A Fitting End: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery

“Of course it’s not,” she said, “but that’s not what I mean.”

Meemaw disappeared. A split second later, the skirt on Libby’s dress, hanging on the pulley contraption in the workroom, fluttered as a trail of misty air swooped up under it. Instantly, the bodice puffed out and filled, as if there were a person suddenly wearing the gown. Meemaw’s ghostly face appeared, the collar of her cowgirl blouse like an undergarment for the dress.

Nana started, her face draining. “You knew?” she said to Meemaw in the dress.

I stood at the French doors separating the workroom from the front room, looking from Meemaw in the dress to Nana, ashen-faced and wide-eyed—a disconcerting look from my grandmother. Mama came to stand by my side. “More secrets?” I muttered. Then to both of them, I said, “Knew what?”

But Nana didn’t answer me. Instead, she said, “She couldn’t have killed him. She wouldn’t have killed him.”

I stared at her. “How do you know?”

Nana’s hands shook. “I heard the report on the news. The man was killed between six and ten that night. Zinnia… Zinnia and I were at Miss June’s that night. We had dinner.”

“For four hours?”

Whatever color was left in Nana’s skin drained. “We had some things to discuss. A little bit of history. That’s not important,” she said, waving her hand around. “Zinnia was with me that night. She couldn’t have killed Macon Vance.”

Chapter 18

A few minutes later, Mama, Nana, and I sat around the dining table, each of us doing something to keep our hands and nerves calm. Mama held an embroidery hoop, poking her needle and floss through a muslin tea towel. Nana clicked her tiny knitting needles together, slowly working through the long row of the scarf she was making. A length of fabric spread across my lap, the mere feel of it giving me strength. We all stared at the lavender plant in the middle of the table. A wispy Meemaw hovered in Libby’s dress on the pulley, sounds slipping from her lips when she wanted to speak, but the words completely unintelligible.

“Mrs. James told me you hadn’t talked to each other since you were teenagers, ever since you fought over Granddaddy. So now you’re friends again?” I finally said to Nana. That didn’t seem quite right. I knew my grandmother, and while she didn’t necessarily hold a grudge and she could forgive, she never forgot. One time, when we were ornery teenagers, Red and I had opened the gate and let all Nana’s Nubian goats out. “We couldn’t stand the stink anymore,” we’d complained to her when she’d figured out what we’d done.

“It’s only once a year that they smell bad, poor babies, and it’s only the males.” She’d wagged her finger, scolded us like there was no tomorrow, and made sure we rounded up every last goat we’d set free. I knew she’d forgiven Red and me for our antics, but she’d never forgotten.

“‘Friends’ ain’t the right word, Harlow Jane. More like we’re stuck with each other.”

“Why would you be stuck with each other? She’s married to a senator. It’s not like you run in the same circles.”

“There’s things you don’t understand, Ladybug. Let’s just leave it at that.”

I smiled. “You haven’t called me that in a good, long while.” Not since Meemaw had first passed. Nana had given me the nickname when I’d been a little bitty thing. She’d told me stories about Granny Cressida, and I’d asked, “Where’d she go?” Nana had been tongue-tied and couldn’t explain death to a chatterbox toddler. She’d almost given up, but not a second after I’d asked where Granny Cress was now, a ladybug suddenly landed on the back of my hand.

“She didn’t go anywhere. She’s right there with you,” Nana had said, pointing to the red-and-black ladybug. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished. “Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home,” she said, laughing and ruffling my hair. “Now you’ll have good luck, Ladybug.”

Libby’s dress grew limp as Meemaw’s form slipped out of it. She floated down and hovered near me, her warmth seeping into my skin, calming my nerves. The Cassidy secrets were growing like a thatch of wild bluebonnets. Next they were going to tell me I had a long-lost sister or that I wasn’t really a Cassidy. Except of course I knew that I was a Cassidy because I was a direct descendant of Butch and was charmed. No matter who the women in our family married or what other lines mixed in, we kept the Cassidy name like a badge of honor. “Why are you stuck with each other? And why were you having a powwow when you haven’t spoken two words to each other in decades?”

Next to me, Meemaw started flickering, a low sound coming from deep in her translucent soul.

I whirled around to face her, my Southern accent thickening as the words spewed from my mouth. “What, Meemaw? You brought me back here. You wanted it and here I am, but you can’t keep secrets from me. I have a right to know what’s goin’ on. I was questioned by Rebecca Quinones and grilled by the new deputy sheriff because my sewin’ scissors”—I slammed my palm against my chest —“were the murder weapon. I heard Mrs. James arguin’ with Mr. Vance, but I’m trying to believe she didn’t do it because my gut is tellin’ me she’s innocent. If you don’t want to tell me, fine. But Nana, why does everythin’ have to be so hush-hush? You have to go to the sheriff. You have to tell them you were with her.”

Nana leaned back in her chair, sighing heavily. “It’s not that easy, darlin’. We have a pact.”

I looked at Mama, then up at my hovering great-grandmother. “Tell me, Mama.”

The stalks of the lavender plant grew soft, fanning out until the ends of each long stem arched limply toward the table. Mama shook her head, all her natural energy directed toward Nana and her secret instead of the plant. “I’m in the dark, too, Harlow Jane.”

“What do you have a pact about?” I asked Nana.

“It’s a pact, y’all. I can’t tell you.”

“We’re family,” I said.

“When you hold a secret, Harlow Jane, you have to understand the duty that goes with that confidence. You have to know whether or not it’s your secret to tell.”

“And whatever your pact with Mrs. James is, it’s not your secret to tell?”

She tapped her finger against the tip of her nose. “Right.”

I pushed my chair back and paced the dining room. “Okay, I get that,” I said, “but if it’ll help Mrs. James —”

The door to the shop flung open, banging against the chest behind it. Gracie Flores stood at the threshold, her dark hair disheveled, her face streaked with tears.

I rushed to her and wrapped my arm around her shoulders, ushering her into the shop, kicking the door closed with my foot. “What is it, Gracie? What’s wrong?”

She ran the back of her hand under her nose, dragging it across her face. Definitely not Margaret etiquette. Good thing the Lafayette sisters weren’t here to witness the raw emotions a true debutante was supposed to hide.

“All these years,” Gracie said through her sniffling. “All these years, my dad’s been lying to me.”

My stomach clenched. “About what?” I asked.

“My family.” She pulled away from me. Shoulders hunched, she walked into the workroom, absently fingering the bolts of fabric stacked on the center cutting table.

I lifted my eyebrows at Nana and Mama. Meemaw, I noticed, had vanished. We’d have to finish our little chat later.

“What about your family, Gra—”

There came the sudden braying of a goat, a commotion behind me, and Nana saying, “Thelma Louise, don’t you dare!”

Sure enough, the matriarch of Nana’s prized goat family had opened the Dutch door, nosed her way into my house, and was now nibbling on the door handle of the little storage space under the stairwell. “Shoo! Shoo!” I stomped my foot, waving my arms at the ornery goat.

Nana grabbed her by the red blinged-out collar, the same one she put on every goat in her herd. As she dragged her away from the door, I turned back to Gracie.

“I have a family,” she said. “That’s the big news.” She blew out a loud breath, as if