Josie and I made awkward, idle chitchat as I tidied up my workroom, adjusting the size of my most utilitarian dress form so I could make any other minor alterations to Gracie’s gown. I yanked down the pulley contraption and made another inspection of Libby’s dress, bustling the back before releasing the lock and letting it slowly return to its place at the ceiling.
Josie gazed in awe at the device. “You’re a clever woman, Harlow,” she said before she left.
I shut the door behind her, trying not to dwell on her skittish backward glance as she hurried down the porch steps and across the flagstone path. Instead, I wondered if I was clever enough to figure out what had gone on among my grandmother, Mrs. James, and Eleanor Mcafferty so many years ago, and how it was connected to what was going on today.
As soon as the garden gate closed behind Josie, I rushed to the lookbook, still on the coffee table, and flung it open, flipping through the pages until I found the one I was sure Meemaw had opened it to earlier. If this was a message, I didn’t understand.
“Meemaw?” I looked around, but there was no sign of her. The pages held pictures, sketches, and details of a special collection I’d designed on my own time while I’d worked for Maximilian. I’d ordered all my fabrics from Emma One Sock, a one-stop online shop for designer fashion fabrics, had used a selection of middle-aged women in my SoHo neighborhood, and had created an artsy collection with Marrakesh-style two-toned caftans, hooked-back tunics, and relaxed caravan pants. SoHo Chic for women who wanted to grow older with grace.
Finally, unable to decipher the message—if there even was one—I closed the book, got up, and headed back into the workroom. “I don’t understand, Meemaw,” I muttered as I pulled out my pattern paper, measuring tape, ruler, and Mrs. James’s measurements. I’d made her an outfit for a summer fund-raiser a while back. If anything, she’d lost a few pounds in the last couple of days, but that was easy enough to work with. It was easier to take something in than make it bigger.
I still didn’t know what Meemaw was trying to tell me. I didn’t know what could have happened with Nana, Mrs. James, and Eleanor Mcafferty that would have resulted in a torn gown. And I had no way of helping Mrs. James get of jail other than to make her the perfect outfit and hoped things improved from there.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Chapter 23
I dove headlong into a tiered dress for Mrs. James. I studied my sketch, tapping the end of my pencil against my cutting table, erasing, redrawing, and erasing again. The bodice was all wrong. I’d started with a scoop neck, something different from the typical button-up blouses the senator’s wife usually wore. But after seeing one of the SoHo Chic designs, I realized that she wore them because they flattered her, and I switched to a faux wraparound bodice attached to a three tiered skirt. A ruched, banded waist, lined bodice, and zip back finished it off.
“Huh.” The sound of my voice seemed to bounce off the dress form in the corner, off the corkboard with sketches I’d done and wanted to make into samples, off the Mason jars filled with buttons and ribbons. Here I’d thought Meemaw was trying to give me a message about the murder, but now I knew it had been about the dress for the senator’s wife. How Loretta Mae had known I couldn’t quite envision Zinnia James’s perfect outfit, I didn’t know, but it was clear in my head now thanks to her.
My mind wandered as I shaded in the design with a blunt blue colored pencil. I ran through my to-do list:
1. Write Gracie’s pedigree.
Now that I knew what her family history actually was, it had me in a bit of a quandary. What had Macon Vance said to Mrs. James? Something about forging credentials like a lawyer who hadn’t passed the bar. He’d compared it to a Margaret with no pedigree—like his daughter, Libby.
“No wonder she doesn’t look anything like her father,” I muttered. “Poor Libby. Poor Steven.” I sighed. “Poor Macon Vance.” Had he wanted to know his child, or had he wanted money? Either way, he hadn’t deserved to die the way he had.
2. Finish the Margaret gowns. Libby’s was almost done. Gracie’s needed some TLC, but I’d have it wrapped up in no time.
3. Do what I could for Mrs. James by making her this dress. Which meant I would be pulling an all-nighter.
4. Figure out just what Gavin McClaine knew about the Cassidy women, and decide what to do about it.
5. Meet with the Lafayette sisters to go over final details for the pageant and the dress rehearsal.
Now to prioritize the list. I was meeting with Fern and Trudy in a few hours. The rehearsal would take place in the morning and would eat up a good half of the day. Which meant the Margaret dresses needed to be done before then. D.O.N.E. So number two moved to the top of the list.
Another visit to the sheriff’s office seemed in order. I could stop by to visit Madelyn and find out just how widespread superstitions about the Cassidy clan were. Maybe Gavin would be there. Two birds with one stone.
Will could help with Gracie’s pedigree. I’d stop by his place on my way home from the sheriff’s station. I sat back, closed my eyes, and just like that, Mrs. James, decked out and looking like a vision in the dress I’d created, popped into my head. She looked fresh and rested again, fully recovered from the ordeal of being in jail. Her arm was draped around Gracie, looking equally perfect in her Margaret gown. Libby suddenly appeared, her shoulders thrown back and her head held high. Three for the price of one. I knew I was on the right track with all of their outfits.
An hour later, I was in my zone at my worktable, Libby’s dress floating above me, hunched over my sketchbook. One by one, I’d drawn the pattern pieces I’d have to create to make Mrs. James’s dress a reality.
“Harlow!” Nana’s voice shot through the house like a bullet. I jumped, my pencil sliding across the page and leaving a dark line in its wake.
“In the workroom,” I hollered back as I flipped my pencil upside down and erased the mark.
Nana padded in, her white socks gleaming. She wasn’t much for kisses and hugs, but she squeezed my shoulder—almost hard enough to make me wince. All the work over the years on her goat farm had made her strong as an ox. “Whatcha doin’, Ladybug?”
I pushed my sketchbook over so she could see the drawings I’d been working on. That’s when I saw it. A little red-and-black ladybug flittering around the room. “Granny Cress,” I whispered. “She’s here.” I flicked my eyes to where the ladybug had landed on Nana’s shoulder, suddenly understanding that this was how Granny Cress stayed with us.
Nana peered down, looking at it long and hard. A ripple passed over the ladybug’s body and I held my breath, half expecting it to morph into my great-great-grandmother.
But the rippling stopped. There was no morphing. Goose bumps rose on my arms, though, as it turned its bulbous body like it was looking at me, but then it crawled onto the finger Nana held out, flapped its wings, and flew out the window.
I rushed to the window, banging my hip against the corner of the cutting table on the way. “I never knew…” I said, trying to catch another glimpse of the ladybug.
“Our charms are a might persnickety,” she said, as if that explained everything. Then she turned to my sketchbook. Her lips puckered as she leaned closer, studying the various angles I’d done of the ruffle tiered dress, before raising her eyes to mine.
“This is for Zinnia, isn’t it?”
The way she leveled her steady gaze at me sent me reeling back to when she’d caught me marching around her property playing my school-issued recorder. No matter what note I played, her herd of goats refused to follow me. She’d snatched the recorder from me and bam! “You can’t force a charm on yourself, Harlow Jane,” she’d said. “It’ll come. Just be patient.”