Wicked Stitch

by Amanda Lee

  “Nellie, do you truly believe I had anything to do with Clara’s death?”

  Her lips trembled, and she closed her eyes. “No . . . but you didn’t save her.”

  “I couldn’t,” I said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I did everything I could. I called Ted, and he got the paramedics there right away.” I tried to take her hand, but she pulled it back as if I’d burned her. “I wouldn’t have let your sister lie there and die if I could have helped it.”

  Nellie’s tears dripped onto the table.

  “Please say you believe that much, at the very least,” I said.

  “She’s gone,” Nellie whispered. “My sister is gone, and I’m alone . . . again. Just get out of here and leave me alone.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I took a steadying breath and walked out of the interrogation room. Ted met me in the hallway.

  “You okay, babe?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Let’s go to lunch.”

  He nodded. He opened his mouth to say something, but I shook my head slightly. I didn’t want to talk about Nellie . . . didn’t want Ted to ask me again if I was all right. . . . I knew I’d get upset about this whole ordeal again later. But for now I had to keep it together. I had a business to run and then a class to teach. I didn’t have time to . . . well, to rehash the same sorrows I’d already dealt with earlier in the week.

  “I’ll meet you there.” I stood on my tiptoes and gave Ted a quick kiss.

  Upon walking into the pizza parlor, I was happy to see at least one other person in Renaissance Faire garb. Still, I was glad I’d brought a change of clothes to put on after I got to the Seven-Year Stitch. I didn’t want to spend the rest of the day looking as if I’d just stepped off a cocoa box.

  Ted put his hand at the small of my back. I tensed slightly, afraid he was going to ask if I was all right, but then I relaxed when he made small talk about how good the pizza smelled and how hungry he was.

  The hostess came and seated us. When we ordered the buffet, she told us she’d get our drinks—water for both of us—and that we could help ourselves.

  I’d always thought buffets were such fun. They gave you an opportunity to try things you wouldn’t order otherwise. I always selected at least one small slice of ham and pineapple pizza at the buffet. I didn’t like it enough to have it often, but I enjoyed it on occasions like this.

  There was also a chicken Alfredo pizza on the buffet. I’d never tried that, so I got a small slice of that also. Then, to be on the safe side, I got a slice of sausage pizza and a breadstick.

  When I returned to the table, I saw that Ted had already sat down and that Paul Samms was standing there talking with him. Today Paul had ditched his minstrel’s clothing for a gray silk suit.

  “Hi, Paul. Where’s Vera?” I asked.

  “She went up to Portland to do a little shopping,” he said. “She’s going to be livid when I tell her it was Nellie who vandalized your booth at the festival.”

  I glanced at Ted as I sat down at the table.

  “Paul heard about Nellie’s arrest over the police scanner, and then he called her attorney,” Ted said. “The attorney is going to meet with Paul and give him a statement for tomorrow’s Examiner.”

  “Pure damage control is what he’s doing,” Paul said. “And I can’t say that I blame him. Residents of Tallulah Falls are going to despise Nellie when they learn what she did out of malice and spite. She might even need to pull up stakes and relocate after this fiasco.”

  “Won’t you have a seat, Paul?” I asked.

  “No, dear, but I appreciate your asking. I was just leaving. I’m sorry it was Nellie who trashed your booth, but I am glad you got some closure over it.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You say the lawyer will be doing damage control. What do you think he’ll say?”

  “He’ll say that Nellie was overcome with grief about her sister’s death and that she lashed out without even realizing the magnitude of her actions,” he said. “I could write the article for you now, have you keep it until after I meet with the attorney, and I probably wouldn’t have to change but a word or two before the piece went to press.”

  “Maybe it was her grief that made her do such a horrible thing.” I took a sip of my water.

  “Marcy, don’t look so sad,” said Paul. “The woman did this to herself.”

  “I know, but I can’t help feeling sorry for her . . . at least a tad. I think Nellie must’ve had a very sad life.”

  “Or maybe she’s just mean and deserves what she’s got coming to her.” Paul looked at Ted. “Am I right?”

  “You could be right, Paul,” he said.

  Paul glanced at his watch. “Gotta run, folks. See you soon.”

  Ted and I ate our pizza in silence for a few moments. The chicken Alfredo slice was interesting, better than I’d thought it would be.

  “Do you agree with Paul that the whole town will turn against Nellie?” I asked.

  Ted wiped his mouth on his napkin. “Maybe for a while. But she runs the only aromatherapy shop in Tallulah Falls and she seems to have a fair amount of traffic, so her customers won’t hold anything against her for long.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe Nellie will take this entire incident as a wake-up call.”

  “Because she’s having to suffer the consequences of her actions?” I asked.

  “Yeah. And maybe she’ll learn that you have to be a friend to have a friend. I mean, that’s stuff everybody else finds out in kindergarten, right?”

  I smiled. “Right. But if that lesson hasn’t hit home to her yet, I don’t think it ever will.”

  * * *

  I felt slightly better as I walked into the Seven-Year Stitch.

  “You’re early,” said Julie.

  “I know.” I held up the pink-and-white-striped tote bag I was carrying. “I wanted to change clothes before you left.”

  “I don’t blame you. As cute as that is, I can’t imagine it would be all that comfy.”

  “It isn’t.” I went into the bathroom and changed into jeans and a heather gray sweater set.

  When I came back into the shop, Julie told me she was sorry to have to take me away from the Renaissance Faire.

  “Don’t worry about that,” I said. “The whole Ren Faire experience has been a bit of a letdown for me. And to think I’d been so excited about it.”

  “You’ve just had some horrible luck, that’s all,” she said. “If you hadn’t been the one to find Clara . . . and then if that vandal hadn’t chosen your booth to trash . . . then it would have been fun.”

  “It was Nellie,” I said.

  “What?”

  “It was Nellie Davis who demolished my booth. She came into the merchants’ building today and confessed to the whole thing.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Julie.

  “I’m not. She started ranting and raving, and then one of the undercover police officers took her away. She’s been charged with criminal trespass and criminal mischief.”

  “Wow. . . . Did she say why she did it?”

  “She seemed to think there might’ve been something I could’ve done for Clara,” I said. “I don’t think she believes I did anything to hurt Clara . . . but she certainly doesn’t think I did anything to help her, either.”

  “You did your best, and you know that,” Julie said. “Try not to think about it.”

  “And you try not to think about anything except learning this new job,” I said with a smile. “But I know you’re going to do great.”

  “I wish I had as much confidence in myself as you have in me.”

  After getting my reassurance that she looked fine, Julie left.

  “Don’t be nervous!” I called after her. I knew I was wasting my breath, but I really did know she’d do well. She seemed to catch on to new skills quickly, her personality appeared to be in sync with Riley’s, and she enjoyed learning things.

  I sat down on the stool beside Jill.


  “Hi, there,” I said to the mannequin. “Have you missed me?”

  Some. I’m sorry you’ve had such a sucky experience at the Faire. I’d hoped it would be more pleasant for you.

  “And I’d hoped the very same thing!”

  See how often my imaginary friend and I were on the same wavelength? No, I didn’t think she was real . . . and that made her all the more fun to chat with on occasion. Real people seldom said what you wanted to hear.

  The bells over the door jingled, and a young woman with shoulder-length blond hair walked in.

  “Hi. Welcome to the Seven-Year Stitch. May I help you find something?”

  “Just browsing at the moment, thanks,” she said.

  She walked around the store looking at the displays more than at the products. But that was okay. A lot of people did that . . . at least, at first.

  “Did you do all these?” she asked.

  “I did.”

  “They’re really pretty. You must have a lot of patience.”

  “Some days,” I said. “But I find stitching relaxing.”

  “That’s good.” She frowned. “What’s with the rough-looking bear?”

  She’d noticed the Kodiak bear that Vera had given to Angus some time ago. Surprisingly, the bear had lasted much longer than I’d anticipated.

  “That belongs to Angus, my Irish wolfhound,” I said. “He’s at home today . . . for now, anyway. I’m planning on bringing him to class with me this evening.”

  She nodded. “By the way, I’m Erin Palmer. I understand you found my grandmother last week.”

  I gasped. “That’s right. I did. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “How did you find her?” Erin asked. “I mean, what condition was she in? Did she appear to be in any distress?”

  I paused, then said, “Well . . . when I found her, she was lying on her side on the floor. The rocking chair she’d been sitting on was kind of on top of her. I didn’t know what had happened, and I was afraid to move her. I didn’t want to hurt her worse somehow.”

  “Sure. Was she awake?”

  “No. She was unconscious. May I get you a bottle of water, Erin?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine,” she said. “So . . . when you got there, she wasn’t suffering.”

  “She didn’t appear to be. Were you and Clara close?”

  “Not very. I actually didn’t know her all that well.” She lifted and dropped one shoulder. “Still, when someone is family, you have questions . . . or I do, anyway. Clara married Granddad about three years before he died. I was away at college for most of the time they were married.”

  “I understand your grandfather hasn’t been gone that long,” I said. “As I said, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” said Erin. “What happened to Clover?”

  “Clara’s sister, Nellie, gave Clover away. Why? Did you want her?”

  “No. I have allergies,” she said. “I just want the poor little thing to have a good home somewhere.”

  “Well, the woman who has Clover now dotes on her,” I said. “I think Clover will be happy.”

  “Good. I didn’t want her to end up in a Crock-Pot or something.”

  That was a gruesome thought. I realized some people ate rabbit, but surely not rabbits with whom they are—or I am—personally acquainted. The thought of anyone eating little Clover made my stomach churn.

  “Were any of your grandfather’s family members close to Clara and her sons?” I asked.

  “Not really,” said Erin. “My older sister got married and went to work for a nonprofit conservation society, so she wasn’t around much. My younger sister still lives with our mom, and Mom doesn’t like Clara. She never approved of Granddad marrying—in Mom’s words—‘that old gold digger,’ so they didn’t visit Granddad and Clara very often, either.”

  “What about Clara’s sister, Nellie? Do you know her?”

  “I didn’t even know Clara had a sister until the funeral,” Erin said. “I’m being honest—we didn’t have much to do with Granddad, his wife, or her family. That’s sad to say . . . especially now that both Granddad and Clara are gone . . . but that’s just how it is.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  An elegant woman with salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a French twist walked into the Seven-Year Stitch not long after Erin Palmer had left. She wore a burgundy suit and black pumps, and she carried a black envelope clutch.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “Welcome to the Seven-Year Stitch. Is there anything I might help you with?”

  “I hope so,” she said. “My grandmother was from Bulgaria, and she embroidered some beautiful pieces. She’s gone now, and I’ve been thinking about her and that style of embroidery for quite a while. Do you have any pattern books for Bulgarian embroidery?”

  “I don’t have any in stock,” I said. “But if you’ll have a seat, I’ll grab my laptop and we’ll see what my distributors might have available.”

  “Thank you.” She walked over to the sofa that faced away from the window and sat down. “You have a lovely boutique.”

  “Thanks!” I went into the office and got my laptop. I brought the computer to the sit-and-stitch square and sat on the club chair adjacent to the customer.

  To make conversation while the laptop was booting up, I said, “I didn’t even realize there was a distinct form of Bulgarian embroidery.”

  “Oh, yes. One of the main things that sets it apart from other styles is that everything is outlined in black,” she said.

  I typed in a distributor’s Web address.

  “And there are styles that correlate to different regions,” she continued. “There’s the Samokov, the Gabrovo, and the Sokai.”

  “What region was your grandmother from?” I put Bulgarian embroidery into the site’s search engine.

  “She was from Gabrovo.”

  “Have you ever been there?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “Maybe someday.”

  I told her that this distributor had two books, one on different styles of Bulgarian embroideries and one that was a reproduction of a pamphlet of Bulgarian embroidery created in the late 1800s.

  “Oh, I’d like both, please.”

  “All right. I’ll order them right now, and they should be here Friday,” I said. “You can either leave me your number so I can call you when the books arrive, or you can call me to find out whether they’re here or not.”

  “I’ll leave you my number.” She took a card from her purse and handed it to me. “But I’d like one of your business cards as well.”

  I hopped up from the club chair and got her one of my cards from the holder on the counter.

  She rose and extended her hand. “Thank you so much. I’m really looking forward to getting the books.”

  I shook her hand. “I’ll look around at some other sites, and if I find anything else I think you’d be interested in, I’ll let you know.”

  She thanked me and left.

  I checked other distributors for books on Bulgarian embroidery. I found the same ones, and I made note of one other that I came across. I’d call and tell her about it later.

  Since I was already on the Internet, I checked my social media sites. Riley had put up some adorable photos of Laura in her faerie costume. There were a few memes that gave me a chuckle, and there were a couple links to embroidery-related blog posts that I clicked through and read. One of the blogs had a picture of a woman who reminded me of Amelia. She had certainly rushed to my defense when she’d heard Nellie berating me.

  Thinking about Amelia, I decided to learn more about falcons. Was that Herodias as mean as she looked? I’d somehow begun to think of her as the equivalent of an attack dog. She loved her owner but would harm anyone else on command. I doubted she was a people person . . . er, falcon. But maybe I was misjudging the bird.

  I found a site dedicated to birds of prey, and I read aloud from the page to Jill:

  “Falcons are part of the family Falconidae. Ma
les are called tiercels and are smaller than the females. Types of falcons include the gryfalcon—that seems appropriate, don’t you think, Jill? Grrrrr . . . falcon.” I giggled at my silly joke. “I think our site is a school science page or something. Anyway, back to types of falcons, there are merlins—cool—lanner falcons, forest falcons, and laughing falcons. Huh. Wonder whether I should tell Herodias a joke to see if she laughs.”

  I skimmed on down the page. When I read how falcons kill their prey, I quickly closed the tab.

  “Eww, Jill, I’ll spare you that. As it is, I’m sure I’ll have nightmares of Herodias ripping me apart tonight.” I had no idea why I was frightened of that bird. I usually loved all kinds of animals. I’d even held a ball python at a fair once that was longer than I was tall. Granted, that wasn’t saying much for a lot of things, but a snake well over five feet long was pretty large in my book.

  I remembered the patch on Amelia’s blue jacket. It was yellow and had black letters: OSOC. I wondered what the acronym stood for. I was guessing one of the Os stood for Oregon. So I did a search for Oregon SOC.

  The best match was Oregon Society for Ornithological Conservation. I clicked on the link.

  This OSOC was a nonprofit conservatory group. I remembered Erin saying her sister worked with a nonprofit group. What were the odds? Was it possible that Amelia was Erin’s sister? Could it be that the conversation between Amelia and Clara on Thursday hadn’t been random but that Amelia had gone to talk with Clara about her grandfather’s estate?

  But if that were the case, why hadn’t Amelia admitted to being Clara’s step-granddaughter? Had she been afraid she’d be accused of the murder? Or was she simply ashamed because Clara had been so hateful to everyone?

  I called Ted. He didn’t answer, so I left him a voice mail: “Hi, sweetheart. I’m calling to ask you if Erin Palmer has a sister named Amelia. Give me a call back when you have time, okay? Thanks. I love you.”

  I ended the call, put my phone on the table, and turned off the laptop. I retrieved my tote bag from behind the counter and took out the poet’s shirt I was embellishing with blackwork. As I worked, I thought about the shirts I’d sold Friday and Saturday before Nellie had wrecked my booth. I was grateful that not all the shirts had been destroyed and that some were being enjoyed by festival-goers. I saw one on a woman today—she was wearing the shirt with a black skirt and riding boots.