A Fitting End: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery (12 page)

“Meemaw?” I whispered.

The swirling air slowed at the sound of my voice. I stretched my arm out, taking a step forward. I’d been communicating with Meemaw for months, but only through symbols and signs. I’d speak and suddenly pages of a nearby book would flip back and forth, letters and words lifting off the pages as I interpreted her response. I’d need a particular spool of thread or my scissors, and—
voila!
—what I needed was suddenly in front of me. She anticipated my needs and had become my confidante. Somehow that had seemed reasonable. Soothing.

But watching my deceased great-grandmother take on a physical form wasn’t quite so comforting.

“Meemaw,” Mama said to the wraithlike shape in front of us. I squinted, watching it until I could make out
faded blue and burnt orange. She’d been buried in her jeans and a snap-front blouse, a good choice since it looked as if she’d be spending the hereafter in her favorite outfit.

“I was beginning to think you’d never show yourself,” Nana said. “What took you so long?”

I shoved my glasses up the bridge of my nose, gaping at my mother and grandmother. “What?”

But they ignored me and focused on Loretta Mae’s ghost. “Are you all right, Mother?” Nana asked, moving past me and reaching toward the apparition.

Meemaw moved in response, her whole wispy body nodding, but then she flickered, looking just like Princess Leia’s hologram sprouting from R2-D2 when she’d said, “Help me, Obi-Wan. You’re my only hope.”

“What’s happening?” Mama asked, rushing forward, tears streaming down her face. “Meemaw?”

Meemaw’s ghostly figure quivered again, disappearing for half a second before reappearing. The edges of her form grew fuzzier, and the moments she wasn’t there, compared to the moments we could see her, seemed to stretch.

“She can’t do it,” Nana said, shaking her head. “She’s not ready.”

“But it’s been months,” Mama said.

I stared at them, and at Meemaw’s flickering shape. “What are you talking about?” I demanded.

Suddenly, like a bubble popping, Meemaw was gone. As if on cue, the pipes in the ceiling creaked, the door slammed against the chest again, the ceiling fan spun, and the sheer curtains fluttered.

“She’ll be back,” Nana said, walking toward the kitchen, but her shoulders slumped.

“Wait a sec, Nana. You knew Meemaw would… would…” I went after her, catching her arm. “Would come back from the dead?” Was she back from the dead, caught in some sort of purgatory, or haunting us? Or maybe she was like a guardian angel. That was the explanation I preferred. “You knew she was here?”

Nana shook her head. “I knew she
wasn’t
here, but I’ve been waiting.” She turned back to the place the billowing figure of my great-grandmother had just been.

“What do you mean you’ve been waiting?” I looked from Nana to Mama, not even bothering to hide the shock on my face. “You knew she’d become a ghost?”

Nana took my hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “It’s the Cassidy way, Harlow.”

“For the women, anyway,” Mama said.

“Right. Poor Red.”

“Wh-what do you mean, it’s the Cassidy way?” I sputtered. After thirty-three years, how was it possible that, every day, I seemed to learn something new about my family?

They sat me down at the kitchen table. “I don’t know what kind of spin Butch put on that wish he made in that fountain,” Nana said, “but it was a doozy. When a Cassidy woman passes on, she doesn’t really pass on all the way. She stays right here, kind of like a guide for the ones who are left behind.”

“Like an angel, then?” I asked.

A chunky strand of Nana’s hair had broken free from her ponytail. She hastily tucked it behind her ear as she sat back against the ladder-back chair, the snaps of her blouse pulling open between the closures. “More like a ghost, I reckon, but you can call it whatever you want.”

My head felt full of cotton. “Wait,” I said, her words
finally sinking in. “You said when a Cassidy woman passes on, she doesn’t go all the way.” I pressed my fingers against my temples, trying to grasp the big picture here. It was one thing to be charmed, but quite another to know you were going to be a ghost. “Do you mean
all
the Cassidy women?” The ones who’d come before me, and… and… the ones in this room right this minute?

Mama and Nana nodded. “My grandmother, Cressida, died when I was just a little bit of a thing,” Nana said, “but I still grew up with her. She was right here, every single day.”

“When I came over here to see Meemaw,” Mama said, a dreamy lilt to her voice, “Cressida would sing lullabies to me. It was like she’d wrap me up in a blanket and lull me to sleep.”

They went on, remembering the ghostly presence of Cressida, Butch Cassidy’s daughter with Texana, my great-great-great-grandmother, until I thought my head would explode. “How could you not tell me all of this?” I finally blurted. “I’m a Cassidy. I have a right to know if I’m going to come back as a ghost.”

Nana
tsk
ed me. “Hush now. It’s better to discover something like this naturally. Would you have believed us if we’d told you Meemaw would come back as a spirit? That we
all
will?”

She had a point. I’d had a hard enough time understanding that Cassidy women were charmed, and that I hadn’t been blessed with a special gift. It wasn’t until I’d worked on Josie’s wedding gown that I realized I
did
have a charm. But ghosts in my family? That was something altogether different.

I needed time to think. Time to process. Time to summon Meemaw—just her and me—for a one-on-one, tell-
it-like-it-is session. Thelma Louise tapped her nose against the windowpane as if she could read my mind and knew just what I needed.

“Coming, Sweet Pea,” Nana called to the matriarch of her herd. “I’ll be back later,” she said over her shoulder as she padded to the kitchen. She slipped on her Crocs and with a backward wave of her hand, she was gone.

“How can we get her to come back?” Mama mused, more to herself than to me.

“Maybe we should have a séance,” I said, only half sarcastically. Surely there had to be a technique or a way to summon a ghost.

“Bite your tongue.” Mama’s cell phone rang. She pulled it from her jeans pocket, holding it as she said to me, “Knowing we’re charmed is one thing, Harlow, but the people here would run us out of town if they knew the Cassidy women would be back to haunt them from the ever-after. No. No séance.” She pushed the
ON
button and turned away from me.

No séance, I thought, more dejected than I’d imagined I’d be. Which meant we’d have to sit around and wait while Meemaw figured out how to communicate with us. I wanted answers, and I didn’t want them on slow-mo Texas time; I wanted them in a New York minute. I wanted… Madelyn Brighton. Of course!

The Englishwoman had been one of the first people I’d met when I came home to Bliss. She was a Jill-of-all-trades: part-time photographer for the town, freelance photojournalist, wannabe medical examiner, and expert on all things supernatural… including a strange but thorough knowledge of the Cassidy family.

For years we’d worked hard to keep our charms under wraps in a sort of
don’t ask, don’t tell
kind of way.
People sort of
knew
there was magic going on, but they didn’t ask questions because magic didn’t really exist in their minds. It was just easier not to admit the truth.

But Madelyn Brighton and her supernatural society had a fascination with all inexplicable things and I suddenly felt very sure that she’d be able to help me communicate with Meemaw. If only I knew how to broach the subject.

A peck on the cheek brought me out of my thoughts. “We’ll talk about this later, Harlow,” Mama said. She put her cell phone away, took another look around the room before heading to the front door, and then, almost like Meemaw’s disappearing act, she was gone.

The room where my grandmother and mother—and the ghost of my great-grandmother—had been minutes before, was now utterly empty and quiet. I sat in silence for ten minutes, waiting for Meemaw to reappear. She didn’t.

I glanced at the clock. Time had flown and now I was due to go meet the Lafayette sisters. I couldn’t make my great-grandmother show herself, but I could finish the job I’d promised to do for Mrs. James. Manifesting my best Scarlett O’Hara, I told myself I wouldn’t think about Meemaw and ghosts anymore right now; I’d think about it all tomorrow.

But as much as I tried, I couldn’t get Meemaw and her wispy figure off my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that the Margaret pageant was going to be held where Macon Vance was murdered. And as these two things rattled around in my brain, it suddenly hit me.

Nana had never answered my questions about who’d worn the third Margaret dress from the armoire and what story it might tell.

I mulled it over on the drive to the country club, finally muttering, “What happened that night?”

I’d already gathered that there was some big secret that Nana didn’t want to talk about, and it was evident that Meemaw had appeared at just the right time to deflect attention away from the armoire and the Margaret dresses. What was the big deal about those dresses? I was determined to find out.

I spotted Trudy and Fern Lafayette the second I pulled into the country club’s parking lot. They’d cornered two men just outside the pro shop. I immediately recognized them—Dr. Hughes and George Taylor—from meeting them recently at my house. Trudy Lafayette, in her white linen Bermuda shorts and pastel pink polo shirt, had one hand on the men’s golf cart, the other pinching the bridge of her nose.

My truck rumbled to a noisy stop next to a tricked-out silver Ford F-150, the Texas version of a sports car. My old pickup, compared to the pristine truck next to me with its custom rims, bumper bra, and taillight covers, rubbed in that I was a have-not in Bliss, and always would be. Seeing Will’s neighbor brought Gracie to mind. She was a have-not, too, but being in the pageant may help her find a place in the middle, between the two extremes.

I stepped out to hear the doctor saying, “This will be my son’s second year as a beau.” A proud smile crossed his lips. “I never would have thought he’d like the whole thing, but he does.”

“It’s a might hard not to like tradition,” Fern said. “Who’s Duane partnered with?”

“Elizabeth Allen,” Buckley said. “Quite a good family. I wouldn’t mind seeing that relationship bud, if you know what I mean.” He winked, but Fern frowned at him. Apparently she didn’t want to talk about young love, no matter how good the families were.

I took my time gathering my replacement sewing bag and sketchbook so I could walk into the country club with the Lafayette sisters. Finally, after a bit more pageant chitchat, the doctor cleared his throat. “Good to see you ladies,” he said. “We don’t want to miss our tee off. Miss Lafayette,” he said, looking at Trudy. “I’ll see you at seven.”

Trudy nodded. “Oh, yes. All the hullabaloo with the festival this year has done a number on my head. I’ll be there with bells on.”

Fern shook her head, her gaze moving from Trudy to the men. “Daggum risky, if you ask me.”

Trudy shot her a scathing look. “Good heavens, Ferny,” she said, turning her back on Fern. “It’s the only thing that works and you know it.” To the men, she said, “Fern doesn’t get headaches. They’re my burden.” She pressed her finger to the space between her eyebrows.

“Miss Trudy,” George Taylor said with a wink. “You sure you don’t want to have a night out on the town with me, instead? I just bet a little honky-tonk would take care of those headaches.”

A blush rose up Trudy’s neck, shading her cheeks the same soft pink as her shirt. She giggled like a school girl. “Why, Mr. Taylor, how you do go on,” she drawled. “But no, Dr. Hughes takes care of things just fine.”

“Well,” Fern said, the sternness back in her voice. “
I’ll
be home finishin’ the gowns for the pageant.”

Trudy swatted her sister on the arm. “Those dresses, much as I love ’em, are doing me in, Ferny.”

It hadn’t seemed like that when I’d toured their studio, but maybe Trudy’s headache hadn’t been quite as bad at that point.

Fern turned away, muttering under her breath as I approached. I lifted my hand in a wave. “Afternoon,” I said, hoping the conversation wouldn’t turn to Macon Vance being stabbed with my scissors.

It didn’t. George and Buckley waved as they directed the golf cart toward the course and slowly rolled away.

“You’re always welcome, Ms. Lafayette,” the doctor called over his shoulder to Fern. “You, too, Ms. Cassidy,” he added, waving.

“Okay,” I called, but I had no idea what he’d just invited me to. I raised my eyebrows at Trudy and Fern in a question.

“It’s a party,” Trudy said. “I go for my headaches, but you know how us Texas women like to be all prettied up. Took a while for people to warm up to the idea, but Dr. Hughes is up on all the latest beautification techniques. He usually has a masseuse for these parties, and once he even had a pedicurist there.” She glanced at her sister’s shoe-covered feet. “I enjoy a pedicure every now and again, but Ferny won’t go near them. Her feet are better off covered up,” she added.

Fern frowned. “Trudy, hold your tongue.”

“It is an open-door party,” Trudy said to me, ignoring her sister. “Come on over for a pedicure. It’ll get your mind off things.”

“Massages and pedicures help with your headaches?” I asked, feeling like I was missing something.

“Oh, lordy, no. It’s an injection. Botox. He gets the nerve right here,” Trudy said, touching a spot just under the inside of her right eyebrow. “It takes a few days, but
it relaxes that nerve and I’m good for a long while.” She batted my arm. “Come on, now. Even your great-grandma, Loretta Mae, came around to a party every once in a while.”

I stopped in my tracks. Or I would have if I’d been walking. “Meemaw? She did?” Meemaw’d always said that she wore her signs of age like badges of honor. Each bit told a tale and to erase them would mean erasing a part of her life. Did she think we’d be able to read her secrets, whatever they were, right there on her face?