I started by laying the whole cloth out on the floor and finding the midpoint. Luckily, the plaid was straight on the grain of the fabric, so I could use the pattern as a cutting guide. I took a deep breath, prayed I wouldn’t make a foolish mistake, and began to cut lengthwise along the midpoint until I had two lengths of four yards each. Together, they would become the eight-yard kilt.
My online instructions would have me hem the fabric next, but I intended to use the selvage for the top edge of the kilt, thus eliminating the need for a hem. I would hem the bottom of the kilt once it was all constructed and Corgi had tried it on. So, I proceeded directly to the pleats.
The first pleat was the most important because all the others would build off it. The tartan lent itself to a six-inch pleat. I took a sturdy piece of cardboard and marked it at six inches, to use as a guide for measuring. It took me a good fifteen minutes and numerous false starts just to pin up the first pleat. I took a picture of it on my phone, to commemorate the process and to celebrate the first step. Then I continued to the next, and the next one after that.
It wasn’t long before I realized I needed something to distract me from the strain in my back as I crouched over the fabric laid out on the floor. I stood up and stretched, and then rooted in my shoulder bag for the CD from Herman Tisdale. I wasn’t a big fan of country music, but a bit of Ladd Foster’s band would do nicely to keep my mind off the tedious pleats.
I popped the disc into my CD player and knelt back down for the next series of pleats. I had long abandoned my first thought that I could get them all pinned up this afternoon. At this point I was just shooting for completing ten of them.
The twangy sound of the banjo predominated in Ladd’s music. He did have a pleasant baritone voice, like Tisdale had said. His bandmate, Penny, had a rich alto voice that complemented his. Her voice sounded somehow familiar to me, although I couldn’t think why. I rarely listened to country music, so I wasn’t likely to recognize any country artists. I folded and pinned, and pulled out pins to reposition them, and listened to the love affairs and laments of the Royal Pains as the raindrops pounded on my windowpanes. It was just enough to keep my mind off the pain in my back, not to mention murder.
When the CD finished, I was still short of my goal in my pleating. I hadn’t been able to identify why Penny’s voice sounded so familiar, but the nagging question was distracting me from concentrating on my work. After three false starts before I succeeded in pinning up the next pleat, I decided to take a break. I pushed Play on the CD again to listen to the catchiest tune, “Flowers of the Forest.” I leaned back in my work chair and closed my eyes, focusing on the voice of Ladd Foster, now dead, and his bandmate, Penny. She mostly sang harmony, but on this song she had a lead part. Her voice soared above the guitar, clear and full. She reminded me of… I just couldn’t tell. It was so close but still elusive.
The sound of my phone dinging interrupted my thoughts. It was McCarthy. “Are you doing anything this evening? I’ve got a gig at the Printed Page at seven. Your buddy Morris Hart is doing a reading and the Highland dancers are opening for him. We could grab a quick bite to eat beforehand. What do you say?”
I surveyed the blister on my forefinger, caused by shoving pins into the thick fabric. My pleats could wait. “Sure. Just don’t call me Catherine.”
He laughed and said he’d be right over.
I nipped into my bedroom to change and tidy up my hair, as if McCarthy would even notice. Most of his focus would be on photographing the events at the Printed Page. Maybe I would get a chance to ask Gillian about her mom once the Highland dancers were done.
McCarthy texted me from the car: “Ready?” That’s how it was, going out to eat with McCarthy. Dinner with him didn’t even have the appearance of a date. I ran down the stairs and out the front door, dodging the raindrops on my way to the Mustang idling at the curb.
McCarthy gave me a cheery hello. He was dressed up in a sport coat and slacks instead of his customary jeans.
“Wow, is this a formal occasion, then?”
“With the Printed Page, you never know.” He peeled out from the curb and zoomed through the relatively heavy traffic, the closest we ever came to rush hour in our small town. “Sounds like this is a pretty big event, with the dancers and all.”
I nodded, preoccupied by the trepidation that always overtook me in a car.
McCarthy glanced over at me and slowed down a little bit. “Any word from Aileen?”
I gave a start. I should have told him. “She’s out of jail and back home. It’s good to have her back.”
“Is she still taking the high road when it comes to talking about Foster?”
I blew out an exasperated breath. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s the matter with her. I’m going to have to find out what that whole thing is about without her cooperation.”
He glanced sidelong at me. “She’d better watch out. You’ve got that determined look on your face. Something tells me that you’re not feeling shy about getting into her business. But a word to the wise, my nosy seamstress. Aileen is a force to be reckoned with. You might want to watch out yourself.”
I looked at him in surprise. “You don’t think she murdered Ladd, do you?”
For once, he was serious. “I don’t know, Daria. It’s not impossible.”
When I stared at him, incredulous, he backpedaled a bit. “I’m not saying she did it. Just that she’s a force to be reckoned with. She obviously hated the guy. She held off from bashing him over the head with her guitar, maybe because so many people were watching. Who’s to say she didn’t sneak off in private and slip some poison into his whiskey?”
“Well, it doesn’t sound like Aileen, for one thing. Privacy isn’t one of her big values. When has she ever tried to hide or cover up anything she does?” As soon as I said it, I realized that was exactly what she was doing. She was trying to hide her prior relationship with Ladd Foster. Was there some clue in that relationship that would reveal her as a murderer?
McCarthy just concentrated on the road. He circled around the Commons, looking for a parking place, finally settling for street parking a couple of blocks away. “We’ve got time for dinner at City Lights as long as they’re not busy.” He offered me his umbrella, and we hustled along the sidewalk at a brisk walk.
Lucky for us, City Lights wasn’t busy. A small storefront a block from the Commons with a gritty urban atmosphere, the café specialized in gyros, Greek salads, and the best hummus west of Philadelphia. We slid into a tiny booth and placed our orders.
McCarthy leaned back and threw an arm across the back of the booth. “So, my nosy seamstress, what have you discovered about the case today?”
“I haven’t come to any conclusions.” I nodded to the waitress as she deposited my soda on the table. “Mostly, I’ve been pinning up plaid pleats, if you want to know the truth.” I showed him the pictures I’d taken of Corgi’s kilt in progress. “I do have a couple of leads, but I need to track them down before they’re really worth talking about.”
His eyes crinkled up at the corners when he smiled at me. “You sound like a regular private eye.”
“That’s more than you can say. What has the obnoxious photographer discovered?”
McCarthy chuckled at my usual characterization of him. “I’ve been behaving myself all day at the Amish quilt show, followed by a children’s matinee at the symphony.” He clenched his hands together beseechingly. “I must confess I’ve come up with exactly nothing in terms of cracking the case of who killed the caber tosser. Please have mercy!”
I drew my eyebrows together in a frown while trying to suppress my laughter. “All right. This once, I’ll forgive your lamentable inaction. Don’t let it happen again.”
The arrival of our food interrupted this charade. We dived in with one eye on the clock. At half past six McCarthy hustled me out of the restaurant. “I want to get set
up before the event starts.” We hastened down the sidewalk to the brick walkway of the Commons and on to the local bookstore, the Printed Page. The front window held a display of Morris Hart novels, with Over the Sea to Skye prominently displayed. Inside, a handful of customers browsed through the bookshelves, while the staff set up more copies of Hart’s bestseller on a table in the open area off the front door. Hart hovered next to the table, seeming ill at ease. His face brightened considerably at the sight of McCarthy and me.
“Hey, there, Catherine. Nice to see you here. I was afraid the rain would keep people away.”
I couldn’t help smiling at him. “My name’s really Daria, you know. I’m still not done with the book, but I have met Catherine by now.”
“You get what I’m talking about, then? You’re the spitting image of Catherine. You could play her in the movie.” He cocked his head and surveyed me as if I were a curious piece of artwork. “Do you act, by any chance?”
I laughed. “Only if you count high school musicals.” He seemed to be sober today, unlike the last time we’d talked. I was sorry he persisted with this idea of me being the incarnation of his character, as if he was only interested in me as Catherine, not Daria. If I wanted something from him, I could use this Catherine likeness to my advantage. But there wasn’t anything I wanted from Morris Hart.
I faded off into the background as the staff consulted with McCarthy about the photographic coverage for the newspaper and Hart prepared to do his reading. The Highland dancers were gathering in the children’s section, preparing for their opening performance. The girls wore their Highland outfits: kilt, ruffled blouse, and velvet vest. I was scanning their ranks for Gillian when I heard her loud voice.
“It’s not my fault. The button was loose and it came off, that’s all. It’s right here. I didn’t lose it.”
“You should have sewed it back on at home.” Breanna stood with her hands on her hips, frowning. “You can’t go on with your vest gaping open like that. It looks awful.”
Gillian tossed her head. “I don’t know what you think I’m supposed to do about it.”
Breanna bristled at this belligerence, as if she were at the end of her rope with Gillian.
“Seamstress to the rescue,” I called out, rummaging through my shoulder bag as I hustled over to join them. “I always carry a sewing kit in my bag. I’ll have that button back where it belongs before you know it.”
“Thanks, Daria. You’re a lifesaver,” Breanna said. She turned away without a word to Gillian. She probably figured silence was better than a lecture.
Gillian shrugged out of her vest and held it out to me, along with the button.
I regarded the vest. “Do you know how to sew?” I offered her my pincushion.
She rolled her eyes. “Who’s gonna teach me how to sew?” She shoved the vest at me.
I plucked out a needle and threaded it for her. “I usually use a double thread when I sew on buttons.” I showed her how to tie the knot so it wouldn’t look too big and messy. Then I picked up the vest and showed her the broken threads that marked the place to put the button. “You have to get these out first, and then use the stitch marks left behind as a guide to sew the button back on.” I handed her the vest, needle, and button.
Under my watchful eye, she succeeded in sewing her button back on. There was a faint shine of accomplishment in her eyes as she put the vest on and buttoned it up.
“Nice job,” I said. “If you’re interested in learning to sew, just let me know. Maybe we could work something out.” She could learn to sew and I could learn what she thought about what happened to her mom in Cleveland.
“Gillian! Right now, ready or not!” Breanna called. The other girls were all in line with their swords held upright, ready to march.
Gillian jumped up to follow them. “Thanks” was all she said.
I didn’t press the matter. She was like a wild animal—I needed to gain her trust. I just hoped she would think things over before leaving the bookstore, because I didn’t know when I would run into her next.
I joined the crowd that had gathered to watch the Highland dancers. Most of them were parents of the dancers, including Ryan. I sidled through the crowd until I was standing next to him.
He gave me an automatic glance and then did a double take as he recognized me. “You’re the girl who looks just like Catherine. Are you going to go on tour with Hart?”
Not on your life! “No. I just came to watch the dancers and listen to the reading.” I directed his attention back to his daughter. “Gillian looks better and better every time I see her.”
“Better than what?” he growled. “What are you judging her on?”
“I’m not judging her,” I said, taken aback. “I meant her dancing is getting better. She must be practicing. That’s all.” Like Hart, Ryan seemed to be completely sober, but he still made me uncomfortable every time I talked to him. But I pressed on. “I was just helping her sew a button back onto her vest. I’m a seamstress.” When he didn’t respond, I prattled on. “I’m making Breanna Lawton’s wedding gown, you know. She’s going with a Celtic motif that should be quite lovely.” I paused to clap as the girls bowed at the end of the sword dance. “Sometimes I give sewing lessons to high school students. It’s a great way for them to stay out of trouble while learning a useful skill. One girl even made her own prom dress, with my help.” I smiled at him, as if I had just shared the most important secret he would hear all week. “I love watching the sword dance, don’t you?”
Ryan just nodded and stared after me as I moved away through the crowd.
I wormed my way to the edge of the crowd, looking for a good place to stand. I’d planted seeds with both father and daughter. Now it was time to leave them to germinate on their own. I shuffled around until I had an unobstructed view of Hart. I wondered why the bookstore hadn’t set up chairs, for goodness’ sake. At least the rain hadn’t kept everyone away. There was a good-sized crowd staying after the dancing to hear Hart’s reading.
Hart opened his copy of Over the Sea to Skye to someplace in the middle. If he was reading a portion I hadn’t gotten to yet, I resolved to skip out on him. I didn’t want any spoilers.
He chose a section I had already read; just last night in fact. The sound of the familiar words read in Hart’s deep, slow voice became something akin to poetry. I was enjoying the sensory experience so much, it was a good ten minutes before I realized he was reading the section in which Stu meets Catherine for the first time. With a start, I saw that his eyes kept flashing to me, as if I were on the receiving end of a private, intimate reading of his words. People in the crowd began to notice and turn to stare at me. I didn’t know whether to feel flattered or annoyed or just plain embarrassed by the overt attention. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it got worse.
Hart closed his book with a snap. “Before I take any questions, I have a fascinating tale to tell you. I’ve been an author for over twenty-five years and this has never happened to me before. I was doing a book signing over the weekend at the Highland Games here in town, and I met a special young woman. She could be the incarnation of the character I created out of mere imagination.” He flung out an arm in my direction. “Let me introduce you to the perfect image of Catherine in the flesh.”
I gave a little wave, but that wasn’t enough for Hart. He held out his hand, inviting me to join him at the front.
Realizing that a refusal would only bring me more attention, I walked up to his side. He grasped my hand and leaned in close to whisper in my ear, “Tell me your name.”
“I’m Daria Dembrowski, a seamstress here in town,” I said to the crowd with as much poise as I could muster. “Like Mr. Hart, this is a first for me too. I’ve never been the embodiment of somebody’s character before. But I haven’t finished the book yet, so don’t give away what happens to Catherine in the end.” I turned to Hart, silent
ly imploring him to take some questions from the audience, hopefully ones that had nothing to do with the miraculous appearance of one of his characters in the flesh. In the background, McCarthy’s camera clicked merrily away.
Hart grinned from ear to ear, clearly delighted to share the stage with the incarnation of his character. He kept hold of my hand while he addressed the crowd. “If you have read Skye, you’ll recognize Catherine in Daria here in a heartbeat. If you haven’t read it yet, you’ll keep her image in your mind while you read.” He gazed at me in silence for a moment and then shook himself. “Could we get a picture for the newspaper?” he called out to McCarthy.
We posed for a picture, taken by a grinning McCarthy, and then Hart turned to the questions from the crowd. I slipped back to my place on the edge of the action.
McCarthy sidled up beside me. “I said I wouldn’t call you Catherine, and I didn’t. Remember that.”
I rolled my eyes. “At least when you print that picture you can include my business title. I’ll take it as a bit of free publicity.”
He laughed. “There you go. Spoken by a savvy seamstress, as well as a nosy one.”
Hart’s question-and-answer session lasted for over an hour. I learned he tried to write every day, if only just a few paragraphs, and that his dog, Muse, had a special chair next to Hart’s desk, where the Scottie could snooze and provide inspiration. “Whenever I don’t know what to write next, I write a few words to describe Muse’s appearance or actions. It usually gets me over the hump,” he said.
Royally Dead Page 14