by Janet Bolin
“My mothers and I are outsiders, too.”
“Great,” I said. “Uncle Allen probably suspects us all.”
“Me, especially.” She poured the beaten eggs into an omelet pan. “Everyone knows I refused to go out with Mike a second time.” She shuddered.
“You know where he lived, right?”
“Yes.” She made an exaggeratedly stern face. “But this isn’t like when we lived in Manhattan and needed evidence to convince the police that Jasper had been stealing from clients. This time, the police know there was a crime. We’ll have to let them do the investigating.”
I slid the pepper and onions into the omelet. “Do you think Uncle Allen will do a decent job?”
“I’m not sure he can.” She grated cheddar over the veggies and eggs. “But you and I would never go snooping where we shouldn’t, right?”
I loaded two slices of her yummy homemade bread into her toaster. “Never. In New York, we had a perfect right to work late at night when no one else was around. And we didn’t have to break into Jasper’s office, either.” Our boss had been so sure he could get away with his crimes that he hadn’t bothered locking his office.
Haylee gazed out the window toward her car in the parking lot behind her mothers’ shops. “Mike showed me where he kept a key to his back door. And he said I was welcome to use it anytime. As if I would have wanted to visit him unannounced or go out with him again! You wouldn’t believe the rage he got into simply because that woman in the red car drove too slowly in a no-passing zone.”
“No wonder she hid her face when Mike barged into my shop.”
“When he did pass her, I was afraid he’d force her into a ditch. He had a sudden and horrible temper.”
“I’m guessing that someone else has a worse one,” I said. “Maybe someone who drives a black pickup.”
Haylee challenged, “What if Uncle Allen fails to follow up on that truck?”
“Then we’ll . . . do something.”
Haylee only laughed. We carried our omelets and toast to her great room and sat in simple yet comfortable armchairs. She pressed a button, and flames leaped from a stainless steel slot in the hearth. This latest version of a gas fireplace would have amazed the first people who had installed gas heating and lights in this Victorian apartment.
The omelet was delicious. I asked Haylee, “Did you hear or see anything unusual when you came outside early this morning? People? Vehicles?”
“Only my mothers, who are unusual at the best of times. We were awakened by the siren, if you can call it that. We saw Uncle Allen’s cruiser in front of your place, so we all came outside.”
“How did you manage to arrive at the same time? Phone each other first?”
“My mothers have been best friends since they were in first grade, and they all raised me, so it’s not surprising when we all do approximately the same thing. My mothers are all wacky, but they’re always supportive.”
I spread grape jelly on my toast. “I really like them. You’re lucky.”
She looked down at her plate. “I know. They can cramp my style, but it’s great having them nearby.”
How many other people would invite their mothers to move to a sleepy village and help change it to a lively one where people could buy and make every sort of textile imaginable?
Haylee raised her head and the affection for her mothers in her smile lit the room. “Like anybody, I know which parent to go to for what. If I need enthusiasm for a project, I go to Opal. If I want someone one to tell me I’m perfect, I ask Naomi. And I can always count on Edna to say what she thinks. No set of parents could have loved me more.”
“That’s pretty obvious,” I said. Even before I met Haylee’s mothers, I’d been able to tell she’d been raised by loving parents.
She swept her hair off her shoulders. Her blue eyes twinkled with mischief. “They have their quirks, especially now that they own textile arts shops. They feel duty-bound to make the most creative garments possible, and actually wear them.”
I had to grin. Now that I had time to embroider almost everything, only a few of my outfits escaped touches of embroidery. I could be heading toward quirky dressing, myself. I defended her mothers and me. “We all need to advertise our stores and our talents, even you, with your expert tailoring. Your clothes look very expensive. That could be considered eccentric at our age.”
“Pooh. If anyone wants to think it, let ’em.”
“See?” I teased. “You’re getting as quirky as your mothers.”
“Maybe that’s not a bad thing.” She sat up straighter in her chair. “They’re strong. And tough.”
Haylee had acquired the same traits.
Had I? My mother was strong and tough, but she had never had time to belong to me the way Haylee’s three mothers belonged to her. My mother was a physician who had turned to politics.
Unlike Haylee, I knew my father. He was an inventor, seldom seen outside the carriage house behind my parents’ home, where he tinkered and invented. I’d lost count of the number of patents he had, but I wouldn’t categorize him as either strong or tough like our mothers were. My parents had never come to visit me in Manhattan and were even less likely to stir from South Carolina to the northwestern corner of Pennsylvania.
We finished breakfast. Haylee put our dishes into the dishwasher. “Any time you need to, call or come see me,” she offered. “Or my mothers.” She gave me a big hug.
Feeling less anxious and alone, I left her bright apartment. I couldn’t help touching fabrics as I passed them on my way out of The Stash. As always, the feel of cotton calmed and comforted.
I expected to see several law enforcement vehicles outside In Stitches when I returned, but the only cars and trucks seemed to belong to early-morning shoppers. I gave the dogs another short outing, started a fire in my woodstove, and put a pot of cider on its top.
Turning the cross-stitched sign in my door to Welcome may have been a mistake. Uncle Allen tromped in. “Your front gate’s locked,” he complained. “Give me the key.”
That didn’t seem like a good idea, so I went outside and unlocked it for him. “Are you going to need to get into my cottage?” I asked. “Somebody took my canoe paddle out of the lean-to and left the door open.”
“Is there a way from that lean-to into your cottage?”
“No.”
“And the cottage is locked?”
“Yes. The door facing the river bolts from the inside.” I pointed down toward the cottage. “I have a key for the door we can see from here.” I hadn’t decided whether that door or the one facing the river should be called the front door.
“Well, you can’t come into the crime scene to unlock it for me, now can you?”
Not as long as he told me I couldn’t.
“What’s in your cottage?”
“Nothing. It’s vacant.”
“Okay, you can either give me the key now or wait until I get a search warrant and give it to me then.”
“I have nothing to hide, and I’d like you to find Mike’s murderer and arrest him as soon as possible.” A good citizen, I gave him the key. “When are the other investigators coming?”
He turned his back to me, flapped a hand in dismissal, and marched down toward where I’d found Mike early this morning.
Back inside the shop, the fragrance of cider, orange zest, cinnamon, and cloves warmed me. I’d be safe from Mike’s attacker now that a policeman was in my backyard, wouldn’t I?
Tally, a dreamy sort, whimpered on the other side of the apartment door. Sally, the practical, heavy-footed one, clumped down the stairs, probably to claim the choicest napping spot on Tally’s bed. Or on mine.
Cooing at Tally through the closed door, I downloaded pictures from my camera to the computer. I cropped the photo of the man disappearing into the woods beyond the field of dead cornstalks, then launched my embroidery software, loaded the photo into it, and clicked on the appropriate icon. The software began generating stitches that mi
micked the photo.
Suddenly, everything glowed red.
The ancient red car that Mike had attempted to railroad into a ditch came to a halt outside in the bright morning sunshine. The quiet woman inched her driver’s door open, looked left and right, then scurried toward In Stitches like she was hoping no one would see her.
She slipped sideways into In Stitches. Her bulging cloth bag was almost bigger than she was.
“Help yourself to cider,” I called.
She shook her head. I left her to browse.
The next thing I knew, she was peeking over my shoulder. “How do you do that?” she asked.
I showed her the photo I’d started with, and the embroidery software’s amazingly true-to-life depiction of how the design would look when stitched on cloth. “I need to adjust it here and there to force it into my vision.” I would also need to add varying thicknesses of foam to some of the trees, and maybe to the man, too. Seventeenth-century embroiderers often ignored things like scale, and a man could be bigger than a horse or a castle. Or a tree. Creating that stumpwork look was going to be fun.
“That’s what you’ll be teaching?” Her voice was reedy, her question tentative.
“We’ll work up to it, get used to the machines and the software in small steps.” I smiled. “I don’t want to give away all my tricks in the second lesson.”
My attempt to put her at ease failed. She stared at my gleaming walnut floor. “No, of course not.” She turned back toward the front windows. “Your boutique is lovely.” Tapping her index finger against her lips, she frowned toward the woodstove. Finally, she tiptoed to the fabric cutting table. “May I show you something?”
“Of course.” I followed her.
She turned her bag upside down and shook placemats and napkins out of it. Like any true fabriholic, I couldn’t help touching them. They were obviously hand woven, of natural fabrics, in beautiful shades. “These are gorgeous,” I burst out. Her purple hat was also hand woven, as were her black coat and emptied bag. “Did you do the weaving?”
“Yes. Do you really like them?” Gazing down as if saying a reluctant farewell, she ran quivering fingers across the placemats and napkins.
“They’re fabulous.” I wasn’t gushing. They were.
“Do you think you could sell them in your store?” She didn’t look up at me.
“They’d sell anywhere, but I’d be afraid to sell them here for fear someone would take a notion to embroider things on them. They’re beautiful the way they are.”
“That wouldn’t matter.” Even her voice trembled.
Was she desperate for funds? I shouldn’t have problems selling these gorgeous hand-woven linens, but I’d have to prevent myself from buying them, because no matter how many times I told myself they didn’t need embellishment, sooner or later I’d stretch them into hoops and let my machines have their way with them. “Okay,” I agreed. “Let’s talk about prices and my markup and how I’ll display . . .”
“I’m sure you’ll do it all just right.”
How could she be so trusting? “No,” I said firmly. “Let’s sit down and discuss this.”
She sat, but she wouldn’t take off her coat.
I suggested prices.
Gasping, she clapped both hands to her cheeks.
“Not enough?” I asked.
She quavered, “Too much?”
I shook my head. “Definitely not.”
She pulled a scrap of paper from a pocket. “Here’s my address. If you sell anything, send me the check? And . . .” She fiddled with the paper. “Would you mind coming out to my studio to pick up new pieces? That is, if you ever want more.”
“I’d love to see your studio and your work.” Once a fabriholic, always a fabriholic. Besides, looms fascinated me.
“I hate coming to town.” She appeared to hold her breath in hopes I wouldn’t question her about it.
Not that I could have. My sea glass chimes jangled. She shoved the paper at me. Dawn Langford, Weaver, I read.
Sam came halfway in. “Hey, Willow, how’d those padlocks work out for you?”
“Fine,” I answered over Dawn’s lowered head. “Thanks for thinking of matching ones.”
Dawn bent farther forward. Her face was inches from her knees.
“Y’know,” he called out, “the guys who hang out in The Ironmonger and I were talking, and we all thought what you did to Mike Krawbach was perfect.”
My hair was too long to stand on end all over my head, but that’s what it felt like it was doing. “What I did to Mike Krawbach?” Did everyone in town think I’d murdered Mike? And they were applauding me for it?
Sam nodded several times. “Stood up to him, you did. Yesterday afternoon in the street. Throws his weight around too much, that boy. Always has.”
Dawn seemed to crumble into herself. Sam didn’t seem to know that Mike was dead. Did Dawn?
Uncle Allen pushed his way into the store past Sam. “Stood up to Mike, my foot. Murdered him, more likely.”
Pot lights in my ceiling reflected onto Sam’s bald head, giving it a jaunty look, like he’d pasted fat white sequins on it. Sam examined Uncle Allen’s truculent expression. Sam’s smile disintegrated. “Uncle Allen, my boy, you’re not serious, now, are you?”
“Serious as all get-out. We found Mike beaten up at the foot of her backyard last night.” He jabbed a thumb toward me. “He died there.”
Dawn Langford tumbled off her chair and onto the floor.
7
STRANGELY, IT WAS THE HARDWARE store owner, not the policeman, who ran to the fallen woman. He hollered, “Uncle Allen, get on your radio and call for help!”
If Uncle Allen had a radio, would it work?
We weren’t about to find out. Uncle Allen shaped his hand like a revolver and pointed the barrel at me. “Now she’s gone and killed another one.”
His accusations were becoming tedious. Besides, Dawn didn’t appear to be dead, much less murdered. Her color was returning. I knelt beside her. Her lips moved.
Uncle Allen shuffled to us. Dawn’s lids fluttered open, revealing dazed and wobbly pale gray eyes. She focused on the two men above her, then scuttled crabwise away from them. I was probably the only one to hear her whisper, “Don’t let them touch me.”
I murmured, paying no attention to what I was saying, trying to calm and soothe.
I took her hand in mine. Her skin felt dry and calloused. Her muscles, presumably from all that weaving, were like steel cables. She nearly crushed my hand.
As if sensing her unusual strength, Sam backed away, taking Uncle Allen with him.
The door opened, admitting a blast of cold air. And Naomi, who apparently had invisible, trouble-seeking antennae. “What’s wrong?” she shouted.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Nothing,” Dawn repeated. She whispered, “Don’t let her near me, either.”
My mouth dropped open. Naomi was one of the sweetest people on earth. “It’s okay,” I told Dawn, extricating my hand and flexing my fingers. They seemed to work.
Naomi asked, “Should we call Dr. Wrinklesides?”
Dawn sat up. “No!” Her face was a healthy pink.
“She’s fine,” I said. “She slipped off her chair.”
“Bring that chair over to The Ironmonger,” Sam offered. “I’ll have a look at it.”
I flashed him an appreciative smile. He probably knew as well as I did that the chair was fine.
Naomi tiptoed closer. “Oh, the poor dear.” She had removed the green goo from her face, but Dawn shrank from her anyway.
Naomi turned toward the window. “Our local students, Georgina and Susannah, are going into my store.” She left.
I supposed that, under the circumstances, I should be glad I didn’t have customers, only a thin wraith of a woman given to swooning, an angry cop given to accusing me of murder, and a kindly ironmonger given to tripping over his feet in his rush to return to his hardware store so he could tell his cronies about
Uncle Allen accusing me of murder.
Maybe instead of running a business, I should take my cue from Dawn and hide under chairs.
Uncle Allen marched outside and turned toward The Ironmonger as if he wanted to deliver his version of the news to the old-timers hanging around the potbellied stove.
I couldn’t help picturing all those retired farmers sitting in a jury and weighing evidence against me, putting me in jail where I would . . . design and embroider gorgeous motifs all over everyone’s orange jumpsuits?
I shook myself back to reality. It wouldn’t happen. Uncle Allen would call in reinforcements, and they’d find out who attacked Mike.
I helped Dawn stand. “Maybe you should see a doctor.” During my short time in Threadville, I’d picked up some questionable hinting skills from Haylee’s mothers.
Dawn looked about as energetic as the bag she’d brought her weavings in. “I’d rather die.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say. Besides, if I pressed her about visiting a doctor she was obviously afraid of, she might swoon again, and I would never get her off my floor.
She leaned toward me. “Don’t you let them be accusing you of murdering that Mike Krawbach. Lots of people wanted to murder him.”
Including her?
“The first place to look is his friends,” she said. “When they were boys, they were a nasty bunch. Uncle Allen called what they did mischief, but it was downright vandalism. They came around my place at night knocking on my doors and windows and hollering for me to come out and stop them. They threw paint over my porch furniture. Wicker. I had to repaint it.”
And someone threw paint on my porch.
“And that wasn’t all,” she confided in whispers. “Somebody burned down my outbuildings. Three Halloweens in a row. Chicken coop, smokehouse, corncrib, all burned to the ground. No one believed me that the culprits were Mike and his gang, and their parents claimed their kids were home watching TV.”
How many years had she waited to tell this to someone? I had to keep her talking. “Do the other members of Mike’s gang still live around Elderberry Bay?”
“Most of them. One’s none other than our sainted mayor, Irv Oslington. Who would vote for him? And Herb Gunthrie, the postman everyone loves so much. I don’t trust that guy to deliver the mail without checking the envelope for things he might want.”