Dire Threads (5 page)

Naomi, the bony one, edged between us. “Haylee and Willow both look great.”

Clay had moved on to spools of twine, chain, and wire. He had his back to us but must have heard every word. His shoulders shook. I wanted to laugh, too. The urge came out as a huge smile, which undoubtedly would have encouraged the three women to continue with their nagging if they hadn’t been distracted by the arrival of a tall, muscular, blue-eyed blond man.

“Ooh,” Opal whispered. “Now Willow really will have to go see Dr. Wrinklesides.”

“Why?” Edna asked.

Opal elbowed her. “She’s about to break out in hives.”

Edna looked bewildered, but Naomi giggled. Shielding her mouth with her hand, she stage-whispered, “It’s that beekeeper, the one who’s sweeter than his honey.” The three women gathered around me and a carton of windshield scrapers.

Throwing an apologetic glance at my fierce chaperones, the beekeeper spoke to me over Edna’s head. “I’m sorry about my cousin. He doesn’t have any manners.”

Edna’s lips thinned. “You’re that Mike Krawbach’s cousin?”

“Smythe bought his hat and gloves at my store,” Opal said. “They look great, Smythe.”

The hat was a whimsical stocking cap, knit in yellow and black stripes, complete with a hand-knit stinger at the crown. “Smythe Castor,” he introduced himself, removing his yellow and black striped gloves and looking deep into my eyes. “Haylee told me all about you.” Trust Haylee to know all the handsomest men in the county.

“What’re you doing here, Smythe?” Herb yelled. “I thought you were in Erie.”

Smythe smiled. “I’m on my way there this very minute.”

“And you said to hold your mail for three days?” Herb asked.

“That’s right.” Smythe’s yellow parka perfectly matched the yellow stripes in his hat and gloves.

Herb’s grin grew. “And what’s the name of the conference where you’re speaking?”

Smythe looked adorable when he blushed. “The Honey Makers’ Conference.”

Herb smacked his thigh with his good hand. “Looks like he’s trying to make some honey right here and now.”

The men around the stove guffawed.

Opal nudged me and murmured, “Mmmm.”

His face scarlet, Smythe ran out of the hardware store.

Sam called out, “Okay, Willow, we found two matching packages.”

I paid for my padlocks. Clay left with me, and so did Opal, Naomi, and Edna, presumably to finish their interrupted cocktails.

Clay opened his truck door. “I’ll call you tomorrow so we can set up a time to go through Blueberry Cottage together.”

“Okay,” I managed, at my loquacious best.

After I was inside my shop, Mike Krawbach strode past, squinting toward In Stitches as if he were trying to see inside. I stayed very still. He climbed into his pickup and peeled away. Had he gone to The Ironmonger after we left, or had he been in my backyard, gloating over land he was planning to steal for outhouses?

I went outside, fastened my new padlocks to the gates, and made certain they were locked before I let the dogs join me. They did their usual mad dashes. If they were tracking a trespasser, it wasn’t obvious where the trespasser had gone. On the other hand, I wouldn’t put it past Mike to zigzag erratically all over my yard. I took the dogs inside.

Sally and Tally each had a bed embroidered with their names and, thanks to my computer and software, very realistic embroidered portraits of their faces, but tonight they cuddled together on Tally’s bed, probably to dream of running unfettered along the river trail. I would dream of having Mike’s zoning decision quashed so I could renovate Blueberry Cottage and rent it out. Or maybe of doing so well in my embroidery shop that I would never regret leaving a lucrative career in Manhattan. I would not, of course, consider dreaming about Elderberry Bay’s heartthrobs, Clay Fraser, Smythe Castor, and Herb Gunthrie.

Dreaming about heartthrobs would have been better than the nightmare about the roaring menace bearing down on me. Barking madly, the dogs woke me up. An engine roared behind Blueberry Cottage. No one should be driving there, especially at four in the morning. The noisy engine stopped suddenly, as if someone had shut it off.

Still groggy, I pulled my embroidered duvet over my ears. The dogs added whining and pawing at the back door to their entreaties. I buried my head underneath the pillow and tried to go back to sleep. The dogs’ barking became frantic.

Mike Krawbach could be out there wrecking Blueberry Cottage so he could replace it with outhouses. I eased out of bed and tiptoed to the windows.

Blueberry Cottage was a dark blur. It was fine.

Tally revved up his whimpering until he sounded more like a goose than a dog. Clumsy with adrenaline-interrupted sleep, I patted around in the dark for my jeans, sweater, boots, coat, scarf, hat, and mittens. Putting them on seemed to take forever, especially to my impatient dogs. I opened the door.

The night was like a wall of darkness. Cold needled my lungs and pasted my nostrils shut. Yipping, the dogs bounded down the hill toward the river. That gate had to be locked, had to. The dogs stopped short, barking at bushes. I could barely make out Tally’s white plume of a tail and Sally’s white fur cape. Had I bundled up at this hour so they could corner a rabbit and then be afraid to chase it into its lair?

A dark vehicle was parked on the trail. Nervously, I turned on my flashlight. I might have known. An ATV.

No one stirred, and the trailside gate was locked. I had an eerie feeling that someone was watching me from inside Blueberry Cottage. Was the odor of gasoline coming from the ATV, or had someone poured gas around Blueberry Cottage? I shined my light on the structure. The door of the lean-to where I kept my canoe, lawnmower, and garden tools swung open, creaking in breezes so slight I could barely feel them on my frozen face. Last I knew, that door had been padlocked.

Whimpering, Tally nudged my mittened hand. I looked down. He turned his head to stare at his sister. She nosed at something on the ground.

Mike Krawbach lay sprawled on his back.

4

M
IKE GROANED. HE DIDN’T MOVE. I did. Breathlessly, I called my dogs. We flew up the hill to my apartment. I shut them in with me and dialed 911.

The dispatcher said she’d alert the doctor, ambulance, and police, and I should stay on the line with her while I unlocked my gates and attended to the victim.

Clamping the phone to my ear with the help of my shoulder, I shut the dogs in the apartment, went around to the front gate, and fumbled with the new padlock. My thick mittens didn’t help, but I couldn’t bear taking them off. My hands shook.

A car door slammed. A portly gentleman walked toward me more briskly than I would have expected for someone his size and age. He carried an old-fashioned doctor bag and wore an ankle-length black wool coat. A hand-knit white scarf was wrapped around his neck and lower face so many times I couldn’t help thinking of the word “muffler.” Someone had stitched furry earflaps to his fedora, and they were folded down over his ears. I’d read in books of men tipping their hats, but this was the first time I’d seen one do it. He breathed out an icy cloud. “I’m Dr. Wrinklesides.” He reached over the gate for my phone. “You got 911 on the line?”

Relinquishing the phone to Dr. Wrinklesides, I babbled, “Mike Krawbach is out cold by the riverside trail.” Cold? More like half frozen. “He moaned,” I added lamely, finally undoing the padlock and opening the gate.

Dr. Wrinklesides patted my shoulder. “It will be okay,” he shouted.

I led him to Mike.

Dr. Wrinklesides took one look at Mike and boomed into my phone, “Where’s that danged fool with the ambulance?” He muttered, “You’d think the way this village is growing, they could park the thing less than ten miles away.”

Uncle Allen’s police cruiser mooed and bleated its way toward us. I climbed the hill and met him at the front gate. Lights went on in apartments above The Stash, Batty About Quilts, Buttons and Bows, and Tell a Yarn.

Its tires loud against the pavement in the otherwise still night, a dark pickup drove slowly up Lake Street from the direction of the beach, turned onto Cayuga, and went out of sight.

“Who was that?” I asked Uncle Allen.

“Kids. They use the beach as lovers’ lane. Is that why you called?”

Impatiently, I shook my head and told him that Mike was lying at the foot of my yard.

“I’ll drive down there.” He stumped to his cruiser and drove noisily down Lake Street toward the beginning of the trail. I ran back down the hill to unlock the gate nearest Mike. Uncle Allen didn’t seem to know how to turn his siren off, but why did he keep pounding on the horn? Its racket banged into my skull like a sledge hammer.

Waiting at the trailside gate for him, I shivered, not only from the cold. The blank windows of Blueberry Cottage seemed to stare at my back.

“Willow, Willow, where are you?” With wild yoohooing and shining of flashlights into bare, witchy treetops, Haylee and The Three Weird Mothers stormed down through my yard. Haylee wore a parka, snow pants, and boots, like she was dressed for skiing. Opal’s hand-knit hat was stretched over huge curlers. Naomi’s face was covered in green goo. Beribboned flounces of Edna’s flannel nightie stuck out below her coat over jeans tucked into boots.

“What’s wrong?” Opal asked.

Judging by their hastily thrown-together outfits, I could have asked the same thing. Instead, I explained as succinctly as I could.

“Drunk.” Edna could be even more succinct.

Dr. Wrinklesides bellowed at Uncle Allen, who was right beside him, “Head injuries. It looks like he was beaten by that canoe paddle. It’s one of those old wooden ones. Weighs a ton.”

“That must be my paddle,” I said. “But it wasn’t anywhere near Mike when the dogs and I found him. Last I knew, it was in my lean-to.” I pointed. The door to the lean-to still gaped.

“You must be mistaken,” Uncle Allen growled. “Or you and your dogs moved it.”

“We didn’t do that,” I said hotly.

“I feel queasy,” Naomi faltered.

“You look it,” Edna agreed. “What’s that green stuff all over your face?”

Naomi covered her cheeks with her hands. “Oh! I forgot! What must I look like?”

Haylee covered her mouth, but her eyes gleamed with silent laughter.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Opal scolded, shaking a finger. “You girls aren’t going into one of your laugh-’til-you cry fits again. This is serious.” She pointed at Mike.

As if on cue, he moaned again.

Uncle Allen bent over him until his ear was nearly in Mike’s mouth.

Opal put her finger to her lips to shush us, but we had all tensed as if the cold had solidified our muscles. The night became suddenly darker. Had one of Elderberry Bay’s streetlights blinked out?

Mike mumbled.

Slowly, Uncle Allen stood. He blinded me with his flashlight.

I shielded my eyes. “Would you check Blueberry Cottage? Whoever did this might be in there.”

Uncle Allen only glared.

Flashlight in hand, Haylee started toward Blueberry Cottage.

Opal called her back. “No one should go in there.”

Edna nodded her scarf-swathed head toward Uncle Allen. “Except
him
.”

Dr. Wrinklesides hollered, “C’mon, young fella, you can do it!”

I expected to see him help Mike stand up. He pressed his stethoscope several places on Mike’s chest, listened for long minutes, then slowly got to his feet. “He’s gone,” he said, not shouting for once.

Haylee turned away as if she didn’t want anyone to see her expression.

Opal quietly repeated, “Gone?”

“Dead?” Edna asked.

“Deceased?” echoed Naomi, her eyes round in her ghoulish green mask.

I felt frozen, inside and out, and unable to speak. Mike, who only this afternoon had swaggered around carrying the pages he’d ripped out of my guest book, who only moments ago had groaned and mumbled, was dead? As in permanently . . . gone?

Uncle Allen stalked with exaggerated menace toward me and the other four women. He rested his fists on his hips, which placed his hands dangerously close to his guns. “Mike Krawbach is dead.
Dead
.” He let that sink in for one brittle moment, then added, “And his last words were, ‘That woman did it. Get her.’ ”

5

O
PAL PUT HER ARM AROUND HAYLEE. Haylee buried her face in her mother’s shoulder but lifted her head almost immediately. By the glow of our flashlights, her eyes appeared fearful. Edna and Naomi closed around the other two, leaving me to face Uncle Allen by myself until Opal reached out and pulled me to her. We shrank toward each other and away from the policeman.

In the darkness beside Mike’s prone body, Dr. Wrinklesides shouted, “Uncle Allen!”

Uncle Allen’s shoulders drooped, and instead of resembling a dangerous predator, he became a tired man who had just lost a friend.

I had disliked Mike and what he wanted to do to my cottage, but I wouldn’t wish a beating on anyone, much less a beating in the dark of what was possibly the coldest night of the year.

Edna sniffed. “I smell gasoline.”

I’d become accustomed to the odor and had forgotten it. I shined my light past the cottage. “Mike’s ATV is out on the trail.”

Haylee focused her flashlight on a dull orange shape up the hill from Blueberry Cottage. “What’s that?”

I tiptoed to it. An uncapped gas can lay on its side. It reeked of gasoline. I called out in a voice squeezed by outrage, “Mike came here to torch Blueberry Cottage.”

Haylee and her mothers turned their backs on the men and whipped their lights upward to illuminate their faces. Naomi looked horrified. Haylee shook her head. Edna frowned. Opal’s forehead furrowed.

They were right. I had cleverly broadcast a great motive for me to have attacked Mike.

Uncle Allen bore down on me. “Or he found
you
about to destroy your cottage for the insurance money, and was going to inform on you. And you stopped him.”

My whole body went rigid. “I did no such thing. He’s the one who wanted to get rid of my cottage. I didn’t know about the gas can until right now. He must have brought it.” I returned to Haylee and the other women.