Needle and Dread (22 page)

She was on her third lap around the Green when she felt Milo's arms circle her midsection. “Hey, pretty lady, did you miss me?”

“Every minute.” Turning, she rose up on tiptoes and met his kiss. “Did you get John Peter all moved out?”

“We did. We got the last box of books into the truck about fifteen minutes ago, and he pulled out of Sweet Briar for the last time about five minutes after that.” He captured her hand in his and pointed toward the gazebo. “Could we sit for a while before we head home for dinner?”

“Of course. Are you okay?”

He led her through the closest break in the picket fence and across the expanse to the gazebo they'd helped to paint during one of Georgina's annual Let's Spruce Up Sweet Briar campaigns. “I'm fine, just a little beat,
I guess. Apparently every one of John Peter's rare first editions is a hardcover.”

“Oh, yeah, I see where this is going.”

“A couple dozen of those in one box makes for some heavy lifting, that's for sure.”

She sat down on the gazebo step and patted the vacant spot to her left. “I hate seeing Calamity Books close, but Sweet Briar is more of a read-for-fun kind of town, you know? A shop stocked solely with rare first editions doesn't really fit.”

Angling his body toward her, he linked his fingers behind his head and leaned against the gazebo's frame. “So how'd the clothes stuff go with Margaret Louise? Was anything salvageable?”

“There were a few things I considered, but Leona nixed every single one of them.”

His laugh was tired but no less perfect. “Leona showed up?”

“With Skip.”

He scrunched his face. “As in the cameraman from her cable show?”

“One and the same.”

“Why?”

“Because she found out Margaret Louise was bringing me hand-me-downs and she wanted to: A, make sure I didn't take any; and B, get some footage for possible use in a future episode of
Leona's Closet
.”

“So I take it you're keeping nothing?”

“Leona allowed me to keep one particular scarf. But when she wasn't looking, Margaret Louise put a really pretty skirt and blouse I liked onto one of the dining room chairs for me.”

He shook his head slowly, chuckling as he did. “Leona really is a piece of work, but I don't have to tell you that. I'm curious though, why was the scarf okay?”

“Because it had been a gift from her to Margaret Louise a few years ago.”

“Ouch,” he said, cringing.

“I know.” Reclining her back against his chest, she looked across the Green to the shops that comprised the town square, and tried to imagine what Rose was doing at that moment. “Leona turned down that news crew from New York.”

“The national one? Why?”

“It seems they just wanted to use the store as a way to give new life to a very different tale.”

“Hey, you two.”

Tori and Milo looked to the left to find Travis standing just a few steps away. Instinctively, she sat up, allowing Milo to do the same. “Hey, Travis, how are you?”

“I'm doing okay. I wanted to thank you for the other night. Talking about Ginny and Rachel felt good.”

Milo accepted the man's hand and shook it firmly. “I'm glad. Did you get the dinner we had wrapped up for you?”

“I did. Thank you. Miranda brought it up to my room later that evening.” He stopped, looked across his shoulder, and waved over a pair of familiar faces. “The three of us were going a little stir-crazy hanging around the inn this evening, so we decided to come down here and walk around for a while.”

Miranda stopped beside Travis and smiled first at Milo and then Tori. “We went to the shop before this so I could share some good news with Rose, but she didn't
get as excited as I'd hoped. Do you know if she's upset about something?”

“I don't think so . . .”

“Maybe she's a little disappointed about that news show,” Milo suggested.

“That's why I stopped by. To tell her I got it.” Miranda tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and sat down on the edge of a nearby bench. “There will be a crew at the store just before lunch on Monday. And if we do a good job giving them something fun and lighthearted, I'm quite sure they'll find a spot for it on the six thirty news that night.”

“Oh, wow, I thought that one was off the table. Are they coming by plane?” Tori asked.

Miranda's eyebrows dipped. “No, they're driving. They're only coming from Tom's Creek.”

“Oh. I'm sorry, I thought you were talking about Margot Pritchard and that crew from New York.”

“Mar-Margot Pritchard?” Miranda echoed. “As in the
Wake-Up America
anchor?”

“Yes, that's the one. It was a connection Leona had that didn't pan out in the end, but really, it's probably for the best.”

“So they're not coming?”

“No. Leona felt there was simply too big of a difference between what
they
hoped to accomplish and what
you
hope to accomplish.”

Miranda drew back. “What
I
hope to accomplish?”

“On behalf of the store . . . And honestly, I think Leona made the right call.” Tori heeded the pull of Milo's hands and leaned back against his chest once again. “As for Rose, she'll come around. She's going to
be pleased as punch to see SewTastic on television no matter where the station is based.”

Samantha came around to the step and sat down. “Hey, I wanted to tell you I'm going to try my hand at making a pillow like yours. I mean, if I have to stick around another day or so, I might as well be productive, right? And of everything in the store, that spoke to me the loudest.”

“
My
pillow? I don't understand.”

“It's right here.” Samantha reached into her back pocket, extracted a glossy card, and handed it to Tori.

“Hey, that's your envelope pillow,” Milo said, pointing at the card. “And look, that's what it's called, Victoria's Envelope Pillow.”

Tori skimmed the instructions for making the pillow and then held the card up to Miranda. “Do you know about this?”

When Miranda didn't answer, Tori gave the card a little shake. “Miranda?”

“Huh—what?”

“This project card,” Tori said. “Did you have something to do with this?”

“In so far as suggesting the concept, yes. But that's it. I know absolutely nothing about sewing.”

Milo laughed. “And you're sure you should be marketing a
sewing
shop?”

A buzz from Tori's purse pulled her attention off Miranda's shrug and sent her riffling for her phone. She located it at the very bottom, under a package of gum and the paperback mystery she carried around in the event a sliver of time opened up in her day.

“Hello?”

“It's me, dear.”

“Oh, Leona, hi.” Excusing herself from the steps, Tori moved to the other side of the gazebo so Milo and the others could continue talking. “I thought you and Charles were going to a movie this evening.”

“We are.”

She waited for more, but nothing came. “Um, is everything okay?”

“I'm still traumatized from this morning, dear, but I'll recover. In time.”

“Lots of people wear hand-me-downs, Leona.”

“I shudder at the thought.” Leona's voice faded out and back in again as Tori imagined her switching the phone from one ear to the other. “I located my French silk scarf when I got home from your house today. It was in the second drawer from the top on the right-hand side.”

Unsure of what to say in response, she hoped the grunt she settled on would suffice. The fact that Leona didn't stop to chastise her for the nonverbal response was a positive sign.

“I showed it to Charles and he gushed over the quality and the color, as I knew he would. When I told him where I purchased it, he got even more excited. It turns out a former neighbor of his worked at that exact shop around the time I was there.”

She wandered around the gazebo's interior, listening partly to Milo and the tour folks, and partly to the ramblings in her ear that seemed to have no discernable point.

“Anyway, when he left to take a call, I unfolded the scarf and compared it in my head to the one that's now
in your possession. I prefer the royal blue, of course, but the emerald green would work well with my eyes, don't you think?”

She stopped in the center of the gazebo and stared up at the roof. If it had been Dixie's name on the screen, the rambling would make sense. If it had been Margaret Louise's name on the screen, the rambling would make sense. But Leona's name? It didn't fit.

“Leona, I hate to ask this, but is there a point here that I'm missing?”

A potpourri of odd noises that sounded a lot like hemming and hawing faded away as Leona's normally strong voice returned. “I'd like my scarf back.”

“You mean the one I got from Margaret Louise?”

“Who got it from me,” Leona reminded.

Tori shifted her gaze back to Milo and the others but remained transfixed in the center of the gazebo. “You want the scarf back.”

“Yes.”

“O-kay . . . sure. I can bring it to you tomorrow if you'd like.”

“That would be lovely. Thank you, Tori. I'll make it up to you at a later date.”

“That's not necessary.” She wandered over to the railing and watched the early evening sun sink lower in the western sky. “I am confused though as to why you didn't want to take it when you first saw it.”

“Because I didn't look at the label until I got home.”

“I don't understand.”

“They're Lily Belle Originals, dear. I'd forgotten that.”

“
Lily Belle Originals
?”

“An exquisite line of handmade clothes and accessories that appears to have gone belly-up.”

“What happened to it?” she asked.

“Probably the same thing that happens to
all
the little guys these days—they simply couldn't compete.”

She wanted to argue, to point to any number of stores along Main Street as examples to the contrary, but she wasn't on the inside like Leona was. Some shops—like Debbie's Bakery—seemed to thrive no matter what, while others—like SewTastic—had to fight for every single customer. Still, she believed in positive thinking and its propensity to germinate into truth.

“Things are going to get better for you and Rose. I feel it in my bones.”

“I wish I could say my bones were saying the same thing, Victoria.”

“Maybe this TV news crew Miranda landed for Monday will do the kind of piece that'll make people sit up and notice.”

“We don't need them to sit up and notice, dear. We need them to sit down and sew.”

Tori tried not to fixate on Rose's need to return to the front window again and again throughout the day, but it was difficult. Yes, it was a chilly day and yes, the filtered sun helped in that regard, but there was more at play with the elderly woman than November's indecisiveness.

Rose was struggling, plain and simple. Her shuffle was more shuffle-y, her arthritic winces were more wince-y, and the smile she normally had for her customers was a lot less smiley. But every time Tori found the courage to ask her friend if everything was okay, something came along to ruin the moment—a passerby stopping to ask for directions, a phone call from any assortment of newspapers asking for information on Opal, and last but not least, a pessimistic phone call from Rose's majority partner.

Abandoning the safety of the thread display she'd been using as her vantage point for the past hour, Tori wandered over to the counter. “So have you picked out what you're going to wear yet?”

“Probably a variation of what I'm wearing right now.” Rose flipped a page in the same catalogue she'd been looking at off and on since she'd propped the open sign in the front window that morning.

“I think you should wear that beige suit you like to wear for special occasions. You always look so sharp in that.”

“But it's
not
a special occasion, Victoria.”

Tori rocked back on her kitten heels and crossed her arms. “Yes, you're right. Having your pride and joy spotlighted during the evening news
is
rather ordinary.”

“Don't be sarcastic, Victoria. It doesn't become you.”

“Then
talk
to me, Rose. Tell me what's bothering you so I can help.
Please
.”

Several beats of silence ticked by before Rose finally let go of the catalogue and sighed. “I can't shake this feeling that this place is done—that all the joy I felt leading up to Saturday is gone forever.”

“Hey, you were happy before SewTastic!”

“At times, yes. But nothing compared to the way I felt in the weeks leading up to and immediately following our opening. People asked my opinion on fabric they were buying, tools they were using, and projects they were thinking of trying. I haven't had that kind of validation since I retired from teaching.”

Tori felt the pain emanating from deep inside Rose's soul and the answering helplessness from inside her own. “It's only been eight days, Rose. I'm going to figure
out who did this, and once I do, you're going to be able to put all of this craziness behind you once and for all. In the meantime, Miranda is working overtime trying to polish the store's image. And when you consider the fact she knows nothing about sewing, you have to admit she's come up with some neat ideas.”

Rose lifted her bifocal-enlarged eyes to Tori's and made a face. “What are you talking about, Victoria?”

“The project cards, the video instructions for the elderly, the crafty weekend tour—even if this first one didn't go exactly as planned. She's very, very clever.”

“I mean the part about her knowing nothing about sewing.”

A pile of butterscotch candies in a jar beside the register caught her eye, and she reached over the counter and took one. “What about it?”

“It's incorrect.”

“I'm not saying that should have kept you from hiring her.” She unwrapped the candy and popped it into her mouth. “I mean all you have to do is look around the shop to know she's a marketing genius even if she doesn't know a button from a snap.”

“Oh, she knows a button from a snap every bit as well as she knows how to sew,” Rose argued. “Don't you remember me telling you this, Victoria? Miranda helped me fix that decorative stitch in my kitchen curtain once and for all.”

She tried to rationalize what she was hearing from Rose with what Miranda herself had told her the previous evening, but it didn't fit. “You're
sure
she can sew, Rose?”

“I may be getting frailer with each passing day, but
I'm not stupid and I'm certainly not blind. Miranda can most definitely sew. In fact, she designed a tag I can attach to the inside of my curtain if I want. Would you like to see it?”

“Of course.”

Rose opened a drawer to the left of the register and pulled out a small plastic case with a satin tag inside. In the center of the tag was a simple red embroidered rose.

“She made this for you?”

“It's like I told you a minute ago. Miranda can indeed sew.”

So why tell me otherwise?

Shaking the thought from her head, she forced herself to remain in the present. With Rose. “What about your normal label? The one with your initials?

“The rose is prettier.”

She wasn't sure if she agreed or not, but she opted to let it go. “How did you find her, by the way?”

“Find who?”

“Miranda.”

“She came to me. Said she'd seen the ad I talked Leona into placing on one of the big sewing sites, and she wanted to know if I'd be interested in hiring her to grow the business. At first, I said no, but when she followed it up with a proposal of things she could do for the store, I agreed.”

“And she does this for other businesses?” Tori asked.

“She said she did. And with everything I've seen from her these past few weeks, I've no reason to doubt that.” Rose shuffled out from behind the desk with a large envelope in her hand. “Charles brought this by for you when
you were picking up our lunch. I said he could wait, but he said he had an appointment, and off he went.”

“An appointment, eh? Sounds mysterious.” She opened the envelope and spread its contents across the top of the counter. In the center of the mix was the same brochure she'd all but memorized a few nights earlier. She tapped her finger on its front page. “Have you seen this? It's a
sewing
museum. In Jasper Falls.”

“You mean Opal's?”

Tori scanned the rest of the material Charles had assembled and recognized most of it as having come from the museum's website. “She's listed on the website as its founder, yes.”

“I have some flyers for it up by the door, but that's it. Why?”

“Charles and I want to take the entire sewing circle on a field trip there sometime soon,” Tori said. “I saw a few pictures on their website the other night, and they looked so good they actually helped move it to the top of my short-term must-do list.”

The quick but unmistakable jingle of the door-mounted bell brought an end to their discussion and sent Rose shuffling to the door with a hint of hope inching her mouth upward into something resembling a smile. But as quick as the hope appeared, it faded as Leona breezed into the shop's main room with Paris under her arm. “Hello, Rose. Hello, Victoria. Have we had a better day?”

“It was the same as it's been all week,” Rose said. “
D
ead
.”

“Maybe that will change after the evening news tomorrow.” Leona removed her sunglasses and pointed at Tori. “Did you bring it?”

“I did. It's in my purse.” She hurried down the hallway to Rose's office and returned with her purse and the emerald green scarf that had been Tori's for all of about half a day. “Here you go.”

Leona rested the scarf against her cheek for a moment and then held it out for Rose to see. “Have you seen this?”

“It's lovely, Leona,” Rose said. “Did you get it on one of your trips?”

“I got it in New York a few years ago—at a specialty shop on West Sixty-Eighth Street.” Leona unfolded it across the top of the counter and pointed to the silk tag depicting an embroidered lily draped across a delicate silver bell. “It's a Lily Belle Original!”

“I always imagined her as such a lovely person, but I was wrong.”

Leona stopped caressing her scarf and turned to Rose, hands on hips. “Just because she stopped sewing doesn't mean she isn't a nice person anymore.”

“True, but killing one's husband certainly does.”

She wasn't sure whose gasp was louder—hers or Leona's—but it was close. Leona, however, recovered faster. “What are you talking about, you old goat?”

“Leona!”

Rose quieted Tori's protest with a hand to Tori's back. “I actually
asked
Leona to call me that from time to time.

“Why?” she asked.

“This past week has left me craving a little normalcy.”

“And Leona calling you an old goat qualifies as normalcy?”

“Yes.”

Pinning Tori with a death glare, Leona addressed
Rose once again. “What is this about Lily Belle killing her husband?”

“She poisoned him, I believe.”

“Why?”

“There was speculation by the media that he was having an affair with a co-worker—a young woman who worked at the television station with him.”

“
Television station
?” Leona repeated. “Lily Belle is who Margot was hoping to turn a spotlight on via our shop?”

Rose ran her hand along Leona's scarf, stopping as she reached the off-white satin tag. “I'm confident Lily Belle's sewing ability will be her downfall one day. A person with that kind of talent can't hold it at bay forever.”

An odd chill skittered down Tori's spine as she looked again at the embroidered lily atop the embroidered bell. So simple, yet so memorable . . .

Like Rose's.

Gripped by a sudden yet intense unease, Tori looked from Rose to the Lily Belle tag and back again. “Rose? Could I use the computer in your office for a minute? I want to look something up real quick.”

“Be my guest. While you do that, I'll finish the thread display and then start to close everything down before Margaret Louise shows up to drive me home.”

She was pretty sure she nodded but when she saw Leona eyeing her strangely, she wasn't so sure anymore. “Leona? Would you join me at the computer for a minute? This shouldn't take long.”

“If I must, dear.” Leona glanced down at Paris, explained where they were going, and then led Tori
down the hallway and into the small office she shared with Rose. “So what are you looking up?”

“Lily Belle.”

“I can probably tell you just about anything you want to know.” Leona claimed the chair next to Tori's and settled Paris atop her lap. “Her clothes and her accessories always had an elegant intricacy about them.”

“Did you ever meet her?”

“No.”

A little voice inside her head disputed that claim.

She typed
Lily Belle Originals
into the search bar at the top of the screen and pressed enter. Scrolling past the links pertaining to the death of the seamstress's husband, Tori found and clicked on the link that would take her to images of the once-lauded seamstress. Instantly, the screen changed to reveal countless pictures of a woman Tori guessed to be in her late thirties—a woman with reddish blonde hair and a narrow nose dusted with a tiny smattering of freckles . . .

“Victoria, that's her! That's . . . Miranda!”

Oh, how she wanted to believe Leona was wrong, but she couldn't. The woman smiling back at her from Rose's computer screen was Lily Belle, aka Miranda Greer. Miranda's hair was now brown and curly but the nose and the freckles were exactly the same.

And as she continued to stare at the images lined up in rows from one end of the screen to the other, the puzzle pieces that had been there all along suddenly slid into place—

Miranda's familiarity with the inner workings of a television news station . . .

Her ability to help a seasoned seamstress such as Rose with an unfamiliar stitch . . .

Her noticeable discomfort at the mention of her late husband's co-anchor in relation to SewTastic . . .

And the simple yet elegant flower she'd made for Rose's curtains—a label eerily similar to Lily Belle's . . .

The only thing that didn't make any sense was why Miranda had killed Opal, unless—

“I suggest you shut that off, or I swear I'll kill her right here and right now.”

Tori and Leona turned as one, the sight of Miranda's hands around Rose's throat bringing them both to their feet.

“I said turn it off, not stand up.”

Reaching behind her back, Tori did as she was told while Leona pleaded with Miranda. “Please, I'm begging you, let Rose go.”

“Yeah, that's not going to happen. For any of you.” Miranda forced Rose to take a step forward and then yanked her to a stop. “Opal hadn't even officially put the pieces together yet, and I knew she had to go just like I knew Dirk had to go the second I found that note from Margot in his pocket. You snooze, you lose, as my dad always said.”

A sound from somewhere just over Miranda's shoulder caught Tori's attention a split second before a familiar voice took center stage. “See, now I'm thinkin'
our
daddy said it better, don't you think, Twin?”