Pleating for Mercy

the privacy screen.

I peered at him. Why was he averse to using my first name? “No, no more unexplained drafts,” I said. I knew exactly what was causing them now—her name was Meemaw—but I kept this tidbit to myself.

He stayed on the shop’s side of the French doors—chivalrous through and through—and adjusted the cowboy hat perched on his head, flashing a grin that said I told you I’d be back. “Gracie,” he said, “this is Harlow Cassidy.”

I was distracted by his hat. Most Texans had at least two: a straw hat for everyday wear and a leather or felt one for fancier occasions. Will’s was black straw. He was a cross between Tim McGraw and Toby Keith, with those intense eyes, a swarthy complexion, and the swagger to pull it all together.

I’d seen him twice now and I couldn’t help but wonder how much hair he had under the hats he wore. A full head, or was he a thirtysomething balding man trying to hide the evidence?

“So you’re making a wedding dress?” Gracie rubbed her hands together in front of her, then clasped them. “That’s so awesome!”

I felt I could almost see into her soul through her wide, glowing eyes. She looked like I felt being back in Bliss—all enthusiasm and spirit and energy. If I were to make her an outfit, it would be a lovely sheath dress beneath a whimsical, flirty sheer top layer embossed with tiny hearts. She had a touch of the romantic in her personality and I wondered what she wished for when she was alone.

“She’s making the most beautiful dress in the world,” Josie said, stepping out from behind the screen. Her eyes were still puffy from her earlier tears, but she looked better than she had this morning. It was as if the wedding gown was already bolstering her spirits.

“I can’t wait to get started.”

I froze, only my gaze flying from Gracie to her father. “Get started . . . on what?”

Chapter 21

“Loretta Mae said I’d be helping you.”

My brain suddenly turned slushy. How did we get from sewing lessons to collaborating on a wedding dress? “She did?”

Gracie’s hair swept over her shoulders as she gave an enthusiastic nod. “Kind of like your assistant! Isn’t that so cool? I just can’t believe my first project gets to be a wedding dress.”

“Whoa, m’ija.” Will wrapped his hand around his daughter’s arm and pulled her back toward him. “Lessons, remember? That’s what the deal was. I do a little work on the side here, and you get to hone your craft.”

Gracie nodded. “I know, but Loretta Mae said I was born to be a—”

The pipes above us groaned with a loud clanking sound that drowned out Gracie’s words.

“Sorry—I couldn’t hear,” I said. “What did Loretta Mae say?”

“She said I was—”

The pipes rumbled, louder this time, and it sounded like an angry foghorn.

I stared at the ceiling. Meemaw. I had a feeling my great-grandmother wasn’t going to let me hear just what, exactly, she had told Gracie. “You’re diabolical,” I muttered under my breath so Josie, Will, and Gracie couldn’t hear me. But I knew Meemaw did when the pipes gave a final rolling boom before settling back into silence.

Will tilted his head back, studying the ceiling. “Hiring a plumber might not be a bad idea.”

I started to wave away the suggestion, but remembered the kitchen sink and changed my mind. “Are you offering—”

He threw his hands up. “Whoa. I’m not a plumber, I’m a—”

The pipes moaned again, louder this time.

Gracie leaned back against her dad, a spasm of concern crossing her face. She looked up at the ceiling like she was afraid the pipes might burst any second and shower us all with rusty water. “That sounded bad.”

“This old house just has . . . spirit,” I said. To myself I added, And her name is Loretta Mae. A rattling, like heavy chains being dragged across a sheet of metal, came from the kitchen.

Gracie’s face turned pale. “Dad . . .” she implored.

“I’m not a plumber—”

“But you can still fix it, right?” She arched her neck back to look at him. “Please?”

The adoration of his daughter and her faith that he could fix anything wore him down. Plus she snuggled up under his arm when the pipes howled again. “I’ll put it on the list,” he said.

She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a hug, exhaling her relief. “Thanks, Dad.” She looked at me. “Doesn’t that freak you out?”

Another clank came from the kitchen and the fine hairs on the back of my neck stirred. Meemaw’s spirit was as feisty as she had been in life. “They’re just harmless pipes,” I said loudly enough so she’d hear me, wherever she was.

Josie appeared from behind the privacy screen, looking a little bewildered. She was fully dressed and had her purse slung over her shoulder.

How in the world had she gotten out of the muslin? The only way was to . . . “Oh, no. Josie. You didn’t undo all the pins, did you?”

“I didn’t touch them.”

“Then how—”

She handed me the mock-up. “It just sort of . . . opened up and let me out,” she said, as if it was completely normal for pins to undo and then repin themselves, which we both knew wasn’t possible.

I stared at the muslin. I hadn’t finished marking the left side with my dressmaker’s marker, but it was done now, the line continuing from under the arm to the waist. Even the darts were marked.

Josie looked spooked and ready to hightail it out of here, but she stopped to chat with Gracie. “I didn’t know you sewed.”

“Oh, I love it,” she said. “I plan on being a designer, just like Harlow.”

Their conversation floated around me. I vaguely registered Will giving Gracie a peck on the cheek, then waving as he headed out the door, but everything else had faded as I considered a new idea. The sheriff thought the murder weapon might have come from my shop. If it had been taken by someone who’d been in Buttons & Bows that day, had Meemaw seen it happen?

Did she know who the murderer was?

Chapter 22

Karen and Ruthann were due to arrive for their fittings any second. I couldn’t delve into a project with Gracie until later, so I brought in the bag of buttons and trims Karen had swept up after Nell’s run-in with the shelf. I gave her three clean mason jars: one for buttons, one for trims and bows, and the third for whatever else she found that didn’t fit in the other jars. “Watch out for any chunks of glass,” I warned, “and put those straight into the trash.”

She didn’t seem to mind the menial task. She sat cross-legged in the corner, spilling the contents of the plastic grocery bag onto the floor in front of her, clearly just happy to be in the workroom. We chatted about school, sports, boys, Project Runway, and whatever else crossed her mind.

I pulled out another bolt of muslin and flipped the page of my sketchbook to the bridesmaids’ designs.

“I go to school with Holly Kincaid,” she said.

I slipped my glasses off and gave the lenses a quick wipe. “Who?”

“Holly Kincaid. Your friend who was here, Josie, who’s marrying Nate Kincaid? That’s my friend Holly’s uncle.”

“Ah, Miriam’s daughter.”

She nodded.

“And Miriam is Nate’s sister, and Nate’s marrying Josie, so Josie will be your friend’s aunt.” Small town