A Fitting End: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery Read online

  Will, seizing the opportunity to get back to work, sidled by, grabbed his drill, and climbed up the ladder.

  “What in tarnation is that?” Mrs. James asked, her gaze following him up the ladder until she was peering at the contraption against the ceiling.

  “It’s a dress pulley,” I said. “My own invention—”

  “More of a collaboration,” Will interjected, looking down at me. “Your idea, my execution.”

  “I’m the brains. He’s the brawn,” I said with a laugh.

  He scowled down at me, but a glimmer of playfulness shone in his eyes. “I’m gonna let that go for now, Cassidy, but we’re gonna talk about it later.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, giving him a salute. Turning back to Mrs. James, I continued. “We devised it so that I can work on gowns and not worry about the fabric dragging on the ground. Isn’t it great?”

  She gazed up at it, a befuddled expression on her face. “How does it work?”

  “The gown goes there,” I said, pointing to the wood-framed shape in the center with the lightweight dress form. “When I’m not working on it, I can activate the pulley and the whole thing will be secure at the ceiling.”

  She nodded, her lips curved up in an impressed smile. “Quite ingenious, Harlow.”

  I agreed, but my pride swelled at her praise. I didn’t know her well, but I’d already gathered that Mrs. James didn’t dole out many compliments.

  “Libby,” I called. “Come see your Margaret dress.”

  She and Gracie both appeared at the French doors that separated the workroom, formerly Meemaw’s dining room, from the main room of Buttons & Bows. “Is it ready?” Gracie asked. From the twinkle in her eyes, anyone would have thought it was her gown about to be revealed. Libby, on the other hand, stood a foot behind Gracie, her eyes never quite meeting mine.

  “No, not ready. But close.” I winked at Libby, and beckoned her into the workroom. “Look,” I said, pointing to the dress in the corner. It hung, inside out, on Meemaw’s old dress form, the skirt of the gown pluming at the hem. “I’ll be ready to do another fitting day after tomorrow. Can you come back?”

  Libby nodded as Mrs. James said, “Her mother can bring her.”

  “Perfect,” I said, carefully unpinning the shoulder seams of the 1820s-style dress and folding back the lining to give them a glimpse of the bodice. Margaret Moffette Lea had been born in 1819, so the dress was an earlier style from what the original Margaret would have worn, but I thought I could get away with it. There were no Margaret police, as far as I knew.

  I’d basted the sections together before I’d stitched them, but now the crisscross long basting threads weren’t necessary. “Let me cut these so you can get a better look,” I said, searching the room for my sewing bag. Then I remembered. “Darn. I left it at the country club—”

  The buzz of the drill sounded and Will called down from the ladder, “Gonna be loud for a quick minute.”

  I found another pair of scissors, my favorite red-handled Ginghers that Gracie had been using lately, and started snipping the basting stitches while Will drilled a handful of screws into the pulley’s frame. I pulled the dress off the form and carefully turned it right side out so Libby could get a good look at the design. The short sleeves were gathered with strips of vertical ruffles and a twisted and layered trim at the squared neckline. The bodice would have a heavy patterned appliqué, and the straight skirt, when it was finished, would have two rows of small ruffles. It was from the early 1820s rather than the later decades when hoops and corsets really took hold in the fashion world. When I’d met Libby the first time, I knew a simpler pattern would make her feel more comfortable. She’d be one of the most beautiful belles at the ball—of that, I was certain.

  “It’s lovely, Harlow,” Mrs. James shouted above the drill. The grating sound stopped as she added, “Just lovely,” her voice loud in the suddenly quiet room.

  Will holstered his drill, starting down the ladder as Mrs. James lowered her voice and turned to her granddaughter. “Libby, what do you think?”

  “I love it!” Gracie gushed. “That color is totally perfect for you.”

  Libby’s cheeks turned rosy and a little dimple dented the left side of her face as she smiled slightly. Her lips parted when she looked back at the gown. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked to me like a mix of thrill and nerves on her face. “I—I like it,” she said, lightly touching the sky blue silk with the pads of her fingertips. “A lot.”

  Mrs. James pulled me aside as the girls looked at the detail work on the gown and Will packed up his tools for the day. “Sorry you didn’t make it to see me yesterday,” she said. One side of her mouth lifted and she smiled. Her face looked rather worn and wrinkled. She was usually fresh as a daisy, as Meemaw would say, but not today.

  “Oh, well…” I trailed off, hoping she wouldn’t press me. I didn’t want to tell her I’d overheard the argument she’d had.

  “It’s a good thing,” she continued. “The workmen brought a runway instead of a stage extension, if you can believe it. Completely wrong. They’ll be replacing it in a day or two.”

  I heaved a Texas-sized sigh. “Oh, good. A runway!” I said, throwing all my effort into pretending I hadn’t seen the catwalk. “That wouldn’t have worked at all.” I drew in a bolstering breath. Now was as good a time as any to broach the subject of Gracie participating in the festival. “Mrs. James,” I said quietly, “Gracie was thinking she might like to be a Margaret. I know it’s late, but I was hoping…”

  I’d spoken softly so no one else would hear me, and I didn’t see Will’s ears perk or his attention shift from his toolbox, but I sensed that he was suddenly focused on hearing Mrs. James’s response.

  The senator’s wife didn’t bat an eyelash. “It is late, but for you, Harlow, anything. We’ll have to work her in, and of course she’ll need a gown and an escort. We don’t have an entrance fee, of course, but there is the donation.”

  I felt my eyes glaze as she rattled off a few more stipulations. Being a Margaret was serious business.

  Will’s shoulders had relaxed and he’d gone back to packing up his tools. His daughter was in the pageant.

  Mrs. James wrapped up with me. “Come by the club tomorrow. If Gracie is going to be a Margaret, I’ll need your help reorganizing the lineup and writing her pedigree. Not that it matters a lick, but rules are rules. First thing, say, eight o’clock?”

  I forced a smile. I didn’t think it would be hard to add a girl to the roster, but Mrs. James was not the type of person you argued with. She had certain expectations and when she said jump, people were expected to ask, “How high?”

  So while I wanted to say, “I really should concentrate on Libby’s dress… and now I have Gracie’s to make too,” instead I tried not to let my shoulders sag, and said, “See you bright and early.”

  Chapter 4

  July 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 second I walked outside, the moisture clung to my skin. My curly hair, pulled up into my standard ponytails on either side of my head, 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 been back in Bliss for only 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’d made the thirteen-mile drive to the Bliss Country Club, the blond streak in my hair, a trait all the Cassid
y 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 appeared 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, 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. I’d done my share of rule-breaking as a kid. Now I was strictly a by-the-book kind of gal.

  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. 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, 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 like I might be about to cast a 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 thought of 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 a 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 and 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 wanted 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 McClaine had crouched next to my Dena Rooney-Berg bag.

  “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 bag. Criminy, what did this woman want? I 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. “Yeah, you already said that. I’m not a member here.”

  “That’s right. You’re here because…” She paused and tilted her head to the side. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m a dressmaker,” I said. “I’m making gowns for some of the Margarets. Now 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 camera 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… death? “Heard what?” I said, my voice as somber as the newscaster’s expression.

  “The golf pro, Macon Vance,” she said. 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 dark substance on the blades was.

  Blood.

  Chapter 5

  Sheriff McClaine, also known as my mother’s secret boyfriend, shooed the looky-loos from the room, then leveled his gaze at me. “Harlow, speak of the devil.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, a solid dose of wariness in my voice.

  “Guess you heard about the murder
,” he said. “I reckon this is yours?” He gestured to the scattered sewing items.

  “Yes, sir.” I thought the sheriff and I had had a little breakthrough after Josie Sandoval’s wedding, but the murder at the golf club seemed to have sent him back to his curmudgeonly state. I jammed my hands on my hips. “I came to collect my bag, and to meet Mrs. James.”

  “And just why is your bag here?” he asked in his slow, John Wayne style.

  His manner of speaking might be slow and Southern, but his mind was sharp as a tack. I bristled. “I accidentally left it here the other day. I’m working on some of the Margaret dresses.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, tilting his cream-colored straw cowboy hat back on his head. Then he added, “Seems like murder follows you.”

  I gulped, not liking this conversation at all, and hoping Rebecca Quiñones and her cameraman had gone far, far way. “I heard, yes, sir.” I was thirty-three, but the sheriff sent me reeling back to being a scolded sixteen-year-old.

  “A man was stabbed.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, the words catching in my throat.

  “And your fingerprints’ll be all over those scissors there, I reckon,” he said, pointing to the scissors that one of his gloved deputies was sliding into a plastic evidence bag.

  “They’re my dressmaking shears,” I said, “so, yes, sir, I reckon they will.”

  The sheriff opened his mouth to speak, but stopped, instead waving at someone over my shoulder. “Find anything?

  “And you didn’t know Mr. Vance?” he said to me a second later.

  In my heart, I knew Hoss McClaine couldn’t possibly think I had anything to do with the golf pro’s death, but I also knew he had a job to do. I shook my head. “Never even heard of him until that reporter mentioned his name.”

  The scattered items from my sewing bag had been numbered, and now I saw Madelyn Brighton, her dark skin shimmery from the heat, her short black hair plastered against her head, and her navy slacks and a colorful blouse sticking to her plump body. She’d come onto the stage, Canon camera lifted to her face, snapping picture after picture of the crime scene.