Larcency and Lace Part 32

Dolly laughed harder than any of us. The fainting couch arrived just in time, because the old girl couldn't breathe and laugh at the same time.

"Do you think she's all right?" my father asked as we walked away. "She's talking to herself."

She was talking to Dante, of course, her debonair suitor, sitting at her side, kissing her hand.

"You'll talk to yourself, too," Aunt Fiona said, "when you're a hundred and three."

I urged them toward the dance floor. "Go ahead, you two. Take advantage." I turned away so my father could put his arm around Aunt Fiona without feeling guilty. I wasn't entirely sure how I felt about them as a couple, I just knew that Harry Cutler had seemed more alive lately than he had in years. Mom would surely approve of that.

Nick got an old stuffed chair in good condition from the storage room for me to sit on, while he sat on the arm and knuckled my nape, shivering me to my toes.

Dante stood in the middle of the dance floor and made a sweeping motion with one hand that sent the band's music fluttering as if in a cool breeze.

The bandleader raised his baton, and they played "Hawaiian Wedding Song."

I sat forward. "That wasn't on my playlist."

Dante took the hand of a beautiful young woman wearing the wedding gown from The Philadelphia Story.

My throat closed, my vision blurred. "Nick, Dolly's not breathing."

He ran. I called 911, my hands shaking, my emotions mixed. I didn't want to lose her, but how could I take her away from her love?

The way she and Dante waltzed and looked into each other's eyes, you'd think this was their wedding day.

Members of the Circle of Spirit moved to the side. Many saw Dante and Dolly as I did. Those who did cheered and raised their broomsticks to stir the air. As they did, my tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs and laces flew from their bobbins like colorful streamers rushing forth to circle and curl above and around the young lovers.

Dolly laughed up at Dante. Utterly romantic.

He kissed her and kissed her.

And she disappeared from his arms.

I glanced over at the fainting couch. Nick was cradling Dolly, talking to her, and I could see her nodding absently as she turned toward Dante on the opposite side of her.

Fiona and my father came to me. Fiona had, of course, seen what happened.

"Walk me over there, will you?" I asked them.

"How are you, Dolly?" I asked when I got there.

"Full of antic.i.p.ation," she said, and she winked.

A Tip for the Vintage Handbag Lover PEt.i.t POINT SCARLET FLORAL ON LUSH BLACK.

Purchased at the Cottage in Amesbury, Ma.s.sachusetts, a bag that came from a former handbag museum in Maine, this structured handbag is startlingly beautiful in full black with a gorgeous red floral centered front and back.

At nine inches high, it's eleven inches wide at the top and twelve inches wide at the bottom, covered by a black trellis-like background, front and back. The trellis is either pet.i.t point or applied with a fine, thin band of pet.i.t point-like trim. I can't tell which.

As far as the pet.i.t point, front and back, the center is a top-to-bottom oblong trellis that takes up one-third of the bag, the trellis itself centered by a Jacobean bouquet of three red flowers, each with a black center. Either side of the trellis is plain black.

This handbag closes with a swirling, floral clasp that is one and one half inches wide and three quarters of an inch tall, as beautiful and ornate as a gold floral broach.

Inside, the bag is lined in black satin with a zipper pocket and an open pocket. The zipper pocket is lined in pink tricot. There is no maker's name in the handbag. The straps and bottom are likely a quality mock leather. The flat bottom is twelve inches wide and four inches deep. It has four gold feet.

I haven't been able to find this specific bag in either Anna Johnson's Handbags: The Power of the Purse, Judith Miller's book Handbags, or anywhere on the web. However, judging by the embroidered purses of this style, with a costume jeweled clasp, and taking the tricot into consideration, I'm dating it as coming from the sixties or seventies.

This handbag can be seen at

www.annetteblair.com.

Make Your Own Clutch AN ENVELOPE PURSE FOR THE NON-SEWERS AMONG YOU.

Pick out an envelope, either a number ten, business-sized envelope, or an envelope that came with a greeting card. Try to pick one with a wide overlap. This will be your pattern, so it should be a size that you'd like to carry as a purse.

Take the envelope gently apart and lay it out on a piece of self-binding fabric or leather-black, natural, colored, your choice-just make sure it can be cut cleanly without the need for hemming.

After your leather envelope has been cut out, fold it the way the envelope was folded. Purchase fasteners at your local leather or fabric store that you think will add to the charm of the design. Make sure they're small enough to fit the width of the overlap. Rather than gluing your leather envelope clutch together, use fasteners, about a half inch apart, or closer, to attach the front.

To fasten the envelope point to close your leather bag, choose snap fasteners, Velcro, or magnetic fasteners. If you use Velcro, make sure the sticky side will adhere to leather.

Floral pieces of leather can be added with the fasteners as centers for decoration. The fasteners alone could also be applied in other locations and designs to give your clutch character.

An alternative to the design is, of course, to sew the leather envelope together for a clean look. Try sewing it with contrasting thread.

A sample can be seen at

www.annetteblair.com.

Turn the page for a preview of the next Vintage Magic Mystery by Annette Blair Death by Diamonds Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!

One.

Women dress alike all over the world: they dress to be annoying to other women.

-ELSA SCHIAPARELLI Vintage Magic is my shop for designer vintage fashions and designer originals. When I arrive every morning, I can't believe I'm looking at my dream come true.

I faithfully believe every customer who tells me that my restoration of the funeral chapel carriage house added a certain cachet to the charm of historic downtown Mystic.

I believe it and I wallow in it.

The designer originals I sell are my own, under the Mad Magic label. You see, I'm an escapee from the highest levels of the New York fashion industry. You can call me Mad, or Maddie, unless you're my father, Professor Harry Cutler, in which case you will call me Madeira whether I want you to or not.

As for the Magic, I'm also my mother's daughter, not a witch, precisely, but I have a whole psychic thing going on that feels like magic, which I evidently inherited from her. I can't ask for confirmation. She died when I was ten.

So, vintage clothes occasionally speak to me, often about dead people. I see snippets of greed, jealousy, hate, revenge . . . motive. But since it's been quiet on the vision front for a couple of months, I'm hoping that was only a phase.

As I parked in my lot, my best friend Eve's Mini Cooper sat beside a Wings overnight delivery truck. Eve, aka, the Man Magnet, had already taken to charming the driver's socks off.

"Hey," I said, when I joined them. "Am I late?"

"No, I'm early," Eve said. She handed me a caramel latte and the morning paper, signed for, and accepted, the box from the driver, then slipped her business card into his pocket. "Later," she said with a wink.

I don't know if he winked back. His billed cap was tilted forward to shade his face, his jacket collar stood high and zipped tight, and his dark gla.s.ses protected him from . . . snow glare?

We watched his truck turn onto Main Street and disappear. "You're my idol," I said. "Did he join your stud of the month club?"

"He will."

In the shop, Dante Underhill, former undertaker and hunky house-bound ghost, waited for our morning chat. Nothing like catching up on seventy years worth of gossip.

Today, however, he saluted and disappeared. Eve couldn't see him, and since she could get a bit edgy where ghosts and magic were concerned, I'd never told her about him.

None the wiser, she relaxed in the chair Dante vacated to read the morning paper while I opened the box. Leery about touching a potential vintage item, because of my visions and the murders they'd dragged me into, I carefully parted the layered tissue.

I recognized the dress immediately but could hardly believe my eyes. Some years ago, in fashion school, I won the opportunity to design this awesome gown, trimmed in pricey cubic zirconias, for an actress, now a dear friend. But since she collected designer clothes, I couldn't imagine why she sent it to me.

Dominique was a note writer, so I fished through the tissue, careful not to touch the dress, and finally opened the parchment envelope that had slipped to the bottom of the box. "Mad, Sweetie, I always wanted you to have this. I hoped someday to give it to you myself. If you have it, I'm dead. Use your talents wisely. Love, Dom."

"Oh my stars," I said. "Dominique DeLong died."

"No kidding. It's all over the front page of the Times," Eve said. "She collapsed during an Off-Broadway performance."

"She would rather have died on Broadway," I muttered, aware that I was in shock.

"At least there were witnesses," Eve said. "Hundreds of them."

My stomach flipped while Dominique's note trembled in my hand. "Witnesses?"

"You know the infamous diamonds she wore around her eyes during each performance? They disappeared sometime between her death and her arrival at the hospital. She was D.O.A."

I removed myself from the vicinity of the dress, my stomach lurching. "When did she die?"

"Evening performance. Last night."

I lost my breath, looked back at the dress, re-read the note, and considered the feasibility of a legit ten-hour delivery.

Dominique's words, swimming before my eyes, echoed in her voice. "Use your talents wisely."

She did not mean dress design.

Two.

Americans have an abiding belief in their ability to control reality by purely material means . . . Airline insurance replaces the fear of death with the comforting prospect of cash.

-CECIL BEATON.

Eve's brows furrowed. "Hey, how did you know she was dead?"

I handed her the note and weighed the possibilities. "Why someone would send me the dress, I can't imagine. Unless the box was already packaged and addressed to me. Though it wouldn't be, would it, if Dominique wanted to hand it to me herself?"

Eve focused on reading Dominique's note. When she finished, her head came up fast, her face a mask of confusion. "Huh?"

"Right."

"Does this mean you're going to New York?"

"It means that I'm going to Nick's to lock this gown in the cold storage unit he had installed in his bas.e.m.e.nt for me."

"Why at Nick's? Why not here?"

"Because Nick's an FBI agent who lives closer to me than his partner, my brother Alex, does. Because the storage unit's a safe, it's a closet, it's climate controlled, and it's where I keep my furs, unless I get a call for them. Because my shop, and my Dad's house, are too obvious for a safe. Nick's a Fed, so his house is naturally safer, and because-"

"You keep half your clothes there, anyway, since Nick moved back to Mystic?" Eve had raised a brow, her mouth pursed in disapproval.

I chuckled inwardly at the snarky relationship between my on-again, off-again Italian Stallion, Nick Jaconetti, and Eve, my best friend since kindergarten. "Can you keep an eye on the shop while I go lock this up?" I asked putting on my black, Sonia Rykiel coat with a capelet collar, and going for the box carrying Dominique's gown.

Eve checked her watch. "Sure, I don't have to proctor end-of-semester exams until two."

With the gown box igniting a stress ulcer that felt a bit like the lit end of a ciggy b.u.t.t in my gut, I'd barely gotten to the door when Detective Sergeant Lytton Werner, my nemesis, walked in. "Miss Cutler, Miss Meyers," he said, tipping a nonexistent hat.