Seven Threadly Sins

by Janet Bolin

  Before Kent could answer, I butted in. “I doubt that he can. The police may have taken his video as evidence.”

  He didn’t exactly confirm it, but he did say, “It’s digital. I have a copy of the file.”

  Mona clapped her hands. “Great! Let’s arrange a showing.”

  “Not at TADAM,” he said.

  Why not? He didn’t want Paula to know about it? Or Loretta? But Loretta had already assigned herself to be part of Clay’s set-building crew, so she’d likely find out about it sooner or later.

  Kent didn’t have a chance to give his reasons. Mona pointed up the sidewalk to her shop, Country Chic. “Come inside with me, Kent, and we’ll see how we can rearrange my shop and set up chairs for the showing of your video.”

  I nearly choked. Set up chairs in Mona’s shop? As Haylee and I had discovered other times, two people in that shop along with Mona were already a crowd, putting her truckloads of fragile merchandise at risk.

  Haylee suggested, “I have a classroom as part of The Stash, complete with a pull-down screen where we can show the video. We may be able to use my computer and projector.”

  Ben spoke up. “If not, we have audiovisual equipment at the Elderberry Bay Lodge.”

  “When can you show the video, Kent?” Mona asked.

  “Any day after classes at TADAM.”

  “Do you have an evening class tomorrow?” Mona asked him.

  “No.”

  “That’s perfect!” Mona crowed. “Threadville shops close at six. How about tomorrow at seven thirty?”

  We all agreed that was fine. Ben said he’d go early and help Haylee set up at her shop.

  Yessss!

  Mona made a big check mark with her finger in the air. “That’s settled, then, but come in with me anyway, Kent. I need your input about scene changes. Ben can see these ladies home safely.”

  I considered objecting. No one should be alone with anyone even loosely associated with TADAM, and in my opinion, whether or not Kent truly had a record for assault, the man was, as far as I was concerned, a very likely suspect in the murder of Anthony Drudge, also known as Antonio.

  On the other hand, Mona could probably look after herself, and she certainly did not want the rest of us around.

  We said good night to the other two, then Ben and Haylee walked with me to the front door of In Stitches. After they were sure I was inside and had locked my door, they crossed the street to The Stash.

  I didn’t mean to be nosey, but I watched what happened next.

  Nothing happened. Nothing interesting, anyway.

  Haylee didn’t get close to Ben. She waved at him, then went inside, and Ben loped back toward Pier 42, where his truck was.

  Continuing to watch the street, I phoned Haylee. “It’s a start,” I told her. “He’s never walked you home before.”

  I heard her take a deep breath. “He’s adorable. He went hurrying off to save Clay from Loretta.”

  “That is adorable! Unless he’s under Loretta’s spell, too.”

  “Maybe she lived in Ben’s town in third grade, and Ben has been in love with her ever since.”

  I snickered. “She didn’t let on where she’d lived, did she? Didn’t it seem like she’s still trying to get Clay to tell her where she supposedly attended fourth grade?”

  “It certainly did. And like she made up the entire thing as part of her murder plan. Antonio would eat the fatal almond while Clay was with her, and she’d use Clay as her alibi.”

  A dark figure strode up Lake Street. “Are you looking out your front windows?” I asked. “Who do you think that is?”

  “Kent. He seems to be staring inside my shop. I’ll wave.”

  I couldn’t see her inside her shop, and apparently, Kent couldn’t, either. He didn’t wave, but then again, he wasn’t exactly the friendly, waving sort. He turned his face toward In Stitches.

  My night-light should have been enough to let him see me standing by the cash register. I waved.

  Kent didn’t return the greeting. He faced forward and continued south, walking quickly.

  Clay didn’t phone or text me, but why would he? Ben would have assured him that Haylee and I had gotten home safely.

  I gave the animals one last outing, and then the dogs and I went to bed while the cats groomed themselves for their evening activities, which they would undoubtedly carry out on and near the dogs’ and my beds.

  Maybe Haylee and I should have taken the dogs out snooping. I would have been relieved if Clay’s and Ben’s trucks were gone from Pier 42. And if the trucks were nowhere near Loretta’s, either.

  On the other hand, if we had discovered Clay’s truck within walking distance of Loretta’s apartment, I might have been unhappier than I was not knowing how much time Clay might have spent with her.

  I told myself that Clay had seemed reluctant to be around Loretta.

  I also told myself that he could have been a little more reluctant. A lot more reluctant. He hadn’t needed to invite her to firefighting practice. And he certainly had not needed to take her there in his truck.

  But he was nice, and maybe she didn’t have any other transportation.

  She could have walked.

  But he was kind . . .

  I took all sides of the argument, round and round and up and down.

  Falling asleep took a long time.

  22

  Shortly after the Wednesday morning students and I began our next upside-down crewel work projects, a bunch of college-age kids crowded into the store. Most of them looked wary, if not downright frightened. I spotted Macey easily, since she was the tallest in the group. She wiggled her fingers at me in a tentative wave that didn’t prevent her from appearing almost as nervous as the others.

  Paula, the recently bereaved widow, followed them in. She caught sight of me and paled. Was she surprised to see me in my own store?

  But she pursed her lips with determination and kept coming, her attractive but very large quilted tote threatening nearby sewing machines. She joined me at the cutting table. “We’re here for our field trip,” she announced.

  Field trip?

  “The one my late husband arranged with you.”

  I was even more at a loss. Antonio had been in my shop, several more times than necessary, to explain what he wanted me to make and model for the fashion show, but he had never mentioned a field trip.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I managed. “Feel free to look around.”

  Macey and Samantha discovered Sally and Tally and leaned over the railing of the dogs’ pen to pet them.

  Had Antonio lied to Paula about arranging the field trip, or was Paula lying now?

  I gestured toward the table where I’d set out the morning’s treats. “You and your students, please help yourselves to cookies and cider.” I had more downstairs in my apartment. “And if you have questions about our machines, what they can do, and how we use them to embellish our projects, feel free to ask.”

  Paula glared at me like I owed her something. “Antonio had it in his notes that you would teach our students to do machine embroidery.”

  In one field trip? Were they planning to stay all day? All week? The entire semester?

  Always helpful, Rosemary edged up beside me. “How about if we form groups of a couple of us who have been coming here for years and some of these young folks, one group for each machine, and demonstrate the basics?”

  I gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks!”

  Rosemary and Georgina sorted everyone into groups and began demonstrating the easiest and perhaps most impressive part of machine embroidery—stitching the motifs on fabric. The basic designing details could come after my usual workshop attendees whipped up some enthusiasm in the young students.

  I planned to oversee the process, but Paula cornered me near the table
of cookies. “I guess I owe you an apology,” she said begrudgingly.

  I shook my head and gave a half shrug.

  She stared at me as if waiting for a better response.

  I tried. “For what?”

  “They say that no one hit my husband.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “But, see, I really believed that you and that other woman hit him. Your arms were up, like you had just hit him, and he fell down, and I thought he was . . .” Her voice dwindled to nothing. “But he wasn’t, then. Apparently, what killed him was an almond. He was severely allergic to almonds. He knew that! So why did he eat an almond?”

  Again, I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t tell if she was upset because her husband had died or because of something else. Did she suspect that the police were investigating her for possibly slipping her husband an almond and hiding his medication?

  And were they?

  Apparently, she didn’t expect me to answer. She wandered off and hovered on the edges of the embroidery groups, but she didn’t seem to be paying attention to the presentations that my exuberant workshop attendees were giving.

  Customers came in. I helped them find what they needed.

  Paula shut herself into the restroom. After she came out, she ignored the TADAM students and what they might be learning. Instead, she browsed through the shop. Who could blame her for touching and examining fabrics? I stocked lovely natural materials, mostly plain colors that we could decorate with embroidery. People came from all over to buy linen for tea towels, for instance. Pure linen tea towels were expensive and hard to find, and we could save by hemming them ourselves.

  Our real goal, of course, was embroidering designs on them.

  Eventually, Paula ended her tour of the store and stood slightly behind my right shoulder. Her frequent sighs could have been due to bereavement, not to boredom, especially if fidgeting were a sign of deep grief. Hoping to either distract her or entertain her, if that was what she needed, I led her to our most sophisticated sewing and embroidery combo and demonstrated its capabilities.

  I didn’t think she heard a word I said.

  Shortly before noon, she called to the TADAM students. She gave me only the briefest of thanks and opened the door for the kids. With a shy smile, Macey thanked me. The other students did, too.

  We broke for lunch, and then the afternoon students and I continued our exploration of machine crewel work.

  Partway through the afternoon, I saw Paula and her students go into The Stash. Again, Paula carried that fashionable tote, as if Antonio’s death had allowed her to emerge from her previous dull, brown, shadowy style.

  I wasn’t sure, but the group seemed like a different bunch of kids, although Macey again stood out because of her height.

  Why was Macey attending field trips that seemed geared more to TADAM’s fashion design students than to its modeling students? Maybe Antonio’s criticism of her modeling had hit her hard and she was changing her focus. Or maybe she was taking courses in both subjects.

  Was Haylee as surprised as I had been by students descending for a field trip? Kent and Loretta had accused Paula of not being able to run TADAM without their help as teachers. Maybe Paula was hoping to send Loretta and Kent packing, and then let my Threadville colleagues and me teach the kids without being paid to do it. Threadville was a generous place, but not that generous.

  Did Paula know much about fashion design or modeling? Kent and Loretta had implied that she didn’t, and Paula certainly hadn’t seemed interested in machine embroidery. At the fashion show and rehearsal for it, Antonio’s descriptions of our outfits had lacked the details that anyone interested in fashion would have automatically mentioned. Maybe neither Paula nor Antonio had the necessary skills for running a fashion school.

  Ashley arrived after school to help in the shop. “I won’t be able to attend tonight’s rehearsal for Mona’s play,” she told me. “I have history and science papers due tomorrow.”

  I assured her that her homework was more important than Mona’s play, which sounded iffy at best, and I sent her home as soon as the Threadville tourists returned to their buses, then locked the front door and finished tidying the shop.

  A bolt of pale blue linen stuck up more than its neighbors. I tried to push it down onto the rack that was supposed to hold it in place.

  It wouldn’t budge.

  Mystified, I stuck my hand underneath the bolt and pulled out a sheaf of paper folded in fourths. I unfolded the document and read the title of the top sheet.

  THREADVILLE ACADEMY OF DESIGN AND MODELING BUSINESS PLAN

  What?

  I rushed through the rest of my cleaning, then took the dogs and the business plan downstairs, where I gave the animals dinner and an outing. Finally, I plunked myself onto a stool at my kitchen counter.

  Reading Antonio’s business plan while eating wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had. The more I read, the queasier I became.

  Antonio had wanted his school to grow, a commendable enough ideal, and not terrible in itself. However, he had expected the Threadville Academy of Design and Modeling to spread all over Threadville. The current Threadville shops—those would be the shops owned by my friends and me—would be purchased and “repurposed” as shops selling the “excellent designs and one-of-a-kind garments” created by the TADAM students, while the apartments in the shops—our apartments—would provide student housing.

  The current Threadville shops would be “fortunate” to relocate to a mall that Antonio would build outside the village limits.

  How had he expected to accomplish all of this?

  Aside from the probable astronomical costs of the project, we loved Threadville.

  Haylee and her mothers had lovingly created it. Tourists came on buses to learn and buy. There was no way we would sell out and move to a mall, no matter how “modern and convenient, with parking spaces for several hundred cars and at least a dozen buses” the mall might be. A mall would not have the quaint flavor of our sweet little village. And even if it included lavish apartments for us, it would probably not be within walking distance of the beach and the riverside trail, either.

  I thought Antonio had chosen Threadville because his academy would fit in, not because he wanted to take it over and force us out. His plan would have killed Threadville as we knew it. Maybe that wouldn’t have mattered to him. He must have hoped that taking over our identity would make money—for him.

  We owned our shops, with the help of banks. Maybe he’d figured that a great offer would make us move. However, I’d understood from my eavesdropping on the argument between Paula, Kent, and Loretta that TADAM was on shaky financial ground, and Clay had separately come to the same conclusion. So where had Antonio thought he would find the money to build a mall and buy our shops at prices that would tempt us?

  I turned the page and read the figures carefully. Antonio had expected tuition from three hundred students by the end of this year.

  As far as I could tell, TADAM had about forty students so far, fifty, tops . . .

  Antonio had stated that each of the school’s quarterly fashion shows would bring in thousands of dollars in admission fees.

  Huh? From what I’d observed, the first “quarterly” fashion show had attracted maybe two hundred guests. Ticket prices had been modest, probably about enough to cover the rental of the conservatory and the food served at the reception.

  Antonio had estimated that sales of the outfits modeled in the shows would bring in as much as a “lowball” five hundred thousand dollars each quarter. These outfits would be, he said, the equivalent of couturier designs.

  I choked on a bite of green pepper. Had he thought that the Threadville shopkeepers would continue providing him with free outfits that he could sell—or so he claimed—for thousands of dollars each?

  That was impossible. Couturier designs? What a wild exaggeration. From what I
’d seen of the silent auction sheets that Detective Neffting had brought to In Stitches, the outfits that had sold after the first fashion show had been slated to bring in only a few hundred dollars, total. If the auction hadn’t been cut short by Antonio’s collapse, maybe another few hundred dollars might have been added. But that hadn’t happened, and Mona’s final bids would have added all of fifty-six dollars.

  The one item in his business plan that might have come anywhere near hitting its revenue target was in small print at the bottom of the page. Antonio had planned to import inexpensive clothes, mark them up drastically, and pass them off as “designer” outfits to be sold in the TADAM shops lining Lake Street.

  Except for that final bit of trickery, his “business plan” was a business pipe dream.

  As I knew from my days as a financial consultant in New York City, many business plans were totally unrealistic. The people who wrote them and provided all the figures were trying to look their best—on paper, at least—and Antonio had been no different. He’d obviously written this one to score funds for his mall construction project.

  Fashion design and real estate development? I’d never seen that combination before.

  Had Antonio’s schemes figured in his death? I wanted to take the business plan to Haylee, who was skilled at ferreting out creative accounting, but Ben had said he would go to The Stash early and help her set up audiovisual equipment for the fashion show video, and I didn’t want to disrupt what might turn out to be the first time that Haylee and Ben actually spent a few moments alone together. Sooner or later, Ben would realize he could love a new woman without betraying the memory of his wife, and I didn’t want to be in the way when he did.

  I folded the business plan and stuck it into my bag. Maybe I’d get a chance to show it to Haylee after we watched the video. She could help me decide whether or not to give the business plan to Vicki, who would know whether or not Detective Neffting should see it.