Lie of the Needle (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

by Cate Price

  She nodded, but didn’t speak again.

  When I left the main house and walked back down the driveway, snow was falling. Huge, feathery flakes that tickled my nose and brushed against my eyes. The carriage house was dark now, and my car was the only vehicle parked outside. Our photogenic detective must have made for a quick shoot, or maybe Roos wanted to hurry things along and get down to the Sheepville Pub for one last fling.

  I turned and looked up at the main house and toward the master bedroom, where light still blazed from its windows.

  What the heck was that all about? Should I take the wild statement of a delusional man seriously? Was someone really trying to kill him?

  I couldn’t believe it.

  I swiped the feathery dusting of snow off my windshield and tried to shrug off my unease as I slid into the cold driver’s seat.

  * * *

  The next morning, as I opened up Sometimes a Great Notion, I was still troubled.

  My store was situated in a former Victorian residence a short distance down on Main Street from our house. Joe and our good friend Angus Backstead, the auctioneer, had made several improvements to the interior, including installing two display windows that jutted out onto the black-painted front porch. The former living room and parlor had been opened up into one space, but I’d kept the dining room intact for consultations with customers. There was a small kitchen and a powder room in the back.

  I went through my usual routine of starting the coffee brewing and turning the stereo on, but instead of 1940s jazz, I slipped in a CD of Sinatra’s Christmas songs.

  It was time to decorate the store for the holidays, too. I’d stockpiled some suitable merchandise and I clambered onto one of the wide windowsills. My work outfit consisted of a plain T-shirt and comfortable jeans, as I often had to lug boxes around or go up and down the stairs more times than I wanted to count. I’d twisted my hair up into a knot to hide the insidious gray roots that were creeping through the brown, applied some lip balm, and that was about as good as it got.

  An antique wooden children’s sleigh would fit well in one corner, and I filled it with boxes that I’d wrapped with scraps of pretty vintage fabrics and decorated with old millinery trimmings, like rosettes and silk flowers. I put a tiny blue spruce tree potted in a red Transferware footed serving bowl in the middle of the window and a stack of hatboxes, each tied with some gold ribbon and a piece of white netting, in the opposite corner.

  Refreshing the displays was usually one of my favorite things to do, but today my mind was still replaying the scene in Stanley Bornstein’s bedroom. He’d suddenly seemed so lucid, so intent on trying to get his message across. But what the heck should I do about it, if anything?

  And which “she” had he been talking about?

  I hated to entertain even a moment of doubt about Ruth. Not only had we been friends for years, but she was a pillar of Millbury society, always ready to help a needy cause.

  Although if it was the nurse who had frightened him, why hadn’t Stanley confided in his wife?

  I sighed and went over to the other window, where I created a mini dining tableau using a gorgeous Irish linen tablecloth and napkins, some mercury glass candlesticks, bundles of silver flatware tied with holly-patterned ribbon, and a set of six ruby wineglasses.

  My store was mainly geared toward sewing notions and fabrics, but I allowed myself the leeway to pick up other interesting items at auction. Everything sold in the end.

  A collection of vintage evening bags filled with tiny baubles, spools of thread, and mother-of-pearl buttons completed the festive design.

  I’d just lit a couple of clove-scented candles and placed them on top of the Welsh dresser that held my antique linens when the doorbell jangled.

  “Good God, it’s cold out there,” Martha said as she hurried in, with Eleanor close on her heels.

  I nodded. “I think it’s going to be a hard winter.”

  It was snowing out on the street, and a few flakes sparkled on Martha’s shoulder-length hair. She was wearing a voluminous crimson-colored wool jacket that made her look like an older, more imposing version of Little Red Riding Hood, and she was carrying a foil-covered plate. I wondered what deliciousness lay underneath.

  Martha was a fabulous baker. She said it was her way of relaxing—to spend hours in her kitchen whipping up artistic treats—and she was a fearsome competitor at the local Bake-Offs. But because she didn’t need those tempting creations sitting around at home, she brought them in every day for my customers.

  “That maniac Tony Z popped out with a sprig of mistletoe when we walked by,” Eleanor said. “He kissed me before I could stop him. On the mouth. Do you believe that?”

  The Millbury barber had had a crush on Eleanor for years, but she’d never taken his pursuit seriously. Tony Zappata, or Tony Z as we called him, was certainly an ardent suitor. He’d gone so far as to get himself arrested by singing arias outside her bedroom window at night.

  I smiled and poured coffee into three mugs. I added cream and three heaping spoonfuls of brown sugar to the first one and handed it to Martha.

  “He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.” Martha nodded her thanks as she shivered and sipped her warm beverage.

  “So is poison ivy, but that doesn’t mean you want it to stick around,” Eleanor snapped. She hadn’t bothered to wear a coat on her short trip across the street, and she swiped at the snowflakes dotting the sleeves of what looked suspiciously like an extra small men’s tailored black shirt.

  Eleanor owned a store across from mine on Main Street called A Stitch Back in Time, where she restored and restyled vintage wedding gowns. She only worked when she felt like it, which wasn’t very often, but in some mysterious manner she always seemed to maintain an exceedingly comfortable lifestyle.

  Enough to put gas in her red Vespa and chilled Beefeater in her martini glass, anyway.

  “You two are rather late this morning,” I said. They were usually here on the dot of ten, when I unlocked the door to Sometimes a Great Notion.

  “We were trying on the dress again.” Eleanor made quote marks in the air with her fingers.

  Martha and Cyril were planning to attend the Give a Buck Charity Ball in December, which raised money for wildlife rescue in Bucks County and the surrounding areas. I’d been hearing about this ball gown for months. Eleanor had agreed to alter it, and as far as I could calculate, this must be the sixth fitting.

  “Those seams are at their absolute limit, and I’m not going to take them out one more time,” Eleanor declared. “It’s getting ridiculous.”

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

  I slid a mug of black, unsweetened coffee down the counter toward Eleanor, and she sucked down half of the contents in one gulp.

  “I can’t help it,” Martha finally said with a sigh. “You know how I eat when I’m under inordinate stress. I wish I was one of those people who waste away because of their troubles, but anxiety has the opposite effect on me. It just makes me feel like consuming everything in sight.”

  As loyal a friend as I wanted to be, even I had to secretly admit that Martha’s normally voluptuous figure had ballooned a bit over the past months.

  I quickly took the plate of treats out of her hands. “Well, what the heck are you so stressed about?”

  She blew out another sigh that was so full of exasperation, angst, and high tension that she could have taught a master drama class at the Sheepville Players. “It’s Cyril. My dear Cyril. I keep hoping the man will propose, but he never does.”

  “Marriage is a fine institution, but who wants to live in an institution?” Eleanor said. “Sorry. Old joke.”

  Martha ignored her and spoke directly to me. “Each time I think the perfect opportunity arises, I hold my breath, but nothing ever happens. I’m beginning to think he never will.”

  “S
ure he will,” I said, mentally crossing my fingers. “He’s just taking his time working up to it. He’s not the kind of guy who can be rushed.”

  Cyril Mackey was a difficult character, but he really did care for Martha. A couple of months ago he’d shown me the weather vane he was planning on giving her for Christmas. He’d spent hours and hours on careful restoration, and the result was spectacular. You didn’t do all that work for someone you didn’t love. Plus it proved he was capable of long-term planning for the relationship.

  But I didn’t think Cyril was the type of man who would want to be asked for his hand in marriage, so I prayed he popped the question before Martha’s impatience got the better of her.

  “You realize if you married him that it would make you Martha Mackey, don’t you?” Eleanor snickered as she peeled back the foil and snatched a handful from the mountain of spice cookies.

  “Those are supposed to be for Daisy’s customers.” Martha glared at her. “And don’t be absurd. I’ll still be Martha Bristol.”

  I could sympathize. I’d kept my maiden name for that very reason, not relishing the prospect of going through life as Daisy Daly.

  “Let’s hope to God that he musters up the courage before Christmas,” Eleanor whispered in my ear.

  Martha had wandered over to the children’s section of the store. She selected a vintage lunch box and brought it to the counter. She placed a linen napkin on the bottom of the box, piled the rest of the cookies on top and was about to pop one in her mouth when she turned to see Eleanor and me watching her.

  She blew out a long breath. “Okay, okay, you’re right. That’s it. I’m going to put myself on a strict diet between now and December fourth. No more treats for me.”

  She handed the cookie to me. I handed it to Eleanor.

  “Or there’ll be hell to pay.” Eleanor took a big bite and chewed with relish. She ate like a teenage boy after football practice, drank like a dehydrated rugby player, and never gained an ounce on her slim frame.

  I decided to change the subject. Quickly. “So. Did you guys enjoy the rest of the show?”

  “We didn’t watch any more.” Eleanor’s expression turned glum. “You made us feel too guilty. Ruined the whole thing.”

  I smiled and set some fresh bay leaves and eucalyptus on the counter. I gathered together bunches of the aromatic greens to make a wreath.

  “You know, it’s been quite a week so far,” Martha said. “Starting with the cute little barber. Even though he was the first to take his clothes off, you didn’t have to ask him twice.”

  “The man’s an exhibitionist.” Eleanor sniffed.

  “I must say, I’d never realized how well-built he was,” Martha continued. “I mean, he’s short and everything, but very nice-looking. Especially with his clothes off.”

  “I suppose.” Suddenly Eleanor brightened. “Hey, remember when Angus mooned us?”

  “Ew, yes!” I said. Our irrepressible auctioneer had loved every second of his fifteen minutes of fame.

  The door banged open, and Alex Roos strode in. He wore a long black trench coat, black leather pants, and a bright aqua-colored V-neck shirt, together with a lemon-and-blue scarf tossed around his neck.

  “My mains!” he said to us, flinging his arms wide. “How’s tricks?”

  Martha looked at me and shrugged one plump shoulder. She’d told me once she couldn’t understand half of Roos’s West Coast expressions. To Martha, it was like he was speaking another language.

  “Did you get what you needed last night?” Eleanor asked, and then she smirked. “With Serrano, I mean.”

  “Oh yeah, awesome. He’s a cool dude.”

  “And do you need any help with the shoot today?” She didn’t sound as enthusiastic as she had for the night before.

  Roos winked at her. He was such a raging flirt, it seemed that he couldn’t help himself, no matter what the age of the female. “Nah, we’re not shooting at the studio. We’re going to an undisclosed location, but if I told you where, I’d have to kill you. My man Cyril is all about his privacy.”

  Martha planted her hands on her ample hips. “Oh for God’s sake, he’s making such a fuss about one dinky little photo.”

  Roos chuckled and glanced around the store. “Daisy, this place is epic, man.”

  “Thanks. Come take a look at this.” I showed him the box in the back that Joe kept filled with an interesting mix of odds and ends for any male customers that happened to visit. I’d taken an old MAIL sign, crossed it out, and written MALE. Everything was priced at five dollars.

  He sorted through eagerly and held up one of the vintage cameras.

  “Oh, man, an Argus C3! These old cameras were great. And this was the best-selling one in the world. Peeps in the biz called it ‘the Brick.’”

  I looked at the boxy Bakelite-and-steel treasure he’d found and could see why it had earned its nickname.

  He perched on the edge of a hope chest to inspect his find, long legs encased in skintight leather stretched out before him, exposing the familiar bright green snakeskin boots. “It had such a dynamic range, man. Awesome for picking up highlights and shadows.”

  His yellow-and-blue scarf fell forward, and he tossed it back over his shoulder.

  “We lost something when we moved from film to digital. Back in the day, you had to think—about light, composition, exposure, and depth of field. You had to plan your shot instead of banging off a hundred in digital and hoping you got one good one.”

  The over-the-top showboating was suddenly gone as he bent his bleached head over the old camera in intense concentration. I’d seen his portfolio, the depth of emotion he’d coaxed from his subjects, and knew how good he was, although you’d never know it from the flamboyant way he carried on.

  “And then it was like Christmas morning to see what you’d captured on film,” he continued in a low voice, warming to his subject. “No instant gratification and models peeking over your shoulder, telling you how to do your job.”

  He fished around in his pocket, obviously searching for his wallet. But in those pants, I doubted there was room for much.

  “That’s why I’m using old-school film for the calendar,” he said, turning his attention now to the pockets of his coat. “Really makes a difference in the quality, you know. Richer, somehow. Plus I like to do my own prints and processing. It’s like meditation, man.”

  I might have to revise my opinion of him as a flaky vagabond. Anyone who had respect for the past was okay in my book.

  “Take the camera. It’s on the house,” I said. “A little memento of Millbury for you.”

  “Word! Thanks, Daisy. Hey, maybe I’ll use it for the shoot with Cyril this afternoon.” He stuffed the Argus into the deep pocket of his trench coat. “Yeah, especially for a mature dude, the black-and-white will really rock it.”

  Cyril did look like an aging rock musician, with his long gray hair, temperamental green eyes, and deep lines worn into his face by a rough life.

  When they first started dating, Martha had done her best to clean up his act, but you know what they say about old dogs and new tricks. He’d cut his hair a few inches and she’d smartened up his wardrobe, but lately he seemed to be regressing. Almost like a kid rebelling against too many rules. Now he looked more like Mick Jagger’s evil twin after a killer weekend.

  Still, he had a relatively fit body and should prove to be an interesting moody contrast to the sunny-faced mailman or the young firefighters.

  “There should be something for everyone in this calendar,” I said.

  “Fersure.” Roos smiled at me. “I can’t wait to get that film developed. Hey, Daisy, man, is it okay if I use the facilities?”

  “Help yourself.”

  The doorbell clanged as Dottie Brown, the owner of the yarn store and wife to Mr. October, the pumpkin man, came bustling in. She was a solid
, capable woman with white hair cropped in a no-nonsense cut, a stocky build, and an attitude toward life that allowed her to trundle over any of its little inconveniences.

  “Did you hear the news?” she asked us. “Stanley Bornstein died.”

  “What?” I gripped the counter. “But I just saw him last night!”

  She shrugged. “Didn’t know if you knew.”

  “My God. No, we did not,” Martha said, frowning. The neighboring town of Sheepville had the Sheepville Times, but our village didn’t have a local newspaper. However, we had Martha, and she hated to be scooped on a headline event. “When did this happen?” she demanded.

  I sank onto a stool behind the register, my heart pounding in my chest, as I stared at Dottie.

  “It must have been early this morning.” Her eyes were somber. “My daughter, Kathleen, was called in first thing to clean the place from top to bottom. A special cleaning for the shivah. The funeral is at four o’clock.”

  Kathleen Brown was cut from the same sensible cloth as her mother, with the same sturdy build. They even had the same hairstyle, except Kathleen’s brown locks were streaked with chunky highlights. She owned a successful cleaning service, and the Bornsteins were one of her clients.

  “This afternoon? So soon?” I could barely get the words out past the tightness in my throat.

  “In the Jewish religion funerals happen very quickly, Daisy,” Eleanor murmured. “It’s considered a humiliation of the dead not to bury them right away.”

  “Was there any sign of foul play?” I managed. “Was it the Alzheimer’s that finally killed him?”

  “No one actually dies from Alzheimer’s, you know,” Martha said with a note of authority in her voice. “It’s usually from some secondary cause. In my support group after Teddy died, there were several women who’d lost their husbands to that dreadful disease. But it was pneumonia or another infection that took them in the end.”