A Fitting End: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery (2 page)

I’d been commissioned to make three dresses this year—at a cost of nearly fifteen thousand dollars each and with a nice profit built in—including one for Zinnia
James’s granddaughter, Libby. The wealthy residents of Bliss spared no expense for their daughters’ pageant gowns. The first two dresses were done, and I was thrilled with how they’d turned out, but I was struggling with Libby’s.

And being summoned to the club by Mrs. James was interfering with my precious sewing time… time I couldn’t afford to squander.

“Right,” Josie scoffed. “You’ll be so famous for your couture clothing that my poor baby girl’s gonna have to get her dress made by one of the Lafayette sisters. They’re old now. In sixteen years, they’ll be ancient.”

I didn’t want to be famous. Able to make a comfortable living doing what I loved—
that
was my goal. “They still look good, but sixteen years is a long time. I’ll save the date for your not-yet-conceived daughter.”

“Good,” she said with a satisfied nod, twirling around and curtsying for the empty banquet room. “Now, what do you think the senator’s wife wants to talk to you about?”

“I was just wondering the same thing.” It was freaky how Josie could read my mind sometimes. We’d reconnected only a few months ago, just before her wedding to the town’s most eligible bachelor, Nate Kincaid. Her sparkly personality and infectious smile had helped her win Nate’s heart; plus she had breathed new life into Seed-n-Bead, the shop she now owned on the town square. It had also made her my confidant since I’d moved back to Bliss. I’d never really had a best friend, but Josie—and Madelyn Brighton, the catch-all photographer for Bliss and a connoisseur of all things supernatural—was pretty close. “And I have no idea. It was all very clandestine. The note was in my mailbox. No stamp, so she hand delivered it.”

“Aha,” Josie said, wagging her index finger at me.
“She had someone else deliver a note to you. She
is
the type to have other people do her bidding. So basically, you’re her lackey.”

“I’m not her lackey,” I said. But actually, the thought had occurred to me. “Mrs. James loves Buttons and Bows. She comes in all the time, for the smallest little thing. She brought me a special piece of silk ribbon a few days ago. Said it had been her grandmother’s hair ribbon and she wanted me to somehow use it on Libby’s dress.”

“Oh, like something borrowed, something blue.”

“Exactly.”

She glanced at my brown and white Dena Rooney-Berg bag sitting back on the stage. You could just see the orange handles of my Fiskars poking out through the open zipper. “Does she want you to do a fitting, or something?”

“No, I did an alteration job over in Glen Rose.” I pushed my glasses onto the top of my head and added, “A fashion emergency. The woman is part of a skit at her family reunion tonight, and the dress didn’t fit.”

“I might need some alterations on my clothes, too, if I don’t quit eating all the pastries from Villa Farina,” Josie said, patting her behind.

I laughed as I maneuvered myself off the runway. I changed the subject. “Did I tell you that Mrs. James and my grandmother were friends when they were kids and that they actually fought over my grandfather?”

She gaped at me—a full-on chin drop that left her mouth wide open. “No, really? Like in a
if Mrs. James had won his heart instead of Coleta, you wouldn’t have been born
kind of way?”

As I nodded, a noise from behind caught my attention. I turned just as a black, square box sitting on a card
table softly whirred to life. The cord snaked down from the machine and attached to a heavy orange extension cord that disappeared behind the newly installed black ceiling-to-floor curtains.

The mechanism of the machine, visible through a wide cutout, held something yellow. It began a slow rotation and—

“Bubbles!” Josie giggled, reaching up to catch one in the palm of her hand when they drifted our way.

Muffled footsteps came from backstage, growing louder as the bubble machine settled into maximum output, letting out a silent stream of glistening soap spheres.

Suddenly a man’s voice, curt and tinged with judgment, carried out to us. “It’s a might early for that, isn’t it?”

There was a surprised gasp, then a woman said, “I believe in being prepared.”

“That’s Mrs. James,” I whispered to Josie. The senator’s wife had a commanding and easily recognizable voice. She was all business, in a Southern lady kind of way.

“I thought it was a pageant, not a monkey show.”

I would have said fashion show, but I’d thought the very same thing. The catwalk was all wrong for the event. There would be a pageant, during which Mr. and Mrs. Allen, Mrs. James’s daughter and son-in-law, would play the esteemed roles of Sam Houston and Margaret Moffette Lea. The society girls and their beaus would be escorted out, and they would all perform several elaborate and authentic dances for the audience. “We need the stage, but not the runway,” I said to Josie. “But,” I added, “they could use this catwalk for the winter fashion show. Mrs. James mentioned her plans to me a while back.” I kept my voice low. “A winter wonderland theme featuring
the women of Bliss. She wants me to be in charge of it. This exact catwalk will be perfect for
that
.”

Josie’s olive complexion sparkled, suddenly lit up from inside. “A fashion show? That sounds divine! Can I be in it?”

“Shhh!” I held my finger to my lips, flicking my gaze backstage. Even though Josie and I had been here first and I’d been summoned, I suddenly felt like we were intruding on a private conversation. “You’re married to the former most eligible bachelor in town,” I whispered. “Heck, in all of Hood County. I’m sure you’ll be the main attraction.” Even without the gold band on her ring finger and Nate Kincaid on her arm, Josie was a picture of loveliness. She glowed. I liked to think it was the magic I’d sewn into the seams of the wedding gown I’d made for her, or the dreams I’d infused as I painstakingly looped each thread through each individual bead.

“Why are you here?”

I jerked at the harshness in Mrs. James’s voice, whipping around to face her. But she wasn’t talking to us. She was still hidden behind the velvet curtains.

“She’s talking to
him
,” Josie said under her breath.

Now I
really
didn’t want to be here. My heart slid from my throat back down to its proper position and I was about to tell Josie we should skedaddle, but the man’s voice shot out again. “I’ve been waiting,” he said. “Unless you don’t want this thing to go on as planned.”

Mrs. James scoffed. “Oh, it’s happening, whether you approve or not. Now, you may leave.”

There was a heavy pause. Josie and I looked at each other, both of us with raised eyebrows and pinched lips. They sounded madder than a barrel of trapped water moccasins.

Finally, he spoke again. “Sam Houston was married three times—is that somethin’ to be proud of? Do you really want these girls to be someone’s third wife? Children should be raised by their parents. That’s what we should be modelin’, not this… this…
this
.”

“Isn’t that calling the kettle black,” Mrs. James snapped. “If you believed that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

I told myself that eavesdropping was bad, but I was riveted. Pageants, big hair, and a love of Sam Houston were practically Texas requirements, but this guy didn’t buy into it.

“You’ve been here long enough to know that we are presenting Bliss’s daughters to society. These girls, sir,” Mrs. James intoned haughtily, “go through an arduous year of preparation for an upper-class lifestyle. They receive an education in etiquette, good manners, and bearing. They’ve attended rounds of parties and afternoon teas that began last September. A truly prepared Margaret knows how to greet and introduce people, knows the importance of writing proper invitations and thank-you notes, and will be able to host with poise, manners, and social grace, something every man wants for his daughter or his wife. Wouldn’t you agree—”

He snorted, cutting Mrs. James off again;
he
was clearly lacking in social grace. “I’m talkin’ ’bout girls who don’t have the right
pedigree
. What about them, hmm?” I imagined him making air quotes as he said this. “They’re just shit outta luck. A little elitist, don’t you think?”

Mrs. James cleared her throat, likely swallowing down her desire to slap the man for his impudence and his language. “That is not your concern.”

“Oh, but it is. All the poor girls who can’t afford the price tag—”

“The pageant is for everyone, not just those girls who are being presented. It’s our town’s show of patriotism. It stems,” she said more forcefully, “from our love of God and country. We have a scholarship fund, you know. Why must you make a fuss?” she hissed.

The man sneered, “It’s not about patriotism. It’s for show, and it’s all a lie. All of it,” he repeated. He said something else, but we couldn’t quite hear.

“Over my dead body,” Mrs. James asserted, but the next thing out of her mouth was calm and controlled. “Our pageant sets the tone of social life that filters down and elevates the whole of Bliss. You will not spoil it, and you will not get what you want.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Enough, sir.” There wasn’t a bit of compromise in Mrs. James’s voice. “It’s quite a good thing you don’t have a daughter, don’t you think?”

“Harsh,” Josie whispered.

“Yeah,” I whispered back.

He spoke with slow deliberation, grinding out his words. “If I did, would she be welcome here?”

He was like Cesar Chavez, representing the little guy, the people with no voice. I liked Mrs. James, but I totally saw his side of things. I wished I could drag him outside, tell him that my family
did
go back five generations in Bliss, but that hadn’t made
me
want to participate in the pageant and I’d turned out just fine. Better than fine, in fact.

“You have no right to be here. You cannot come in here and tell me how to run this pageant,” Mrs. James said. “The Margaret Society works on this event all year
long. It runs like clockwork, and nothing will stop it from happening. Not you. Not
anything
. The Lafayette sisters have devoted their lives to it, for heaven’s sake. It’s a tradition—”

“I work here. I have every right to be here. This
pageant and ball
”—he said it like he could barely stand to utter the words—“is a circus. Do you make them do tricks and show their teeth and the bottom of their shoes?”

“You’re just the golf pro,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. “That hardly qualifies you to comment on our tradition.”

“Really low blow,” Josie whispered.

He gave a bitter laugh. “I may not come from a wealthy family— Oh, wait. Neither do you. Oh, yes, I’ve done my research. The Heckers were just a mercantile family. Shopkeepers.” He scoffed. “You act all high and mighty, but you’re no better than me. At least I’m honest about it, unlike most of you. You go to your luncheons and get your plastic surgery and play dress up like you’re some kind of Texas royalty, but you’re all frauds, throwing parties and doing whatever you can to make people think you’re something you’re not. If you only knew how easy it is to forge your credentials… Oh, wait—,” he snapped. “You do. You’ve written family histories for all the girls, whether they’re legitimate or not.” He laughed, adding a snide, “Kind of like a lawyer who never passed the bar or a doctor without a license—a Margaret without a pedigree. Might bring down the whole town.”

“We’re done here,” Mrs. James said tautly.

“Are we? I told you, I’d back off if—”

“I said, enough!”

His voice dripped with sarcasm. “You better watch your temper or your face might crack. Then who will put all the pieces back together again?”

Josie and I stood frozen in place as the heels of Mrs. James’s pumps clicked against the vintage hand-scraped hardwood floor of the back stage. We’d eavesdropped for too long and now it would be impossible to pretend we hadn’t heard the knockdown fight between Mrs. James and the country club’s golf pro. Any second, she was going to round the corner of the curtains and see us. My breath was itching to be released from my lungs, but I held it in, nervous as all get-out, afraid one little exhalation would reveal our presence.

I snuck a look at Josie. Her face looked exactly like I imagined mine did—horrified that we were about to be caught. Catching her attention, I held my left palm out flat while pretending to walk my right index and middle fingers across it. She notched her head toward the side door that led right into the parking lot. Could we tiptoe out without them knowing?

She had on a pair of coral linen shorts, a draped black beaded blouse, and suede-and-rhinestone Yellow Box flip-flops, a staple in nearly every Texas woman’s closet. With their rubber soles, they were also quiet—perfect for sneaking out of a room.

I, on the other hand, had started my day with a red gingham dress trimmed with white lace, a jean jacket, and black cowboy boots that may as well have had taps on the soles, they were so loud. We had to give it a try, though. She scurried off the end of the catwalk; then we hunched over and tiptoed across the room, probably looking like the worst spies in history.

Mrs. James and the man’s voices rose again, agitated and loud. “We’re done here—”

He cut her off. “Not until—”

“I said we’re done. You will leave now, sir,” Mrs. James said, a good dose of venom in her voice, “or you’ll regret it.”

Before we heard his response, I pulled open the door and Josie and I snuck out into the muggy late-July heat of North Texas.

It took me a good long while to shake out of my mind the blowout between Mrs. James and the man she’d been arguing with, but I’d managed, and now, back at home, I got to thinking about Libby Allen’s Margaret dress again.

“You want it like this?” Will Flores looked down at me from the second to top step of his eight-foot ladder, his deep, rumbling voice knocking me out of my reflections. He held one part of a pulley up to the ceiling.

“Looks good,” I said, hiding a crooked smile as I looked over the top of my glasses, thinking
he
looked just as good as the pulley’s placement. He was like Toby Keith and Tim McGraw, with a little bad boy Pancho Villa all rolled into one package, and there he was, smack dab in the middle of my sewing workroom. I wondered what my great-grandmother would think of her former dining room housing a custom-rigged dressmaking pulley system made and installed by the man she’d intentionally brought into my life.