Read Online A Custom Fit Crime by Melissa Bourbon - Free Book Online
Authors: Melissa Bourbon
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I said.
Jeanette came to the table and sank down. She fingered the marble-sized wool beads I’d laid out. “These are so cool,” she said, lifting the necklace and holding it around her neck. Her fingers trembled, the only sign that she was upset about what had gone on today.
“Jeanette? Are you okay?”
She fumbled with the handmade clasp on the necklace, her lower lip beginning to quiver, her eyes tearing. “I . . . I can’t believe he’s really d-dead.”
I couldn’t, either, but there it was.
Before I could say anything else, the clinking of glass against glass drew my gaze upward. My chandelier was a handmade Southern contraption made of a dozen old, clear-glass milk bottles. Each one was capped with a galvanized top and perched in a circular galvanized frame. Lightbulbs clustered in the center; the glass of the bottles, embossed with the words “farm-fresh milk,” diffused the light. Meemaw had her tricks . . . and this was one of them. Sure to get my gander every time, but I couldn’t very well call her out in front of the women in the shop. So I ignored the clinking of glass. Ignored the hairs rising on the back of my neck. The old glass bottles were irreplaceable. If Meemaw broke them, so help me . . .
“Meemaw!” I said under my breath.
“Beaulieu’s probably haunting this place,” Orphie said, eyeing the swinging chandelier.
Jeanette gasped, her pallor more ashen than it had been a moment ago. “Do you think so?” she asked softly.
I flashed a scolding glance at Orphie. “It’s not haunted,” I said. But inside, I thought that if Beaulieu was hanging around from the afterworld, he’d be in good company.
We finished all the beads, laying them on a folded bath towel to dry, and Jeanette and Midori finally left. I put the extra wool away, rinsed the bowl of soapy water, and took a few minutes to straighten the kitchen. Mama had left out the pitcher of lemonade, glasses from the morning littered the butcher-block counter, and fingerprints smudged the butter yellow front of the replica vintage refrigerator.
When I returned to the front room, Orphie was chewing on her thumbnail, Maximilian’s book lying on the table in front of her.
“Are you ready to mail it back?” I asked her, hoping she’d come to her senses.
She shook her head. “I want to show you something first,” she said, sliding the book toward me, the embossed “M” with a gold circle around it like an eye on a magic tome.
I laid my own hand on the cover, half expecting a jolt of energy to zap me.
Her guilty expression vanished, but she cast her eyes down toward the book, skittering them to one side, then the other. As if the fashion police were going to make a sudden appearance right here in Buttons & Bows and arrest her for theft. “Take a look,” she said.
I lifted open the smooth black cover and braced myself for whatever big reveal I’d find, but the first page held simple pencil sketches of a costumey bustier. It looked like something Lady Gaga might wear, but not the average woman. Still, there was nothing earth-shattering. Nothing that filled me with concern.
I turned the pages and reveled in Maximilian’s creative mind. The book wasn’t all that different from my own sketchbooks. I recognized a lot of the designs. As Orphie had said, this particular book had to be a few years old. Anything worth producing had been done, and now Maximilian, like every designer, was probably pushing his boundaries and figuring out how to stay fresh and relevant with new designs.
I kept turning the pages, looking at sketch after sketch of rough drawings. Angular figures. Color palettes and fabric patterns. Descriptions of garments and words scrawled across the sheets. Bold. Edgy. Color blocking.
“Do you know how easy it is to steal someone’s designs?”
My gaze snapped up to meet hers. “But why would anyone want to do that? That’s what I don’t understand, Orphie. Don’t you want to create your own
Jeanette came to the table and sank down. She fingered the marble-sized wool beads I’d laid out. “These are so cool,” she said, lifting the necklace and holding it around her neck. Her fingers trembled, the only sign that she was upset about what had gone on today.
“Jeanette? Are you okay?”
She fumbled with the handmade clasp on the necklace, her lower lip beginning to quiver, her eyes tearing. “I . . . I can’t believe he’s really d-dead.”
I couldn’t, either, but there it was.
Before I could say anything else, the clinking of glass against glass drew my gaze upward. My chandelier was a handmade Southern contraption made of a dozen old, clear-glass milk bottles. Each one was capped with a galvanized top and perched in a circular galvanized frame. Lightbulbs clustered in the center; the glass of the bottles, embossed with the words “farm-fresh milk,” diffused the light. Meemaw had her tricks . . . and this was one of them. Sure to get my gander every time, but I couldn’t very well call her out in front of the women in the shop. So I ignored the clinking of glass. Ignored the hairs rising on the back of my neck. The old glass bottles were irreplaceable. If Meemaw broke them, so help me . . .
“Meemaw!” I said under my breath.
“Beaulieu’s probably haunting this place,” Orphie said, eyeing the swinging chandelier.
Jeanette gasped, her pallor more ashen than it had been a moment ago. “Do you think so?” she asked softly.
I flashed a scolding glance at Orphie. “It’s not haunted,” I said. But inside, I thought that if Beaulieu was hanging around from the afterworld, he’d be in good company.
We finished all the beads, laying them on a folded bath towel to dry, and Jeanette and Midori finally left. I put the extra wool away, rinsed the bowl of soapy water, and took a few minutes to straighten the kitchen. Mama had left out the pitcher of lemonade, glasses from the morning littered the butcher-block counter, and fingerprints smudged the butter yellow front of the replica vintage refrigerator.
When I returned to the front room, Orphie was chewing on her thumbnail, Maximilian’s book lying on the table in front of her.
“Are you ready to mail it back?” I asked her, hoping she’d come to her senses.
She shook her head. “I want to show you something first,” she said, sliding the book toward me, the embossed “M” with a gold circle around it like an eye on a magic tome.
I laid my own hand on the cover, half expecting a jolt of energy to zap me.
Her guilty expression vanished, but she cast her eyes down toward the book, skittering them to one side, then the other. As if the fashion police were going to make a sudden appearance right here in Buttons & Bows and arrest her for theft. “Take a look,” she said.
I lifted open the smooth black cover and braced myself for whatever big reveal I’d find, but the first page held simple pencil sketches of a costumey bustier. It looked like something Lady Gaga might wear, but not the average woman. Still, there was nothing earth-shattering. Nothing that filled me with concern.
I turned the pages and reveled in Maximilian’s creative mind. The book wasn’t all that different from my own sketchbooks. I recognized a lot of the designs. As Orphie had said, this particular book had to be a few years old. Anything worth producing had been done, and now Maximilian, like every designer, was probably pushing his boundaries and figuring out how to stay fresh and relevant with new designs.
I kept turning the pages, looking at sketch after sketch of rough drawings. Angular figures. Color palettes and fabric patterns. Descriptions of garments and words scrawled across the sheets. Bold. Edgy. Color blocking.
“Do you know how easy it is to steal someone’s designs?”
My gaze snapped up to meet hers. “But why would anyone want to do that? That’s what I don’t understand, Orphie. Don’t you want to create your own
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