A Fitting End: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery

by Melissa Bourbon

  If only it were that easy.

  “I gotta get back,” she said. She scooted behind the counter and made my iced coffee. Moments later I waved, heading back into the heat. I had Margaret gowns to work on, Gracie’s pedigree to write, and family history to sort out.

  What I did not have was a murder to solve.

  Somehow it consumed my thoughts anyway.

  Chapter 7

  My old farmhouse has been in the Cassidy family since Meemaw was a little girl. Now here I was, back in Bliss after a long, grueling stint as a minion in a New York City fashion empire. Just driving up Mockingbird Lane from the square sent a wave of comfort through me.

  The driveway ran along the left side of the house. I parked Meemaw’s beat-up old truck under the row of possumwood trees, climbed the back porch, iced coffee in hand, and entered the house through the kitchen. The Dutch door, along with the buttercup retro-styled appliances, were my favorite features of the house. Meemaw had had an eye for style and she’d always known what she wanted. The vintage stamped metal bodies of the stove, dishwasher, and refrigerator made the kitchen the most welcoming room in the house. Next to my sewing workroom, I spent most of my time right here.

  But not today. Instead I headed straight for the workroom, but as I passed the staircase, I heard a series of grunting sounds, followed by a loud thump, that echoed through the house. I stopped short. My first thought was that Meemaw was up to no good, rattling the pipes or some other such ghostly activity, but the sounds came again and the hair on the back of my neck rose. Men. My heartbeat revved. There were men in my house.

  I didn’t have anything valuable except a legendary and elusive trinket Butch Cassidy had supposedly sent to Texana Harlow, my great-great-great-grandmother, but no one had ever seen hide nor hair of it, so who knew if it even existed.

  Panic raised goose bumps on every ounce of my flesh. Frantic, I searched for a weapon, trying to stay calm, but this was Bliss. I dealt with armadillos, snakes, and goats—not intruders. Maybe Bliss wasn’t as insulated as I’d thought.

  I spotted my collapsible umbrella in the corner by the front door. That was as good as it was going to get. I snatched it up, flourishing it in front of me as I tiptoed up the stairs. Stopping at the landing, I peered up. A man’s back came into view. I caught my breath. I had nothing valuable to steal—unless you were a seamstress—but from the heaving and groaning, whoever was up there had his eyes on a big ticket item.

  I wielded the closed umbrella, wishing Meemaw would somehow provide me with something slightly more threatening. Instead I heard the faint squeak, squeak, bang of the gate out front as it whipped open, then slammed against the latch. It sounded almost like a… laugh. Meemaw?

  “The sheriff,” I muttered. As much as I didn’t want to talk to the man right now, what with Gavin McClaine’s thinly veiled suspicion about the presence of my sewing bag and scissors at the crime scene, calling him was my best option for rescue. I turned to race for the phone, but it was too late to make a call. The man at the top of the stairs came fully into view. There was something about him…

  He turned and saw me, his surprise instantly morphing into wry mirth as his gaze zeroed in on my umbrella.

  “Will Flores,” I said with as much indignation as I could muster, jamming one hand on my hip. “What are you doing here?”

  I had my answer the next second as his burden came into view. Meemaw’s armoire! “Moving this for you,” he said, straining under the weight. “I told you I’d come by today.”

  What with the summons by Mrs. James and the murder, I’d completely forgotten I’d asked him. He took the deal he’d made with Meemaw seriously, coming by nearly every day to tackle something on my to-do list.

  I knocked my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Right! Sorry—”

  He set his end of the armoire down, carefully turning it so it could be maneuvered down the stairs. He notched his chin at the umbrella I still wielded like a sword. “What are you planning to do with that?”

  I looked from him to the umbrella and back to him, a sheepish grin on my face. In one lightning quick move, I tossed it down the stairs. It landed with a thump by the olive-green-painted antique dining table. “You know Texas weather. Wait five minutes and it’ll change. You never know when the rain’ll hit.”

  “I guess you don’t,” he said, barely stifling a laugh.

  “We doing this, or what?” someone said, and on the count of three, the armoire was up and being moved again.

  “Oh,” I screeched, backing down the stairs. My feet, tucked snugly in my burnt red Frye harness cowboy boots, tangled under me. I stumbled, catching myself on the banister.

  Will, a navy bandana wrapped around his head, shot me a look over his shoulder. “You okay?”

  Besides the fact that he and his homies had nearly given me a heart attack, I was peachy. “’Course. I just didn’t expect to find you here—”

  The antique armoire banged against the wall, knocking down the picture of Butch Cassidy and his gang. It crashed, the glass from the frame shattering against the hard wood of the stairs.

  Will lurched back, slamming his back against the wall, his muscles straining as he somehow managed to stabilize the armoire. “They were available early,” he said through his teeth, “so we came over. I tried to call you—”

  One of the men held tight to the right side of the piece, but growled. “Jesus, Buck. You got it now?”

  “It slipped. Sorry ’bout that.”

  “That’s George Taylor,” Will said, his neck still straining as he nodded toward the man on his right. “And that’s Buckley Hughes.”

  They grunted at me as they started back down the stairs. “Oh!” I backed up. “Watch your step. You’re almost to the landing. That’s right.” I took another step backward. “Two more. One more—”

  “Harlow.” Will followed up the warning with another low guttural sound. He rarely used my first name, and truth be told, it sounded strange when he did.

  My turn to say sorry. “Just be careful,” I pleaded, my arms outstretched. As if I could catch the armoire the three men were maneuvering down the stairs if they happened to lose their balance—again—and drop the monstrous antique.

  Not without a little otherworldly help.

  Buckley, better known as the town’s dermatologist and Will’s neighbor, cursed under his breath.

  “You got it?” Will said through his clenched teeth.

  “Fine,” Buckley managed, but the pulsing vein in his forehead sent another jolt of worry through me. I didn’t know how the armoire had gotten into the attic in the first place, but I’d been bound and determined to have it back downstairs where it belonged. For as long as I could remember, it had stood sentry in the front room of 2112 Mockingbird Lane. The room didn’t feel complete without it. If they dropped it…

  Buckley’s foot slipped on the next step. He stumbled and the armoire wobbled.

  “Damn it!” George barked. “Do you have it?”

  They all found their balance again and steadied their grip. “Damn thing’s a whale,” one of them muttered.

  At the landing, Will set the bottom down. The other men pushed the armoire upright and they turned it. A minute later, Will’s muscles strained under his white T-shirt as he lifted the base again, tilted the whole thing until it leaned on its side, and George and the doctor found their hold.

  I backed down the rest of the stairs, palms out, trying to stay out of their way, not wanting to look lest they drop it, but afraid to turn my gaze away. “Careful,” I said as one of them stumbled again and they lurched, the armoire rocking unsteadily.

  “Is there a clear path?” Will said, his jaw tensing from the extra effort of speaking.

  I scurried from the stairs to the front room, checking to make sure there were no obstacles. “All clear,” I called. “Meemaw,” I whispered beseechingly into the room. If my great-grandmother was around, now was the time for her to make her presence known to me. I’d seen he
r move pages in a book, slam doors, rattle pipes, work the sewing machine, and a slew of other mysterious ghostly activities. She hadn’t moved heavy antique furniture as far as I knew, but the armoire was hers. Surely she could help.

  “Shit,” one of the men said. They lurched again, struggling under the weight. Will lost his footing and listed to the right. A warm breeze, not comforting on a hot July morning, swirled around me. “Help them,” I muttered under my breath so only my great-grandmother could hear.

  “What the hell is in here?” George’s voice strained under the exertion. Scuttlebutt was that he was one of the most desired bachelors in town, rising in status since Nate Kincaid married Josie a few months back. Blond hair. Sun-bronzed skin. And a wicked smile that I didn’t trust for a second. I could see why women were attracted to him, but I much preferred the solid, rugged good looks of Will Flores. Swarthy, goatee, the barest hint of gray in his sideburns, and a devoted father, to boot. He was the whole package. Meemaw had nailed that one.

  “Watch it, Buckley,” he said through his teeth.

  “I’m going to drop it—,” Buckley blurted, but a split second later, he stopped short. The warm breeze blew past me and I could almost see it encircling them. They all breathed easier and Buckley said, “Whew! That’s better.”

  They made it to the bottom of the stairs, setting the massive piece down to regroup. “Man, this thing is a monster,” George said.

  Buckley ran his hand down the side of the aged wood. “But beautiful.”

  “Gotta be, what, a hundred and fifty years old, right?” Will asked. He pulled the left door open, stopping abruptly. “What the devil—? The dresses are still in it? Jesus, no wonder it’s so heavy.” He turned, looking at me like I’d duped them. “You didn’t take them out?”

  “You didn’t check first?” I retorted. “If I’d known you were coming over to move it, I would have,” I said. “I’ve been a little distracted by murder, this morning.”

  George and Buckley both turned to stare at me. “Murder?” they said, echoing each other.

  I nodded, feeling a little like the town crier. My only consolation was that the whole thing would be reported by Rebecca Quiñones on the midday news. “The golf pro from Bliss Country Club. They found him dead this morning.”

  “Are you sure it was murder?” George asked, rubbing his biceps. I got the distinct impression he was trying to make me look at them, like I’d find the bulging muscles enticing. I rolled my eyes and he stopped, apparently getting the message that he wasn’t my cup of sweet tea. “Damn murder epidemic around here,” he said. His eyes glinted and his lips twitched. “Too bad he didn’t leave a grieving widow.”

  Will leveled a disbelieving look at George. “Nice, Taylor. Guy’s not even six feet under yet.”

  “I don’t have women flocking to me to get their damn wrinkles annihilated like Buck,” he shot back. “Or repair work to be done.” He winked at me and I bristled. Will and I weren’t even officially dating, but apparently George Taylor thought we were. “I have to seize every opportunity that comes along.”

  “Get off it. You have no shortage of female companionship,” Buckley said lightly, but his eyes were wide and he looked shaken. “Poor bastard.”

  I was pretty sure he was talking about Macon Vance, and not George Taylor.

  Buckley cleared his throat and gave George a crooked, if sad, grin. “And if you ever want to learn to give treatments to women—”

  George scoffed, good and loud. “No thanks. I’ll take ’em when you’re done with ’em.”

  I shook my head, amazed at men and their ability to bury their emotions, as I raised puzzled eyebrows at Will.

  “Cosmetic surgery,” he mouthed.

  Ahhh. Now I understood what I was missing. George liked the women after Buckley was done making sure they were wrinkle free. My fingers fluttered over my forehead. I was still relatively wrinkle free, but one day I wouldn’t be. I preferred the unadulterated face, but I filed away Buckley Hughes’s name… just in case.

  Will bent down to grab hold of the armoire again. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get this done.” The three men tilted the antique to its side again. “One. Two…” On three, a warm breeze swirled past me for the third time and encircled them as they lifted.

  “Did it get lighter?” George asked, sounding puzzled.

  “Sure seems to have.” Buckley took away one hand to prove the point. “Much lighter.”

  I smiled to myself. Meemaw to the rescue.

  The men practically glided through the dining room, down the two steps into the front room of Buttons & Bows, and in no time they’d situated the armoire against the north wall. Anyone coming up the walk to my shop who happened to glance in the picture window would see the stately nineteenth-century pine piece. Every time I looked at it, I’d think of my great-grandmother.

  “How’d Vance die?” the doctor asked after I’d offered them iced tea.

  Guilt at being connected to the murder weapon wound through me. “He was stabbed,” I said after swallowing the lump in my throat. I kept on the down low the fact that my sewing shears had been used.

  “We just played a foursome last week. Poor bastard,” he muttered again.

  We sat in silence for a good minute, each of us thinking about poor Macon Vance. Player or not, he surely hadn’t deserved to die.

  “Anything else you need moved while we’re here?” Will asked after a spell.

  I hadn’t planned on imposing anymore, but since he’d asked… “Texana’s old trunk is up there,” I said. It was a conversation piece, as well as a bit of my family’s history. From what I remembered of the stories, it was possible it had belonged to one of the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang, if not Butch Cassidy himself.

  They hightailed it back upstairs, and within a few minutes, they were situating the oak-slatted, flattopped trunk next to the front door.

  “Stabbed,” George said to Buckley, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it.” They’d both downed glasses of sweet tea and were walking down the porch steps toward the flower-covered archway leading to the sidewalk.

  Buckley shook his head. “What a way to go. Must be a lot of sad women in Bliss,” he added. “A lot of sad women.”

  “But a lot of happy husbands,” George quipped.

  As their voices drifted away, Will opened the door and started to usher me inside. Before I could thank him for his help, a white Mercedes screeched to a halt in front of my vine-covered arbor. A woman tumbled out of the car and flew up the flagstone walkway. “Harlow,” she called, waving me down. “My dear, wait.”

  “Mrs. James.” I scrambled down the porch steps, Will on my heels. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything,” she said, her voice shakier than a hive of buzzing hornets. “Absolutely everything.”

  Chapter 8

  Will and Mrs. James sat at the round pine table in the kitchen while, ever the Southern hostess, I busied myself pouring glasses of lemonade and laying out a plate of shortbread cookies. Mrs. James cleared her throat and flicked her wrist to look at her watch. “I suppose it’s a little early, yet, but I might could use a splash of vodka in that lemonade.”

  I bit my lower lip, two thoughts racing through my head. It definitely was early in the day to be adding anything alcoholic to a glass of lemonade, but she was clearly agitated and if it would help calm her down, she was probably right. She could use it.

  The second thing was that she’d slipped from her careful senator’s wife diction to the down-home country girl she’d grown up as. “Might could” was a verb construction that I bet no other state in the union understood or used. Texans, though, could pull it off… and with finesse.

  “Will,” I said, waving him over as I shoved my glasses on top of my head to hold back my hair. “Would you…” I pointed to the cabinet above the buttercup-colored refrigerator. He was a good five inches taller than I was, which put him around six feet. Tall enough to rifle through the few bottles of spirits I’d stashed
away for special occasions.

  He tilted the bottle over the glass of lemonade, his back to Mrs. James, pretending to pour more than he actually did. He met my eyes and I gave a little nod. It was A-OK with me that he’d added only the smallest splash to the drink. Mrs. James had gone pale since she’d arrived. Half a shot of alcohol wasn’t going to fix whatever was troubling her.

  Will and I sat down at the table, sipping our own, straight lemonade. “What’s wrong, Mrs. James?” I asked. “Is it something with the pageant?” She didn’t answer, so I rambled on. “I plan on working on Libby’s dress all afternoon, and Will’s here so we can write up that pedigree thing for Gracie.”

  He raised his eyebrows at me and I shrugged. We’d have to wing it if Mrs. James didn’t find her voice pretty soon.

  She nodded absently. Her glass was already empty, only a few melted ice cubes skimming the bottom. “What is it?” I asked again. “Did something happen…? Is the senator—”

  She waved away my concern. “Jeb’s just fine,” she said, her accent softening the vowel and drawing out her words. “No, it’s worse…”

  I snuck a glance at Will, imagining for a second that he was my husband. I’d be devastated if anything happened to him. What could be worse than something being wrong with your spouse—? Oh no. “Is it one of your children? Did something happen—”

  She nodded, but said, “N-no… it’s just…” Poor woman. She didn’t know up from down at the moment. Will took her glass and refilled it, adding another splash of vodka. I leaned forward, cupping my hands over one of hers. There was only one other thing that could be upsetting her, at least that I could think of. “What is it? You can tell me,” I urged.

  The healthy swig of the drink Will handed her seemed to spread through her like wildfire. Her eyes went from glazed to flashing in a split second and she snapped her hand away from mine. She sat up straight and took another sip. “It’s that damn golfer,” she said, sucking her lips over her teeth after she spoke. “Macon Vance.”