“Sell her clothes, Madeira. It’s time for me to let her go.”
For the first time ever, I felt sorry for Councilman McDowell.
“What about her quilt?” Werner asked. “It’s evidence, but you’ll get it back, eventually, or Madeira will, since she gave it to us.”
McDowell paled. “I saw Gary in prison last night for the first and last time. He told me more than I wanted to know until I walked. Destroy the quilt.”
“But it’s a masterpiece that Isobel created,” I said. “Let me donate it in her memory, naming her as the artist, to a quilt or textile museum.”
“I never want to look at it, again. I don’t want to know where it ends up. And its history stays buried.”
“Done.” I looked at Werner. “I’m thinking that the Pucci bag is going the same route.”
When Eve came in, Werner and McDowell left.
“Hey, peg leg,” she said. “They’re letting you go. Your father and Fiona are in the hall. I’ve got your clothes.” She held up a paper grocery bag. “Don’t scream, and I’ll help you get dressed.”
Everything she’d brought me was black, no purse in sight.
Forty-four
Goddesses live in the heavens. They do not stand, they do not walk, they glide and sway. The goddesses are laughing and balance on heels as slender as the tip of a little finger.
-LOLA PAGOLA
Opening day arrived in a flurry of activity, but I was amazingly ready for it, thanks to my family and friends.
Though I had sent an invitation to my former employer Faline, a world-class designer, I did not expect her to take any part in my grand opening. So, talk about a shock. Not only did she show, she was the first one in the door that morning, and she brought fashion, television, and movie icons, vintage collectors, and with them, the kind of press money could not buy.
Vintage Magic was about to buzz the New York fashion world. Oh, she had an ulterior motive, countering the “feral cat” stories that proliferated about her after I resigned. I’d heard them. But hey, if she wanted to prove we were still friends, fine, as long as she wasn’t my boss.
Moneyed vintage clothes hounds and glittering personalities who brought fame wherever they went were literally shopping in my shop because of her.
“Faline, I can’t thank you enough for this.”
“Thank you for going along with it. I owe you. We’ll do lunch the next time you come to New York?”
“Fashion week?”
“I’ll get us tickets. First row, beside me?” Faline purred.
I danced a mental jig. “Absolutely.” I needed to keep my finger on the pulse of the fashion industry, and she’d just offered me a rare and impressive “in.”
The media blitz they brought alerted the locals who loved to rub elbows with the stars. My shop rocked, literally.
Councilman McDowell held an impromptu press conference out front—surprise!—but he talked about me. Go figure.
Now the last of my customers, the ones who were coming to the Circle of Spirit ball in an hour, dressed as film stars, were getting ready in my dressing rooms.
The media went ballistic when Scarlett O’Hara came out wearing a gown made from Tara’s drapes. “Fiddle-dee dee,” Aunt Fiona said. “I’m so glad that I came to Vintage Magic.”
Under the eye of those cameras, my grand opening reminded me of a fashion week extravaganza where each gown shone more spectacular than the last and everyone looked like a celebrity.
Even some of my old friends from New York attended the grand opening and the ball sponsored by the White Star Circle of Spirit, Southeast Connecticut Chapter. Mock movie stars mingled with the real thing on my crowded second floor before the doors officially opened.
I’d chosen to wear Isobel’s Lucien Lelong gown, the one she wore for her portrait, as my way of setting her free, especially here, where positive energy could envelop her spirit. Of course, it had the advantage of covering the cast on my leg, though nothing could hide my crutches, nor my inept use of them. Nevertheless the Schiaparelli pansy evening bag from the thirties hanging from my wrist helped to pretty up the crutches a bit.
When Councilman McDowell arrived, minus his killer wife—awaiting trial in jail, because he’d refused to post bail—I doubted the brilliance of my costume choice. He came toward me as if I were wearing a homing device.
“I’ll change,” I said when he reached me.
“No, don’t.” He took my hand. “You look beautiful. I didn’t think anyone else could do it justice. I was wrong. Isobel would want you to have and wear it. In a way, you helped me find her. She’s at rest now. I am, too. Seeing you in her gown helps. Thank you.”
“No press tonight?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’m not running anymore, not from my past and not for office. Enjoy,” he said, kissed my hand and disappeared into the crowd.
Dante appeared. “Did you have to sell my extra tuxes? Six other men are dressed like me. Don’t I feel special?”
“It’s not like anybody can look down their noses at you,” I said as I hobbled on my crutches toward the window. “Look. You’re about to feel very special. My father and Aunt Fiona are bringing Dolly inside.”
“Are you sure that’s Dolly? Her earth body looks pretty worn out.”
“I’m sure she’d agree.”
Cleopatra, high priestess of a local coven, stopped beside me. “Madeira, this is wonderful,” she said.
“I’m so happy that you’re enjoying yourself.”
Dante watched her go. “I don’t ever remember reading that Cleopatra carried a broom.”
I turned to enjoy the colorful display of costumes and decorations. Open wooden caskets on pedestals had pots of bittersweet and Chinese Lanterns, gifts from McDowell, inside. They protected my sewing corner from the dancers, and my walls of colorful trims looked like part of the decorations.
I’d used many of those trims as I improvised on some costumes, like Scarlett’s and Cleo’s. Others fit the chosen “actresses” beautifully, like Harlow in draped white silk as a fallen angel. Loretta Young draped in forties blue as the bishop’s wife.
Audrey Hepburn wore a little black dress, long black gloves, and used a cigarette holder, a la Breakfast at Tiffany’s . Another Audrey hailed from My Fair Lady at Ascot in black and white.
Madonna looked cool in her corset top and pointy boobs. Cher wore a scanty white gown with plenty of cleavage and an elaborate headdress that I made with an old turban covered in rows of new beaded overlong fringe that covered the wearer’s brow and touched her shoulders.
Many of the “stars” wore striped stockings, but they weren’t the only ones carrying brooms. One called herself Sandra Bullock from Practical Magic. Another, Elizabeth Montgomery from Bewitched. Glinda the good witch from The Wizard of Oz waved.
I’d sold two of the outfits that I’d bought in New York at some point, and one each from Vivienne Westwood’s Witches and Pirate collections, but the movies the owners claimed they belonged to escaped me at the moment.
Of course not everyone wore my clothes. Some had created their own costumes. And not everyone carried a broom; mostly the members of the Circle of Spirit did, except for Aunt Fiona.
She and my dad finally got to the top of the stairs with Dolly Sweet in her Katharine Hepburn gown from the wedding in The Philadelphia Story.
When Dolly got to me, she put her hand to her heart. “Isn’t he beautiful in that tux and top hat?”
“Which one?” my father asked.
Only Fiona and I knew that Dolly was talking about Dante, coming her way.
“She’s not too steady tonight,” Aunt Fiona said. “I think we should bring the fainting couch back up for her.”
I snapped my fingers. “What a great idea.”
I signaled for our small band to stop playing, and I took the mike. “Can I ask for a few gentlemen volunteers to bring up the fainting couch from my sitting room downstairs?”
Enough men went down so
my father didn’t have to let go of Dolly, and just as well.
“Thank you, cupcake,” Dolly said. “What an incredible evening. I can’t believe that Ethel thinks she’s too old to enjoy this. Well, her loss. You’ve done wonders with this place. How did you get that delicious detective to let his officers guard everything downstairs?”
“The officers are off duty. I’m paying them tonight. And that delicious detective is dancing with Eve. They came together.” Eve had warned me that Werner asked her. She wanted to make sure I didn’t mind. Why would I?
Dolly giggled. “I think he has a crush on you.”
“Dolly Sweet, don’t you go starting any of your old ru mors,” Nick said.
I squealed as he leaned in and kissed me, his hand sliding down my back. “Hi, gorgeous. Nice crutches.”
“God bless us, every one!” I quipped, before his lips met mine once more.
I loved the way Nick could eat me up with his gaze and make me promises at the same time. Shiver.
He kissed me a third quick time. “Thank God you’re safe. I don’t know every detail yet, but I’m shaking in my wingtips.”
“Who are you?” I asked. “The Clyde half of Bonnie and—?”
“No, silly. I’m a Fed. Same movie.”
Dolly laughed harder than any of us. The fainting couch arrived just in time, because the old girl couldn’t breathe and laugh at the same time.
“Do you think she’s all right?” my father asked as we walked away. “She’s talking to herself.”
She was talking to Dante, of course, her debonair suitor, sitting at her side, kissing her hand.
“You’ll talk to yourself, too,” Aunt Fiona said, “when you’re a hundred and three.”
I urged them toward the dance floor. “Go ahead, you two. Take advantage.” I turned away so my father could put his arm around Aunt Fiona without feeling guilty. I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about them as a couple, I just knew that Harry Cutler had seemed more alive lately than he had in years. Mom would surely approve of that.
Nick got an old stuffed chair in good condition from the storage room for me to sit on, while he sat on the arm and knuckled my nape, shivering me to my toes.
Dante stood in the middle of the dance floor and made a sweeping motion with one hand that sent the band’s music fluttering as if in a cool breeze.
The bandleader raised his baton, and they played “Hawaiian Wedding Song.”
I sat forward. “That wasn’t on my playlist.”
Dante took the hand of a beautiful young woman wearing the wedding gown from The Philadelphia Story.
My throat closed, my vision blurred. “Nick, Dolly’s not breathing.”
He ran. I called 911, my hands shaking, my emotions mixed. I didn’t want to lose her, but how could I take her away from her love?
The way she and Dante waltzed and looked into each other’s eyes, you’d think this was their wedding day.
Members of the Circle of Spirit moved to the side. Many saw Dante and Dolly as I did. Those who did cheered and raised their broomsticks to stir the air. As they did, my trimmings and laces flew from their bobbins like colorful streamers rushing forth to circle and curl above and around the young lovers.
Dolly laughed up at Dante. Utterly romantic.
He kissed her and kissed her.
And she disappeared from his arms.
I glanced over at the fainting couch. Nick was cradling Dolly, talking to her, and I could see her nodding absently as she turned toward Dante on the opposite side of her.
Fiona and my father came to me. Fiona had, of course, seen what happened.
“Walk me over there, will you?” I asked them.
“How are you, Dolly?” I asked when I got there.
“Full of anticipation,” she said, and she winked.
A Tip for the Vintage Handbag Lover
PETIT POINT SCARLET FLORAL ON LUSH BLACK
Purchased at the Cottage in Amesbury, Massachusetts, a bag that came from a former handbag museum in Maine, this structured handbag is startlingly beautiful in full black with a gorgeous red floral centered front and back.
At nine inches high, it’s eleven inches wide at the top and twelve inches wide at the bottom, covered by a black trellis-like background, front and back. The trellis is either petit point or applied with a fine, thin band of petit point-like trim. I can’t tell which.
As far as the petit point, front and back, the center is a top-to-bottom oblong trellis that takes up one-third of the bag, the trellis itself centered by a Jacobean bouquet of three red flowers, each with a black center. Either side of the trellis is plain black.
This handbag closes with a swirling, floral clasp that is one and one half inches wide and three quarters of an inch tall, as beautiful and ornate as a gold floral broach.
Inside, the bag is lined in black satin with a zipper pocket and an open pocket. The zipper pocket is lined in pink tricot. There is no maker’s name in the handbag. The straps and bottom are likely a quality mock leather. The flat bottom is twelve inches wide and four inches deep. It has four gold feet.
I haven’t been able to find this specific bag in either Anna Johnson’s Handbags: The Power of the Purse, Judith Miller’s book Handbags, or anywhere on the web. However, judging by the embroidered purses of this style, with a costume jeweled clasp, and taking the tricot into consideration, I’m dating it as coming from the sixties or seventies.
This handbag can be seen at
www.annetteblair.com.
Make Your Own Clutch
AN ENVELOPE PURSE FOR THE NON-SEWERS AMONG YOU
Pick out an envelope, either a number ten, business-sized envelope, or an envelope that came with a greeting card. Try to pick one with a wide overlap. This will be your pattern, so it should be a size that you’d like to carry as a purse.
Take the envelope gently apart and lay it out on a piece of self-binding fabric or leather—black, natural, colored, your choice—just make sure it can be cut cleanly without the need for hemming.
After your leather envelope has been cut out, fold it the way the envelope was folded. Purchase fasteners at your local leather or fabric store that you think will add to the charm of the design. Make sure they’re small enough to fit the width of the overlap. Rather than gluing your leather envelope clutch together, use fasteners, about a half inch apart, or closer, to attach the front.
To fasten the envelope point to close your leather bag, choose snap fasteners, Velcro, or magnetic fasteners. If you use Velcro, make sure the sticky side will adhere to leather.
Floral pieces of leather can be added with the fasteners as centers for decoration. The fasteners alone could also be applied in other locations and designs to give your clutch character.
An alternative to the design is, of course, to sew the leather envelope together for a clean look. Try sewing it with contrasting thread.
A sample can be seen at
www.annetteblair.com.
Turn the page for a preview of the next Vintage Magic Mystery by Annette Blair
Death by Diamonds
Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!
One
Women dress alike all over the world: they dress to be annoying to other women.
—ELSA SCHIAPARELLI
Vintage Magic is my shop for designer vintage fashions and designer originals. When I arrive every morning, I can’t believe I’m looking at my dream come true.
I faithfully believe every customer who tells me that my restoration of the funeral chapel carriage house added a certain cachet to the charm of historic downtown Mystic.
I believe it and I wallow in it.
The designer originals I sell are my own, under the Mad Magic label. You see, I’m an escapee from the highest levels of the New York fashion industry. You can call me Mad, or Maddie, unless you’re my father, Professor Harry Cutler, in which case you will call me Madeira whether I want you to or not.
As for the Magic, I’m also my mot
her’s daughter, not a witch, precisely, but I have a whole psychic thing going on that feels like magic, which I evidently inherited from her. I can’t ask for confirmation. She died when I was ten.
So, vintage clothes occasionally speak to me, often about dead people. I see snippets of greed, jealousy, hate, revenge . . . motive. But since it’s been quiet on the vision front for a couple of months, I’m hoping that was only a phase.
As I parked in my lot, my best friend Eve’s Mini Cooper sat beside a Wings overnight delivery truck. Eve, aka, the Man Magnet, had already taken to charming the driver’s socks off.
“Hey,” I said, when I joined them. “Am I late?”
“No, I’m early,” Eve said. She handed me a caramel latte and the morning paper, signed for, and accepted, the box from the driver, then slipped her business card into his pocket. “Later,” she said with a wink.
I don’t know if he winked back. His billed cap was tilted forward to shade his face, his jacket collar stood high and zipped tight, and his dark glasses protected him from . . . snow glare?
We watched his truck turn onto Main Street and disappear. “You’re my idol,” I said. “Did he join your stud of the month club?”
“He will.”
In the shop, Dante Underhill, former undertaker and hunky house-bound ghost, waited for our morning chat. Nothing like catching up on seventy years worth of gossip.
Today, however, he saluted and disappeared. Eve couldn’t see him, and since she could get a bit edgy where ghosts and magic were concerned, I’d never told her about him.
None the wiser, she relaxed in the chair Dante vacated to read the morning paper while I opened the box. Leery about touching a potential vintage item, because of my visions and the murders they’d dragged me into, I carefully parted the layered tissue.
I recognized the dress immediately but could hardly believe my eyes. Some years ago, in fashion school, I won the opportunity to design this awesome gown, trimmed in pricey cubic zirconias, for an actress, now a dear friend. But since she collected designer clothes, I couldn’t imagine why she sent it to me.
Larcency and Lace Page 21
