Dire Threads (26 page)

“I’d love it.”

I herded the dogs into the apartment with me so he could leave the front door open while he carried materials in from his truck. As I brewed coffee and heaped fragrant cookies onto a plate, I heard Clay’s footsteps crossing the floor above me. My new caution forced me to consider that he might be snooping through embroidery hoops and bolts of stabilizer.

On the other hand, if he hadn’t murdered Mike, he might think that I had.

We were in for a fun day.

I put a carafe of coffee, two mugs, and the cookies on the tray. Negotiating the stairs while balancing the tray and keeping it out of reach of two inquisitive doggie noses was a challenge. At the top of the stairs, I scrabbled at the knob with my elbow. Clay must have been waiting on the other side. He opened the door. Wriggling, Sally and Tally danced around him.

I set the tray down and poured two mugs of coffee. “Do you need help carrying things from your truck?”

“I’ve got everything I need, thanks.”

I offered the plate of cookies.

One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Except these.” My two cute little traitors sat at his feet and gazed adoringly up at him. And at what he was eating.

I left the apartment door open so the dogs could be with Clay and me, but I locked the front door in case embroidery-crazed fabriholics should come wandering through Threadville and inadvertently let my pups escape.

Using sharp appliqué scissors, I carefully cut out the cornstalks and trees I’d embroidered Friday night. It was sort of like making paper dolls when I was a kid, drawing them and their clothing, then cutting them out. Clay whistled, measured, and sawed through oak. The combined scents of fresh sawdust, cinnamon cookies, and wood smoke took me back to a contented time in my childhood before my mother went into politics and my father shut himself into his workshop.

I couldn’t help thinking that Clay was kind and gentle, not a killer.
Be careful
, I reminded myself.
Objectivity is a virtue.

I threaded wire through the satin stitches outlining the cutout trees and cornstalks. I tried various ways of bending the wires until the cornstalks and tree trunks looked almost real. I fastened them to the wall hanging. With the tan cornstalks in the foreground, and the embossed hiker and trees in the background, the whole thing came across as a whimsical celebration of seventeenth-century stumpwork tapestries. I grinned.

Clay admired my handiwork and impressed me by understanding the amount of creativity that had gone into it. But then, he was creative himself. That was my totally objective judgment.

He was doing another spectacular job with his carpentry. An Arts and Crafts–style oak railing formed two sides of the pen, while walls formed the other two. The apartment door opened into the pen. He was building a neat gate that would be barely noticeable because of its similarity to the railing but would allow me easy access to the dogs and the apartment.

Although Naomi could have given me pointers about perfectly binding the edges of my wall hanging, I managed a neat binding. Sally-Forth helped by rolling onto the foot pedal and starting the sewing machine when I least expected it. Pulling my fingers away from the wildly stitching needle, I gained a sudden appreciation for the phrase “in the
nick
of time.”

At lunchtime, Clay came downstairs and helped prepare hamburgers with all the fixings. He liked them, especially the buns. “I cheated,” I confessed. “My bread maker makes the dough, and I shape and bake it.”

We polished off every crumb, then accompanied Sally and Tally to the backyard. The river had gone down another couple of inches. I held my arms out triumphantly toward the river as if inviting it in now that it wasn’t likely to accept my offer. “We did it!” Yipping, the dogs dashed around us in tight circles.

Inside again, Clay began fitting the gate to the dog pen. I arranged tissue-paper padding around the three-dimensional trees and cornstalks on my wall hanging and carefully packed it in a carton. Leaving Clay and the dogs to each others’ company, I walked around the corner to the post office. A few days ago, the weather had felt too cold. Now I wanted the below-freezing temperatures to last a nice long time, then warm up very, very gradually. The river needed to recede a lot before the next thaw.

The tiny post office was empty except for the postmistress, a woman about my age. Her nametag said Petal. Auburn curls fluffed out around her face like a flower around its center, and her eyes were a soft violet blue. Even her voice reminded me of flowers. “Willow Vanderling,” she read from my return address. Her mouth round, her eyes wide, she beckoned me closer. “Don’t let them pin Mike Krawbach’s murder on you. That guy had plenty of enemies long before you moved to Elderberry Bay.”

Putting on my most confiding expression, I asked in a hushed voice, “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill him?” I held my breath.

Her soft violet eyes hardened. “I hate to say anything against a colleague.” She leaned closer. “You know Herb, our mailman?”

Herb.
The thought of such a nice person being a murderer sickened me, but I nodded, encouraging her to continue.

She murmured, “He and Mike were friends. Herb wasn’t always a postman. He used to drive those big eighteen-wheelers all over the country. He loved it. But he had to quit doing that and start working here when Mike hurt him.”

I couldn’t help gasping. “
Mike
hurt Herb?”

She whispered, “Herb told me in confidence that Mike told him to drive a big farm tractor across a slope at Mike’s vineyard. Afterward, Herb thought Mike had purposely deflated the tires on the downhill side as a prank, and selected Herb as his victim. Mike actually laughed at Herb for coming down so far in the world that he had to drive our cute little post office vehicle instead of the big rigs.” She looked at me sternly as if to make certain I understood the extent of Mike’s villainy.

Biting my lower lip, I nodded.

She went on, “But . . . if you ask me, Herb’s arm has improved a lot more than he wants anyone to know. Maybe he’s still collecting disability? When he doesn’t know I’m watching, he acts like nothing’s wrong—”

A door slammed in the back of the post office. “Hi, Petal!” It was Herb.

Drawing her finger across her lips in a zipping motion, she backed away from me.

I gave her a terse nod. I’d noticed that Herb was stronger than he let on, too.

Strong enough to beat Mike up?

Herb sailed into view, saw me, and stuck his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Willow, what brings you here?”

“A package.” Brilliant answer. I pasted on a smile. “The river’s going down. Thanks for your help.”

“No problem.” He sauntered into a back room where I could no longer see him.

Waving good-bye to Petal, I left.

I stopped walking when I caught sight of the building that Edna had guessed was a meth lab or marijuana grow-op.

The old aqua wooden front door had been replaced by a gleaming glass one, and the building’s windows were no longer papered over. They were clean, with furnishings tastefully arranged behind them. A rocking chair and knitting basket made a vignette in the window to the right of the door, while a garden table set in springtime pastels adorned the left window. Above it all, a shiny new sign said
Country Chic.

I crossed the street for a closer look. Beyond the window displays, I made out wicker furniture, vases,
objets d’art
, throw pillows, and, against the back wall, shelves of fabric.

Fabric?

A new Threadville shop in Elderberry Bay? Why had its owners kept it a secret from the other Threadville retailers?

The door was locked. A sign in its glass announced:
Gala Opening, Everyone Invited
.

Five to seven o’clock. Tonight. Nothing like short notice. The other Threadville boutiques were closed today, and none of the regular tourists would know about the gala in time to attend.

Behind me, a woman called in a voice sharpened by anger or annoyance, “We’re not open yet.”

I turned to see who didn’t want me snooping around the new store. It was Mona DeGlazier, Uncle Allen’s sister-in-law, the woman leading a nature hike on Smythe’s farm in the morning. The president of the nature club wore a genuine mink coat, though the irony seemed to escape her. She eyed my burgundy wool jacket with its subtle tone-on-tone embroidery. “Oh. You’re that girl with the little sewing business.”

I stifled a smug smile. Compared to Mona, I might be considered a girl, but my shop wasn’t exactly little. Was she going to put me down whenever she got the chance? This could be fun.

Her mouth widened abruptly and narrowed again, a twitch more than a smile. “Well, you might as well come to our gala tonight.” She shook her head again. “Tell your friends.” She frowned toward the other side of the street where The Stash, Tell a Yarn, Buttons and Bows, and Batty About Quilts were. She bustled past me.

“Thank you,” I said in my most gracious and un-girllike voice. “We’d love to come.”

Her back to me, she unlocked her door and mumbled something that sounded like “great,” but with a sarcastic lilt. She was sure to be a supportive addition to the Threadville community.

26

I
NTENT ON DELIVERING MONA’S HALFHEARTED invitation, I dashed across the street to Batty About Quilts. The front room was breathtaking, a gallery of amazing quilts on white walls. Some of the quilts were carefully crafted scenes, collages cut from new fabric. Others featured keepsake photos printed on cloth. Some were today’s version of crazy quilts, every square inch embellished with embroidery, ribbons, buttons, and appliqués. A few of the quilts might eventually become coverlets on beds, but I would be afraid to put them where dogs might decorate them with muddy paw prints.

“Naomi?”

“Willow! Come on back and see what I just finished setting up.”

I kicked off my boots and padded into the next room, where Naomi sold everything that went into making quilts.

Her fabrics were neatly arranged by color and size of print. I couldn’t help running my fingers over them. Only one hundred percent cotton felt like this, a sensuous combination of crispness and softness. I saw myself piecing lovely shades together. With original embroidered motifs on every patch.

Naomi showed me a quilting frame with a long armed sewing machine attached to it.

“Wow,” I said reverently. “That’s enormous.”

“It will stitch queen-sized quilts. I already have orders for people wanting me to do the fancy stitching over the quilts they’ve made.”

“So you get to keep this baby?” I asked.

She stroked the machine. “Until a newer model comes out. Then I’ll sell this one.”

We smiled happily at each other. Owning a Threadville store was even more fun than I’d guessed. Despite visions of always being able to play with the newest, most exciting machines, I remembered why I’d come to visit her. “The store across the street is having an opening gala tonight, from five to seven. Mona DeGlazier seems to own it.”

Naomi hurried to her window. “A home décor shop!” Her forehead puckered. “And she never said a word to any of us, never introduced herself. She could have asked our advice, like about what sells in Threadville and what doesn’t.”

I pictured those bolts of fabric in the back of Mona’s store. “Or what we carry so she wouldn’t duplicate it,”

Naomi stood taller and tugged at her patchwork vest. She had appliquéd adorable fuzzy poodles on every square. “Obviously, we have to go to this gala. We can do some more sleuthing and see if we can figure out for once and for all who killed Mike.”

I headed for the door. “I’ll tell the others. Have fun with that quilting machine.” As if she wouldn’t.

Opening Edna’s door set off the little “Buttons and Beaux” tune. I didn’t know how she kept those shelves of trims and buttons so pleasingly neat. I was sure she’d added a new collection of patterned twill tapes since I’d last looked. She popped out of her back room. “Willow! Can you join the rest of us for dinner here tonight at seven?”

I smiled at her enthusiasm. “I’d love to. Maybe we should all go somewhere else first.” I told her about Country Chic’s opening gala.

She beamed. “How nice of the villagers to provide us with gatherings every night where we can search for clues.”

After cautioning her again about being careful, I jogged next door.

Opal was arranging her latest creations for the next day’s Threadville tourists to admire. Fingering an angora scarf in shades of blue that made me long to luxuriate on Mediterranean beaches, I relayed Mona’s halfhearted invitation. Meanwhile, Lucy purred and wound around my ankles.

Opal clapped her hands. “I wonder what I should wear . . .”

I picked up the cat. “You have over three hours to whip up something.” Lucy’s purr revved to a rumble, vibrating her warm little body. Her fur felt like silk against my cheek.

Opal pulled a fluffy tangerine-hued ball from one of her diamond-shaped niches. “I was wondering how to justify knitting some of this for myself.” The ball had to be yarn but was fuzzy enough to pass for another cat.

When I left, Opal was humming and carrying an armload of tangerine yarn toward her homey dining room, and Lucy was following her, tail straight up. Anticipating, no doubt, a long cuddle in Opal’s lap. And attacking the fuzzy yarn.

Haylee was in her classroom. With practiced ease, she was tailoring a spring outfit.

I told her the plans the rest of us had made for this evening.

She squeezed her face between her palms like a woebegone waif. “Dinners, dances, the gala, supper at Edna’s tonight, and that nature hike before sunrise tomorrow morning!”

“At Smythe’s,” I reminded her. “He is a sweetheart.”

“Yes, and so’s Clay. What are you doing racing around Threadville when he’s working in your shop?”

“Running errands. Oh, and by the way, I asked him what he was doing in front of my shop last night. He claimed he was watching all of our shops.”

“Then that’s what he was doing.”