Threaded for Trouble (11 page)

“Sure. Just don’t ask me to join the fire department.”

I grinned. “Don’t worry. Also, could you come in tomorrow afternoon?” Susannah usually had Sundays off. “A couple of customers have dropped off their machines for
routine maintenance, and you know how we all get when our machines aren’t available.”

She managed a tiny smile. “We suddenly have fifteen projects we absolutely
have
to work on that very minute. I’ll come tonight, and tomorrow afternoon, too.

“In time for my lunch break?”

“Okay.” She ran down the porch steps and across the street to Buttons and Bows.

I
T OCCURRED TO ME, BELATEDLY, THAT I should ask Chief Smallwood before I messed around with Darlene Coddlefield’s sewing machine. As soon as I finished teaching the afternoon class, I called her.

“What’s up, Willow?” As always on the phone, she sounded pleasant and helpful.

“Plug Coddlefield left his wife’s…his
late
wife’s sewing machine on my front porch.”

There was a long pause. “So?”

I twisted the fingers of my free hand behind my back. “Dr. Wrinklesides told me that it fell on her.”

“Busybody.”

I had to defend him. “He wanted to know what the thing in her arm was, and why it was shaped like that.”

“What was it, and why did he ask
you
?”

“He guessed I might recognize it. I did. It was part of a sewing machine needle.”

Naturally, Chief Smallwood had to go on the offensive. “You’re not trying to find the reason for a mysterious death on your own, are you, or accusing anyone of murder? Because this appears to be an accident.”

Appears to be. She had doubts.
I was curious about what could have gone wrong with the machine, but I gave Smallwood another good reason for examining it. “I would like to make certain it’s in perfect working order again before we…I thought the proceeds of selling it could go to the Coddlefield family.”

“I notice you didn’t say to Plug Coddlefield.” She sounded amused.

“You’re right.” Feeling like a tattletale, I blurted out that I’d seen him and his nanny in a clinch the day after Darlene died.

“People can act out of character under grief and stress. It’s natural to offer consolation when someone’s bereaved.”

“I suppose so,” I agreed. “But this was above and beyond consolation.”

“Things happen. Why are you asking
me
if you can fix the killer sewing machine?”

“It arrived so quickly I thought you might not have had time to investigate it.” Not a very subtle hint.

“We had a forensics team on the scene right away. They were thorough. You’re not trying to tell me I should take the sewing machine as evidence, are you? I understand those things are programmable. Can you program them to slide off tables?”

Very funny, Chief
. “Not last I knew. It was much heavier than other machines, though, so if someone who was extra strong picked it up and dropped it on her, it could have done a lot of damage.”

“Where’d you get the idea that someone could have dropped it on her?” Her voice held an odd note, like she wanted me to tell her more.

“That machine is heavy, but her son lifted it. So did Isaac, the deputy fire chief. I can carry it, but only if I groan and make horrible faces.” I figured I should get a turn to ask questions. “Did Darlene Coddlefield have life insurance? Who was the beneficiary?”

“All that’s being checked.” Her nails tapped the receiver. “You know what? I think that having sewing experts look
at that machine is a good idea.” It was probably the first time she’d ever approved one of my suggestions. “And I should be there when you take it apart.”

Great. In person, she was usually impossible. Not like Felicity, but close. I told her we were planning to check out the machine after In Stitches closed at five. She promised to join us.

Threadville tourists, notorious for stretching their time in our stores, were still shopping when Susannah returned to In Stitches. She lent a hand with ringing up last-minute sales.

Chief Smallwood arrived but stayed near the front door, feet apart, hands on hips, staring at the cheerful crowd of Threadville tourists. Looking tough was difficult for her, despite the bulletproof vest she always wore over her navy blue uniform. Her blond ponytail and flawless skin made her appear girlish, but she had to be at least in her late twenties. No matter how much she scowled, she looked feminine and pretty.

Susannah sidled up to me. “Shall we postpone our investigations until after she”—Susannah pursed her lips to one side in an apparent attempt to keep Chief Smallwood from knowing who we were discussing—“after she goes? Or shall we look at that machine tomorrow, instead?”

“She wants to help us.”

Susannah gave me an astounded look. Apparently, she harbored doubts about the ex–state trooper’s knowledge of sewing machines. Avoiding looking at me or at Chief Smallwood, Susannah went back to waiting on customers.

Chief Smallwood’s presence didn’t seem to encourage our customers to go home. Maybe they hoped she’d let them embroider her bulletproof vest with sparkling metallic threads. If so, they were disappointed. Rosemary rounded them all up for the trip back to Erie on the bus.

Detective Gartener came in. He had been Chief Smallwood’s partner when they were both Pennsylvania state troopers. He was still a state trooper, and had been promoted to detective. I suspected that losing him as a partner
had made Smallwood apply to become Elderberry Bay’s police chief.

Detective Gartener was tall, dark, handsome, and confident.

He was also, I had to admit to myself, slightly scary, with a way about him that made me fear he could wheedle a confession from the completely innocent. The last time Smallwood and Gartener had been in my shop together, though, they’d been very helpful. I couldn’t help darting a glance at his left ring finger. Still no wedding band. Smallwood didn’t wear one, either.

He shook my hand. “Willow! Nice to see you again.” His deep, resonating voice always made me wonder why he’d chosen the dangers of police work when he could have gone into broadcasting, or maybe singing or acting. His usually wary brown eyes warmed infinitesimally. His hand was warm, too, and big and strong.

“Welcome, Toby,” Chief Smallwood said sweetly.

I should have known she would invite him. I had nothing against him. He always seemed fair, and I was glad she had included him. I should have thought of it. Then again, why would I have needed to? Chief Smallwood
always
called for backup from the state police, including, no doubt, if someone ran a stop sign. She probably hoped, each time, that Gartener would be the one to respond to the call. Apparently, the night Darlene’s body had been found, Smallwood had lucked out, and Gartener had been the detective on duty, and now he was the lead investigator into the somewhat unusual cause of Darlene’s death.

Her head bent and her lustrous mane of dark curls hiding her face, Susannah backed away from the thread display, making it obvious that she was afraid of the officers. Why would she be?

I strode to her. “Let’s get the Champion out.”

In the storeroom, I whispered to her, “What’s wrong, Susannah?”

Pressing her hands against her cheeks, she glanced toward the open storeroom door. “Nothing. Why?”

“You seem upset.”

“I do?” She arranged her face into an obviously fake nonchalance. Panic lurked in her eyes.

“But—”

“They’re waiting for us!” She appeared about to pick up that heavy carton by herself.

Resigned to finding out what her problem was after the officers left, I helped her carry the carton out of the storeroom.

Detective Gartener sprang forward, took it from us, and set it on the floor beside my bistro table.

Her eyes on us, Chief Smallwood crossed her arms over that under-embroidered bulletproof vest.

“How did you end up with this machine?” Detective Gartener asked.

As if she were looking for holes in my story that might show I was a liar at best and a murderer at worst, Chief Smallwood paid careful attention as I explained it all to Gartener.

Susannah squatted and stroked the top of the machine, still in its carton. I had sold Susannah a very good machine the year before, but it wasn’t the top of anyone’s line, and even with her employee discount, she probably wouldn’t be buying a Chandler Champion anytime soon. Her voice harsh, she said, “Plug must have been awfully angry about his wife’s death to give up a machine like this.” She peeked underneath her eyelashes at Chief Smallwood, who didn’t say anything.

From the flicker in Smallwood’s eyes, though, I was certain she’d noticed that Susannah was trying hard to conceal her inexplicable nervousness.

Detective Gartener’s gaze did not waver from Susannah’s face. Uh-oh. When that man had a question, he didn’t give up until he received an answer.

But I had never known him to be mean. I would have to convince Susannah that her worries were groundless

For now, though, I needed to concentrate on the Chandler Champion. Plug hadn’t bothered with the original
packing material and had tossed the accessories and manual willy-nilly into the carton.

Detective Gartener steadied the box while Susannah and I lifted out the gleaming machine and placed it on the table. Except for the end dangling near where the eye of the needle should have been, the machine was threaded. It struck me as particularly sad that Darlene had not lived long enough to play with other types and colors of thread. The white polyester embroidery thread I’d sent home with the machine was still on the spool pin.

Susannah attached the foot pedal and plugged in the Chandler Champion.

Before I could touch the power button, the machine came on by itself.

That was bad enough.

It also started running at top speed, its nice, bright light illuminating the work surface as the fragment of needle in the machine pounded down with dizzying speed, again and again, on the plate covering the bobbin compartment.

J
OUNCING AND CRAWLING TOWARD US ON the slippery metal table, the machine seemed intent on destroying itself.

Susannah jumped up and shrieked. I pushed the power button.

The Chandler Champion continued its frenzied dance toward self-destruction.

I dove for the outlet.

Detective Gartener shouted, “Careful, Willow!”

I yanked at the plug. It didn’t budge. Above me, the bistro table rocked.

Susannah screamed louder.

I pulled harder. With the disconnected plug in my hand, I rolled away from the table and stood up.

Susannah stared at me with her hand across her mouth.

Chief Smallwood was bracing the table, but the Chandler Champion was no longer on it.

Detective Gartener was clutching it tightly in his arms as if restraining a crazed animal. Carefully, he put it back on the table. “Willow why didn’t you wait for one of us to grab the thing before you went flying for the plug?”

I tried to control the tremors rippling through me. “It was about to fling itself off the table. Stitching like that, it could have destroyed itself. It’s not working right.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Smallwood contributed.

Gartener growled. “You should have let it destroy itself. I thought we were going to lose you, too.”

I told myself to breathe quietly and not show how unnerved I was. “It’s not likely to cause the same freak accident twice.”

Gartener frowned, his dark eyes seeming to penetrate my brain.

Chief Smallwood stared at the machine. Her mouth turned down in distaste. “That thing’s possessed.”

Susannah whispered, “I think you’re right.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “It must have suffered more from its fall than I expected.”
Expected?
That didn’t sound good.

I corrected myself. “More than I
would have
expected.” I thought some very impolite things about Mr. Chandler, Felicity Ranquels, and everyone else associated with the Chandler Sewing Machine Company.

Chief Smallwood interrupted my silent but satisfying diatribe. “See anything wrong?” She poised her pen over her notebook. “Have you ever seen a sewing machine sew by itself like that before?”

I shook my head. “No. Let’s get Haylee over here.” I should have thought of it sooner.

When Haylee arrived, we told her what happened

She grinned. “Show me?”

“No way,” Detective Gartener said.

“Did the victim forget to turn off the machine before she unplugged it?” Haylee asked.

“The power switch doesn’t work,” I said. “Darlene was probably as frantic to unplug it as I was. Look at the damage it did to the stitch plate.”

Haylee whistled. “You’re not supposed to keep stitching after you break a needle. But Darlene should have known that, right?”

“Yep.” I fetched a screwdriver and removed the sewing
machine’s casing. The machine was built of steel, and perhaps a few tons of the lead ballast I’d imagined, but the power switch was plastic. Sometime after Darlene took the machine home, the switch had snapped, and now no one could turn the machine off. It had probably chalked up less than two hundred hours of run time. So much for Chandler’s claims of the best machines for the best price.

However, we should have needed to press the foot pedal for the machine to actually stitch. None of us had gone near the foot pedal. Was it poorly constructed also?

I got down on my hands and knees on the floor, which prompted Detective Gartener to issue more cautions about my safety. And to grab the table.

I carefully lifted the foot pedal, then dropped it as if it had burned me. Scrambling to my feet, I gabbled, “Somebody fooled with it. They stuck chewing gum inside the pedal so the machine would keep stitching even when no one was pushing it.”
Premeditated,
I couldn’t help thinking. Had someone deliberately broken the power switch also?

“Don’t touch the chewing gum,” Chief Smallwood warned unnecessarily.

She and Gartener squatted and pointed flashlights at the pedal. I steadied the table.

When they stood up, Gartener looked more serious than usual. “We’ll have to take the pedal to the lab. It could be glue, or as you say, chewing gum.” He turned to a new page in his notebook. Despite his tiny script, at this rate he was going to need a new notebook every few minutes.