Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
DRESSMAKING TIPS TO MAKE YOUR SEWING MAGICAL
Teaser chapter
FOLLOWING HER BLISS?
The old red farmhouse looked the same as it had when I was a girl. I’d been back for five weeks and had worked nonstop, converting the downstairs of the house into my own designer dressmaking shop, calling it Buttons & Bows. The name of the shop was in honor of my great-grandmother and her collection of buttons.
What had been the dining room was now my cutting and work space. My five-year-old state-of-the-art digital Pfaff sewing machine and Meemaw’s old Singer sat side by side on their respective sewing tables. An eight-foot-long white-topped cutting table stood in the center of the room, unused as of yet. Meemaw had one old dress form, which I’d dragged down from the attic. I’d splurged and had bought two more, anticipating a brisk dressmaking business, which had yet to materialize.
I adjusted my square-framed glasses before pulling a needle through the pants leg. Gripping the thick synthetic fabric sent a shiver through me akin to fingernails scraping down a chalkboard. Bliss was not a mecca of fashion; so far I’d been asked to hem polyester pants, shorten the sleeves of polyester jackets, and repair countless other polyester garments. No one had hired me to design matching mother and daughter couture frocks, create a slinky dress for a night out on the town in Dallas, or anything else remotely challenging or interesting.
I kept the faith, though. Meemaw wouldn’t have brought me back home just to watch me fail.
PRAISE FOR
PLEATING FOR MERCY
“A crime-solving ghost and magical charms from the past make Pleating for Mercy a sure winner! The Cassidy women are naturally drawn to mystery and mischief. You’ll love meeting them!
—Maggie Sefton, national bestselling author of Unraveled
“Enchanting! Prepare to be spellbound from page one by this well-written and deftly plotted cozy. It’s charming, clever and completely captivating! Fantasy, fashion, and a foul play—all sewn together by a wise and witty heroine you’ll instantly want as a best friend. Loved it!”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha, Anthony and Macavity–winning author
“Melissa Bourbon’s new series will keep you on pins and needles.”
—Mary Kennedy, author of the Talk Radio Mysteries
“Cozy couture! Harlow Jane Cassidy is a tailor-made amateur sleuth. Bourbon stitches together a seamless mystery, adorned with magic, whimsy, and small-town Texas charm.”
—Wendy Lyn Watson, author of the Mystery à la Mode series.
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,
Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,
Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,
New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632,
New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, August 2011
Copyright © Melissa Ramirez, 2011 All rights reserved
OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
ISBN : 978-1-101-51739-0
http://us.penguingroup.com
This book is dedicated to all the quilters and seamstresses in my life, past, present, and future, including, but not limited to:
My great-great-grandmothers, Susan Elizabeth Townsend Sears and Texana de Lavan Montgomery; my great-grandmothers, Coleta Frances Montgomery Sears and Bertha Archer Massie; my great-great-aunt May (Montgomery) McDaniel; my great-aunts Marjorie Sears Cranford Yowell and Lucy (Melba Lucille) Sears Miller; my aunt Judy Bourbon Dewey; my grandmothers, Laverne Valentine Massie Sears and Winifred Helen Conrath Bourbon; my sewing nieces, Georgina, Paskalina, and Liet Bourbon; my daughter, Sophia Tess Massie Ramirez, with all my love; and especially to my mother, Marilyn La Verne Sears Bourbon for passing on to me all the wisdom of those who came before.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I was an elementary schoolgirl, my mother began teaching me to sew. By the time I was in sixth grade, I’d completed my first solo project: a dress with two different fabrics and buttons. I still remember the pride I felt showing it
to her . . . and how proud she was of me. Because she taught me to sew, something I continue to do today, I was able to create Harlow Cassidy’s world . . . and loved every minute of it. For that, Mom, I’ll be forever grateful.
Writing a book is not a solo venture by any stretch of the imagination . . . and as a writer, my imagination is great! Thanks to my mother and father, who are always my biggest supporters, and to my family for helping me make my writing dreams come true.
Thanks, also, to Holly Root for her continued support and belief in my career, to Kerry Donovan for her faith in Harlow Cassidy and her dressmaking world and for her fantastic editing, and to Jan McInroy for her careful eye and attention to detail. Also, a deep Southern curtsy to the NAL team, especially to the artists for bringing a corner of Buttons & Bows to life. Nana’s goat absolutely speaks to me!
A big thanks goes to John Kelsey for his lawyerly advice and for planting the Godfather seed in my brain, and to Anne Jones at Latte Da Dairy for sharing her love of goats with me.
Finally, giants hugs to my blogging buddies, LA Lopez, Heather Webber, DD Scott, and Tonya Kappes—you make blogging so fun!—and to my critique partners, Beatriz Terrazas, Wendy Lyn Watson, Mary Malcolm, Marty Tidwell, Jill Wilson, Jessica Davidson, and Tracy Ward. This journey is so much better with all of you by my side.
Chapter 1
Rumors about the Cassidy women and their magic had long swirled through Bliss, Texas, like a gathering tornado. For 150 years, my family had managed to dodge most of the rumors, brushing off the idea that magic infused their handwork, and chalking up any unusual goings-on to coincidence.
But we all knew that the magic started the very day Butch Cassidy, my great-great-great-grandfather, turned his back to an ancient Argentinean fountain, dropped a gold coin into it, and made a wish. The Cassidy family legend says he asked for his firstborn child, and all who came after, to live a charmed life, the threads of good fortune, talent, and history flowing like magic from their fingertips.
That magic spilled through the female descendants of the Cassidy line into their handmade tapestries and homespun wool, crewel embroidery and perfectly pieced and stitched quilts. And into my dressmaking. It connected us to our history, and to one another.
His wish also gifted some of his descendants with their own special charms. Whatever Meemaw, my great-grandmother, wanted, she got. My grandmother Nana was a goat-whisperer. Mama’s green thumb could make anything grow.
Yet no matter how hard we tried to keep our magic on the down-low—so we wouldn’t wind up in our own contemporary Texas version of the Salem Witch Trials—people noticed. And they talked.
The townsfolk came to Mama when their crops wouldn’t grow. They came to Nana when their goats wouldn’t behave. And they came to Meemaw when they wanted something so badly they couldn’t see straight. I was seventeen when I finally realized that what Butch had really given the women in my family was a thread that connected them with others.
But Butch’s wish had apparently exhausted itself before I was born. I had no special charm, and I’d always felt as if a part of me was missing because of it.
Moving back home to Bliss made the feeling stronger.
Meemaw had been gone five months now, but the old red farmhouse just off the square at 2112 Mockingbird Lane looked the same as it had when I was a girl. The steep pitch of the roof, the shuttered windows, the old pecan tree shading the left side of the house—it all sent me reeling back to my childhood and all the time I’d spent here with her.
I’d been back for five weeks and had worked nonstop, converting the downstairs of the house into my own designer dressmaking shop, calling it Buttons & Bows. The name of the shop was in honor of my great-grandmother and her collection of buttons.
What had been Loretta Mae’s dining room was now my cutting and work space. My five-year-old state-of-the-art digital Pfaff sewing machine and Meemaw’s old Singer sat side by side on their respective sewing tables. An eight-foot-long white-topped cutting table stood in the center of the room, unused as of yet. Meemaw had one old dress form, which I’d dragged down from the attic. I’d splurged and bought two more, anticipating a brisk dressmaking business, which had yet to materialize.
I’d taken to talking to her during the dull spots in my days. “Meemaw,” I said now, sitting in my workroom, hemming a pair of pants, “it’s lonesome without you. I sure wish you were here.”
A breeze suddenly blew in through the screen, fluttering the butter yellow sheers that hung on either side of the window as if Meemaw could hear me from the spirit world. It was no secret that she’d wanted me back in Bliss. Was it so far-fetched to think she’d be hanging around now that she’d finally gotten what she’d wanted?
I adjusted my square-framed glasses before pulling a needle through the pants leg. Gripping the thick synthetic fabric sent a shiver through me akin to fingernails scraping down a chalkboard. Bliss was not a mecca of fashion; so far I’d been asked to hem polyester pants, shorten the sleeves of polyester jackets, and repair countless other polyester garments. No one had hired me to design matching mother and daughter couture frocks, create a slinky dress for a night out on the town in Dallas, or anything else remotely challenging or interesting.
I kept the faith, though. Meemaw wouldn’t have brought me back home just to watch me fail.
As I finished the last stitch and tied off the thread, a flash of something outside caught my eye. I looked past the French doors that separated my work space from what had been Meemaw’s gathering room and was now the boutique portion of Buttons & Bows. The window gave a clear view of the front yard, the wisteria climbing up the sturdy trellis archway, and the street beyond. Just as I was about to dismiss it as my imagination, the bells I’d hung from the doorknob on a ribbon danced in a jingling frenzy and the front door flew open. I jumped, startled, dropping the slacks but still clutching the needle.
A woman sidled into the boutique. Her dark hair was pulled up into a messy but trendy bun and I noticed that her eyes were red and tired-looking despite the heavy makeup she wore. She had on jean shorts, a snap-front top that she’d gathered and tied in a knot below her breastbone, and wedge-heeled shoes. With her thumbs crooked in her back pockets and the way she sashayed across the room, she reminded me of Daisy Duke—with a muffin top.
Except for the Gucci bag slung over her shoulder. That purse was the real deal and had cost more than two thousand dollars, or I wasn’t Harlow Jane Cassidy.
A deep frown tugged at the corners of her shimmering pink lips as she scanned the room. “Huh—this isn’t at all what I pictured.”
Not knowing what she’d pictured, I said, “Can I help you?”
“Just browsing,” she said with a dismissive wave. She sauntered over to the opposite side of the room, where a matching olive green and gold paisley damask sofa and love seat snuggled in one corner. They’d been the nicest pieces of furniture Loretta Mae had owned and some of the few pieces I’d kept. I’d added a plush red velvet settee and a coffee table to the grouping. It was the consultation area of the boutique—though I’d yet to use it.
The woman bypassed the sitting area and went straight for the one-of-a-kind Harlow Cassidy creations that hung on a portable garment rack. She gave a low whistle as she ran her hand from one side to the other, fanning the sleeves of the pieces. “Did you make all of these?”
“I sure did,” I said, preening just a tad. Buttons & Bows was a custom boutique, but I had a handful of items leftover from my time in L.A. and New York to display and I’d scrambled to create samples to showcase.
She turned, peering over her shoulder and giving me a once-over. “You don’t look like a fashion designer.”
I pushed my glasses onto the top of my head so I could peer back at her, which served to hold my curls away from my face. Well, she didn’t look like she could afford a real Gucci, I thought, but I didn’t say it. Meemaw had always taught me not to judge a book by its cover. If this woman dragged around an expensive design
er purse in little ol’ Bliss, she very well might need a fancy gown for something, and be able to pay for it.
I balled my fists, jerking when I accidentally pricked my palm with the needle I still held. My smile tightened—from her attitude as well as from the lingering sting on my hand—as I caught a quick glimpse of myself in the freestanding oval mirror next to the garment rack. I looked comfortable and stylish, not an easy accomplishment. Designer jeans. White blouse and color-blocked black-and-white jacket—made by me. Sandals with twoinch heels that probably cost more than this woman’s entire wardrobe. Not that I’d had to pay for them, mind you. Even a bottom-of-the-ladder fashion designer employed by Maximilian got to shop at the company’s end-ofseason sales, which meant fabulous clothes and accessories at a steal. It was a perk I was going to sorely miss.
I kept my voice pleasant despite the bristling sensation I felt creep up inside me. “Sorry to disappoint. What does a fashion designer look like?”
She shrugged, a new strand of hair falling from the clip at the back of her head and framing her face. “Guess I thought you’d look all done up, ya know? Or be a gay man.” She tittered.
Huh. She had a point about the gay man thing. “Are you looking for anything in particular? Buttons and Bows is a custom boutique. I design garments specifically for the customer. Other than those items,” I said, gesturing to the dresses she was flipping through, “it’s not an off-the-rack shop.”
Before she could respond, the bells jingled again and the door banged open, hitting the wall. I made a mental note to get a spring or a doorstop. There were a million things to fix around the old farmhouse. The list was already as long as my arm.
A woman stood in the doorway, the bright light from outside sneaking in around her, creating her silhouette. “Harlow Cassidy!” she cried out. “I didn’t believe it could really be true, but it is! Oh, thank God! I desperately need your help!”
Pleating for Mercy Page 1
