Pleating for Mercy

by Melissa Bourbon

  Mama rolled her eyes. “Butch Cassidy is legendary, and he’s my great-great-granddaddy, which makes him Harlow’s great-great-great-granddaddy.”

  “Wow,” Gracie said, looking mightily impressed.

  “It’s our family’s claim to fame,” I said, leaving out the part about Butch’s wish at the ancient Argentinean fountain and the charms bestowed on his descendants. Will and Gracie didn’t seem to know about the Cassidy magic, though I wasn’t sure how that was possible. It seemed to be the talk of the town.

  “Now, if only we could find where Meemaw hid the treasure Butch sent Cressida,” Mama muttered so only I could hear.

  I shushed her with a finger to my lips and turned to help Will with the shelf. I held one end of the broken piece of furniture, helping lower it to its side.

  It suddenly dawned on me that having Miriam and Will in the same room might not be a good thing, but there was nothing to be done about it now. I sat at my machine, working on the pleating on Josie’s bodice. Sewing the bodice to the skirt would feel like a victory, one I hoped to reach by tonight.

  Just as we all settled into a groove, the kitchen door banged against the wall as someone flung it open. “Just me and the chickens!”

  Nana, come to join the fun.

  Gracie looked up from her hemming, leaning to the right to see beyond the French doors. “The chickens?”

  I laughed. “We only have to worry if she says, ‘It’s me and the goats’!”

  Nana had ditched her boots at the kitchen door and padded into the workroom in her blindingly white socks. Her ability to keep them looking brand-new was one of her many mysterious talents. “I put some cheese in the fridge. Crackers are out on the table,” she said.

  “What’d you bring?” Mama asked. “Not more of that papaya chèvre, I hope.”

  Nana sniffed indignantly. “That papaya chèvre won an award at the Festival of Cheese in Austin last year.”

  Mama draped one arm over the back of her chair. “Yes, I’m aware of that, but you know I’d rather eat dirt than that particular cheese.”

  Nana blew a raspberry through her lips. “You’re not the only one here, Tessa Cassidy, and not everyone likes the cayenne and nuts in the spicy pecan—”

  She noticed Will crouched in front of the sideways shelf and jabbed her finger at him. “You. I helped you with a stubborn doe.” It sounded like an accusation.

  I could see him working hard not to laugh. “Yes, ma’am, you did.”

  “Good. Right. I never forget a goat. Maggie Sue.”

  “Yes, ma’am. She’s my neighbor’s goat.”

  “Maggie Sue took a vacation from her life that day. We humans like to go on vacation. A nice trip to Corpus Christi or Padre Island? You bet. For a goat? A little R and R and some nibbling on someone else’s grass is all they need.”

  “Wow,” Gracie whispered, gazing at Nana like she was a rock star.

  My mother leveled a stare at Nana, still harboring some vexation over the goat cheese selection. “You don’t have to bring spicy pecan. The sesame thyme or the fresh herb is fine. Anything but that papaya chèvre,” she said.

  Nana wagged her finger. “Tessa Cassidy, if you don’t want the cheese I brought, don’t eat it, girl.”

  I swallowed a laugh. For a split second, I could see Mama, fifty years younger, a skinny little girl, being scolded by a twenty-five-year-old Coleta Cassidy. Some things never changed. Bickering was sport to them.

  Mama huffed, turning back to her seams. “Don’t you fret. I won’t eat it,” she muttered under her breath.

  “What kind did you bring, Nana?” I whispered.

  She winked, a wicked little smile playing on her lips. “Spicy pecan,” she said so only I could hear, “but I’m gonna let her stew there for a spell. She wouldn’t know exceptional cheese if she sat on it.”

  As she poked around the room, looking at the dresses, a wisp of a warm breeze blew over me. I felt Meemaw’s familiar presence. It rustled the skirt of Josie’s gown, then swirled around me, ruffling my hair, wrapping me up like a blanket. Meemaw, Mama, Nana, and I were all here together in the yellow house off the square. It was comforting to be surrounded by family. There was no place I’d rather be, I realized.

  The weight of someone’s stare made me look around the workroom. The Singer purred along as Mama finished the seams, her attention utterly focused. Nana stood at the cutting table flipping through my sketchbook, absently oohing and ahhing. Will had a screwdriver plunged into a hole in the bottom of the shelf, wiggling it around like he was digging something out.

  That left Gracie . . . I turned and saw her looking around the room, as if she was searching for something, her needle between her thumb and index finger, frozen in midair.

  “Gracie?”

  She didn’t budge.

  I moved toward her, snapping my fingers. “Gracie.”

  This time she blinked, back to reality like she’d come out of a trance.

  Instantly, Will was by her side.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said, but her body twitched with a slight shiver. She looked at the heating vent in the wall. “Did the heater go on?”

  My heart stopped, all the breath leaving my body. Had she felt the warmth of Meemaw’s presence? Slowly, I shook my head. “N-no.”

  “Huh. I must have imagined it . . .” she said, trailing off. She turned back to the dress form, lifted the hem of the dress, and slid the needle into the fabric.

  I watched Gracie, baffled, wondering exactly what she’d felt—and why.

  The bells on the front door jingled. I tucked my bewilderment away to think about later as Miriam Kincaid finally walked in, a teenage girl on her heels.

  Chapter 36

  “I don’t have much time,” Miriam announced before they’d even closed the front door. “This is my daughter. My mother said you’re making her a dress—”

  I gaped at the two of them darkening my doorway, stunned into silence. Another one? Did nobody understand what went into designing and making a dress? I couldn’t spout some incantation, wave my magic wand around, and voilà!, someone was suddenly clothed in the most spectacular dress she’d ever seen.

  Before I found my voice and said exactly what I was thinking, Gracie catapulted off the stool, leaving her needle hanging from the hem of Karen’s dress. “Really?” she exclaimed as she hugged Holly. “You’re in the wedding, too?”

  Holly Kincaid didn’t look nearly as excited as Gracie. “My grandmother just decided there needed to be a flower girl. Guess who they chose,” she said glumly, flinging her arms wide.

  Gracie’s lower lip slipped out in a pout. “But flower girls are little kids.”

  Holly slouched against the front door looking like she wished she could just disappear. “Exactly my point.”

  “That’s enough,” Miriam said. “We both just have to hush up and make the best of it.” She tossed her coral cashmere cardigan onto the chaise in the seating area, grabbed her daughter by the wrist, and dragged her forward, stopping short when she noticed Will bent over the shelf.

  It felt like a junior high moment, full of angst and emotional despair, only I didn’t know if the feelings were Miriam’s . . . or mine.

  “Miriam, good to see you,” Will said, nodding at her, then going straight back to work.

  “You, too, Will.” No emotion, which was odd considering the history.

  So I guess the feelings were mine.

  Gracie whirled around, falling into step beside Holly. “Harlow Cassidy,” she said when they passed the French doors, “this is Holly Kincaid. Holly, this is Harlow. She’s, like, totally amazing.”

  I thought I heard Will mutter something, but he was intent on the bottom of the shelf, still working with the screwdriver. Good thing. I didn’t want to know what he was thinking—probably that I was one step away from crazy, a so-called descendant of an old-time train robber with a goat-whisperer grandmother.

  Holly had been bred with good
manners. “Nice to meet you,” she said.

  I shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, too.”

  Gracie dragged Holly to the dress form. “Just look at this,” she said. “It’s for one of the bridesmaids. Isn’t it gorgeous? I’m hemming it right now. Then it’ll be done.”

  They whispered as Gracie showed Holly Josie’s gown and Ruthann’s dress. Miriam shifted from one foot to the other, as though she couldn’t quite find a comfortable position. I glanced at the clock. It was nearly eleven. Miriam had arrived but was almost an hour late, there was a funeral to go to, and now I had another dress to design.

  Nana slid my sketchbook across the cutting table. “You’re biting off a lot, girl,” she said, nodding at the book. She held my gaze. Had she seen the list of murder suspects in the back of the book, or was she talking about the flower girl dress that had been added to my workload?

  “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

  “I won’t, Nana.” I’d planned to go to the funeral, but with my nearly doubled workload, I was reconsidering that idea.

  “Gotta get back to my goats now,” she said, padding out of the workroom. She threw me a look over her shoulder. “Don’t you hold back, child. Ask for help. You’re going to need it.”

  Oh, yeah. She’d seen the list.

  “She has me,” Mama said from her spot at the Singer.

  Gracie’s arm shot into the air. “And me, don’t forget!”

  Will’s arm stayed conspicuously down. He wasn’t part of my cavalry.

  Nana gave me a wink. “Don’t forget about the cheese,” she called. “Spicy pecan, Tessa. Your favorite.”

  Mama whipped her head around, but Nana had already disappeared into the kitchen. The door slammed shut and a moment later we saw her mosey through the gate leading to her property.

  Mama shook her head, an exasperated smile tickling her lips. “That woman is full of—” She broke off, darting a glance at Gracie and Holly. “Vinegar,” she finished, amending one of her favorite expressions to the PG version. She bent back over her pleats, but I saw her shoulders still shaking with laughter.

  “I only have a few minutes. What do we do now?” Miriam asked. Her skin was sallow and black circles ringed her eyes. It looked like something had interrupted her sleep. I’d avoided the mirror that morning when I’d caught a glimpse of myself and my own drawn face. Whenever these dresses were done, whether there was a wedding or not, I was going to sleep for twenty-four hours straight. It looked like Miriam needed some extra shut-eye, too.

  “But you just got here.”

  “I know. I have to help set up the reception, though. Sorry.”

  I swallowed a sigh as I flipped open my sketchbook and showed her the designs I’d drawn. The one I kept coming back to for her was a simple drawstring halter A-line dress. The shape of the cut, narrower on top and gently flaring out at the bottom, would be perfect for her figure. The mint green linen I’d found in Meemaw’s fabrics had a subtle sheen and would complement the rusty highlights in her hair. With any luck, it might even eradicate her sour disposition.

  She barely glanced at it. “Looks good.”

  Not the reaction I’d hoped for. I’d thought long and hard about the style. It had to complement the other bridesmaid dresses and Josie’s gown, but it also had to fit Miriam. I’d always seen her as the artsy type and a little bit of a misfit in her own family.

  I took a deep breath, reminding myself that this had been a last-minute addition to my workload. All I could do was my best. Hopefully that would be good enough.

  I pulled out a tape measure. “I need to take your measurements.”

  We went behind the privacy screen. She held out her arms and I got to work. She was thinner than Karen, but healthier than Ruthann. Really, she looked almost like an exact replica of her mother. One by one, I took the measurements I needed, jotting the number down after each one. Waist. Hips. Bust. “Are you going to the funeral?” I asked as I let the tape drop from her waist to her knee.

  She nodded, glancing at the clock. “I’m sure the whole town’ll be there, just itching to get any gossip going around.”

  I changed position and measured from her waist up to her underarm. “Did you know Nell very well?”

  She shifted her weight. “We were . . . friends,” she said.

  I peered up at her, not knowing what to make of her hesitation. She stared out the window, a pained expression on her face. “Are you okay, Miriam?”

  Her lips quivered, but she quickly jammed them together as if that would stop the emotions from spilling out. “Ye—” She broke off, her lips parting as she prepared to say more. Then her whole body convulsed, as if a spirit had jumped in and taken possession. “No,” she said with a hiss. “Not even close.”

  I knew death often brought out people’s fears of their own mortality, but I wasn’t sure if that was what Miriam was feeling. “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

  Her eyes went a little wild and she grabbed me by the sleeve, pulling me into the front room. “I don’t know what to do,” she confided in a panic.

  “Do about what?” I asked, wondering why people kept saying that to me.

  She dropped her head into her hands and her shoulders shook. The emotions she’d been trying to block were coming out in full force. She looked up at me, her eyes glassy but clear, her lips trembling but resolute. “I think I know why Nell died,” she said.

  Black dots danced before my eyes. I wanted to poke a finger in my ear. Had I heard right? “Wh-what?”

  She glanced into the workroom. The girls sat on the floor, gushing over a bridal magazine. Will was still fiddling with the shelf.

  “Nell’s dead,” she said, turning back to me. “It’s too late to protect her, so . . . so what do I do? Go to the sheriff and tell him who I suspect killed her? But . . . but, no, I can’t.” She notched her head toward Holly. “I won’t let anything happen to her.”

  As we spoke, a vision of a dress I wanted to create for her daughter appeared in my head, as strong and clear as ever. I’d begun to wonder if being able to see the perfect outfit for a person was my family gift. I hadn’t been able to conjure up an image of anything for Nell, though. Why not? My pulse raced as the answer slammed into my mind. As long as I could see a design for someone, maybe that meant they were safe.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to her,” I said, hoping I was right. “The sheriff—”

  “No. Nell is dead. A person who kills once will kill again—isn’t that what they say?”

  As she uttered the words, Miriam’s dress in my mind’s eye suddenly stretched and twisted, the green and off-white hues of the fabric distorting as if someone had dragged a paintbrush through the colors. “Does . . . whoever it is . . . does he know you know?”

  She shook her head slowly. “Not yet.”

  “You have to tell someone, Miriam. Don’t you see, if you keep this to yourself and the killer finds out you know, you’ll be the one in danger.” I suddenly couldn’t picture the dress for Holly, either, and my breath hitched. “You and Holly.”

  Chapter 37

  The Buttons & Bows atmosphere I’d imagined as I prepared to open my shop never included people coming in and announcing that they knew the identity of a murderer. But now that I found myself in that situation, there was nothing to do but forge ahead.

  “Tell me, Miriam,” I said, my palm flat against my chest. “I’ll go to the sheriff so you don’t have anything to do with it.”

  She hesitated and I could tell she was thinking about it. Her lips parted, her tongue pressed against her front teeth as she deliberated. I was on the edge of my seat, holding my breath, praying she wouldn’t say a name I didn’t want to hear. Finally, a sound came from her throat. The beginnings of a name. I leaned forward, wishing I could grab hold of the letters and pull them out of her mouth.

  Before she could form a single complete syllable, Gracie and Holly bounded into the front room. Holly plopped down next to her mom. “
I’m hungry.”

  Miriam snapped her mouth shut and just like that, the moment was gone. “You can eat at the bead shop after the funeral,” she said.

  “But—”

  Miriam leveled a look at her daughter—one eerily similar to her mother’s—that stopped Holly cold but propelled me into action.

  “I’ll get them something.” Practically catapulting off the couch, I ran into the kitchen, feeling like a rodeo cowboy wrestling a steer. I was scrambling to rope and tie Miriam so she’d cough up the name of a killer. I spilled crackers onto a plate next to a couple spoonfuls of Nana’s spicy pecan goat cheese, and threw a bowl of red grapes on the table. “Something to tide you over,” I called to the girls, but it was dead quiet.

  I peeked into the front room.

  No Miriam. No Holly.

  Leaving the plate on the table, I dashed down the three steps leading from the kitchen to the front room. “Where’d they—”

  Gracie pointed to the open front door. “They just up and left.”

  No! I skidded across the hardwood floor, grabbing the door before it slammed shut. Holly was already at the sidewalk, walking in the direction of the square. “Wait!” I bounded down the porch steps two at a time, flying over the flagstone walkway, almost colliding with Miriam at the arbor. White flower petals showered over us in a frenzy.

  “I didn’t . . . measure . . . Holly,” I said as I tried to catch my breath. Years of walking everywhere in Manhattan had kept me in shape. But a few short months of chicken-fried steak and queso had already reversed the effects and I was exhausted by the effort of chasing after her. “I can’t make her a dress for the wedding if—”

  She shot a quick glance at her daughter before looking me square in the eye. A spark of determination flickered. “Forget I said anything, Harlow. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Before I could react, she ran down the sidewalk. Within seconds, she and Holly had turned the corner and disappeared.