A Fitting End: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery

dressed to the nines, would watch their daughters make their formal entrance into polite society.

“You’re a natural,” I said, following her back down the catwalk. “You sure you were never a Margaret?” Of course I knew Josie had never participated. Neither one of us had the pedigree. Josie came from a working-class, immigrant mother, and I was descended from an outlaw. Not quite debutante material.

“Positive,” she said. “But my daughter, if I ever have one? She’ll be a Margaret.” She whirled around and wagged a finger at me. “Which reminds me. I want you to pencil that in. Little baby girl Kincaid. Margaret dress. Date unknown, but whenever she’s sixteen, I want you making her dress. Deal?”

I eyed her stomach. Josie was shorter than me and curvy in all the right places, but I didn’t detect even the slightest bit of a baby bump. “Josie, you’re not—?”

She waved away the very idea. “Not yet. Give a girl a chance to be married for a few months, would you?”

I laughed. “Take all the time you need. Rest assured, baby girl Kincaid, sixteen plus years from now, will have a gorgeous Margaret gown handmade and hand-beaded by Harlow Cassidy.”

I’d been commissioned to make three dresses this year—at a cost of nearly fifteen thousand dollars each and with a nice profit built in—including one for Zinnia James’s granddaughter, Libby. The wealthy residents of Bliss spared no expense for their daughters’ pageant gowns. The first two dresses were done, and I was thrilled with how they’d turned out, but I was struggling with Libby’s.

And being summoned to the club by Mrs. James was interfering with my precious sewing time… time I couldn’t afford to squander.

“Right,” Josie scoffed. “You’ll be so famous for your couture clothing that my poor baby girl’s gonna have to get her dress made by one of the Lafayette sisters. They’re old now. In sixteen years, they’ll be ancient.”

I didn’t want to be famous. Able to make a comfortable living doing what I loved— that was my goal. “They still look good, but sixteen years is a long time. I’ll save the date for your not-yet-conceived daughter.”

“Good,” she said with a satisfied nod, twirling around and curtsying for the empty banquet room. “Now, what do you think the senator’s wife wants to talk to you about?”

“I was just wondering the same thing.” It was freaky how Josie could read my mind sometimes. We’d reconnected only a few months ago, just before her wedding to the town’s most eligible bachelor, Nate Kincaid. Her sparkly personality and infectious smile had helped her win Nate’s heart; plus she had breathed new life into Seed- n-Bead, the shop she now owned on the town square. It had also made her my confidant since I’d moved back to Bliss. I’d never really had a best friend, but Josie—and Madelyn Brighton, the catch-all photographer for Bliss and a connoisseur of all things supernatural—was pretty close. “And I have no idea. It was all very clandestine. The note was in my mailbox. No stamp, so she hand delivered it.”

“Aha,” Josie said, wagging her index finger at me. “She had someone else deliver a note to you. She is the type to have other people do her bidding. So basically, you’re her lackey.”

“I’m not her lackey,” I said. But actually, the thought had occurred to me. “Mrs. James loves Buttons and Bows. She comes in all the time, for the smallest little thing. She brought me a special piece of silk ribbon a few days ago. Said it had been her grandmother’s hair ribbon and she wanted me to somehow use it on Libby’s dress.”

“Oh, like something borrowed, something blue.”

“Exactly.”

She glanced at my brown and white Dena Rooney-Berg bag sitting back on the stage. You could just see the orange handles of my Fiskars poking out through the open zipper. “Does she want you to do a fitting, or something?”

“No, I did an alteration job over in Glen Rose.” I pushed my glasses onto the top of my head and added, “A fashion emergency. The woman is part of a skit at her family reunion tonight, and the dress didn’t fit.”

“I might need some alterations on my clothes, too, if I don’t quit eating all the pastries from Villa Farina,” Josie said, patting her behind.

I laughed as I maneuvered myself off the runway. I changed the subject. “Did I tell you that Mrs. James and my grandmother were friends when they were kids and that they actually fought over my grandfather?”

She gaped at me—a full-on chin drop that left her mouth wide open. “No, really? Like in a if Mrs. James had won his heart instead of Coleta, you wouldn’t have been born kind of way?”

As I nodded, a noise from behind caught my attention. I turned just as a black, square box sitting on a card table softly whirred to life. The cord snaked down from the machine and attached to a heavy orange extension cord that disappeared behind the newly installed black ceiling-to-floor curtains.

The mechanism of the machine, visible through a wide cutout, held something yellow. It began a slow rotation and—

“Bubbles!” Josie giggled, reaching up to catch one in the palm of her hand when they drifted our way.

Muffled footsteps came from backstage, growing louder as the bubble machine settled into maximum output, letting out a silent stream of glistening soap spheres.

Suddenly a man’s voice, curt and tinged with judgment, carried out to us. “It’s a might early for that, isn’t it?”

There was a surprised gasp, then a woman said, “I believe in being prepared.”

“That’s Mrs. James,” I whispered to Josie. The senator’s wife had a commanding and easily recognizable voice. She was all business, in a Southern lady kind of way.

“I thought it was a pageant, not a monkey show.”

I would have said fashion show, but I’d thought the very same thing. The catwalk was all wrong for the event. There would be a pageant, during which Mr. and Mrs. Allen, Mrs. James’s daughter and son-in-law, would play the esteemed roles of Sam Houston and Margaret Moffette Lea. The society girls and their beaus would be escorted out, and they would all perform several elaborate and authentic dances for the audience. “We need the stage, but not the runway,” I said to Josie. “But,” I added, “they could use this catwalk for the winter fashion show. Mrs. James mentioned her plans to me a while back.” I kept my voice low. “A winter wonderland theme featuring the women of Bliss. She wants me to be in charge of it. This exact catwalk will be perfect for that.”

Josie’s olive complexion sparkled, suddenly lit up from inside. “A fashion show? That sounds divine! Can I be in it?”

“Shhh!” I held my finger to my lips, flicking my gaze backstage. Even though Josie and I had been here first and I’d been summoned, I suddenly felt like we were intruding on a private conversation. “You’re married to the former most eligible bachelor in town,” I whispered. “Heck, in all of Hood County. I’m sure you’ll be the main attraction.” Even without the gold band on her ring finger and Nate Kincaid on her arm, Josie was a picture of loveliness. She glowed. I liked to think it was the magic I’d sewn into the seams of the wedding gown I’d made for her, or the dreams I’d infused as I painstakingly looped each thread through each individual bead.

“Why are you here?”

I jerked at the harshness in Mrs. James’s voice, whipping around to face her. But she wasn’t talking to us. She was still hidden behind the velvet curtains.

“She’s talking to him,” Josie said under her breath.

Now I really didn’t want to be here. My heart slid from my throat back down to its proper position and I was about to tell Josie we should skedaddle, but the man’s voice shot out again. “I’ve been waiting,” he said. “Unless you don’t want this thing to go on as planned.”

Mrs. James scoffed. “Oh, it’s happening, whether you approve or not. Now, you may leave.”

There was a heavy pause. Josie and I looked at each other, both of us with raised eyebrows and pinched lips. They sounded madder than a barrel of trapped water moccasins.

Finally, he spoke again. “Sam Houston was married three times—is that somethin’ to be proud of? Do you really want these girls to be someone’s third wife? Children should be raised by their parents. That’s what we should be modelin’, not this… this… this.”

“Isn’t that calling the kettle black,” Mrs. James snapped. “If you believed that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

I told myself that eavesdropping was bad, but I was riveted. Pageants, big hair, and a love of Sam Houston were practically Texas requirements, but this guy didn’t buy into it.