Lie of the Needle (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

by Cate Price

  “It’s worth it. It’s real mahogany.”

  Other buyers were admiring the souvenirs from the Bornsteins’ trips abroad: a silk kimono, a lovely humidor from one of their visits to Paris, some tribal artifacts.

  A few hours later, Ruth and I ended up in the kitchen at the same time for a much-needed break and a cup of coffee. Stuff had been flying out of the house. We’d lucked out with the weather, which had stayed sunny and dry. Ruth had priced everything well and she seemed to have no qualms about haggling to move merchandise. The study was practically empty now, and the tables outside were surrounded by eager buyers.

  “I must say, you’re being very practical about this whole deal,” I said.

  “Don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Ruth gave me a wry smile. “But you know, Daisy, it’s cathartic. It feels so good to be doing something. I felt like I had no control over my life for the longest time.” She ran a finger over the edge of a nearby photo frame. “Plus, I can’t complain. There are people who have been left far worse off than me, with absolutely nothing. I let my emotions rule my head. It’s my own stupid fault.”

  I stared at her in admiration. I’d always thought of Ruth as this perfectly manicured, perfectly cosseted woman who had no more pressing worries than where to make the next dinner reservation or who should be on the guest list for her next soiree. She was handling this far better than I ever would have imagined.

  I walked outside to see Serrano inspecting a pair of skis, and Eleanor eyeing Serrano.

  “What’s up, Eleanor?” I deliberately stood in front of her.

  She craned her neck and smiled her cat smile at me. “Just admiring the view.” Serrano bent to pick up another ski, his faded jeans a perfect fit.

  Eleanor made a sound that could have been mistaken for a deep purr. “You know that book that talks about a thousand things to do before you die? That man is top of the bucket list. And after all, who could possibly deny a dying woman her last wish?”

  I sucked in a breath. “Wait a minute. What are you saying? Are you dying?”

  “No.” Eleanor crinkled her nose. “But I might use that line. Worked on you, didn’t it?”

  I leaned across the cashbox and gave her a playful shove.

  “Find a man your own era, never mind your own age,” Martha hissed from her position behind a neighboring table.

  I wandered over to Serrano. “What are you doing here, Detective?” He didn’t exactly strike me as the yard sale type.

  “I had a few more questions for Ruth.” He eyed the skis in his hand. “And then I saw these.”

  “Ha! Bitten by the yard sale bug!” I didn’t want to get too personal, but Serrano was a well-built guy, and Stanley had been much slighter and shorter. “Um, are you sure they’ll fit you?”

  “I’m thinking they’d be good for my nephew. I’m heading to New York for Thanksgiving. Perhaps he and I can hit the slopes together over the holidays.”

  He’d never talked about his family much, and I greedily stored away this morsel of information.

  He set the skis against Martha’s table and picked up one of the hardcover books. “My brother is into history. Anyone know anything about these?”

  Debby Millerton came over to us, her eyes shining.

  “Well, Detective, it just so happens that we have a librarian in our midst,” Martha said, winking at me.

  I saw Debby’s cheeks flush, and my heart ached for her. Serrano was the stereotypical unavailable male. Not only that, but I knew he had a dark past. How dark, I wasn’t quite sure, but he was a big challenge for any woman. I’d never seen him check out any of the attractive single females in town. In fact, he seemed to spend most of his time avoiding them, holding himself in his usual tight control.

  Although there was a glimpse of a smile now on his face as he looked at Debby. He was unfailingly courteous, but I wondered what went on in that shadowed psyche.

  * * *

  Around four o’clock, Martha declared the sale was over, so we boxed up what was left, folded the tables, and stacked them against the side of the house. Darkness was falling as we traipsed inside, satisfied that Ruth would live to fight another day.

  Serrano was sitting at the long kitchen table with Ruth. She looked tired, but peaceful.

  “Ah. Bliss. To finally sit down. It’s the simple pleasures in life.” Eleanor stretched her arms over her head.

  “Hey, Serrano, any news on the investigation into Alex Roos?” I asked.

  “I’ve interviewed the women who dated our victim, and anyone else who had any contact with him. The funny thing was that all he wanted to talk about was the history of Millbury, not how he could get them into bed.”

  Martha sniffed. “That’s very well and good, but what, may I ask, are you doing about finding my dear Cyril?”

  “We’ve checked out his salvage yard and his known whereabouts on the day of the murder, but there’s no sign of him or his truck. I’ve issued a BOLO for the vehicle. What else can we do?”

  She heaved a sigh of exasperation. “Organize a manhunt—get the dogs out—call the FBI. I don’t know. Do something!”

  Serrano shot me a helpless look.

  “Martha, I think the police are doing everything they can. Come on. I’ll walk you out, Detective.”

  He gathered his skis and books with alacrity.

  “We found Edward Flint’s car,” he said in a low voice once we were safely standing on the gravel outside.

  I glanced at him in surprise. Unsolicited information, eh?

  “At a shopping center under construction. No sign of him, but if he met up with the same guys that found our friend the photographer, let’s just say he’s part of the parking lot by now.”

  “Ew.”

  “Apparently he was using contributions from later investors in his fund to pay off the earlier ones and so didn’t rouse suspicion until now. I’m going to do a little digging to see who else invested with this same guy.”

  I nodded, my mind in a whirl. “Do you suppose the death of the photographer had anything to do with Flint’s disappearance? Had Alex found out what he was up to and confronted him?”

  Serrano shrugged. “Sheer speculation. But I can tell you that one of the bar patrons recalled seeing Beau Cassell’s truck heading away from the pub just before 6 p.m. on the night of the funeral. It stopped to pick up Alex Roos on the road. It was dark so they couldn’t see who was driving, but they think it was a tall guy. I’m bringing Cassell in for questioning, and we’ll test the truck for forensic evidence.” A hint of a smile appeared on his face. “I think we’ve got our man.”

  I flashed back on the huge tool chest in the pickup bed. It would certainly be big enough to hide a man’s body.

  But then I remembered seeing Cassell walking up the driveway to Ruth’s house. “Sorry, Serrano, but I distinctly saw him here right around that time, and he was driving his Mercedes, not a truck. I remember the egotistical license plate—A1-BLDR.”

  How ironic was it that I was providing the obnoxious builder with a great alibi?

  Serrano sighed and shifted the skis in his grasp. “Daisy, I know you’ve been upset with me, thinking I’m being tight-lipped and keeping you out of the loop. The thing is, I have. I really don’t want you involved in this one.”

  “But I feel like Cyril needs me and—”

  “Look, I don’t mean to be brutal, and I would never say this in front of Martha, but the odds are that Cyril didn’t make it.”

  I swallowed against the acid in the back of my throat, knowing there was a chance he might be right, but resenting him for saying it.

  “I gotta tell you, I wouldn’t hold out much hope. But if he is still alive, he obviously feels the situation is dangerous enough to stay underground. You should, too.” Serrano’s voice rose. “I’m serious, Daisy, this might be some heavy shit. I kn
ow how you like to barge in on everything . . .”

  I took a deep breath, half-annoyed and half-ready to try to convince him I had an important part to play, when he leaned the skis against his leg and took hold of my hands. Suddenly all I could feel was the electrifying, thought-stopping warmth zinging between our fingers.

  “Daisy, I care about you.” He squeezed my hands briefly. “Do me a favor. Please. Let me handle this one alone.”

  He swept up his purchases, stalked down the driveway to his car, and threw them into the backseat.

  I stood there watching as the taillights of the Challenger sped away, finally remembering to breathe, my heart racing as if I’d swum the length of an Olympic-size pool underwater.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I walked back inside to the exhausted but exhilarated group lounging around Ruth’s kitchen table.

  “What a day! I’m starving!” Eleanor announced. She was busy straightening a massive stack of dollar bills so that they faced the same way.

  Martha rolled her eyes. “Imagine my shock and surprise.”

  “Actually, I’m feeling a little hungry myself,” Ruth said.

  Annie nodded, rubbing a smudge on the stainless steel table with the arm of her crocheted sweater. “Mm. Me, too.”

  Martha swept over to the fridge. “Say no more, people. Leave it to me.”

  I smiled at Eleanor, reading the same pleasure in her eyes as we watched Martha bustle around, pulling out various covered dishes onto the counter.

  “Ruth, we’ll need to do a final tally, but I’d say you made well over seven thousand dollars today.” Eleanor smoothed the last bill on top of the stack.

  Debby clapped her hands. “Really? How on earth did we make so much?”

  I sat next to Eleanor on one of the Swedish design chairs. “There were some big-ticket items in the mix. Stanley’s desk, lots of other furniture, the artifacts.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Ruth said. “Thank you all so much for your help. It will certainly keep me going for a while.” A shadow crossed her face. “Oh, but I should really give this money to the Historical Society to make up for losing—”

  “No,” Eleanor said firmly. “You need it to live. The society will regroup to fight another day.”

  I nodded. “The real money will come from your artwork and the rare books. Let’s see how that goes first, and then we can talk. In the meantime, you need the wherewithal to hold on to this house until it’s sold.”

  Martha was rummaging around in the vegetable drawer when she suddenly let out a loud gasp.

  “What is it, Martha?” I wondered if she’d cut herself on something.

  She turned to us, a smile spreading across her face, holding up a handful of rolls of undeveloped film.

  “Hey, that’s the same kind of film that Alex used!” I jumped to my feet and rushed over to inspect the find. “Wow. I bet it’s the photos from the calendar shoot.”

  “Apparently, Ms. Bornstein, you are not a very healthy eater and you never go in your vegetable drawer.” Eleanor smirked at Ruth, who grinned sheepishly.

  “But that’s fantastic! There’s still a chance to finish the calendar as long as we can raise the money for the printing,” Annie said. “We just need to find another Mr. March.”

  Debby bounced in her seat. “What a stroke of luck!”

  Martha’s lip quivered. “How can you all even consider replacing Cyril?”

  We sobered up and exchanged glances.

  “Of course not; it’s out of the question,” Ruth said. “What were we thinking?”

  “On that note, I need a damn drink. Ruth, where do you keep your wine? Never mind, I see it.” Martha marched over to the baker’s rack and extracted a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Ruth shook her head meekly as Martha opened the wine and set out a bunch of balloon glasses.

  Eleanor rolled her eyes at me. “Yikes, look out.”

  “Oh, let her have some fun,” I said. Both Ruth and Martha were doing what they had to do to survive. “But just club soda for me. I’m driving.”

  Martha poured five healthy portions, which drained the bottle, and threw it into the recycle container with a crash.

  “I can’t wait to see how these photos turn out.” Eleanor took a sip of her wine, and her eyes lit in appreciation. Stanley was not only an enthusiastic gourmet cook, but an avid wine connoisseur. “Tell you what, I never realized what a nice ass the butcher had hidden under that apron. Or, dare I say it, the postman, probably from walking up all those hills in snow, rain, heat, and gloom of night.”

  As if on cue, a crash of thunder sounded outside, and the wind jangled the hanging chimes out in the garden. Soon we heard the drumming of heavy rain on the roof.

  “Where did you find Alex Roos, anyway, Ruth?” I found an open bottle of club soda in the door of the fridge and poured myself a glass.

  “Actually he approached me in the first place. Said he’d heard about the calendar project and that he’d been wanting to visit this area anyway. He even offered to pay his own ticket to come from California and work for a cut-rate price. It seemed like a gift from heaven at the time.”

  I sliced a piece of lemon into my soda. “Don’t you think that’s a bit odd?”

  “Poor Alex.” Debby set her wineglass down, her bottom lip trembling. Her eyes looked suspiciously bright.

  “Okay, look, let’s change the subject,” I said. “How’s your book coming along, Debby?” She had been writing a romance novel in her spare time for the past five years, and I was pretty sure Serrano was her muse. Although Alex Roos may have provided some inspiration, too.

  Eleanor took another bottle of wine out of the rack. “Yes, when are you going to let us read your chef d’oeuvre?”

  Debby blushed. “Not sure I will ever be brave enough to let anyone do that.”

  “Her shay what?” Martha frowned at Eleanor as she chopped up some salad greens. “For Pete’s sake, speak English, woman.”

  “She means her masterpiece,” I said.

  Debby laughed. “It’s just a little romance.”

  “Everyone needs a little romance in her life sometimes. Oh, and by the way, Eleanor, I’m giving you a ride home. There’s no way you’re riding your Vespa in the rain, especially after a glass of wine. Or two.”

  “Or three. Aye, aye, cap’n.”

  Martha waved her chef’s knife in the air. “I love romance novels. I can’t read those highfalutin literary books. Give me an enjoyable story that takes me away and doesn’t give me nightmares. God knows, real life is scary enough.”

  “Speaking of romance, Sarah and Peter are coming home next week.” My daughter had fallen in love with a film producer who sounded like he might be The One. Joe and I really liked Peter and hoped this relationship might last longer than the usual six-month time span of Sarah’s affairs. “Hey, I have a great idea! Why don’t you all come for Thanksgiving dinner?”

  “Aw, thanks, I’d love to,” Debby said, “but I’m going to my sister’s.”

  Annie shook her head. “Sorry, but I’m with family, too.”

  “How about the rest of you?” I looked at my single friends. Ruth, who lost her husband and her boyfriend in the space of a few days. Eleanor, who lost her beau at the end of the Vietnam War and never quite got over it. I hoped that one day she would give love another chance. And, of course, there was Martha, despondent over Cyril and doubly upset by the gossip saying he was tired of her controlling ways and that’s why he had disappeared.

  “Sounds like a party,” Eleanor said, splashing more wine into her glass. “I’m there.”

  * * *

  The rain that lashed down all evening had turned to treacherous ice overnight, and Joe drove carefully down Main Street toward the community church on Sunday morning. The roads had been barely salt
ed, and the church parking lot was not much better.

  Martha met us as we walked up to the front doors. The familiar brightness was back in her eyes, and an excited pink warmed her freckled cheeks. Working on the estate sale had done her a world of good.

  “Daisy, I’ve decided I’m going to help out at the soup kitchen this week, and on Thanksgiving morning, too, cooking for those poor, starving people. Don’t worry, I’ll still come to your dinner, but I think this will help keep my mind off my troubles.”

  “That’s a fantastic idea, Martha. Good for you.” I gave her a big hug.

  Thinking of the soup kitchen reminded me of the community garden at Glory Farm, where a group from our congregation grew produce to donate to food programs for the hungry. Beau Cassell would put an end to that, too.

  Again, it made no sense that Althea would support Cassell, and then donate her needlework class earnings to the volunteers who worked the land he wanted to take away.

  Eleanor joined us a few moments later, just as Frank and Nancy Fowler were walking up the steps.

  “Back again, Eleanor?” I grinned at her.

  “I’m only here for the entertainment, er, I mean, the singing.”

  Nancy missed her footing slightly on the slippery stones, and Frank caught her elbow to steady her.

  “Did you hear the news?” Dottie Brown came bustling over to us. “Althea Gunn was the victim of a hit-and-run while walking along Sheepville Pike on Saturday night.”

  “Oh my God, is she dead?” I said.

  “She’s alive, but barely.”

  A chill ran down my spine, especially as I had recently been reflecting how fragile life was. “Any witnesses?”

  Frank Fowler paused and glanced in our direction, his face visibly paling at the news, until an insistent call from his wife summoned him into the church.

  “What was Althea doing walking along that road in the dark?” Joe asked. “Was it just an accident or did someone deliberately try to run her over?”

  Dottie shrugged. “She was at a church meeting earlier in the evening, but that’s all I know. She’s in a coma, so she can’t be questioned.”