Peaches and Scream (Georgia Peach Mystery, A) (27 page)

In the back corner of the shop, Hattie had utilized a lovely folding screen with an inlaid floral motif to partition an area for alterations. Behind the partition, a large corner table held an industrial sewing machine, racks of thread spools, a myriad of scissors and a divided box of pins, buttons and clasps. To the side of the workstation, a carpeted platform rested in front of an antique white cheval mirror.

Hattie disappeared behind the counter again, where she continued opening boxes and checking order slips while the rest of the girls waited impatiently. The first girls were coming out of the dressing room, proud mamas trailing after them and holding up their gowns as they made their way to
Mrs. Busby for alterations. After a couple more girls disappeared into the dressing rooms, the Peach Queen’s mother heaved a sigh and glanced disgustedly at her watch. “How much longer is this going to take? I have an appointment at the salon in about ten minutes.”

Hattie was still behind the counter, tearing through packing material, her expression panicked. “Of course, Mrs. Crenshaw. I’ll be right with you,” she answered with a strained voice.

Next to me, Ginny shifted and rolled her eyes, quietly mimicking the woman under her breath. “Can you believe how demanding that woman is?”

Ginny’s usually good-natured demeanor was being stretched thin by the overbearing woman. At the moment, she reminded me of a spark getting ready to ignite and explode. I patted her hand and mumbled under my breath, “Remember why you’re here. To show your daughter the importance of social grace, right?” I shot her a sly grin and stood. “I think I’ll just go over and see if Hattie needs a hand.” Hattie had seemed cool and controlled before but she looked like maybe she could use a bit of help now.

Just as I reached the counter to offer my assistance, the bells above the door jingled again. This time it was a model-thin woman wearing crisp linen pants and a matching jacket. Her silky silver hair was cut at a precise angle to accentuate her strong jawline and graceful neck. Upon seeing her, Hattie stopped her work, straightened her shoulders and plastered on a huge smile. So did everyone else in the room. It was as if they were all marionettes and the puppet master had just pulled their strings.

“Mrs. Wheeler! Uh . . . you must be here to pick up your alterations.” Hattie’s voice was thinning even more and her eyes darted nervously between her waiting customers and a rack of clothing lining her back wall. She took a little shuffle step as if she wasn’t sure which way to go first.

Mrs. Wheeler glanced over the crowded waiting area and sensing Hattie’s stress, put on a gracious smile and said, “I
didn’t realize you were so busy. Please don’t bother with my order right this minute. I’ve got business at the flower shop down the street. How about I stop by when I’m done there? Perhaps things will have settled down by then.”

Hattie let out her breath and nodded gratefully, promising to have the order ready when she returned. But as soon as the woman left, Hattie turned back to me with an even more panicked expression. “There’s a problem,” she whispered.

“A problem? What?”

She nodded toward the box on the floor. “There’s only one dress left.”

I shrugged.

“You’re not getting it,” she hissed, discreetly pointing across the room. “One dress, but two girls.”

My eyes grew wide. “Oh.”

Joining her behind the counter, I squatted down and started ripping through the mounds of packing paper. “Are you sure?” She slid down next to me. My mind flashed back to a competitive game of hide-and-seek we once played as kids. Hattie and I crouched together behind the peach crates in my daddy’s barn, suppressing giggles as her big brother, Cade, searched and searched in vain. Only this situation wasn’t fun and games at all.

She chewed her lip and nodded. “I’m sure.”

“Well, whose dress is it?”

“Any chance you can hurry things up a bit?” Vivien Crenshaw called out from across the room. “Like I said, I’m on a tight schedule.”

Hattie raised up and peered over the counter. “Be right with ya!” Then, popping back down she started to fall apart. “I just don’t know what’s happened . . . neither of the numbers on the order forms match the one on the dress, but I think it’s Emily’s. It’s just been so crazy here . . . maybe I messed up when I placed the order. What am I going to do? Of all the dresses to be missing.”

“Relax. Just tell Mrs. Crenshaw there was a mistake. The cotillion is still a couple weeks away. There’s plenty of time to get Tara’s dress shipped and altered. Mistakes happen, right?”

She nodded, drew in a deep breath and stood up. “Mrs. Crenshaw, would you mind coming over here, please?”

I busied myself behind the counter, folding up the packing materials, revealing more of the dress that was left in the box. I couldn’t help but smooth my hand over the shimmery satin of the gown. Actually, it gave me a little thrill to finally see the dress Emily had been talking about for so long. But seeing it up close also gave me a little prickle of regret. Due to a tragic, youthful mistake I didn’t really want to think about at that moment, I’d missed my own cotillion, something my mama had never quite forgiven me for. Actually, thinking back on it, I was always a bit of a tomboy and never put much stock in the debutante craze anyway. Charm classes, dance lessons . . . all that was never really my thing. Of course, being raised by a mama who prided herself in her southern heritage, I understood the reasoning behind such formalities. Like many things southern, it was a ritual passed down since the days before Mr. Lincoln’s war. And, we southerners lived and died by our traditions, whether it was sweet tea, SEC football, or fancy cotillions.

I ran my hand over the fine lace accents on the bodice of Emily’s dress. Still, it would have been fun to wear something so elegant. . . .

“What do you mean her dress isn’t in yet? That’s it right there.”

My head snapped up. Vivien Crenshaw was pointing at the dress I was caressing. Her daughter, Tara, stood next to her, nodding enthusiastically as they both peered over the counter.

“Oh, no. I don’t think so. I believe this is Emily Wiggin’s dress,” Hattie responded.

At the mention of her name, Emily started for the
counter. Ginny was right behind her. Guessing by the wild look in Ginny’s eye and the slight flush of her cheeks, her hackles were up. I sucked in my breath.

“Let me see that,” Ginny demanded. I stood and held it upright. She took a quick look and turned to Vivien. “I’m sorry, Vivien, but you’re mistaken. That’s the dress Emily ordered. I’d know it anywhere.” And she would, too. She and Emily had spent days scouring over the catalogs at Hattie’s Boutique, searching for Emily’s dream cotillion dress—special ordered all the way from Atlanta—which I’d heard described a thousand times as an off-shoulder, satin sheath that would look all so beautiful on Emily’s slim figure. Why, she was going to look just like a princess in it!

“No, you’re the one who’s mistaken,” Vivien countered. She reached across the counter and snatched the dress from my hands. “Go try it on, Tara. And hurry. We’re pressed for time.”

“Now wait just a minute,” Ginny intercepted her, placing a hand on Vivien’s arm. “That’s my daughter’s dress and—”

“Ladies, please!” Hattie interrupted. “There’s an easier way to resolve this. Just give me a few minutes and I’ll call the dress company and get this straightened out.” She already had the phone in her hand and was dialing the number as she walked toward the back room for privacy.

In the meantime, a crowd was gathering. Mrs. Busby, pincushion in hand, came tooling over to see about the ruckus. Right behind her shuffled one of the debs, dragging the hem of her too-long gown. Out of one of the dressing rooms came Belle Jones and her mother, Maggie, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. Even the dark-haired, window-washing girl stopped working and came inside to gawk. I swear, the whole scene reminded me of school kids gathering on the playground to witness a smackdown.

Emily spoke up, her eyes full of concern. “That’s my dress, Mrs. Crenshaw, I’m sure of it.”

Vivien’s eyes shifted from Ginny and homed in on Emily. “This isn’t your dress, young lady, and you know it.”

Ginny recoiled then sprang forward, her eyes full of venom. “Are you calling my girl a liar?”

“Just calm down, Ginny,” I pleaded, dashing out from behind the counter and grabbing ahold of my friend. “We’ll get this figured out.”

Under my grip, I could feel Ginny’s muscles tensing. She was ready to fight for this dress. Thank goodness Hattie finally came out of the back room. She was carrying a large binder, her hands trembling as she flipped through the pages. “I’m afraid I’ve made a horrible mistake,” she started to confess.

Vivien raised a brow. “A mistake?”

Hattie nodded. “Yes, you see, I would never order two of the same style dress for a cotillion. Y’all know how embarrassing it would be for two girls have the same one.” She choked out a nervous little laugh before continuing. “But it seems both Tara and Emily picked the same dress from the catalog but I somehow got the numbers on one of them mixed up, so I didn’t know there were two of the same. So when I ordered it, the company called for clarification on a number, and . . . well, the right catalog number was already ordered, even in the right size . . . so I thought I had everyone covered . . .” She swallowed hard, unable to dredge up her usual shopkeeper’s smile.

Ginny lifted her chin. “Well, it’s simple enough. Which one of us placed the order first?”

Hattie turned back a couple pages in the binder. “It looks like Emily did.”

Vivien clutched the dress tighter. “Why does it matter who ordered first? We picked it up first. Besides, I’m sure Emily can find something else to suit her.”

Two bright crimson circles suddenly appeared on Ginny’s cheeks. “No way! You heard Hattie. That’s our dress.”

“I don’t think so,” Vivien countered.

Ginny reached for the gown, but Emily stopped her. “Don’t, Mama. Please. It’s alright. I’ll pick out another.” Tears welled in her eyes and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment
as she scanned the room, taking in the reactions of the other girls.

Ginny wheeled and glared at her daughter. “Why should you? They’re just trying to bully us.”

Emily didn’t respond. Instead, she pleaded silently with the most heartbreaking expression I’d ever witnessed. I knew exactly how she was feeling. If Tara Crenshaw was the most popular girl in school, crossing her would mean social suicide. The same thing must have dawned on Ginny too, because instantly her expression softened and she backed away from Vivien and the coveted dress.

Taking the change in Ginny’s demeanor as a sign of surrender, Vivien triumphantly marched over to Mrs. Busby and shoved the dress into her hands. “Like I said, Tara and I are on a tight schedule. I’m afraid we won’t be able to be fitted for alterations until later this evening. Let’s say, six-thirty.”

Mrs. Busby looked shell-shocked. “Six-thirty?”

Hattie piped up. “I’m afraid we close at six tonight, Mrs. Crenshaw. You’ll have to—”

Mrs. Busby held up her hand. “It’s alright. I don’t mind staying a little longer.”

“But, Mama!” Vivien’s daughter cut in. “I’m supposed to meet my friends at the library. We won’t be done by six-thirty.”

“Don’t interrupt,” Vivien admonished, then turned back to Mrs. Busby with a slight nod. “It’s all settled then.” She turned on her heel and headed for the door, Tara following behind and whining all the way about the appointment messing up her plans.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Ginny’s hands shot to her hips and her chest heaved as she drew in a deep breath.

Emily tried to intercept her. “It’s okay, Mama. Let’s just go. We’ll come back tomorrow and look for another dress.”

But my fiery friend was never one to simply back down from a fight. With an exaggerated harrumph and a waggle of her shoulders, she started in with, “Well, I never . . . !” and
continued on describing Vivien Crenshaw with a list of colorful adjectives that would threaten anyone’s good standing with the local Baptists, finally finishing the tirade with something like, “ . . . I sure hope that nasty, dress-stealing, back-stabbing snob gets hers one day!”

A collective gasp sounded around the room followed by a moment of stunned silence. Emily looked like she wanted to crawl under a rock. This was definitely not social grace. “It’s okay, everyone!” I assured the ladies, while trying to pull Ginny aside for a little chill time. “She’s just been under a lot of pressure, that’s all.”

But Ginny shook me off and stomped toward the door, turning back at the last minute. “I meant what I said,” she spat. Then, she lifted her chin and announced with a murderous gleam in her eye, “That witch stole my girl’s cotillion dress. And don’t y’all think for one second that I’m going to stand for it, neither. You mark my words, I’ll make sure that woman gets her
due!”