Free A Fitting End: A Magical Dressmaking Mystery by Melissa Bourbon Page A

flattopped trunk next to the front door.
    “Stabbed,” George said to Buckley, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it.” They’d both downed glasses of sweet tea and were walking down the porch steps toward the flower-covered archway leading to the sidewalk.
    Buckley shook his head. “What a way to go. Must be a lot of sad women in Bliss,” he added. “A lot of sad women.”
    “But a lot of happy husbands,” George quipped.
    As their voices drifted away, Will opened the door and started to usher me inside. Before I could thank him for his help, a white Mercedes screeched to a halt infront of my vine-covered arbor. A woman tumbled out of the car and flew up the flagstone walkway. “Harlow,” she called, waving me down. “My dear, wait.”
    “Mrs. James.” I scrambled down the porch steps, Will on my heels. “What’s wrong?”
    “Everything,” she said, her voice shakier than a hive of buzzing hornets. “Absolutely everything.”

Chapter 8
    Will and Mrs. James sat at the round pine table in the kitchen while, ever the Southern hostess, I busied myself pouring glasses of lemonade and laying out a plate of shortbread cookies. Mrs. James cleared her throat and flicked her wrist to look at her watch. “I suppose it’s a little early, yet, but I might could use a splash of vodka in that lemonade.”
    I bit my lower lip, two thoughts racing through my head. It definitely was early in the day to be adding anything alcoholic to a glass of lemonade, but she was clearly agitated and if it would help calm her down, she was probably right. She could use it.
    The second thing was that she’d slipped from her careful senator’s wife diction to the down-home country girl she’d grown up as. “Might could” was a verb construction that I bet no other state in the union understood or used. Texans, though, could pull it off… and with finesse.
    “Will,” I said, waving him over as I shoved my glasses on top of my head to hold back my hair. “Would you…” I pointed to the cabinet above the buttercup-colored refrigerator. He was a good five inches taller than I was, which put him around six feet. Tall enough to riflethrough the few bottles of spirits I’d stashed away for special occasions.
    He tilted the bottle over the glass of lemonade, his back to Mrs. James, pretending to pour more than he actually did. He met my eyes and I gave a little nod. It was A-OK with me that he’d added only the smallest splash to the drink. Mrs. James had gone pale since she’d arrived. Half a shot of alcohol wasn’t going to fix whatever was troubling her.
    Will and I sat down at the table, sipping our own, straight lemonade. “What’s wrong, Mrs. James?” I asked. “Is it something with the pageant?” She didn’t answer, so I rambled on. “I plan on working on Libby’s dress all afternoon, and Will’s here so we can write up that pedigree thing for Gracie.”
    He raised his eyebrows at me and I shrugged. We’d have to wing it if Mrs. James didn’t find her voice pretty soon.
    She nodded absently. Her glass was already empty, only a few melted ice cubes skimming the bottom. “What is it?” I asked again. “Did something happen…? Is the senator—”
    She waved away my concern. “Jeb’s just fine,” she said, her accent softening the vowel and drawing out her words. “No, it’s worse…”
    I snuck a glance at Will, imagining for a second that he was my husband. I’d be devastated if anything happened to him. What could be worse than something being wrong with your spouse—? Oh no. “Is it one of your children? Did something happen—”
    She nodded, but said, “N-no… it’s just…” Poor woman. She didn’t know up from down at the moment. Will took her glass and refilled it, adding another splashof vodka. I leaned forward, cupping my hands over one of hers. There was only one other thing that could be upsetting her, at least that I could think of. “What is it? You can tell me,” I urged.
    The