by Amanda Lee
I went upstairs and filled the tub with hot water and fragrant bubble bath. I stripped, put my clothes in the hamper, and sank into the tub even before it finished filling. My skin quickly adjusted to the temperature of the water, and I let the flow wash over my toes. I turned off the faucet, lay back in the tub, and closed my eyes.
How I wished I could find a way to make peace with Clara and Nellie. I harbored no illusions that the three of us could ever become bosom buddies—going to lunch, bringing one another coffee, sharing gossip over the proverbial back fence. But surely we could coexist without trying to best or belittle each other on a regular basis. Couldn’t we? I knew neither Clara nor Nellie would ever extend the olive branch to me, but maybe I could come up with a way to show them that I truly believed—and I did . . . for the most part—that Tallulah Falls was big enough for all three of us.
“Hey, babe!”
It was Ted calling to me from the bottom of the stairs.
“I’ll be right down!”
“Take your time,” he shouted. “I’ll let Angus out and start dinner!”
He was absolutely the most wonderful man ever.
I finished my bath, slipped on a fluffy terry robe, and padded downstairs. Ted was at the blue granite counter dicing tomatoes on a wooden cutting board.
I eased up behind him and slid my arms around his waist.
“Mmmm . . . you smell great.” He turned and gave me an appreciative grin. “And I adore this dress you’re wearing.” He used the belt of my robe to pull me even closer for a heart-thumping kiss.
“Could you maybe put the knife down?” I asked. “You’re making me a little nervous with that thing.”
He chuckled. “Of course. I forgot I was still holding it. See? You drive me to distraction.”
“I’m glad,” I said with a smile. “We could both use some distraction tonight.”
“Agreed.”
“But first . . . what’re we having for dinner?”
I noticed he had a couple pots on the stove, and the aromas of oregano, garlic, basil, and rosemary were making me salivate. Or maybe it was Ted standing there with his dress shirt open at the throat and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows—and the way his pants emphasized his trim waist and tight butt—that was making me start to drool. Either way, it was a tantalizing combo—gorgeous man in my kitchen cooking a delicious meal. Heaven on earth.
“We’re having baked Parmesan garlic chicken breasts and new potatoes with herbs,” Ted said. “Sound good?”
“Sounds wonderful.” We’d both been working on our cooking skills lately. Ted seemed to have more of a knack for some things than I did. He was really good with Italian dishes. “What can I do to help?”
“You can relax. You’ve had a rough day.”
“And you probably have, too,” I said. “Going through a five-year-old cold case file can’t be easy. How about I whip up some dessert?”
“Way ahead of you, Inch-High.” He nodded toward my large square table. In the middle of the table was a small box from MacKenzies’ Mochas.
I cocked my head. “Let me guess. Two fudge brownies?”
“And a peanut butter cookie for Angus.” He winked. “Gotta take care of my boy.”
“Have I mentioned how incredible you are?” I asked.
“Not lately. But we can talk about it after dinner. . . . And remember, actions really do speak louder than words.”
* * *
Ted and I had enjoyed a really stellar evening, and I was in particularly high spirits when Angus and I arrived at the Seven-Year Stitch Tuesday morning. My buoyancy was short-lived, however.
I’d been at work about half an hour and was busily restocking the embroidery floss bins when Nellie Davis paid me a visit. As always, her short gray hair was sticking out in all directions. Some women used wax on their short hair to give themselves an edgy, piece-y look—I’d done that myself on occasion—but there was no rhyme or reason to Nellie’s coif. She looked as if she’d rolled out of bed late and hadn’t had time to even run a comb through her hair before coming to work.
She wore her usual black-on-black ensemble, which made her seem even paler and thinner than she could possibly be. The only spot of color Nellie entertained was the red-rimmed glasses perched on her hawkish nose.
Recalling last night’s bathtub resolution, I pasted on a smile and made a desperate attempt at a peace-generating greeting.
“Good morning, Nellie. Thank you for dropping in. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
She eyed me suspiciously. “No . . . er . . . no, thank you.” She scratched her chin. “So what do you think of Clara’s shop?”
“I haven’t had an opportunity to stop in yet and welcome her to the neighborhood,” I said. “Is everything all set up?”
“Almost.” Nellie glanced around the shop and then snorted. “It’s nice that people will have an alternative to this place for their sewing notions.”
I refused to take the bait. “I believe it speaks well of needlecrafts and of people’s continued interest in the art that Tallulah Falls will be able to adequately accommodate our two successful shops.”
She sniffed. “I suppose we’ll see about that.”
“I suppose we will.”
At that point, my dear friend Rajani “Reggie” Singh burst into the Stitch. Reggie, Tallulah Falls’s librarian and wife of chief of police Manu Singh, also has short gray hair. Unlike Nellie’s, however, Reggie’s is always elegantly styled to fit her refined persona. This morning Reggie wore a mint green tunic over matching slacks.
Angus, who’d not acknowledged Nellie’s presence, hurried over to greet Reggie.
She laughed as she rubbed the dog’s head with both hands. “And a good morning to you, Angus! Hi, Marcy . . . Nellie.”
“Reggie, it’s so great to see you,” I said.
“I’ll go now so you can wait on your customer,” Nellie told me. She opened her mouth as if there was something else she intended to say, but then she closed it again. With a curt nod, she left.
My body sagged with relief. “I was serious about how glad I am to see you.”
“I know. I was actually on my way to MacKenzies’ Mochas and saw Nellie come into your shop. I found a parking space as quickly as I could and came to rescue you.”
“Thank you. You don’t know how much I appreciate that. It’s certainly not up to MacKenzies’ Mochas’ standards, but I’ll be happy to get you a cup of coffee.”
“That sounds nice,” Reggie said. She went over and took a seat in one of the red club chairs.
I poured us each a cup of coffee and arranged the cups, spoons, packets of sweetener, and individual cream pitchers on a tray and took it out to the sit-and-stitch square. I put the tray on the coffee table and sat on the sofa facing the window.
“I heard about Clara moving in next door,” Reggie said as she emptied a packet of sweetener into her coffee. “How’s that going?”
“It shouldn’t be such a big deal,” I said. “And I even resolved last night to extend an olive branch to Clara and Nellie. But before I could come up with a way to do that, Nellie went on the offensive and came over here to run down my shop.” I sighed. “I have no idea what I ever did to those women to make them despise me so.”
“With some people, the only thing you have to do to make them dislike you is to be different from them.”
I smiled. “Then, in that case, I’ll take their dislike of me as a compliment.”
Reggie sipped her coffee. “Just don’t let them get to you. When they see that they can’t bully you, they’ll leave you alone.”
“I hope so,” I said.
* * *
After Reggie left, I took out my latest embroidery project. I’d ordered white poet’s shirts in several sizes and was adding blackwork to the collars and cuffs. I would be selling the shirts at the Renaissance Faire. I’d already made several ruffs and cuffs to sell to Faire-goers, and I had finished quite a few shirts. I was even teaching an Elizab
ethan blackwork class on Tuesday nights, and given the interest in the upcoming Ren Faire, it was full.
I used a unique border on as many of the poet’s shirts as possible. On this particular one, I was embroidering a pomegranate border. Traditionally, the pomegranate was the symbol of Spain, with a crowned pomegranate being the personal insignia of Catherine of Aragon. The pomegranate border would appeal to a buyer who wanted to appear to be of royal or noble birth . . . at least, if the buyer was familiar with Renaissance customs and traditions.
I outlined the pomegranate with thick black floss and then filled in the outline with a lighter-weight thread. I’d completed one pomegranate on the shirt’s right cuff and was filling in the leaves connecting the pomegranate to the next one when Ms. Fields, the customer for whom I ordered the tambour embroidery and the eighteenth-century embroidery books, came into the shop.
“Hi, Ms. Fields,” I said brightly, setting my embroidery aside. “Welcome back to the Seven-Year Stitch. What can I do for you today?”
She twisted her hands together. “I . . . I’m sorry to do this. . . .” She lowered her eyes. “But I need to cancel the order I placed with you yesterday.”
I stood, wiped my hands on the sides of my jeans, and joined her at the counter. “That’s all right. I can’t cancel the order, since it’s already gone through, but I’m sure I can resell the books.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Just out of curiosity, what made you change your mind about the books?”
“The woman next door . . . she ordered them for me free of charge. She said it was a first-time-customer discount,” said Ms. Fields.
“Oh.” My initial surprise and jab of anger subsided enough to allow me to forgo taking my emotions out on my innocent customer—make that ex-customer. I even managed a smile. “How wonderful for you! I do hope you’ll keep the Seven-Year Stitch in mind the next time you need embroidery supplies.”
“Yes . . . yes, of course I will. In fact, I thought I’d get some skeins of floss while I’m here.”
“Thank you,” I said. “If you need help finding anything in particular, please let me know.”
“I will.” She hurried over to the embroidery floss bins and came back momentarily with a double fistful of skeins. “I’ll take these, please.”
I rang up her purchases and placed them in a periwinkle blue Seven-Year Stitch bag. “Thank you again for shopping with me. There’s a flyer in the bag telling you about the embroidery classes taught on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday nights. I and my students would love to have you drop in one evening. First class is always free.”
“All right. Good-bye.”
Ms. Fields took her bag and rushed out of the store. I noticed that she went in the opposite direction of Clara’s shop. Poor Ms. Fields. I doubted she intended to get caught up in the middle of our retail war—a war that in my opinion didn’t, or shouldn’t, exist.
I went back to the sit-and-stitch square to resume my blackwork. But Angus suddenly began barking and nearly scared me out of my skin.
“What in the world . . . ?” I jumped up and ran over to the window to see what had him so excited.
There on the sidewalk was a large brown and white bunny. It was standing on its hind feet and was staring through the glass at Angus. Its little pink nose twitched as it moved its head back and forth. It seemed to be wondering how to get inside.
It was obviously someone’s pet, and it didn’t appear to be frightened of Angus. Worried that it might wander out into the street and get run over by a car, I stepped outside and carefully approached the bunny. To my surprise and delight, it hopped right over to me. I scooped it up and took it inside.
Angus immediately rushed to investigate. He’d been around cats a few times, but I didn’t think he’d ever been near a rabbit. The dog was usually wonderful around new people and animals, but I thought I should handle the situation cautiously.
I sat on the tall stool behind the counter so I would be up high enough to get the bunny out of Angus’s reach should things go badly. I recalled seeing a pet adoption notice once where an adorable Great Pyrenees puppy was asking, “Can you pass this test? Chickens are (a) to be guarded with your life or (b) tasty snacks. I couldn’t pass the test, which is why I’m at the shelter looking for a new forever home.” I’d already adopted Angus by that time, or I might’ve gone right to the shelter and gotten that sweet puppy. He couldn’t help it if he hadn’t understood the deal with the chickens.
I instructed Angus to sit. When he’d obeyed, I lowered the bunny enough to allow the dog to give the much smaller creature a good snuffle. The rabbit stretched its neck out to sniff Angus’s muzzle. I decided it was either brave or dumb. Angus licked his new buddy’s head.
The bunny, whom I’d christened Harvey in my mind, leapt from my lap and onto the floor. It raced around the shop, with Angus loping after it. At first, I was concerned that Angus might hurt little Harvey, either on purpose or by accident. Then I had to laugh when Angus ran past me with the bunny in pursuit.
The pair took turns chasing each other until the bells over the front door indicated that someone had come in. I turned, smiling, to greet the newcomer. My smile disappeared when I saw Clara’s face glowering at me.
“What are you doing to my little Clover?” she shrieked. “Clover! Clover, darling, come here!”
Clover, formerly known as Harvey, wisely ignored her and scurried under the counter to huddle with Angus in his bed.
Clara scowled at me. “Get my Clover away from that monstrous beast right this instant!”
“Angus isn’t hurting your rabbit,” I said. “In fact, they’re having a blast playing together.”
“What are you doing with her? How did you get her out of my shop without my seeing you?” She squinted, looking as if she half expected me to whip out a magic wand and conjure up a room full of helpless rabbits for Angus to devour.
“I saw the bunny on the sidewalk and rescued it before it got hit by a car,” I said. “I was hoping the owner would come looking for it.”
“Oh.” She pressed her lips together. “Thank you, then . . . I suppose. . . . But could you please give her to me now? I’d like to go.”
I was happy to accommodate her—not because I wanted to deprive Angus of his new playmate but because I wanted nothing more than to get Clara out of the Seven-Year Stitch. I bent down and carefully picked up the bunny, which had snuggled between Angus’s paws.
“Maybe you guys can play again sometime,” I said as I cuddled Clover. But don’t count on it. I walked around the counter and handed the bunny back to its owner. Without another word, Clara took Clover and left.
Chapter Four
Angus and I were both feeling a bit deflated on the drive home from work. He’d spent the rest of the afternoon lying by the window looking for his little cotton-tailed friend. I, of course, was bummed about the entire situation with Clara. I’d given myself at least a dozen pep talks throughout the day, but it was seriously hard to be optimistic when things kept going from bad to worse. I cheered up when I turned onto my street and saw Ted’s car in my driveway.
I parked, got out of the Jeep, and snapped Angus’s leash onto his collar. The dog pulled ahead of me as he hurried to the door in anticipation of seeing Ted.
Ted opened the door for us, and Angus thanked him with an exuberant hug. Ted laughed, removed the leash, and stepped aside so the excited dog could bound on into the house.
Ted gave me a quick “hello” kiss before closing the door to embrace me more thoroughly.
“It feels so good to have you in my arms,” he said, once we’d come up for air. “I hope you don’t mind my being here when you got home.”
“Of course I don’t.” I stood on my toes to brush an unruly strand of hair off his forehead. “Is anything wrong?”
“It’s just this cold case. It’s driving me up the wall. I had to get completely away from it for a while.”
I smiled softly. “I underst
and completely.” And I did. Ted’s spare bedroom is a study, and on one wall he has dry-erase boards and corkboards detailing the cases he’s currently working. Had he gone home, he’d have inevitably found himself in the study examining those boards.
“I ordered a pizza,” Ted said. “It should be here soon.”
“Great. I’ll go ahead and feed Angus while we’re waiting.” I went into the kitchen and found Angus already standing there in anticipation, and I filled his bowl with kibble. As he dug in, I refilled his water dish.
Back in the living room, I found Ted stretched out on my white overstuffed sofa, staring into space. I snuggled next to him, and he wrapped his strong arms around me.
He kissed the top of my head. “I simply can’t figure it out.”
The case really did have him stumped.
“What can’t you figure out?” I asked with mock innocence. “Why you love me so much?”
He chuckled. “No. That’s an easy one.”
“Talking about it—to the extent that you can—might help.”
“It might. But I don’t want to dwell on it and waste my time with you.”
“You’re already dwelling on it, sweetheart. Maybe the master detective Inch-High Private Eye can help you see the case in a new light.”
“All right,” he said. “Without naming names or giving you specifics, Master Detective, a man was murdered. Since he wasn’t an ideal husband, his wife was the main suspect.”
“But even if he’d been an exemplary husband, wouldn’t you still look at his spouse first?” I asked. “I mean, he might be super nice, but she might not be.”
“Of course, we always look at the person or persons closest to the victim first. The fact that he was an abusive philanderer simply gave the wife more motive. The main motive was a substantial insurance payout.”
“How substantial?”
“Two million,” he said. “The man owned a share in an accounting business. When he died, his partner became the sole proprietor. That’s why the wife was so generously provided for in the insurance policy.”