There was bound to be something in the jar that would work. I went back to Gracie and the wardrobe.
Crouching down in front of the lock, I peered at it, gauging which needle might possibly work to disengage the lock. I started with a tatting needle. It was long and had the same thickness for its entire length. Even so, it was too short.
“Try this one,” Gracie said after I dropped the tatting needle back into the jar.
“The blunt-tipped tapestry needle.” It looked to be a size 13, the largest width available. “Good choice.” Gracie was a natural. But was she a natural seamstress, fingersmith, or locksmith—that was the question. As I plucked it from her open palm, I suddenly knew what it must feel like to be a surgeon asking his OR nurse for a scalpel or clamps. Sewing wasn’t the same as surgery, but just like in the medical world, the variety of tools at a dressmaker’s disposal was vast.
I carefully poked the needle into the keyhole of the armoire’s lock and wiggled it. Around and around the needle went, but still, I couldn’t find the mechanism.
“I can try,” Gracie said.
I was learning to expect the unexpected in Bliss. Just a few months ago, I’d found myself smack dab in the middle of a murder case. Small towns, it turned out, were just as dangerous as the big city. Teaching Gracie to disengage a lock could be considered a life skill. I held out the tapestry needed, but she shook her head, holding up the longest upholstery needle instead.
“Wise, your choice is, my young apprentice,” I said with a wink.
She laughed. “That was the worst Yoda I’ve ever heard.”
I tossed my twin ponytails over my shoulder with as much mock indignation as I could muster. “Maybe, but I get an A for effort.”
She sank to her knees, but the needle slipped from her fingertips just before she could plunge it into the lock. She grumbled, scrambling to find it. “There you are,” she said, but the needle had rolled into the crevice between two of the wooden floorboards and she couldn’t get it out. I handed her the tatting needle so she could pry the first one free. A few seconds later, she was ready, and this time she held her grip as she plunged the needle into the lock. She wiggled it around for a good minute before sitting back on her heels, sighing in frustration. “I don’t think this is going to work.”
Yeah, I was beginning to think the same thing. “Let me try one more time.” I took her upholstery needle in one hand, my tapestry needle in the other, and jabbed them both in at the same time. A cold breeze floated over me. A shiver ran down my spine. I peered at the window, but I already knew it was sealed shut from the last time Meemaw had had the house painted. Saving money until Buttons & Bows really took off meant that, although it was hot, I was running the air conditioner as infrequently as possible. It wasn’t on at the moment. Which left only one explanation. First the jar of needles stuck to the shelf; then Gracie’s butterfingers with the needle and the stubborn lock on the armoire. Finally, the cold air, when normally Meemaw surrounded me with a pocket of warmth. She was here, and she didn’t want me to open this cupboard for some reason.
“You’re not going to stop me,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing,” I said to Gracie. “Just talking to the lock.” I rotated the needles around and around and around, unwilling to give up. I had no idea why Meemaw wouldn’t want me to see what was inside, but she’d transferred the deed to my name the day I was born, and everything in the house was now mine. She had to have known I’d go through the attic eventually.
I wiggled the needles some more, poking them in and out and moving them all around. Finally, one of them landed in a crevice. I sucked in a surprised breath, then froze, afraid that if I moved, the needle would fall out of the lock mechanism. Slowly, I readjusted my hold on the upholstery needle, holding it firmly in place. With my left hand, I carefully moved the tapestry needle, trying to maneuver it into the same hole as the other one.
My fingers started to cramp. Perspiration beaded on my forehead. One of the needles slipped. “Damn.” I muttered under my breath, carefully working to try to find the hole. I kept at it, but didn’t make any headway. “I give up,” I finally said, then suddenly blurted, “Oh. Oh!” as the tapestry needle slid into the hole beside the upholstery needle.
Like a kangaroo, Gracie bounced up and hovered by my side. “You got it? Is it opening?”
I bit my lower lip, closing my eyes to try and feel my way. Still moving the needles around, this time within the hole, I tried to find a way to disengage the lock.
Gracie sucked in a breath, holding it as she batted her hands against her thighs. “Harlow, is it working?” she said after a loud exhale.
The heavier, blunter needle finally landed on a raised piece within the mechanism. I pushed, depressing the tiny movable button. The lock clicked and disengaged. “Take hold of the handle,” I whispered, afraid that if I spoke too loudly, the needle would lose its precarious hold on the button.
Gracie reached over my arm and grabbed the brass pull-tab handle.
From somewhere behind us, the steady clomping of footsteps sounded.
Gracie shivered as another cold breeze blew by us. “What is that?” she said, peering around her. “The air’s not on.”
I shrugged, playing it off. “Old houses. You know.”
“Right. Like the creaking pipes. This place is totally haunted.”
How right she was.
The footsteps behind us grew closer. I felt my grip on the two needles slipping. “Open the door, Gracie,” I urged.
“Hello?” Will’s voice cut through the atmospheric silence of the attic and then, suddenly, he was behind us. “What’s going on?” he asked, just as his daughter swung open the armoire door and we both squealed. “This the piece you want moved downstairs?”
I nodded as a little gust of air blew through the dank room, catching the left door of the armoire and swinging it closed. I grabbed it, opening it again and holding it firm. “Nice try,” I murmured under my breath so only Meemaw would be able to hear me. The fabric I remembered being in the cupboard was no longer there, and for the life of me, I couldn’t imagine why my great-grandmother, Loretta Mae Harlow Cassidy, wouldn’t want me to see the three stunning and painstakingly detailed gowns that hung on the wooden rod before me.
“Wow.” Gracie stared at them, awestruck, like she’d discovered Cinderella’s gowns.
“Yeah.” I stared. They were beautiful, each one different from the next, unique, ornate, and made from the finest fabrics and trims.
“Kind of old-fashioned, aren’t they?” Will said.
Both Gracie and I peered up at him, frowning. Just like a man not to appreciate the beauty of a period gown. “Yes,” I said, “but that’s the point.” A few months ago I’d learned from Mrs. Zinnia James that my own grandmother had been a Margaret in her day, but she wouldn’t have needed three dresses. Who else could they belong to? I knew my mother hadn’t been in the pageant, but had my great-grandmother, or her mother, Cressida? “They’re replicas from the 1800s,” I said. “They’re supposed to be old-fashioned.”
Gracie stood back, her lips pulled to the side. I’d learned over the last few months that this was her deep-in-thought expression. She raised her hand like she was in class. “Why did your great-grandmother lock up the cupboard?” she asked. “Ooo, ooo, ooo! Do you think they could be stolen?”