Pleating for Mercy amdm-1

by Melissa Bourbon

  Pleating for Mercy

  ( A Magical Dressmaking Mystery - 1 )

  Melissa Bourbon

  All the Cassidy women possess special gifts. Harlow Jane Cassidy's is creating beautiful dresses. But she's about to discover secrets in her own family and another gift-one that can reach beyond the grave.... When her great-grandmother passes away, Harlow leaves her job as a Manhattan fashion designer and moves back to Bliss, Texas. But soon after she opens Buttons & Bows, a custom dressmaking boutique in the old farmhouse she inherited, Harlow begins to feel an inexplicable presence.... One of her first clients is her old friend Josie, who needs a gown for her upcoming wedding. But when Josie's boss turns up dead, it starts to look as if the bride-to-be may be wearing handcuffs instead of a veil. Suddenly, Josie needs a lot more from Harlow than the perfect dress. Can Harlow find the real killer-with a little help from beyond?

  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.

  Copyright © Melissa Ramirez, 2011 All rights reserved

  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. T
he 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 designer 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!”

  Chapter 2

  I knew that voice. Recollection tickled the edge of my brain. I forgot about Daisy Duke and walked toward the door. It took a second, and then it came to me. Josephine Sandoval. She’d been a year behind me in elementary school and had spent second grade following me around telling me that she wished she could be part of the Cassidy family. “Josie?”

  She stepped inside and I could see that she was nodding, but before I could get a look at the woman Josie’d grown to be, two more women elbowed their way in behind her, shoving her forward. Her feet tangled and she lost her balance, crashing into me.

  My arms flew up to block the impact, but she kept coming. I felt resistance as the needle I was still holding plunged into her arm.

  She screeched. “Ow!”

  “Oh! Oh!” I pried her grip from my arm, pushed her off of me, and pulled the tip of the needle out of her flesh. Her hand flew up and a cluster of beaded bracelets slid down her arm as her fingertips pressed against the microscopic wound.

  A cacophony of high-pitched voices came all at once. “Are you all right?” one of the women asked, her voice rising above the others. They’d surrounded us like clucking hens.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said, backing away from me. “Are you okay, Harlow?”

  I looked around for a place to ditch the needle. There was a puffy pink pincushion on top of the antique secretary desk just outside the workroom. I d
idn’t remember setting it there, but I quickly stabbed my needle into it and turned back to the women. “I’m okay.” I squinted at the bubble of blood on Josie’s arm. “Do you need a bandage?”

  She shook her head. “It’s fine.” Her face broke into a toothy smile. “I can’t believe it’s really true. I told Loretta Mae how great it would be if you came back. We talked about it just before she passed.” She paused, quickly crossing herself, from forehead to breastbone, left shoulder to right. “God rest her soul.” She hurried on. “She came into Seed-n-Bead—that’s where I work—and I told her I wished you would come back to Bliss. And do you know what she told me? She said, “Josie, honey, don’t fret. Harlow’s on her way back.”

  I stared. “Really? She said that?”

  “Exactly that,” Josie confirmed. “I’m not surprised she was right. She was always right.”

  More proof that Loretta Mae Cassidy really did have the gift of foresight and knew what would happen long before it ever did.

  I’d listened intently to Josie’s rapid narrative, all the while taking a better look at her. She was a little shorter than my five feet seven inches. Her coffee-colored hair hit just past her shoulders. She had full cheeks and was rounder than I remembered, and also prettier. She was very Jennifer Lopez, all womanly curves, and those curves were in all the right places.

  The other two women looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place them. “This is Karen,” Josie said, gesturing to the shorter woman on her right, “and this is Ruthann.” Ruthann unwound the Grace Kelly scarf she had draped over her head and tucked it into her purse. She was tall, probably five feet eleven inches. Perfect bone structure and not an ounce of fat on her body. She could have made it as a model if she’d been twelve instead of thirtysomething. Karen, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. Five-five, round, but without the perfect curves that Josie was blessed with, and flyaway hair that hadn’t been protected from the wind.