By Melissa Bourbon
Whilst her great-grandmother passes away, Harlow Jane Cassidy leaves her activity as a new york clothier and strikes again to Bliss, Texas. but if she opens a dressmaking boutique within the turn-of-the-century farmhouse she inherited, Harlow senses an inexplicable "presence". Her previous good friend Josie orders a dress for her upcoming marriage ceremony, but if Josie's boss turns up useless, Harlow has to discover the killer-with a bit support from past.
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Additional info for Pleating for Mercy (Magical Dressmaking Mystery, Book 1)
I wouldn’t be shocked if the sheriff desires to take a better examine your stitching offers, Ms. Cassidy,” she acknowledged. there has been a snarky little side to her tone that made me imagine she knew whatever I didn’t. “Why? ” I acknowledged, hesitating. Why used to be the sheriff the following, besides, and what wanted dusting? Rebecca Quiñones stared at me. “You suggest you haven’t heard? ” I seemed round, noting the unusual mixture of somber voices and bustling job. without notice, I felt like I’d been transported again to the porch of 2112 Mockingbird Lane, staring at against the law scene spread in entrance of me. a similar feeling I’d had then—one of helpless shock—came over me. It couldn’t occur two times, may possibly it? now not one other . . . homicide? “Heard what? ” I acknowledged, my voice as somber because the newscaster’s expression. “The golfing seasoned, Macon Vance. ” She pointed a wonderfully manicured acrylic nail towards degree left. “He was once stumbled on murdered and that i think the sheriff used to be on the subject of to take your bag, and every little thing in it, into proof. ” The breath without notice left my lungs, warmth unfold to my cheeks, and a wave of dizziness slipped over me. “Murdered? ” I appeared again towards my bag of provides, and spotted anything I hadn’t noticeable a minute in the past. My low-cost orange-handled Fiskars have been at the flooring, a very good couple of ft from my bag, like they’d been dropped in a rush. i began, a lump catching in my throat. They didn’t glance correct. The blades have been open and stained with anything darkish. “How? ” I requested, slightly choking the phrases out. Rebecca Quiñones had my gaze. From the nook of my eye, I observed her wave her microphone. The cameraman moved in nearer, getting a decent shot of me. i attempted to show my again, yet Rebecca stated, “Stabbed,” and that i iced over. simply because I unexpectedly knew what the darkish substance at the glossy blades of my stitching shears used to be. Blood.