June in North Texas is no picnic. It was only seven forty-
five in the morning, but the heat index was already at the
extreme caution level. The humidity didn't help the
index...or the way I felt. The second I walked outside,
the moisture clung to my skin. My curly hair, pulled up
into an artfully messy ponytail, instantly frizzed. And I
was one hundred percent positive that I was melting from
the inside-out.

There was nothing to do but grin and bear it. I knew it
took a season for a body to acclimate to a region's
weather
patterns and I'd only been back in Bliss for a few
months.
I grabbed a bottle of water before climbing into my ancient
pickup truck, formerly owned by my great-grandmother and
recently brought back to working order by Bubba of Bubba
Murphy's repair shop. The one thing Bubba didn't fix was
the air conditioner, which meant I'd look like a drowned
rat by the time I got where I was going. Far from swanky
country club material, but I'd been summoned by Mrs.
James. Enough said.

I opened the window as I drove, but only hot air blew over
me. By the time I made the thirteen mile drive to the
Bliss Country Club, the blond streak in my hair, a trait
all the Cassidy women shared, had broken free from its
restraints and hung limply down the side of my face. I did
my best to tuck it back into place.

The parking lot was bursting, but only a handful of golfers
were on the course. Maybe they'd all woken up with the
roosters and were already on the back nine. But the second
I stepped inside the air conditioned lobby of the club and
heard the hushed and agitated undertones of the people
milling around, I knew the back nine wasn't seeing all the
action; every golfer in town seemed to be right here.
Seeking refuge from the heat and humidity? Possibly, but
the knot in my gut was telling me that something else was
going on.

The whispering seemed to stop as I pushed through the
throng of people toward the ballroom. Was it my
imagination, or was everyone looking at me, and not in a
Look, it's the dressmaker, Harlow Cassidy, and isn't she
an
icon of fashion? way, but in a Let's give her a wide berth
like you'd give one of the Salem witches kind of way.

Like day old pea soup, the crowd thickened at the doorway
to the ballroom. "Excuse me," I repeated over and over,
finally bursting through the choked entrance. The room,
complete with the monstrous catwalk for the fashion show,
looked just like it had when I'd been here with Josie.
Except that the runway lights blazed, odd since it was so
early.

I'd worn slacks this morning—not my usual clothing
choice, but the club had a dress code and I didn't want a
run-in with the country club clothing police. In and out,
that was my goal. I wanted to get back to the shop, work
on Libby's dress, fit Gracie for hers, and ponder the
ripped gown from Meemaw's old armoire.

Mrs. James was nowhere in sight. Everything looked just as
it had when I'd been here with Josie the other day.
Peering at the stage, I spotted my sewing bag, just where
I'd set it down and forgotten it. It had been knocked
over, the contents spilled out onto the stage. When no
one was looking, I climbed onto the catwalk and was just
ready to scurry down it when a voice called from behind.

"Ms. Cassidy."

I spun around. Everyone seemed to be staring at me, but I
couldn't see who'd actually called me. A thread of
anxiety
slithered through my veins. From the moment I'd walked
into the club, I'd felt like something strange was
definitely going on, but now I was beginning to think it
had something to do with me.

Paranoia? Being a Cassidy meant people had always looked
at me as if I was one second away from casting some sort of
spell on them, but this...this felt different. Less
cautious suspicion and more morbid curiosity.

I started down the runway, stopping short when I heard my
name again. "Harlow Cassidy?"

This time when I turned around, the runway lights were like
a spotlight and Rebecca Quiñones, reporter for channel 8
news, looked up at me from the end of the catwalk. She
held a microphone at her side, her navy skirt and cream
colored blouse were crisp and unwrinkled, and her slick
black hair was a ribbon of silk flowing down her back. I
patted my own limp hair and wondered how she withstood the
brutality of the weather. "I'd like to ask you a few
questions," she said.

I put my palm to my chest. "Me?"

She flicked at look at the man who stood off to her side.
He nodded, flipped a switch on the bulky black television
camera perched on his shoulder, and suddenly I knew we were
rolling.

"You are Harlow Cassidy?" Rebecca Quiñones asked.

I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could answer,
she went on.

"The same Harlow Cassidy who owns Buttons & Bows? You're
a
custom dressmaker and fashion designer, is that right?"

"That's right," I said, the coil of nerves that wound
through me tightening their hold. How did she know who I
was, and why would she care?

"What's your relationship with Macon Vance?"

My mind raced. I closed my eyes for a moment to think.
Behind my eyelids, streaks of color and memories
smeared. "Macon who?" I said. If it was someone from my
childhood here in Bliss, I couldn't remember. "I think
you
have the wrong person."

"Macon Vance, Ms. Cassidy. The golf pro for the country
club."

"I don't know him," I said as I turned around. I needed
to
find Mrs. James, do what I had to do to get Gracie on the
schedule for the pageant, and get home to work.
I heard the dull thump of rushing footsteps and suddenly
Rebecca Quiñones was in step with me, albeit on the ground
next to the catwalk instead of on the platform
itself. "Isn't that your sewing bag?" she asked,
pointing
to the end of the stage.
Suddenly I saw that Sheriff Hoss McLaine had crouched next
to my Dena Rooney-Berg Nanny Bag, which I used for my
travel sewing kit.

"Y-yes." Red flags shot up in my head and my mouth grew
dry.

"And what do you keep in your sewing bag, Ms. Cassidy?
Needles? Scissors? Tape measure?"

The same items that could be found in any dressmaker's
sewing bag. Criminy, the woman was persistent. I pushed
my nerves aside, gathered up my gumption, stopped walking,
and turned to face her. "Why do you ask, Ms. Quiñones?
Do
you have a rip in your skirt that needs mending?"

She gave a smile, and I wondered if the effort would crack
her makeup. It didn't. But it did show me that even her
teeth were perfect. Straight and pearly white, the perfect
contrast to her olive skin. "No, Ms. Cassidy. My
skirt's
fine, but thanks. Actually," she said, growing serious
again, "I'm wondering if you had a personal relationship
with Mr. Vance, and if so—"

"I don't know any Mr. Vance," I said, cutting her off.

"Macon Vance? The golf pro here at the club," she
repeated.

I shrugged. "I'm not a member here."

"That's right, you're here..." She paused and tilted
her
head to the side. "Why are you here?"

"I'm a dressmaker," I said. "I'm making a gown for
one of
the Margarets." Or three if you counted the one I'd
finished and Gracie's, even if she wasn't officially a
debutante. Yet. "If you'll excuse me, I'm looking for
someone."

As I approached, the sheriff suddenly stood, his voice
raised. "Dust it," he said to one of his lackeys.
Rebecca
Quiñones watched me. Behind her, the cameraman was still
rolling. "I wouldn't be surprised if the sheriff wants
to
take a closer look at your sewing supplies , Ms. Cassidy,"
she said. There was a snarky little edge to her tone that
made me think she knew something I didn't.

"Why?" I said, hesitating. Why was the sheriff here,
anyway, and what needed dusting?

Rebecca Quiñones stared at me. "You mean you haven't
heard?"

I looked around, noting the odd mix of somber voices and
bustling activity. Suddenly, I felt like I'd been
transported back to the porch of 2112 Mockingbird Lane,
watching a crime scene unfold in front of me. The same
feeling I'd had then—one of helpless shock—came
over me. It couldn't happen twice, could it? Not
another...murder? "Heard what?" I said, my voice as
somber
as the newscaster's expression.

"The golf pro, Macon Vance." She pointed a perfectly
manicured acrylic nail in the direction of stage left.
"He
was found murdered and I believe the sheriff was just about
to take your bag, and everything in it, into evidence."

The breath suddenly left my lungs, heat spread to my
cheeks, and a wave of dizziness slipped over
me. "Murdered?" I looked back toward my bag of
supplies,
and noticed something I hadn't seen a minute ago. My
inexpensive orange-handled Fiskars were on the ground, a
good couple of feet from my bag, like they'd been dropped
in a hurry. I started, a lump catching in my throat. They
didn't look right. The blades were open and stained with
something dark. "How?" I asked, barely choking the words
out.

Rebecca Quiñones had followed my gaze. From the corner of
my eye, I saw her wave her microphone. The cameraman moved
in closer getting a tight shot of me. I tried to turn my
back, but Rebecca said, "Stabbed," and I froze. Because
I
suddenly knew what the sticky substance on the shiny blades
of my sewing shears was.

Blood.