Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos by Donna Andrews

Norma Jean and imbibing a few too many glasses of Merlot, I'd become quite agitated about Mrs. Waterston's apparent exploitation of Mrs. Tranh and her other Asian employees. I had threatened to go down to Yorktown and organize the downtrodden sewing ladies. I had visions of us singing "We Shall Overcome" in Vietnamese, while waving beautifully embroidered protest banners.
    Michael had spoiled all my fun by revealing how things really worked. His mother and Mrs. Tranh each owned half of the business. Mrs. Tranh hired and managed the seamstresses, kept the books, paid bills and taxes, ordered fabric and other supplies, and generally ran the place.
    "So what does your mother do, anyway?" I'd asked.
    "Well, she got together the initial capital, and she handles sales and marketing," Michael said. "And she deals with the customers. Mrs. Tranh would hate doing that."
    True, but still, if you asked me, Mrs. Tranh was doing the lion's share of the work, yet having to split the profits fifty-fifty. Perhaps that accounted for Mrs. Tranh's dogged insistence on not speaking English with Mrs. Waterston.
    I knew perfectly well that Mrs. Tranh could speak reasonably fluent, if somewhat eccentric, English and that she understood the language almost perfectly. The only time she ever pulled the "je ne comprends pas" line on me was when I tried to disobey her orders.
    With Mrs. Waterston, however, she insisted on speaking only French. Mrs. Waterston's French was considerably worse than mine.
    "Anyway, she's done a wonderful costume for you," Michael said, interrupting my wandering thoughts.
    "Oh, dear," I said. "As hot and sweaty as I am, I'd rather crawl into a bath, not a brand-new costume."
    "You'll hurt her feelings," he said, "and mine. I helped her figure out what to make."
    "It doesn't have panniers, does it?" I asked. "I am not wearing panniers."
    "I have no intention of disfiguring you with panniers," Michael said. "That has got to be one of the most ludicrous, unflattering fashions ever invented."
    "Amen," I said. "But let's not tell your mother."
    "Of course not," Michael said. "But having seen Mom's idea of colonial fashion, I'm thinking next year we should forget about the Revolution and reenact the War of 1812. I'm rather partial to Empire fashions – all those low cut, clinging, diaphanous gowns – "
    "Oh, is that what you have in mind for my ball gown?" I said. "Much better than the panniers."
    "I wish," he said. "Ah, there's Mrs. Tranh."
    Mrs. Tranh's stern features broke into a smile when she saw us. She was standing by the costume racks with two of "the ladies," as she called her seamstresses. We had managed to convince Mrs. Waterston that requiring costumes of mere spectators would decimate attendance, but for certain key events that were open mostly to staff – such as her welcoming party for the crafters – Mrs. Waterston had made costumes mandatory. Just in case anyone showed up without a costume, Mrs. Tranh had brought a large rack of the rental costumes – colonial dresses in demure Williamsburg colors and a range of sizes for the women, and for the men, a collection of shirts, knee breeches, and coats. Mrs. Tranh and the ladies were there to collect the modest rental fee and help stuff the guests into costumes.
    At the moment, Mrs. Tranh seemed to have her hands full.
    Two men had arrived wearing Hawaiian shirts so garish that even Dad would have turned up his nose at them, over cutoffs so ragged they contained more hole than cloth. I recognized both of the men wearing these glaring anachronisms as fellow crafters – a soapmaker and a leatherworker – and would have waved if I thought I could get their attention. They were both intent on escaping to the bar. They didn't stand a chance. Mrs. Tranh's ladies routinely dealt with brides having prewedding hysterics and bridesmaids whose mood veered toward homicidal when they saw their dresses and realized the acute embarrassment and physical torture their supposed good