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“Definitely,” Francine said, carefully unfolding the pink fabric. “This was the style then—the dropped waist and the shorter hemline—it was actually considered quite daring at the time. Women were ditching those awful corsets and embracing a less-constricted look. Fashion always follows societal changes, so this silhouette was a reflection of the greater freedom women were seeking more generally. They called it ‘le garconne,’ which is French for—”

“Boy,” Cam said, nodding.

Francine smiled. “Sorry, I’m going on and on,” the shopkeeper said with a breezy laugh. “I get that way about old things. I bet you didn’t expect a dissertation, did you?”

“No, it’s fascinating,” Cam assured her. “Is there any way to tell anything about who owned it?”

Francine stroked the fabric. “You wouldn’t believe how much you can learn about someone from their clothes or even their furniture.” She motioned to the furniture and objects all over her shop. “I know something about every person who owned these. It’s almost like I’m never alone here, even if I haven’t had a customer all afternoon.” She stopped. “You must think I sound bananas,” she laughed.

“Not at all,” Cam said. If only she knew, she thought. She might have felt differently a week ago, but after her experience with the mysterious cookbook, Francine’s “I see dead people” act didn’t seem all that far-fetched to her. And she remembered that Ian had said something similar about old houses. Maybe it was just something about this place.

“I would say that the woman who owned this was young because this was a youthful style. She was wealthy, given the quality of the stitching and construction. See how perfectly the lining lays inside the dress? And the buttons are real mother-of-pearl, not imitation. This wasn’t a cheap garment.”

“What do you know about this brand?” Cam asked, pointing to a label embroidered with the name West’s. “Does that tell you anything?”

“I don’t think that’s a brand name,” Francine said. “That looks more like a dressmaker’s label. Fine dressmakers who were hired to make clothing often had their own labels, which they sewed into the items they stitched like a calling card. Some were quite famous, and they’re very collectible these days. I don’t recognize this particular one, but I would guess that your gal had bucks.”

“Interesting,” Cam said. “Can you look up the name?”

“I can try, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. There were tons of them all over the country, and plenty of women just worked out of their homes, and there’s no record of who they were or where they lived.”

Cam felt a twinge of disappointment. “What about this apron?”

Francine’s eyes narrowed as she ran her hands across the calico, expertly noting its seams and stitching. “Interesting,” she said, turning it over. “This is a very different item. Much rougher fabric, and this was hand-sewn, too, but I don’t think it was by a professional. It’s also much older than the dress. And look at this,” she said, pointing to a small, heart-shaped patch made from a deep-red cotton that had been stitched over a hole at the hem. “This careful patching tells me this belonged to someone who wouldn’t just go and buy fabric for a new one. If I had to guess, I would say that the two pieces weren’t owned by the same woman. Also, keep in mind that the kind of women who owned dresses like this probably didn’t need aprons. They had help who did all the cooking and cleaning.”

Francine continued, pointing to the neckline of the pink dress. “And one other thing. I can tell from the way these loops look unworn that these buttons were never closed, meaning she didn’t shy away from showing a little cleavage. I’d think your fancy young lady was on the daring side!”

Cam left the shop after trading numbers with Francine, who had promised to look up the dressmaker’s tag. She sighed as she and Parsley walked back to Birdie’s, a million thoughts pressing in on her. Still, she paused in front of the darkened windows of Martina’s Cafe, whose proprietor’s absence was the cause of some of her stress. She smooshed her nose against the glass, trying to look through the dining area and into the kitchen. No one was using the space. And there had to be a professional kitchen of some kind back there. Maybe she could use it instead of trying to get her work done at Birdie’s. She could prep for the fete there! She would ask her grandmother how to get in touch with Martina ASAP. Just the possibility of peace and quiet—and maybe a gleaming gas oven and sharp knives—comforted Cam.

As Parsley trotted at her side, she let her mind wander and recalled Francine’s words—“on the daring side.” Cam wondered what that might feel like, to be the kind of woman who wore low-cut dresses and eschewed the corsets other women wore. What would it be like to practically shout “look at me!” instead of fading into the background?

CHAPTER TWELVE

ADA

I’ll tell you what it was like. Bliss. At least the part about ditching those awful undergarments my mother told me every proper woman wore, all whalebone ribs and heavy metal fasteners, the kind that made you feel like you could fall asleep in them and somehow you’d still be standing upright, which, come to think of it, described so much of my all-too-brief life. For so much of it, I was there, and yet somehow not. And now look at me—I suppose some things never change!

I have not made much progress on my mission, and it is beginning to feel quite tiresome. If only I could be like old Jacob Marley in that wonderful Dickens story and rattle chains and scare Cam into action, I would. Instead, I mostly moon around the house in whatever room Cam leaves my cookbook, invisible until she makes one of my recipes. I must say I was quite pleased that she chose my cheese soufflé. It’s one of my very best dishes, and oh, did it smell sooo tempting when I was able to make my appearance. But of the many sad things about being a spirit, chief among them is having not one bit of an appetite.

Another annoyance about my current state is that I can’t wander too far from my cookbook, or else I start to fade away—it is the most startling thing to look down at one’s own arm and watch it disappear! And so I’m like Mr. Boniwell’s old hound that he kept on a rope in his yard, only able to go as far as the length of my leash. Which of course prevented me from tagging along with Cam on her date, which would have been just the most amusing thing!

On the bright side (and Mother always did say that cheerful girls looked on the bright side), Cam brought home my lovely pink gown—the one made by my absolute favorite seamstress, Mrs. West—and the apron dear Mama Cooper gave to me that was one of my most precious possessions.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Cam put down Birdie’s apron that she was about to fasten around her waist and instead picked up her laptop. She could either get lost in cooking or she could make progress on Izzy’s manuscript—and the latter felt more pressing, she thought, so she scrolled through documents as she finished her morning coffee. She added “parsnip soup” to the list of master recipes. Was that stealing from A. Poulson’s cookbook? No, she thought. She would only base the recipe on the one in her mysterious book. The version for Izzy would be lighter, with olive oil instead of butter, vegetable stock in place of beef, and all brightened up with a generous drizzle of herb sauce. Maybe another topping, too, to give it a little texture. Maybe she could pan-fry more root vegetables. Or… potato chips? Yes, Izzy would love that—it would add a kind of high-low element that fit right in with her breezy, cool-girl persona.

And a catfish recipe, she decided, thinking back to the fishing excursion with Ian. With olive oil and sizzled red pepper. It wasn’t vegan, but Izzy did say that not everything had to be. Cam made more notes, not even noticing that Birdie had joined her in the kitchen.

“Morning!” her grandmother called as she reached for the coffeepot.

Cam jumped in surprise. “Oh, morning, Birdie!”

“I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you getting anywhere with those recipes?”

“Maybe, a little?” Cam allowed herself just a pinch of cautious optimism. “And I had another idea that might help me get there. I passed by Martina’s Cafe on my way home from the antique store last night, and I noticed it’s empty. I wondered if Martina isn’t coming home right away, maybe I could borrow her kitchen? I could pay her a little rent, but since it’s sitting there, unused, I was hoping she wouldn’t want too much.”

Birdie clapped her hands in delight. “Clever girl! That is a wonderful idea,” she enthused. “Of course, you’re welcome to use my kitchen, but I can understand if you need something a little quieter. And maybe better equipped. I’ve got Martina’s cell number in my phone. Shall I call her or do you want to do it?”