Hanging by a Thread

by Monica Ferris

  She looked down at her barely-started plan for the front window. Betsy kept a few needlepoint Christmas stockings out year round and, of course, Marilyn Leavitt Imblum’s Celtic Christmas hung with the counted cross-stitch models year round. But there were other big, complex Christmas patterns it took cross-stitchers months to finish. They needed prodding to remind them to buy these projects in March, when everyone else was thinking about tulips and Easter bunnies. Betsy envied Cross Stitch Comer in Chicago, a shop with enough floor space to have a big, year-round Christmas display. As it was, her customers who bought the big ones now would display them next Christmas.

  She studied her list of Christmas patterns in stock, her list of finished models, and her floor plan. She hadn’t owned Crewel World very long, and while she was more sophisticated than when she began, she was still feeling her way into the retail stitchery business. Learning on this job was a dangerous undertaking; if it weren’t for her other sources of income, Crewel World would have gone under months ago. And she knew she’d be much further along if she hadn’t also encumbered herself with ownership of the building her shop was in, with its own numerous demands.

  And weren’t so often sidetracked by crime.

  Interesting at this stage of her life—Betsy was in her middle fifties—to discover a heretofore latent talent for sleuthing. But once uncovered, it proved a powerful draw, eating up time she would otherwise have devoted to ordering stock, paying bills, record keeping, tax planning, salesmanship, and home improvement.

  And designing her displays.

  She looked over the assortment of patterns and models, and was satisfied with the plentitude and variety. Now, which was to go in the big front window to catch the eye of potential customers? She had already used a ruler to make a rectangle scaled to her window’s dimensions, and had cut some blue scrap paper into rough shapes scaled to represent the items she thought should go in the window—too many, of course.

  This scrap represented a spectacular, hand-painted needlepoint Christmas stocking, very eye-catching—but there was only the one, so if it sold at once, it would make a hole in the display. She put its paper shape aside. Maybe she should put up one of the knitted stockings instead? But which, the one knitted in bright Christmas colors? Or the one knitted in Scandinavian blue and white? Or the buff one knitted in fancy stitches, like an aran sweater? Not all three, that might make passersby think this was primarily a knitting supplies shop, which it wasn’t, and also wouldn’t leave room for the beautiful and complicated Teresa Wentzler Holly and Ivy sampler Sherry had begun for Betsy’s predecessor and only finished a week ago. Betsy also had a nice collection of counted cross-stitch stockings. Maybe her window could be all stockings, knit, cross-stitched and needlepointed. Yes!

  No. She’d already decided there must be a place for Just Nan’s Liberty Angel, the one done in red, white and blue with a star-spangled banner.

  There was the large and magnificent Marbek Nativity, but that would go in the back, on a low table against the wall, looking out through the opening between the tall set of box shelves that divided the counted cross-stitch area from the front of the shop. She would arrange one of the ceiling spots to shine directly on the big, glittery figures, so customers in front would feel as if they were looking into the Stable.

  She pulled her attention from the back of the shop to the window. She’d put some of those small, adorable, affordable needlepoint canvases of Santas and rocking horses and alphabet blocks that could be finished quickly even by beginning stitchers. And she’d better save a corner for an announcement of January classes that needlepoint and knitting customers should sign up for.

  And, of course, there were the fairy lights that would frame the window—she sketched some loops to indicate the space they’d take.

  Already the window was looking overcrowded. Hmmm, if she took out two of the inexpensive canvases, and moved this stocking over here, and then this counted piece could go ...

  Her sketching was interrupted by the Bing! of the front door. Betsy looked up to see Mrs. Chesterfield coming in, and went at once to greet her. Mrs. Chesterfield was a good customer, but she could not pick a skein of wool from a basket without spilling all the contents, or pull a pattern from a rack without tipping it over. Equally bad, she often stepped on whatever fell near her feet.

  “May I help you find something, Mrs. Chesterfield?” Betsy had decided that the next time Mrs. Chesterfield came in, she would follow her around, trying to keep her from bumping into racks and picking things up she knocked over before they got stepped on.

  “I’m looking for a sampler pattern. But I don’t know who it’s by.”

  Mrs. Chesterfield went into the back room of the shop, where the counted cross-stitch patterns lived, and was reaching for a book on samplers when the rack behind her tipped over. Betsy was almost sure the woman’s hip had bumped it and sent it rolling crookedly across the floor, shedding Water Colors floss as it went.

  “I’ll get it, it’s all right,” said Betsy. “You go ahead with your selection.” She stooped to gather the beautiful pastel skeins.

  Perhaps because she was concentrating on that task, she didn’t see how Mrs. Chesterfield managed to pull a book from the middle shelf and at the same time cause half of the pretty display of clear glass “ort collectors” on an upper shelf to tumble to the floor. She must have reached up to brace herself—Mrs. Chesterfield was a bit arthritic.

  “Watch where you’re stepping!” said Betsy more sharply than she meant to, as one of the ornaments crumbled under Mrs. Chesterfield’s heel.

  “Well, where did those come from?” asked Mrs. Chesterfield, looking about her as she moved away from the shelves. “Honestly, Betsy, you should be more careful how you set up your displays. Every time I come in here, something gets broken.”

  “I know, it’s awful,” said Betsy, frowning because that was true. “I’ll try to do better in future,” she promised. “Here, why don’t you sit at this table and look at your book. I’ll bring you some more so you can see which one you like best. And would you like a cup of hot cider?”

  “Why, thank you, Betsy, that would be lovely. Do you still have that tea-dyed linen in thirty-six-thirty-eight count? The pattern I’m looking for is an old one. I think it has a Tree of Life on it.” Women who did samplers often found that to do an exact replica of very old patterns, they needed linen woven, like the antique original, with fewer strands per inch in one direction than the other. Thank God for Norden Crafts, which not only had such linen, but could supply it in a number of colors and counts.

  Betsy said, “Yes, I have that. What size piece will you need?” Betsy selected three books on samplers and brought them to Mrs. Chesterfield. “Here you are.”

  “I won’t know until I find the pattern. I know it’s in one of these books, Margaret told me about it.”

  Betsy didn’t do samplers, so she couldn’t help look. She brought a Styrofoam cup of cider to Mrs. Chesterfield, and on seeing she was securely seated in the chair, went back to her desk.

  She had barely taken her seat when there was a soft crash from the back, its exact location hidden by one of the twin walls of box shelves that made a separate room of the back of the shop. Before Betsy could move, Godwin, winking and grinning at Betsy, was through the opening. Mrs. Chesterfield was heard to say, “How did that happen?”

  And Godwin to reply, “It’s just a few magazines, Mrs. Chesterfield. Nothing to worry about.” His tone was very dry, pitched to reach Betsy’s ears.

  “I told you so,” said Martha to Alice, and to Comfort, “What’s she doing?”

  “Told her what?” asked Betsy.

  “Godwin says Mrs. Chesterfield has a poltergeist,” said Comfort. “And Martha agrees with him.” She was leaning back in her seat, trying to see what was going on. “Looks to me like she’s sitting down.”

  “If Godwin is as bright as he seems, he’ll make sure she stays in that chair.”

  Emily giggled. “Do you al
l really believe Mrs. Chesterfield is haunted?”

  “I don’t,” said Alice, but quietly. Last Monday she had disagreed that Foster Johns was a murderer; she didn’t like being the one who always disagreed. “No such thing,” she added, and checked the count on the bright blue mitten she was knitting with an air indicating she would say no more, and continued working down the palm.

  There was another crash, this one louder. Emily stood and went to the entryway between the box shelves.

  “Oh, my goodness, look at that!” she said.

  “What?” asked Betsy, standing and leaning forward for a look. “Oh, no, that rack of scissors!”

  “I’ve got it, you all stay out of here,” said Godwin. He could be heard adding to Mrs. Chesterfield, “Please sit down again; I’ll bring you whatever you want.”

  Emily and Betsy went back to their respective seats, too, and Emily said in a low voice, “Did you see how Mrs. Chesterfield was nowhere near that rack?”

  “She never is,” said Martha, rolling her gaze around the table.

  “She moved away when it fell, of course,” said Alice in a barely audible voice.

  “Of course she did,” agreed Betsy firmly, hoping to quash the gossip, and annoyed with Godwin for spreading it.

  “Well, this is interesting,” said Comfort, looking around the table, her knitting forgotten. “Do you mean to tell me that some of you believe in ghosts?”

  “I don’t,” said Alice.

  “Anyway, it’s not a ghost, it’s a poltergeist,” said young Emily. She picked up her sampler. “And whether or not anyone believes it, Mrs. Chesterfield is haunted.”

  “What’s a poltergeist?” asked Comfort.

  “It’s a mischievous spirit that throws things and breaks things and moves things,” explained Martha. “It tends to hang around a particular individual, usually an adolescent.”

  “Mrs. Chesterfield is hardly an adolescent,” noted Alice.

  “Only usually an adolescent,” underlined Martha. “And usually these things happen only in their homes. But Mrs. Chesterfield’s poltergeist isn’t active in her home at all; instead, it follows her everywhere. It doesn’t always ‘act out,’ but obviously today it is very active.”

  “Why, because it’s Halloween?” asked Comfort.

  “Could be,” agreed Martha. “But I remember one Fourth of July when all the fireworks went off at once, scaring the men getting ready to fire them half to death, and there she was, sitting on the beach watching.”

  “How can you think that was her fault?” asked Alice with a snort. “My dear friend Mary Kuhfeld was in Philadelphia for the weeklong bicentennial celebration in 1976, and the night of July third all the fireworks on a pier went off at once, some coming right at the people standing on the shore. Do you think Mary is haunted by a poltergeist? Of course not. It was an accident. A worker dropped his flare, which started a fire and that’s what set them all off. The same thing happened here that Fourth.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me to learn Mrs. Chesterfield was in Philadelphia that night, watching while her poltergeist tripped fireworks technicians,” said Martha, but not seriously. The others chuckled.

  Alice said, “You shouldn’t say things like that. Some people will take you seriously, and they’ll start thinking there’s no such thing as accident or even coincidence.” She raised a defiant hand and snapped her fingers. “Poltergeists—hah!”

  A huge black web fell out of the ceiling, wrapping her hand, her head, her shoulders.

  Bershada screamed, Emily shrieked. Struggling to get free, Alice fell backward out of her chair.

  “Here, here, here!” Betsy yelled, running around the table to stoop beside Alice. “Stop pulling at it, please!”

  “Get it off me!” shouted Alice.

  “What, what?” called Godwin, rushing out from behind the shelves.

  “It’s all right, it’s all right!” cried Betsy, trying to hold Alice’s hands still through the webbing. “Lie still, please, Alice!”

  “What is it?” cried Alice, trying to obey and at the same time shrink from the horrible thing.

  “It’s a shawl,” said Betsy.

  “Why, of course!” said Comfort. “It was hanging from the ceiling,” she explained from her place well away from the table, holding the tiny, half-knitted sweater to her breast like a shield. She took a step forward, her expression swiftly changing from frightened to amused.

  “Oh? Oh!” Alice suddenly relaxed. “That’s all it is?”

  “Are you hurt, Alice?” asked Martha, coming out from behind a spinner rack of knitting accessories.

  “I—I don’t think so. But I’m afraid I may have torn this, Betsy.”

  “Yes, it is torn, a little.” Betsy’s face was twisted with dismay. There was a substantial tear near one edge.

  “Well, what was it doing up on the ceiling, anyway?” demanded Bershada, lifting her glasses and looking up.

  “It’s a display method, that’s all,” said Godwin. The other women also looked up at the several shawls hanging on the ceiling.

  “Oh, why, so it is,” said Bershada. “Clever.”

  “Not that clever,” said Betsy sadly. Seeking more display space, she had taken to hanging some of her lighter models from slender threads attached to the soft tiles of her shop’s ceiling with pins. None had ever broken loose before. On the other hand, this was the largest item she had ever attempted to suspend.

  “Three Kittens uses plastic hooks that fasten to the metal strips of their acoustic ceiling,” said Martha, naming a yarn shop in St. Paul.

  “Where do they get them, I wonder?” said Betsy. “No, don’t try to get up yet, Alice.”

  “Here, let me help,” said Godwin, stooping across from Betsy.

  “What’s going on?” asked a new voice, and Mrs. Chesterfield came out from the back. “Is someone hurt?”

  “No, but that beautiful Russian-lace shawl Betsy had hanging from the ceiling fell onto Alice’s head,” said Martha.

  “Well, how on earth did that happen?” asked Mrs. Chesterfield.

  “I think it was your polter—” said Godwin.

  “Don’t you say it!” she said, turning on him. “I won’t listen to any more talk of me and a poltergeist!”

  “No, of course not,” said Betsy. “Goddy’s just being silly. Aren’t you, Godwin?”

  “All right,” he agreed, but with a smirk.

  Mrs. Chesterfield looked at him suspiciously, but he instantly switched to his famous faux innocent look, complete with batting eyelashes and, barely mollified, she went back to the sampler books.

  Godwin and Betsy continued disentangling Alice from the large black shawl, and in the silence there came a muffled choking sound. It was Emily, trying to stifle a giggle.

  “Hush, Emily,” said Martha. “Alice has received a terrible fright.”

  “Th-that’s true,” giggled Emily. “It scared all of us. Did you see the way we all shot out of our chairs when that shawl fell?” She giggled some more.

  Bershada said with a significant smile, “That will teach Alice to say ‘hah’ to poltergeists.”

  “Come on, both of you!” said Betsy. “Didn’t you ever hear of coincidence?”

  Bershada said, “Coincidence? Mmmmm-hmmmm!”

  Emily giggled from behind both hands held over her nose and mouth.

  Godwin asked Alice, “Well, if it wasn’t the you-know-what, how in the world did it manage to tear loose?” He glanced up at the ceiling, which was about nine feet high. Alice was a tall woman, but her reach wasn’t that high.

  “I didn’t touch the thing!” said Alice crossly, trying to hold still as the last strands of fine black yarn were unwound from her earrings. “Ouch, please be careful! I was just sitting there when it fell on me with no warning! Now help me—Oof!” She grunted as Godwin helped her to her feet.

  “Are you all right?” asked Betsy.

  “I think so. But oh, all my joints are shaken loose! Thank you, Godwin.”
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  “Is it repairable?” asked Comfort, watching Betsy look at the tear. The shawl was a fragile, very difficult pattern of knit lace, a large but gossamer article Betsy had borrowed from a customer to interest advanced knitters in a book of patterns and the expensive wool it called for.

  Betsy began to fold the shawl. “I’ll see if Sandy can repair it.” Sandy Mattson had more than once saved important pieces with her ability to invisibly repair them. At a price, of course. Betsy sighed, and took the shawl to the desk.

  Godwin winked at the table and went between the box shelves to ask Mrs. Chesterfield in a high voice, “Have you decided which book you want, Mrs. Chesterfield?”

  “Goddy,” warned Betsy.

  “We’re fine, aren’t we, Mrs. Chesterfield? Of course we are. Now, how about this one?” His tone was obediently subdued, and only lightly cordial.

  “Yes, I think so. Thank you, Godwin. And I want a fat quarter of the uneven weave linen. If you don’t have it in tea-dyed, then unbleached.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The women stitched in silence until Mrs. Chesterfield paid for her book and linen, and left.

  Alice said, “I feel sorry for that poor woman.”

  “What’s this?” said Martha. “I thought you didn’t believe in poltergeists.”

  “I don’t,” she replied, lifting her strong chin in a stubborn gesture. “But her life in the last few years has become a series of sad coincidences. I wonder if she has come to believe in the poltergeist herself—and how sad for her if she has.”

  6

  “Let’s talk about something else,” said Martha. “Something more cheerful.”

  Godwin, coming to sit down, said, “Well, it’s Halloween, so let’s tell ghost stories.”

  Comfort laughed. “Ghost stories are cheerful?”

  Bershada said, “I just love ghost stories—the scarier, the better.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t go there,” said Emily. “I think we just met a ghost. Alice, I know I was laughing, but when that shawl fell on you, that was authentically scary.”