Wicked Stitch

by Amanda Lee

  Ted carefully avoided my eyes and opened the box containing his croissant. “I don’t know, babe.”

  “We are so not talking about this and letting it spoil our lunch,” I said. “How has your day been?”

  “Fairly uneventful so far,” he said. “I’m going through a cold case from five years ago, since—thankfully—there’s not an open case I’m working on at the moment.”

  “That is good. Is it a murder case?” I bit into my croissant.

  Ted nodded. “Hopefully, I’ll find some new evidence, and either we’ll be able to convict the person who was our main suspect or we’ll discover that it was someone else.”

  “It must be hard to try to uncover anything new in a five-year-old case,” I said.

  “It can be. But sometimes people are more willing to talk because they aren’t as afraid of suffering any repercussions as they are right after a crime has been committed.”

  “That makes sense.” I tore off a piece of my croissant for Angus. “If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.” I knew there wasn’t, but I wanted to be polite and offer. “And if you come in here and find me dead, that case won’t have time to get cold. If they’re not still standing over my corpse, just run next door, where Nellie and Clara will probably be dancing with joy—and the murder weapons.”

  “I’m really glad we decided not to talk about the situation with Nellie’s sister,” Ted said with a grin. “I think it would’ve really brought us down.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m trying so hard not to think about it . . . but I can’t help but think about it!”

  He chuckled. “I know, sweetheart. I’m just teasing you. Want me to go over and arrest Clara?”

  “Yes. Do you have any grounds?”

  He thought a moment. “No. I’m afraid upsetting the woman I love isn’t a crime, although it certainly should be.”

  I smiled. “I love you, too. And I know everything will be okay. We’ve weathered worse storms than this, right?”

  “Exactly. This is nothing my Inch-High Private Eye can’t handle.”

  “So stop worrying about it already and tell me what we’re doing tonight,” I said.

  He gave a big, dramatic sigh. “All right, I’ll do my best. As for tonight, let’s make dinner together and then watch a movie.”

  “Sounds wonderful to me.”

  I resolved then and there not to give Clara’s shop another thought. Unfortunately, I knew it would be like a New Year’s resolution—I’d start out strong and then cave by the next day.

  Chapter Two

  On a drizzly day exactly one week later, when I took Angus for his midmorning walk, I knew I shouldn’t have walked past Clara’s and Nellie’s shops, but it was a habit. I almost always took Angus up the street to the square. To be perfectly honest, everybody’s dog peed near the base of the large wrought-iron clock. It was a sure bet that Angus would go there, sniff, pee, and be ready to return to the Stitch.

  As we were walking back, I saw movers unloading boxes into Clara’s shop. One of them stopped to speak to Angus and to tell me what a handsome dog I had.

  I thanked him. “It looks like the proprietor will be setting up shop pretty soon,” I said.

  Clara, her meaty arms crossed at her ample bosom, appeared at the door. “That I will, Miss Nosy Pants.”

  The movers looked confused and uncomfortable.

  “Well . . . good luck,” I said. I was talking more to the movers than I was to Clara.

  Angus and I sidestepped the movers and went on back to the Stitch.

  We hadn’t been back five minutes when Vera Langhorne stormed into the shop. Fists on her hips, she kept shaking her head and sending her professionally highlighted blond bob flying in all directions.

  Angus didn’t know what all the fuss was about, but he sought refuge in his bed beneath the counter.

  “I cannot believe this! I can’t believe it!” Vera ranted. “Just who in the world does that Clara think she is, setting up a shop called Knitted and Needled? I’d like to needle her right in her big old butt!”

  I laughed. “Thank you, Vera. But I’m sure Tallulah Falls can accommodate both an embroidery shop and whatever needlecrafts Clara will be selling.”

  She huffed. “I could have Paul do some sort of exposé on Clara. She’s mean as the devil. Surely she’s hiding some deep dark secrets we could use to run her out of town.”

  Vera dated Paul Samms, a journalist for the Tallulah Falls Examiner.

  “That would make us just as bad as she and Nellie are,” I said to Vera. “I appreciate your concern; I really do. But we have more important things to think about. Tell me about your Ren Faire costume.”

  Vera’s attitude quickly changed. “Oh, Marcy, it’s incredible. Paul is going as a minstrel, and I’m going as a noble lady. My dress is gold brocade with a square neckline and rounded shoulder pad thingies with puffy sleeves. And I’m wearing a matching Tudor French hood. I mean, it’s not a hood like you pull up over your head in winter, it’s . . .” She struggled to describe the Renaissance headgear.

  “I know exactly what you’re talking about,” I said. “My mom is a costumer, remember?”

  “Of course.” She rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I can be dense. Still, it’s a lovely gown, and I just can’t come up with all the words to describe it. You’ll have to see it for yourself.”

  “I’m sure it’s beautiful and that you’ll look stunning in it.” I smiled.

  “I hope Paul thinks so.” She giggled. “Wait until you see his costume.”

  “He’s a minstrel, right?”

  She nodded. “But he looks like a little pumpkin in it!”

  I joined in her laughter.

  “I can’t imagine Paul as a pumpkin,” I said. “He’s too thin.”

  “He doesn’t seem to be in that blousy surcoat with the huge white ruffled collar. He’s wearing black tights and black felt shoes with it. Thank goodness he isn’t wearing green tights and that he has nice legs.”

  “What instrument is he taking along?”

  “A lute,” she said. “And it’s not just for show. He can play the darned thing. I hummed ‘Greensleeves’ all day yesterday after he left the house.”

  “I can hardly wait to see the two of you,” I said. “You’ll look wonderful.”

  She smiled. “I think it’ll be loads of fun.”

  “I started to make Angus one of those huge ruffled collars. I don’t think he’d appreciate it, though.”

  “I don’t think he would, either.” She clucked her tongue. “You can come out and see me now, Angus. I’ve calmed down.”

  He peeped furtively from behind the counter.

  Vera laughed. “Come here, boy. Let me love your sweet head before I leave.”

  Angus trotted over and allowed Vera to hug his neck.

  “You’re such a good boy,” she said. She pulled back and smoothed the hair out of his big brown eyes. “You’re a good, good boy.”

  He rewarded her with a kiss on the nose.

  “I forgot to ask. Did you need anything or did you just stop in to rant?” I asked.

  “I was mad,” she said. “That’s not to say that I won’t remember something I wanted as soon as I leave, but if I do I’ll be back.”

  As Vera stood up to leave, an elderly woman entered the shop. I instinctively took hold of Angus before he could exuberantly greet the newcomer and accidentally knock her down.

  “Hello,” I said. “Welcome to the Seven-Year Stitch.”

  “What a big dog!” the woman exclaimed. “I’ve always loved big dogs. May I pet him?”

  “Of course.” I still held Angus. By the looks of this tiny birdlike woman, a strong breeze would knock her off her feet. A one-hundred-fifty-pound dog could certainly do so.

  She came over and patted Angus on the head.

  “I’ll talk with you later, Marcy!” Vera called on her way out the door.

  “I’ve come to ask if you have any Point de Beauvais em
broidery patterns or kits,” the woman said.

  “I don’t have either,” I said, “but I’ll be happy to order something for you. Let’s go into my office and see what’s available from my distributors.”

  “Thank you.”

  I led Angus, and the woman followed us into my office.

  “Oh, what a lovely skirt,” she said upon seeing Sadie’s skirt hanging near the ironing board.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I made it for a friend to wear at the Renaissance Festival. Are you going?”

  “I am. That’s why I’m so interested in Point de Beauvais,” she said. “You see, this form of embroidery came to France via Italy in the late Middle Ages through China’s trade routes.”

  I had little knowledge of Point de Beauvais needlework, but I was eager to help my customer find something. According to the Point de Beauvais Embroidery at Bourg-le-Roi Web site, Point de Beauvais is an intricate process all around. The pattern must be traced onto paper. The paper is then pricked with a needle along the tracing lines, and ink is added to the cloth through the holes. The thread is worked with a very fine crochet hook. The site noted that the best examples of Point de Beauvais resemble paintings.

  I was able to find a pattern book, but it was written in French. From a discussion forum on a needlecraft magazine’s Web site, we learned that Point de Beauvais was known as tambour embroidery in English. I found a pattern book that included tambour embroidery and another book on eighteenth-century embroidery techniques that mentioned tambour in the description, but there wasn’t very much specific to this ancient technique.

  The woman had me order both books, and I told her they’d be in by Monday. I ordered a few additional copies of the one on eighteenth-century embroidery techniques because I thought it might sell at the Ren Faire.

  My customer—whose name was Ms. Fields—gave me her number so I could call her when her books arrived. I walked her to the door and held it open. She truly appeared so frail that I felt particularly protective of her. I thanked her for coming in as she started off down the street.

  Clara, who’d apparently been standing in the doorway of her shop, darted out onto the sidewalk to intercept the poor dear.

  “Didn’t she have what you were looking for?” Clara asked. “Come on in here and I’ll see if I can’t help you out.”

  “Now, wait a second,” I said, pulling my door closed so that Angus wouldn’t run out into the street. “I ordered what Ms. Fields needed.”

  “That’s all right,” said Ms. Fields. “I might as well browse this shop while I’m in town.”

  I managed a stiff smile. “Of course. Good luck.”

  “Please excuse the mess,” Clara said. “I’ve just started unpacking boxes. My shop is brand, spanking new, you see.”

  I went back into the Stitch.

  With a growl of frustration, I retrieved the laptop from my office and carried it to the sit-and-stitch square. Maybe I should beef up my marketing. There might be a new shop in town, but shouldn’t customers put their trust in an experienced shop?

  I pulled up the Seven-Year Stitch Web page. The header featured a photo of Angus lying on the floor near the counter. The embroidery supplies and some of my projects were visible in the background. It was a good picture. I liked it. But was it dynamic enough to draw customers in?

  Maybe I needed to have a contest or something using social media. That might work. I could do a giveaway in conjunction with the upcoming Renaissance Faire. But what?

  I called Mom for inspiration.

  “Hey, Mom,” I said when she answered.

  “That was the most lackluster Hey, Mom I’ve ever heard,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

  “You know Nellie Davis?” I asked.

  “That nasty little woman who owns the aromatherapy shop? What’s the name of it again? Scentsless?”

  “Close,” I said. “It’s Scentsibilities. Anyway, her sister, Clara, has leased the shop next to the Seven-Year Stitch.”

  “Oh, great. So you’ll have two harpies to deal with.”

  “That’s not the half of it. Clara’s shop is called Knitted and Needled, and she’s going to be selling knitting, crochet, and quilting supplies.”

  “Well, more power to her,” Mom said. “You aren’t afraid of a little competition.”

  “Right. I’m not. It’s just that Clara tried to steal one of my new customers away as soon as she left my shop!”

  “Did you sell something to the customer?” she asked.

  “I ordered two books for her about tambour embroidery,” I said.

  “Tambour . . . hmmm . . . I haven’t thought about tambour embroidery in years. It’s rather difficult to do, if I recall correctly.”

  “It looked a bit tricky to me. But what do you think about Clara?” I wanted my mom to rant and rave like Vera had. I wanted her to tell me not to let Clara bully me. I wanted her to make me chocolate chip cookies and let me eat them warm from the oven. I wanted her to hug me and say that everything would be all right.

  “Oh, I know Clara is difficult . . . especially if she’s anything like Nellie,” she said.

  “She’s even worse than Nellie.”

  “My precious darling,” Mom said soothingly. “Let it go. You can’t control what others do—only what you do. Continue providing your customers the best products and service you can, and everything else will take care of itself.”

  “Do you really think so?” I asked.

  “I know so. Do you realize how many costumers in Hollywood would love to have my job?” she asked. “Do you know how many costuming jobs that I’d have loved to have gone to someone else? And yet the world keeps turning. There’s room for all of us if we’re dedicated.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I know. I’m your mother. I’m always right,” she said. “How’s the baby?”

  I looked over at Angus, who was sleeping by the window. “He’s fine. He says we need another care package soon. He’s almost out of those bacon treats you make for him.”

  “Tell him I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

  “I was thinking of running some sort of contest in conjunction with the Ren Faire in order to drum up business,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “It would be awfully hard for you to try to keep things running smoothly at the shop, manage a booth at the festival, and execute a contest,” she said. “My advice is to not spread yourself too thin. Don’t panic over Nellie’s sister opening a shop. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and see how it goes for the first few months.”

  “Okay. That sounds like a good plan.”

  “How are preparations for the festival coming along?” she asked.

  “They’re going really well. I’m finished with my costumes, and I’m working on Sadie’s last one today. She’s been swamped the past few days, but she needs to come by and try on her skirt so I can see where to hem it,” I said. “The blackwork class has been really popular, so I’ve made flyers with free blackwork patterns and I’ll be giving those away.”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea. It’s a nice way to reward your current customers and to introduce yourself to potential new ones.”

  Later I was ringing up a woman’s purchase of several skeins of embroidery floss when Riley Kendall walked through the door. Riley has black hair, blue eyes, and a mischievous smile. She was carrying her seven-month-old baby, Laura, who was adorable in her pink sweater and matching hat.

  As I completed the transaction, my customer fawned over Laura. She was such a pretty baby. Who could help but smile and coo at her?

  When the woman left with her periwinkle Seven-Year Stitch bag in hand, I stepped around the counter and held out my arms. Laura reached for me, and Riley handed her over.

  Angus came to sit at my feet, looking up adoringly at the little angel.

  “I’m glad to see you’re in such good spirits,” Riley said. “After hearing about Clara’s shop opening, I was afraid I’d have to talk you down from a
ledge somewhere.”

  I laughed. “I was rather upset over the whole thing, and then my mom made me see reason. She reminded me that everybody has competition and that all I can do is run my shop to the best of my ability and hope my customers appreciate that.”

  “Your mom is one smart lady,” said Riley.

  “Yes, she is.”

  “Still, don’t be a doormat.” Riley held up her index finger. “If Clara is trying to sell something that you know comes from your distributors, she might be in violation of their noncompete clauses. For instance, some companies assert in their contracts that retailers within a certain distance from each other cannot sell the same products. That’s why only one store in the mall carries Crazy Kitty products.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” I promised. “Still, I’m not as concerned about Clara and her shop as I was this morning.” I looked at Laura. “You know, she would make the most incredible faerie baby on the planet. Let’s dress her up for the Faire!”

  “I already have the outfit,” Riley said with a grin.

  Chapter Three

  I was so glad it was Monday and that Angus and I were on our way home. I taught embroidery classes every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evening from six to eight o’clock. But I was thrilled not to be going back to the Stitch this evening. I needed to decompress, figure out how to truly deal with Clara being right next door, drink wine, and eat chocolate.

  Mom had absolutely been right on the money when she’d said I couldn’t let a little competition get to me. But it wasn’t the competition that bothered me—it was the fact that Clara and her sister hated my guts and would love to see me run out of town on a rail.

  I pulled the Jeep into the driveway of my two-story white home. I grabbed Angus’s leash and snapped it onto his collar before allowing him to get out of the backseat. He stopped to pee en route to the door, probably to let any other dogs wandering around the neighborhood know he was home.

  We went into the house, and I dropped my keys onto a tray on the table in the foyer and hung the leash on a peg. Angus trotted on into the kitchen, knowing very well that it was dinnertime. I plodded after him, kissed him on top of the head, and then filled his bowl with kibble.