A Fitting End: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery

many Bliss women thought they’d stolen his heart, but Macon Vance didn’t have a heart.”

I’d heard his argument with Mrs. James. It had sounded like he had a heart to me. He’d argued over the girls in the pageant being objectified. That fact, coupled with the rumors of his romantic liaisons, was like a picnic with no fried chicken on the menu. Something just wasn’t right.

“Why would he be against the pageant?” I asked.

“Was he?” Trudy said.

“I heard something about that,” I said vaguely.

Fern reached around Trudy and pulled open the door, dismissing Macon Vance’s objection to the Margaret festivities. “He just liked to be contrary, that’s all. Now let’s get this show on the road. Without Zinnia, it’s up to us. We have a pageant to put on.”

Maybe Fern was right. Maybe Macon was just being difficult, but my intuition told me that it was more than that. His anger with Mrs. James had been strong and focused. It was about the haves and the have-nots in our town. Was he vocal enough about his objections that Mrs. James would have killed to keep him quiet and preserve the tradition she felt so strongly about? Did she believe he’d be a real threat to the pageant?

I thought back to the last time I’d seen her. Not a single fashion flash had come to me, which, now that I thought about it, was odd. Part of my Cassidy charm was that I could imagine the perfect outfits for people just by looking at them—at least that’s what had happened so far since I’d discovered my charm. The clothing I envisioned always made a person look their best, enhanced their feelings, and made them shine.

I’d gotten flashes of fashion for Mrs. James since I’d known her, but now? I had nothing. She was a big ol’ blank slate. Another shiver skittered over me. The only other time this had happened was when I’d met Nell Gellen, Josie’s maid of honor. She’d been a complete mystery. I’d had no sense of her style or what her bridesmaid dress should look like.

She’d ended up dead.

Did that mean…? I was suddenly terribly worried for Mrs. James’s safety.

I shook my head, one hundred percent sure she was innocent as I said, “She didn’t do it.”

The event room had been transformed yet again. The catwalk and lights were gone. In the runway’s place was a raised stage with a curved front. It took up about a quarter of the room, extending from the original stage and doubling its size. Enough room for the eighteen Margarets and their beaus to make their entrance and be presented.

The rest of the space was set up with round tables, with long rectangular tables off to the right for the buffet line. “I imagine the sheriff has some evidence,” Fern was saying as we mounted the steps to the stage. “You’re lucky they haven’t taken you in.”

Considering the murder weapon belonged to me.

I shook my head. “He’s got to be digging. Yes, she argued with him. Yes, her fingerprints were on the scissors. But… but…” I suddenly remembered something and snapped my fingers. “She must have handled them at my shop.”

Trudy and Fern’s faces grew tight. “She was in your shop?” Fern said, her voice clipped.

“Lots of times. Yes.” That had to be the answer. I’d go straight to the sheriff’s office when I was done here to tell him. “I’ve been working on Libby’s gown. She must have picked them up. It’s the only explanation.”

“No,” Fern said. “The other explanation is that her fingerprints are on them because she used them to kill the man—”

Why were they so ready to throw Mrs. James under the bus? “But why would she do that? And she’s smart enough to wipe her fingerprints off if she had done it.”

I couldn’t add that my Cassidy charm had convinced me of Mrs. James’s innocence. Madelyn Brighton would believe me. Nana and Mama would know I was right. But anyone else would laugh in my face. People believe in magic only when it helps them in some way, or when they’re scared. The Lafayette sisters and the sheriff didn’t want my help in proving Mrs. James innocence, and they weren’t scared.

“Sugar, you can believe Zinnia’s innocent all you want,” Trudy said, patting me on the arm and making me feel thirteen instead of thirty-something, “but Sheriff McClaine’s smart as a whip and he knows what he’s doing.”

I knew he was. We’d had plenty of differences over the years, what with my teenage escapades. Cow tipping, climbing water towers, and playing chicken with cattle meant I’d seen the inside of his office more times than I cared to remember. But he loved my mama—a recent development that had thrown me for a loop or two—and that raised him up in my estimation. I’d helped him solve Nell Gellen’s murder and that had raised me up in his estimation. He’d let bygones be bygones where my past behavior was concerned and we’d moved on. “He’ll listen to me,” I said, sounding more confident than I felt.

“You have to tell him he made a mistake,” a girl’s thready voice said from behind us.

Fern, Trudy, and I all gasped and spun around. Libby Allen, looking pale and tired, stood on the right side of the stage, a young man by her side—Duane Hughes, from the way she leaned into him. A woman crouched just behind her in the exact spot Macon Vance’s body had been. The palm of her hand lay flat on the floor. As she lifted her gaze to us, I felt battling waves of sorrow and familiarity wash over me. I knew it was Sandra Allen, Mrs. James’s daughter. I’d seen her before, I was sure of it, but I couldn’t remember when or where. Instantly, I saw her in black mourning dress, the outfit like a shroud against long-buried emotions. Oh God, if I didn’t help Mrs. James, her daughter would be mourning over her mother’s loss of freedom.

When I closed my eyes, Libby floated in my vision wearing her Margaret gown, looking confident and lovely. The image eased my mind. Libby would be grieving in my vision if something was going to happen to her grandmother. Which meant maybe Zinnia James wasn’t destined for the electric chair. So why the conflicting images?

“Libby…” As I started toward her, the woman behind her stood. The resemblance was striking. She was a younger version of Zinnia, only the strong highlights in her dark mane differed from her mother’s silvery hair.

Libby’s face scrunched, the tip of her nose turning red, her mouth quivering. “She didn’t kill him,” she said through her sobs. “Ms. Cassidy, you know her. You know she didn’t kill him.”

“Of course she didn’t, darlin’,” I said, going over to her and wrapping her up in my arms. Her bony shoulders shook as she cried.

I stroked her back and a minute later she calmed down and pulled away. She ran the back of her hands under her eyes, then under her nose.

The other woman put her arm around Libby. “I’m Sandra Allen,” she said. “It’s nice to finally meet you. My mother talks about your designs constantly.” Her smile had a bittersweet quality to it, as though she might never hear her mother raving about Cassidy designs again.

“Nice to meet you, too. I’m…” I didn’t know what type of condolences to offer a woman whose mother was in jail and accused of murder.

She waved away my fumbling words. “We’ll get through this. Excuse me, Duane,” she said, edging the boy out of the way and squeezing Libby’s shoulder. “Everything will be fine, I’m sure.”

“They think she killed someone,” Libby cried. “It’s not fine.”

Fern cleared her throat and we all turned to her. “I’m sure your mother is right, Libby—”

Trudy piped up next. “Harlow here thinks she has proof your grandmother’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon before they were used to… uh…”

Libby’s eyes lit up. “Proof?” she said, as Sandra leaned forward and demanded, “What kind of proof?”

I wanted to swat Trudy Lafayette for opening her gossipy mouth. “Not proof, exactly,” I said. “It’s just that your grandmother’s been in Buttons and Bows so many times. I think she must have picked up the scissors while she was there.”

Libby’s face fell again and Duane moved next to her. He whispered in her ear, but it didn’t help. She’d been spooked by the thought of her grandmother convicted as a murderer. Nothing her boyfriend said was likely to help.

“That’s not enough to exonerate her,” Duane said. “It’s only your word saying she touched the scissors, and I don’t think they’ll take your word since you own the murder weapon.”

I gaped at Duane Hughes. “Is that right?”

Libby managed a sad smile. “Duane’s going to be a lawyer,” she said.