A Fitting End: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery (17 page)

“Mrs. James told me you hadn’t talked to each other since you were teenagers, ever since you fought over Granddaddy. So now you’re friends again?” I finally said to Nana. That didn’t seem quite right. I knew my grandmother, and while she didn’t necessarily hold a grudge and she could forgive, she
never
forgot. One time, when we were ornery teenagers, Red and I had opened the gate and let all Nana’s Nubian goats out. “We couldn’t stand the stink anymore,” we’d complained to her when she’d figured out what we’d done.

“It’s only once a year that they smell bad, poor babies, and it’s only the males.” She’d wagged her finger, scolded us like there was no tomorrow, and made sure we rounded up every last goat we’d set free. I knew she’d forgiven Red and me for our antics, but she’d never forgotten.

“‘Friends’ ain’t the right word, Harlow Jane. More like we’re stuck with each other.”

“Why would you be stuck with each other? She’s married to a senator. It’s not like you run in the same circles.”

“There’s things you don’t understand, Ladybug. Let’s just leave it at that.”

I smiled. “You haven’t called me that in a good, long while.” Not since Meemaw had first passed. Nana had given me the nickname when I’d been a little bitty thing. She’d told me stories about Granny Cressida, and I’d asked, “Where’d she go?” Nana had been tongue-tied and couldn’t explain death to a chatterbox toddler. She’d almost given up, but not a second after I’d asked where Granny Cress was now, a ladybug suddenly landed on the back of my hand.

“She didn’t go anywhere. She’s right there with you,” Nana had said, pointing to the red-and-black ladybug. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished. “Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home,” she said, laughing and ruffling my hair. “Now you’ll have good luck, Ladybug.”

Libby’s dress grew limp as Meemaw’s form slipped out of it. She floated down and hovered near me, her warmth seeping into my skin, calming my nerves. The Cassidy secrets were growing like a thatch of wild bluebonnets. Next they were going to tell me I had a long-lost sister or that I wasn’t really a Cassidy. Except of
course I knew that I was a Cassidy because I was a direct descendant of Butch and was charmed. No matter who the women in our family married or what other lines mixed in, we kept the Cassidy name like a badge of honor. “Why are you stuck with each other? And why were you having a powwow when you haven’t spoken two words to each other in decades?”

Next to me, Meemaw started flickering, a low sound coming from deep in her translucent soul.

I whirled around to face her, my Southern accent thickening as the words spewed from my mouth. “What, Meemaw?
You
brought me back here. You wanted it and here I am, but you can’t keep secrets from me. I have a right to know what’s goin’ on. I was questioned by Rebecca Quiñones and grilled by the new deputy sheriff because
my
sewin’ scissors”—I slammed my palm against my chest—“were the murder weapon. I heard Mrs. James arguin’ with Mr. Vance, but I’m trying to believe she didn’t do it because my gut is tellin’ me she’s innocent. If you don’t want to tell me, fine. But Nana, why does everythin’ have to be so hush-hush? You have to go to the sheriff. You have to tell them you were with her.”

Nana leaned back in her chair, sighing heavily. “It’s not that easy, darlin’. We have a pact.”

I looked at Mama, then up at my hovering great-grandmother. “Tell me, Mama.”

The stalks of the lavender plant grew soft, fanning out until the ends of each long stem arched limply toward the table. Mama shook her head, all her natural energy directed toward Nana and her secret instead of the plant. “I’m in the dark, too, Harlow Jane.”

“What do you have a pact about?” I asked Nana.

“It’s a
pact
, y’all. I can’t tell you.”

“We’re family,” I said.

“When you hold a secret, Harlow Jane, you have to understand the duty that goes with that confidence. You have to know whether or not it’s your secret to tell.”

“And whatever your pact with Mrs. James is, it’s not your secret to tell?”

She tapped her finger against the tip of her nose. “Right.”

I pushed my chair back and paced the dining room. “Okay, I get that,” I said, “but if it’ll help Mrs. James—”

The door to the shop flung open, banging against the chest behind it. Gracie Flores stood at the threshold, her dark hair disheveled, her face streaked with tears.

I rushed to her and wrapped my arm around her shoulders, ushering her into the shop, kicking the door closed with my foot. “What is it, Gracie? What’s wrong?”

She ran the back of her hand under her nose, dragging it across her face. Definitely not Margaret etiquette. Good thing the Lafayette sisters weren’t here to witness the raw emotions a true debutante was supposed to hide.

“All these years,” Gracie said through her sniffling. “All these years, my dad’s been lying to me.”

My stomach clenched. “About what?” I asked.

“My family.” She pulled away from me. Shoulders hunched, she walked into the workroom, absently fingering the bolts of fabric stacked on the center cutting table.

I lifted my eyebrows at Nana and Mama. Meemaw, I noticed, had vanished. We’d have to finish our little chat later.

“What about your family, Gra—”

There came the sudden braying of a goat, a commotion behind me, and Nana saying, “Thelma Louise, don’t you dare!”

Sure enough, the matriarch of Nana’s prized goat family had opened the Dutch door, nosed her way into my house, and was now nibbling on the door handle of the little storage space under the stairwell. “Shoo! Shoo!” I stomped my foot, waving my arms at the ornery goat.

Nana grabbed her by the red blinged-out collar, the same one she put on every goat in her herd. As she dragged her away from the door, I turned back to Gracie.

“I
have
a family,” she said. “That’s the big news.” She blew out a loud breath, as if she were expelling the disbelief over this plot twist in her life. “All this time, I thought it was just me and my dad. Sure, my mom comes back sometimes. I always thought it was ’cause she wants to see me.”

“I’m sure it is—”

“No. It’s not. She never wanted me, and she never came back here to see me.”

For a girl who’d just turned sixteen she was very mature. She’d gotten her emotions in check and was speaking matter-of-factly.

“What did your dad tell you?” I asked, hoping that this was just a big misunderstanding. But something in my gut twisted and I knew that it wasn’t.

She tugged at the fabric of Libby’s dress, bunching it up in her fist as the anger poured out of her. “He didn’t tell me anything. That’s just it. He got a letter from my mom and I couldn’t wait for him to get home so he could open it. I didn’t think he’d mind if I read it. She’s my mom, right? He can’t even stand her.”

I cringed to hear that she knew just how Will felt
about the mother of his child. “What did the letter say,” I asked. Behind me, I sensed that Mama and Nana were listening, holding their breath.

“That she’d be coming to town for a visit. After the Margaret festival,” she added with a bitter laugh. “Pretty ironic.”

“Because…” I prompted.

“That’s the best part. Turns out that I’m, like, a real Margaret.”

The sharp inhale of a breath came from behind me, but I lowered my head and stared at Gracie. “I don’t understand.”

“Turns out I have grandparents right here in Bliss. Can you believe that?” She spit out the words as if they left a bad taste in her mouth. “And my dad never told me anything.”

“Try your dress on,” I said to Gracie after Nana and Mama had both gone and I’d dragged the pale green Margaret gown out of the armoire. I pointed her in the direction of the privacy screen in the workroom, hanging the gown on the hook I’d screwed to the wall next to the makeshift dressing area. Satin-covered hangers draped with completed garments were hooked between the wooden slats of the antique screen.

“I don’t know—”

“Oh no, you don’t, Gracie. I’m sure your dad has some explanation. You just have to give him a chance to tell you what it is. You shouldn’t have read the letter, and yes, maybe he should have told you, but he deserves a chance to explain. Do your grandparents, whoever they are, even know
you
exist? This could be complicated.”

She stared at me with her red-rimmed eyes. “But he kept my grandparents a secret and they live in the same town as me.” She jammed her hands on her hips. “How’s he going to explain
that
?”

Good question, and I didn’t know the answer. Truthfully, I was just as skeptical that he’d be able to give a good reason why he’d kept Gracie’s mother’s family
from her. “I don’t know, sugar,” I said with a sigh, “but you have to give him a chance. He loves you.”

While she slipped behind the privacy screen to try on her dress, I took my sketchbook from the shelves that held part of Meemaw’s button collection in different-sized Mason jars. I flipped to the back and began doodling, wondering why Will was hiding the truth about Gracie’s family from her.

My mind drifted and before long, I was scribbling notes about everything that had happened over the last few days—from Macon Vance being killed, to Zinnia James being arrested, to Meemaw’s antics to keep me out of the armoire. At least she’d given up on that, I thought, trying to make sense of everything. But my mind was a jumble of crawfish in a pot, all the different bits mixed together until I couldn’t separate them from one another.

One thing, though, rose to the surface. Like every mystery book I’d ever read, it boiled down to secrets. Macon Vance must have been keeping secrets—and ones that someone was willing to kill over. Zinnia James and Nana shared secrets—likely ones they’d kept for over fifty years. Will Flores had his own secrets. Even I had secrets. The gifts of the Cassidy women meant we would always keep things from the people around us.

I flipped to the front of my sketchbook as Gracie stepped out from behind the screen. Looking at her, I caught my breath. “Oh, Gracie, that dress was made for you.” It fit her perfectly, as if every last part of her body had been measured and every seam stitched with those numbers magically calculated.

She looked down at herself, gathering up a bunch of fabric in each hand and fanning it out to see the detail of the scalloped hemline. “Really?”

“Really. Turn around and I’ll do it up.”

She did, and I reached out to work the buttons. I’d found the dresses and this one was perfect for Gracie. I silently thanked Meemaw for quitting her interference. Thank the Lord. One less thing to worry about.

I fastened the little pearl buttons, then guided her to the milk crate I was still using as a fitting platform. I held her hand as she stepped up and turned to face me, but after looking at her every which way, I waved her back down. There were no alterations to do. Only the ripped armhole needed fixing. I carefully drew the two pieces of fabric together and pinned them. “It’s like it was actually made for you,” I said, wondering again who it
had
been made for and why it was ripped.

I inspected every inch of the gown, finally pronouncing, “I can finish this tonight. Sugar, you and Libby are going to have to duke it out over who’s going to be the belle of the ball. Take a look.”

She glided across the room to the full length oval mirror, pushing her auburn hair away from her face as she gazed at her reflection. “Women really wore things like this?” she asked, a tinge of awe in her voice.

“Someone actually did wear this,” I answered. “And in the early 1800s.” I’d noted the details of the dress and was convinced this one had not been made by the Lafayette sisters. I was pretty sure it was as authentic as they come.

Had it fit the Margaret who’d worn it as perfectly as it fit Gracie?

“How do you know?”

I explained about the tight-fitting pointed bodice being much longer than the other dresses, and showed her how it had a very small tight-fitting waist. The boning
seemed to stop the bodice from creasing. Even the restrictive seamline on the shoulder struck me as different from the others. “A replica made by the Lafayette sisters wouldn’t be this detailed. And the fabric… I’m sure it was shipped over here from Europe.” I’d seen samples at the Fashion Institute of Technology museum in New York. “This is either the best replica I’ve ever seen, or it’s the real McCoy.”

Her expression clouded. “Maybe I shouldn’t wear it. What if something happens to it?”

I had a slightly different view of clothing than Nana had expressed to me. “A garment is meant to be worn and to carry the history of those who wear it.” I gestured to the ripped armhole. “It’s already got some. Now it’ll carry your history, along with whoever wore it before you.”

“I don’t have any history,” she said.

I could see that simple statement brought back the distress she’d felt earlier when she’d read the letter from her mother. “Are you going to talk to your dad?” I asked after a minute.

She sucked in a deep breath as she looked up at me, her eyes the exact color of the dress, a little shimmer sparkling the highlights in her hair, as if a spotlight shone down from above.

“He was just pulling in when I left—” She stopped, her lower lip quivering and her eyes welling again.

“So he doesn’t know you read the letter?”

She shook her head, squeaking out a raspy, “No.”

The bells hanging on the knob of the front door jingled as I said, “You need to give your dad a chance to explain, Gracie.”

“Explain about what?” Will Flores said from behind us.

*   *   *

Will’s hands sank into the pockets of his jeans and his dark eyes grew narrow and wary.

Gracie clamped her mouth shut and turned, hurrying behind the privacy screen. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said with a huff.

“Talk about what?” He knew he was stepping into a dirt dauber’s mud nest, but there was no turning back. He looked at me, raising his brows in a question.

A pipe moaned from deep in the bowels of the house, but he didn’t budge. He knew something was up; he just didn’t know what he was in for. “You need help, Gracie?” I called.