As much as I didn’t want to talk to the man right now, what with Gavin McClaine’s thinly veiled suspicion about the presence of my sewing bag and scissors at the crime scene, calling him was my best option for rescue. I turned to race for the phone, but it was too late to make a call. The man at the top of the stairs came fully into view. There was something about him…
    He turned and saw me, his surprise instantly morphing into wry mirth as his gaze zeroed in on my umbrella.
    “Will Flores,” I said with as much indignation as I could muster, jamming one hand on my hip. “What are you doing here?”
    I had my answer the next second as his burden came into view. Meemaw’s armoire! “Moving this for you,” he said, straining under the weight. “I told you I’d come by today.”
    What with the summons by Mrs. James and the murder, I’d completely forgotten I’d asked him. He took the deal he’d made with Meemaw seriously, coming by nearly every day to tackle something on my to-do list.
    I knocked my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Right! Sorry—”
    He set his end of the armoire down, carefully turning it so it could be maneuvered down the stairs. He notched his chin at the umbrella I still wielded like a sword. “What are you planning to do with that?”
    I looked from him to the umbrella and back to him, a sheepish grin on my face. In one lightning quick move, I tossed it down the stairs. It landed with a thump by the olive-green-painted antique dining table. “You know Texas weather. Wait five minutes and it’ll change. You never know when the rain’ll hit.”
    “I guess you don’t,” he said, barely stifling a laugh.
    “We doing this, or what?” someone said, and on the count of three, the armoire was up and being moved again.
    “Oh,” I screeched, backing down the stairs. My feet, tucked snugly in my burnt red Frye harness cowboy boots, tangled under me. I stumbled, catching myself on the banister.
    Will, a navy bandana wrapped around his head, shot me a look over his shoulder. “You okay?”
    Besides the fact that he and his homies had nearly given me a heart attack, I was peachy. “’Course. I just didn’t expect to find you here—”
    The antique armoire banged against the wall, knocking down the picture of Butch Cassidy and his gang. It crashed, the glass from the frame shattering against the hard wood of the stairs.
    Will lurched back, slamming his back against the wall, his muscles straining as he somehow managed to stabilize the armoire. “They were available early,” he said through his teeth, “so we came over. I tried to call you—”
    One of the men held tight to the right side of the piece, but growled. “Jesus, Buck. You got it now?”
    “It slipped. Sorry ’bout that.”
    “That’s George Taylor,” Will said, his neck still straining as he nodded toward the man on his right. “And that’s Buckley Hughes.”
    They grunted at me as they started back down the stairs. “Oh!” I backed up. “Watch your step. You’re almost to the landing. That’s right.” I took another step backward. “Two more. One more—”
    “Harlow.” Will followed up the warning with another low guttural sound. He rarely used my first name, and truth be told, it sounded strange when he did.
    My turn to say sorry. “Just be careful,” I