I held up my bandaged hand as exhibit A. “Sorry, Corgi, I won’t be able to finish your kilt for tomorrow. But you can wear your old one to Valley Forge, right?”
He leaned against the doorjamb as if he had nothing in the world to do. “That’s okay. I think I’m just going to skip Valley Forge. I’d have to get up at seven-thirty to make it to the registration on time.”
I picked up a dish towel and threw it at him. It wasn’t exactly professional, but it expressed my feelings better than anything else could.
McCarthy didn’t linger much after that. He probably guessed I needed to unwind in a nice hot tub.
I walked him to the door. “Are you doing anything next Friday? I need a date for a wedding.”
His eyes crinkled up at the corners as he smiled down at me. “Are you sure you want to be seen with an obnoxious photographer who never gets invited to weddings?”
I stood on my tiptoes to plant a kiss on his lips. “Always.”
* * * *
I spent the next few days doing nothing—just sitting around the house having Pete and Aileen wait on me. A bandaged hand was particularly useful for getting out of doing the dishes. By Tuesday, I felt well enough to get back to my sewing, just in time for Gillian’s sewing lesson.
Her dad dropped her off at precisely three o’clock. She bounced up the steps as if she were working on elevation in her Scottish dancing. “I heard they caught the murderer,” she sang out before she even walked in the door. “It was that author, Hart.”
“‘They’ nothing,” I said, ushering her upstairs to my workroom. “I caught the murderer.”
“You did not!”
I held out my hand, still covered with a bandage. “I took him out with a sword that was used at the Battle of Culloden.”
Her jaw dropped and she stared at me in awe until I had to laugh. “That part was in the second paragraph in the article in the paper,” I said.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t read the paper. My dad told me.”
Before I could say anything else, she pounced on the cut pieces for her blouse. “What do I do next?”
We spent the next half hour sewing the side seams of the blouse and setting in the sleeves. The lesson was going so well, I didn’t want to spoil it by bringing up a delicate topic. It wasn’t until we were sitting on the porch swing waiting for her dad to pick her up that I dared to broach the subject.
“Now that this murder is solved, you know your dad’s not a murderer, right?” I took a deep breath, hoping I wouldn’t mess this up. “Gillian, I found out something about your mother.” I hurried on, before she could take offense and run off. “Your mother choked on some food. That’s how she died. Your father tried to help her, but he was unsuccessful. Your dad didn’t kill your mom. It was a horrible accident that was nobody’s fault.”
Gillian stared at me until I thought she’d gone into shock. Then she started to cry without making a sound. I handed her a tissue, and then another one. I longed to put my arms around her, but I knew she wouldn’t let me. I settled for patting her on the shoulder until her sobs quieted. “How do you know?” she whispered.
“I’ve got an inside source at the newspaper.” I told her about McCarthy’s research. “If you don’t believe me, you could ask your dad.”
We looked up to see Ryan standing on the edge of the porch, watching us, his face reddening. He had obviously heard the whole thing.
Just for a second, I feared I might have precipitated an explosion. But Ryan came over and sat down next to Gillian on the swing. In a very quiet voice, he said, “You thought I killed your mom?”
Gillian shrank away from him, almost afraid to nod.
He took her hand, his eyes filling with tears. “I loved her,” he said. “Sometimes we would fight, but I loved her. I would never hurt her.” He bowed his head until his forehead touched hers. “My little girl. You’ve been living with this all this time, thinking I was a monster.”
She threw her arms around him. “Oh, Daddy,” she sobbed.
I left the two of them there on the porch swing, holding each other tight, as if they were making up for lost time.
* * * *
I spent the next few days making up for lost time myself. It took a few late nights and some very long days, but I finished Corgi’s kilt the day before the promised delivery date. It was ready for him to wear at the opening of the Royal Exhibit at the Tremington.
Julie and her team had worked tirelessly to get the artifacts ready for display as the newest addition to the local history exhibit in the upstairs gallery. McCarthy took me to the gala opening, complete with speeches, hors d’oeuvres, and music from the Laurel Springs Pipe and Drum Corps. I wore a springy dress made of pale green moiré silk that broke just above the knee, and clipped my hair back with one of my Scottish bow ties. I chose the Oliphant tartan as a tribute to Margaret. McCarthy dressed up as well, with a gray suit coat over his customary white button-down shirt and black leather shoes on his feet. I noticed with amusement that he also wore the yellow bow tie I’d given him at the Highland Games.
I held his hand and watched the bagpipers marching in to the tune of “Scotland the Brave.” Corgi was resplendent in his new kilt. Every pleat lay just the way it should, to create the proper swing in the back. The heavyweight wool in the Ancient Guthrie tartan gave the kilt a respectability that could have come from Scotland itself. If only Corgi had bothered to wear his new ghillie brogues with it…
Gillian led the dancers out to perform the sword dance. With a genuine smile on her face, she lifted both arms, rose to her tiptoes, and danced faster and faster, never once touching the sword or sheath beneath her. A flash of red glinted on her breast as she danced. It was a delicate silver chain strung with beads that looked like garnets.
I went to speak to Gillian when the dance was over. “That was beautiful. I love the sword dance.” I indicated the chain around her neck. “That’s a pretty necklace.”
She touched it lightly. “My dad gave it to me. It belonged to my mom.” She pointed to a display case in the middle of the room. “It kind of matches the ring.”
We both wandered over to look at the ring under glass: the ornate silver ring with the big red stone that had lain for so many years in the delightfully chaotic basement of the Tremington. Now it occupied the place of honor in the Royal Exhibit upstairs, with a placard that proclaimed it to be from the “Crown Jewels of the House of Stuart, given to Margaret Oliphant by Charles Edward Stuart, otherwise known as Bonnie Prince Charlie, circa 1746.”
McCarthy joined me as Gillian skipped off to hang out with her friends. He took my hand and twined his fingers through mine.
I kept my eyes fixed on the ring. “I always loved the story of Margaret Oliphant coming to America and falling in love with Judge Tremington. But that was fiction. The true story of her falling in love with Bonnie Prince Charlie in her Scottish homeland is much more romantic.”
He squeezed my hand. “That’s what comes of sewing wedding gowns all day long. You get carried away by the romance of it all.”
I turned away from the ring. “Nothing wrong with that.” I rose to my tiptoes and kissed him, right in the middle of the crowded exhibit. “We can all use a little romance and mystery in our lives.”
* * * *
Breanna’s wedding was at the Methodist church that evening. The church was a modern building on the edge of town that boasted a bowling alley in the basement and the biggest youth group in town. The sanctuary was filled with chairs rather than pews, arranged in three rows that angled toward one another to create a cozy feel. Bouquets of white roses combined with sprigs of purple heather and tied with red tartan bows filled the hall with their sweet scent.
The wedding was perfect. A lone bagpiper piped Breanna into the church, playing a sprightly tune the program identified as “Mairi’s Wedding.” Breanna looked stunning. Her
gown fit perfectly, and the red tartan scarf was a beautiful touch. Best of all was the joy that shone through her face as she joined her groom at the altar. Her fairy-tale wedding had come true.
Four of the older Highland dancers filed out to dance the lilt, led by Gillian. The girls held out their full skirts with both hands and bowed to the congregation before rising to their toes and commencing the dance. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Gillian. She wore a minimum of makeup and her bright strawberry-blond hair was done up in French braids accented with a bit of heather. Her youth and beauty in the dance threatened to upstage the bride. I snuck a peek at Breanna, but she wasn’t fretting. She watched her dancers with pride.
The reception was at the Scottish Rite Temple, in the spacious downstairs meeting room that had been decked out with the flowers and tartan bows from the church. Large round tables were covered with crisp white tablecloths topped with dozens of votive candles dropped into a bed of heather. The effect of all the twinkling lights was charming.
The Highland dancers made another appearance, led once again by Gillian. This time they wore their Highland kilts and vests and danced the Highland fling. As before, Gillian was the one to watch. When the dance finished and the crowd was applauding, I sought out Breanna.
“That was beautiful,” I said. “Your whole wedding has been perfect in every way.”
She hugged me. “It’s sweet of you to say so. But that Morris Hart totally ruined my wedding.”
I gaped at her, so she went on to explain. “I wanted to have the girls dance to ‘The Skye Boat Song,’ like they did at the ceilidh, while Isabelle sang. But I couldn’t have her sing the words, ‘over the sea to Skye’—not after I found out Hart was the murderer. I was counting on that dance. Now the whole thing is ruined.”
I choked back a chuckle and assured her that the whole thing was just lovely.
McCarthy joined us and congratulated the happy couple. He took my hand and pointed to the dance floor, where numerous couples swirled around to the lilting music of a harp played by a beautiful young woman dressed in a pink silk ball gown. “Shall we dance?”
We sashayed out onto the dance floor. He clasped my good hand close to his chest as we swayed, and then he spun me out under his arm. Nobody else was twirling, but that was the way McCarthy danced, like he could fly, and me with him. I spun back into his embrace and said, “Sean. They’ll all be watching us.”
He laughed and spun me once more. “I just wish we had someone taking pictures for the Daria Photos.”
I put both arms around his neck, before he could spin me again. “It’s about time you showed up in that collection.” I gazed into the depths of his pale blue eyes, suddenly overwhelmed. “I love you, Sean.” I bent his head down for a kiss.
He held me like he’d never let me go. “I love you, Daria. I always have.”
We spun and twirled across the dance floor, two people in love, on our way to completely upstaging Breanna’s perfect wedding.
If you enjoyed Royally Dead, be sure not to miss the first Stitch in Time Mystery,
Historical seamstress Daria Dembrowski has her work cut out for her as she searches for a killer’s pattern…
Daria has come up with a brilliant new plan to expand her seamstress business beyond stitching wedding gowns—historical sewing. And with Civil War reenactors setting up camp in her hometown of Laurel Springs, Pennsylvania, she has plenty of opportunities, including one client portraying a Confederate colonel who’s a particular stickler for authenticity.
But soon the small-town peace starts coming apart at the seams as an antique doll is stolen from a Civil War exhibit and the cranky colonel is found impaled by his own bayonet. When Daria’s brother is suspected of the theft and a bridal client’s fiancé is accused of the murder, Daria is determined to untangle the clues to prove their innocence. She needs to get this case sewn up fast, though, before the murderer reenacts the crime and makes her history.
Keep reading for a special look!
A Lyrical Underground e-book on sale now.
Chapter One
My first meeting with Colonel Windstrom was a disaster. He marched into my fitting room—previously the formal dining room of my Federal-style house—as if it were a military headquarters. A hefty man, his tread shook the floorboards, jiggling the bolts of cloth leaning on the built-in shelf along the inside wall and toppling a rag doll on the mantel. He narrowly missed knocking into my antique spinning wheel. He took no notice of the books on the Civil War I’d carefully selected from the library, or the framed portrait of a Union soldier that I’d borrowed from an old lady at church. His bluster disrupted the cozy atmosphere I tried to create with my ruffled white organdy curtains and the hot cider simmering on the sideboard.
“I’ll need coat and breeches from the gray wool,” he instructed me, without even a hello. “The shirt of white cotton broadcloth. Mind the stitches now. Anything that shows has got to look authentic.” He pulled on his long, “authentic” moustache and scowled. “General Eberhart won’t tolerate any Farbs in his outfit.”
“Yessir, no Farbs,” I repeated, wondering if a Farb was some new kind of Velcro. “You can count on me.” I brandished my measuring tape to reassure him of my competence.
Colonel Windstrom glared. “Ms. Dembrowski, you don’t even know what a Farb is, do you?”
I drew myself up to my full five feet three inches. It was the first time I’d ever faced down a colonel, of any description. “Actually, no,” I said. “But you can be sure I won’t be using any Farbs on your uniform.”
Colonel Windstrom’s laugh startled me. His pudgy face turned bright red and he snorted through his nose. “Do you know a thing about reenacting?” he barked. “A Farb is someone who doesn’t care about history or an accurate portrayal of the period. He just wants to go out on a sunny day and shoot off some cannons. He’ll make his uniform out of polyester if he feels like it.” Colonel Windstrom wiped his face with a grimy handkerchief. “You obviously need to learn a thing or two about Civil War reenacting,” he admonished me, as if I were seventeen instead of twenty-nine. He strode out the door without a backward glance.
I rolled my eyes at my cherished silhouette of Betsy Ross that hung above the mantel. Betsy Ross had been my hero ever since I did a project on her life in the fifth grade. I sewed a miniature felt flag and a mobcap for my presentation and pretended to be the illustrious seamstress. Even if no one could prove that she designed the first flag of the United States, she continued to inspire me as I focused more on historical projects in my sewing business, A Stitch in Time. I wondered how many belligerent patrons Betsy had to put up with in her day.
I hated to admit it, but Colonel Windstrom was right when he said I should learn more about reenacting. I got my first lesson later that very evening.
* * * *
I didn’t often do house calls, unless I was working on drapes or upholstery, but this time I made an exception. I’d never seen a Civil War reenactors’ encampment before, and I wasn’t going to miss this one. If I was lucky, I might get a few more uniform orders before the mock battle at the end of the week. I’d be well on my way to establishing myself as the premier historical seamstress of Laurel Springs, Pennsylvania.
I got off the bus on the outskirts of Turner Run Park. The reenactors had taken over. Normally the serene river valley, nestled between two wooded bluffs, hosted a few dog walkers or the Laurel High School cross-country team on a training run. Today rows of canvas tents filled the valley floor. Laid out in straight lines as if on a grid, they illustrated the kind of military discipline required from a commander who would not tolerate any Farbs in his outfit. Men squatted around campfires scattered among the tents. The smell of wood smoke mingled with the unmistakable odor of gunpowder. The scent reminded me of the Fourth of July—an ironic association for a camp filled with Confederate soldiers bent on dissolving the Union. The men all
had beards and long moustaches, and wore homespun shirts or tattered uniform coats, with muskets and rifles propped carelessly by their sides. My heart beat a little faster as I approached these mock Civil War soldiers. I felt like I was taking a step back in time.
I glanced around the groups, wondering how I would find Colonel Windstrom, when all of a sudden I heard my name.
“Daria!”
I peered through the campfire smoke to see a beefy soldier waving at me.
“Hey, Chris.” I knew Chris Porter through my work on his fiancée’s wedding gown. With the wedding coming up next week, I needed all the time I could get.
Chris lumbered to his feet and came over to me. He held out his arms and pivoted slowly around. “What do you think—Confederate soldier extraordinaire?”
My lips twitched, but I didn’t laugh. Obviously General Eberhart wasn’t paying enough attention because Chris was a Farb if there ever was one. His coat looked more like a Halloween costume than a period piece. I didn’t even need to feel the fabric—I could see the unmistakable sheen of polyester. His cheerful face was bare of beard or moustache—not because he was too young, but evidently he just chose not to grow one.
“This is such a rush, Daria! I get to march with rifles with real bayonets and everything. How cool is that?” Chris plopped down on a log. “You wanna come sit by the fire?”
“Just for a minute.” I sat down carefully beside him. “I’m here to see Colonel Windstrom.” I blinked smoke out of my eyes. “I didn’t know you were a reenactor.”
“A buddy told me about it—he said they needed more soldiers. People keep quitting or something. So I snagged a coat and here I am. I’m taking a whole week off work to get the full experience.”
“A whole week, with a wedding just around the corner? What does Marsha have to say about that?”
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