Deadly Patterns Read Online Free PDF

back to the farm since she found out, and she practically lived there, you know,” Nana said, shaking her head sadly. “I don’t think she’s coming back to work, bless her heart.”
    My head pounded. Even in the protection of the closed-in Jeep, the cold was suddenly bone-chilling. Why did Dan Lee Chrisson have to die, and why, oh why was I involved in yet another murder?

Chapter 4
    The Cassidy family story goes way back, all the way to the days of famous outlaw Butch Cassidy. No one ever said outlaws were a faithful bunch. And I’d recently discovered that, thanks to Butch’s unfaithfulness, the Cassidy clan included other Bliss residents—namely Sandra and Libby James, the daughter and granddaughter of Zinnia.
    Butch’s long-ago legendary wish in an Argentinean fountain had given good fortune to his descendants in the form of magical charms. Namely: What Meemaw wanted, she’d gotten, including me back home in Bliss. Nana could communicate with her goats. Mama could make plants grow or wither away and die, depending upon her mood. And me? I’d recently discovered that when I designed outfits for people, their deepest desires were realized.
    Sandra and Libby James, descendants of Etta James and Butch by way of Senator Jebediah James, were also charmed.
    Until now, I hadn’t had the occasion to experience their charms firsthand, but I’d woken up the morning after my fall from the widow’s walk to the soul-comforting scent of biscuits baking in the oven, gravy simmering on the stove, and my favorite Extra Bold Dark Magic coffee running through my coffeemaker.
    I stepped gingerly down the stairs, taking it nice and slow, pausing and regrouping at the landing. I’d been sore the night before, but now I was stiff, too. And black and blue under my black stretch workout pants and long-sleeved gray thermal tee. Fuzzy socks with skid-resistant soles completed the outfit. A designer’s look it wasn’t, but for practical post-fall recovery? Perfect.
    “We’re here to help,” Sandra, my half cousin, announced as I hobbled into the kitchen. “I don’t really sew, and neither does Libby, but we can cook and clean and help you with whatever you need while your mom and grandma help you with the dresses you have left.”
    “Thanks—,” I began, but Libby piped up.
    “And the Santa suit.”
    The smile that had been forming on my lips, the only part of my body that wasn’t aching, froze. “What Santa suit?”
    A visible shiver passed over her. “If I was a kid, there’s no way I’d sit on Santa’s lap if his suit had blood on it.”
    I swallowed. “Blood?”
    Sandra took the tray of biscuits out of the oven, plopped one on a plate next to an over-easy egg, and ladled white, peppered gravy on top until the biscuit and egg were practically floating in it. She set it down on the pine table, pulling the chair out and gesturing for me to sit.
    “The impact from the fall,” she said, darting a worried glance at Libby.
    Death was never easy, but the demise of Santa Claus, even if he was just playing dress-up, felt particularly bad.
    “I figured you’d whip up a new one,” she said.
    People who didn’t sew seemed to think a seamstress could simply bat her eyes, as in
I Dream of Jeannie
, and voilà! An outfit would be ready. Yes, I could make a Santa suit. It was just yards and yards of velvety red fabric trimmed with white fur. But it was one more thing to add to my To Do list. The same To Do list that was already the length of my left arm.
    “I suppose I can,” I said finally. I’d have to take some measurements, do a fitting or two, but I could pull it off. “But we don’t have a replacement Santa yet,” I went on, taking a bite of gravy-smothered biscuit and egg.
    We all turned as heavy-booted steps came from the back porch, the Dutch door swung open, and my protégée, Gracie Flores, rushed in. And then, as if the universe had heard my unasked question and was providing an answer, her father, Will,