All Dressed Up and No Place to Haunt (22 page)

Chapter 1

The ghost of Charlotte Meadows typically stalked me everywhere I went. Today she had been suspiciously absent. Trouble followed her, though, and I figured at any minute I'd become aware of her presence. Now wasn't exactly the best timing. I was a little occupied with my current project.

Dresses were scattered about the floor. Shoes were piled into a corner like a mountain ready to topple at any moment. I'd never been behind the scenes at a fashion show before, and the frantic pace was a little frightening. Models slipped into the outfits with ease though, so the frenzied pace didn't seem to affect them. I tried to stay out of the way, but the space backstage was cramped, making it extremely difficult. Picking out a vintage Pierre Balmain red scarf, I tossed it to one of the models. She caught the scarf mid-air and in a fluid movement draped it around her neck. Now the outfit was complete.

When I was a teenager, I'd thought about modeling, but I never had the grace. Plus, at five-foot-two, I wasn't tall enough for the runway. That hadn't stopped me from loving fashion. I put effort into every outfit I wore. Like today, my sleeveless blouse was navy blue with white polka dots and my fifties skirt was lipstick red with accordion-style pleats. I'd taken the time to style my dark hair into victory rolls too.

Dressing the part was key to running a successful vintage-clothing shop. That and the fact that I loved all things vintage. I even drove a 1948 red Buick convertible that my grandfather had left to me. It was the bee's knees. My name is Cookie Chanel, and I am a vintage-clothing connoisseur. I own the It's Vintage, Y'all boutique in Sugar Creek, Georgia.

My mother said I got my style and love of fashion from my grandmother. Granny Pearl had been the one who started calling me Cookie because the moniker fit so well with Chanel—that and she loved Coco Chanel. My given name is Cassandra, but everyone calls me Cookie.

Never had I thought that running a vintage-clothing shop would bring so much adventure into my life. Maybe I should have taken some time off after helping a movie company with their vintage costumes. After all, there had been a murder on set, but I liked to keep busy, so I'd moved right on to another project.

I'd received a call from Cindy Johnson asking if I'd like to help her raise money for her anti-domestic abuse charity, Speak Out. Of course I agreed. The ghost that had latched onto me thought it was a good idea too. She'd practically insisted. I'd met Charlotte Meadows at her estate sale. She'd been murdered and demanded that I find her killer. Now she wouldn't leave. Charlotte hadn't been the only ghost I'd encountered either, but I hoped now that interacting with the spirit world was all behind me. Maybe Charlotte would eventually move into the next dimension. Around the same time that I met Charlotte, a gorgeous white cat found me. It sounded crazy, but the cat communicated with us by using tarot cards and a Ouija board. So maybe I wasn't getting away from the supernatural anytime soon.

Cindy had put me in touch with Melanie Lee. Melanie worked at the fashion design school in Atlanta. She had designed clothing that we would feature in today's fashion show. I had been asked to pair vintage items with her new garments. That sounded like fun to me, so I had agreed. Melanie had been running around backstage furiously trying to get everything in place on time.

“Where is the red dress?” she yelled at no one in particular.

Melanie's brown hair had started the day in an updo, but now the left side had fallen to her shoulder. The aqua-colored wrap dress she wore was one of her own designs.

I eased over to her as if she were a ferocious lion. “Melanie, do you need my help or should I go have a seat in the auditorium?”

She whipped around with fire in her eyes. “What do you want . . . oh, Cookie. No, I think we have it from here. Thank you.”

Melanie turned around and stormed off. I had put all the vintage items with their coordinating outfits, so I guessed there was nothing left for me to do. I felt as if I was just in the way in the confined space. One less body back there would be a good thing.

On the other side of the room, I spotted someone I knew. Actually, I'd only met her a couple times now. Brooke House had recently moved to town and opened a beauty salon around the corner from my shop. She was doing hair and makeup for the show today. Brooke had styled her own chestnut-colored hair in soft waves that fell to her shoulders. Strands of loose wisps pushed forward toward her heart-shaped face. She wore dark blue Hudson jeans on her slender frame and a wine-colored sleeveless Susana Monaco blouse.

Brooke must have felt my eyes on her. She glanced in my direction and frowned. After a couple seconds, she attempted a halfhearted smile. I tossed my hand up in a wave. My cat had warned me to watch out for her. Wind Song had told me to avoid her. But that was hard to do in a town the size of Sugar Creek. Anyway, more about my psychic cat later.

As I headed toward the door, a gorgeous brunette with delicate features stopped me. She wore a form-fitting black with red polka dot Christian Dior dress that I had provided for the show. I'd paired a vintage black motorcycle jacket with the dress to give the outfit an edge. Her ensemble was entirely vintage except for the fact that she wasn't wearing shoes. Her hair was styled in a bob with loose curls falling gently next to her face.

“I can't find the shoes.” Her voice was in panic mode.

What was I supposed to do?

“Um, I don't know where your shoes are.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do, go out there barefoot?” She placed her hands on her hips.

Somehow I remembered this model's name. I'd met a lot of models over the course of the past couple days, but Hannah O'Neil stood out from the rest. Maybe it was because she yelled a lot and had been known to throw things at people. Like my grandfather would have said, she was as mean as a rattlesnake. I had a feeling if she had her shoes right now, she would throw them at me.

A petite blonde stomped over to us with a pair of black stilettos in her hand. “Here are the shoes. And remember to put them back in the bag and hang them with your outfit when the show is over.”

The four-and-a-half-inch Jimmy Choo heels made me want to drool. Hannah snatched them from Meaghan's hands, obviously not impressed by the gorgeous shoes. She was probably used to wearing stylish items like that.

“It's about damn time,” Hannah said as she stormed off.

“She has such a pleasant personality, don't you think?” Meaghan rolled her eyes.

“She's a real doll,” I said.

Meaghan McKinney was Melanie Lee's assistant. I didn't envy her job. She worked under this kind of pressure all the time. Melanie was trying to make it big with her designs, and that meant a lot of stress. I didn't see why she wouldn't be successful either, because the items I'd seen so far were gorgeous. It didn't look as if Meaghan had had much time to decide on her outfit for the day. Her jeans were wrinkled, and her plain white T-shirt was half tucked in. One of her sneakers' laces was untied.

“Sorry about that.” She blew the bangs out of her eyes.

“It's okay. I guess you're used to it by now.”

“I wouldn't say used to it, but I've learned how to deal with it. I should have become a veterinarian like I'd first intended.” She shook her head.

“Meaghan!” Melanie yelled from behind a rack of clothing.

“I'd better go.” She rushed off when Melanie yelled her name again.

I stepped out from backstage and took a seat at the front of the stage. The place was packed, and I was excited about the turnout. Being a part of the action had been thrilling, and it would be fun to see the final outcome. I just hoped none of the models tripped while onstage. A woman in her midthirties sat next to me. She had short black hair and wore a form-fitting red-and-white dress that hit just below the knees. I didn't recognize the designer of the dress, but I recognized the woman from being backstage earlier in the day. I'd seen her leaving a red dress on one of the racks. Shandra Jordan also designed clothing, but I wasn't sure if she had any pieces in today's show. She noticed me watching her.

“Hello.” Her tone let me know she wondered why I was staring at her.

“I'm excited for the show. Do you have clothing featured in the show?” I asked.

“No,” she said drily.

The music pumped a little too loudly from speakers behind the stage, and the models streamed out one by one. I was happy to see that they had all worn my vintage pieces correctly. None of the items had gotten mixed up with the wrong outfits. The show passed quickly, and everyone clapped as Melanie emerged onstage and took a bow. Shandra snorted. I looked over at her. A scowl covered her face as she stared at Melanie. At least I thought she was staring at her. I wondered what that was all about. She didn't look happy with Melanie.

Now that the show had finished, I had to go backstage and make sure all of the clothing items I'd brought were returned. The items were delicate because of their age, and I wanted to make sure they weren't tossed around too much. I liked to think of the items as my babies.

When I walked backstage, the models were feverishly removing the clothing and tossing the items onto the floor, changing into their own outfits. So far I hadn't spotted Melanie or her assistant, Meaghan. I wanted to congratulate them on a job well done.

“Has anyone seen Melanie?” I asked.

Most of the models ignored me; then again, it was noisy back there, and maybe they hadn't heard me. A couple of women nearby glanced at me and shook their heads.

I moved through the small space, weaving around the models.

“Please return the vintage items to the rack by the door,” I yelled so they would hear me.

Again, they didn't pay me any attention. I cringed at the way some of them were handling the clothing. I would thank Melanie and then hurry back in here to get my items before there was a disaster.

As I stepped out from the back room, a small equipment room was on one side of the hallway and on the other side was a sound room. I checked both spaces, but couldn't find Melanie. At the end of the hall was an exit door. Maybe she'd stepped outside.

When I opened the door to the outside, I looked to my left and spotted Hannah. She was staring at the ground. I followed her gaze and spotted Melanie facedown on the ground. Blood had pooled under her body. My stomach clenched, and the smell of rotting trash from the nearby cans didn't help. At that moment Hannah looked up at me. Her face was pale and haunted.

“I think she's dead,” Hannah said.

“Well, pick my peas, you've discovered another dead person,” came a familiar voice.

I knew it wouldn't take long before Charlotte caught up with me.