Threaded for Trouble

by Janet Bolin

  Normal needles could do the machine’s widest stitches with no problem, but for needles that took up extra space, like wing needles, double needles, and triple needles, the stitches had to be narrowed or the needle would move too far to the side and plow into the stitch plate beside the slot they were supposed to go into.

  “It’s hard to believe she’d be so careless,” I said. “The clothes she made seemed perfect.”

  Susannah frowned at the machine. “People forget things.”

  Yes, and Darlene could have been distracted by one or more of those children.

  Or by catching her lovely young nanny in the arms of her husband.

  I touched the screen to make the wing needle override come on. The picture of the stitch on the screen should have immediately looked narrower, but it stayed the same, too wide for a wing needle. Specialty needles were expensive, especially if they broke and damaged a machine. I turned the hand wheel slowly, and stopped the needle before it hit the stitch plate.

  The wing needle override on Darlene Coddlefield’s Chandler Champion did not work.

  “Have I lost my mind?” I asked Susannah. “We checked this before we turned the machine over to Darlene, didn’t we?”

  “It was fine.”

  Together, Susannah and I worked our way through the manual. “Maybe she put something into the memory that she shouldn’t have,” I suggested. Like many computerized sewing machines, the Champion allowed seamstresses to place stitches and combinations of stitches into memory banks, one way of bypassing the factory default settings.

  Sure enough, Darlene had set up the Champion to ignore the wing needle override. That had been more than careless, it had been foolhardy. From what I’d seen of Darlene, she’d been neither careless nor foolhardy.

  We erased that portion of the machine’s memory, and the Champion narrowed its stitches enough for a wing needle to move side to side and fit into the slot in the stitch plate.

  I turned to face the two police officers. “Do you still think her death was an accident?”

  “Probably,” Detective Gartener said gently. “Even if someone maliciously sabotaged the machine, they could not have known for sure that their tampering would cause a death.”

  He had—pun intended—a point.

  “Except,” Smallwood blurted. At a look from Gartener, she closed her mouth.

  Haylee and I demanded in unison, “Except what?”

  “Nothing,” Smallwood answered. “The death was very likely an accident.”

  Very likely. She had her doubts. Seconds before, Gartener had obviously stopped her from telling us something. What evidence about Darlene’s “accident” were they keeping a secret?

  And why?

  Suddenly, I thought of a possible reason and felt almost sick. Maybe they knew or suspected that one of Darlene’s youngest children had messed around with the machine and caused a fatal chain of events. If so, I hoped the child would never find out the truth. How could he or she live with that?

  Susannah asked, “Do any of the other memories have stuff in them?

  Good question. I fingered the touch screen. All of the banks were empty except one. The Champion had a memory bank called Monograms, with space for five large letters or eight small ones in each monogram. I leaned aside so the others could see. “FR. Felicity Ranquels put her initials in the monogram memory bank.”

  “What other initials are in there?” Gartener asked as if only vaguely interested, but I knew better. That man wanted to know everything.

  I scrolled down. DC for Darlene Coddlefield, then other sets of initials ending in C, for her husband and children, probably. Then we came to one that said TIFQRSC.

  “Tiffany?” I guessed. “Showing one of the little kids how to make letters appear on the screen?”

  I scrolled down to the last monogram. Actually, it was more like a signature.

  WILLOW.

  16

  HOW DID MY NAME GET TYPED INTO THE memory of Darlene’s sewing machine?

  Haylee and Susannah appeared as baffled as I was, but Chief Smallwood stared at me like she’d caught me harboring a skunk in my ponytail.

  “Did you put your name into this machine?” Gartener’s mild tones didn’t deceive me. His voice could be warm, but the man was stronger than steel.

  “No.”

  Susannah defended me. “It wasn’t there before we gave the Champion to Darlene, and that’s not how Willow signs her name in thread, either. She doesn’t use a sewing machine and a plain font like that.” She pointed at my nametag. “She uses an embroidery attachment and a script that looks like it’s made of willow wands.”

  Smallwood dismissed fonts. “If you didn’t program your name into the machine before it left the shop, you must have done it after it got to Coddlefields’.”

  I almost wished I did have a skunk, and could aim it at her. “I never set foot in the place until after Darlene died, when Edna and I took the family some cookies and a casserole and saw Plug and the nanny in a clinch.”

  Gartener nodded. Smallwood must have already told him about what Edna and I had seen and done that day.

  I continued, “I didn’t even see the sewing machine.”

  Susannah paged through the repair manual. “If the sewing machine’s internal clock works, its computer will tell us when each monogram was entered.”

  Gartener became about as excited as I’d ever seen him. He leaned forward all of a quarter inch. “Can you tell when the wing needle override was turned off?”

  “We erased that,” I said.

  “Let’s check anyway,” he said.

  With Susannah reading the steps aloud to me, I found the time stamp. The wing needle override had been turned off at five P.M. on Wednesday. I turned in my seat and looked up at Gartener. “That was after Darlene took the machine home.” I couldn’t keep triumph out of my voice.

  “And when were the monograms entered?” he asked. He couldn’t possibly believe I would be foolish enough to put my name in a machine and then rig it to harm someone.

  Somewhat deflated, I dictated my findings. “The FR and the DC and most of the other initials ending in C were put in between three and half past three. The one that looks like Tiffany and a child worked together on it went into the machine about four thirty. And my name…” I gulped. “Was entered at a minute after five, right after someone disabled the wing needle override.” Behind me, the officers’ pens scratched on paper. Now I was not only deflated, defeat weighed on my shoulders.

  Haylee, always on my side, asked, “Can you tell if any monograms were erased?”

  Did she guess the culprit may have erased his or her own monogram? It was worth checking. I reached for the machine.

  Gartener stopped me. “I’d rather have a different expert investigate this. I’ll take the machine to the crime lab.”

  A different expert. He didn’t want me fiddling with that sewing machine’s computer and memory banks and possibly destroying evidence. Did he expect to find evidence against me? “Okay,” I agreed.

  Smallwood bagged the original foot pedal. I disconnected the one we’d borrowed from the other Champion, and Gartener picked up the killer sewing machine as if it weighed nothing.

  “Want the carton?” I asked.

  “No, thanks.” With Chief Smallwood and her bagged treasures following him, he carried the sewing machine outside to his cruiser. So much for selling it to benefit Darlene’s children.

  “He’s cute,” Haylee said.

  I grinned.

  Haylee quickly backed down. “Cute, but not my type. Too stern.”

  I jumped to his defense. “Not all the time.”

  Haylee smiled, no doubt remembering the last time he’d been in my shop with the two of us, and quite a few other people. “But who would want to date a state trooper? She’d have to drive under the limit all the time. And just generally…behave.”

  “You behave anyway.” Susannah’s manner was so encouraging that both Haylee and I burst
out laughing.

  “What?” Susannah asked.

  “You’ve been around Opal, Naomi, and Edna too much,” I said, “and their hints about what we should do and how we should act.”

  “Opal and Naomi, anyway,” Haylee corrected me. “Edna sometimes gets a little too wayward to suit the other two.”

  Yes, and so did Haylee and I, at times. But we weren’t going to let Susannah in on our secrets. Even Edna might have a thing or two to say about some of our exploits, like walking the dogs at night near the homes of people we suspected of being up to no good.

  “So, they’re treating Darlene’s death as suspicious,” Haylee noted.

  “They should,” I said darkly. “Sewing machines don’t go berserk.”

  “Or chew gum. See you tomorrow.”

  Susannah looked about to follow Haylee out.

  I stopped her. “I need to talk to you.” I waited until Haylee was out of earshot. “What’s wrong? Why were you acting frightened?”

  And possibly guilty.

  Tears glimmered in the corners of Susannah’s eyes. “I thought they might suspect me of breaking the Champion. I would never purposely break a sewing machine. I fix them.” She raised her chin. “I just don’t like police officers. They creep me out with their guns and everything. I know it’s silly, but they remind me of the night our house burned down. A bunch of them were there. They scared me.” She wiped her eyes. “But those two aren’t as bad as I thought they’d be. I acted okay around them tonight, didn’t I?”

  Without waiting for my answer, she turned around and fled out into the evening. The door closed behind her, leaving my beach-glass chimes jangling.

  The jingles slowed and stopped, and the only noise in my shop was the clock ticking high on the storeroom wall. Yes, Susannah had acted all right around Smallwood and Gartener. She had seemed almost like herself.

  But I was sure that it had mostly been an act.

  What could I do? I wasn’t her boss all the time. She was an excellent employee, repairing machines and always knowing how to help in the shop without being asked. I couldn’t very well force her to tell me if anything was bothering her besides her childhood memories. And maybe she was already learning to cope with those old fears. Still, I was glad she was coming to In Stitches to repair machines the next day. If she needed to talk, I’d be available.

  After the dogs and I had a good long romp and some supper, I was ready for an evening of embroidery. I fussed with the trims I’d bought from Edna, but nothing gave me a reasonable, machine-embroidered semblance of candlewicking. I tied mini rickrack in knots. Why had I thought that might look good? I threw the strange-looking wad down in disgust.

  My most successful attempt was with cord that looked like candlewick but was more flexible. Like the other trims, it would have to be tacked to the fabric first, then any zigzag machine could stitch it down, which hardly qualified as machine embroidery. Instead of entering IMEC, I’d have to enter a competition for strands of bumpy white stuff wandering over fabric. I didn’t think such a competition existed.

  I didn’t have to enter IMEC or show off my work in the handcrafts booth at the Harvest Festival. The trouble was I wanted to.

  However, no matter how long I stared at my embroidery software, my machines, and the heaps of discarded knotted-up trims, inspiration just wouldn’t come.

  Frustrated, I gave up and tromped downstairs with my dogs. We all went outside. Watching them run and attack each other in their play-fighting, I felt better. Again, I would have to let my brain work on the problem while I slept.

  By morning, inspiration about my IMEC entry hadn’t appeared.

  But Chief Smallwood did.

  17

  LEANING AGAINST THE CUTTING TABLE IN the middle of In Stitches, Chief Smallwood paged through her notebook. Apparently early morning made her grumpier than ever. “Yesterday when we were here, we spoke with you and Haylee and another woman, your assistant, what did you say her name was?”

  Chief Smallwood had written Susannah’s name down the night before, and was probably staring right at it.

  “Susannah Kessler.”

  “How long has she worked for you?”

  “Only a few months. Before that, she was one of our star students.”

  “How did you three zero in so quickly on everything that was wrong with that sewing machine?”

  “We’re all used to machines and how they should work. No machine should stitch unless the pedal is pressed by someone, not by something. And the needle plunger was so loose it wobbled and went down too far. Those led us to other, more subtle deficiencies. There could be more.” Lots more. I grumbled, “I’m not impressed with this new sewing machine manufacturer.”

  “So where did you three get your expertise?”

  “Haylee and I have been using sewing machines since we were little girls. Susannah probably has, too. In addition, we’ve all taken courses. Before Susannah began assisting in our shops, we made certain she was certified to repair all the machines that Haylee and I sell, and the quilting machines that Naomi has in Batty About Quilts.”

  “So this Susannah Kessler is the real expert?”

  “In repair? Yes. She stays current on the latest machines. She also waits on customers and helps teach classes and workshops.” I wasn’t sure what we’d do without her. “Unlike Haylee and me, she’s lived here in Elderberry Bay all her life. You can ask other residents about her.”

  “Do you know her ex-husband?”

  “No. When I moved here, they were still together, but I never met him. I gather he moved out west somewhere.”

  “He doesn’t have very nice things to say about her.”

  Had the police decided Darlene’s death was a homicide and Susannah was their prime suspect? Stepping back, I bumped into a bolt of linen. “You already got in touch with him?” I had to convince Smallwood that Susannah was innocent, and it was hard not to look guilty myself, since I suspected that Susannah had a secret reason for acting nervous around Smallwood and Gartener. I didn’t know what it was, though, so I couldn’t very well tell Smallwood about it. I managed, “Susannah’s not a killer.”

  Smallwood actually smiled, though her smile was a crooked twist of her lips that put touches of red lipstick on her teeth. “Her ex got in touch with us, said that if anyone was killing people with sewing machines around here, it had to be her.”

  I spluttered, “But he…I’m guessing he doesn’t like Susannah!” Which was probably putting it mildly.

  “Don’t worry, Willow, we know that some exes, male and female, can become vindictive.”

  “Could he have had a grudge against Darlene Coddlefield?”

  “We’re looking into everything, but we have corroborated that Susannah’s ex was in Utah the night of Mrs. Coddlefield’s death.”

  “A hit man,” I began, then laughed at my silly conjecture. “No one hires hit men to gum up sewing machine pedals.”

  Smallwood pointed her pen at me like she agreed, then flipped through her notebook again. “The deceased got that sewing machine from you.”

  “Yes, and for the record, I didn’t make a penny from it. My store is the closest Chandler distributor to the contest winner. That’s why I had the good fortune”—I made a goofy face to show I didn’t consider it to be good at all—“to host the Chandler representative and her presentation ceremony.”

  “And it was a national contest? How many contestants?”

  “The Chandler company should be able to answer that.”

  She thinned her lips as if she’d already asked and saw no reason to share the answer. “Is the competition strong?”

  “Very. Lots of my students entered, many of whom are experts at sewing and machine embroidering.”

  “And I have it on good authority that Darlene has won other sewing contests over the years.”

  I admitted that I didn’t know anything about other sewing contests she could have entered and won. “But Felicity, the Chandler rep, said that
Darlene had won Mother of the Year.”

  “Do they award that for having the most kids?” Smallwood opened her eyes in pretend astonishment.

  I couldn’t help grinning. “I think it was years ago, when Russ and the next child, a sister, I think, were little, before she had the other six.”

  Smallwood asked, “What was your impression of the older children?”

  “Russ was obviously angry at his mother earlier that day, the day she died. He didn’t want to attend the presentation, but she ordered him to, so he did, but he didn’t stay for the whole thing. And he brought her back later to help her collect her sewing machine.” I couldn’t help smiling at the memory of his valiant face and bulging muscles. “He’s quite strong for his age. So he was obedient even though he liked to pretend he wasn’t. But that night—the next morning, actually, around two—I saw him driving recklessly and shouting out his truck windows like he was letting off steam. And on Thursday evening, he deliberately forced Edna’s car off the road when we were returning from delivering the casserole and cookies.”

  “Were you sure it was Russ, not someone else?” Smallwood asked.

  “Thursday evening, yes. At two on Thursday morning, I’m not positive, but it was a truck like his.”

  “At two Thursday morning, I was at his house. His mother had been dead for a couple of hours, and no one in his family had seen him since dinnertime.” She tapped her pen on her notebook. “Would you say that Darlene Coddlefield was an expert at sewing?”

  “Yes.”

  “She wouldn’t have made mistakes using the machine?”

  I spread my hands out. “People accidentally damage their machines all the time. They jump to conclusions and never question their logic. You probably see that type of behavior, too.”

  “Ooh, yes,” Chief Smallwood agreed. “People who ‘never’ make mistakes make some real lulus. So you think Darlene may have caused all this damage to her machine, perhaps by accident?”

  “The one thing I can’t see any seamstress doing is putting something sticky in her foot pedal. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “You’re saying that someone’s actions were deliberately malicious?”