Authors: Melissa Bourbon
Deadly Patterns
Praise for the
Magical Dressmaking Mystery Series
A Fitting End
“Plenty of family secrets and intrigue . . . a fun book.”
—Fresh Fiction
“The perfect blend of dressmaking and intrigue.”
—Sew Daily
Pleating for Mercy
“Enchanting! Prepare to be spellbound . . . by this well-written and deftly plotted cozy. It’s charming, clever, and completely captivating! . . . Loved it!”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity award–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
“A seamless blend of mystery, magic, and dressmaking, with a cast of masterfully tailored characters you’ll want to visit again and again.”
—Jennie Bentley, national bestselling author of
Mortar and Murder
“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
Also Available in the Magical Dressmaking Series
Pleating for Mercy
A Fitting End
Deadly
Patterns
A MAGICAL DRESSMAKING MYSTERY
Melissa Bourbon
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Melissa Ramirez, 2012
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ISBN 978-1-101-60461-8
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.
Chapter 1
Forrest Gump’s mama always said, “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.”
In my family, it was my great-grandmother who had an oft-repeated phrase. Loretta Mae Cassidy always said, “Life is like a mess of buttons. Every time you put your hand in the button box, you find a new treasure.”
Wasn’t that the truth? A year ago, I’d been celebrating the holidays holed up in New York designer Maximilian’s sewing room as one of his seamstresses, sipping eggnog at the company party and singing punch-drunk, Southern-accented, off-key renditions of “Frosty the Snowman” with my roommate and fellow minion, Orphie Cates. Now I was back home in Bliss, Texas, planning a Winter Wonderland fashion show and coordinating arrival times with Santa and his reindeer, trying desperately to communicate with my not-so-dearly-departed great-grandmother, Loretta Mae, and solving the occasional murder.
Sometimes I was tempted to turn on the worn heels of my favorite red Frye cowboy boots and hightail it back to Manhattan, but really and truly, Texas runs through my blood. After all, Butch Cassidy was my great-great-great-granddaddy, and he bequeathed to me a goodly number of genes and the family charm as well.
As I drove through the town square, I reveled in Bliss’s abundant holiday spirit. Evergreen garlands wound around the streetlamps. Little brick houses twinkled with white lights. A giant crèche, complete with all the Nativity characters, was on display in front of the courthouse on the square. Storefronts sparkled with holiday decorations, and the strains of Christmas carols sounded everywhere you went.
Bliss, Texas, at Christmastime is like a village straight out of a Dickens story—with Southern flair.
I turned off Maple Drive and onto Mayberry, and smiled to myself. Small-town dramatics aside, this place was magical.
I drove Meemaw’s beat-up truck, rumbling past Craftsman-style homes, brick Tudors, and baby Victorians, finally stopping in front of the old Denison mansion. Zinnia James, the wife of Senator Jebediah James, and my biggest fan, had arranged a meeting here to nail down the final details of the Winter Wonderland fashion show. It was the culminating event of the three-day holiday celebration, and I, being one of the newer residents in town, had been roped into taking on multiple roles: decorator, seamstress, designer, and, well, basically Jill-of-all-trades. Whatever Mrs. James needed, I’d help with.
As I entered the historic district, I recalled what Will Flores, city architect, my personal handyman, and the father of my apprentice seamstress, Gracie, had said about the Denison mansion.
The Victorian had been the home of one of Bliss’s founding fathers, Charles Denison, back in 1897. Outlaws, gold, and moonshine were all part of the house’s history. The Denisons and the Kincaids, the other founding family in Bliss, had been oil and gas partners back in the day.
Until one day in the early 1900s when Justin Kincaid won the Denison mansion in a poker game. The friendship went south right along with the Denisons’ marriage. Part of the Winter Wonderland festivities would be the grand reopening of the historic house after decades of neglect.
I made a U-turn, rumbled up alongside the curb, and threw the gearshift into park. Climbing out of the old truck, I buttoned up my coat. “Santa must have left the barn door open up in the North Pole,” I muttered.
The clouds in the overcast sky ballooned above me as I looked up at the stately Victorian with its widow’s walk and turrets, wraparound porch, and coral and teal color palette. When I was little, the house had been a run-down eyesore, but now the painted lady would reclaim its place as the centerpiece of the historic district. It had eventually been sold to the city by the Kincaids after spending decades on the market with no takers. Too much of a renovation project, I guess, but the Bliss Historical Society was finally wrapping up the transformation and the house had recently been added to the town’s historical record.
“Right on time.”
I jumped and slammed my hand to my heart. “Lord, Mrs. James! I didn’t hear you come up.”
The woman was quieter than Meemaw, and that was saying a lot, since Meemaw was currently a ghost living with me in my old yellow farmhouse.
Mrs. James laughed and squeezed my arm with her gloved hand. “Bless your heart, Harlow. I didn’t mean to startle you. And let’s just stop with the formalities, dear, do you hear? We’ve been through enough, you and I, that you should call me by my given name.”
I swallowed. I was thirty-three, but being a Southerner meant showing respect. “I don’t know if I can, Mrs. J—”
“Nonsense,” she scolded. “Of course you can. It’s Zinnia from now on. Now, we need to get that ugly old sign down.” She pointed to the
ABERNATHY HOME BUILDERS
placard lashed to the wrought-iron fence surrounding the house.
There was no arguing with her. She was stubborn as a mule. “Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Jam—, er, Zinnia.” I’d try to call her by her given name, but in my mind she would always be Mrs. James.
“It’ll have to be cut off,” I said, making a mental note.
She fluttered her hand. “Later then.”
I pulled my knit hat down over my ears, but they still felt frozen. I’d hand-tailored my rose-colored wool double-breasted coat, fringing the edges of the matching wool belt and lining it with black satin. But on a day like today—blustery and damp—it was more pretty than practical.
Most people believed Texas didn’t ever get cold. They were dead wrong. South Texas, maybe, but North Texas? The frigid cold made your fingers numb, chilling you to the bone.
“We’re in a heap of trouble if it rains,” I said, looking up at the darkening sky. A streak of light bisected the clouds just before a deafening crack of rolling thunder sounded.
Zinnia looked unfazed. “You know what they say about Texas weather,” she said.
I did indeed: If you don’t like it, wait five minutes and it’ll change. “The forecast says it may even snow before Friday.”
“And wouldn’t that be delightful?” she said, patting her immobile mound of silver hair. “We get a sprinkling of white powder nearly every year. Why not now?” She gave a practiced smile, just wide enough not to crack the thick layer of makeup she wore. Mrs. James was nothing if not the quintessential Texas politician’s wife. Eternally, if artificially, young, and eternally optimistic. “A winter wonderland,” she said. “We picked the perfect theme. Couldn’t have planned it better if we’d had a chat with the good Lord himself.”
There were no other cars on the street, and no one was waiting on the porch. “Am I early?” I asked, glancing at my watch. My great-grandmother had taught me to be punctual, but Southern time was often laid-back and imprecise.
“Helen should be along in a few minutes.” She looked up at the old house, frowning. “I figured Arnie Barnett and some of his men would be here finishing up.”
Barnett Home Restoration had been in charge of transforming the interior of the home while Abernathy Home Builders had done the structural and exterior work. And from what I could see, it had been done perfectly. When I closed my eyes, I could imagine the dirt streets bustling with horse-drawn carriages and the house, in its prime, looking just as it did now.
We passed through the wrought-iron gate and started toward the Victorian’s porch steps, but Mrs. James paused, gazing up at the second story. My own gaze stopped at the tiny circular porch on the roofline at the right corner of the house. Texas was far from the New England coast and there were no ships to watch for, but the widow’s walk lookout was ominous, just the same. Another jolt of lightning brightened the sky, thunder booming after it. A chill swept up my spine. I’d never had to worry over a loved one coming home, but my great-great-great-grandmother, Texana Harlow, had when Butch Cassidy had left her, pregnant, and escaped to Argentina.
“Let’s get inside,” Mrs. James said, pulling me into motion again just as a heavy drizzle started. As we hurried up the front steps and under the protection of the porch roof, I shivered. Snow would give a nice ambience to the Winter Wonderland event, yes, but a thunderstorm? It was risky, at best, to hold a December fashion show outdoors, but between the both of us, we’d tried to cover all of our bases.
Mrs. James turned the knob on the front door—and when she found it locked, she knocked. While we waited, she rattled off the list of everything that would protect us from impending disaster. “Not to worry, Harlow. We have an enormous weatherproof tent, heat lamps, a covered walkway between the house and the tent, extra umbrellas, salt—which, by the way,” she said, dropping her voice as if she were imparting a great secret, “I had to get Earl Messer over at the hardware store to order special for me.”
“I’d have thought he k-kept some in stock,” I said through my chattering teeth. “You d-don’t have a k-key?”
“Lost it.” She knocked again and then said, “Some, yes. Thirty bags? No.”
That made sense. I’d lived in New York for a good many years, but unless it was a hurricane or a blizzard, rain and snow didn’t slow folks in Manhattan down one little bit.
But here? When the freezing rain turned to ice on the streets, the whole town shut down.
“The fact that I have all these bags of salt is insurance that we won’t actually get any ice, Harlow. It always works out that way. Mark my words.”
Even though it didn’t make a lick of sense, I thought she was probably right. Anytime I’d bought extra fabric, or a pile of notions, just knowing I was going to have a use for them real soon, they ended up stashed away in a bin just taking up space. Which, in Manhattan, had been precious. I’d shared a tiny loft apartment with Orphie, and we’d barely had room to breathe, let alone hoard swatches of linen and cotton and silk.
“Harlow Cassidy, you’re a million miles away.” Mrs. James laid her hand on my arm again and I could feel the warmth of her seep through me.
“Just thinking about New York.”
“Well, don’t do that. You’re back home where you belong, just like your great-grandmother wanted.” She paused for just a second before adding, “I’ve been meaning to thank you for taking on so much responsibility with the Winter Wonderland. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Sure you could have, Mrs. J—”
“Phft!”
“I mean . . . Zinnia. I’m grateful for the work.” Building a custom dressmaking business from nothing was difficult under the best of circumstances, but in a town as small as Bliss, it was downright scary. I was living from design job to design job, and hemming polyester pants and altering men’s suits wasn’t near enough to live on.
But Mrs. James, my unofficial benefactor, wanted Buttons & Bows to thrive, so she’d thrown a heap of work my way, most recently asking me to do everything I could to make the Winter Wonderland fashion show a smashing success. “It’s your first Christmas back in Bliss since Loretta Mae passed. We need to ring in the holiday with cheer. Working with you is a pleasure, Harlow.”
The sky flashed with lightning, another rolling wave of thunder cracked, and a downpour started, buckets of rain gushing from the clouds. I squared my shoulders and shoved my hands deeper into my pockets. “You’re right. Weather be damned. This fashion show is going to be perfect.”
Despite Mrs. James’s heavy makeup, the cold weather made her papery skin even more translucent. It tightened up, pulling taut over her cheekbones. Although she was one of those ageless beauties, the Botox and fillers that I knew she used really did smooth out pesky wrinkles, as I’d recently learned.
She pounded her fist on the door, giving it one more shot. Still no answer. “Why isn’t Arnie Barnett or Dan Lee Chrisson here?” she demanded, as if I had the answer to that. I didn’t have much personal experience, but I knew that contractors were notoriously unreliable.
I turned and peered up and down the street, trying to see through the sheets of rain. “Mrs. Abernathy’s not usually late, is she?” I called over the sound of water banging against the porch’s roof.
Her smooth brow furrowed for a second and her voice grew testy. “She is this time. Fifteen minutes now.”
Zinnia James didn’t like to be kept waiting. Mrs. Abernathy didn’t either, so her tardiness was unusual.
But a few minutes later, the beam of headlights coming down the street broke the bleakness of the stormy afternoon. A car screeched to a stop in front of the house and the driver’s door was flung wide, a sturdy green and white umbrella popped open, and Helen Abernathy, of Abernathy Home Builders, hurried up the steps to us. “Quite a storm,” she said, panting and pausing just long enough to fold up the umbrella, shake it, and plop it into a basket sitting to the right of the door.
She nodded to me, her thin lips curved into a polite smile. “Harlow.”
“Afternoon, Mrs. Abernathy,” I said, but she’d already turned away, plunging a key into the lock, water cascading off her beige raincoat. She stepped into the house, Zinnia and me on her heels, and she shut the door against the raging storm outside.
“Much better!” she shouted, immediately correcting the volume of her voice. “Much better.”
“Stuck in the deluge?” Mrs. James asked, her eyes a little pinched at having to wait.
“The traffic light on Henrietta Street is out,” Mrs. Abernathy said.
Huh. “Really?” I said. “I just came over on Henrietta. Not a soul on the street and the lights were working fine.”
She leveled her cool gray eyes at me. “You know how it is around here. The power goes out so randomly. It can be on at our house, but the neighbors next door are on a different grid and theirs will be off.”
Mrs. James notched her thumb in the general direction of the backyard and Henrietta. “Are you listing a house over there?”
Mrs. Abernathy gave a restrained little laugh. “My, but aren’t the two of you inquisitive. We’re doing renovations on a place over there, Zinnia. We’re working with Arnie and Dan again. They did wonderful work here. It’s still in the early stages,” she added, “but by late spring they ought to be all set.”
She slipped her raincoat off and hung it on one of the hooks on the antique coat tree, pausing to look in the mirror and smooth her windblown blond hair. Her black slacks and boxy cream blouse did nothing for her robust figure. I had a mental flash of her wearing an asymmetrical lavender sweater, buttoned at the top, and instead of the square blouse, a tailored cut with darts and a flared hem.